THE SENSIBLE THING
When Miss Winthrop rose the next morning, she scarcely recognized the
woman she saw in the glass as the woman she had glimpsed for a second
last night when she had risen and lighted the gas. Her cheeks were
somewhat paler than usual, and her eyes were dull and tired. She
turned from the glass as soon as possible, and donned a freshly
laundered shirt-waist. Then she swallowed a cup of coffee, and walked
part way to the office, in the hope that the fresh air might do
something toward restoring her color. In this she was successful, but
toward noon the color began to fade again.
The problem that disturbed her the entire morning long had to do with
luncheon. She recognized that here she must strike the keynote to all
her future relations with Mr. Pendleton. If she was to eliminate him
entirely and go back to the time when he was non-existent, then she
must begin to-day. It was so she preferred to handle disagreeable
tasks. She detested compromises. When she had anything to do, she
liked to do it at once and thoroughly. If she had consulted her own
wishes and her own interests alone, she would never have seen him
again outside the office. But if she did this, what would become of
him during this next month?
The trouble was that Don would get lonesome--not necessarily for her,
but for that other. He was the sort of man who needed some one around
all the time to take an interest in him. This deduction was based, not
upon guesswork, but upon experience. For almost a year now she had
seen him every day, and had watched him react to just such interest on
her part. She was only stating a fact when she said to herself that,
had it not been for her, he would have lost his position months
before. She was only stating another fact when she said to herself
that even now he might get side-tracked into some clerical job. Give
him a month to himself now, and he might undo all the effort of the
last six months. Worse than that, he might fall into the clutches of
Blake and go to pieces in another way.
There was not the slightest use in the world in retorting that this,
after all, was the affair of Don and his fiancee rather than hers. She
had brought him through so far, and she did not propose to see her
work wasted. No one would gain anything by such a course.
The alternative, then, was to continue to meet him and to allow
matters to go on as before. It was toward the latter part of the
forenoon that she reached this conclusion. All this while she had been
taking letters from Mr. Seagraves and transcribing them upon her
typewriter without an error. She had done no conscious thinking and
had reached no conscious conclusion. All she knew was that in the
early forenoon she had been very restless, and that suddenly the
restlessness vanished and that she was going on with her typewriting
in a sort of grim content. Half-past eleven came, and then twelve. She
finished the letter, and went for her hat as usual, putting it on
without looking in the glass.
Don met her a little way from the office, and she fell into step at
his side.
"I was sort of worried about you last night," he said. "You looked
tired."
"I guess I was," she answered.
"Don't you get a vacation before long?"
She could have had her vacation a month ago, but there seemed to be no
reason for taking it. She had not been able to think of any place to
which she wished to go. Then she had forgotten about it.
"I've decided to take it next month," she answered.
She decided that much on the spot.
"I suppose there's one due me, too," he said. "Blake said something
about it a while ago. But I don't know what I'd do with a vacation if
I took one."
"I should think you had something very important to do with it," she
answered quickly.
"What do you mean?"
"Take it for your wedding trip."
The suggestion made him catch his breath. "Look here," he exclaimed.
"That means getting married!"
"Surely it does," she nodded.
They had reached the little restaurant, and she hurried in. Without
waiting for his assistance, she secured a cup of coffee and a sandwich
for herself. Then she found a chair and sat down. She did not know how
she was ever going to swallow anything, but she had to have something
to do to occupy her hands.
"You put that up to a man as if it were the easiest thing in the
world," he observed, sitting in the next chair.
"Well, it is, isn't it--once you've made up your mind?"
"Looks to me as if it was one thing to make up your mind to get
married some day, and another really to get married."
"It's better to do it than to waste your time thinking about it," she
declared. "When Farnsworth hands you that raise, believe me, he'll
want you to have both feet on the ground."
"Eh?"
"He won't want you to be drifting in with only three hours' sleep, the
way you did most of last winter. He has a lot more confidence in
married men, anyhow."
Don laughed.
"That phrase makes a man feel ten years married."
She had been trying hard to eat her lunch, but without much success.
He noticed this.
"What's the matter with you?" he inquired.
"I don't happen to be hungry, that's all," she answered.
"You didn't catch cold last night?"
"No."
"But look here--"
"Oh, I'm all right," she answered.
He went to the counter and returned with some doughnuts for himself
and a piece of cake for her.
"This looked so good I thought you might like it," he said, as he
placed it on the arm of her chair. "It's so much easier to talk when
eating. I want to hear more about this scheme of yours for marrying me
off."
"It isn't exactly my suggestion."
"You proposed it a minute ago."
"All I said was that if you mean to get married, you'd better do it
right away and be done with it."
"During my vacation?"
She brought her lips together.
"Yes."
"Do you know, that rather appeals to me," he answered thoughtfully.
She turned aside her head.
"It's the only sensible thing," she assured him.
"It would give a man a chance to settle down and attend to business."
"And give his wife a chance to help him."
"By Jove, I'm going to propose that to Frances the day she lands!" he
exclaimed.
He was finishing his last doughnut. Miss Winthrop rose. Once outside,
she could breathe freely. She said:--
"Her--her name is Frances?"
"Frances Stuyvesant," he nodded.
"When do you expect her home?"
"The first of September."
"Then you'd better put in a bid to have your vacation the first two
weeks in September," she advised. "Business will begin to pick up
right after that, and Farnsworth will need you."