Part 18 (1/2)

”I'm sure you do!” she said.

They glared. It was the young man who gave first. He went and sat close to her on the sofa, and for a while there were only murmurs. Then he said, ”Will you stop? Will you stop it? Will you always be just like this-just sweet and the way you're meant to be and no fighting?”

”I will,” she said. ”Honest, I mean to. Let's not let anything come between us again ever. Mrs. Holt, indeed! h.e.l.l with her.”

”h.e.l.l with her,” he said. There was another silence, during which the young man did several things that he did extraordinarily well.

Suddenly the young woman stiffened her arms and pushed him away from her.

”And how do I know,” she said, ”that the way you talk to me about Connie Holt isn't just the way you talk to her about me when I'm not here? How do I know that?”

”Oh, my Lord,” he said. ”Oh, my dear, sweet Lord. Just when everything was all right. Ah, stop it, will you, baby? Let's just be quiet. Like this. See?”

A little later he said. ”Look, sweet, how about a c.o.c.ktail? Mightn't that be an idea? I'll go make them. And would you like the lights lighted?”

”Oh, no,” she said. ”I like it better in the dusk, like this. It's sweet. Dusk is so personal, somehow. And this way you can't see those lampshades. Hobie, if you knew how I hate your lampshades!”

”Honestly?” he said, with less injury than bewilderment in his voice. He looked at the shades as if he saw them for the first time. They were of vellum, or some substance near it, and upon each was painted a panorama of the right bank of the Seine, with the minute windows of the buildings cut out, under the direction of a superior mind, so that light might come through. ”What's the matter with them, Kit?”

”Dearest, if you don't know, I can't ever explain it to you,” she said. ”Among other things, they're ba.n.a.l, inappropriate, and unbeautiful.

They're exactly what Evie Maynard would have chosen. She thinks, just because they show views of Paris, that they're pretty darned sophisticated. She is that not uncommon type of woman that thinks any reference to la belle France is an invitation to the waltz. 'Not uncommon. ' If that isn't the mildest word-picture that ever was painted of that--”

”Don't you like the way she decorated the apartment?” he said.

”Sweetheart,” she said. ”I think it's poisonous. You know that.”

”Would you like to do it over?” he said.

”I should say not,” she said. ”Look, Hobie, don't you remember me? I'm the one that doesn't want to decorate your flat. Now do you place me? But if I ever did, the first thing I should do would be to paint these walls putty color-no, I guess first I'd tear off all this chintz and fling it to the winds, and then I'd--”

The telephone rang.

The young man threw one stricken glance at the young woman and then sat motionless. The jangles of the bell cut the dusk like little scissors.

”I think,” said the young woman, exquisitely, ”that your telephone is ringing. Don't let me keep you from answering it. As a matter of fact, I really must go powder my nose.”

She sprang up, dashed through the bedroom, and into the bathroom. There was the sound of a closed door, the grind of a firmly turned key, and then immediately the noise of rus.h.i.+ng waters.

When she returned, eventually, to the living-room, the young man was pouring a pale, cold liquid into small gla.s.ses. He gave one to her, and smiled at her over it. It was his wistful smile. It was of his best.

”Hobie,” she said, ”is there a livery stable anywhere around here where they rent wild horses?”

”What?” he said.

”Because if there is,” she said, ”I wish you'd call up and ask them to send over a couple of teams. I want to show you they couldn't drag me into asking who that was on the telephone.”

”Oh,” he said, and tried his c.o.c.ktail. ”Is this dry enough, sweet? Because you like them dry, don't you? Sure it's all right? Really? Ah, wait a second, darling. Let me light your cigarette. There. Sure you're all right?”

”I can't stand it,” she said. ”I just lost all my strength of purpose-maybe the maid will find it on the floor in the morning. Hobart Ogden, who was that on the telephone?”

”Oh, that?” he said. ”Well, that was a certain lady who shall be nameless.”

”I'm sure she should be,” she said. ”She doubtless has all the other qualities of a-Well. I didn't quite say it, I'm keeping my head. Ah, dearest, was that Connie Holt again?”

”No, that was the funniest thing,” he said. ”That was Evie Maynard. Just when we were talking about her.”

”Well, well, well,” she said. ”Isn't it a small world? And what's on her mind, if I may so flatter her? Is her butler tight, too?”

”Evie hasn't got a butler,” he said. He tried smiling again, but found it better to abandon the idea and concentrate on refilling the young woman's gla.s.s. ”No, she's just dizzy, the same as usual. She's got a c.o.c.ktail party at her apartment, and they all want to go out on the town, that's all.”

”Luckily,” she said, ”you had to go out with these friends of your sister's. You were just going out the door when she called.”

”I never told her any such thing!” he said. ”I said I had a date I'd been looking forward to all week.”

”Oh, you didn't mention any names?” she said.

”There's no reason why I should, to Evie Maynard,” he said. ”It's none of her affair, any more than what she's doing and who she's doing it with is any concern of mine. She's nothing in my life. You know that. I've hardly seen her since she did the apartment. I don't care if I never see her again. I'd rather I never saw her again.”

”I should think that might be managed, if you've really set your heart on it,” she said.

”Well, I do what I can,” he said. ”She wanted to come in now for a c.o.c.ktail, she and some of those interior decorator boys she has with her, and I told her absolutely no.”

”And you think that will keep her away?” she said. ”Oh, no. She'll be here. She and her feathered friends. Let's see-they ought to arrive just about the time that Mrs. Holt has thought it over and come in to town. Well. It's shaping up into a lovely evening, isn't it?”

”Great,” he said. ”And if I may say so, you're doing everything you can to make it harder, you little sweet.” He poured more c.o.c.ktails. ”Oh, Kit, why are you being so nasty? Don't do it, darling. It's not like you. It's so unbecoming to you.”

”I know it's horrible,” she said. ”It's-well, I do it in defense, I suppose, Hobie. If I didn't say nasty things, I'd cry. I'm afraid to cry; it would take me so long to stop. I-oh, I'm so hurt, dear. I don't know what to think. All these women. All these awful women. If they were fine, if they were sweet and gentle and intelligent, I shouldn't mind. Or maybe I should. I don't know. I don't know much of anything, any more. My mind goes round and round. I thought what we had was so different. Well-it wasn't. Sometimes I think it would be better never to see you any more. But then I know I couldn't stand that. I'm too far gone now. I'd do anything to be with you! And so I'm just another of those women to you. And I used to come first, Hobie-oh, I did! I did!”

”You did!” he said. ”And you do!”

”And I always will?” she said.

”And you always will,” he said, ”as long as you'll only be your own self. Please be sweet again, Kit. Like this, darling. Like this, child.”

Again they were close, and again there was no sound.

The telephone rang.

They started as if the same arrow had pierced them. Then the young woman moved slowly back.

”You know,” she said, musingly, ”this is my fault. I did this. It was me. I was the one that said let's meet here, and not at my house. I said it would be quieter, and I had so much I wanted to talk to you about. I said we could be quiet and alone here. Yes, I said that.”

”I give you my word,” he said, ”that d.a.m.n thing hasn't rung in a week.”

”It was lucky for me, wasn't it?” she said, ”that I happened to be here the last time it did. I am known as Little Miss Horseshoes. Well. Oh, please do answer it, Hobie. It drives me even crazier to have it ring like this.”