chance precisely opposite the door, she came to a stop. Her cheeks tingling, she darted a glance over her shoulder at Mrs. Shane. That worthy dame, basking in the glow of acting a stout middle-aged Eros, was grinning broadly. So Miss Diversey smiled rather foolishly and put off all further pretense and knocked on the door.
* * *
James Osborne called: “Come in,” in an absent tone and did not raise his pale face as Miss Diversey slipped with high-beating heart into the office. He was seated on a swivel-chair before a desk, working with silent concentration over a curious loose-leaf album with thick leaves faintly quadrilled and holding tiny rectangles of colored paper. He was a faded-looking man of forty-five, with nondescript sandy hair grizzled at the temples, a sharp beaten nose, and eyes imbedded in tired wrinkles. He worked over the bits of colored papers with unwavering attention, handling them with a small nickel tongs and the dexterity of long practice.
Miss Diversey coughed.
Osborne swung about, startled. “Why, Miss Diversey!” he exclaimed, dropping the tongs and scrambling to his feet. “Come in, come in. I’m dreadfully sorry?I was so absorbed . . . “ A redness had come over his flat lined cheeks.
Miss Diversey sat down, arranging her starched skirts primly. “Oh, we’re used to that, Mr. Osborne. He’s a little fussy, but he’s really a grand old man.”
Miss Diversey murmured something. Osborne stood in an eager, sloped attitude. The room was very quiet and warm. It was more like a den than an office, fitted out by some sensitive hand. Soft glass curtains and brown velvet drapes shrouded the windows overlooking the setback court. Donald Kirk’s desk was in a corner, heaped with books and albums. They both felt suddenly a sense of being alone with each other.
Miss Diversey’s eyes grew round. “No!”
“Yes, indeed. Many great men are. Mr. Roosevelt, the Agha Khan?”
Miss Diversey sighed. “It’s certainly very interesting. Mr. Kirk collects other things, too, doesn’t he?”
“Did you, really?”
“Oh! Merejinski. He was one of Felix Berne’s discoveries?a Russian. He’s always scouting around in Europe, you know, looking for foreign authors-Mr. Berne, I mean. Well.” Osborne fell silent.
“Well,” said Miss Diversey. And she fell silent.
Osborne fingered his chin. Miss Diversey fingered her hair.
“Well,” said Miss Diversey a little nervously. “They do publish the artiest books, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do!” cried Osborne. “I don’t doubt Mr. Berne’s come back with a trunkful of new manuscripts. He always does.”
“Does he, now.” Miss Diversey sighed; it was getting worse, much worse. Osborne regarded her crisp cleanness with admiring eyes?admiring and respectful. Then Miss Diversey brightened. “I don’t suppose Mr. Berne knows about Miss Temple, does he?”
“Eh?” Osborne started. “Oh, Miss Temple. Well, I suppose Mr. Kirk’s written him about her new book. Very nice, Miss Temple is.”
“Do you think so? I think so, too.” Miss Diversey’s broad shoulders quivered. “Well!”
“You’re not going so soon?” asked Osborne in a dashed voice.
“Well, really,” murmured Miss Diversey, rising, “I must. Dr. Kirk’s probably in a fit by now. All that exertion! Well . . . It’s been very pleasant talking to you, Mr. Osborne.” She moved toward the door.
Osborne swallowed. “Uh?Miss Diversey.” He took a timid step toward her and, in alarm, she retreated, breathing very fast.
“Why, Mr. Osborne! What-what??”
“Could you?would you?I mean, are you?”
“What, Mr. Osborne?” murmured Miss Diversey archly.
“Are you doing anything tonight?”
“Oh,” said Miss Diversey. “Why, I guess not, Mr. Osborne.”
“Then would you?go to the movies with me tonight?”
“Oh,” said Miss Diversey again. “I’d love to.”
“The new Barrymore picture’s playing at Radio City,” said Osborne eagerly. “I hear it’s very good. It got four stars.”
“John or Lionel?” demanded Miss Diversey, frowning.
Osborne looked surprised. “John.”
“Well, I should say I’d love to!” exclaimed Miss Diversey. “I’ve always said John’s my favorite. I like Lionel, too, but John . . . “ She raised her eyes ceilingward in a sort of ecstasy.
“I don’t know,” muttered Osborne. “It seems to me in his last few pictures he’s looked rather old. Time will tell, you know, Miss Diversey.”
“Why, Mr. Osborne!” said Miss Diversey. “I do believe you’re jealous!”
“Jealous? Me? Pshaw?”
“Well, I think he’s simply divine,” said Miss Diversey with cunning. “And it’s wonderful of you to take me to see him, Mr. Osborne. I know I’ll have the most thrilling time.”
“Thank you,” said Osborne glumly. “I meant to ask you . . . Well, that’s fine, that’s fine, Miss Diversey. It’s about a quarter to six now?”