the great heat, he had been carried off by Clare Van Degen.
No one named Undine to him, and he did not speak of her. But one day, as he lay in bed in the summer twilight, he had a vision of a moment, a long way behind him—at the beginning of his illness, it must have been—when he had called out for her in his anguish, and some one had said: “She’s coming: she’ll be here next week.”
Could it be that next week was not yet here? He supposed that illness robbed one of all sense of time, and he lay still, as if in ambush, watching his scattered memories come out one by one and join themselves together. If he watched long enough he was sure he should recognize one that fitted into his picture of the day when he had asked for Undine. And at length a face came out of the twilight: a freckled face, benevolently bent over him under a starched cap. He had not seen the face for a long time, but suddenly it took shape and fitted itself into the picture…
Laura Fairford sat near by, a book on her knee. At the sound of his voice she looked up.
“What was the name of the first nurse?”
“The first—?”
“The one that went away.”
“Oh—Miss Hicks, you mean?”
“How long is it since she went?”
“It must be three weeks. She had another case.”
He thought this over carefully; then he spoke again. “Call Undine.”
She made no answer, and he repeated irritably: “Why don’t you call her? I want to speak to her.”
Mrs. Fairford laid down her book and came to him.
“She’s not here—just now.”
He dealt with this also, laboriously. “You mean she’s out—she’s not in the house?”
“I mean she hasn’t come yet.”
As she spoke Ralph felt a sudden strength and hardness in his brain and body. Everything in him became as clear as noon.
“But it was before Miss Hicks left that you told me you’d sent for her, and that she’d be here the following week. And you say Miss Hicks has been gone three weeks.”
This was what he had worked out in his head, and what he meant to say to his sister; but something seemed to snap shut in his throat, and he closed his eyes without speaking.
Even when Mr. Spragg came to see him he said nothing. They talked about his illness, about the hot weather, about the rumours that Harmon B. Driscoll was again threatened with indictment; and then Mr. Spragg pulled himself out of his chair and said: “I presume you’ll call round at the office before you leave the city.”
“Oh, yes: as soon as I’m up,” Ralph answered. They understood each other.
Clare had urged him to come down to Long Island and complete his convalescence there, but he preferred to stay in Washington Square till he should be strong enough for the journey to the Adirondacks, whither Laura had already preceded him with Paul. He did not want to see any one but his mother and grandfather till his legs could carry him to Mr. Spragg’s office. It was an oppressive day in mid-August, with a yellow mist of heat in the sky, when at last he entered the big office-building. Swirls of dust lay on the mosaic floor, and a stale smell of decayed fruit and salt air and steaming asphalt filled the place like a fog. As he shot up in the elevator some one slapped him on the back, and turning he saw Elmer Moffatt at his side, smooth and rubicund under a new straw hat.
Moffatt was loudly glad to see him. “I haven’t laid eyes on you for months. At the old stand still?”
“So am I,” he added, as Ralph assented. “Hope to see you there again some day. Don’t forget it’s MY turn this time: glad if I can be any use to you. So long.” Ralph’s weak bones ached under his handshake.
“How’s Mrs. Marvell?” he turned back from his landing to call out; and Ralph answered: “Thanks; she’s very well.”
Mr. Spragg sat alone in his murky inner office, the fly-blown engraving of Daniel Webster above his head and the congested scrap-basket beneath his feet. He looked fagged and sallow, like the day.
Ralph sat down on the other side of the desk. For a moment his throat contracted as it had when he had tried to question his sister; then he asked: “Where’s Undine?”
Mr. Spragg glanced at the calendar that hung from a hat-peg on the door. Then he released the Masonic emblem from his grasp, drew out his watch and consulted it critically.
“If the train’s on time I presume she’s somewhere between Chicago and Omaha round about now.”
Ralph stared at him, wondering if the heat had gone to his head. “I don’t understand.”
“The Twentieth Century’s generally considered the best route to Dakota,” explained Mr. Spragg, who pronounced the word ROWT.
“Do you mean to say Undine’s in the United States?”
Mr. Spragg’s lower lip groped for the phantom toothpick. “Why, let me see: hasn’t Dakota been a state a year or two now?”
“Oh, God—” Ralph cried, pushing his chair back violently and striding across the narrow room.
As he turned, Mr. Spragg stood up and advanced a few steps. He had given up the quest for the toothpick, and his drawn-in lips were no more than a narrow depression in his beard. He stood before Ralph, absently shaking the loose change in his trouser-pockets.
Ralph felt the same hardness and lucidity that had come to him when he had heard his sister’s answer.
