entanglement, excitement coloring her cheeks and shining her eyes. Nested between layers of cotton was a golden disc, its surface constellated with tiny pearls. Marion exclaimed over the brooch, and when the maitre d' had gone, thanked her father happily, squeezing his hand, which lay as if by chance near hers on the table.
The brooch was not one which she would have chosen herself; its design was too elaborate for her taste. Her happiness, however, was genuine, inspired by the giving, if not by the gift. In the past, Leo Kingship's standard birthday present to his daughters had been a one hundred dollar gift certificate redeemable at a Fifth Avenue department store, a matter automatically attended to by his secretary.
After leaving her father, Marion spent some time at a beauty salon and then returned to her apartment Late in the afternoon the buzzer sounded. She pressed the button that released the door downstairs. A few minutes later a messenger appeared at her door, panting dramatically, as though he had been carrying something much heavier than a florist's box. The receipt of a quarter soothed his respiration.
In the box, under green waxed paper, was a white orchid arranged in a corsage. The card with it said simply, '-Bud.' Standing before a mirror, Marion held the bloom experimentally to her hair, her wrist; and her shoulder. Then she went into the kitchen and placed the flower in its box and in the waist-high refrigerator, first sprinkling a few drops of water on itsthick-veined tropical petals.
He arrived promptly at six. He gave the button next to Marion's nameplate two quick jabs and stood waiting in the stuffy hallway, removing a gray suede glove to pick a speck of lint from the lapel of his navy blue coat. Soon footsteps sounded on the stairs. The dingily curtained door opened and Marion appeared, radiant, the orchid bursting whitely on her black coat. They clasped each other's hands. Wishing her the happiest of birthdays, he kissed her on the cheek so as not to smudge her lipstick, which he noticed was of a deeper shade than she had worn when first he met her.
They went to a steak house on Fifty-Second Street The prices on the menu, although considerably lower than those on the one from which she had selected her lunch, seemed exorbitant to Marion, because she was seeing them through Bud's eyes. She suggested that he order for both of them. They had black onion soup and sirloin steaks, preceded by champagne cocktails-'To you, Marion.' At the end of the meal, placing eighteen dollars on the waiter's salver, Bud caught Marion's faint frown. 'Well, it's your birthday, isn't it?' he said, smiling.
From the restaurant they took a taxi to the theater where Saint Joan was playing. They sat in the orchestra, sixth row center. During the intermission Marion was unusually voluble, her doelike eyes glittering brightly as she talked of Shaw and the acting and a celebrity who was seated in the row in front of them. During the play their hands were warm in each other's.
Afterwards-because, she told herself, Bud had already spent so much money that evening-Marion suggested that they go to her apartment 'I feel like a pilgrim who's finally being permitted to enter the shrine,' he said as he slipped the key into the slit of the lock. He turned the key and doorknob simultaneously.
'It's nothing fancy,' Marion said, her voice quick. 'Really. They call it two rooms but it's more like one, the kitchen is so tiny.'
He pushed the door open, withdrawing the key which he handed to Marion. She stepped into the apartment and reached for a wall switch beside the door. Lamps filled the room with diffused light. He entered, closing the door behind him. Marion turned to watch his face. His eyes were ranging over the deep gray walls, the blue and white striped drapes, the limed oak furniture. He gave an appreciative murmur.
'It's very small,' Marion said.
'But nice,' he said. 'Very nice.'
'Thank you.' She turned away from him, unpinning the orchid from her coat, suddenly as ill at ease as when they first met She put the corsage on a sideboard and started to remove her coat. His hands helped her. 'Beautiful furniture,' he said over her shoulder.
She hung their coats in the closet mechanically, and then turned to the mirror over the sideboard. With fumbling fingers, she pinned the orchid to the shoulder of her russet dress, her eyes focused beyond her own reflection, on Bud's image. He had walked down to the center of the room. Standing before the coffee table, he picked up a square copper plate. His face, in profile, was expressionless, giving no indication whether he liked or disliked the piece. Marion found herself motionless. 'Mmmm,' he said at last, liking it. 'A present from your father, I bet'
'No,' Marion said into the mirror. 'Ellen gave it to me.'
'Oh.' He looked at it for a moment and then put it down.
Fingering the collar of her dress, Marion turned from the mirror and watched as he crossed the room with three easy strides. He stood before the low bookcase and looked at the picture on the wall above it Marion watched him. 'Our old friend Demuth,' he said. He glanced at her, smiling. She smiled back. He looked at the picture again.
After a moment, Marion moved forward and went to Ms side.
'I never could figure out why he called a picture of a grain elevator 'My Egypt,'' Bud said.
'Is that what it is? I was never sure.'
'It's a beautiful picture, though.' He turned to Marion. 'What's the matter? Have I got some dirt on my nose or something?'
'What?'
'You were looking-'
'Oh. No. Would you like something to drink?'
'Mmm-hmm.'
'There's nothing but wine.'
'Perfect.'
Marion turned towards the kitchen.
'Before you go...' He took a small tissue-wrapped box from his pocket. 'Happy Birthday.'
'Oh, Bud, you shouldn't have!'
'I shouldn't have,' he mimicked simultaneously, 'But aren't you glad I did?'
There were silver earrings in the box, simple polished triangles. 'Oh, thank you! They're lovely!' Marion exclaimed, and kissed him.
She hurried to the sideboard to try them on. He came up behind her, looking at her in the mirror. When she had fastened both earrings, he turned her around. 'Lovely is right,' he said.
When the kiss ended he said, 'Now where's that wine we were talking about?'
Marion came out of the kitchen with a raffia-covered bottle of Bardolino and two glasses on a tray. Bud, his jacket off, was sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of the bookcase, a book opened on his lap. 'I didn't know you liked Proust,' he said.
'Oh, I do!' She set the tray on the coffee table.
'Here,' he said, pointing to the bookcase. Marion transferred the tray to the bookcase. She filled the two glasses and handed one to Bud. Holding the other, she worked her feet out of her shoes and lowered herself to the floor beside him. He leafed through the pages of the book. 'I'll show you the part I'm crazy about,' he said.
He pressed the switch. The tone arm swung slowly and dipped down to touch with its serpent's head the rim of the spinning record. Closing the cover of the phonograph, he crossed the room and sat beside Marion on the blue-covered studio couch. The first deep piano notes of the Rachmaninoff Second Concerto sounded. 'Just the right record,' Marion said.
Leaning back against the thick bolster that ran along the wall, Bud scanned the room, now softly lighted by a single lamp. 'Everything's so perfect here,' he said. 'Why haven't you asked me up before?'
She picked at a filament of raffia that had got caught on one of the buttons on the front of her dress. 'I don't know...' she said. 'I... I thought maybe you wouldn't like it.'
'How could I not like it?' he asked.
His fingers worked dexterously down the row of buttons. Her hands, warm, closed over his, restraining them between her breasts.
'Bud, I've never... done anything before.'
'I know that, darling. You don't have to tell me that.'
'I've never loved anyone before.'
'Neither have I. I've never loved anyone. Not until you.'
'Do you mean that? Do you?'
