Mrs. Boatright was nodding judiciously. 'Theo,' said she, 'I believe the Tuesday Club would listen to you on this subject . . .'
'For a hundred and fifty lousy bucks?' said Theo. 'Bah! Those cheapskates!'
Mr. Gibson tried very hard not to be having so much fun. Here, beside Rosemary, in this clean and comfortable and charming room where the dainty gentlewoman in her wheel chair was their true hostess, where all these lively people spoke their minds . . . No, no—he must remember that he had to face the music.
Sometimes, however, he thought with a boom of pleasure that would not be denied, there is music. That's the funny thing! This group of people, the way they talked to him, the way they argued with him, contradicted him, tried to buck him up, liked him and worried for him, and fought with him against fate, and gave him of their own faiths . . . this touched him and made music in his heart. He thought no man had ever had so delightful an experience as he had had this day of his suicide.
But such pleasure was only stolen. He must go. He must face whatever would come, nor would it be music, altogether.
Chapter XX
HE STARTED TO RISE. 'Wait a minute,' said the bus driver. 'Listen, kids . . .'
'Yes, Lee?' said Mrs. Boatright alertly. 'We got our hair down, all of us. Hey? Let's not skim the surface here. Don't go, Gibson. Yet. I want to know the answer to one question that's been worrying me. Rosemary . . .'
'Yes, Lee?'
Mr. Gibson sat dowij. He trembled. This bus driver was a shrewd man, in his own way.
'Now, this Ethel, she decides your subconscious wants to get rid of him. That's right, isn't it? Tell me, what reason did she decide your subconscious had for this?'
Rosemary flushed.
'She'd figured out a reason?'
'Yes,' said Rosemary. 'Of course she had.' Her fingers turned her glass. 'These marriages never work, you know,' said Rosemary almost dreamily. 'Kenneth is twenty-three years older than I. Isn't that terrible! Ethel thinks that subconsciously . . .' she went on very quiet and yet defiant and brave, 'I must wish I had a younger mate.'
'Like who? Hey?' said the bus driver, his eyes lively, his sandy lashes alert. The painter sat up. Mrs. Boatright looked suddenly very bland and supercalm.
'Like Paul,' said Rosemary.
'Now we're getting to the bottom,' said the bus driver with satisfaction.
'Aha!' said the painter.
'Oh now, look, Rosie,' said Paul, crimson. 'Now you know . . .'
'I thought I knew,' said Rosemary, and smiled at him.
'If our hair is down,' said Jeanie bluntly, 'all right. I'll tell you something. She is too old —for Daddy.'
Mr. Gibson felt a wave of shock ripple through him. Rosemary! Too old!
'He likes them rather plump, about five years older, and two inches shorter, than me,' said Jeanie impudently, 'as far as I can figure on the basis of experiments, so far.'
'Now you . . . just be quiet, please,' said Paul, much embarrassed. 'I'm sorry, Rosie, but after all you are his wife. I certainly . . .'
'Don't be sorry,' said Rosemary gently. Her face be came ver)' serene as she lifted it. 'You've been kind, Paul You've tried to comfort me. You've told me not to worry But I am too old for you, of course. Just as you are . . forgive me, dear Paul . . . just a bit too dull for my taste You see, I like a seasoned man.'
'Good for you,' said Theo Marsh complacently. 'Intelligent woman.'
'Ethel just can't seem to believe,' said Rosemary, calm
and sad, 'anything so simple. The fact is, I married the man I love.'
Mr. Gibson, looking at his glass, could see her fingers, slim and fair, upon her own.
'However,' said Mr. Gibson out of a trance, able to speak quite coolly, although somewhat jerkily, 'it is still possible that, as Ethel says, I am, for Rosemary, a father-image.'
Rosemary looked at him with mild astonishment. 'Not my father,' she said calmly. 'My father, since the day I was bom, was mean and didactic and unjust and petty and spoiled and childish. I don't like to sound disloyal, but that's the truth. Kenneth isn't anything like my father,' she explained graciously to them all.
'It is a little ridiculous, though,' said Mr. Gibson chattily. (This was the strangest party!) 'I am fifty-five years old, you see. For me to be so deep in love, for the first time in my life, is quite . . . comical. Somehow. It makes everybody smile.'
'Smile?' said Virginia. 'But of course! It's nice! It's pleasant to see.'
'I should have said . . . snicker,' revised Mr. Gibson.
'Who,' growled the bus driver, 'does it make snicker?'
'Not at all,' said the artist. 'I was in love last winter. If anyone had snickered at me, I'd have spit in their eye.' He would have. Everyone believed this.
'How come this Ethel put the Indian sign on the both of you?' asked the bus driver. 'How come she shook you?
