ON THE IDES of April, in the afternoon (for he always came after classes, by daylight), Rosemary was sitting in a mud-colored old armchair in her living room, Mr. Gibson could remark the fluff of dust accumulating along its seams. He thought to himself. It is impossible for anyone to be healthy in this dreadful place. I have got to get her out of here.
She had her hair pulled back today and tied in a hank at the back of her neck with a faded red ribbon. This did not make her look girlish. She looked haggard.
She said, as piimly as if she'd memorized it, 'I feel so much better. The medicine is doing me good, I'm sure. And to know what the trouble is, that's been comforting.' She dragged her eyelids up. 'Mr. Gibson, I want you to go away . . . not come any more.'
'Why?' he said wih a pang.
'Because I am nobody of yours. You shouldn't worry about me. You weren't even a friend of ours.'
Mr. Gibson did not misunderstand. 'Surely, I am a friend now,' he chided gently.
'You are,' she admitted with a dry gasp, 'and the only one. . . . But you have helped me. It is enough. Congratulate yourself. Please.'
He got up and walked about. He admired her spunk. He approved of it. But he felt upset. 'What will you do on the first of May?'
'If nothing else . . . I'll go to the country,' she said.
'I see. You feel distressed about me? You don't want me to try to help you any more?'
She shook her head dumbly. She looked as if she had spent her very last ounce of energy.
'They tell me,' mused Mr. Gibson aloud, looking at the horrible wallpaper, 'that it is more blessed to give than to receive. But it does seem to me, in that case, somebody has to be willing to receive. And do it graciously,' he added rather sternly. She winced as if he had slapped her. 'Oh, I know it isn't easy,' he assured her quickly.
Then he hesitated. But not for long.
The trouble was, his imagination had been working. He ought to have known that if a thing can be vividly imagined, it can be done. It probably will be done. He sat down and leaned forward earnestly.
'Rosemary, suppose there was something you could do for me?'
'Anything I could ever do for you,' she choked, 'I'd be bound to do.'
'Good. Now let's take it for granted, shall we, that you are grateful and stop repeating that? It's a terrible bore for both of us. And I do not enjoy seeing you cry, you know. I don't enjoy it at all.'
She squeezed her lids together.
'I am fifty-five years old,' he said. Her damp lids opened in surprise. 'I don't look it?' He smiled. 'Well,
as I always say, I've been pickled in poetry. I earn seven thousand a year. I wanted you to know these . . . er . . . statistics before I asked you to marry me.'
She clapped both hands over her face and eyes.
'Listen a minute,' he went on gently. 'I've never married. I've never had a home made for me by a woman. Perhaps I have been missing something ... in that alone. Now there's a skill you have, Rosemary. You know how to keep a house. You've done it for years. You can do it, and very nicely, I'm sure, once you feel strong again. So I was thinking . . .'
She did not move nor even look between her fingers.
'It might be a good bargain between us,' he went on. 'We are friends, whatever you say. I think we are not incompatible. We've had some pleasant hours, even in all this difficulty. We might make good companions. Can you look at it as if it were to be an experiment? A venture? Let us not say its forever. Suppose we found we didn't enjoy being together? Why, in these days, you know, divorce is quite acceptable. Especially ... Rosemary, are you a religious woman?'
'I don't know,' she said pitifully behind her hands.
'Well, I thought,' he continued, 'if instead of a holy pledge ... we made a bargain . . .' He began to speak louder. 'My dear, I am not in love with you,' he stated bluntly. 'I don't speak of love or romance. At my age, it would be a little silly. I neither expect romantic love nor intend to give it. I am thinking of an arrangement. I am trying to be frank. Will you let me know if you understand me?'
'I do,' she said brokenly. 'I understand what you mean. But it's no real bargain at all, Mr. Gibson. I am no use to anybody . . .'
'No, you are not, not at the moment,' he agreed cheerfully. 'I wouldn't expect you to do the wash next Monday, you know. But I am thinking, and please think seriously too. . . . Although there is one point I'd like to make quickly. I don't want to cheat you.'
'Cheat me?' she said hoarsely.
'You are only thirty-two. Be frank with me.'
She took her hands down. 'How can I say I'd rather go on the county?' she said with sudden, asperity.
'You could say it if it is •so,' he told her grinning. The
air in the room lightened. Everything seemed gayer. 'Did you ever have a hobby, Rosemary?' he asked her.
'A hobby? Yes, I . . . once or twice. I had a garden. For a while I . . . liked to try to paint.' She looked dazed.
'Let me confess, then. I am presently enchanted by the idea of making you well again. Of getting you up, Rosemary, and yourself, again. As a matter of fact, it is exactly as if to do so was a hobby of mine. Now then. Now,
