“Of course, of course. Can’t jump up and leave a business.”
There followed a smooth surface of talk about Chicago, New York, their differences and their recent spectacular changes.
It was, Irene, thought, unbelievable and astonishing that four people could sit so unruffled, so ostensibly friendly, while they were in reality seething with anger, mortification, shame. But no, on second thought she was forced to amend her opinion. John Bellew, most certainly, was as undisturbed within as without. So, perhaps, was Gertrude Martin. At least she hadn’t the mortification and shame that Clare Kendry must be feeling, or, in such full measure, the rage and rebellion that she, Irene, was repressing.
“More tea, ’Rene,” Clare offered.
“Thanks, no. And I must be going. I’m leaving tomorrow, you know, and I’ve still got packing to do.”
She stood up. So did Gertrude, and Clare, and John Bellew.
“How do you like the Drayton, Mrs. Redfield?” the latter asked.
“The Drayton? Oh, very much. Very much indeed,” Irene answered, her scornful eyes on Clare’s unrevealing face.
“Nice place, all right. Stayed there a time or two myself,” the man informed her.
“Yes, it is nice,” Irene agreed. “Almost as good as our best New York places.” She had withdrawn her look from Clare and was searching in her bag for some nonexistent something. Her understanding was rapidly increasing, as was her pity and her contempt. Clare was so daring, so lovely, and so “having.”
They gave their hands to Clare with appropriate murmurs. “So good to have seen you.” … “I do hope I’ll see you again soon.”
“Goodbye,” Clare returned. “It was good of you to come, ’Rene dear. And you too, Gertrude.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Bellew.” … “So glad to have met you.” It was Gertrude who had said that. Irene couldn’t, she absolutely couldn’t bring herself to utter the polite fiction or anything approaching it.
He accompanied them out into the hall, summoned the elevator.
“Goodbye,” they said again, stepping in.
Plunging downward they were silent.
They made their way through the lobby without speaking.
But as soon as they had reached the street Gertrude, in the manner of one unable to keep bottled up for another minute that which for the last hour she had had to retain, burst out: “My God! What an awful chance! She must be plumb crazy.”
“Yes, it certainly seems risky,” Irene admitted.
“Risky! I should say it was. Risky! My God! What a word! And the mess she’s liable to get herself into!”
“Still, I imagine she’s pretty safe. They don’t live here, you know. And there’s a child. That’s a certain security.”
“It’s an awful chance, just the same,” Gertrude insisted. “I’d never in the world have married Fred without him knowing. You can’t tell what will turn up.”
“Yes, I do agree that it’s safer to tell. But then Bellew wouldn’t have married her. And, after all, that’s what she wanted.”
Gertrude shook her head. “I wouldn’t be in her shoes for all the money she’s getting out of it, when he finds out. Not with him feeling the way he does. Gee! Wasn’t it awful? For a minute I was so mad I could have slapped him.”
It had been, Irene acknowledged, a distinctly trying experience, as well as a very unpleasant one. “I was more than a little angry myself.”
“And imagine her not telling us about him feeling that way! Anything might have happened. We might have said something.”
That, Irene pointed out, was exactly like Clare Kendry. Taking a chance, and not at all considering anyone else’s feelings.
Gertrude said: “Maybe she thought we’d think it a good joke. And I guess you did. The way you laughed. My land! I was scared to death he might catch on.”
“Well, it was rather a joke,” Irene told her, “on him and us and maybe on her.”
“All the same, it’s an awful chance. I’d hate to be her.”
“She seems satisfied enough. She’s got what she wanted, and the other day she told me it was worth it.”
But about that Gertrude was sceptical. “She’ll find out different,” was her verdict. “She’ll find out different all right.”
Rain had begun to fall, a few scattered large drops.
The end-of-the-day crowds were scurrying in the directions of streetcars and elevated roads.
Irene said: “You’re going south? I’m sorry. I’ve got an errand. If you don’t mind, I’ll just say goodbye here. It has been nice seeing you, Gertrude. Say hello to Fred for me, and to your mother if she remembers me. Goodbye.”
She had wanted to be free of the other woman, to be alone; for she was still sore and angry.
What right, she kept demanding of herself, had Clare Kendry to expose her, or even Gertrude Martin, to such humiliation, such downright insult?
And all the while, on the rushing ride out to her father’s house, Irene Redfield was trying to understand the look on Clare’s face as she had said goodbye. Partly mocking, It had seemed, and partly menacing. And something else for which she could find no name. For an instant a recrudescence of that sensation of fear which she had had while looking into Clare’s eyes that afternoon touched her. A slight shiver ran over her.
“It’s nothing,” she told herself. “Just somebody walking over my grave, as the children say.” She tried a tiny laugh and was annoyed to find that it was close to tears.
What a state she had allowed that horrible Bellew to get her into!
And late that night, even, long after the last guest had gone and the old house was quiet, she stood at her window frowning out into the dark rain and puzzling again over that look on Clare’s incredibly beautiful face. She couldn’t, however, come to any conclusion about its meaning, try as she might. It was unfathomable, utterly beyond any experience or comprehension of hers.
She turned away from the window, at last, with a still deeper frown. Why, after all, worry about Clare Kendry? She was well able to take care of herself, had always been able. And there were, for Irene, other things, more personal and more important to
