No! At all costs, Clare was not to know of that meeting with Bellew. Nor was Brian. It would only weaken her own power to keep him.
They would never know from her that he was on his way to suspecting the truth about his wife. And she would do anything, risk anything, to prevent him from finding out that truth. How fortunate that she had obeyed her instinct and omitted to recognize Bellew!
“Ever go up to the sixth floor, Clare?” Brian asked as he stopped the car and got out to open the door for them.
“Why, of course! We’re on the seventeenth.”
“I mean, did you ever go up by nigger-power?”
“That’s good!” Clare laughed. “Ask ’Rene. My father was a janitor, you know, in the good old days before every ramshackle flat had its elevator. But you can’t mean we’ve got to walk up? Not here!”
“Yes, here. And Felise lives at the very top,” Irene told her.
“What on earth for?”
“I believe she claims it discourages the casual visitor.”
“And she’s probably right. Hard on herself, though.”
Brian said “Yes, a bit. But she says she’d rather be dead than bored.”
“Oh, a garden! And how lovely with that undisturbed snow!”
“Yes, isn’t it? But keep to the walk with those foolish thin shoes. You too, Irene.”
Irene walked beside them on the cleared cement path that split the whiteness of the courtyard garden. She felt a something in the air, something that had been between those two and would be again. It was like a live thing pressing against her. In a quick furtive glance she saw Clare clinging to Brian’s other arm. She was looking at him with that provocative upward glance of hers, and his eyes were fastened on her face with what seemed to Irene an expression of wistful eagerness.
“It’s this entrance, I believe,” she informed them in quite her ordinary voice.
“Mind,” Brian told Clare, “you don’t fall by the wayside before the fourth floor. They absolutely refuse to carry anyone up more than the last two flights.”
“Don’t be silly!” Irene snapped.
The party began gaily.
Dave Freeland was at his best, brilliant, crystal clear, and sparkling. Felise, too, was amusing, and not so sarcastic as usual, because she liked the dozen or so guests that dotted the long, untidy living-room. Brian was witty, though, Irene noted, his remarks were somewhat more barbed than was customary even with him. And there was Ralph Hazelton, throwing nonsensical shining things into the pool of talk, which the others, even Clare, picked up and flung back with fresh adornment.
Only Irene wasn’t merry. She sat almost silent, smiling now and then, that she might appear amused.
“What’s the matter, Irene?” someone asked. “Taken a vow never to laugh, or something? You’re as sober as a judge.”
“No. It’s simply that the rest of you are so clever that I’m speechless, absolutely stunned.”
“No wonder,” Dave Freeland remarked, “that you’re on the verge of tears. You haven’t a drink. What’ll you take?”
“Thanks. If I must take something, make it a glass of ginger-ale and three drops of Scotch. The Scotch first, please. Then the ice, then the ginger ale.”
“Heavens! Don’t attempt to mix that yourself, Dave darling. Have the butler in,” Felise mocked.
“Yes, do. And the footman.” Irene laughed a little, then said: “It seems dreadfully warm in here. Mind if I open this window?” With that she pushed open one of the long casement-windows of which the Freelands were so proud.
It had stopped snowing some two or three hours back. The moon was just rising, and far behind the tall buildings a few stars were creeping out. Irene finished her cigarette and threw it out, watching the tiny spark drop slowly down to the white ground below.
Someone in the room had turned on the phonograph. Or was it the radio? She didn’t know which she disliked more. And nobody was listening to its blare. The talking, the laughter never for a minute ceased. Why must they have more noise?
Dave came with her drink. “You ought not,” he told her, “to stand there like that. You’ll take cold. Come along and talk to me, or listen to me gabble.” Taking her arm, he led her across the room. They had just found seats when the doorbell rang and Felise called over to him to go and answer it.
In the next moment Irene heard his voice in the hall, carelessly polite: “Your wife? Sorry. I’m afraid you’re wrong. Perhaps next—”
Then the roar of John Bellew’s voice above all the other noises of the room: “I’m not wrong! I’ve been to the Redfields and I know she’s with them. You’d better stand out of my way and save yourself trouble in the end.”
“What is it, Dave?” Felise ran out to the door.
And so did Brian. Irene heard him saying: “I’m Redfield. What the devil’s the matter with you?”
But Bellew didn’t heed him. He pushed past them all into the room and strode towards Clare. They all looked at her as she got up from her chair, backing a little from his approach.
“So you’re a nigger, a damned dirty nigger!” His voice was a snarl and a moan, an expression of rage and of pain.
Everything was in confusion. The men had sprung forward. Felise had leapt between them and Bellew. She said quickly: “Careful. You’re the only white man here.” And the silver chill of her voice, as well as her words, was a warning.
Clare stood at the window, as composed as if everyone were not staring at her in curiosity and wonder, as if the whole structure of her life were not lying in fragments before
