Why in the world had she made such a promise?
As she went up the steps to her father’s house, thinking with what interest and amazement he would listen to her story of the afternoon’s encounter, it came to her that Clare had omitted to mention her marriage name. She had referred to her husband as Jack. That was all. Had that, Irene asked herself, been intentional?
Clare had only to pick up the telephone to communicate with her, or to drop her a card, or to jump into a taxi. But she couldn’t reach Clare in any way. Nor could anyone else to whom she might speak of their meeting.
“As if I should!”
Her key turned in the lock. She went in. Her father, it seemed, hadn’t come in yet.
Irene decided that she wouldn’t, after all, say anything to him about Clare Kendry. She had, she told herself, no inclination to speak of a person who held so low an opinion of her loyalty, or her discretion. And certainly she had no desire or intention of making the slightest effort about Tuesday. Nor any other day for that matter.
She was through with Clare Kendry.
III
On Tuesday morning a dome of grey sky rose over the parched city, but the stifling air was not relieved by the silvery mist that seemed to hold a promise of rain, which did not fall.
To Irene Redfield this soft foreboding fog was another reason for doing nothing about seeing Clare Kendry that afternoon.
But she did see her.
The telephone. For hours it had rung like something possessed. Since nine o’clock she had been hearing its insistent jangle. Awhile she was resolute, saying firmly each time: “Not in, Liza, take the message.” And each time the servant returned with the information: “It’s the same lady, ma’am; she says she’ll call again.”
But at noon, her nerves frayed and her conscience smiting her at the reproachful look on Liza’s ebony face as she withdrew for another denial, Irene weakened.
“Oh, never mind. I’ll answer this time, Liza.”
“It’s her again.”
“Hello. … Yes.”
“It’s Clare, ’Rene. … Where have you been? … Can you be here around four? … What? … But, ’Rene, you promised! Just for a little while. … You can if you want to. … I am so disappointed. I had counted so on seeing you. … Please be nice and come. Only for a minute. I’m sure you can manage it if you try. … I won’t beg you to stay. … Yes. … I’m going to expect you … It’s the Morgan … Oh, yes! The name’s Bellew, Mrs. John Bellew. … About four, then. … I’ll be so happy to see you! … Goodbye.”
“Damn!”
Irene hung up the receiver with an emphatic bang, her thoughts immediately filled with self-reproach. She’d done it again. Allowed Clare Kendry to persuade her into promising to do something for which she had neither time nor any special desire. What was it about Clare’s voice that was so appealing, so very seductive?
Clare met her in the hall with a kiss. She said: “You’re good to come, ’Rene. But, then, you always were nice to me.” And under her potent smile a part of Irene’s annoyance with herself fled. She was even a little glad that she had come.
Clare led the way, stepping lightly, towards a room whose door was standing partly open, saying: “There’s a surprise. It’s a real party. See.”
Entering, Irene found herself in a sitting-room, large and high, at whose windows hung startling blue draperies which triumphantly dragged attention from the gloomy chocolate-coloured furniture. And Clare was wearing a thin floating dress of the same shade of blue, which suited her and the rather difficult room to perfection.
For a minute Irene thought the room was empty, but turning her head, she discovered, sunk deep in the cushions of a huge sofa, a woman staring up at her with such intense concentration that her eyelids were drawn as though the strain of that upward glance had paralysed them. At first Irene took her to be a stranger, but in the next instant she said in an unsympathetic, almost harsh voice: “And how are you, Gertrude?”
The woman nodded and forced a smile to her pouting lips. “I’m all right,” she replied. “And you’re just the same, Irene. Not changed a bit.”
“Thank you.” Irene responded, as she chose a seat. She was thinking: “Great goodness! Two of them.”
For Gertrude too had married a white man, though it couldn’t be truthfully said that she was “passing.” Her husband—what was his name?—had been in school with her and had been quite well aware, as had his family and most of his friends, that she was a Negro. It hadn’t, Irene knew, seemed to matter to him then. Did it now, she wondered? Had Fred—Fred Martin, that was it—had he ever regretted his marriage because of Gertrude’s race? Had Gertrude?
Turning to Gertrude, Irene asked: “And Fred, how is he? It’s unmentionable years since I’ve seen him.”
“Oh, he’s all right,” Gertrude answered briefly.
For a full minute no one spoke. Finally out of the oppressive little silence Clare’s voice came pleasantly, conversationally: “We’ll have tea right away. I know that you can’t stay long, ’Rene. And I’m so sorry you won’t see Margery. We went up the lake over the week end to see some of Jack’s people, just out of Milwaukee. Margery wanted to stay with the children. It seemed a shame not to let her, especially since it’s so hot in town. But I’m expecting Jack any second.”
Irene said briefly: “That’s nice.”
Gertrude remained silent. She was, it was plain, a little ill at ease. And her presence there annoyed Irene, roused in her a defensive and resentful feeling for which she had
