It had taken only an hour to decide. Creasing the letter with puzzled fingers, she had risen and walked mechanically along the Promenade des Anglais for fully half a mile; had slowly retraced her steps, past the Negresso and the Ruhl, so deep in her problem she barely noticed the strollers recruited from a dozen nations. By the time she had reached the little park fronting the Jettee, Helen was ready to concede that Joyce had won her case.
She had called the roll of all the alternatives to a return trip. Why not cable Joyce to come over? But no—Joyce had set her heart on finding some employment. She would find none along the Riviera. Joyce wanted to begin life again. She couldn’t do it lounging in Nice. Joyce was bitterly lonely. Well—Nice wouldn’t help that very much … After all—she did owe Joyce some attention. She must go! … It was almost as busy an afternoon as the one on which the had impulsively migrated from Bellagio.
Slowly the big ship warped into her slip; sleety, salty hawsers were wound upon huge rumbling spools somewhere deep in her vitals; the covered gangways were hauled up from the dock and opened to the swarm of restless home-comers. Almost everybody had located wide expectant eyes in the steam-breathing crowd that huddled at the openings of the wharf-shed.
Helen felt very much alone. She exchanged tentative goodbyes with the few friends she had made on board; doubtless she would be bumping into them again in the Customs.
Already a nervous little caucus had convened under the big H, halfway down the draughty warehouse where a pile of luggage was rapidly accumulating. Some sat on their trunks with the resigned despair of the shipwrecked on a desert island; some—less experienced—squatted before their gaping bags contemplating last minute amendments to their declaration slips.
Young Mrs. Hudson had done a minimum of collecting in Europe, but it was amazing how many things one unwittingly came into possession of in the course of a mere three years of foreign travel. As she neared her letter, she met a pair of officials headed also in that direction and told them that she was hopeful of spending at least part of Christmas Day with relatives in Detroit. She led them to her belongings and indicated which pieces they were to put the stickers on. She could have brought in the Crown jewels, that morning.
To her delight, the three o’clock train was not crowded; but why should it be? It was Christmas Eve! Normal people were at home. The thought depressed her. For a little while, as the train roared through the tunnel, she missed a home as she had never before.
There was a pleasurable excitement, however, in this return to Detroit. She and Joyce had been very close. Whatever of constraint had come upon their comradeship, in that last trying winter when she had attempted so unsuccessfully to keep the girl from utterly ruining herself, Joyce’s urgent need of her drove all that into oblivion.
And there were many other friends in Detroit she would be happy to see again … The Byrnes … Should she go out to see Mrs. Ashford? Why not—indeed? Mrs. Ashford had been good to her … It might be thought strange if Doctor Hudson’s widow returned to Detroit and failed to call at Brightwood … Perhaps it would serve the purpose if she invited Mrs. Ashford down town for luncheon and a matinée … It wouldn’t be necessary to go out to the hospital … Doctor Pyle would be glad to see her, of course; but she would call on the Pyles at their home … Besides—it would be awkward meeting people one scarcely knew any more, and being expected to remember their names … And as for that glassblower, who meddled in people’s affairs and sent spies about to report on their movements, one would be almost sure to encounter him! … Why should he want to blow glass, anyway? … Imagine!—a brain surgeon spending his time in such silly business!
The sky was the colour of wood-ashes. Big snowflakes flattened against the pane, crumbled, edged toward the lower corner of the sash. No matter where they struck and spattered, or how slowly they made their way, sooner or later, quickly or slowly, they eventually arrived in the corner and packed themselves down hard against the others … Her thoughts were like that. Let them strike where they would—they all contrived to bring up at one spot. She was impatient about it, tugged herself free of her reveries, returned to the magazine story and reread with utter disinterest the page that had failed to register … Would it pay to take the coupé out of the storage garage? She had not driven on icy streets for so long. Had she lost her nerve? Skidding was dangerous … She watched a snowflake creep across the pane … Her eyes grew reminiscent, tender. She bit her lip. Her cheeks were flushed … Then, vexed with herself, she shifted her position and took up the magazine with resolution.
Had Joyce been effectually cured of her drinking? Would she drift into her old habits, once she had renewed connections with her Detroit set? … And be brought in, at all hours, maudlin and stupid? … An unusually big snowflake went scudding across the glass, clawing for a hold, but unable to stand out against the rule for all snowflakes on this pane …
