They were very late, having lingered long at dinner … Gropingly following the usher’s little electric torch, they had dodged guiltily into their seats which fortunately were on the aisle.
A nimble chorus marched mincingly across the stage, single file, in close formation, like a garish caterpillar; coquetted, shrieked a piercing blast, broke ranks, and were joined by the male contingent which sauntered in from the wings. There was a stormy repetition of the theme song, a final deafening screech, with arms aloft, and the lights burst on as the curtain fell.
Joyce, who had insisted on leading the way, leaned to the left, across Nancy and Helen, to hand him the seat checks … How vividly every trivial incident stood out now, chiselled in high relief … He had reached for the ticket-stubs, his movement pressing him close against Helen’s bare shoulder. His hand had lightly brushed her arm. Every chance contact swept him with a suffocating surge of emotion. It was only by the sternest resolution that he resisted the urge to touch her.
He could not remember what the chatter was about at this first entr’acte. Joyce seemed to have provided most of it—some amusing incident of Jasmine’s opening night in New York. Nancy was her best listener; Helen smilingly half-attentive, half-preoccupied.
The orchestra trailed in, twitched its E-string; the director raised both hands, swept his crew fore and aft with a final inspection; and they were off at full gallop in the descending darkness.
He had wished he was not quite so acutely conscious of her beside him, fearing she might sense the physical out-groping of himself toward her. Nancy’s experienced observation recurred to him. He had told her how keenly aware he had been of the girl in the car beside him, that night in the country. Nancy had pooh-poohed his naive notion that Helen was, of course, ignorant of his sensations.
“Nonsense!” Nancy had scoffed. “Do you imagine she could have that effect on you without sharing it? … How little you know about women!”
It was near the close of the second act that the catastrophe occurred.
He had not been following the silly, threadbare plot with enough attention to realize what, if anything, it was aiming at. His mind had been concentrated on the magnetic presence beside him, what time he was not daydreaming of the happiness he would find in surrounding her with the things she ought to have. It was not until he had irretrievably blundered that he came awake to the fact that he had unwittingly insulted her.
The dashing ingénue had returned—it was a colourful scene of a country house party—in a luxurious limousine. The fact that she was penniless; that the car was the property of the brazen broker who had been pursuing her throughout the play with gifts and attentions obviously to be credited on account; that the imported gown she wore was his by purchase—all this was of no significance to him … At that moment, the only fact of any interest to him was the quite good-looking limousine.
Impetuously, he had turned to Helen—their heads had touched, lightly, for an instant—and whispered, “I heard you say you liked my new car. I’m not using it much. I’d like to lend it to you for the time you’re here.”
Perhaps, even then, the most serious blunder of all might have been avoided had she been quick with an emphatic refusal … Unsuspecting that her silence meant nothing more encouraging than that she had been stunned by his raw audacity, and heartened by that misinterpreted silence, he had groped shyly, his heart pounding, for the hand that he knew lay, palm up, very white against the black velvet.
Perhaps she had intuitively divined his intention … Perhaps the slight movement of his arm gave her warning … Or, did she choose that exact second to toy with her strand of pearls? … He would probably never know how it had happened … The warm velvet stirred uneasily under his brief caress.
The curtain was falling. The house was flooded with light. He glanced apprehensively toward her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her little fist, tightly clutching her handkerchief, was pressed hard against her lips.
On Joyce’s suggestion, they strolled in the lobby. On the way up the aisle, Helen had taken Nancy’s arm, and Joyce, observant, had tarried until he fell into step with her. Animatedly, she had carried the full responsibility for their desultory talk. He was glad, for his mind was in chaos.
When the signal summoned to the last act, they returned in the order in which they had made their exit, and when their seats were reached, Helen led the way in, leaving Joyce beside him.
What a beastly cad she must think him! … But—surely her own good sense would tell her he had not meant it! … Not that way!
He hadn’t the faintest idea what the last act was about; sat through it suffering every imaginable torture. After a few eternities, the wretched thing was done.
Their parting was brief, conventional, without one single understanding look into each other’s eyes.
In the morning, he would find her and attempt an explanation … The clock tolled the four quarters and struck three … He had an operation to do at nine.
Wearily he flung off his clothes and went to bed. As he relaxed on his pillow, sick at heart, the chimes offered a cynical comment on his adroit handling of the evening’s complicated problem.
Upon his arrival at the hospital, in the morning, the desk notified him he was requested to call Mr. Randall at the Fourth National Bank, to which he paid no attention.
Having finished his operation, he called the Statler and asked for Mrs. Hudson. She had checked out.
XVIII
The Bruce McLarens were entertaining Dr. Robert Merrick at luncheon in their cosily furnished apartment. It was Sunday, and the three of them were just back from Grace Church where the appearance of the distinguished young surgeon in the minister’s pew, in company with Mrs. McLaren, had excited a genial buzz of pride
