She was thus softly pondering, in a mood of moral beatitude, when Tarrant turned up with his usual nervous: “I’m not late, am I? Well, put off dinner a few minutes, will you?” And now here he was again, fresh from his dressing room, brushed, glossy, physically renovated, but nervously on edge and obviously in need of consolation. … Goodbye to her moral beatitude!
Since their one quarrel about Vance Weston—the quarrel which had resulted in Halo’s deciding not to accompany her husband to Europe—the young man’s name had seldom figured in their talk. The unexpected success of Instead had been balm to Tarrant’s editorial vanity, and Halo had not suspected that there had been a subsequent difference between the two men till the evening, a few months previously, when Vance had told her of his asking Tarrant to raise his salary or annul their contract. She had suffered bitterly on hearing of this, but she had suffered in silence. She could not give Vance the clandestine help she would have wished to; she had neither money of her own, nor means of raising any. And she knew it would only injure him if she betrayed his confession and appealed to her husband’s generosity. Tarrant had no generosity of that kind; he would simply have said: “I suppose he’s been trying to borrow of you now, after failing to pull it off with Mrs. Pulsifer”; and if he had said that she thought she would have got up and walked out of his house—forever.
No; that was not the way to help Vance. Her only intervention on his behalf had been a failure. All she could do was to hold her tongue, and do what she could to contribute to the success of his new book. It flattered her (far more than she knew) to feel that in that way she really could be of use to him. To be his Muse, his inspiration—then there really was some meaning in the stale old image! She knew she had had a real share in the making of Instead, and she wore the secret knowledge like a jewel. …
“Well?—” she questioned her husband, when they had returned to the library after dinner. She knew it was necessary for his digestion (an uncertain function) that he should unburden himself of the grievance she read in every look and intonation. And sometimes, when she rendered him this service, she felt as impersonal as a sick nurse smoothing out a fractious invalid.
Tarrant gave his short retrospective laugh—like the scratch of a match throwing back a brief flare on his grievance. “Oh, it’s only your protégé again—”
She felt a little shiver of apprehension. Usually a cool harmony reigned between Tarrant and herself. Since the day of her great outburst, when she had refused to accompany him to Europe, she had carefully avoided anything approaching a disagreement. She had learned her lesson that day; and futile wrangles were humiliating to her. But whenever Vance Weston’s name was pronounced between them the air seemed to become electric. Was it her husband’s fault or hers? She was always on the alert to defend Vance, she hardly knew from what. Or was it herself she was defending … ?
“What protégé?” she asked carelessly.
“I didn’t know you had more than one. Weston, of course—yes, he’s been treating me to another of his scenes. Really, the fellow’s not housebroken. And a sneak too … can’t run straight. …”
“Lewis!”
“Dirty sneak. He’s after more money, as usual, and he’s been trying to get Lambart to buy his book from Dreck and Saltzer without first consulting me. Buy up our double contract with him … behind my back! But women can never see the enormity of these things. …”
He paused, and stirred his coffee angrily. “I daresay you see nothing in it,” he challenged her.
Halo’s heart had subsided to a more regular measure. It was not what she had feared … she was ashamed to think how much! She assured herself hastily that her fears had been for Vance, and not for herself. If he had lost his head and betrayed his feeling for her to her husband it would have meant ruin for him. She knew the deadly patience of Tarrant’s retaliations.
“Of course,” Tarrant continued, “things aren’t done that way between men. But the fact is I know only one woman who has a man’s sensitiveness in money matters”—he paused—“and that is Jet Pulsifer. …” He brought the name out with a touch of defiance which amused his wife.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured, with increasing relief.
“You don’t see anything in it yourself?” he insisted.
“I see what I always have—that your contract’s not fair to Vance; I’ve told you so before.”
“That’s neither here nor there—”
“Surely it’s very much here, if the poor boy’s in want of money.”
“Ah, he’s been whining to you again about money, has he?”
She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. She remembered the uselessness of her previous intervention in Vance’s behalf, and wondered again by what curious coincidence it happened that his name always brought to a climax the latent tension between herself and Tarrant.
“Look here, Halo—I can see you still think I’ve treated him badly.”
“I think you’ve treated him—indifferently. What you call business is essentially an affair of indifference, isn’t it? It’s designed to exclude the emotions.”
“Do you want me to be emotional about Weston?”
“I want you to be generous, Lewis—as you know how to
