“Grand little idea!” Duddy declared amid an approving chorus. Helen, following the others among the tables and through the swinging doors to the curb where the big gray car stood waiting, told herself that she must make an effort, must pay for this wonderful evening with some contribution to the fun. But when they had all crowded into the machine and she felt the rush of cool air against her face and saw the street lights speeding past, she forgot everything but joy. She was having a good time at last, and a picture of the Masonville girls flashed briefly through her mind. How meager their picnics and hay rides appeared beside this!
She half formed the phrases in which she would describe to Paul their racing down the long boulevard beside the beach, the salty air, and the darkness, and the long white lines of foam upon the breakers. This, she realized with exultation, was a joyride. She had read the word in newspapers, but its aptness had never before struck her.
It was astounding to find, after a rush through the darkness of the park, that the car was stopping. Everyone was getting out. Amazed and trying to conceal her amazement, she went with them through a blaze of light into another restaurant where another orchestra played the same gay music and dancers whirled beyond a film of cigarette smoke. They sat down at a round bare table, and Helen perceived that one must order something to drink.
She listened to the rapid orders, hesitating. “Blue moons” were intriguing, and “slow gin fizz” was fascinating, with its suggestion of fireworks. But beside her Mr. Kennedy said, “Scotch highball,” and the waiter took her hesitation for repetition. The glass appeared before her, there was a cry of “Happy days!” and she swallowed a queer-tasting, stinging mouthful. She set the glass down hastily.
“What’s the matter with the highball?” Mr. Kennedy inquired. He had paid the waiter, and she felt the obligation of a guest.
“It’s very good really. But I don’t care much for drinks that are fizzy,” she said. She saw a faint amusement in his eyes, but he did not smile, and his order to the waiter was peremptory. “Plain highball here, no seltzer.” The waiter hastened to bring it.
Mr. Kennedy’s attention was still upon her, and she saw no escape. She smiled at him over the glass. “Happy days!” she said, and drank. She set down the empty glass and the muscles of her throat choked back a cough. “Thank you,” she said, and was surprised to find that the weariness was no longer in his eyes.
“You’re all right!” he said. His tone was that of the vanquished greeting the victor, and his next words were equally enigmatic. “I hate a bluffer that doesn’t make good when he’s called!” The orchestra had swung into a new tune, and he half rose. “Dance?”
It was hard to admit her deficiency and let him go.
“I can’t. I don’t know how.”
He sat down.
“You don’t know how to dance?” His inflection said that this was carrying a pretense too far, that in overshooting a mark she had missed it. His keen look at her suddenly made clear a fact for which she had been unconsciously groping while she watched these men and women, the clue to their relations. Beneath their gaiety a ceaseless game was being played, man against woman, and every word and glance was a move in that game, the basis of which was enmity. He thought that she, too, was playing it, and against him.
“Why do you think I’m lying to you, Mr. Kennedy? I would like to dance if I could—of course.”
“I don’t get you,” he replied with equal directness. “What do you come out here for if you don’t drink and don’t dance?”
It would be too humiliating to confess the extent of her inexperience, her ignorance of the city in which she had lived for almost a year. “I come because I like it,” she said. “I’ve worked hard for a long time and never had any fun. And I’m going to learn to dance. I don’t know about drinking. I don’t like the taste of it much. Do people really like to drink highballs and things like that?”
It startled a laugh from him.
“Keep on drinking ’em, and you’ll find out why people do it,” he answered. Over his shoulder he said to the waiter, “Couple of rye highballs, Ben.”
The others were dancing. They were alone at the table, and when, resting an elbow on the edge of it, he concentrated his attention upon her, the crowded room became a swirl of color and light about their isolation. Her breath came faster, the toe of her slipper kept time to the music, exhilaration mounted in her veins, and her success in holding his interest was like wine to her. But a cold, keen inner self took charge of her brain.
The highballs arrived. She felt that she must be rude, and did not drink hers. When he urged she refused as politely as she could. He insisted.
“Drink it!” She felt the clash of an imperious, reckless will against her impassive resistance. There was a second in which neither moved, and their whole relation subtly changed. Then she laughed.
“I’d really rather not,” she said lightly.
“Come on—be game,” he said.
“The season’s closed,” Louise’s flippancies had not been without their effect on her. It was easier to drop back into her own language. “No, really—tell me, why do people drink things that taste like that?”
He met her on her own ground. “You’ve got to drink, to let go, to have a good time. It breaks down inhibitions.” She noted the word. The use of such words was one of the things that marked his difference from the others. “God knows why,” he added wearily. “But what’s the use of living if you don’t hit the high spots? And there’s a streak of—perversity—depravity in me that’s got to have this kind
