“You’re a sybarite, that’s what you are! You’re a beastly sensualist!” she laughed at herself in the mirror. “And you’re leading a double life. ‘Out, damned spot!’ ” she added, to the brown triangle of tan on her neck.
For an hour she was happy. Aproned in blue gingham she watered the lawn and hosed the last swirling leaf from the front porch. She said a word or two about roses to the woman next door. They were not very friendly; all the women on that street looked at her across the gulf of uncomprehension between quiet, homekeeping women and the vague world of business. They did not quite know how to take her; they thought her odd. She felt that their lives were cozy and safe, but very small.
Then she went into the kitchen. She made a salad, broke the eggs for an omelet, debated with finger at her lip whether to make popovers. They were fun to make, because of the uncertainty about their popping, but somehow they were difficult to eat while one read. One could manage bread-and-butter sandwiches without lifting eyes from the page. Odd, that she should be lonely only while she ate. The moment she laid down her book at the table the silence of the house closed around her coldly.
She would not have said that she was waiting for anything, but an obscure suspense prolonged her hesitation over the trivial question. When the telephone-bell pealed startlingly through the stillness it was like an awaited summons, and she ran to answer it without doubting whose voice she would hear.
As always, there was some excuse for Paul’s telephoning—a message from his mother, a bit of news from Ripley Farmland Acres—some negligible matter which she heard without listening, knowing that to both of them it was unimportant. The nickel mouthpiece reflected an amused dimple in her cheek, and there was a lilt in her voice when she thanked him. She asked him to come to supper. His hesitation was a struggle with longing. She insisted, and when she hung up the receiver the house had suddenly become warmed and glowing.
She felt a new zest while she took her prettiest lunch cloth from its lavender-scented drawer and brought in a bunch of roses, stopping to tuck one in her belt. She felt, too, that she was pushing back into the depths of her mind many thoughts and emotions that struggled to emerge. She shut her eyes to them, and resisted blindly. It was better to see only the placid surface of the moment. She concentrated her attention upon the popovers, and the eggbeater was humming in her hands when she heard his step on the porch.
It was a quick, heavy step, masculine and determined, but always there was something boyishly eager in it.
She called to him through the open doors, and when he came in she gave him a floury hand, pushing a lock of hair back from her eyes with the back of it before she went on beating the popovers. He stood awkwardly about while she poured the mixture into the hot tins and quickly slid it into the oven, but she knew he enjoyed being there.
The table was set on the screened side porch. White passion flowers fluttered like moths among the green leaves that curtained it, and in an open space a great, yellow rose tapped gently against the screen. The twilight was filled with a soft, orange glow; above the gray roofs half the sky was yellow and the small clouds were like flakes of shining gold.
There came over Helen the strange, uncanny sensation that sometime, somewhere, she had lived through this moment once before. She ignored it, smiling across the white cloth at Paul. She liked to see him sitting there, his square shoulders sturdy in the gray business suit, his lips firm, tight at the corners, his eyes a little stern, but straightforward and honest. He gave an impression of solidity and permanence; one would always know where to find him.
“You’re certainly some cook, Helen!” he said. The omelet was delicious, and the popovers a triumph. She ate only one, that he might have the others, and his enjoyment of them gave her a deep delight.
Across the little table a subtle current vibrated between them, intoxicating her, making her a little dizzy with emotions she would not analyze.
“I certainly am!” she laughed. “The cookstove lost a genius when I became a real-estate lady.” She was not blind to the shadow that crossed his face, but part of her intoxication was a perverseness that did not mind annoying him just a little bit.
“I hate to think about it,” he said. His gravity shattered the iridescent glamor, making her grave, too, and the prosaic atmosphere of the office and its problems surrounded her.
“Well, you may not have it to think about much longer. What do you think? Is there going to be real trouble in Europe?”
“How do you mean?”
“War?”
“Oh, I doubt it. Not in this day and age. We’ve got beyond that, I hope.” His casual dismissal of the possibility was a relief to her, but not quite an assurance.
“I hope so.” She stirred her coffee, thoughtfully watching the glimmer of the spoon in the golden-brown depths. “I’ll be glad when it blows over. That Balkan situation—If Austria stands by her ultimatum, and Serbia does pull Russia into it, there’s Germany. I don’t know much about world politics, but one thing’s certain. If there is war, the bottom’ll drop out of my business.”
He was startled.
“I don’t know what it’s got to do with us over here.”
“It hasn’t anything to do with you or your affairs. But farmers are the most cautious class on earth.
