“Going, Ma,” she called back. Mr. Neal climbed out of the car and helped her in.
He didn’t look so old—elderly—today, she thought to herself, noting the straightness of his flat back and the smooth bronze of his closely shaven cheek. Evidently his beard was very strong and this had lent hitherto a somewhat heavy cast to his face. But today he was shaven to the blood. Maggie was used to studying men. It was a legacy from the old days, when failure to analyze a prospective roomer’s appearance might jeopardize a week’s rent. She noticed Neal’s hands at the wheel, powerful and sinewy with broad square fingertips. He was still baffling, but not so bad, she thought.
“Of course, not like Philip, but nice enough to go around with, and this is a dandy car.” She looked at him again sideways. He caught her glance.
“Thinkin’ I ain’t so bad maybe, Miss Maggie?”
She blushed, confused, not so much at his catching her eye as at the completeness with which he had read her thought.
“You certainly look nice in that suit, Mr. Neal. It’s different from what most men wear, isn’t it?”
“Likely as not. I picked it up in London last time I crossed the big pond.”
“You’ve been to Europe?” asked Maggie all ears.
“Yes to England, France, Spain, Germany and Italy. They was a time,” he said in his deliberately incorrect way, “when I thought I’d stay in them parts forever, but I come back. Used to valet for a rich white fellow. Took me everywhere with him. Wanted to carry me to Africa lion-hunting. But I quit him cold. If you want to hunt lions, go to it. Me, I’m a-goin’ t’stay right here.”
He spoke with a heavy emphasis on the last word which lent a curious whimsicality to his speech.
“This is the first time you’ve ever talked about yourself, Mr. Neal. Tell me some more, it’s mighty interesting.”
He had been everything from a farmer to a chauffeur, he told her, confirming her idea that his present occupation was concerned with the manipulation of cars.
“And I’ve been a lot of places and I’ve seen a lot of people. But you don’t want to hear about me, Miss Maggie. They ain’t nothing in me to interest a little lady like you. Now, on the other hand, seems to me, you might make real interestin’ talkin’.”
He had a nice smile, Maggie thought.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she smiled back at him. “There’s just my mother and me. I’m twenty-one and I’ve been out of school three years. I work in the office of Mr. Marshall, the caterer; you know him?”
“Know of him, Miss Maggie, know of him. Son’s a real-estate agent, ain’t he?”
“Yes. Well, I’m a sort of overseer-bookkeeper. In my spare time I’m taking up a course in hairdressing. You know there’s a Madame Harkness who’s invented a method of softening hair, and of taking the harshness out of your folks’ locks.” She laughed at him. “You know I think there’s a big future in it. It ought to mean a lot to us. Everybody wants to be beautiful, and every woman looks better if her hair is soft and manageable.”
“Reckon you don’t need to use no such preparation, Miss Maggie.”
“No, I don’t, fortunately, but I’ll be glad to help those that do. I love to see people look nice; like to look nice myself.”
“You sure do, you’re like a little yellow flower, growin’ in that house.” He gave her a keen level glance whose boldness was softened by his serious manner.
“Let’s stop talking about me,” said Maggie with sudden confusion. “Don’t you want to hear about my mother?”
“Well, not as much as about some others.”
“Anyway, she’s been a wonderful mother. My father died when I was about eight, and left us nothing. Mother has been hard put to it at times. That’s why I want to learn the hair-trade. I want to set up a business for myself some day. If I succeed, both mother and I can live on easy street.”
“You’d ought to be living there now. A delicate little girl like you’s got no business having to worry her pretty head about taking care of herself.” He bent on her a long considering look. “There’s many a man would be willing to take that job off your hands. I bet I know of one.” An odd bashfulness seemed to descend upon him.
“Perhaps he’s going to propose,” thought Maggie innocently enraptured, “wouldn’t that be great?” She pictured Sylvia’s surprise when she should tell her. His clumsy circumlocution, his heavy deference, delighted her. Philip of course was wonderful, but he was inclined, like all the Marshalls, to be a little superior. Well, why shouldn’t they be?
She sighed.
Her silence seemed to put an end to his sentimental maunderings, for he began to talk about the car, explaining its mechanism. Once, too, he turned and swore fluently at a motorist who passed him too closely. At the sudden passion which convulsed his face Maggie drew back, a little frightened. He noticed it, and immediately ironed out the lines of anger.
“You must forgive me, Miss Maggie. It made me so angry to think that that fool might have caused an accident which would have injured you.”
She thought with the ignorant pride of a young girl that it would be very easy for her to manage him. Shortly after that they turned around and came home. Maggie was glad when they reached the house, for she had many things to think about. Shutting off the motor, he followed her into the hall and they stood there a minute, his powerful dark figure looming over her.
She thanked him prettily. “It was very nice of you, Mr. Neal. You’ve been most kind to mother and me.” As she sped lightly up the stairs she forgot him completely.
Her windows were open and a full moon flooded her room with light. “Oh, Philip if I only knew
