The bell buzzed softly, she could barely hear it. Yes, that was he. She heard her father’s voice, “In the back parlor, Bye.”
He came in, came toward her. “Well, Joanna, here’s the wanderer returned.” He bent to kiss her.
She turned him a cold cheek, which to her surprise he kissed without expostulation.
He crossed the room, sat down and looked at her. “H’m, how stagy we are in that getup!”
He was different somehow, she thought, vaguely hurt by his remark. One of her reasons for putting on the dress had been so that she might please him. She asked him a question to hide her chagrin.
“Where’ve you been, Peter? I thought your train got in at four?”
“It did, but since you weren’t there to meet me, I supposed you didn’t care whether I came late or early, or not at all. I met Vera Manning in the station and took her to a movie.”
Her spirits went up at that. This was just pique, sheer pique.
“How lovely for Vera! And now I’ve got to send you home almost right away. I’ve had a hard day and I’m dreadfully tired. Tell you what, dear boy, come to luncheon tomorrow. We’ll have it together, just we two.”
She thought after he had gone that he had looked at her critically, impersonally.
“As though he were contrasting me with someone,” she murmured.
The next day confirmed her impression. Joanna asked him to praise the luncheon.
“I fixed it every bit myself.”
“I should think so, so feminine and knickknackish.” His tone said: “I’m used to having my taste consulted.”
Joanna did not like the remark, but there was nothing really to be said about it. She sprang up lightly, began to clear away.
“Come on, lazy Peter Bye, don’t leave everything for me to do.”
He lounged in his chair. “Oh, come, Joanna, I’m used to being waited on, not doing the waiting.”
She stared at him then. “Well, good heavens! What on earth has been happening to you in Philadelphia?”
He spoke from a contented reminiscence. “When I have dinner at Maggie Neal’s, she’s not everlastingly asking me to do this and do that. ‘Sit still, Peter,’ she says, ‘this isn’t a man’s work.’ ”
“Maggie Neal has her own methods with her men friends. Personally I prefer to have mine wait on me.”
He rose to his feet. “Oh, yes, Queen Joanna must be served.”
They finished and went to the parlor. Joanna sang one or two of her songs to his accompaniment. The incident rankled, though she wouldn’t let herself speak about it.
“But he certainly is changed,” she said to herself in an angry bewilderment.
She had to sing in Orange that night and did not intend to return until the next morning.
“What do we do tomorrow?” Peter asked.
“Remember you said you wanted to hear Aida? I phoned them to reserve tickets for us for tomorrow’s matinée. But they have to be called for. Better go down there first thing in the morning, Peter.”
He twisted around on the piano stool. “You’ll be down town tomorrow morning coming from Orange. Why don’t you stop for them?”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “Peter Bye, you are spoilt,” she flamed. “You’re—why you’re absolutely disgusting. We’ll never hear Aida if you depend on my getting the tickets. As long as he was well and not busy, there’s no man in the world I’d do it for.”
“Married women do it for their husbands.”
“Sylvia doesn’t do it for Brian. He wouldn’t dream of asking her. Besides, that’s different. And, anyway, we’re not married yet. Nor likely to be, if we don’t get along any better than this. Whatever’s come over you, Peter?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I think you make a lot of fuss over nothing, Joanna. But all right, I’ll get you the tickets. See you at one-thirty?”
She sat a long time in her room after he had gone, her hands and eyes busy with her day’s mail, which Sylvia always placed on her writing table. But her mind could not take in the written words, it was too full of something else.
But Peter, Peter of all men to act like this! Both she and Sylvia had always known that Maggie was unexacting. The marvel was, however, that Peter should take so quickly to this kind of treatment. Well, she’d just have to hold him that much closer to the mark. He’d see that there were some girls who knew what was due them.
It was time for her to dress. As she looked into the mirror she voiced her real regret. “Two days of the vacation gone, and we’ve done nothing but quarrel. Today he didn’t even ask me for a kiss. Peter, you wretch. Just wait till you come to your senses!”
They were a little stiff next day on the way to the matinée, talking politely and impersonally about the weather in Philadelphia and New York, Joanna’s concert, and Sylvia’s children. Walking up Broadway, however, they thawed a little. Joanna as usual was looking trim. She wore that winter an extremely trig tobacco-brown suit, with a fur turban and a narrow neckpiece of raccoon, the light part setting off the bronze distinction of her face. But Peter was superlative. His financial success with Tom Mason had made it possible for him to indulge in a new outfit which emphasized the distinction of his carriage, set off his handsome face. Several people looked at him on the crowded street. Joanna herself stole several glances sidewise.
He caught her at it. “Joanna Marshall, if you look at me again like that, just once more, mind you, I’ll snatch you up in my arms this minute and kiss you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I dare you to try it. I’d do it no matter how much you kicked and struggled. Wouldn’t the people stare?”
Joanna giggled. “Can’t you see the headlines in the papers tomorrow? ‘Burly Negro Attacks Strapping Negress on Broadway!’ ”
“Yes, and the small type underneath, ‘An interested crowd gathered about a pair of dusky combatants yesterday. A Negro and Negress—’ ”
Joanna interrupted: “Both of
