In his young male sophistication he thought at first that this was a lead, but her air was so gay and so childishly guileless that he changed his opinion. “Though no girl in this day and time could be as simple and innocent as she looks.”
But aloud he said, “Of course she doesn’t hate you, nobody could do that. I assure you I don’t.”
She thought his gallantries very amusing. “Well, it relieves me to hear you say so; that’ll keep me from worrying for one night at least.” And withdrawing her hand from his retaining grasp, she ran upstairs.
A letter from Virginia lay inside the door. Getting ready for bed she read it in bits.
“Angela darling, wouldn’t it be fun if I were to come to New York too? Of course you’d keep on living in your Village and I’d live in famous Harlem, but we’d both be in the same city, which is where two only sisters ought to be—dumb I calls it to live apart the way we do. The man out at the U. of P. is crazy to have me take an exam in music; it would be easy enough and much better pay than I get here. So there are two perfectly good reasons why I should come. He thinks I’ll do him credit and I want to get away from this town.”
Then between the lines the real reason betrayed itself:
“I do have such awful luck. Edna Brown had a party out in Merion not long ago and Matthew took me. And you know what riding in a train can do for me—well that night of all nights I had to become carsick. Matthew had been so nice. He came to see me the next morning, but, child, he’s never been near me from that day to this. I suppose a man can’t get over a girl’s being such a sight as I was that night. Can’t things be too hateful!”
Angela couldn’t help murmuring: “Imagine anyone wanting old Matthew so badly that she’s willing to break up her home to get over him. Now why couldn’t he have liked her instead of me?”
And pondering on such mysteries she crept into bed. But she fell to thinking again about the evening she had spent with Martha and the people whom she had met. And again it seemed to her that they represented an almost alarmingly unnecessary class. If any great social cataclysm were to happen they would surely be the first to be swept out of the running. Only the real people could survive. Even Paulette’s mode of living, it seemed to her, had something more forthright and vital.
IV
In the morning she was awakened by the ringing of the telephone. The instrument was an extravagance, for, save for Anthony’s, she received few calls and made practically none. But the woman from whom she had taken the apartment had persuaded her into keeping it. Still, as she had never indicated the change in ownership, its value was small. She lay there for a moment blinking drowsily in the thin but intensely gold sunshine of December thinking that her ears were deceiving her.
Finally she reached out a rosy arm, curled it about the edge of the door jamb and, reaching the little table that stood in the other room just on the other side of the door, set the instrument up in her bed. The apartment was so small that almost everything was within arm’s reach.
“Hello,” she murmured sleepily.
“Oh, I thought you must be there; I said to myself: ‘She couldn’t have left home this early.’ What time do you go to that famous drawing class of yours anyway?”
“I beg your pardon! Who is this speaking, please?”
“Why, Roger, of course—Roger Fielding. Don’t say you’ve forgotten me already. This is Angèle, isn’t it?”
“Yes this is Angèle Mory speaking, Mr. Fielding.”
“Did I offend your Highness, Miss Mory? Will you have lunch with me today and let me tell you how sorry I am?”
But she was lunching with Anthony. “I have an engagement.”
“Of course you have. Well, will you have tea, dinner, supper today—breakfast and all the other meals tomorrow and so on for a week? You might just as well say ‘yes’ because I’ll pester you till you do.”
“I’m engaged for tea, too, but I’m not really as popular as I sound. That’s my last engagement for this week; I’ll be glad to have dinner with you.”
“Right-oh! Now don’t go back and finish up that beauty sleep, for if you’re any more charming than you were last night I won’t answer for myself. I’ll be there at eight.”
Inexperienced as she was, she was still able to recognize his method as a bit florid; she preferred, on the whole, Anthony’s manner at lunch when he leaned forward and touching her hand very lightly said: “Isn’t it great for us to be here! I’m so content, Angèle. Promise me you’ll have lunch with me every day this week. I’ve had a streak of luck with my drawings.”
She promised him, a little thrilled herself with his evident sincerity and with the niceness of the smile which so transfigured his dark, thin face, robbing it of its tenseness and strain.
Still something, some vanity, some vague premonition of adventure, led her to linger over her dressing for the dinner with Roger. There was never very much colour in her cheeks, but her skin was warm and white; there was vitality beneath her pallor; her hair was warm, too, long and thick and yet so fine that it gave her little head the effect of being surrounded by a nimbus of light; rather wayward, glancing, shifting light for there were little tendrils and wisps and curls in front and about the temples which no amount of coaxing could subdue. She touched up her mouth a little, not so much to redden it as to
