She thought of her mother who had loved her father so dearly, and of the washdays which she had endured for him, the long years of household routine before she and Jinny had been old enough to help her first with their hands and then with their earnings. She thought of the little, dark, shabby house, of the made-over dresses and turned coats. And then she saw Roger and his wealth and his golden recklessness, his golden keys which could open the doors to beauty and ease and—decency! Oh, it wasn’t decent for women to have to scrub and work and slave and bear children and sacrifice their looks and their pretty hands—she saw her mother’s hands as they had always looked on wash day, they had a white, boiled appearance. No, she would not fool herself nor Anthony. She was no sentimentalist. It was not likely that she, a girl who had left her little sister and her home to go out to seek life and happiness, would throw it over for poverty—hardship. If a man loved a woman how could he ask her that?
So she told him gently: “No, Anthony, I couldn’t,” and watched the blood drain from his face and the old look of unhappiness drift into his eyes.
He answered inadequately. “No, of course you couldn’t.” And turning over—he had been sitting on the grass at her feet—he lay face downward on the scented turf. Presently he sat up and giving her a singularly sweet but wistful smile, said: “I almost touched happiness, Angèle. Did you by any chance ever happen to read Browning’s ‘Two in the Roman Campagna’?”
But she had read very little poetry except what had been required in her High School work, and certainly not Browning.
He began to interpret the fragile, difficult beauty of the poem with its light but sure touch on evanescent, indefinable feeling. He quoted:
“How is it under our control
To love or not to love?”
And again:
“Infinite yearning and the pang
Of finite hearts that yearn.”
They were silent for a long time. And again she wondered how it would feel to love. He watched the sun drop suddenly below some tree tops and rose to his feet shivering a little as though its disappearance had made him immediately cold.
“ ‘So the good moment goes.’ Come, Angel, we’ll have to hasten. It’s getting dark and it’s a long walk to the subway.”
The memory of the afternoon stayed by her, shrouding her thoughts, clinging to them like a tenuous, adhering mantle. But she said to herself: “There’s no use thinking about that. I’m not going to live that kind of life.” And she knew she wanted Roger and what he could give her and the light and gladness which he always radiated. She wanted none of Anthony’s poverty and privation and secret vows—he meant, she supposed, some promise to devote himself to real art—her visual mind saw it in capitals. Well, she was sick of tragedy, she belonged to a tragic race. “God knows it’s time for one member of it to be having a little fun.”
“Yes,” she thought all through her class, painting furiously—for she had taken up her work in earnest since Christmas—“yes, I’ll just make up my mind to it. I’ll take Roger back and get married and settle down to a pleasant, safe, beautiful life.” And useful. It should be very useful. Perhaps she’d win Roger around to helping coloured people. She’d look up all sorts of down-and-outers and give them a hand. And she’d help Anthony, at least she’d offer to help him; she didn’t believe he would permit her.
Coming out of the building a thought occurred to her: “Take Roger back, but back to what? To his old status of admiring, familiar, generous friend? Just that and no more?” Here was her old problem again. She stopped short to consider it.
Martha Burden overtook her. “Planning the great masterpiece of the ages, Angèle? Better come along and work it out by my fireside. I can give you some tea. Are you coming?”
“Yes,” said Angela, still absorbed.
“Well,” said Martha after they had reached the house. “I’ve never seen any study as deep as that. Come out of it Angèle, you’ll drown. You’re not by any chance in love, are you?”
“No,” she replied, “at least I don’t know. But tell me, Martha, suppose—suppose I were in love with one of them, what do you do about it, how do you get them to propose?”
Martha lay back and laughed. “Such candour have I not met, no, not in all Flapperdom. Angèle, if I could answer that I’d be turning women away from my door and handing out my knowledge to the ones I did admit at a hundred dollars a throw.”
“But there must be some way. Oh, of course, I know lots of them propose, but how do you get a proposal from the ones you want—the—the interesting ones?”
“You really want to know? The only answer I can give you is Humpty Dumpty’s dictum to Alice about verbs and adjectives: ‘It depends on which is the stronger.’ ” She interpreted for her young guest was clearly mystified. “It depends on (A) whether you are strong enough to make him like you more than you like him; (B) whether if you really do like him more than he does you you can conceal it. In other words, so far as liking is concerned you must always be ahead of the game, you must always like or appear to like him a little less than he does you. And you must make him want you. But you mustn’t give. Oh yes, I know
