Another element entered too. He had wounded her pride and he should salve it. And the only unguent possible would be a proposal of marriage. Oh if only she could be a girl in a book and when he finally did ask her for her hand, she would be able to tell him that she was going to marry someone else, someone twice as eligible, twice as handsome, twice as wealthy.
Through all these racing thoughts penetrated the sound of Roger’s voice, pleading, persuasive, seductive. She was amazed to find a certain shamefaced timidity creeping over her; yet it was he who should have shown the shame. And she could not understand either why she was unable to say plainly: “You say you care for me, long for me so much, why don’t you ask me to come to you in the ordinary way?” But some pride either unusually false or unusually fierce prevented her from doing this. Undoubtedly Roger with his wealth, his looks and his family connections had already been much sought after. He knew he was an “eligible.” Poor, unknown, stigmatized, if he but knew it, as a member of the country’s least recognized group she could not bring herself to belong even in appearance to that band of young women who so obviously seek a “good match.”
When he had paused a moment for breath she told him sadly: “But, Roger, people don’t do that kind of thing, not decent people.”
“Angèle, you are such a child! This is exactly the kind of thing people do do. And why not? Why must the world be let in on the relationships of men and women? Some of the sweetest unions in history have been of this kind.”
“For others perhaps, but not for me. Relationships of the kind you describe don’t exist among the people I know.” She was thinking of her parents, of the Hallowells, of the Hensons whose lives were indeed like open books.
He looked at her curiously, “The people you know! Don’t tell me you haven’t guessed about Paulette!”
She had forgotten about Paulette! “Yes I know about her. She told me herself. I like her, she’s been a mighty fine friend, but, Roger, you surely don’t want me to be like her.”
“Of course I don’t. It was precisely because you weren’t like her that I became interested. You were such a babe in the woods. Anyone could see you’d had no experience with men.”
This obvious lack of logic was too bewildering. She looked at him like the child which, in these matters, she really was. “But—but Roger, mightn’t that be a beginning of a life like Paulette’s? What would become of me after we, you and I, had separated? Very often these things last only for a short time, don’t they?”
“Not necessarily; certainly not between you and me. And I’d always take care of you, you’d be provided for.” He could feel her gathering resentment. In desperation he played a cunning last card: “And besides who knows, something permanent may grow out of this. I’m not entirely my own master, Angèle.”
Undoubtedly he was referring to his father whom he could not afford to offend. It never occurred to her that he might be lying, for why should he?
To all his arguments, all his half-promises and implications she returned a steady negative. As twilight came on she expressed a desire to go home; with the sunset her strength failed her; she felt beaten and weary. Her unsettled future, her hurt pride, her sudden set-to with the realities of the society in which she had been moving, bewildered and frightened her. Resentful, puzzled, introspective, she had no further words for Roger; it was impossible for him to persuade her to agree or to disagree with his arguments. During the long ride home she was resolutely mute.
Yet on the instant of entering Jayne Street she felt she could not endure spending the long evening hours by herself and she did not want to be alone with Roger. She communicated this distaste to him. While not dishevelled they were not presentable enough to invade the hotels farther uptown. But, anxious to please her, he told her they could go easily enough to one of the small cabarets in the Village. A few turns and windings and they were before a house in a dark side street knocking on its absurdly barred door, entering its black, myterious portals. In a room with a highly polished floor, a few tables and chairs, some rather bizarre curtains, five or six couples were sitting, among them Paulette, Jack Hudson, a tall, rather big, extremely blonde girl whose name Angela learned was Carlotta Parks, and a slender, black-avised man whose name she failed to catch. Paulette hailed him uproariously; the blonde girl rose and precipitately threw her arms about Fielding’s neck.
“Roger!”
“Don’t,” he said rather crossly. “Hello, Jack.” He nodded to the dark man whom he seemed to know indifferently well. “What have they got to eat here, you fellows? Miss Mory and I are tired and hungry. We’ve been following the pike all day.” Miss Parks turned and gave Angela a long, considering look.
“Sit here,” said Paulette, “there’s plenty of room. Jack, you order for them, the same things we’ve been having. You get good cooking here.” She was radiant with happiness and
