Angela found her number, mounted the steps, sought in the dim, square hall feverishly among the names in the bells. Sullivan, Brown, Hendrickson, Sanchez—and underneath the name of Sanchez on the same card, five small, neat characters in Anthony’s inimitably clear printing—Cross. She almost fainted with the relief of it. Her fingers stole to the bell—perhaps her onetime fellow-student was up in his room now—how strange that this bit of gutta percha and its attendant wires should bridge all the extent of time and space that had so long lain between them! But she could not push it; Anthony, she was sure, was real enough, close enough to the heart of living to refuse to be shocked by any mere breach of the conventionalities. Even so, however, to seek at eleven o’clock at night and without preliminary warning admission to the rooms of a man whom one has not noticed for a year, was, as he himself would have put it, “a bit thick.”
The little note which she sent was a model of demureness and propriety. “Dear Anthony,” it read, “Do you remember my promising to ask you in for tea the next time I made a batch of cookies? Well, tomorrow at 5:30 will be the next time. Do come!”
He had changed; her interested, searching eyes descried it in a moment. Always grave, always austere, always responsible, there was now in his manner an imponderable yet perceptible increment of each quality. But this was not all; his old familiar tortured look had left him; a peace, a quality of poise hovered about him, the composure which is achieved either by the attainment or by the relinquishment of the heart’s desire. There is really very little difference, since each implies the cessation of effort.
All this passed rapidly through Angela’s mind. Aloud she said: “How do, Anthony? you’re really looking awfully well. It’s nice to see you again.”
“It’s nice to see you,” he replied. Certainly there was nothing remarkable about their conversation. After the bantering, the jests and allusions which she had been used to hearing at the Sandburgs—compared with the snappy jargon of Mrs. Denver’s “crowd” this was trivial, not to say banal. She burst out laughing. Anthony raised his eyebrows.
“What’s so funny? Is it a secret joke?”
“No—only I’ve been thinking hard about you for a long time.” She made a daring stroke. “Presumably you’ve thought occasionally about me. Yet when we meet we sit up like a dandy and a dowager with white kid gloves on and exchange comments on our appearances. I suppose the next step in order would be to talk about the weather. Have you had much rain up in 114th Street, Mr. Cross?”
Some of his poise forsook him. The pervasive peacefulness that sat so palpably upon him deserted him like a rended veil. “You’ve been thinking about me for a long time? Just how long?”
“I couldn’t tell you when it began.” She ventured another bold stroke. “But you’ve been in the back of my mind—oh for ages, ages.”
The poise, the composure, the peace were all fled now. Hastily, recklessly he set down his glass of tea, came and towered over her. She bit her lips to hide their trembling. Oh he was dear, dearer than she had ever imagined, so transparent, so honest. Who was she to deserve him?
His face quivered. He should never have come near this girl! As suddenly as he had left his chair he returned to it, settled himself comfortably and picked up his glass. “I’ve been away from you so long I had forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?”
“Forgotten how dangerous you are. Forgotten how a woman like you plays with poor fools like me. Why did you send for me? To set me dancing once more to your tune?”
His bitterness surprised and frightened her. “Anthony, Anthony don’t talk like that! I sent for you because I wanted to see you, wanted to talk to my old friend.”
Appeased, he lounged back in the famous and unique easy chair, lit a cigarette. She brought out some of her sketches, displayed her notebook. He was especially interested in the Fourteenth Street Types, was pleased with the portrait of her mother. “She doesn’t look like you, though I can see you probably have her hair and that pearly tint of her skin. But you must have got your nose from your father. You know all the rest of your face,” he dwelt on her features dreamily, “your lips, your eyes, your curly lashes are so deliciously feminine. But that straight nose of yours betokens strength.” The faded, yet striking
