“I’ve just been telling Jane,” said Agnes, a trifle severely, “that she ought to be doing something with her life.”
Stephen looked extremely astonished.
“Why—isn’t she?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” said Agnes.
“Must Jane do something important?” asked Stephen. Jane handed him his tea.
“She could,” said Agnes firmly, “if she would.”
“I never have liked,” said Stephen dreamily, “important women.”
Jane began to feel a trifle amused. She didn’t know that Stephen had it in him. Agnes didn’t reply. Jane knew that Agnes always felt above a cheap retort. Stephen was left a little up in the air with his last remark. It began to sound ruder than it was, in the silence.
“Agnes,” said Jane lightly, “is a serious-minded woman.”
“I can see that,” said Stephen. He tried to muster an admiring smile, but, under Agnes’s dispassionate eye, it didn’t quite come off.
“Life is real and life is earnest,” explained Jane sweetly, “and the grave is not its goal.”
Stephen grinned at her very appreciatively. He was grateful for her levity. But Agnes was quite disgusted. She rose abruptly.
“I must go,” she said.
The front door opened and closed.
“Don’t go, Agnes,” said Jane. “Here’s Papa. He’ll want to see you.”
Mr. Ward appeared in the library door. His hands were full of newspapers and illustrated weeklies.
“Why, Agnes!” he said. He shook hands warmly. He was very glad to see her. “How’s the busy little brain working?”
“One hundred percent,” grinned Agnes. “But we miss Jane.”
“I missed her myself,” said Mr. Ward heartily, “for two long years.” He walked across the room and put his papers down on the desk.
“What does Bryn Mawr think about Spain, Agnes?” he asked. “Are we going to have war?” Mr. Ward was very much interested in Cuba. He was always talking of intervention.
“War?” said Agnes vaguely. “What war?”
“Ever hear of ‘Cuba libre’?” questioned Mr. Ward with a smile.
“Oh, yes,” said Agnes. “But I can’t say I’ve thought much about it.”
“Did you read the President’s message to Congress?” Mr. Ward had read it, himself, to Jane.
Agnes shook her head.
“What’s the matter with Miss Thomas?” said Mr. Ward. “I thought you women’s rights girls would be getting up a battery!”
Agnes laughed.
“In the cloister,” she said, “our wars are of the spirit. But I must go.” Mr. Ward walked with her to the door. He came back into the library, chuckling.
“Agnes is a great kid,” he said. “Bright girl, Stephen. You ought to know her. Keep you jumping to get ahead of her.”
Stephen looked as if he wouldn’t care very much for that form of exercise.
“Will you come skating?” he said.
“Yes,” said Jane, “I’d love to.”
“Eight o’clock?” said Stephen.
“Yes,” said Jane.
“Good evening, sir,” said Stephen meticulously to Jane’s father.
“Good night,” said Mr. Ward. He was looking at Stephen with that air of faint amusement, with which he always looked at him. Stephen went out into the hall.
“That’s a nice boy, Jane,” said Mr. Ward. Jane nodded. Her father walked around the desk and put his arms around her. He twisted her about, so that he could look into her face.
“But don’t get too fond of him,” said Mr. Ward.
“I won’t,” said Jane, promptly.
Mr. Ward was looking down at her very tenderly.
“Don’t get too fond of anyone, kid,” he said, “just yet.”
IV
Jane was waiting with her skates in the hall, when Stephen rang the doorbell. She opened the door herself. He smiled down at her.
“Prompt lady!” he said. He tucked her skates under his arm.
Jane ran down the front steps. The December night felt very fresh and cold. Pine Street was buried in snow. The tall arc lamp on the corner threw a flickering light, pale lavender in colour, and strange gigantic shadows of the elm boughs on the immaculate scene. They walked along briskly, single file, in the path shovelled out of the drifts. The December stars were glittering overhead. The noises of the city were muffled by the snow fall. Jane could hear sleigh bells, dimly, in the distance. When they reached the corner the sound of the band at the Superior Street rink fell gaily on her ears. It was playing “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” The path was wider, now. Stephen fell into step beside her. Jane began softly to sing:
“When you hear dem bells go ding, ling, ling,
All join ’round and sweetly you must sing,
And when the verse am through, in the chorus all join in,
There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight—my baby—”
Jane was skipping in time to the tune.
“Oh, Stephen,” she said, “it’s a marvellous night! I’m so glad you asked me!”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” said Stephen cheerfully. “I love to see you love things.”
“I do love them,” said Jane seriously. “Ever so many.”
“I know you do,” said Stephen. “That’s one of the nicest things about you.” Jane skipped a moment in silence. “What did Agnes Johnson mean,” said Stephen a little irrelevantly, “about your doing something with your life?”
“She thinks I should,” said Jane.
“Well,” said Stephen, “aren’t you?”
“Why, no,” said Jane. “Not really. I’m just letting it happen.”
“Isn’t it all right?” said Stephen. “Your life?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “But of course I don’t feel really settled.”
“Why not?” asked Stephen a little uneasily.
“Well—a girl doesn’t, you know, until—” Jane didn’t quite want to finish that sentence. “I mean I can’t go on this way forever—just living with Mamma and Papa—I mean—I probably won’t—” Jane abandoned that sentence also.
“No,” said Stephen very gravely, “I suppose not.”
They walked a few minutes in silence.
“Do you know,” said Stephen confidentially, “I really hate college women?”
Jane twinkled up at him.
“I’m a college woman,” she said.
“You?” Stephen burst out laughing.
“I’m a fighting feminist,” said Jane.
“Yes, you are!” said Stephen.
“Really I am,” said Jane. “I just haven’t the courage of my convictions.”
“I like you cowardly,” said Stephen.
“It has its advantages,” said Jane. “She who thinks and runs away, lives to think another day. I shall
