“Oh—that I can’t tell you,” said Jimmy gaily. “The song doesn’t say. I shouldn’t be surprised if she did, though. Lots of ladies do.”
“Children—you must go to bed,” said Jane. “It’s very late.”
“I must go back to town,” said Jimmy. He was putting the violin away in its case.
“Must you?” said Jane. “It’s very early.”
“I think I must,” said Jimmy.
“But we haven’t had any Debussy,” said Jane.
“We’ll have him next time,” smiled Jimmy.
“We’ll have Stephen next time, too,” said Jane.
“That will be delightful,” said Jimmy. The words might have seemed sarcastic if he had not been smiling so pleasantly. Suddenly, hat in hand, he crossed the room. He held out his hand to Jane. “You must make Stephen like me,” he said disarmingly.
“He will,” said Jane. Looking up into Jimmy’s charming faun-like face, Jane, at the moment, could not imagine anyone not liking him.
“I hope he will, Jane,” said Jimmy. “For I like you.”
“Stephen always likes people who like me,” said Jane loyally.
“Then that’s just as it should be,” said Jimmy. “When may I come again?”
“How about Tuesday?” said Jane. “Come out to dinner. Take the five-fifty with Stephen.”
“I will,” said Jimmy. “Good night, kids! Now, all together, before I go! Do you like me? The answer is ‘yes’!”
In the resulting clamour, Jimmy made his escape. He threw Jane one last smile from the threshold. As she heard the front door close behind him, Jane walked over to little Steve. For no reason whatever, she kissed him, very warmly.
“What are you smiling at, Mumsy?” said Jenny.
“Nothing,” said Jane. She ran her hand caressingly over Cicily’s fair crinkly hair. She kissed Jenny’s little freckled nose and pushed her toward the door.
“Go to bed, now, all of you,” said Jane. Left to herself, she picked up a book from the table and sat down in her chair to read it. She did not open it, however, but sat softly smiling, her eyes upon the fire. Stephen found her, sitting just like that, when he came home an hour later by the ten-ten.
“Bert’s better,” he said from the doorway, “And Muriel’s in fine shape. She’s taking everything very calmly. Young Albert gets home tomorrow!”
Jane realized that she had not once thought of Muriel since she had left the telephone after talking with Stephen five hours before. She felt suddenly conscious-stricken. She jumped up to help Stephen off with his coat.
“I’m glad,” she said. “Did you fix everything up for her?” Even now, Jane felt she wasn’t really thinking of Muriel. She did not give Stephen time to answer her question. “Jimmy Trent was here for dinner,” she said.
“Jimmy Trent?”
“Yes. He came out unexpectedly. He brought his fiddle and sang to the children.”
“Can he sing?” Stephen was walking across the room to lock the glass doors that opened on the terrace.
“Yes, Quite nicely. He’s very amusing. Stephen—”
Jane hesitated.
“Yes,” said Stephen, fumbling with a door-latch.
Jane did not answer. She had had it on the tip of her tongue to say “Stephen, I think he’s falling for me,” Then she remembered. She remembered the three weeks in which Jimmy had not telephoned. He was probably just getting a rise out of her that evening. Well—anyway, even so, he did not know that he had got it. That was a comfort. Of course he was not falling for her. He was Agnes’s husband and, obviously, a very volatile young man.
“Yes?” said Stephen again, turning from the window.
“Oh—nothing,” said Jane. Stephen turned out the lights.
“If Bert lives,” said Jane, “we ought to ask young Albert out here for the weekend. It would relieve Muriel, and Cicily would love to have him. Jack and Belle are coming.”
“All right,” said Stephen. Jane preceded him up the staircase. The spell invoked by Jimmy was already evaporating. She was glad that she had not said anything silly to Stephen. She was really a very silly woman, thought Jane, as she slipped out of the Poiret tea-gown. Jimmy did not mean anything by all that nonsense. It was just his line.
III
It happened just seven weeks later. It happened Thanksgiving afternoon, out beneath the apple tree beyond the little clump of evergreens at the foot of the garden. Jane was very much surprised when it did.
The seven weeks had been full of incident. She had been seeing Jimmy quite often, of course. He had come out perhaps once a week to dinner. She had lunched with him in town one day and gone with him to a concert that he had had to review for his paper. That was the only time, really, that they had been alone. He usually brought his fiddle when he came out to Lakewood and they had had lots of Debussy and a few more ballads. The children adored him, of course, and he had, somewhat to Jane’s surprise, made rather a hit with Stephen. Jimmy had made rather a hit with everyone, in fact. With her mother and Isabel and Flora and Muriel, who had had him to dinner just as soon as Bert was pronounced out of immediate danger, and declared him charming—much too good, indeed, for Agnes. Mr. Ward had raised the only dissenting voice. And all he had said was, after Jimmy had spent an unusually scintillating evening at the Wards’ dinner-table, that Agnes deserved a better fate. Jane knew that her father would think almost any fate unworthy of Agnes. He had admired her since her first days at Miss Milgrim’s School. When pressed by his indignant daughters for further and more flattering comment, even Mr. Ward had admitted that Jimmy was very clever. He fitted delightfully in Jane’s most intimate circle. That was why she had asked him out for Thanksgiving luncheon with the family.
Thanksgiving luncheon had been like all Thanksgiving luncheons—not very brilliant. There had been too much turkey and too many children to make for clever conversation around the groaning board. Mr. Ward had sat on Jane’s right hand and Jimmy on her left. On either
