his safe and returned to his desk, saying in loud tones things which are not ordinarily considered appropriate to the birthday of a loved one. The hubbub must have been audible to Miss Jackson ouside, but perhaps she was accustomed to it. It ceased at another unannounced entrance, that of a girl even more beautiful than the one who had just gone out. She looked at Green and laughed.
“My God! You look happy!” she said.
“Rose!”
“Yes, it’s Rose. But what’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve had a bad day.”
“But isn’t it better now?”
“I didn’t think you were coming till tomorrow.”
“But aren’t you glad I came today?”
“You bet I am!” said Green. “And if you’ll come here and kiss me I’ll be all the gladder.”
“No. Let’s get our business transacted first.”
“What business?”
“You know perfectly well! Last time I saw you you insisted that I must give up everybody else but you. And I promised you it would be all off between Harry and I if—Well, you know. There was a little matter of some pearls.”
“I meant everything I said.”
“Well, where are they?”
“They’re all bought and all ready for you. But I bought them in Philadelphia and for some damn reason they haven’t got here yet.”
“Got here yet! Were they so heavy you couldn’t bring them with you?”
“Honest, dear, they’ll be here day after tomorrow at the latest.”
“ ‘Honest’ is a good word for you to use! Do you think I’m dumb? Or is it that you’re so used to lying that you can’t help it?”
“If you’ll let me explain—”
“Explain hell! We made a bargain and you haven’t kept your end of it. And now—”
“But listen—”
“I’ll listen to nothing! You know where to reach me and when you’ve kept your promise you can call me up. Till then—Well, Harry isn’t such bad company.”
“Wait a minute, Rose!”
“You’ve heard all I’ve got to say. Goodbye!”
And she was gone before he could intercept her.
Conrad Green sat as if stunned. For fifteen minutes he was so silent and motionless that one might have thought him dead. Then he shivered as if with cold and said aloud:
“I’m not going to worry about them anymore. To hell with all of them!”
He drew the telephone to him and took off the receiver.
“Get me Mrs. Bryant-Walker.”
And after a pause:
“Is this Mrs. Bryant-Walker? No, I want to speak to her personally. This is Conrad Green. Oh, hello, Mrs. Walker. Your secretary called me up this morning, but we were cut off. She was saying something about a benefit. Why, yes, certainly, I’ll be glad to. As many of them as you want. If you’ll just leave it all in my hands I’ll guarantee you a pretty good entertainment. It’s no bother at all. It’s a pleasure. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Lewis came in.
“Well, Lewis, did you get to the funeral?”
“Yes, Mr. Green, and I saw Mrs. Plant and explained the circumstances to her. She said you had always been very kind to her husband. She said that during the week of his illness he talked of you nearly all the time and expressed confidence that if he died you would attend his funeral. So she wished you had been there.”
“Good God! So do I!” said Conrad Green.
Reunion
This is one about a brother and sister and the sister’s husband and the brother’s wife. The sister’s name was Rita Mason Johnston; she was married to Stuart Johnston, whose intimates called him Stu, which was appropriate only on special occasions. The brother was Bob Mason, originally and recently from Buchanan, Michigan, and in between whiles a respected resident of Los Angeles. His wife was a woman he had found in San Bernardino and married for some reason.
Rita had been named after a Philadelphia aunt with money. The flattered aunt had made Rita’s mother bring Rita east for a visit when the child was three or four. After that, until she met Stu, she had spent two-thirds of her time with her aunt or at schools of her aunt’s choosing. Her brother Bob, in bad health at fourteen, had gone to California to live with cousins or something. He had visited home only three times in nearly twenty years, and not once while Rita was there. So he and Rita hardly knew each other, you might say.
Johnston and Rita had become acquainted at a party following a Cornell-Pennsylvania football game. Johnston’s people were decent and well-off, and Rita’s aunt had encouraged the romance, which resulted in a wedding and a comfortable home at Sands Point, Long Island.
Bob Mason had first worked for a cousin in a Los Angeles real estate office, then had gone into business for himself, and finally saved enough to bring his wife to the old Michigan homestead, which had been left him by his father.
He and Jennie were perfectly satisfied with small-town life. Once in a while they visited Chicago, less than a hundred miles away, or drove up the lake shore or down into Indiana in Bob’s two-thousand-dollar automobile. In the past year they had been to Chicago three times and had attended three performances of Abie’s Irish Rose. It was the best play ever played; better, even, than Lightnin’.
“I honestly think we ought to do something about Rita,” said Jennie to Bob one June day. “Imagine a person not seeing their own sister in nearly twenty years!”
“I’d love to see her,” replied Bob, “and I wish you’d write her a letter. She don’t pay no attention to mine. I’ve asked her time and time again to come out here and stay as long as she likes, but she hasn’t even answered.”
“Well,” said Jennie, “I’ll write to her, although she still owes me a letter from last Christmas.”
“Stu,” said Rita to her husband, “we’ve simply got to do something about Bob and his wife. Heaven knows how many times he’s asked us to go out there and visit and now here is a letter from Jennie, inviting us again.”
“Well, why don’t you go? You’d enjoy it, seeing the
