________________________________________________
_ A small effaced-looking man.
WAYTHORN, the next morning, went down town earlier than usual.
Haskett was not likely to come till the afternoon, but the instinct
of flight drove him forth. He meant to stay away all day--he had
thoughts of dining at his club. As his door closed behind him he
reflected that before he opened it again it would have admitted
another man who had as much right to enter it as himself, and the
thought filled him with a physical repugnance.
He caught the "elevated" at the employees' hour, and found himself
crushed between two layers of pendulous humanity. At Eighth Street
the man facing him wriggled out and another took his place. Waythorn
glanced up and saw that it was Gus Varick. The men were so close
together that it was impossible to ignore the smile of recognition
on Varick's handsome overblown face. And after all--why not? They
had always been on good terms, and Varick had been divorced before
Waythorn's attentions to his wife began. The two exchanged a word on
the perennial grievance of the congested trains, and when a seat at
their side was miraculously left empty the instinct of
self-preservation made Waythorn slip into it after Varick.
The latter drew the stout man's breath of relief.
"Lord--I was beginning to feel like a pressed flower." He leaned
back, looking unconcernedly at Waythorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers
is knocked out again."
"Sellers?" echoed Waythorn, starting at his partner's name.
Varick looked surprised. "You didn't know he was laid up with the
gout?"
"No. I've been away--I only got back last night." Waythorn felt
himself reddening in anticipation of the other's smile.
"Ah--yes; to be sure. And Sellers's attack came on two days ago. I'm
afraid he's pretty bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens, because
he was just putting through a rather important thing for me."
"Ah?" Waythorn wondered vaguely since when Varick had been dealing
in "important things." Hitherto he had dabbled only in the shallow
pools of speculation, with which Waythorn's office did not usually
concern itself.
It occurred to him that Varick might be talking at random, to
relieve the strain of their propinquity. That strain was becoming
momentarily more apparent to Waythorn, and when, at Cortlandt
Street, he caught sight of an acquaintance, and had a sudden vision
of the picture he and Varick must present to an initiated eye, he
jumped up with a muttered excuse.
"I hope you'll find Sellers better," said Varick civilly, and he
stammered back: "If I can be of any use to you--" and let the
departing crowd sweep him to the platform.
At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact ill with the gout,
and would probably not be able to leave the house for some weeks.
"I'm sorry it should have happened so, Mr. Waythorn," the senior
clerk said with affable significance. "Mr. Sellers was very much
upset at the idea of giving you such a lot of extra work just now."
"Oh, that's no matter," said Waythorn hastily. He secretly welcomed
the pressure of additional business, and was glad to think that,
when the day's work was over, he would have to call at his partner's
on the way home.
He was late for luncheon, and turned in at the nearest restaurant
instead of going to his club. The place was full, and the waiter
hurried him to the back of the room to capture the only vacant
table. In the cloud of cigar-smoke Waythorn did not at once
distinguish his neighbors; but presently, looking about him, he saw
Varick seated a few feet off. This time, luckily, they were too far
apart for conversation, and Varick, who faced another way, had
probably not even seen him; but there was an irony in their renewed
nearness.
Varick was said to be fond of good living, and as Waythorn sat
despatching his hurried luncheon he looked across half enviously at
the other's leisurely degustation of his meal. When Waythorn first
saw him he had been helping himself with critical deliberation to a
bit of Camembert at the ideal point of liquefaction, and now, the
cheese removed, he was just pouring his _cafe double_ from its
little two-storied earthen pot. He poured slowly, his ruddy profile
bent above the task, and one beringed white hand steadying the lid
of the coffee-pot; then he stretched his other hand to the decanter
of cognac at his elbow, filled a liqueur-glass, took a tentative
sip, and poured the brandy into his coffee-cup.
Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascination. What was he thinking
of--only of the flavor of the coffee and the liqueur? Had the
morning's meeting left no more trace in his thoughts than on his
face? Had his wife so completely passed out of his life that even
this odd encounter with her present husband, within a week after her
remarriage, was no more than an incident in his day? And as Waythorn
mused, another idea struck him: had Haskett ever met Varick as
Varick and he had just met? The recollection of Haskett perturbed
him, and he rose and left the restaurant, taking a circuitous way
out to escape the placid irony of Varick's nod.
It was after seven when Waythorn reached home. He thought the
footman who opened the door looked at him oddly.
"How is Miss Lily?" he asked in haste.
"Doing very well, sir. A gentleman--"
"Tell Barlow to put off dinner for half an hour," Waythorn cut him
off, hurrying upstairs.
He went straight to his room and dressed without seeing his wife.
When he reached the drawing-room she was there, fresh and radiant.
Lily's day had been good; the doctor was not coming back that
evening.
At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's illness and of the
resulting complications. She listened sympathetically, adjuring him
not to let himself be overworked, and asking vague feminine
questions about the routine of the office. Then she gave him the
chronicle of Lily's day; quoted the nurse and doctor, and told him
who had called to inquire. He had never seen her more serene and
unruffled. It struck him, with a curious pang, that she was very
happy in being with him, so happy that she found a childish pleasure
in rehearsing the trivial incidents of her day.
After dinner they went to the library, and the servant put the
coffee and liqueurs on a low table before her and left the room. She
looked singularly soft and girlish in her rosy pale dress, against
the dark leather of one of his bachelor armchairs. A day earlier the
contrast would have charmed him.
He turned away now, choosing a cigar with affected deliberation.
"Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to her.
"Oh, yes--he came."
"You didn't see him, of course?"
She hesitated a moment. "I let the nurse see him."
That was all. There was nothing more to ask. He swung round toward
her, applying a match to his cigar. Well, the thing was over for a
week, at any rate. He would try not to think of it. She looked up at
him, a trifle rosier than usual, with a smile in her eyes.
"Ready for your coffee, dear?"
He leaned against the mantelpiece, watching her as she lifted the
coffee-pot. The lamplight struck a gleam from her bracelets and
tipped her soft hair with brightness. How light and slender she was,
and how each gesture flowed into the next! She seemed a creature all
compact of harmonies. As the thought of Haskett receded, Waythorn
felt himself yielding again to the joy of possessorship. They were
his, those white hands with their flitting motions, his the light
haze of hair, the lips and eyes....
She set down the coffee-pot, and reaching for the decanter of
cognac, measured off a liqueur-glass and poured it into his cup.
Waythorn uttered a sudden exclamation.
"What is the matter?" she said, startled.
"Nothing; only--I don't take cognac in my coffee."
"Oh, how stupid of me," she cried.
Their eyes met, and she blushed a sudden agonized red. _
Read next: CHAPTER III
Read previous: CHAPTER I
Table of content of Other Two
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
