III
They went on in a stream of other cars, like a flotilla of lighted ships, in the mild summer night. He hated the whole thing—the dust, the reek of gasoline, the tawdriness and staleness of the undertaking. He had wanted something better. His ardent spirit had groped toward an ideal, and, when he thought he had found it, it was only this!
It was as if he had gone into a dim temple, ready to worship, and suddenly a flood of garish light had come, and he saw that it was not a temple at all, but a sorry palace of pleasure. He lit another cigarette from the first one.
“I’m—sorry I came!” said the girl beside him, in a shaky voice.
He turned, but it was too dark to see her.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, very much taken aback.
“I didn’t want to come,” she went on. “I told you, but you made me, and now—and now—you see—”
He quite realized that he had been behaving very ill, not even trying to talk to her. After all, it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t know what a fool he had been.
“I don’t see at all,” he said. “I—I’m very glad you’re here.”
The feebleness of that made him ashamed, but he drew closer to her and took her hand. She kept her head averted, but she made no objection.
“That’s what she expects,” he thought bitterly. “She expects me to make love to her. All right!”
So he put his arm about her shoulders, and made up his mind to say to her the things he had said to other girls; and because he was young, and she was very pretty, some of his bitterness vanished.
“You’re the sweetest little thing!” he said. “The moment I saw you—”
She pulled away from him with a violence that astounded him.
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she cried. “It’s—horrible!”
“Sorry!” said Kirby stiffly, and withdrew to his corner; but the sound of a sob made him bend toward her, filled with a reluctant contrition. “Look here!” he continued. “I didn’t mean—”
“I just—bumped my head,” she said. “That’s all; but I’d rather go home now.”
“But we’ve just got here,” objected Kirby. “Better have some dinner first.”
He got out of the cab and held out his hand to her, but she jumped out unaided and walked to the foot of the steps. As he turned and saw her standing where the lights of the portico shone full upon her, a queer, reluctant tenderness swept over him. Her coat was a little too big for her. Her red hat was pushed back, showing more of her candid brow, and her dark hair was ruffled. She looked so weary and angry, and so young! Even if she was not what he wanted her to be, she was somehow dear to him.
“Look here!” he said. “Look here! Let’s have a nice evening, anyhow!”
She responded instantly to his tone. For the first time that night he saw in her some likeness to the lost little playmate.
“All right—let’s!” she cried.
He led the way to the glass-inclosed veranda where small tables were set out. The orchestra was playing, and through the long windows they could see the ballroom where couples were dancing.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said.
Kirby did not think so. He was regretting that he had brought her here. They sat down at a table, and he took up the menu.
“What do you like?” he asked.
“Oh, anything!” said Emmy.
She was looking about her with a sort of rapture.
“Yes!” he thought. “This is the sort of thing she likes!”
And again his disappointment came back, sharper than ever. He thought of the dinner he had meant to have, by candlelight, in that quiet restaurant, with the girl who didn’t exist. Was there never to be anything like that for him, nothing fine and beautiful and stirring?
“Well, I’m here, and I’ve got to make the best of it,” he thought. “What will you have to drink?” he asked aloud.[Pg 522]
“To drink?” she repeated, looking at him anxiously. “Oh, let’s not!”
Kirby ordered two cocktails.
“You can’t come to a place like this and not order anything to drink,” he explained when the waiter had gone. “Everybody does.”
“Then I wish we hadn’t come here,” said she.
The cocktails came, and he drank both of them.
“Care to try a dance?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” replied Emmy.
She was looking about her with a different vision now. All the light was gone from her face. Evidently she didn’t find the place lovely now. Kirby himself became more conscious of the loud voices, the hysteric laughter, the ugly disorder about him. He was sorry that he had brought her here. He was ashamed of himself, and he did not like being ashamed of himself.
“You said you loved dancing,” he suggested.
“Not now,” said Emmy. “It’s getting late. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
“Just as you please,” replied Kirby.
They finished the dinner in silence. Kirby paid the preposterous bill, and they went out to the taxi.
“You needn’t bother to come with me,” said Emmy politely.
“No bother at all,” returned Kirby, equally polite. “I’ll see you safely to the station.”
“I’m going to a friend’s house in the city.”
He got in beside her. He sat as far from her as he could, and neither of them spoke one word during all that long drive. In his heart he felt a great remorse and regret, but he would not let her know that.
But when the cab stopped at the address she had given him, and he helped her out, he could no longer maintain that stubborn, miserable silence.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean it to be like this.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Emmy. “Good night!”