13. PROMISE ME YOU WON’T
TYPE:
Large, clumsy, good-hearted. A shrewd business man, whatever that means. Usually married.
SUBJECT:
Intelligent, pretty little specimen of Independent Womanhood, just beginning to question the desirability of a lifetime among the file cases.
APPARATUS:
1 Small Apartment
2 Chairs
1 Batik Drapery
2 Bed-Sofas
1 Japanese Print
1 Indifferently Good Caricature in Crayon.
REMARKS:
Somehow the sight of a man being paternal arouses in woman a protective instinct on her own part; an indulgent affection compounded of amusement and gratitude.
PROMISE ME YOU WON’T
You are uncomfortable. You are both sitting on one of the sofas, but with a great difference of mien. She is curled up among the cushions—she is a supple little thing, and seems to be comfortable, but you are leaning forward with your hands clasped between your knees, which are rather ludicrously raised from the floor because the couch sags. Anyway, it is never becoming to you to argue; your face grows red and you look more clumsy than ever. She is enjoying the new sensation of seeing you ill at ease, and because of her. In the office it is so often the other way around.
“But I don’t think it is good for you,” you are saying.
“I don’t see why.”
“It isn’t good for anyone to be too much alone.” Speak doggedly in the tone of one who has made the same remark at intervals all his life.
“Oh no,” she protests. “I think it depends a lot on the person. I think everybody ought to have privacy. I don’t see how the people here do without it, I really don’t. I have to keep my shades down all the time, living in the basement like this. Even at that the girls are always coming in—a couple of people have keys.”
“What?” you cry. She laughs.
“Just the girls, silly.” You are somewhat confused and she feels abashed at having called you silly. It sounds too intimate, somehow. Move your feet uneasily and knit your brows in an effort to say tactfully just what you think.
“I don’t like it. You need your rest. It’s all right for a while but pretty soon it’ll react on you. I don’t understand you girls. You don’t use one of these studios for anything, you’re at the office all day anyway. You don’t even save so much money.” She laughs and then looks at you inquisitively.
“Really, you’re taking it awfully hard. What’s the matter? What’s worrying you?”
“I don’t know.... I just don’t like it all.”
“I know,” she says, teasingly. “You didn’t like the dinner. I know you didn’t. Confess you didn’t!”
“I’m not worrying about the dinner,” you say hastily. “I don’t care much about what I eat; it was only that the place didn’t look clean. You never eat their stew or anything like that, do you?”
She answers sarcastically, “It’s terribly nice of you to worry so much about me....” and you flush.
“Now, don’t talk like that. Please don’t.”
“No, honestly, I mean it. I wrote Mother that she certainly wouldn’t worry so much about me if she could hear how you’re always lecturing me. I’m so afraid you’ll walk into the office some day when it’s raining and bellow, ‘Miss Merrill, where are your rubbers?’”
This is better. Relax and laugh loudly. “Better look out, or I will!”
In the relaxed atmosphere of the joke you suddenly find enough courage to lean over the necessary few inches and put a hand on her shoulder, rubbing your cheek against hers for a second.
She is discomposed, although it is not very surprising after all.
“Here!” she protests, breathlessly. “Stop that! Why did you do that?”
“Sorry. But I wanted to.”
“Well....” She is at a loss. She giggles and says, “And besides, you need a shave.”
“Yeah. Sorry.... Another thing, I think probably you don’t have very good people hanging around here.”
“How can you tell? You haven’t met anyone but Mary. You said she has nice ankles.”
“Did I?” you ask, surprised. “Maybe I did. But I don’t like women to cut their hair so short. That’s one of the things I like about you, by the way. You may be in business and all that, but you haven’t lost your femininity.” Close your hand over hers where it lies on the cushion.
“That’s not a compliment these days.”
Shake your head violently. “Don’t kid yourself. We really like the same type all the time, we men. You know, you worry me a lot in the office.”
“Really? How?”
“Well, because——” Stop and knit your brows. You are trying very hard to express yourself sincerely. “In the office you treat everybody so darned nice.... I mean you’re a great little mixer and it’s fine for business, but doesn’t anyone ever misunderstand? You know what I mean, don’t you?”
She looks at you with a startled expression which changes to a hurt one. She falters. “You mean I don’t act—do I act too fast? I’m awfully sorry. I thought that——”
Pat her hand furiously. “No, no! You act fine! I didn’t mean to criticize you at all, but you know how men are. Listen here.” You raise her chin and look at her eyes searchingly. “If anybody tries to put anything over on you I want you to come and tell me about it. I want to be a friend of yours.”
“Thank you,” she says softly, “I consider you a friend now.”
“That’s mighty nice of you. It makes me feel fine. You’re such a decent kid, and I don’t think you know a thing about life.”
“Oh,” she cries pettishly, “there you go again! I guess I can take care of myself!”
“Yes, but this is what worries me. I don’t like the idea of these long-haired kids filling your mind up with free love theories and all that. You’re an intelligent kid too, and youngsters like you are sort of experimental.”
“But——”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know; you can’t tell now how you might feel one of these days. It’s dangerous, this stuff. You may not know it, but we’re a pretty rotten lot. Most men are out for what they can get.”
“I think that’s horrid; to be worrying like that all the time. I don’t want to have to be on my guard all the time.”
“Of course you don’t. Of course you don’t.”
“And as for my being silly, I think you ought to realize that I have a little common sense. Or even if you don’t think so, don’t you think that I have some ideals?”
“That’s the way I like to hear you talk. Maybe you think I’m being sort of nosey, but I can’t help worrying about you. You’re awfully sweet.”
She has a fleeting moment of misgiving. This isn’t the way a boss ought to be talking. But you are very kind to be so worried.... “Yes,” she says, flippantly, “If I were Miss Moser you wouldn’t take so much trouble, I guess.”
“Well, nobody’s likely to bother her, at her age. I do want to keep an eye on you. You don’t look so efficient as you are; a man’s likely to forget what a swell little secretary you are when he looks at you. Here, isn’t this more comfortable?” Put your arm under her head. The room is very still and cozy. “Listen.”
“What?” she says, comfortably.
“I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“I want to ask you to promise me something.”
“Well?”
“Promise me that—that you won’t let anyone....” Silence. “Hm-m-m?”
“If you think that I need to promise——”
Kiss her (to silence her). Then—“You know I don’t mistrust you,” you say, gruffly, “but I get worried. Won’t you promise?”
“Sure,” she answers. The silence of the room flows over you again, and it too holds a promise.