2
Clive, who looked tired, and seemed preoccupied, came willingly enough along to lunch. “So the nest-building instinct is at work already!” observed Clive. And then: “What kind of place does Rose-Ann want? One with elevators, a man in brass buttons to answer the door, and a garbage incinerator?”
At lunch, which started in with a curious lack of amicability, Felix repeated this latter pleasantry to Rose-Ann. It occurred to him that what she wanted might very easily be something beyond his income, even with that possible raise.
Rose-Ann smiled at Clive. “Not exactly that,” she said. “Perhaps more preposterous still! The truth is, I don’t know, exactly. All I do know is that I don’t like any of the things I’ve seen this morning. I did see some that—but no, even those won’t do.”
“What’s the matter with them?” asked Felix.
“I’ll take you along and let you see for yourself. Mostly stuffy little cubicles. You know what the ordinary Chicago flat is like.”
“Why should you want something different?” asked Clive innocently.
“Why not?” said Rose-Ann, challengingly. “Felix and I are different—why should we live like everybody else?”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Clive. “I confess I thought you were going to.”
“Is that why you have been so distant and satirical with me today? Had you lost confidence in me already?”
“Forgive me,” he said.
“You are angry at some other girl,” said Rose-Ann shrewdly.
Clive smiled. “Perhaps you are right.”
“And if you gave me a hundred guesses,” said Rose-Ann, “perhaps I could guess the girl, too.”
“Perhaps you could,” he conceded.
“So it’s Phyllis. I’m sorry. I like her very much.”
“So do I,” said Clive grimly.
Felix was surprised at Rose-Ann’s rashness in teasing Clive about a situation concerning which he had always shown a disposition to keep his own counsel; and still more surprised at the way Clive took this teasing.
“Well,” Rose-Ann was saying, “she has an air of quiet possessiveness towards you which indicates that not much can be amiss!”
“What is amiss, dear lady,” said Clive gravely, “is with the universe. Phyllis and I are each all right, in our separate ways, I hope. Phyllis is, I’m sure!—she’s a lovely child, isn’t she?... With an interesting history too. Perhaps I’ll tell it to you, some time.”
“Clive is very unhappy, isn’t he?” said Rose-Ann, when he had left them for a moment to talk to a couple who had greeted him from another table.
“He prefers to be unhappy, I think,” said Felix.
“Why should you be so unsympathetic, Felix? Because you are contented, you think everybody else ought to find it easy to achieve the same state? I hope you’re not going to be smug. I’m really sorry for Clive.”
“I might be sorry, if I knew what to be sorry about. I haven’t the slightest idea what the trouble is.”
“That neurotic girl, of course.”
“Neurotic? Do you mean Phyllis? Why, what nonsense!” he exclaimed.
“Why nonsense?” she asked.
“Because—why—well, it’s just ridiculous!”
“After all, Felix, we neither of us know her well enough to be so positive,” said Rose-Ann pacifyingly.
“Then why do you say that about her?”
“Because I think it, Felix!” she replied with a touch of exasperation. “I really do!”
“I can’t understand you,” he said coldly.
“What are you children quarrelling about now?” asked Clive, returning.
Rose-Ann laughed. “About nothing at all, again. Felix, we are rather absurd. Come, we’ll look at those apartments.—And don’t imagine vain things about our home till you see it, Clive!”