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Upon his return to town in September, one of the first persons Wilfred met was Jessie Dartrey. She belonged to the Fifty-Ninth street crowd, though she herself had no pretensions either artistic or literary. She and Frances Mary Lore were great friends. Not exactly a pretty girl, Jessie had a highly individual charm. Long, dark eyes, and a crooked mouth of great sweetness. Wilfred liked her she was “such a little woman.” What was the right word for her; doughty? peppery? At any rate, discourse with her was stimulating. Wilfred had the impression that she cherished a particular scorn for himself; but he did not mind, it was so amusingly expressed. When Jessie was roused, she talked purest Saxon.
He met her on the Avenue as he was returning from a fruitless call at Frances Mary’s flat. He had found the glass in the door dusty; and a faded card still in place, with the tenant’s summer address.
“Hello!” said Wilfred. “I’ve just been up to see if Frances Mary was back.”
Jessie’s expressive mouth tightened for a flash at the mention of her friend’s name, and Wilfred wondered what was up. Had the two quarreled? “No,” said Jessie, readily. “She won’t be back for another month. The hills are too fine to leave, she writes. And her work is coming well.”
“Hard on us,” he said lightly.
Again that flicker of intense disapproval across Jessie’s face.
“Come and have tea somewhere,” urged Wilfred. “I’m just back myself. I’m starving for a little town talk.”
“So even I will do?” she said with heavy sarcasm.
Is she jealous? thought Wilfred. What a rum start that would be! “Your reasoning is faulty as usual,” he said. “There is great virtue in an accidental encounter. It has changed the fate of Kingdoms!”
“Sorry, I can’t give you the change to prove it,” said Jessie. “I’m booked for tea at a house in Forty-Seventh street. You can walk to the door with me if you want.”
He turned around, and accompanied her.
Presently she said with a sharp, sidelong glance of the sloe-black eyes: “You’re changed since I saw you.”
“How?” he asked, agreeably flattered.
“More conceited than ever!” said Jessie, suddenly changing her mind.
That was Jessie’s way. She had decided to conceal her real thought. In order to raise a dust, she rattled on: “You always look at me as much as to say: ‘Oh, mumma! look what the cat’s brought in!’ ”
Wilfred laughed, and felt uneasy. What had she seen? Was his face thus easily to be read in the afternoon sunshine of the Avenue? He made haste to give Jessie a humorous account of the boarding-house in the country that he had discovered for himself, and could not recommend. Jessie punctuated the story with scornful little snorts of laughter, shooting glances of her bright eyes into his face, that fairly snapped with some feeling mysterious to Wilfred.
Arriving before the house where she was expected, they paused at the foot of the steps. Said Wilfred, concluding his story:
“Above all, avoid a high-brow boarding-house. Intellectual table-talk is no compensation for watery hash.”
At that Jessie exploded. It was not a loud explosion, but it had force. “You make me sick, Wilfred! Does that reach you? I’d like to smack your grinning face . . . !”
“Why . . . go ahead!” said Wilfred, astonished, but grinning still.
“Don’t speak to me! Or you’ll make me say something I’ll regret! You’re a fool, do you hear? All men are fools, and you’re the greatest! Oh, I’d like to take you down a peg! I’d like to do something that would really hurt you! But you’ve got no feelings! You’re just a conceited grinner! Stand there and laugh at me, do! Your mouth’s too big; why stretch it wider? Oh, you’re such a fool it’s past all bearing!”
And with that, she scampered up the steps without a backward look.
Wilfred walked home thoughtfully. He was not in the least angered at Jessie, for her tirade had touched no sore spot. There had been something beautiful in it; a human who could let all fly like that. Oh, Jessie was as sound as an apple! He supposed that her scorn would do him good; there was no tinge of contempt in it. But what on earth was biting her? He was obliged to reject the imputation of jealousy. She had rejoiced in showing him that he had no power over her. He carefully went over her words, but without obtaining any clue. Her speech had the quality of pure vituperation, which bears no relation to the thing at issue. “Fool” was simply a generic term for one who utterly disgusted you.
Then a light began to break over Wilfred, and he became more thoughtful still. How strange if it should be that! he thought. . . . He slipped into a dream.