"Where to, sir?"
"Gramercy Park," Jean said quietly, and Gregory closed the door. He took her in his arms and kissed her to weakness.
"It had to be, Jean, from the beginning."
"I know." Jean drew closer in his hold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jean's work now took shape to her as something visible and apart. It was the system of wires that ran through life, connecting the days. The dynamo that kept it all vibrating was her love.
The depths of its peace surprised her. She loved, in secret, a married man. She had met his wife, eaten at their home, held their child in her lap. She had not only broken the standards of society, which did not matter at all, but she had broken what she had believed were her own. These did not matter either. There was nothing degrading in slipping away to meet Gregory, for nothing could degrade their love any more than a small boy could degrade the sun by throwing mud at it.
Christmas came. Applicants flooded the office, but Jean snatched as many hours as she could. When it was possible they had lunch together, and she often worked at night to make up for the teas they had in the quiet tea-room in the upper Thirties. They always went a bit earlier than the crowd and had an alcove to themselves. Jean had a sensuous delight in the contrast of leaving the office behind her, the waiting room never empty, the staff of extra helpers, the jangling 'phone, and then—this other world with Gregory. The place had once been a brownstone mansion, with carved staircases and pendulous chandeliers of crystal. Heads of baby angels looked down from the cornices and the shadows of stately men and women seemed always to lurk in the corners, aloof and disdainful, but curious of this new generation that smoked and talked immoderately on all subjects, at fragile tables, painted in strange colors. Waitresses, in chintz polonaises and powdered hair, served tea and muffins at extravagant prices. The same girl always served them, and Jean felt as if the alcove was theirs. It was the nearest they had to a home together. Here they retailed gossip and talked over their work. Gregory was giving every spare moment of his time to the designs for the auditorium and Jean loved to have him consult her even when the technical details were beyond her understanding. That he needed her in this way filled Jean with a warm glow, a distinct physical reaction that softened the outlines of her whole body. Coming from a happy hour with Gregory, Jean tackled problems that had troubled the office for weeks, and, as Berna said, "simply bored through them!"
Jean rarely thought of Margaret, and, when she did, it was as of one of their acquaintances. If Margaret had not been Gregory's wife, Jean would have enjoyed telling him about her. She could not feel personal about Margaret. She did not even resent her. In the natural world there were peacocks and orchids and slugs and worms; there were small, useful animals and needful growing things, and beautiful poisonous fungi that seemed to exist for no definite purpose. They all followed their own law. So there were Kittens and Tigers and Herricks and Marys and Jeans and Margarets and Pats. They were all different, and all needed. The mistake was in misunderstanding and confusing values. She had done this when she had married Herrick and Gregory had done it when he married Margaret.
But the really wrong thing, the wicked thing, was to be afraid. To refuse because one had not the courage to accept. To grow too weary spiritually to reach out and grasp the next rung of one's development and so swing up and up to the height of one's possibility. After a meeting with Gregory, Jean had often to make an effort to keep from running, so close was this tie between the spirit and the flesh.