Stacey was thrown back on his thoughts. They became the reality, the actual present only a shadow. He was but vaguely conscious of his surroundings—the cold flowing air, the car’s headlights on the snow, Whittaker, the girl’s warm body next him. The memory of Marian was more vivid than all these things. Soon now she would be expecting him at her house, and he would not be there. He writhed. And what would she think of him? She must hate him. Until to-day he had not cared what she felt toward him. But now it was different. He and she had been honest with each other to-day. Fancies gone, illusions gone, everything false and pretty stripped off, their two small remaining selves had met for the first time in harmony, each no longer asking anything that the other could not give, but demanding the possible fiercely. He had no right to break off in this way. So Stacey thought dizzily, anger with Catherine and himself returning at intervals, as a variation on the theme.
He came back wearily to the present, as the lights of Clarefield flashed up and the car swept over the curved driveway leading to the gleaming road-house. He stepped, shivering with cold, from the car, and helped the girl out. They waited on the hotel verandah while Whittaker drove the car back to the garage.
“H-how about-t it now, Mr. C-Carroll?” she demanded gaily, her teeth chattering. “Am I still p-purple and green?”
He forced as much interest as he could, and looked her over. “No,” he answered, “you’re—well, no matter! Only I shouldn’t worry about a mind, if I were you. You don’t need one.”
She really was pretty, he saw with indifference. Bad mouth, though, he noted, with an equal lack of interest. Loose and stupid.
The girl returned his scrutiny. “You’re not so worse, either,” she said, considering him with sophisticated sensual eyes.
Whittaker returned. “God! but it’s cold! Let’s run for drinks. Thank the Lord, the bar here is still wide open!”
They went in. A large room on the right was already half full of people dining and dancing. Whittaker paused for a moment to reserve a table, then the three hurried off to the bar. It occurred to Stacey that he had better slip away from Minnie and Whittaker after a little. He had no right to spoil their evening. Nice sort of companion they must be finding him! But Whittaker, with the geniality of his sort, seemed to find no fault in his guest, while, as for Minnie, she would clearly be benevolently uncritical of any man under forty, not bad looking, who would drink. Moreover, something soon happened to make Stacey change his mind.
Glancing across the room to another alcoved space opposite, he caught sight, over a woman’s shoulder, of a face he thought he recognized, started, half rose to make sure, then sank down again in his chair and burst into unforced laughter.
“What’s the joke, Carroll?” Whittaker inquired.