Stacey nodded.
The architect smiled suddenly. “I didn’t mean what I said to sound uncomplimentary to you,” he added.
“Oh,” said Stacey impatiently, “I never thought of that. I’ll be down ready to work at nine to-morrow morning. Good-bye.” And he left the office abruptly.
When he was again on the street he hesitated for a moment, then set off on foot for his sister’s house, two miles distant. But the mention of Phil’s name had thrown him into so deep a preoccupation that he walked mechanically, hardly aware of his surroundings, and did not even notice the greetings people waved at him from passing motor cars. He had neglected Phil for chimaeras, he mused sadly. When you thought about life as a whole it was horrible—and dead—a cold motionless monster that froze your veins. Real life, good or bad, wretched or happy, but warm, was in personal relationships—and nowhere else. He had let veil after gray veil of bleak abstractions descend between himself and Phil, obscuring this warmest and freshest of realities. And now Phil was dead. So Stacey meditated, but without bitterness; for there was a kind of fatalism upon him. Whatever was, was. Well, there was still Catherine. Perhaps he could make it up to her a little.
But when at last he mounted the steps of his sister’s house his melancholy fled; for he was genuinely eager to see Julie and was glad when the maid told him she was at home—out in the garden behind the house, he learned, and made haste to join her.
“Well, Stace!” she cried joyfully at sight of him, and threw her arms around him in a warm hug, taking care to keep her gloved hands, which were muddy with weeding, from touching his coat, and laughing because of doing so. “I am glad to see you! I only heard this morning. If I’d known last night we’d have been around to the house. Why didn’t you call me up? How fit you’re looking!” And she drew away to gaze at him, while he dropped down upon a bench and looked back, smiling, at her.
She was plump and sweet-natured, Stacey thought, and in the bright May sunlight her complexion showed, undamaged, that clear healthy freshness which can be retained only by decent living. He was glad to be with her.
“Jimmy and Junior both well?” he asked.
“Splendid! Jimmy’s getting rather fat, and I—well, you see! So we’re both dieting. We sit with a book propped up in front of us and count the calories in everything.” She laughed and sat down beside her brother.
“Too much happiness,” said Stacey. “Not enough conflict. You and Jimmy ought to fight more.”