“You’re looking very well, Stacey,” she said gaily, “but you don’t deserve to have me say so. Here you’ve been back for two months without coming near me! It’s not respectful.”
Stacey laughed. “What a funny word! Well, I will come. Love to.”
Marian’s arm hung limply along the edge of the car. She drummed idly with her hand against the polished enamel. And the gesture seemed to sum her up—perfection, graceful ennui, and all.
“Oh,” she said, “you’ll just say you’ll come, and that will be the end of it unless I pin you down. So I will. Come—let’s see!—come on Monday at five and have tea with me.”
“All right. Thanks. I’ll be coming straight from the office, so I’ll look dingy probably. Hope you won’t mind.”
“Gracious, no!” she replied, apparently without malice, and laughing rather delightfully. “It’s not your clothes I care about seeing. I’ve got clothes. Till Monday, then.” She touched the chauffeur’s back lightly with the tip of her slender blue-and-white parasol, and the car moved away smoothly.
He gazed after her for a moment, and again he dubbed himself a fussy fool. He forgot that one’s thought of a person is direct, without veils; so that in an actual encounter after long separation one is aware chiefly of the veils.
But it was only his father and Catherine whom Stacey saw constantly. He spent nearly all his evenings at home. Sometimes he would read or would merely look on while Catherine and Mr. Carroll played cards. And he was amused at this; for he did not think that Catherine liked cards really. When he thought she had endured enough he would insist on playing in her stead, declaring that she was usurping his place in the home. Or, again, they would all three merely sit and talk. But this made Mr. Carroll restless. He demanded, Stacey could see, some direct problem, even if a small one, to occupy his mind. He could talk while he played cards, but talk was for him no end in itself; it was a pleasant accompaniment to something else that led somewhere.
On other evenings, when Mr. Carroll must speak at a banquet or welcome some visiting potentate of the Republican Party (Mr. Harding was nominated by now, and Mr. Carroll, at first disappointed, soon perceived that the choice was a wise one), Stacey would sit with Catherine or, more often, walk with her in the garden.
He felt that he did not know Catherine at all, and he was aware that this was partly his fault. He had always thought of her as Phil’s wife, and she still evoked for him the memory of Phil rather than any clear image of her own. Yet, though he could not have said what she was like, he admired her more than any one else he knew. It was no good to ask himself why. He could say vaguely that she was clear and cool as deep water . . . that she had a profound truthfulness . . . that there was a quality of Fact in her:—what did all that mean? Only once had her personality touched his in a flash,—on that afternoon when she had pleaded with him—but commandingly almost, if gently—not to go to Marian, and he had cut her with cruel words because he had yielded. He bit his lip in shame at the thought.