He paused to let the picture form before he went further. It would be rather fun. He saw himself holding hands with her and bowing to applauding audiences. As husband and wife they’d travel the world together, emancipated beings who never gave a thought to money, each contributing to the other’s triumph. Fun! Yes. But unsettling. The life that he had always planned was a kind of glorified Eden Row existence without the worries. He thought of Jimmie Boy and Dearie, and all the quiet bonds of dependence they had built up by living always in one place together.
His eyes went back to her letter. “You’ll come and see me, won’t you, Meester Deek, if ever I become a great actress? And I shall.—Oh, did I tell you? Horace is on his way over. I wonder what he and Fluffy will do? Perhaps quarrel. Perhaps just dawdle.”
He was tempted to go to her; but she hadn’t really invited him. He felt that she wouldn’t be his in her nomad setting. He couldn’t bear to have to share her with these butterfly people who viewed love as a diversion, and marriage as a catastrophe.
Sometimes he doubted whether he was as unhappy as he fancied. He searched through books to prove to himself that his case was by no means solitary—that it was the common lot of lovers. He became an admirer of the happy ending in novels. He sought for fiction-characters upon whose handling of similar situations he could pattern his conduct One writer informed him that the secret of success in love was to keep a woman guessing; another, that with blonde women a heated courting brought the best results, while with women of a darker complexion a little coldness paid excellently. All this was too calculating—too like diplomacy. He fell back on the advice of Madame Josephine: “Don’t judge—try to understand. When a good man tries to be fair, he’s unjust.” As an atonement for the disloyalty of his research, he sent Desire a needlessly large box of flowers.
“It’s only two weeks, after all,” she had said. But the two weeks had come and gone. All his plans were dependent on hers, and she seemed to be without any. Already he was receiving inquiries from Eden Row as to when he could be expected back. He could give no more definite answer than when he had left; he procrastinated by enclosing press-cuttings and talking vaguely about taking advantage of his American opportunities. His position was delicate. He didn’t dare to use the argument with Desire that she was his sole reason for remaining in New York; it would have seemed like blackmailing her into returning. Meanwhile, since her letters arrived regularly, he attributed her continued absence not to lack of fondness, but to fear of facing up to a decision. He must do nothing to increase her timidity.
On several occasions he visited Vashti. Each time other people were present. He noticed that her eyes followed him with a curious expression of amusement and compassion. At last one afternoon he found her alone.
She was curled up on the couch by the window, wearing a pale-blue peignoir and a boudoir cap embroidered with tiny artificial roses. A novel lay face downwards on the floor beside her, and she was playing with the silky ears of Twinkles, who snuggled in her lap. As he entered, she reached out her hand without rising and made a sign for him to sit beside her.
“Twinkles is lonely, too. Aren’t you, Twinkles? We’re all waiting for our little mistress.”
She went on smiling and playing with the dog’s ears. Slowly she raised her eyes.
“I can guess what you’re wishing. You’re wishing that I wore a little curl against my neck and had a beauty-patch.”