In her room were many copies of a weekly journal of gossip and scandal, filled with items about people whom it called “the Four Hundred” and “the Mighty Few” and of whom it spoke with familiarity, yet with the deference of pretended disdain. Emily noticed that Theresa and her acquaintances in the boarding-house talked much of these persons, in a way which made it clear that they did not know them and regarded the fact as greatly to their own discredit.
The one subject which Theresa would not discuss was her shopping business. Emily was eager to hear about it, and, as far as politeness permitted, encouraged her to talk of it, but Theresa always sheered off. Nor did she seem to be under the necessity of giving it close or regular attention.
“It looks after itself,” she said, with an uneasy laugh. “Let’s talk of your affairs. We’re going to dine Thursday night with Frank Demorest and a man we think can help you—a man named Marlowe. He writes for the Democrat. He goes everywhere getting news of politics and wars. I see his name signed every once in a while. He’s clever, much cleverer to talk with than he is as a writer. Usually writers are such stupid talkers. Frank says they save all their good wares to sell.”
On Thursday at half-past seven the two men came. Demorest was tall and thin, with a languid air which Emily knew at once was carefully studied from the best models in fiction and in the class that poses. One could see at a glance that he was spending his life in doing deliberately useless things. His way of speaking to admiring Theresa was after the pattern of well-bred insolence. Marlowe was not so tall, but his personality seemed to her as vivid and sincere as Demorest’s seemed colourless and false. He had the self-possession of one who is well acquainted with the human race. His eyes were gray-green, keen, rather small and too restless—Emily did not like them. He spoke swiftly yet distinctly. Demorest seemed a man of the world, Marlowe a citizen of the world.
They got into Demorest’s open automobile, Marlowe and Emily in the back seat, and set out for Clairmont. For the first time in nearly two years Emily was experiencing a sensation akin to happiness. The city looked vast and splendid and friendly. Wherever her eyes turned there were good-humoured faces—the faces of well-dressed, healthy women and men who were out under that soft, glowing summer sky in a determined search for pleasure. She saw that Marlowe was smiling as he looked at her.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked, as the automobile slowed down in a press of cabs and carriages.
“Not at you, but with you,” he replied.
“But why?”
“Because I’m as glad to be here as you are. And you are very glad indeed, and are showing it so delightfully.” He looked frank but polite admiration of her sweet, delicate face—she liked his expression as much as she had disliked the way in which Demorest had examined her face and figure and dress.
She sighed. “But it won’t last long,” she said, pensively rather than sadly. She was thinking of to-morrow and the days thereafter—the days in which she would be facing a very different aspect of the city.