“Well, she doesn’t,” retorted he irritably. “I happen to know she doesn’t.”
I was convinced. Armitage’s tone said in effect that he had heard the rumor, had questioned her, had been assured that there was no basis for it.
So, she was abroad—five or six days away. I could not go to her and make a beginning. Would I have gone if she had been within reach? I do not know. I rather think not. As I have said, I was old-fashioned; and the sort of love I felt for her, and my sense of what she had suffered at the hands of the first man she had trusted would have made me wait, I hope, until I was free. Still, love is insidiously compelling. Who can say what love would or would not beguile or goad him into doing? The old-fashioned man, always reminding himself that women haven’t an equal chance with men, was inclined to be considerate in his dealings with a woman. The new-fashioned man lets her look out for herself. I am not sure that he is wrong. Perhaps some who have read thus far will guess the reason for my doubt.
You may imagine how impatiently I waited for Edna to arrive. I am afraid Rossiter found me difficult in those intervening days. Only the weak sort of men and women are easy for an intelligent person to live with. Men and women of positive character have their impossible moods. I made this remark to Mary Kirkwood on that yachting trip in the Sound. And her quick answer was: “Yes, that’s true. But everything worth while is difficult. Weathering the stormy days would have its compensations—and more.” What a woman! No wonder I loved her.
When Edna finally arrived——
What an arrival it was! She was attended by two maids, one French, the other Italian. She had trained them—she and their former fashionable mistresses—to treat her as if she was a royal person, requiring the most minute assistance, incapable even of ascertaining for herself whether it was daylight or dark, rain or shine. She was clad in the latest Paris fashions, adapted and improved for her own especial charms. She wore much jewelry, but nothing noisy. There never was anything noisy about her—any more than there is about a burst of sunshine that fills and floods the whole place, permeating everywhere and dominating everything. She talked by turns in English—with a superb British accent—in French that sounded Parisian and in Italian that seemed as liquid and swift as the Italian maid’s. It was a vast ship, and there were about a thousand passengers, and much luggage. To me, to all on the pier that day, there seemed to be but one landing and but one lot of luggage.
How many trunks had she? Heaven only knows. The customs people were glad to expedite her after a glance at the exhibit imposing both in extent and in costliness. She affected a delightful, most aristocratic unconsciousness of the stir she was making, of the excited admiration of men, of the gaping or jeering envy of women. Yes, it was a great day, and as I accompanied her in the auto to the Plaza, I felt dowdy and insignificant—felt like a humble male menial, a courier or valet.
“I did not fully appreciate your magnificence,” said I, “until I saw you on these humble shores.”
“It is shocking here—isn’t it?” said she. “So incomplete, so crude. No wonder the ideals are low. The surroundings give no inspiration.”
“None—except for work,” said I. “It’s a land for working people only. No doubt you’ll be going back soon?”