Once off, Packy refused to sulk unduly over the evening, instead taking a jocose attitude which was much more trying. “Well, Joy, I might have known you were like all the rest. Don’t you think, though, that you were crowding things—to run off on a nice little party like that with someone else, the first time I take you anywhere? And after all that whiffle all the way down about how I couldn’t get away with it——”
Joy was stunned. She paused and weighed her words, searching for thoughts that would reach his point of view. “Coming down, you talked in a way that made me doubt whether I would ever go out with you again. Now, you are merely clinching my determination.”
To her stupefaction, he immediately grew humble. “Oh, Joy, I’ll swallow everything I said. You—you can’t blame me, though. I—I know so little about you—and I’m so crazy about you. Doesn’t that make absolutely no impression?”
“Why should it?” she asked wearily.
“That fellow Grant Grey isn’t lingering in your mind, is he? He’s all right, but O, so stiff, Joy. Typical Bostonese family—mother’s the Gorgon of the beach. Now listen—Joy—I may be crazy about you, but I’m willing to wait if there’s any danger about mixing the drinks. Yes, I’ll wait. I won’t say any more to-night—you can sleep all the rest of the way home, providing you don’t snore. A girl ought never to get so tired as you and Jerry and Sal—bound to snore when you get that way—nothing more unromantic.”
Joy counted every mile, she was so anxious to get back home and into her black walnut bed. When they finally drew up in front of the apartment house, she gave a sigh of relief. Packy laughed:
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’ve been rotten to-night, Joy—but next time I’m absolutely the genuine blue-ribbon Pomeranian. I told you—I can wait any reasonable length of time.”
He left her at the door of the apartment, and she flew in, eager to talk the evening over with Jerry. But they also had evidently motored afar for their party, and had not come in yet. She went to the cellarette and poured herself out a small “prescription,” making a wry face as she did so. Not long ago she would have recoiled at the idea of taking liquor. Now, ever since Sarah had first shown her how some drinks would brace her if she felt dead, and others would send her off to sleep if she had time to sleep some unexpected hour and couldn’t, she had come to look upon alcohol as a friend in need. Her father would think this horrible. And what would the family portraits think?—The thought trickled away as the liquor went down her throat, and she reviewed the events of the evening. Packy had been a great disappointment, adding to her growing cynicism about men. But were all men so—materialistic? She poured herself another glass, reaching for a more suitable phrase. Not materialistic, necessarily; rather, “of the earth, earthy.” Were they—all? She thought of Grant Grey, seeing again the clear eyes that seemed a reflection of his young boy’s soul. No, not all men were like Packy. A wave of feeling swept over her, so strong that she was left trembling. She must see Grant again—soon!
The wave passed, leaving her limp, a questioning almost of terror knocking at her pulse. How could she feel so, about a man she had just met?