But, after all, if she felt so free, why be so cruel? Ah, because the terror was still there—it had only shifted its ground. What frightened her now was not the thought of their past but of their future. And she must not let him see that it frightened her. What had his last words been? Ah, yes—. She answered: “Of course I’m very happy to be at home again.”
He lowered his voice to murmur: “And I’m happy for you.”
Yes; she remembered now; it was always in emotional moments that his tact failed him, his subtlety vanished, and he seemed to be reciting speeches learned by heart out of some sentimental novel—the very kind he was so clever at ridiculing.
They continued to stand facing each other, their inspiration spent, as if waiting for the accident that had swept them together to whirl them apart again.
Suddenly she risked (since it was better to know): “So you’re living now in New York?”
He shook his head with an air of melancholy. “No such luck. I’m back in Baltimore again. Come full circle. For a time, after the war, I was on a newspaper there; interviewing film-stars and base-ball fans and female prohibitionists. Then I tried to run a Country Club—awful job! All book-keeping, and rows between members. Now Horace Maclew has taken pity on me; I’m what I suppose you’d call his private secretary. No eight-hour day: he keeps me pretty close. It’s only once in a blue moon I can get away.”
She felt her tightened heart dilating. Baltimore wasn’t very far away; but it was far enough as long as he had anything to keep him there. She knew about Horace Maclew, an elderly wealthy bibliophile and philanthropist, with countless municipal and social interests in his own town, and a big country-place just outside it. No; Mr. Maclew’s private secretary was not likely to have many holidays. But how long would Chris resign himself to such drudgery? She wanted to be kind and say: “And your painting? Your writing?” but she didn’t dare. Besides, he had probably left both phases far behind him, and there was no need, really, for her to concern herself with his new hobbies, whatever they might be. Of course she knew that he and she would have to stand there staring at one another till she made a gesture of dismissal; but on what note was she to make it? The natural thing (since she felt so safe and easy with him) would have been to say: “The next time you’re in town you must be sure to look me up—”. But, with him, how could one be certain of not having such a suggestion taken literally? Now that he had seen she was not afraid of him he would probably not be afraid of her; if he wanted a good dinner, or an evening at the Opera, he’d be as likely as not to call her up and ask for it.
And suddenly, as they hung there, she caught, over his shoulder, a glimpse of another figure just turning into the Park from the same direction; Anne, with her quick step, her intent inward air, as she always moved and looked when she had just left her easel. In another moment Anne would be upon them.
Mrs. Clephane held out her hand: for a fraction of a second it lay in his. “Well, goodbye; I’m glad to know you’ve got a job that must be so interesting.”
“Oh—interesting!” He dismissed it with a gesture. “But I’m glad to see you,” he added; “just to see you,” with a clever shifting of the emphasis. He paused a moment, and then risked a smile. “You don’t look a day older, you know.”