Only Andrée was not. He felt discouraged, and went into his brand new bedroom to dress for this party he so dreaded. He had flatly refused to wear a dinner jacket—and not entirely from principle, either. Andrée had been unexpectedly nice about it. She came into his room now as he stood before the mirror in his shirt sleeves, and rumpled his wiry hair.
“That’s the way you ought to wear it,” she said, laughing. “Every inch a Socialist! But you are a darling.”
He saw her in the mirror, and it gave him a shock. She was lovely, radiant, in a low cut frock of silver cloth; he might have admired her impersonally on the stage. But as Mrs. Al Stephens, as his wife and comrade, it made his heart sink. He fastened his low collar and made a neat little bow of his necktie.... The two clear eyed and fearless comrades who were to face life together—to solve problems of living—this earnest young man in a blue serge suit, and this slender, seductive creature in silver.
“My God!” he said to himself. “The Life Urge works the wrong way—no doubt about it. It’s against progress and clear thinking.”
He was not given to facile caresses; he only looked at Andrée, with eyes sombre and doubtful.
“Am I outrageous?” she asked, smiling, utterly sure of her power. “Would you rather I had short hair and wore a red flannel blouse?”
“I don’t know ...” he answered, with a sigh. “I’m no better and no worse than lots of others.... I’d be damned eternally for you.”
She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“That’s dear of you!” she cried. “Only I don’t want you to be. I don’t want to be a drag on you.”
“A drag,” he repeated, thoughtfully. She appeared to him not at all a drag, but a terrific impetus—in the wrong direction.