Black is White

by George Barr McCutcheon

But the lines had returned to the corners of his mouth and the old, hard look to his eyes. And there were times when he spoke harshly to his son; times when he purposely humbled him in the presence of others without apparent reason.

On this particular night Yvonne had asked a few people in for dinner. They were people whom Brood liked especially well, but who did not appeal to her at all. As a matter of fact, they bored her. Yet she was happy in pleasing him. When she told him that they were coming he favoured her with a dry, rather impersonal smile and asked, with whimsical good humour, why she chose to punish herself for the sins of his youth.

She laid her cheek against his and purred. For a moment he held his breath. Then the fire in his blood leaped into flame. He clasped the slim, adorable body in his strong arms and crushed her against his breast. She kissed him, and he was again the fierce, eager, unsated lover. It was one of their wonderful, imperishable moments, moments that brought oblivion.

Then, as he frequently did of late, he held her off at arm's length and searched her velvety eyes with a gaze that seemed to drag the very secrets out of her soul. She went deathly white and shivered. He took his hands from her shoulders and smiled. She came back into his arms like a dumb thing seeking protection, and continued to tremble as if frightened.

When company was being entertained downstairs Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs, with a fidelity to convention that was almost pitiful, invariably donned their evening clothes. They considered themselves remotely connected with the festivities, and, that being the case, the least they could do was to “dress up.”

Moreover, they dressed with great care and deliberation. There was always the chance that they might be asked to come down; or, what was even more important, Mrs Brood might happen to encounter them in the upper hall, and in that event it was imperative that she should be made to realise how stupid she had been.

Usually at nine o'clock they strolled into the study and smoked one of Brood's cigars with the gusto of real guests. It was their habit to saunter about the room, inspecting the treasures with critical, appraising eyes, very much as if they had never seen them before. They even handled some of the familiar objects with an air of bewilderment that would have done credit to a Cook's tourist.

It was also a habit of theirs to try the doors of a large teakwood cabinet in one corner of the room. The doors were always locked, and they sighed with patient doggedness. Some time, they told themselves, Ranjab would forget to lock those doors, and then——

“Joe,” said Mr Dawes, after he had tried the doors on this particular occasion, “I made a terrible mistake in letting poor Jim get married again. I'll never forgive myself.” He had said this at least a hundred times during the past three months. Sometimes he cried over it.

“Danbury, old pal, you must not take all the blame for that. I am as much at fault as you, blast you!” Mr Riggs always ended his confession with an explosion that fairly withered his friend and gave the lie to his attempt at humility.