CHAPTER XII
Once, while Deane was living with her aunt in a midwestern city, she had met a young man named Carol Stevens who was visiting there. Deane’s aunt liked him—his little courtesies, the niceties of his behavior. But with Deane, he produced conflicting impressions. He loved a kitchen the way most men love a study or an office; and he moved among the pots and pans the way an artist walks before his canvas. His talent in bringing common food to life and giving it new meaning was no greater than his ability with a needle. He could take odds and ends of material and bring them together in an evening gown as fragile as a cloud. But more interesting than the things he created was his manner of creation; for he sewed with curving, meticulous gestures that were certain of each other. Sometimes Deane, watching him, would smile, and sometimes frown as though puzzled. After his visit, the young man returned to his home in Idaho and Deane forgot all about him.
She was having a quiet cup of tea one afternoon when he announced himself. When he came in he took her hands affectionately, as though they were long lost and newly reunited friends. He placed his topcoat carefully on a chair, sat down on the divan and pulled his trousers high above his ankles. In less than a minute he seemed quite at home.
“What a dreadful trip!” he said. “A simply dreadful trip, dear!—I’m exhausted. On a bus,” he explained. “Gas fumes—oranges—babies! A man with a parachute on his back, or something,” he ended wearily.
Deane laughed. She offered him tea, but he shook his head vigorously.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Wine,” he repeated, and drew a line across his fingernail, adding, “—so much.”
Deane went to a cabinet and poured a glassful of sherry.