“Of course not, Carol,” she replied. “I’m glad you called. Did you enjoy your evening with Mr. Roberts?”
“Oh!” said Carol, “I had such a good time. Mr. Roberts is so interesting. And we talked about so many things. It was such a beautiful evening and so—” Carol’s sibilant words came through the wire to Deane, awakening her thoroughly. “Let’s have lunch together,” he continued. “How about twelve, at the Astor?”
“I have some shopping to do,” she answered, “but I’ll be through by one. Suppose we make it then.”
“All right, dear. I’ll see you then,” he said, stressing every other word. “I’ll see you then. Good-by, dear.”
Deane left the apartment in confusion, half amused and yet severe. Her tiny hat, which was like an autumn leaf, revoked the tailoring of her rust-colored velvet suit. On the street, old women smiled at her without knowing why; and newsboys became quiet for one starry-eyed, adolescent moment as she passed. But she kept thinking of Martin. She remembered him as he had been on the previous night. She loved him, but he was a problem. If his were artistry, it would be good to get back to solidity and minds that ran in clear, straight lines. She had thought this as she left the apartment. But in the shops she changed her mind. She saw strong, competent men and women and she liked them. But thoughts of Martin persisted—Martin with his hair sticking up—Martin, fumbling with design and people and dreams. He might find it! He must find it! Deane put her small, gloved hand to her throat. She wanted him suddenly, strongly. She wanted his incoherent sentences, his slippery body and his crazy, adoring heart. She laughed self-consciously in front of the pencilheads, typewriter-heads and blotting-paper faces, and made a few reckless purchases.
Carol met her at precisely one o’clock. His face was pink, natty and smiling. His belted coat showed his figure and he wore no hat. His astonishing scarf had been replaced by an ascot tie whose vivid background was accentuated by purple stripes. He took both of Deane’s hands with sisterly affection, completely unconscious of the mild attention he had attracted in the lounge.
“A dreadful morning,” he said wearily. “One can’t eat in New York, can one?”
Deane was a little piqued.
“Well,” she said, biting her scarlet underlip, “one’s going to.” More kindly she took his arm. “We’re going to eat heartily, Carol. I’m hungry.”
They went into the bar. The buttons on Carol’s topcoat stuck out like feathers. He was conscious now of the atmosphere and of the woman with him. His exuberance spilled, porridge-like, over the barren years of his life and reached out toward the other patrons in the bar. Ostentatiously, he led Deane past a table where two elderly ladies were having whisky and soda. One of them wore three wedding rings. The other’s plume on her tiny hat colored the dark fur over her shoulders. Carol’s good nature manifested itself again and he nodded intimately to them. The old ladies looked at each other and went on drinking their whisky.