James appeared in the doorway to the hall running a brush round his hat.
“What did you do with the paper James?”
“Oh I left it in there.”
“I’ll get it, never mind.... My dear you’ve got your stickpin in crooked. I’ll fix it.... There.” Mrs. Merivale put her hands on his shoulders and looked in her son’s face. He wore a dark gray suit with a faint green stripe in it, an olive green knitted necktie with a small gold nugget stickpin, olive green woolen socks with black clockmarks and dark red Oxford shoes, their laces neatly tied with doubleknots that never came undone. “James arent you carrying your cane?” He had an olive green woolen muffler round his neck and was slipping into his dark brown winter overcoat. “I notice the younger men down there dont carry
them, mother ... People might think it was a little ... I dont know ...”
“But Mr. Perkins carries a cane with a gold parrothead.”
“Yes but he’s one of the vicepresidents, he can do what he likes.... But I’ve got to run.” James Merivale hastily kissed his mother and sister. He put on his gloves going down in the elevator. Ducking his head into the sleety wind he walked quickly east along Seventysecond. At the subway entrance he bought a Tribune and hustled down the steps to the jammed soursmelling platform.
Chicago! Chicago! came in bursts out of the shut phonograph. Tony Hunter, slim in a black closecut suit, was dancing with a girl who kept putting her mass of curly ashblond hair on his shoulder. They were alone in the hotel sitting room.
“Sweetness you’re a lovely dancer,” she cooed snuggling closer.