An astute glance flashed under the black hat from Horatia to Langley.
“Then why don’t you walk out my way now? Towards the South Shore and stop for tea? It’s a lovely walk. I’ve just come back, of course, and my apartment isn’t really comfortable yet, but I can usually brew a good cup of tea, can’t I, Jim? And you deserve it after working over my tiresome affairs this afternoon. I bounce in on him with my usual tangle of papers that need signing and he shows me where the dotted lines are and tells me whether I’m renewing my mortgages or signing a Bolshevik constitution. Come, both of you, walk out with me. Won’t you?”
Horatia, finding decision left to her, tried to think quickly of a way out. But Langley did not help her and she hesitated too long to do anything but acquiesce.
They walked badly, for Mrs. Hubbell was hampered by her conversation and the tightness of her skirts and seemed continually to be appealing to Langley for petty gallantries. Horatia, who liked to walk swiftly and silently, found herself again unhappily awkward, moving badly and getting ahead of the others. It annoyed her that Langley had not told Mrs. Hubbell that they were more to each other than office companions, and yet she could not think what he should have said. They reached the apartment with Horatia rather dreading the rest of the encounter.
But Mrs. Hubbell pushed open her door with an apologetic smile, revealing a large living-room of most unusual charm. The ceiling was very high and the walls held few pictures so that the two great soft blue couches, armchairs and stools were comfortably spaced. A long narrow table between the windows held two delicately shaded lamps and many books. Horatia hadn’t connected Mrs. Hubbell with books and while that lady went to remove her hat and “find tea,” Horatia stood by the table examining the titles of the volumes. It was all very up-to-date material, much of it feminist—sparkling novels, plays.
“She doesn’t read them,” said Langley lightly, watching Horatia. “She has them here because she entertains the people who read or write them sometimes. But she doesn’t know that she doesn’t read them. I imagine she absorbs a deal through the covers.”
“I’m sorry she spoiled our walk,” said the man under his breath, “and you’ll forgive me if I seemed odd. But I’d hate to have her the medium through which to announce our—feeling.”
“I told Maud.”
“Your sister—was she horrified?”
She smiled at him humorously. “Quite.”