When he suggested a trip to Europe, Floyd gave a quick cry.
“No! no! I couldn’t!”
“I want her to go alone.” The same look of relief he had seen on Julie’s face. A pity; married so short a time. “I would like Miss Mary to go with her, but she is always so busy.”
Floyd was on his feet.
“She’ll go if I ask her; I’m sure she will.”
13
Miss Mary was at home in her little flat on the East Side of downtown. The cry of a newly born child came through the window. She smiled; her ears distinguished the sex. A girl fretted, wailed in a high-pitched, nagging tone; a boy fought, bellowed. Yes, this was a girl. Mary wondered how many men she would make miserable; that would depend on her face. What children men are! They marry a complexion, teeth, eyes. When they get at the woman, it’s too late. Some kick over the traces; most of them remain in harness from a sense of honor. The patience married people have with each other is wonderful, considering they are like dice thrown together by accident.
She thought of the Garrisons, and drew two lines on a piece of paper—one a parallel—that stood for him; he thought in straight lines. The other, broken with angles—that was she. She wondered if he understood that mysterious side of his wife. She saw his eyes, always trying to look happy, his sensitive mouth trying to say pleasant things. A knock at the door startled her; there he stood surrounded by the bare-footed little devils of the neighborhood. They had piloted him up the dark stairs. A little gold-head slipped her hand in his. He bent down and kissed her dirty face; then he distributed all his small change amongst them and shut them out.
“I’ve had a time finding you, Miss Mary. I’ve never been in this neighborhood before.”
“You should get acquainted with it; it’s more interesting than Park Avenue.”