“I’m so glad you didn’t,” she said, as he sat down beside her. “Eric, my boysie, what’s been happening to you?”
“Oh, I’ve been plodding along, and writing poems to you, and extolling the barbaric charms of Tony’s,” he replied. “I’d get worried and hopeless every now and then, thinking you were in some other man’s arms ... just like a boy who doesn’t know whether he’s going to be whipped or petted.”
“That’s exactly how I felt,” she cried. “Why, say, I had you falling in love with every snippy, doll-faced girl in New York!”
They laughed—softly, ruefully, and with a relaxing weariness.
“How about your exquisite people?” he asked, after a pause. “Do they still keep a close watch on you?”
“No, I think they’re completely deceived by now,” she said. “I’ve played a foxy game, you know—going out with other men, and bragging about them, and hiding my feelings all the time. I was so afraid that somebody you know would see me with some fellow and tell you about it. I just couldn’t help it, darling. One little break might have given me away, and I just had to fool my folks. There wasn’t any other way.”
“Sure, I understand,” he replied, as he stroked her hand and looked at her with the expression of a man relievedly twitting his past fears and pains.
They were silent for a while, reveling in the unexpected, warm nearness to each other and feeling a giddy swirl of revived faiths and hopes. Their first little rush of reassuring words had aroused all of the deferred plans and buried braveries within them, but the awakening was not yet articulate enough for spoken syllables. They longed to embrace each other with an open intensity, and the effort needed to control this desire also served to prevent them from talking. Then Blanche remembered a fear which she had experienced during the previous week.
“Eric, did you ever see a play called ‘God’s People Got Wings?’” she asked.
“No, but I’ve heard about it.”