He had an idle sympathy for her, and he felt that she would be much more accessible if she were removed from the guardian eyes of her family. Funny, how he couldn’t get this girl out of his mind. She had a “thoroughbred” touch, a high-headed, brave, exclusive something that he had rarely found in women and could scarcely define. It wasn’t her looks and she certainly wasn’t particularly talented in any way—it was a straightness in conduct and word, and an untouched, defiant essence that seemed to cling to the physical part of her. Some women were like that—their affairs with men never left any impress upon them. Guess they never really gave in to any man—that was it.... Should he ever ask this girl to marry him? Marriage—brr! Wasn’t he still paying alimony on the first one that he had contracted? No, he’d be willing to live with Blanche and give other women “the air,” for some time at least, but no more marrying for him. Even this would be quite an important concession for a man of his kind, who could have his pick of pretty girls every night. His first wife had attracted him just as Blanche did, and what had happened? Everything sweet and snug for the first six months, and then a first quarrel because she caught him kissing a girl in his show—nothing but handcuffs and a prison cell ever satisfied them—and then more quarrels about where they should eat, and what kind of ties he ought to buy, and a dozen more trivial frictions. And money—two hundred a week for her expenses got to be like two dollars in her estimation. Then he had felt the gradual letting down of his desire for her—she had not become less attractive but less imperative and more a matter of pleasant convenience. He had returned to unfaithfulness, after drunken parties—how could any man help it?—and he’d certainly never forget the cheap, blah-blahing night when she had burst into a hotel room, with two private detectives, and found him with a woman. No more of that kind of joke for him.
These thoughts occurred to him irregularly as he talked to Blanche in the cab, and afterwards as they sat in a corner of The Golden Mill.
“You’re a simp to work like a nigger all the time,” he said. “What’s it bring you, anyway? Three dimes and a crook in your pretty back, that’s about all.”
“It’s easy for you to talk,” she replied. “Tell me how I’d ever get along without working?”
“I’ll keep you up any time you say,” he responded, caressing her hand that rested on the table, “and don’t think I’m spoofing you, either. I’ll give you anything you want, and no strings tied to it. I mean it. Don’t think I hand this spiel around ev’ry night! You’ve had me going ever since I first saw you—you’ve got the class and I know it.”
She looked at him meditatively—it would be necessary to “call him down” for this open proposal, but—just saying it to herself—why shouldn’t she be supported by a man? How would she ever get a breathing spell otherwise?
“When I take money from any man I’m going to be married to him first,” she replied, “and don’t think I’m giving you any hints, either. ’F I wanted to be free and easy with men, I’ve had plenty of chances before this—plenty. I hate to work at something I don’t care much for, sure, ev’ry girl does, but it’s better than living with some fellow till he gets tired of you and then passing on to some one else. They’ll never play baseball with yours truly ’f she can help it.”
He was divided between admiration for her “spunk” and candor, and a suspicion that she might be testing him.
“I’ll stop dealing from the bottom of the deck,” he said, slowly. “I’ve known you for two years, now, Blanche, and it’s time that we came to some understanding. This loving stuff’s all apple-sauce to me—you always think you’re nuts about a girl till she falls for you, and then you change your eyesight. I’ve had one bum marriage in my life, and I never was fond of castor-oil and carbolic acid on the same spoon. If you’ll hook up with me, old girl, I’ll treat you white, but I can’t hand out any signed testimonials about how long it’ll last, for you ’r me. What’s the use of all this worrying about next week and next year? It’s like not sitting down to your meal, ’cause you don’t know what you’re going to have for dessert.”
“Well, what’s the proposition?” she asked, surprised at her own lack of indignation, and liking his unveiled attitude.