It seemed amusing to Mary. She thought: “How stupid! How can she––when the wicker basket is the one logical place for–––”
Then she spied Steve’s desk, bearing a suggestion of the same disorder about it. When she spoke his name and he started up, holding out both hands, she saw a queer, bright look in his eyes, as if he, too, were trying to convince himself that everything was all right.
“So you really missed me?”
“Missed you! Heaven alone can record the unselfish struggle I endured to let you play. I give you my word.”
He wheeled up a chair for her, just as he used to 186 wheel up a chair for Beatrice, and sitting opposite him Mary heard an almost womanish enumeration of petty troubles and disturbances, a pathetic threat as to the avalanche of work which would await her in the morning.
“And now I will be polite enough to ask if you had a good time?”
“Very! And Mrs. O’Valley?”
It was so horrid to have to pretend when each knew the other was pretending; and as they pretended to the world in general, what a relief and blessed lightening of tension it would have been to have said merely an honest: “We don’t care about Mrs. Gorgeous Girl or any one else. We are quite content with each other. True, this is still platonic friendship––with one of us––but all tropical twilight is of short duration. It won’t be platonic much longer. So let’s talk about ourselves all we like!”
But being thoroughbred young persons they felt it was not the thing even to think frankly.
“She is well,” Steve said, briefly.