Again he opened the book. Bits of printed verse dropped out of it. Jane had sent him this, “One who never turned his back, but marched breast-forward.”
Well, he had turned his back. That day in the snow. The thought gripped him. Made him white and sick. He stood up, praying again in an agony of mind, “Bring me back.”
He opened the book and read of Jane, and of himself as he had once been. He skipped the record of his college days, except where he found such reference as this: “Little Jane is growing up. She met me at the station and held out her hand to me. I used always to kiss her, but this time I didn’t dare. She was different somehow, but some day I’ll kiss her.”
And this: “Jane is rather a darling. But I am beginning to believe that I like ’em fair.” That was when he had a terrible crush on Florence Preston, whose coloring was blue and gold. But it hadn’t lasted, and he had come back to Jane with a sense of refreshment.
He found at last the pages given over to those first days after he had been admitted to the Washington bar, and had hung out his shingle.
“Sat at my desk all the morning. Great bluff. One client received with great effect of busy-ness. Had lunch with a lot of fellows—pancakes and sausages—ate an armful. Tea with three débutantes at the Shoreham—peaches. Dance at the Oakleys’ in Georgetown. Corking time. One deadly moment when the butler took my overcoat. Poor people ought not to dance where there are butlers.”
Remembering that incident, he leaned back in his chair and laughed. The Oakleys had all the money in the world, and a background of aristocracy. Evans’ overcoat was rusty and shiny at the elbows. The butler, a recent importation from London, had been imposing in knee-breeches and many buttons. His manner had been perfect, but Evans had been aware of the servant’s scorn of rustiness and shininess. Then his own good sense had come to the rescue, and he had gone in and had danced with as light heels as the rest of them.
He found more than one reference to his poverty. “I shall have to stop eating, or I can’t wear my evening clothes. And I can’t afford new ones. Jane says she hates to have me lose weight—that I look big and beautiful now like Michelangelo’s David at the Corcoran. I don’t know whether she is in earnest. One never knows. Her eyes never tell.”
And again: “If I had money enough, I’d ask Jane to marry me. But I can’t pay for Huyler’s and matinée tickets. And anyhow, I’m sure she wouldn’t have me. Not right off the bat. We’re made for each other all right. And some day, if she doesn’t know it, I’ll make her.”
There were spring days with Jane. “Gee, but it’s good to be alive. Jane and I walked down to the glen this morning. Picked wild flowers, dogtooth violets, hepatica, anemones; and we sang—with nobody to hear us. I let out my voice—in the Toreador’s song, and Jane sat there and looked and listened, and said when I had finished, ‘It’s like the opera, Evans.’ I believe she meant it, and she didn’t want me to stop.... I felt pretty fine to have her there, liking it.... Oh, she’s a darling. I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t.”