“So she’ll know I’m not mad that she read my diaries.”
Audrey was dialing. Jimmie slid behind her, and for a moment weltered in the thought that this was the essence of generosity. Then there came another thought—another possible face to put on Audrey’s deed: this was also the essence of a smart tactic. If Sarah were overcome with the news, overcome with joy—then, all the secrets in Audrey’s diaries would be forever secure.
Audrey’s father worked people that way, apparently.
Jimmie tried to shake off the suspicion—and he could not; although Audrey’s words, and her behavior, seemed to deny the truth of such a construction.
“Hello? Miss Bailey, please… a friend… personal… Hello? Sarah?… This is Audrey Wilson… Hey! I know you don’t want to talk to me… But I want to talk to you
… No, not about Jimmie… about Harry.”
Then, in a clear and gentle tone, Audrey told all about Harry—and the notion she and Jimmie had discussed. After that Sarah talked for several minutes. Jimmie could not hear a word. He heard, only, the low, intense pitch of his sister’s voice. But he did see that Audrey began nodding. And she sniffled once.
At last she spoke again: “No, Sarah… I wouldn’t do it tonight… no train and you couldn’t pack… Just phone him at the hotel… Yes… He certainly is expecting a call! Good night, darling… I’m glad—you feel like that!”
Audrey hung up. She buried her face in her hands for a moment. “That,” she said presently, with a sigh, “is probably a new high of some sort in marriage proposals. Sarah didn’t know. Said she might have heard once—and forgotten. But I think she just didn’t know. She was going to start for Chicago tonight. I advised her not to. But I bet Harry will start, tonight, for Muskogewan! And there will be merry hell to pay around town tomorrow! Wow!” Audrey laughed delightedly. She turned in the booth, hugged Jimmie, and she kissed him, lightly. “We’ve done a good deed that’ll last quite a while. Two lifetimes, maybe.”
“You’re a nice woman, Audrey.”