Chapter II

They left the studio without any one noticing them. In the hall Northrup took Evelyn’s hand and they ran down the one flight of stairs. Evelyn felt young and buoyant and carefree.

On the floor below Northrup inserted a key in the door, opened it, turned on a light.

It was the usual bachelor apartment, but Evelyn had seen few bachelor apartments. Once, when a friend of Martin’s had been ill, she and Martin had visited him. Once, with an aunt, she had visited the aunt’s brother-in-law’s quarters. This, now, seemed wicked and pleasant and mysterious.

There was a little hall, a living-room, and beyond it the dim outlines of bedroom things. And she and Northrup were here, all alone! How much alone they seemed! There was a divan near the fireplace, Turkish rugs in rather bright colours, tables and smoking things on them, lamps with red-orange shades. These were lit now. The place was not especially artistic. The furniture was modern mahogany of rather uncertain Colonial design. But Evelyn thought it delightful.

“This is more like things, isn’t it?” asked Northrup. “The air up there, cheap perfumes and vile cigarettes—how do they stand it? You go to that sort of thing much?”

“No, I’ve just been there a few times. Maud Durland is an old friend of mine and she insisted that I come. It’s rather fun, though, watching people.”

“Fun enough. I like this.”

“This—oh, yes.”

Northrup went into the little kitchenette. He made a great clatter with shakers and glasses and returned in a minute or so with two rather warm cocktails. Evelyn had to make a face over hers. Then they each had another. Evelyn declined a third, but Northrup finished them.

“It’s a good thing,” he said, “that drinking never affects me. I’ve been pouring things down all evening. Some miserable high balls Ed Benchley had at dinner, then a lot of that awful punch upstairs and now these. If I couldn’t stand a lot, now that prohibition is here, I don’t know how I’d ever get along—”

Northrup sat near Evelyn on the couch. He touched her hand, caught her fingers and smiled.

“We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” he asked.

Evelyn felt, suddenly, as if all of her youth had come back to her. She felt the way she had felt, years before—before she had met Martin. A funny little choking feeling, far down in her throat—she had nearly forgotten that—not in years—. She felt a sudden lightness, almost an ache of happiness. So—she could still care—could thrill—Northrup—how handsome he was!

Northrup got up lazily, punched at some logs already laid in the fireplace and touched a match to the paper under them. It flared up. The logs blazed a moment later. He turned out the orange lights.

“This is what I like,” he said, “just you and I. Somehow, from the minute I saw you, you seemed different—the sort of woman who gets things—not like most women ... as if I’d known you a long while.”

“I—I felt like that, too,” admitted Evelyn. “There was something about you that reminded me, some way, of some one I must have known ages ago. I—you’re rather different from most men—you seem....”

“You’ve noticed that, then? It’s only with a few women—just a few, that I dare to be myself. Most women are a stupid lot, crude. I shrivel up, mentally, when I am near them. But there is something about you—I can be myself with you. You have a sympathy....”

“I’m—I’m glad you feel that. I can’t express myself with most people. But you....”

Northrup talked about her—Evelyn talked about him. They said sentimental, romantic things, the sort Evelyn had almost forgotten. A moment later Northrup’s arms were around her. She should have resisted, of course. She knew that. But, instead, she hid her head in his coat, a nice coat, pleasantly smelling of tobacco. Martin’s clothes smelled of tobacco, too, but this was different, more masculine—something.

With one hand Northrup raised her head, looked at her. Then he kissed her. It was a pleasant kiss. She had forgotten—perhaps had never known—that any one could kiss like that. It left her a bit breathless. The choking thrill was in her throat again. How nice it was to be kissed—like that—and by a man without a moustache! Martin’s kisses were so hurried and moustachy and bristly—you couldn’t feel his lips, even—and unemotional.

They stood up, then. Northrup went to the piano.

“I shall make up a song for you,” he said, “a song just as dear and lovely and sweet as you are, a song that will always remind me of you—”

His fingers struck indefinite chords. Then he played a plaintive, sentimentally pretty little air, improvising words in a husky, deep voice. Suddenly he stopped with a crash, turned around, caught Evelyn in his arms and kissed her again. She loved the roughness of his caress.

“You dear, you dear!” he said, over and over, very softly.

“I must go—I really must,” Evelyn said. “I—I—don’t know why I act this way. I don’t do this sort of thing, you know—really. What do you think of me? Coming in here at all and now....”

“I think you’re a dear, a darling ... why, child, I love you ... I do, really....”

“I must go....”

“Tell me you’re fond of me....”

“Of course....”

He caught her, kissed her again. She went to the door. They were out in the hall ... up in the studio again. The lights seemed brighter and more glaring, the voices shriller than ever. No one had missed them. They joined a group who were discussing plagiarism—how much it was possible to take—not steal, of course—from some other writer, without really doing anything wrong. Evelyn was surprised at herself when she voiced an opinion. The lights were dancing a bit. She felt as if she were breathing something much lighter than air. Northrup drawled replies. She caught his eye, dropped her own eyes, met his again. A delicious secret was between them. These other people—how stupid they were—they didn’t know—couldn’t guess what had happened—while they had been talking about nothing at all.

Couples began to leave. Evelyn went to the dressing-room, added powder to her face, pulled her hair out a little more at the sides than she usually wore it, put on her coat. In the hall, as Martin stopped to speak to some one, Northrup joined her.

“You’re going to see me?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“May I telephone you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Any time you like. Not—not in the evening, though.”

“Oh, no.”

He put a card into her hand.

“Here’s my ’phone number. I’m here most of the time. I do my work here, you know. We’ll have tea—some day this week....”

“Lovely....”

Other people separated them. He was gone. Evelyn slipped the card into the pocket of her coat.