Chapter XV

Mary Louise was seeing quite a lot of Claybrook. First there had been the business of going over the books, although that had not taken much time. "Just to make sure how things stand," he had laughed and she had been only too eager to acquiesce. Then there was the business of making out the notes. Six months and one year they had been, ample time enough on considering the progress of the business. Of course it could have all been finished up in one session. But somehow it was a week or more before everything was entirely settled. She had taken a small apartment, in reality just a room and a bath, in a quiet family hotel-apartment that Claybrook had recommended. He had, of course, come in to see how she was installed. It was a dim, cool, hushed sort of place, where guests spoke in sibilant whispers when they crossed the parlour lobby. There was a faded blonde of doubtful age presiding over the tiny desk, who handed out mail and plugged in telephone calls in a small switchboard and kept the hotel porter in a constant state of agitated unrest. No one ever sat around in the lobby. Every now and then there would gather little groups of prim old ladies with shawls and magazines and embroidery frames, discussing whispered personalities and the weather, as they waited for the elevator. Careful, curious looks they always had for Mary Louise whenever she came upon them. An all-pervading atmosphere of stealth and secrecy and propriety seemed to hover about the place. Before she had been an inmate three hours she felt it and when Claybrook called that first evening, she had come rushing across the lobby to meet him, with a glad little cry of welcome. Immediately one of the little groups had ceased to function and had with one accord stared at her with grave eyes, and the blonde at the switchboard had lifted her head above the edge of the desk and peered over. And then in the lobby, over in a far corner, they had sat uncomfortably for an hour on the faded plush divan and discussed commonplaces in a low tone and felt irreparably guilty.

But in spite of it all, Claybrook had come again; had come the next evening and the next. Most of the time he took her out for drives in his car. It began to be a regular thing, and she had come to look forward to his coming. The idea of staying alone in that whispery place was not a pleasant idea. Moreover, now that Maida was gone, she had double work to do in the tea room--which was running on as briskly as ever--and in the evening she felt invariably jaded and in need of some sort of diversion. So she welcomed Claybrook. And she got used to him.

One evening--it was after two weeks of this sort of thing--as she was sitting in her room, looking out of the window at the tops of the trees in an adjacent yard, it struck her how much she had been seeing him. For a moment it made her uncomfortable. What was it leading to? Such suppositions must almost invariably come to a single woman. Ages of tradition have left their imprint upon the sex to the effect that single life is not an end in itself, and that somehow it needs must change. Of course, many a spinster has gone to a satisfied grave in complete contentment over a life of spinsterhood. But there is nothing to prevent the question from arising, especially when there is an attentive male hanging about unattached.

Claybrook had given no indication of any serious intentions. Now that she had come to know him better, he seemed more like an overgrown boy with a healthy appetite for play. There was no cause for alarm. If he had been the kind to moon around in dark corners, wanting to sit alone with her in long interminable silences--but on the contrary he always wanted to go somewhere. She had met several of his friends and they were always going somewhere, both men and women. And he always had plenty to say, mostly about conditions in the mill, the increase in the cost of labour, the scarcity of good lumber, some little anecdotes about the men, drummers' tales. More like a business acquaintance he treated her, discussing gravely the problems of her tea room and that sort of thing. He had even begun to call her "Sister" in an odd little patronizing way. And she had seen him every night now for the past two weeks. She thoughtfully ran her hand across her mouth. That was too much speed. She would have to slow down.

The graying light deepened and the chequered wavering of the boughs beneath her was slowly swallowed up in shadow so that the depth seemed interminable. A screen door slammed and there was the clatter of a pan on a brick pavement and the drawl of a soft Negro voice somewhere below. The help was going home. And then silence descending with only the quiet rustling of leaves and the distant clang and clatter of the city. She felt suddenly very much alone; and she wondered what her aunt Susie might be doing at this instant. Sitting alone in the ell sitting room, knitting, perhaps, with old Landy pottering about in the kitchen or on the back steps, with some fishing tackle or an odd bit of harness. A bit of sentimentality touched her lightly. It would be good to put the old place on its feet again, free it entirely of debt, with a little surplus so that there would not be that constant feeling of strain, of anxiety. This was no life to be living in spite of the glamour of the city. Every living creature felt the need of home. If only all she meant to do might not be accomplished too late.

The sharp burr of the telephone startled her and she rose to answer it, dabbing at her eyes furtively with her handkerchief as she rose.

She met Claybrook in the lobby.

"Hi, there!" he said. "Get your hat. The Thompsons want us to come and play bridge with them." He squeezed her hand just a little as he smiled good-naturedly at her with patronizing approval.

"To-night?" she echoed. "In August?"

"Sure," he said. "Why not? It's plenty cool. They've a room on the top floor of the Ardmore and they keep all the windows open. Never seen the Thompsons' apartment, have you?"

She shook her head.

"Pretty swell dump. Like to know how much Tommy pays for it. Keeps it all the year too. They go to Florida for January and February. Want you to see it. Maybe when the business grows enough you'll be wanting one like it."

She smiled wanly and pictured herself spending the balance of her days in a hotel.

"Hurry up. Get your hat and powder your nose and pretty yourself up. Want you to feel at home. Mrs. Tom is _some_ doll."

She hastened back to the room. He was like a kind older brother wanting to show her a good time, wanting her to show to the best advantage. She smiled at him when she again joined him in the lobby. "That better?"

He peered at her closely. "Much," he grunted and followed her through the swinging door.

They played bridge with the Thompsons.

Through the open windows the noise of the city came swelling up distractingly. The cards kept blowing from the table so that the men were busy gathering them up from the floor. Mrs. Thompson wore a lacy gown of lilac organdie cut quite low in the neck and her hair was arranged in an elaborate and immaculate coiffure that stuck out behind in huge, smooth, artificial-looking puffs. Her colour was high and not all her own. Her husband was of the type commonly called a "rough diamond," showing evident signs of hours spent in the barber's chair, with a sort of rawness about a blue-black chin, traces of talcum powder, and a lurking odour of toilet water. He was too big for his clothes, which were just a bit flashy, and he looked as though he might like to doff his coat.

Mary Louise and Claybrook arrived at eight-thirty. At eight thirty-five Thompson produced a flask from a desk drawer and mixed up a couple of high balls with an air of grave deliberation. The glasses were placed on the folding bridge table and remained there throughout the evening, Mrs. Thompson stooping over and taking delicate sips from her husband's glass every now and then.

The game languished. Mary Louise did not know much about it and the men would lapse into rather boisterous spells of conversation during which time the cards would lie on the table forgotten, and Mrs. Thompson would gaze at her husband with deep absorption and occasionally at Claybrook and sometimes at Mary Louise in a far-off, absent-minded way. And then they would ask each other whose deal it was and "How were the honours?" and then they would be at it again. Claybrook laughed at the slightest provocation, and seemed to pay a little too obsequious attention to whatever Thompson had to say, and after a while the conversation narrowed down entirely to the two men, with Mrs. Thompson contracting a glassy look in her pale-blue eyes beneath their fine-plucked brows. And at ten o'clock she stifled a yawn behind her handkerchief, threw down her cards, got up and went over to the corner where stood an expensive "Victrola."

"Let's have a little jazz," she said brightly. The men were busy discussing the income tax and the ways of avoiding it and did not seem to mind at all. And Mary Louise welcomed the suggestion with relief.

For another hour they sat back in deep chairs, relaxed, relieved of responsibility. And then Claybrook, straightening in his chair, said: "Think I'll have to get a new car. The old wagon's been losing compression. Hasn't any get-away at all these days." Then turning abruptly to Mary Louise who, sunk back in her chair, was absently dreaming, "What kind shall I get? You're the one to be pleased." The crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes gathered in tight little clusters and there was an odd pucker about his lips.

In spite of herself she flushed fiery red. There was in the tone a suggestion of proprietary claim that jangled on her. Almost without thinking she replied, "Joe Hooper's selling the Marlowe. It's the best make, isn't it?"

Three pairs of eyes were regarding her, Claybrook's with a slight frown. He continued gazing at her for a moment, in consideration, and then, the topic changing to Florida in the winter, he apparently forgot her.

At eleven o'clock they rose to go. Mrs. Thompson showed signs of relief, and there was more warmth in the farewells than in any previous interchange of amenities. Mr. Thompson laid his hand affectionately on Mary Louise's shoulder as they stood in the doorway into the hall. His manner was bluff and friendly:

"John tells me you're running the tea room over on Spruce Street. Guess I'll have to drop in and see how you're doing."

She murmured her gratitude.

"Won't mind, will you, if I bring in anything on my hip? Tea's mighty weak for a growing boy."

They all laughed, and as she and Claybrook made their way to the elevator, the Thompsons stood in the hall calling gibes and parting injunctions after them.

"Great old scout," commented Claybrook as they descended to the ground floor. "Sure been a good friend to me."

Mary Louise felt her taut nerves slowly relaxing.

"What does he do?" she responded wearily.

"Contractor. Biggest in town." And then when they reached the street and were climbing into the car, "Whadda you say to meeting me at five o'clock to-morrow afternoon? Look at that Marlowe car you say you like."

He was looking into her eyes with an odd sort of questioning directness. She started to refuse, remembering her resolve to see him less often. But then the thought of Joe Hooper presented itself. She owed Joe a kindness or two. Perhaps if she delayed, Claybrook would change his mind. She hesitated a moment.

"All right," she assented.

Claybrook laughed shortly. "You don't sound so keen, somehow. Don't know if I can afford a Marlowe or not. You've a pretty extravagant taste in automobiles. Only one of 'em higher priced than the Marlowe."

"Oh, is it? I didn't know." And then, "But I don't see what my taste has got to do with it. It's your affair, you know. I knew Joe Hooper, that's all."

He was silent, but as he took leave of her at the doorway of her apartment, he again brought up the subject in a quiet tone. "Meet me at live to-morrow?"

"Surely," she agreed, and then went thoughtfully upstairs to bed.

As she slowly undressed she thought of Joe Hooper in his new "shepherd plaid" suit and wondered if he were getting along. And she thought of the Thompsons living in their bleak finery on the top floor of the Ardmore, just sixty feet removed from the hideous clatter of the traffic. And she speculated on the appearance of Mrs. Thompson with all the hairs in her eyebrows that nature meant them to have. And then she thought upon Claybrook's boyishness in wanting her to help him go pick out a new toy. He was without guile, entirely without guile. Suddenly she laughed aloud and then she switched off the light and went smiling to bed.