Part 15 (1/2)
The older woman turned to the girl with ruffled rudeness. ”Stay on for supper, Jeanne?”
The other shook her head. ”I must run along. Choir practice to-night,”
with a mischievous dimple.
”Religious all of a sudden?”
”The rector flourishes in my spiritual presence.”
”How is his new reverence?”
Her mouth twisted piquantly. ”Mushy.... Nice boy, though. Coming by to-morrow?”
”Between three and four.”
”So long.... Good night, Mr. Mine Superintendent.”
Pelham convoyed her to the steps, doubly unwilling to let her go, as he reflected on her fresh charm, and the blind alley of the other woman's amorousness. ”I enjoyed our talk, Miss Lauderdale. Could the course continue?”
”I'm always glad to have a human being to talk to. I'm staying with the Andersons; the number's in the phone book.”
Thoughtfully he returned to the porch, and a cretonned wicker chair, ignoring the message of the partly-occupied couch.
Inquisitive gray eyes watched him. ”Do you like her?”
”Oh, so-so. She seems intelligent.”
”Men never do like Jeanne,” she a.s.sured him, with a complacent rippling gesture of her flounced body. ”She's a dear, but too dreadfully serious.
Doesn't like dancing, and all----” waving vaguely in the direction of the club.
”Tell me something about her.”
”There isn't much. Jeanne--I love the French twist, don't you?--Jeanne's a queer, dear girl, Pelham; always busy with labor committees, or something as uplifting and tiresome.”
”I've never heard of her, except from you. Is she kin to the Andersons?”
”Oh, no; her people are northern. She was living with an aunt in Philadelphia; tired of her, and skipped out. Another of her modern notions.... She's intelligent; but, then, brains don't marry,--they go to Congress. Or is it the other way? Anyhow, Lyman says that I have no brains.” She smiled provocatively.
This time he came, in answer to her pouting, unworded bidding. He was heartily glad, as apparently eager arms gave her the desired harborage, that the other girl was by now blocks away.
A day or two later he telephoned, and on Friday evening came by the Anderson house at eight.
”I'll be down in a minute,” she called from the top of the bal.u.s.trade.
The Andersons were away for the month, he recalled. With a pleasant restlessness, he prowled around the cosy living-room, and finally selected a library book on the table. It was by a favorite author; but the t.i.tle, ”A Modern Utopia,” was new to him. He was into the second chapter when she appeared.
”What a remarkable Wells book!”
She smiled at the enthusiasm. ”You don't mind walking, do you?... It's stuffy inside.”
”No indeed. Just a moment.” He jotted a memorandum of the volume on a handy envelope back.
For all the quiet grace of her face, he noticed that Jane fitted into his stride naturally--and he was a good walker. Instinctively they turned up the hill; the height beyond reached out an irresistible invitation.