Part 30 (1/2)

f.a.n.n.y sat silent. She was twisting the fingers of one hand in the grip of the other, as she had since childhood, when deeply disturbed. And suddenly she began to cry--silently, harrowingly, as a man cries, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her furs.

”f.a.n.n.y! f.a.n.n.y girl!” He was horribly disturbed and contrite. He patted her arm, awkwardly. She shook free of his hand, childishly. ”Don't cry, dear. I'm sorry. It's just that I care so much. It's just----”

She raised an angry, tear-stained face. ”It's just that you have an exalted idea of your own perceptions. It's just that you've grown up from what they used to call a bright little boy to a bright young man, and you're just as tiresome now as you were then. I'm happy enough, except when I see you. I'm getting the things I starved for all those years. Why, I'll never get over being thrilled at the idea of being able to go to the theater, or to a concert, whenever I like. Actually whenever I want to. And to be able to buy a jabot, or a smart hat, or a book. You don't know how I wanted things, and how tired I got of never having them. I'm happy! I'm happy! Leave me alone!”

”It's an awful price to pay for a hat, and a jabot, and a book and a theater ticket, Fan.”

Ella Monahan had taken the tube, and was standing in the great shed, watching arrivals with interest, long before they b.u.mped over the cobblestones of Hoboken. The three descended to f.a.n.n.y's cabin. Ella had sent champagne--six cosy pints in a wicker basket.

”They say it's good for seasickness,” she announced, cheerfully, ”but it's a lie. Nothing's good for seasickness, except death, or dry land.

But even if you do feel miserable--and you probably will--there's something about being able to lie in your berth and drink champagne alone, by the spoonful, that's sort of soothing.”

Heyl had fallen silent. f.a.n.n.y was radiant again, and exclamatory over her books and flowers.

”Of course it's my first trip,” she explained, ”and an event in my life, but I didn't suppose that anybody else would care. What's this? Candy?

Glace fruit.” She glanced around the luxurious little cabin, then up at Heyl, impudently. ”I may be a coa.r.s.e commercial person, Clancy, but I must say I like this very, very much. Sorry.”

They went up on deck. Ella, a seasoned traveler, was full of parting instructions. ”And be sure to eat at Kempinski's, in Berlin. Twenty cents for lobster. And caviar! Big as hen's eggs, and as cheap as codfish. And don't forget to order mai-bowle. It tastes like champagne, but isn't, and it has the most delicious dwarf strawberries floating on top. This is just the season for it. You're lucky. If you tip the waiter one mark he's yours for life. Oh, and remember the plum compote. You'll be disappointed in their Wertheim's that they're always bragging about.

After all, Field's makes 'em all look like country stores.”

”Wertheim's? Is that something to eat, too?”

”No, idiot. It's their big department store.” Ella turned to Heyl, for whom she felt mingled awe and liking. ”If this trip of hers is successful, the firm will probably send her over three or four times a year. It's a wonderful chance for a kid like her.”

”Then I hope,” said Heyl, quietly, ”that this trip may be a failure.”

Ella smiled, uncertainly.

”Don't laugh,” said f.a.n.n.y, sharply. ”He means it.”

Ella, sensing an unpleasant something in which she had no part, covered the situation with another rush of conversation.

”You'll get the jolt of your life when you come to Paris and find that you're expected to pay for the lunches, and all the cab fares, and everything, of those shrimpy little commissionaires. Polite little fellows, they are, in frock coats, and mustaches, and they just stand aside, as courtly as you please, while you pay for everything. Their house expects it. I almost pa.s.sed away, the first time, but you get used to it. Say, imagine one of our traveling men letting you pay for his lunch and taxi.”

She rattled on, genially. Heyl listened with unfeigned delight. Ella found herself suddenly abashed before those clear, far-seeing eyes. ”You think I'm a gabby old girl, don't you?”

”I think you're a wonderful woman,” said Heyl. ”Very wise, and very kind.”

”Why--thanks,” faltered Ella. ”Why--thanks.”

They said their good-bys. Ella hugged f.a.n.n.y warm-heartedly. Then she turned away, awkwardly. Heyl put his two hands on f.a.n.n.y's shoulders and looked down at her. For a breathless second she thought he was about to kiss her. She was amazed to find herself hoping that he would. But he didn't. ”Good-by,” he said, simply. And took her hand in his steel grip a moment, and dropped it. And turned away. A messenger boy, very much out of breath, came running up to her, a telegram in his hand.

”For me?” f.a.n.n.y opened it, frowned, smiled. ”It's from Mr. Fenger. Good wishes. As if all those flowers weren't enough.”

”Mm,” said Ella. She and Heyl descended the gang-way, and stood at the dock's edge, looking rather foolish and uncertain, as people do at such times. There followed a few moments of scramble, of absurdly shouted last messages, of bells, and frantic waving of handkerchiefs. f.a.n.n.y, at the rail, found her two among the crowd, and smiled down upon them, mistily. Ella was waving energetically. Heyl was standing quite still, looking up. The s.h.i.+p swung clear, crept away from the dock. The good-bys swelled to a roar. f.a.n.n.y leaned far over the rail and waved too, a sob in her throat. Then she saw that she was waving with the hand that held the yellow telegram. She crumpled it in the other hand, and subst.i.tuted her handkerchief. Heyl still stood, hat in hand, motionless.

”Why don't you wave good-by?” she called, though he could not possibly hear. ”Wave good-by!” And then the hand with the handkerchief went to her face, and she was weeping. I think it was that old drama-thrill in her, dormant for so long. But at that Heyl swung his hat above his head, three times, like a schoolboy, and, grasping Ella's plump and resisting arm, marched abruptly away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN