Who Cares [18]
for them. Joan and flowers--they were synonymous.
She put her pretty face into a great bowl of violets. "You remembered all my little friends, Marty," she said.
They sat opposite each other at the long table. Martin's father looked down at Martin's wife, and his mother at the boy from whom she had been taken when his eager eyes came up to the level of her pillow. And there was much tenderness on both their faces.
Martin caught the manservant's eyes. "Don't wait," he said. "We'll look after ourselves."
Presently Joan gave a little laugh. "Please have something yourself. You're better than a footman. You're a butler."
His smile as he took his place would have lighted up a tunnel.
"I like Delmonico's," said Joan. "We'll often dine there. And the play was perfectly splendid. What a lot of others there are to see! I don't think we'll let the grass grow under our feet, Marty. And presently we'll have some very proper little dinner parties in this room, won't we? Interesting, vital people, who must all be good- looking and young. It will be a long time before I shall want to see anyone old again. Think what Alice Palgrave will say when she comes back! She'll underline every word if she can find any words. She wasn't married till she was twenty."
And presently, having pecked at an admirable fruit salad, just sipped a glass of wine and made close-fitting plans that covered at least a month, Joan rose. "I shall go up now, Marty," she said. "It's twelve o'clock."
He watched her go upstairs with his heart in his throat. Surely this was all a dream, and in a moment he would find himself rudely and coldly awake, standing in the middle of a crowded, lonely world? But she stopped on the landing, turned, smiled at him and waved her hand. He drew in a deep breath, went back into the dining room, put his lips to the violets that had been touched by her face, and switched off the lights. The scent of spring was in the air.
"Come in," she said, when presently, after a long pause, he knocked at her door.
She was sitting at a gleaming dressing table in something white and clinging, doing her hair that was so soft and brown and electrical.
He dared not trust himself to speak. He sat down on the edge of a sofa at the foot of the bed and watched her.
She went on brushing but with her unoccupied hand gathered her gown about her. "What is it, Marty?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing," he said, finding something that sounded curiously unlike his voice.
She could see his young, eager face and broad shoulders in the looking-glass. His hands were clasped tightly round one knee.
"I've been listening to the sound of traffic," she said. "That's the sort of music that appeals to me. It seems a year since I did my hair in that great, prim room and heard the owls cry and watched myself grow old. Just think! It's really only a few hours ago that I dropped my suit-case out of a window and climbed down the creeper. We said we'd make things move, didn't we?"
"I shall write to your grandfather in the morning," said Martin, with almost comical gravity and an unconscious touch of patronage. How childlike the old are to the very young!
"That will be nice of you," answered Joan. "We'll be very kind to him, won't we? There'll be no one to read the papers to him now."
"He was a great chap once," said Martin. "My father liked him awfully."
She swung her hair free and turned her chair a little. "You must tell me what he said about him, in the morning. Heigh-ho, I'm so sleepy."
Martin got up and went to see if the windows were all open. "They'll call us at eight," he said, "unless you'd like it to be later."
Joan went to the door and opened it and held out her hand. "Eight's good," she said. "Good night, Marty."
The boy looked at the little open hand with its long fingers, and at his wife, who seemed so cool and sweet and friendly. What did she mean?
He asked her, with an odd catch in his voice.
And she gave him the smile of a tired child. "Just that, old boy. Good night."
"But--but we're married," he said
She put her pretty face into a great bowl of violets. "You remembered all my little friends, Marty," she said.
They sat opposite each other at the long table. Martin's father looked down at Martin's wife, and his mother at the boy from whom she had been taken when his eager eyes came up to the level of her pillow. And there was much tenderness on both their faces.
Martin caught the manservant's eyes. "Don't wait," he said. "We'll look after ourselves."
Presently Joan gave a little laugh. "Please have something yourself. You're better than a footman. You're a butler."
His smile as he took his place would have lighted up a tunnel.
"I like Delmonico's," said Joan. "We'll often dine there. And the play was perfectly splendid. What a lot of others there are to see! I don't think we'll let the grass grow under our feet, Marty. And presently we'll have some very proper little dinner parties in this room, won't we? Interesting, vital people, who must all be good- looking and young. It will be a long time before I shall want to see anyone old again. Think what Alice Palgrave will say when she comes back! She'll underline every word if she can find any words. She wasn't married till she was twenty."
And presently, having pecked at an admirable fruit salad, just sipped a glass of wine and made close-fitting plans that covered at least a month, Joan rose. "I shall go up now, Marty," she said. "It's twelve o'clock."
He watched her go upstairs with his heart in his throat. Surely this was all a dream, and in a moment he would find himself rudely and coldly awake, standing in the middle of a crowded, lonely world? But she stopped on the landing, turned, smiled at him and waved her hand. He drew in a deep breath, went back into the dining room, put his lips to the violets that had been touched by her face, and switched off the lights. The scent of spring was in the air.
"Come in," she said, when presently, after a long pause, he knocked at her door.
She was sitting at a gleaming dressing table in something white and clinging, doing her hair that was so soft and brown and electrical.
He dared not trust himself to speak. He sat down on the edge of a sofa at the foot of the bed and watched her.
She went on brushing but with her unoccupied hand gathered her gown about her. "What is it, Marty?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing," he said, finding something that sounded curiously unlike his voice.
She could see his young, eager face and broad shoulders in the looking-glass. His hands were clasped tightly round one knee.
"I've been listening to the sound of traffic," she said. "That's the sort of music that appeals to me. It seems a year since I did my hair in that great, prim room and heard the owls cry and watched myself grow old. Just think! It's really only a few hours ago that I dropped my suit-case out of a window and climbed down the creeper. We said we'd make things move, didn't we?"
"I shall write to your grandfather in the morning," said Martin, with almost comical gravity and an unconscious touch of patronage. How childlike the old are to the very young!
"That will be nice of you," answered Joan. "We'll be very kind to him, won't we? There'll be no one to read the papers to him now."
"He was a great chap once," said Martin. "My father liked him awfully."
She swung her hair free and turned her chair a little. "You must tell me what he said about him, in the morning. Heigh-ho, I'm so sleepy."
Martin got up and went to see if the windows were all open. "They'll call us at eight," he said, "unless you'd like it to be later."
Joan went to the door and opened it and held out her hand. "Eight's good," she said. "Good night, Marty."
The boy looked at the little open hand with its long fingers, and at his wife, who seemed so cool and sweet and friendly. What did she mean?
He asked her, with an odd catch in his voice.
And she gave him the smile of a tired child. "Just that, old boy. Good night."
"But--but we're married," he said