smilingly: "I am glad you look at it that way. It means that you will come back some day."
"I will come to-morrow if you'll let me."
Which left her surprised and silent but not at all disquieted.
"Shall I, Athalie?"
"Yes – if you wish."
"Why not?" he said with more unnecessary emphasis and as though addressing himself, and perhaps others not present. "I see no reason why I shouldn't if you'll let me. Do you?"
"No."
"May I take you to dinner and to the theatre?"
A quick glow shot through her, leaving a sort of whispering confusion in her brain which seemed full of distant voices.
"Yes, I'd like to go with you."
"That's fine! And we'll have supper afterward."
She smiled at him through the ringing confusion in her brain.
"Do you mind taking supper with me after the play?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"Anywhere – with you, C. Bailey, Junior."
Things began to seem to her a trifle unreal; she saw him a little vaguely: vaguely, too, she was conscious that to whatever she said he was responding with something more subtly vital than mere words. Faintly within her the instinct stirred to ignore, to repress something in him – in herself – she was not clear about just what she ought to repress, or which of them harboured it.
One thing confused and disturbed her; his tongue was running loose, planning all sorts of future pleasures for them both together, confidently, with an enthusiasm which, somehow, seemed to leave her unresponsive.
"Please don't," she said.
"What, Athalie?"
"Make so many promises – plans. I – am afraid of promises."
He turned very red: "What on earth have I done to you!"
"Nothing – yet."
"Yes I have! I once made you unhappy; I made you distrust me – "
"No: – that is all over now. Only – if it happened again – I should really – miss you – very much – C. Bailey, Junior… So don't promise me too much – now… Promise a little – each time you come – if you care to."
In the silence that grew between them the alarm went off with a startling clangour that brought them both to their feet.
It was midnight.
"I set it to wake myself before my sisters came in," she explained with a smile. "I usually have something prepared for them to eat when they've been out."
"I suppose they do the same for you," he said, looking at her rather steadily.
"I don't go out in the evening."
"You do sometimes."
"Very seldom… Do you know, C. Bailey, Junior, I have never been out in the evening with a man?"
"What?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"I suppose," she admitted with habitual honesty, "it's because I don't know any men with whom I'd care to be seen in the evening. I don't like ordinary people."
"How about me?" he asked, laughing.
She merely smiled.
CHAPTER VII
DORIS came in about midnight, her coat and hat plastered with sleet, her shoes soaking. She looked rather forlornly at the bowl of hot milk and crackers which Athalie brought from the kitchenette.
"I'd give next week's salary for a steak," she said, taking the bowl and warming her chilled hands on it.
"You know what meat costs," said Athalie. "I'd give it to you for supper if I could."
Doris seated herself by the radiator; Athalie knelt and drew off the wet shoes, unbuttoned the garters and rolled the stockings from the icy feet.
"I had another chance to-night: they were college boys: some of the girls went – " remarked Doris disjointedly, forcing herself to eat the crackers and milk because it was hot, and snuggling into the knitted slippers which Athalie brought. After a moment or two she lifted her pretty, impudent face and sniffed inquiringly.
"Who's been smoking? You?"
"No."
"Who? Genevieve?"
"No. Who do you suppose called?"
"Search me."
"C. Bailey, Junior!"
Doris looked blank, then: "Oh, that boy you had an affair with about a hundred years ago?"
"That same boy," said Athalie, smiling.
"He'll come again next century I suppose – like a comet," shrugged Doris, nestling closer to the radiator.
Athalie said nothing; her sister slowly stirred the crackers in the milk and from time to time took a spoonful.
"Next time," she said presently, "I shall go out to supper when an attractive man asks me. I know how to take care of myself – and the supper, too."
Athalie started to say something, and stopped. Perhaps she remembered C. Bailey, Jr., and that she had promised to dine and sup with him, "anywhere."
She said in a low voice: "It's all right, I suppose, if you know the man."
"I don't care whether I know him or not as long as it's a good restaurant."
"Don't talk that way, Doris!"
"Why not? It's true."
There was a silence. Doris set aside the empty bowl, yawned, looked at the clock, yawned again.
"This is too late for Catharine," she said, drowsily.
"I know it is. Who are the people she's with?"
"Genevieve Hunting – I don't know the men: – some of Genevieve's friends."
"I hope it's nobody from Winton's."
There had been in the Greensleeve family, a tacit understanding that it was not the thing to accept social attentions from anybody connected with the firm which employed them. Winton, the male milliner and gown designer, usually let his models alone, being in perpetual dread of his wife; but one of the unhealthy looking sons had become a nuisance to the girls employed there. Recently he had annoyed Catharine, and the girl was afraid she might have to lunch with him or lose her position.
Doris yawned again, then shivered.
"Go
