“Hugh!” she said. “I’m so glad. …And Mr. Delancey. …How nice!”
Her husband had come to her side.
“Delancey…” he said. “Come up and have a drink?”
Delancey was delighted with this welcome; he mounted the steps, smiling joyously.
“Elsie, dear,” said Mrs. Luff. “Mr. Delancey, Miss Sackett. …And I forgot—you don’t know Hugh Acheson, either.”
It was the girl he had seen in the garden that morning, the girl Whitestone said he loved. …She was wearing a sleeveless white dress that made her olive skin seem darker; her face was exquisite, great black eyes, soft and somber, a wide and sullen and beautiful mouth. She was very young, and her manner was not amiable, yet, for all her immaturity and her lack of graciousness, Delancey knew that she was something rare. Without being at all able to define it, he nevertheless knew that here was the sorcery that men have died for since the beginning of things.
“Poor Robert…” he thought, with a pang. “Poor devil!”
For what could this lovely girl find to please her in the bitter and moody Whitestone, a man certainly ten years older than she, and a married man, too? Yet, if Whitestone’s heart had once turned to her, how could he ever forget…? Poor devil!
A parlour-maid brought out whiskey and a syphon of soda on a tray; Luff held out his cigarette case; there was the friendliest air. But for once Delancey’s cheerful talk deserted him; he felt unhappy, desolate, and did not understand why. Only that somehow this was the right life; somehow Luff, lean and amiably taciturn, Mrs. Luff in her debonair dowdiness, the quiet young Acheson, the unforgettable Elsie, were the right people, whom he had been longing for, without knowing it. And he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t ever get back here once he had left.
He sipped his drink slowly; when anyone spoke to him he answered, and that was the best he could do. He wanted to make this moment last.
“You’ll stay to lunch, won’t you?” asked Mrs. Luff, and he came to, with a slight start.
“Why, thank you,” he answered. “I’d certainly like to, but my wife’s expecting me home. …”
He had to go now, and go forever. Mrs. Luff would simply not be interested in “patching things up” with Josephine.
“It was all Josephine’s fault, whatever it was,” he thought. “Must have been. Mrs. Luff wouldn’t quarrel with people. She must think Josephine is—”
The word came to his mind; it was as if he had heard Mrs. Luff say, in her lazy, pleasant voice—“impossible.” That must be what all their neighbors called Josephine. The impossible Mrs. Delancey. …
He got into the superb dark-blue car, and he was ashamed of it. He was ashamed of his own bigness, his hearty voice; he sat back in a corner, thoroughly miserable.
“It’s no use,” he said to himself, over and over. “It’s no use.”
And did not know what he meant by that, or why he was so unhappy. As his own house came in sight he pulled himself together, tried to shake off his depression. It was really a fine house, Colonial style, big white pillars, well-kept grounds. …The housemaid smiled at him when she opened the door.
“Shawe!” called his wife’s voice, imperiously.
She was lying on a couch in the library, tall, looking very slight in a black lace tea gown, with long jade earrings, her olive face powdered, her lips scarlet, her black hair drawn straight back from her forehead. He had seen her before in this same costume, and in this same pose, and he had admired her. “Cleopatra,” he had called her.
He did not admire her now. In his mind, he envisaged her on the Luffs’ terrace, in the sunlight. He contrasted her low, thrilling voice with Mrs. Luff’s clear one; her heavy perfume made him think with nostalgia of the clean scent of cut grass. He thought of that girl Elsie, who was dark and slender, like Josephine, but who was really young. And he felt an overwhelming pity for Josephine.
“Well, Cleopatra!” he said, and crossed the room to kiss her.
“Shawe!” she said, curtly. “Where have you been?”
It would never do to mention the Luffs to her, especially when she was in this mood.
“The train was a little late—” he said.
“That’s a lie!”
“Now, see here, Josephine! That’s not—”
“It’s a lie!” she repeated. “Alice Hampton got the same train as you. She told me she saw you. And she stopped in here twenty minutes ago. You’ve been somewhere for that twenty minutes.”
“My dear girl, look here! I ran into a fellow I know, down at the station, and we talked for a while. Naturally, I didn’t keep track of the minutes—”
“No!” she said. “It’s that girl.”
“Good Lord! What girl?”
“I heard about it last week, but I tried not to believe it. Someone told me that that girl who’s staying at the Luffs’ was running after a married man in this neighborhood, and by the way she said it, I felt it was you she meant. …”
“Good Lord!” he said, again. “When you say things like that—what can I answer?”
“The truth—if you’re capable of it.”
“All right, then. Here’s the truth. I’ve never spoken ten words to Miss Sackett—”
“So you know her name!” cried Josephine, sitting up. “You admit then that you know her!”
“Luff happened to introduce us—at the station,” he said, for now, less than ever, could he mention his visit to the Luffs’ house.
“It must have been a regular little reception at the station,” she said, with a sneer.
“Now, see here, my dear girl…! You’re working yourself up over nothing. Absolutely nothing. Other women don’t interest me—none of ’em—”
“Do you think I’m blind, or a fool? Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Annie, my own servant?”
He felt no anger against her, only an immense boredom. These scenes had happened before; she made herself ill by them, by her wildly unreasonable jealousy. He had never been unfaithful to her, or even contemplated such a thing, but he could not convince her of that. The only way to end these miserable episodes was by making love to her, flattering her, letting her “forgive” him—for what he had not done.
“Don’t you ever look in the mirror?” he said. “Well, then, do you imagine that a man with a wife like you—”
“You needn’t try that,” she interrupted. “I’ve listened to you once too often. You’ve seen the girl once to-day, and you planned to see her again. Your precious Robert Whitestone’s wife rang up. ‘You’ll both come to dinner to-night, won’t you? A little party—some friends
