doesn’t drink a lot, it doesn’t make him a sissy. Joe’s grand—and he’s had a hard row to hoe. He had his mother and sister to support, and did you know Sarah loaned his mother money and he had to pay that back too? He—”
Sam interrupted her quietly. “When I said I hoped Mouse would be happy, I didn’t mean Joe.”
“Well, then, what did you mean?”
Sam grinned at Julie’s challenging tone. His grin faded. “Well, for one thing, there’s Rosetta. That kid’s a prize brat. I wouldn’t want to be saddled with her. And, for another, I’ve sometimes wondered if Mouse ever really got over Bill Conroy.”
Julie said crossly, “Don’t be an idiot. Of course she did. That’s ancient history—and she’s crazy about Joe.”
Nevertheless Sam had voiced a question she had asked herself last night, when she heard Mouse crying. It was hard to forget the way Mouse had dragged around for months after Bill Conroy’s abrupt exit.
It was then that Mrs. Racker, sulkily trim in a uniform that Frances had selected, opened the front door, and a man walked in bringing a gust of cold rain with him. He was big and fair and handsome and in his late thirties. He gave his hat and stick to Mrs. Racker, kept his coat on and retained the parcel he was carrying. It was small and shaped like a miniature hatbox.
Sam said explosively under his breath, “Good God! Speak of the devil—where did he blow from?”
Julie didn’t answer. She stared at the uninvited guest in silent consternation. It was Bill Conroy, the man of whom they had been talking.
The years hadn’t changed Conroy much. In spite of an increase in poundage, there had always been and still was a faint irradicable suggestion of the musical-comedy lead about him. No matter what he wore he always seemed to have a topper pushed back on his fair head above impeccable evening clothes and to be about to break into an intricate dance step to the fanfare of hidden trumpets.
Julie thrust her toes into the slipper she had kicked off and stood up. The hall was long and dim. Bill Conroy couldn’t see them, but they could see him. Whether or not Mouse remembered this man with anything but loathing, they mustn’t meet. Nothing must spoil Mouse’s day. She would be down in a few minutes. Julie said, “Sam, go and talk to him, get rid of him somehow or other, as fast as you can. I’ll go up and keep Mouse until he’s gone.”
They were too late. Before either of them could make a move it happened. Bill Conroy had seen them and was starting forward. He stopped in his tracks. Julie turned. Mouse was coming down the stairs.
Frances had picked out Mouse’s going-away dress. It was a powder-blue wool, very straight and simple, that slimmed her figure and brought out the pink in her skin and her pleasant soap-and-water freshness. A small hat of a darker shade of blue hid the gray in her hair, and she looked surprisingly young and almost pretty.
She saw Bill when she was halfway down the stairs. She couldn’t help seeing him. There was no barrier in the way, no one between them. Her coat was thrown over her arm. She held her gloves and purse in her right hand, her left was on the railing of the bannister. It tightened, and the diamonds in her wedding ring gave off a little flash. She halted for the merest fraction of a second when she looked at the man watching her from below. Then she continued her descent, evenly and without hurry.
Julie said Bravo to herself. She was enormously relieved. Bill Conroy had gone forward to meet Mouse. By common consent she and Sam crossed to the two standing near the foot of the staircase.
“Hello, Conroy.” Sam’s greeting was indifferent, offhand.
“How are you, Ashe? Miss Bishop.” Conroy was wise enough not to do more than bow to Julie. His glance at her was cool, appraising. It was the glance he automatically gave every female over fifteen and under fifty. More champagne corks popped, and Sam said, “You’ve got to come and have your health drunk, Mouse. It’s getting on.”
Bill Conroy’s impudence was sublime. “I saw her first,” he said lightly. “As an old friend I claim my privilege. Mouse, I’d like to talk to you for a moment, somewhere, if I may? I promise not to keep you.”
To Julie’s startled surprise Mouse didn’t snub him. She said to Sam and Julie, “With you in a minute,” and to Conroy, “Of course, Bill, in here.” She walked to the door of Sarah’s little study. Bill Conroy followed her in and the door closed.
Sam was flabbergasted. His big, clever face flushed, and a vein stood out bluely on one temple. He didn’t often get angry but when he did he was formidable. Julie laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Go and talk to Joe and keep him occupied,” she said quickly. “I don’t know whether he knows about Bill Conroy or not. But we don’t want any trouble. Joe’s got a quick temper.”
Sam kept on swearing softly under his breath. “The nerve of him—the damned monumental nerve, coming here at all. But maybe you’re right—”
To Julie’s relief Frances joined them. She had seen Bill and Mouse enter Sarah’s study and had taken in the situation at a glance. She said, “Julie is right. Get going, Sam,” and gave him a push. Her eyes sparkled narrowly in her delicate face. She looked tired and very angry. “How did Mouse take it?” she asked.
“Splendidly,” Julie said. “She scarcely batted an eye. What do you suppose brought Conroy here to this house, today, of all days?”
“Vanity,” Frances said thinly. “Perhaps curiosity, and a desire to cause a little mischief, if possible. Conroy’s the sort of man who can’t believe that a woman who was fortunate enough to have taken his fancy, even his passing fancy, could ever care for anyone else. Well, he can have five minutes.”
Bill Conroy didn’t use up five minutes. Not more than one, Julie thought, trying to compute it later, could have passed before the door opened and he came out. A minute in time—so much in destiny. He came out alone. He was no longer carrying the little box. His expression was sulky, and at the same time there was a queer sort of satisfaction in it. He didn’t look at either Julie or Frances. He closed the door behind him, went directly to Mrs. Racker, got his hat and stick and left the house.
The study door stayed closed. Mouse didn’t appear. In the big rooms on the other side of the hall people kept on talking. A woman laughed tinklingly and Julie jumped. “Come on,” Frances said briefly. She led the way to the study and opened the door. Julie was just behind her. She was taller than Frances and could look over her shoulder.
Mouse was there, standing to the left of Sarah’s old roll-topped desk, in front of the Baltimore heater. The box that Bill Conroy had brought was on the desk. It had been opened, the lid was propped against the inkwell and the box itself was empty. It had contained flowers. The flowers were a small knot of orange blossoms. Mouse was tearing the orange blossoms to pieces, steadily and methodically, grinding the petals between her busy fingers and letting them drift fragment by fragment to the floor.
There was paper on the floor among the torn petals, scraps of what looked like a card with writing on it.
Frances said “Mouse,” sharply, and Mouse raised her head. Her nostrils were pinched and her face was white, wooden. Color came back into it and life. She passed a hand across her eyes. Julie was relieved when she saw the tears on her sandy lashes. Frances said comfortingly, patting her shoulders, “Look, honey, Bill Conroy’s a heel, forget about him. It’s Joe you must think of.”
Mouse took her face out of her hands.
