also, those children that now most of all she needed and should have had.
It was six months after Jeffrey’s collapse and when the nightmare had faded, leaving not the old world but a new one, grayer and colder, that she wait to see Harry’s wife. Finding herself in Chicago with an extra hour before train time, she decided out of courtesy to call.
As she stepped inside the door she had an immediate impression that the apartment was very like some place she had seen before—and almost instantly she remembered a round-the-corner bakery of her childhood, a bakery full of rows and rows of pink frosted cakes—a stuffy pink, pink as a food, pink triumphant, vulgar, and odious.
And this apartment was like that. It was pink. It smelled pink!
Mrs. Cromwell, attired in a wrapper of pink and black, opened the door. Her hair was yellow, heightened, Roxanne imagined by a dash of peroxide in the rinsing water every week. Her eyes were a thin waxen blue—she was pretty and too consciously graceful. Her cordiality was strident and intimate, hostility melted so quickly to hospitality that it seemed they were both merely in the face and voice—never touching nor touched by the deep core of egotism beneath.
But to Roxanne these things were secondary; her eyes were caught and held in uncanny fascination by the wrapper. It was vilely unclean. From its lowest hem up four inches it was sheerly dirty with the blue dust of the floor; for the next three inches it was gray—then it shaded off into its natural color, which, was—pink. It was dirty at the sleeves, too, and at the collar—and when the woman turned to lead the way into the parlor, Roxanne was sure that her neck was dirty.
A one-sided rattle of conversation began. Mrs. Cromwell became explicit about her likes and dislikes, her head, her stomach, her teeth, her apartment—avoiding with a sort of insolent meticulousness any inclusion of Roxanne with life, as if presuming that Roxanne, having been dealt a blow, wished life to be carefully skirted.
Roxanne smiled. That kimono! That neck!
After five minutes a little boy toddled into the parlor—a dirty little boy clad in dirty pink rompers. His face was smudgy—Roxanne wanted to take him into her lap and wipe his nose; other parts in the of his head needed attention, his tiny shoes were kicked out at the toes. Unspeakable!
“What a darling little boy!” exclaimed Roxanne, smiling radiantly. “Come here to me.”
Mrs. Cromwell looked coldly at her son.
“He will get dirty. Look at that face!” She held her head on one side and regarded it critically.
“Isn’t he a darling?” repeated Roxanne.
“Look at his rompers,” frowned Mrs. Cromwell.
“He needs a change, don’t you, George?”
George stared at her curiously. To his mind the word rompers connotated a garment extraneously smeared, as this one.
“I tried to make him look respectable this morning,” complained Mrs. Cromwell as one whose patience had been sorely tried, “and I found he didn’t have any more rompers—so rather than have him go round without any I put him back in those—and his face—”
“How many pairs has he?” Roxanne’s voice was pleasantly curious, “How many feather fans have you?” she might have asked.
“Oh,—” Mrs. Cromwell considered, wrinkling her pretty brow. “Five, I think. Plenty, I know.”
“You can get them for fifty cents a pair.”
Mrs. Cromwell’s eyes showed surprise—and the faintest superiority. The price of rompers!
“Can you really? I had no idea. He ought to have plenty, but I haven’t had a minute all week to send the laundry out.” Then, dismissing the subject as irrelevant—“I must show you some things—”
They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn’t been sent out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the quintessence of pinkness. This was Mrs. Cromwell’s room.
Here the Hostess opened a closet door and displayed before’ Roxanne’s eyes an amazing collection of lingerie.
There were dozens of filmy marvels of lace and silk, all clean, unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers beside them were three new evening dresses.
“I have some beautiful things,” said Mrs. Cromwell, “but not much of a chance to wear them. Harry doesn’t care about going out.” Spite crept into her voice. “He’s perfectly content to let me play nursemaid and housekeeper all day and loving wife in the evening.”
Roxanne smiled again.
“You’ve got some beautiful clothes here.”
“Yes, I have. Let me show you—”
“Beautiful,” repeated Roxanne, interrupting, “but I’ll have to run if I’m going to catch my train.”
She felt that her hands were trembling. She wanted to put them on this woman and shake her—shake her. She wanted her locked up somewhere and set to scrubbing floors.
“Beautiful,” she repeated, “and I just came in for a moment.”
“Well, I’m sorry Harry isn’t here.”
They moved toward the door.
“—and, oh,” said Roxanne with an effort—yet her voice was still gentle and her lips were smiling—“I think it’s Argile’s where you can get those rompers. Good-by.”
It was not until she had reached the station and bought her ticket to Marlowe that Roxanne realized it was the first five minutes in six months that her mind had been off Jeffrey.
IV
A week later Harry appeared at Marlowe, arrived unexpectedly at five o’clock, and coming up the walk sank into a porch chair in a state of exhaustion. Roxanne herself had had a busy day and was worn out. The doctors were coming at five-thirty, bringing a celebrated nerve specialist from New York. She was excited and thoroughly depressed, but Harry’s eyes made her sit down beside him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Roxanne,” he denied. “I came to see how Jeff was doing. Don’t you bother about me.”
“Harry,” insisted Roxanne, “there’s something the matter.”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “How’s Jeff?”
Anxiety darkened her face.
“He’s a little worse, Harry. Doctor Jewett has come on from New York. They thought he could tell me something definite. He’s going to try and find whether this paralysis has anything to do with the original blood clot.”
Harry rose.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said jerkily. “I didn’t know you expected a consultation. I wouldn’t have come. I thought I’d just rock on your porch for an hour—”
“Sit
