He and his wife only leave New York once a year—but there is still a boatman who rejoices when the Privateer steams into Cannes harbor on a mid-April night.
— ◆ —
One of my Oldest Friends.
Woman’s Home Companion (September 1925)
All afternoon Marion had been happy. She wandered from room to room of their little apartment, strolling into the nursery to help the nurse-girl feed the children from dripping spoons, and then reading for a while on their new sofa, the most extravagant thing they had bought in their five years of marriage.
When she heard Michael’s step in the hall she turned her head and listened; she liked to hear him walk, carefully always as if there were children sleeping close by.
“Michael.”
“Oh—hello.” He came into the room, a tall, broad, thin man of thirty with a high forehead and kind black eyes.
“I’ve got some news for you,” he said immediately. “Charley Hart’s getting married.”
“No!”
He nodded.
“Who’s he marrying?”
“One of the little Lawrence girls from home.” He hesitated. “She’s arriving in New York to-morrow and I think we ought to do something for them while she’s here. Charley’s about my oldest friend.”
“Let’s have them up for dinner—”
“I’d like to do something more than that,” he interrupted. “Maybe a theater party. You see—” Again he hesitated. “It’d be a nice courtesy to Charley.”
“All right,” agreed Marion, “but we musn’t spend much—and I don’t think we’re under any obligation.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I mean,” went on Marion, “we—we hardly see Charley any more. We hardly ever see him at all.”
“Well, you know how it is in New York,” explained Michael apologetically. “He’s just as busy as I am. He has made a big name for himself and I suppose he’s pretty much in demand all the time.”
They always spoke of Charley Hart as their oldest friend. Five years before, when Michael and Marion were first married, the three of them had come to New York from the same Western city. For over a year they had seen Charley nearly every day and no domestic adventure, no uprush of their hopes and dreams, was too insignificant for his ear. His arrival in times of difficulty never failed to give a pleasant, humorous cast to the situation.
Of course Marion’s babies had made a difference, and it was several years now since they had called up Charley at midnight to say that the pipes had broken or the ceiling was falling in on their heads; but so gradually had they drifted apart that Michael still spoke of Charley rather proudly as if he saw him every day. For a while Charley dined with them once a month and all three found a great deal to say; but the meetings never broke up any more with, “I’ll give you a ring to-morrow.” Instead it was, “You’ll have to come to dinner more often,” or even, after three or four years, “We’ll see you soon.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly willing to give a little party,” said Marion now, looking speculatively about her. “Did you suggest a definite date?”
“Week from Saturday.” His dark eyes roamed the floor vaguely. “We can take up the rugs or something.”
“No.” She shook her head. “We’ll have a dinner, eight people, very formal and everything, and afterwards we’ll play cards.”
She was already speculating on whom to invite. Charley of course, being an artist, probably saw interesting people every day.
“We could have the Willoughbys,” she suggested doubtfully. “She’s on the stage or something—and he writes movies.”
“No—that’s not it,” objected Michael. “He probably meets that crowd at lunch and dinner every day until he’s sick of them. Besides, except for the Willoughbys, who else like that do we know? I’ve got a better idea. Let’s collect a few people who’ve drifted down here from home. They’ve all followed Charley’s career and they’d probably enjoy seeing him again. I’d like them to find out how natural and unspoiled he is after all.”
After some discussion they agreed on this plan and within an hour Marion had her first guest on the telephone:
“It’s to meet Charley Hart’s fiancee,” she explained. “Charley Hart, the artist. You see, he’s one of our oldest friends.”
As she began her preparations her enthusiasm grew. She rented a serving-maid to assure an impeccable service and persuaded the neighborhood florist to come in person and arrange the flowers. All the “people from home” had accepted eagerly and the number of guests had swollen to ten.
“What’ll we talk about, Michael?” she demanded nervously on the eve of the party. “Suppose everything goes wrong and everybody gets mad and goes home?”
He laughed.
“Nothing will. You see, these people all know each other—”
The phone on the table asserted itself and Michael picked up the receiver.
“Hello … why, hello, Charley.”
Marion sat up alertly in her chair.
“Is that so? Well, I’m very sorry. I’m very, very sorry … I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Can’t he come?” broke out Marion.
“Sh!” Then into the phone, “Well, it certainly is too bad, Charley. No, it’s no trouble for us at all. We’re just sorry you’re ill.”
With a dismal gesture Michael replaced the receiver.
“The Lawrence girl had to go home last night and Charley’s sick in bed with grip.”
“Do you mean he can’t come?”
“He can’t come.”
Marion’s face contracted suddenly and her eyes filled with tears.
“He says he’s had the doctor all day,” explained Michael dejectedly. “He’s got fever and they didn’t even want him to go to the telephone.”
“I don’t care,” sobbed Marion. “I think it’s terrible. After we’ve invited all these people to meet him.”
“People can’t help being sick.”
“Yes they can,” she wailed illogically, “they can help it some way. And if the Lawrence girl was going to leave last night why didn’t he let us know then?”
“He said she left unexpectedly. Up to yesterday afternoon they
