he interrupted. “Maybe a theatre party. You see—” Again he hesitated. “It’d be a nice courtesy to Charley.”
“All right,” agreed Marion, “but we mustn’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 anymore. 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 awhile Charley dined with them once a month and all three found a great deal to say; but the meetings never broke up anymore with, “I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.” 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 fiancée,” 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 grippe.”
“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 both intended to come.”
“I don’t think he c-cares a bit. I’ll bet he’s glad he’s sick. If he’d cared he’d have brought her to see us long ago.”
She stood up suddenly.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she assured him vehemently. “I’m just going to telephone everybody and call the whole thing off.”
“Why, Marion—”
But in spite of his half-hearted protests she picked up the phone book and began looking for the first number.
They bought theatre tickets next day hoping to fill the hollowness which would invest the evening. Marion had wept when the unintercepted florist arrived at five with boxes of flowers and she felt that she must get out of the house to avoid the ghosts who would presently people it. In silence they ate an elaborate dinner composed of all the things that she had bought for the party.
“It’s only eight,” said Michael afterwards. “I think it’d be sort of nice if we dropped in on Charley for a minute, don’t you?”
“Why, no,” Marion answered, startled. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Why not? If he’s seriously sick I’d like to see how well he’s being taken care of.”
She saw that he had made up his mind, so she fought down her instinct against the idea and they taxied to a tall pile of studio apartments on Madison Avenue.
“You go on in,” urged Marion nervously. “I’d rather wait out here.”
“Please come in.”
“Why?
