Her mother glanced over the room, remarking absently, "I’m glad you got home in time, Eric", and then remembering that she had said it before, she added, "I wouldn’t know how to give a party without you any more. You don’t know how much it means to Charles and me just to-just to have you around", she said, smiling down at Erica. "All the same, you can’t spend the rest of the afternoon in that chair. Get up and be useful, darling".
"Where shall I start?" asked Erica without much enthusiasm.
"Start by doing something about that young man over there by the window. Madeleine was talking to him a while ago, but she seems to have disappeared".
"Who is he?"
"I don’t know. He looks like the one René phoned about. His name sounded foreign so I suppose he’s a refugee".
"I don’t think René knows any refugees", said Erica.
"Well, do something about him, Eric!"
"All right", said Erica, struggling to her feet.
The strange young refugee was tall and very slender except for his shoulders; he had slanting greenish eyes, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and to Erica, looked more Austrian than anything else.
She said, "Hello, I’m Erica-one of the invisible Drakes. I’m afraid I got home rather late…".
"My name’s Marc Reiser", he said, shaking hands.
"Austrian?"
"Native product", said Marc.
"Oh, Reiser-of course, you’re René’s friend, he’s often talked about you". She sat down on the window-seat and inquired, "Have you seen René recently?"
"Not since he disappeared half an hour ago".
"That’s what I thought", said Erica. "How long have you been standing here?"
"Well, I…"
"And of course he didn’t bother to introduce you to anyone, he never does". She said, looking amused, "Once he deserted me in the middle of an enormous party, all French Canadians, where I didn’t know anyone, even my hostess…".
"What did you do?" asked Marc with interest.
"I just left. I don’t think anyone would have noticed if René hadn’t come to a couple of hours later and started running around in circles wanting to know where I was. I refused to phone and apologize next day, so he had to, because they were rather important people and he’d made quite a fuss about bringing me. Now, whenever we go anywhere, he’s scared to take his eyes off me, for fear I’ll do it again. Wouldn’t you like a drink?"
"Not if you have to go and get it. I’ve spent most of the past half hour trying to look like a piece of furniture and all I want is not to be left alone".
"All right, then, I won’t leave you if I can help it", said Erica, smiling up at him.
There was a pause, during which he looked back at her with a curious directness, and finally he said, "This is an awfully nice room…".
"Yes, it-it is, isn’t it?" said Erica lamely. Something in the way he had looked at her had thrown her slightly off balance. He was leaning against the window-frame, half-turned away from her, with his eyes back at the Van Gogh print over the fireplace again, and after another pause she asked, "You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?"
"Yes. I’m with Maresch and Aaronson. I was articled to Mr. Aaronson in my first year at law school and I’ve been there ever since".
"What about Mr. Maresch?"
"He’s dead". Marc glanced at her and then said quickly, "I’m not doing much law at the moment, I’m just sort of hanging around at Divisional Headquarters waiting for my unit to be sent overseas".
"Army?"
"Yes, reinforcements for the first battalion of the Gatineau Rifles-unfortunately", he added.
"Why unfortunately?"
"We’ve just been pigeonholed for the time being, apparently. It doesn’t look as though the first battalion is going to need us until they go into action somewhere. They’ve been sitting in England for almost three years doing nothing".
The naval officer and his wife were coming toward them and Erica got up to say good-by. When they had gone, she remarked, "I didn’t introduce you, because I never have seen any sense in it when people are just leaving".
"Cigarette?" asked Marc.
"Yes, thanks".
He felt through his pockets and finally produced a folder containing one match. As he held the flame to the end of her cigarette he said, "Your father isn’t here today, is he?"
"He was here for a while at the beginning and then he evaporated. He always does. It’s not shyness, exactly; he’s just not interested in people in general, he’s a rugged individualist. It’s Mother who keeps up the social end of things. Charles can’t be bothered, except at his club. Why? Do you know him?"
"I’ve seen him once or twice, I’ve never met him".
"If you’d like to meet him, I’ll take you up to his study and introduce you to him…".
"Oh, no thanks", said Marc hastily. "I’m sorry", he added, rather embarrassed, "I didn’t mean to sound rude, but I’m no good at meeting people, I never know what to say to them. The idea of barging in on your father just… well, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind".
Erica was looking up at him with interest. Finally she remarked involuntarily, "You and René are not a bit alike…".
"Why should we be?"
"You’re one of his best friends, aren’t you?"
"No", he said, "I don’t think so. I’ve known him for about ten years, but in all that time I doubt if we’ve ever had a really personal conversation. We usually talk law when we’re together. He’s a very good lawyer…".
"Not politics?" interrupted Erica.
"No, not politics", said Marc. "We stick to law. I suppose he’s told you that he’s going to run in the by-elections…".
"Is he?" asked Erica, surprised. She said with a faintly amused expression: "One of our difficulties is the fact that René refuses to stop being funny about everything that really matters. Probably it’s just as well", she added reflectively. "I don’t like quarreling with people".
"René wouldn’t quarrel with you. He’s too good a politician".
She could see René across the room talking-French, she realized by his gestures and his expression-to Mrs. Oppenheim, the Viennese refugee. Although she was not in love with him, the very sight of him moved her a little, and she said, her voice changing, "René’s not just a good politician. He’s really brilliant, he studied in France, and even though he disapproved of the French, it isn’t as though he’d been stuck in Quebec all his life! He’s an awfully good speaker and he knows what this war’s all about…".
"Does he?" asked Marc.
"Don’t you think he does?"
"I’m not sure", said Marc noncommittally.
Between the Drakes’ house and the house on the street below, the steep slope was planted with rock gardens, squat pines and cedars, flowers and flowering shrubs, and halfway down there was a cherry tree in blossom. Beyond the cherry tree and the lower houses half hidden by green leaves, the skyscrapers and church spires were turning to gold and the city was full of long blue shadows.
"What a marvelous place to live", said Marc.
"Wait another hour when the lights are on and it isn’t quite dark. I’ve lived up here all my life and I still haven’t got used to it. I’ve been in love with Montreal ever since I can remember".
He was watching a ship which was moving slowly up the Lachine Canal, and thinking of Erica, only half-hearing her voice as she went on talking, softly and unselfconsciously as though she had known him for years. She was not only lovely to look at, she was also the sort of person whom you liked and with whom you felt at ease from the first moment. Her character was in her fine, almost delicate face, in the way she talked and listened to what you had to say; there was nothing put on about her and nothing hidden. You could tell at a glance that she had a good brain, that she was generous, interested and highly responsive. Her manner was neither arrogant nor self-deprecating; it was as though she had already come to terms with life and had made a good bargain, asking little on her side, except that she might be herself. She was wearing a gray flannel suit and very little make-up, sitting on the window-seat with the light falling on her long fair hair, and he knew that she had stirred his imagination and that if he never saw her again, he would not forget her entirely.