She was still remembering when the downstairs buzzer sounded.
Brian kissed her before he took off his heavy overcoat. There was a slight stubble on his face and a smell of tobacco. Milly had a sense of weakness, of resolve vanishing. I want this man, she thought; on any terms. Then she remembered her thought of a few minutes earlier: Perhaps I should end it tonight.
'Milly, doll,' he said quietly, 'you look terrific.'
She eased away, looking at him. Then, concernedly, 'Brian, you're tired.'
'I know.' He nodded. 'And I need a shave. And I just came from the House.'
Not really caring at this moment, she asked, 'How did it go?'
'You haven't heard?'
She shook her head. 'I left the office early. I didn't turn on the radio. Should I have?'
'No,' he said. 'You'll hear about it soon enough.'
'The debate went badly?'
He nodded gloomily. 'I was in the gallery. I wished I hadn't been. They'll slay us in tomorrow's papers.'
'Let's have a drink,' Milly said. 'You sound as if you need one.'
She mixed martinis, going lightly on the vermouth. Bringing them from the kitchenette, she said almost gaily, 'This will help. It usually does.'
No ending tonight, she thought. Perhaps a week from now, a month. But not tonight.
Brian Richardson sipped his drink, then put it down.
Without preliminary, almost abruptly, he announced, 'Milly, I want you to marry me.'
There was a silence of seconds which seemed like hours. Then, this time softly: 'Milly, did you hear me?'
Tor a minute,' Milly said, 'I could have sworn you asked me to marry you.' The words as she spoke seemed airy, detached, her voice disembodied. She had a sense of light-headedness.
'Don't make a joke of it,' Richardson said gruffly. 'I'm serious.'
'Darling, Brian.' Her voice was gentle. 'I'm not making a joke. Really I'm not.'
He put down his glass and came to her. When they had kissed again, long and passionately, she put her face against his shoulder. There was the tobacco smell still. 'Hold me,' she whispered. 'Hold me.'
'When you get around to it,' he said into her hair, 'you can give me some sort of an answer.'
Every womanly instinct urged her to cry yes. The mood and the moment were made for swift consent. Wasn't this what she had wanted all along? Hadn't she told herself, just a few minutes ago, that she would accept Brian on any terms; and now, unexpectedly, she could have the best terms of all – marriage, permanence…
It was all so easy. A murmured acceptance, and it would be done; with no turning back…
The finality frightened her. This was real, not dreaming. She was assailed by a tremor of uncertainty. A voice of caution whispered: Wait!
'I guess I'm not much of a catch.' Brian's voice rumbled in her hair; a hand caressed her neck gently. 'I'm a bit shop-soiled, and I'll have to get a divorce, though there won't be any trouble over that. Eloise and I have a sort of understanding.'
There was a pause, then the voice continued slowly. 'I guess I love you, Milly. I guess I really do.'
She lifted her face, her eyes full with tears, and kissed him. 'Brian, darling, I know you do; and I think I love you too. But I have to be sure. Please give me a little time.'
His face twisted to a rugged grin. 'Well,' he said, 'I rehearsed all the way over. I guess I loused it up.'
Maybe, he thought, I left it all too late. Or handled everything the wrong way. Or maybe it's a retribution for the way we started: with me not caring, cagey against involvements.
Now I'm the one who wants to get involved and I'm left, like a joker, on the outside looking in. But at least, he consoled himself, the indecision had come to an end: the restless soul searching of the past few days; the knowledge that Milly was what counted most. Now, without her, there seemed only emptiness…
'Please, Brian.' Milly was calmer now, her poise and self-control returning. She said earnestly, 'I'm flattered and honoured, darling, and I think the answer v/ill be yes. But I want to be sure – for both our sakes. Please, dear, give me a little time.'
He asked brusquely, 'How long?'
They sat down together on the long settee, their heads close and hands held tightly. 'Honestly, darling, I don't know, and I hope you won't insist on a definite time. I couldn't bear to have a sort of deadline hanging over. But I promise I'll tell you as soon as I know.'
She thought: What's wrong with me? Am I afraid of living? Why hesitate; why not settle now? But still the cautionary voice urged: Wait!
Brian put out his arms and she went into them. Their Ups met and he kissed her fiercely again and again. She felt herself responding, her heart pounding wildly. After a while his hands moved gently.
Towards the end of the evening Brian Richardson came into the living-room carrying coffee for both of them. Behind him in the kitchenette Milly was cutting salami sandwiches. She noticed her breakfast dishes still piled in the sink, unwashed. Really, she thought, perhaps I should bring some of my office habits home.
Richardson crossed to Milly's portable television, on a low table facing one of the big armchairs. Switching the set on, he called over, 'I don't know if I can stand it, but I guess we'd better know the worst.' As Milly brought the plate of sandwiches and set it down, the CBC national news was beginning.
As happened most days now, the first report concerned the worsening international scene. Soviet-inspired revolts had flared again in Laos, and the Kremlin had replied belligerently to an American note in protest. In the Soviet satellites of Europe, troops were reported massing. An exchange of cordialities had taken place between the now-repaired Moscow-Peking axis.
'It's getting closer,' Richardson muttered. 'Closer every day.'
The Henri Duval story was next.
The well-groomed news announcer read, 'In Ottawa today the House of Commons was in uproar over Henri Duval, the man-without-a-country, now awaiting deportation in Vancouver. At the height of a clash between Government and Opposition, Arnold Geaney, member from Montreal East, was suspended from the House for the remainder of today's sitting…'
Behind the announcer a screen flashed a picture of Henri Duval, followed by a large, still shot of the crippled MP. As Richardson – as well as James Howden – had feared, the expulsion incident and Harvey Warrender's 'human garbage' phrase which had provoked it were the news story's highlight. And no matter how fairly the report was handled, inevitably the stowaway and the cripple would appear victims of a harsh, relentless Government.
'CBC correspondent Norman Deeping,' the announcer said, 'describes the scene in the House…'
Richardson reached to switch off the set. 'I don't think I can take any more. Do you mind?'
'No,' Milly shook her head. Tonight, though knowing the significance of what she had seen, she found it hard to maintain interest. The most important question was still undecided…
Brian Richardson pointed to the darkened TV screen. 'Goddam, do you know what audience that has? It's network -coast to coast. Add to that all the others – radio, local TV, tomorrow's newspapers…' He gave a shrug of helplessness.
'I know,' Milly said. She tried to bring her mind back to impersonal concerns. 'I wish there were something I could do.'
Richardson had risen and was pacing the room. 'You have done something, Milly dear. At least you found…' He left the sentence unfinished.
Both of them, Milly knew, were remembering the photostat; the fateful, secret agreement between James Howden and Harvey Warrender. She asked tentatively, 'Have you done…'
He shook his head. 'Damn all! There's nothing… nothing…'