She flung off her cape and went to the door. Bill reached his hand in and turned on the light. Pete was asleep. His head was twisted a little to one side, and his left arm lay outside the blanket, across his breast. His lips were lightly closed, and his face had the soft and relaxed look of one who sleeps deeply.
“Isn’t he darling!” Mae whispered. “Sh-h-h!”
She removed her slippers and went to the bed, where for a moment she leaned over the sleeping figure.
“Hello, Pete!” she said softly.
Pete didn’t stir. His breath was perfectly even. Mae knelt on the bed, stretched herself out beside him, very gently, and put her arm across him. She leaned her face above his, by degrees allowing him to feel more and more of her weight. Then she inclined her head and gave him a kiss. As she withdrew her face, smiling deliciously, Pete opened his eyes. He didn’t move—his face didn’t change expression. He looked up at the smiling and beautiful face that hung over him, very much as if he thought he might still be dreaming. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her down to him, without saying a word.
Bill and Dil retreated. Bill sank down on the couch, and Dil went to the window. They both felt a little hurt.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Dil.
“Can you beat it?”
“So that’s the end of poor old Pete.”
Bill went to the door and looked in. Mae was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling still, and Pete was staring up at her, entranced, as if his visitant were a sort of archangel. Neither of them said anything.
“The drinks are on us,” said Bill, “any time you’re ready. Come on, Mae, and let the great man get some clothes on.”
Mae jumped up and laughed.
“So that’s that,” she said. “Put on a record, someone, and let’s dance. Don’t look so gloomy, Bill!…”
“By gosh, that was too easy.”
“I like him,” said Mae. “He’s a darling! Why didn’t you tell me he was such a darling?”
“Oh, yes, he’s a darling, all right,” said Dil.
There was a silence, a little awkward, during which Pete got up and shut his door. They could hear him moving around at a great rate, getting dressed. Bill put on a record and wound the phonograph. His eyes met Dil’s, and they both looked away, They were both wishing that it hadn’t happened. Then the fox-trot began whining, Bill snapped his fingers, and Dill took Mae in his arms, grinning, and started to dance.
THE PROFESSOR’S ESCAPE
When Professor—his colleagues called him Tubby—Milliken emerged from the waiting room of the North Station, after seeing his wife and little daughter off on the evening train for Portland, he found that the rain was beginning, gradually, to change to snow. A few large flakes were falling, soft and white and—yes!—heavy-bellied; they clung to his furry sleeve without melting; and he felt that this change, and the sight of hats and coats already beginning to be spangled with snow, after a dark day of rain, accorded subtly with his mood. He sighed, and set off to climb the hill to his rooms, thinking how pleasant it would be, for once, to have an evening all to himself. It was all of six years since such a thing had happened. Not since the time when Molly had gone to Hartford for the funeral! And that had been only for two nights. And now—a whole week of unrestricted freedom. It was too good to be true. He would be able to read—if he liked—all evening. Or (surreptitious delight!) solve chess problems uninterrupted; or even (the thought of this was not so unmixedly delicious) make some notes for his lecture on guild socialism.… But no—there would be time enough for that. Wouldn’t something a little more festive be in order? He might, for example, accept Mrs. Trask’s (his landlady’s) many times repeated invitation to join the usual poker-party. Molly had always vetoed this idea—and of course she was perfectly right. It wouldn’t do to become embroiled with those queer and somewhat vulgar people—that fat Doctor Something-or-other and the publicity man who wore the loud checked suit. And besides, Mrs. Trask was such a terrible gossip and liar.… Nevertheless—the notion was not unattractive. Mrs. Trask was a rather fine old tragedy queen—and not so very old, either. Not over forty-five—or perhaps fifty. Fond of port wine, and with a florid countenance to match. And such fine bold black eyes! And such an air as of a duchess—temporarily reduced to the low business of keeping a boarding-house!… And her parties—as he passed her door on the stairs—always sounded so gay.
He sighed again, and inserted his key in the lock. It stuck, as it always did, but after a moment’s struggle he managed to open the door. And there before him, sitting by the marble-topped table, was Fred, hat in hand, his galoshes unfastened, his little blue eyes (in which wit and innocence was so felicitously fused) beaming through thick spectacles.
“You’re coming to dinner with me,” he said. “Mrs. Trask tells me you’re a bachelor.”
“You bet I will!… I was wondering what the devil to do with myself. I ought to be making some notes for a lecture—”
“Lecture be damned. Do you know what night this is?”
“No. What night is it?”
“Saturday night. And Bill Caffrey is meeting us at Jacot’s. Come on! We’ll discuss Freud and drink Chêteau Yquem.”
“Yum yum,” said the Professor. “Only, if you don’t mind, I think it will be a nice fat bottle of Beaune.”
“The nearer the Beaune, the sweeter the meat,” said Fred, rising lazily. “Let’s go.”
“Fie!”
The two men went out, linking arms, and descended the steep street to the Common. The paths and grass were already sprinkled with white—the snow, a stage snow, was falling perfectly straight through the windless air. Looking up at a tall elm, beside which hung a purple arc-light like a snowdrop, the Professor saw that the fork of the tree was white, and that the bare twigs were beginning to be feathered. He suddenly felt happy. Life was like this—a dark day of rain, the gloom and nostalgia of a departure, the sensation of release and escape, and then a soft curtain of snow. And Fred—the unexpected and delightful arrival of Fred, and the void evening suddenly filled with light and joy. Fred flopping along beside him with open galoshes, and his toes turned in, and his shrewd face downcast in amused meditation.
“Yes,” he murmured, “I’m a bachelor—and it feels kind of nice to be a bachelor again.”
“Ah, you married men!… It must be nice to break out of the cage now and then. And sow—as somebody said—your wild oats in a windowbox.… What do you say—shall we have a Hop Toad?”
“A Hop Toad?… What on earth are you talking about!”
“My dear Tubby! You are married!”
Fred turned his delicious sly smile toward the Professor, and then without explanation led the way into the Touraine Hotel and down the worn marble stairs into the smaller grill-room—the men’s grill-room. Holding up one finger, he ordered two Hop Toads.
“You must wait,” he said. “You’ll wonder how you managed to live without a Hop Toad.”
He smiled mysteriously into the far corner of the room, which was almost empty.
“I take it a Hop Toad is a kind of intoxicating drink,” said the Professor. “Not too intoxicating, I hope.”
“It’s very, very subtle—not to say insidious.”
“Two Hop Toads,” said the waiter.
“Here’s looking at you,” said Fred, raising the wide glass and then lowering it to his smile, which was that of an Etruscan Dionysus. The Professor lifted his glass by the clear stem, beamed happily at the frothed pink liquid, and sipped. Then he sipped again, and rapidly smacked appreciative lips, throwing back his head.