“No,” he said. “You sound terribly wise.”
He felt her hand on his arm. “Let’s have one more cocktail,” she said, “then you may take me to dinner.”
Afterward they had gone to the Maisonette, a discreet and pleasantly appointed night club on Fifth Avenue. They had dined and danced, and now they had come back to their table. “How long have you in New York?” Denise asked.
“I go back in three more days,” he answered.
She inclined her head. “Why so soon?”
“I’m a workingman.” He smiled. “My patients expect me to be around and there’s a lot of hospital business too.”
Denise said, “I rather think I shall miss you.”
He thought for a moment, then turned to face her. Without preliminary he said, “You know that I’ve never been married.”
“Yes.” She nodded gravely.
“I’m forty-two,” he said. “In that time, living alone, one forms habits and patterns of life that might be hard to change or for someone else to accept.” He paused. “What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is that I might be difficult to live with.”
Denise reached out and covered his hand with her own. “Kent, darling, may I be clear about something?” She had the slightest of smiles. “Is this by any chance a proposal of marriage?”
O’Donnell was grinning broadly; he felt absurdly, exuberantly, boyish. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “I rather think it is.”
There was a moment’s silence before Denise answered, and when she spoke he sensed that she was maneuvering for time. “I’m very flattered, but aren’t you being a little rash? After all, we scarcely know one another.”
“I love you, Denise,” he said simply.
He felt her regarding him searchingly. “I could love you too,” she said. Then she added, speaking slowly and choosing her words, “At this moment everything in me tells me to say yes and to grab you, dearest, with two eager hands. But there’s a whisper of caution. When you’ve made one mistake you feel the need to be careful about committing yourself again.”
“Yes,” he said, “I can understand that.”
“I’ve never fallen in,” she said, “with the popular idea that one can shed partners quickly and afterward get over it, rather like taking an indigestion tablet. That’s one of the reasons, I suppose, why I’ve never got a divorce.”
“The divorce wouldn’t be difficult?”
“Not really. I imagine I could go to Nevada to arrange it, or some such place. But there’s the other thing—you’re in Burlington; I’m in New York.”
He said carefully, “You really meant what you said, Denise—about not living in Burlington?”
She thought before answering. “Yes. I’m afraid I do. I couldn’t live there—ever. There’s no use pretending, Kent; I know myself too well.”
A waiter appeared with coffee and replenished then: cups. O’Donnell said, “I feel a sudden compulsion for the two of us to be alone.”
Denise said softly, “Why don’t we go?”
He called for the check and paid it, helping Denise on with her wrap. Outside a doorman summoned a cab and O’Donnell gave the address of the Fifth Avenue apartment. When they had settled back, Denise said, “This is a very selfish question, but have you ever considered moving your practice to New York?”
“Yes,” he answered, “I’m thinking about it now.”
He was still thinking when they entered the apartment block and rode up in the elevator. Ever since Denise’s question he had been asking himself: Why shouldn’t I go to New York? There are fine hospitals; this is a medical city. It would not be difficult to get on staff somewhere. Setting up practice would be comparatively easy; his own record, as well as the friends he had in New York, would bring him referrals. He reasoned: What really keeps me tied to Burlington? Does my life belong there—now and for always? Isn’t it time, perhaps, for a change, a new environment? I’m not married to Three Counties Hospital, nor am I indispensable. There are things I’d miss, it’s true; the sense of building and creation, and the people I’ve worked with. But I’ve accomplished a great deal; no one can ever deny that. And New York means Denise. Wouldn’t it be worth it—all?
At the twentieth floor Denise used her own key to let them in; there was no sign of the manservant O’Donnell had seen earlier.
As if by consent they moved to the terrace. Denise asked, “Kent, would you like a drink?”
“Perhaps later,” he said, and reached out toward her. She came to him easily and their lips met. It was a lingering kiss. His arms tightened around her and he felt her body respond to his own. Then gently she disengaged herself.
Half turned away, she said, “There are so many things to think of.” Her voice was troubled.
“Are there?” The tone of voice was disbelieving.
“There’s a great deal you don’t know about me,” Denise said. “For one thing, I’m terribly possessive. Did you know that?”
He answered, “It doesn’t sound very terrible.”
“If we were married,” she said, “I’d have to have all of you, not just a part. I couldn’t help myself. And I couldn’t share you—not even with a hospital.”
He laughed. “I imagine we could work out a compromise. Other people do.”
She turned back toward him. “When you say it like that I almost believe you.” Denise paused. “Will you come back to New York again—soon?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
He answered, “Whenever you call me.”
As if by instinct, she moved toward him and they kissed again, this time with growing passion. Then there was a sound behind them and a shaft of light from a door opening to the living room. Denise pushed herself gently away and a moment later a small figure in pajamas came onto the terrace. A voice said, “I thought I heard someone talking.”
“I imagined you were sleeping,” Denise said. “This is Dr. O’Donnell.” Then to O’Donnell, “This is my daughter Philippa.” She added affectionately, “One half of my impossible twins.”
The girl looked at O’Donnell with frank curiosity. “Hullo,” she said, “I’ve heard about you.”
O’Donnell remembered Denise telling him that both her children were seventeen. The girl seemed small for her age, her body only just beginning to fill out. But she moved with a grace and posture uncannily similar to her mother.
“Hullo, Philippa,” he said. “I’m sorry if we disturbed you.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I was reading.” The girl glanced down at a book in her hand. “It’s Herrick. Did you ever read it?”
“I don’t think so,” O’Donnell said. “As a matter of fact, there wasn’t much time for poetry in medical school and I’ve never really got around to it since.”
Philippa picked up the book and opened it. “There’s something here for you, Mother.” She read attractively with a feeling for words and balance and with a touch of lightness.
“That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Time, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.”
“I get the point,” Denise said. She turned to O’Donnell. “I may tell you, Kent, that my children are perennially pressing me to remarry.”
“We simply think it’s the best thing for you,” Philippa interjected. She put down the book.
“They do it under the guise of practicality,” Denise went on. “Actually they’re both revoltingly sentimental.” She turned to Philippa. “How would you feel if I married Dr. O’Donnell?”
“Has he asked you?” Philippa’s interest was prompt. Without waiting for an answer she exclaimed, “You’re going to, of course.”
“It will depend, dear,” Denise said. “There is, of course, the trifling matter of a divorce to be arranged.”
“Oh, that! Daddy was always so unreasonable about you doing it. Besides, why do you have to wait?” She faced O’Donnell. “Why don’t you just live together? Then you’d have the evidence already arranged and Mother wouldn’t have to go away to one of those awful places like Reno.”