When he found Nancy Messenger stretched on a couch in her father’s library, it did not occur to Herron to look at her twice before he opened his mind; in fact he considered it treason to withhold his innermost thoughts from the people concerned. By way of preamble he merely said:
“It’s a surprise to find you here. I didn’t know that you liked this room.”
“I don’t,” said Nancy, “but I like the sun that’s shining into it just now.”
He observed, in fact, that the autumn sun was pouring upon her so that her white wrap dazzled his eyes. It was a very soft wool, a fluff of light weaving that shone like a cloud in the sky. Herron came around beside her. His huge shadow at once shut away two-thirds of the sunlight that had been streaming over her.
“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about,” he said. “I mean, there’s this queer passion you have for the sun lately.”
“Don’t ask me about it, Charles,” she said, her weary eyes closing. “Everything that lives wants the sun.”
“Perhaps you were made for it,” answered Herron. “There’s something about you that shines, Nancy, and yet a shadow can come over it. That’s what I worry about a little. Just now I wish I had you in a gay place like Paris.”
“Paris isn’t gay,” said Nancy.
“Really?”
“No. On the boulevards think of those horrible kiosks covered with advertisements.”
“So Paris isn’t gay? Let’s think about that for a moment.”
“Oh, but I wish I were there, though. Every English-speaking city is so horribly dull.”
“Why so dull, my dear?”
“Because they speak so much English in them,” said Nancy, with classical logic. “And then in Paris the day never ends. Life goes on there like a river to the sea. But over here everything is artificial. We have electric clocks to keep our consciences on edge. They tell us when to go to bed. Alarm clocks get us up in the morning. Everything is broken and chopped up. There’s no continuity. It’s like rehearsing life and death every day. The whole world wakes up and buzzes and pretends to be alive; and then the whole world lies down and closes its eyes and is really dead!”
She gripped her hands together hard.
“You know, Nancy, you’re a little nervous,” said Herron. “I think that a trip would be good for you.”
“Away from home? No, no!” She shuddered at the thought of leaving.
“That’s queer,” said Herron. “I thought you’d like to get away.”
“Please don’t!” broke in Nancy. “Please don’t talk, darling.”
He was, accordingly, perfectly silent, telling himself that women are not as men. Torn between the strength of logic and the strength of faith, there was something rather naïve and childish about the lawyer. Perhaps a chief reason for the girl’s love of him was her understanding of his need of her. In the middle of this thoughtful silence she startled him by saying: “Charles!”
“Yes, dear?”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Of course I won’t—until I have to go back to the office.”
“Don’t go to the office. Don’t ever go back to it.”
The absurdity of life without an office pleased a rare funny bone in Herron, and he laughed a little.
As he laughed, he was loving Nancy more than ever.
“Tell me something,” said Nancy.
“Certainly,” said Herron. “What is it?”
“Oh, do I have to put the words in your mouth every time?”
“But, Nancy, of course I love you.”
“For ever?”
“For ever.”
“No, only until it comes time for you to go to sleep again, and then you forget as thoroughly as though you were dead.”
“You’re a bit nervous,” said Herron, suddenly at sea and afraid of this trend of talk. “Just now you’revery nervous, Nancy. And that leads me back to the idea of home.”
“I hate ideas,” said Nancy.
“You don’t mean that,” said Herron softly. “But the fact is that you’ve been spending so little time at home that I wonder if you care much about it.”
“Don’t, Charles.”
“I’ve hurt you and I’m sorry. But isn’t it obvious that you’re needing a change? That’s why I’m suggesting that we take a trip together.”
“We?” echoed Nancy. “Together?”
“Why not?”
“Ah, that would be heavenly,” said Nancy.
“Would it? Then we can be married right away.”
“No, no!” cried Nancy.
“Do you say ‘no’? Let me try to see what’s in your mind when you say that.”
“Thank God you can’t see what’s in my ugly, ugly mind.”
“Ugly? It’s the only perfect thing I know! Nancy, what’s the matter? Two weeks ago you liked talking about our marriage. It was to be as soon as I could arrange for a little time off. Well, I’ve arranged it now. We could get married tomorrow if you…”
“No—please!—Charles, I love you!”
This perfect non sequitur struck Herron dumb. It appeared that Nancy loved him, and therefore she would not talk of marrying him! He had a sudden desire to be alone in his office among his books; but then he realised with a sudden shock that though he might search through all the books of wisdom in the law or outside of it, he never could find in print an explanation of Nancy Messenger. He was almost glad of an interruption, for here the door of the room opened and Paul Messenger came in with that new guest of the house, John Stevens, that rather pale and withdrawing young man who nevertheless, it appeared, had been tireless in his all-night excursion with Nancy. As the two men entered the room, John Stevens was speaking to Messenger, and at the sound of his voice Nancy opened her eyes and cried out happily. She was on her feet at once and hurrying across the room with both hands held out. She cried: “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, I thought you’d left us for ever!”
Herron never had seen her pour herself out on a man as she did on this comparative stranger. Stevens accepted the warmth of that greeting as though it were the most casual thing in the world. The embarrassed eye of Herron turned to Paul Messenger, but found him looking upon the pair and their greeting with an eye of unfathomable approval.
A moment before there had seemed in Nancy hardly strength enough to hold open her eyes; now she was happy, as busy, as gay as a singing bird. Presently she had her John Stevens in a chair by the window and was sitting opposite him with an air of delighted possession and triumph.
It was easy, shielded by the happy chatter of Nancy, for Herron to find sufficient privacy to say to Messenger: “Long-lost cousin—or something like that, isn’t he? Who is this Stevens fellow?”
“One of the best chaps in the world,” said Messenger reassuringly.
“Nancy seems to have no doubt about it,” answered Herron, frowning.
“Don’t take the wrong tack,” cautioned Messenger. “Absolutely the most trustworthy lad in the world.”