The Grain of Dust Part 25

The afternoon was warm. They sat under a big old tree at the end of the garden. He saw that she was much disturbed--and that it had to do with him. From time to time she looked at him, studying his face when she thought herself un.o.bserved. As he had learned that it is never wise to open up the disagreeable, he waited. After making several futile efforts at conversation, she abruptly said:

"I saw Mr. Tetlow this morning--in Twenty-third Street. I was coming out of a chemical supplies store where father had sent me."

She paused. But Norman did not help her. He continued to wait.

"He--Mr. Tetlow--acted very strangely," she went on. "I spoke to him. He stared at me as if he weren't going to speak--as if I weren't fit to speak to."

"Oh!" said Norman.

"Then he came hurrying after me. And he said, 'Do you know that Norman is to be married in two weeks?'"

"So!" said Norman.

"And I said, 'What of it? How does that interest me?'"

"It didn't interest you?"

"I was surprised that you hadn't spoken of it," replied she. "But I was more interested in Mr. Tetlow's manner. What do you think he said next?"

"I can't imagine," said Norman.

"Why--that I was even more shameless than he thought. He said: 'Oh, I know all about you. I found out by accident. I shan't tell anyone, for I can't help loving you still. But it has killed my belief in woman to find out that _you_ would sell yourself.'"

She was looking at Norman with eyes large and grave. "And what did you say?" he inquired.

"I didn't say anything. I looked at him as if he weren't there and started on. Then he said, 'When Norman abandons you, as he soon will, you can count on me, if you need a friend.'"

There was a pause. Then Norman said, "And that was all?"

"Yes," replied she.

Another pause. Norman said musingly: "Poor Tetlow! I've not seen him since he went away to Bermuda--at least he said he was going there. One day he sent the firm a formal letter of resignation. . . . Poor Tetlow!

Do you regret not having married him?"

"I couldn't marry a man I didn't love." She looked at him with sweet friendly eyes. "I couldn't even marry you, much as I like you."

Norman laughed--a dismal attempt at ease and raillery.

"When he told me about your marrying," she went on, "I knew how I felt about you. For I was not a bit jealous. Why haven't you ever said anything about it?"

He disregarded this. He leaned forward and with curious deliberateness took her hand. She let it lie gently in his. He put his arm round her and drew her close to him. She did not resist. He kissed her upturned face, kissed her upon the lips. She remained pa.s.sive, looking at him with calm eyes.

"Kiss me," he said.

She kissed him--without hesitation and without warmth.

"Why do you look at me so?" he demanded.

"I can't understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why you should wish to kiss me when you love another woman. What would she say if she knew?"

"I'm sure I don't know. And I rather think I don't care. You are the only person on earth that interests me."

"Then why are you marrying?"

"Let's not talk about that. Let's talk about ourselves." He clasped her pa.s.sionately, kissed her at first with self-restraint, then in a kind of frenzy. "How can you be so cruel!" he cried. "Are you utterly cold?"

"I do not love you," she said.

"Why not?"

"There's no reason. I--just don't. I've sometimes thought perhaps it was because you don't love me."

"Good G.o.d, Dorothy! What do you want me to say or do?"

"Nothing," replied she calmly. "You asked me why I didn't love you, and I was trying to explain. I don't want anything more than I'm getting. I am content--aren't you?"

"Content!" He laughed sardonically. "As well ask Tantalus if he is content, with the water always before his eyes and always out of reach.

I want you--all you have to give. I couldn't be content with less."

"You ought not to talk to me this way," she reproved gently, "when you are engaged."

He flung her hand into her lap. "You are making a fool of me. And I don't wonder. I've invited it. Surely, never since man was created has there been such another a.s.s as I." He drew her to her feet, seized her roughly by the shoulders. "When are you coming to your senses?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" she inquired, in her childlike puzzled way.

He shook her, kissed her violently, held her at arm's length. "Do you think it wise to trifle with me?" he asked. "Don't your good sense tell you there's a limit even to such folly as mine?"

"What _is_ the matter?" she asked pathetically. "What do you want? I can't give you what I haven't got to give."

"No," he cried. "But I want what you _have_ got to give."

She shook her head slowly. "Really, I haven't, Mr. Norman."

He eyed her with cynical amused suspicion. "Why did you call me _Mr._ Norman just then? Usually you don't call me at all. It's been weeks since you have called me Mister. Was your doing it just then one of those subtle, adroit, timely tricks of yours?"

She was the picture of puzzled innocence. "I don't understand," she said.

"Well--perhaps you don't," said he doubtfully. "At any rate, don't call me Mr. Norman. Call me Fred."

"I can't. It isn't natural. You seem Mister to me. I always think of you as Mr. Norman."

"That's it. And it must stop!"

She smiled with innocent gayety. "Very well--Fred. . . . Fred. . . . Now that I've said it, I don't find it strange." She looked at him with an expression between appeal and mockery. "If you'd only let me get acquainted with you. But you don't. You make me feel that I've got to be careful with you--that I must be on my guard. I don't know against what--for you are certainly the very best friend that I've ever had--the only real friend."