Chapter II

Perhaps it would be just as well for the story to skip lightly over the late winter and early spring and bring the reader snappily to the weekend in May when Mildred Trudeau and George Banks went to Barbara Kittridge's house party. It was there that things started to happen.

As a matter of fact, the exact time when things started to happen was 12:17 A.M. on Saturday, May eighteenth. It was at that particular moment that George Banks and Barbara Kittridge stopped dancing and stepped through a French window of the living room to the terrace. It was at that particular moment that Barbara Kittridge turned her head upward so that she could catch George Banks with the corners of her eyes, and said, "What you need, Mr. Banks, is to sit down quietly in the moonlight and talk about yourself."

Her voice was pleasant to the ear. She was soothing. Had it been May of last year, with the moon just exactly the way it was, George Banks would have proceeded to flirt outrageously with her. But it was May of this year.

"Oh no," he said self-consciously. And again, "No."

He lighted a cigarette, and they walked out to the edge of the terrace.

"But you're depressed," she said. "If I ever saw a depressed man--and I have seen depressed men--you are gruesomely depressed."

"Oh no, I'm not." He spoke without conviction, listlessly.

"You are! Listen to yourself! You sound like a funeral oration that has been badly received. Come along. I am going to take the liberty of leading you to a place where you can sit down quietly in the moonlight. You can decide then whether to talk about yourself."

They went down the steps to the bottom of the terrace and down a path thickly bordered with shrubs which cut off the moonlight. He was moodily silent while they walked twenty steps. Suddenly she laughed softly.

"Which is the leper?" she said. "You or I?"

"Leper? I don't think----"

"I have had men tell me they were afraid of me, but they have always been chronic bachelors and they have suspected me of wanting to marry them. Now you are Trudy's _fiancé_ and Trudy's a friend of mine. You ought to know I don't mean you any harm."

"My dear Miss Kittridge, I really haven't been thinking of you at all. I----"

"If I believed you, I should think you very rude. But I don't believe you. I know perfectly well that you have been thinking of me and that you're afraid of me. That is why you have kept this careful yard of space between us."

George Banks laughed uneasily.

"No," he said. "Oh no--didn't notice it."

He stepped closer to her, miscalculated the distance and rubbed her soft, cool forearm with the back of his hand. He snatched the hand back as though it had touched hot iron. She laughed again.

"You see? You are afraid."

The path widened and they came into a tiny plaza in the middle of which there was an inactive fountain. To right and left, back against the shrubbery, were low stone benches, one moon-lit, the other in darkness. Barbara Kittridge led him to the dark one. She seated herself, leaning back against the curved stone arm at one end, and placed her feet on the middle of the seat.

"Now," she said, "let me explain. Sit down over there."

She paused while he produced a cigarette and lighted it.

"Now here is the idea: I don't want you to flirt with me. I don't want you to try to kiss me. I don't want you to do anything that bothers your conscience in the least. I have no designs whatever upon you.

"But I like Trudy. I've known her around school and at parties for three or four years, and I like her. When I heard about her engagement to you I asked you both down here so that I could see the happy couple. And what do I feast my eyes on?

"Trudy about as usual, and--you! A dignified young pallbearer. It looks bad. Something is wrong. It hurts me to see the course of true love so bumpy. Therefore I have enticed you out here among the moon and the shrubs and the nasty cold stone benches to find out what is wrong."

George Banks lighted another cigarette and withdrew to his corner of the bench.

"It's very--nice of you," he said at length, and lapsed into silence.

"Come now, tell me about yourself. What sort of person are you? What did you do at Princeton?"

"Played baseball a couple of years."

"No poetry? Never contributed to the Lit? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Were you notoriously gloomy or silent?"

"No."

"What was your nickname? That will tell something."

"Phooey."

"What?"

"Phooey."

"Where did you get a nickname like that? It doesn't fit you now."

"That's kind of a long story. It had something to do with drinking applejack sophomore year. I don't believe you'd care to hear it."

"Then you drink applejack?"

"Well, I have."

"Phooey, do you know what I've got?"

"No. At least I don't know everything you've got. I have some idea of your talents."

For a moment the old George Banks threatened to show himself. There was life in his voice.

"I've got about ten bottles of applejack in the cellar."

"You're lucky."

"So are you."

"I?"

"My applejack is your applejack."

"Oh, that's very good of you; but---- Well, you see, Trudy doesn't like my drinking much and I'm pretty careful. Cocktails and punch, but that's about enough." He rose and walked to the inactive fountain, balanced himself upon its stone rim. "It's mighty good of you," he said again.

"Not at all. Trudy ought to know better than to cut a strong young man off from his applejack! That may be just what you need to make you cheer up."

"No, that isn't what's the matter. It's----"

He broke off suddenly. He went back and sat at his end of the bench, lighted another cigarette.

"Then you know what is the matter?"

"Miss Kittridge, really----"

"Please don't call me Miss Kittridge and please don't say really to me in that particular way again. You're the most unpardonable sort of man. I don't see how you ever persuaded Trudy to think of marrying you. I give up. Let's go back."

She stood up and started up the path toward the house.

"But, Miss Kittridge--er--B a r b a r a--er----"

"Kitt."

"Kitt."

"You were going to say?"

She had turned. She stood in the moonlight facing him, slim and tall, shimmering in a white evening dress. Her dark hair contrasted with the moonlit whiteness of her neck and shoulders. A little cold shiver made its way up George Banks's back.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Let's go back."

And they went back to the house. He left her and walked alone among the shrubs. It had been a stupid conversation. It had been an embarrassing conversation. But--this Barbara Kittridge--Kitt--thrilling--exciting--to look at, to talk to, to keep from involving oneself with. Lively girl. Snappy dark eyes. Nice hands. Well built. Slim ankles. Quick, elusive, jumping around behind a conversation, with a funny mouth that did queer little things with its corners.

Face that laughed at you, without laughing at all so you could trace it. And always one jump ahead of what you were thinking. Footwork with her head. Now that kind of a girl----

He danced with his betrothed.

"What do you think of Kitt?" she asked from his shoulder.

He executed an intricate step and stalled for time.

"What did you say, dear?"

"What do you think of Kitt?"

"Oh, very nice. Clever, I should think. Talks well."

"Do you think so?"

"Well, we didn't talk much. She seemed quick."

"She says whatever comes into her head. I've heard her say the worst things--to men--trying to be original."

The music stopped and George and Mildred Trudeau seated themselves side by side. His eyes followed Barbara Kittridge as she went, laughing, through the French windows with a man.

"Her reputation," said Trudy guardedly into his ear, "is not too good lately. She went to Europe all alone last summer. Katherine Milton met her in Brussels and she was traveling all over with two Oxford students. Perfectly respectable, of course. But a girl can't tell what people are going to think and say. It isn't a very nice thing to do."

"But if she was all alone in Europe----"

"There were plenty of girls she knew, without her picking out perfectly strange young Englishmen and traveling all over with them. I'll bet she had a fine gay time. A couple of weeks ago I heard about a party at a bachelor apartment in town that Kitt went to. I don't believe that was too nice. She drinks a little too much, anyway."

The music started and they danced again.

Just before three the party broke up for the evening. George Banks took Trudy to the top of the stairs and kissed her good night. Then he remembered that he had no cigarettes and went down again to find some.

So far as is known, it was entirely by accident that he found Barbara Kittridge alone in the library. She was curled up at the end of the big leather sofa.

George Banks sighted her and jumped like a startled criminal. He took a step backward and smiled foolishly. Kitt laughed.

"Why, Phooey! I thought I'd packed you off to bed. What are you doing prowling around downstairs again? You don't go in for nocturnal melancholia, do you? I hope it isn't so bad as that."

He fidgeted.

"No. Cigarettes. Found I didn't have any in my pocket. None upstairs. Thought I'd come down and find some."

"Lots in that box on the table beside you. Help yourself."

He did, and dropped six or eight into his pocket.

"Well----" he said, fidgeting toward the door.

"Breakfast at eleven thirty," said his hostess, and just then something strange happened in George Banks.

"What the dickens are you going to do for the rest of the night?" he asked. "Are you given to communing with nature yourself?" Again she laughed.

"Brave boy!" she said. "Sit down."

This time they were not on a cold stone bench in the darkness. This time her feet were not so placed as to keep him at a distance.

He seated himself a couple of inches from her, his arm on the back of the sofa behind her head. He took one of the cigarettes from his pocket and placed it between his lips. For the first time his manner of looking at her was leisurely. He filled his lungs with smoke before he opened the conversation.

"And now," he said, "tell me what this is all about. Where do you get the privilege of laughing at me? Who told you I was a funny old man to be kidded unmercifully at every opportunity? What have you done to deserve the right to embarrass me?"

She laughed.

"Why, Phooey! I haven't done anything to embarrass you. If you've felt uncomfortable it's been your own fault. I have laughed at you, but that was because you were funny. I reserve the right to laugh at anything that's funny."

"That isn't entirely wise. You'll find there are a lot of things that are funny that you aren't supposed to laugh at. You'll get in trouble laughing indiscriminately."

"In trouble with you?"

"Among others--yes."

"Ah, then it bites?"

"Not necessarily. But a healthy man can't stand being laughed at. You'll find that out."

"Are you a healthy man? You don't seem healthy. You goof too much. You stare into corners and study rug patterns and look as though you were going to scream with some secret sorrow gnawing at your entrails. Do you really think you're healthy?"

"I really know I'm healthy."

She made an incredulous noise and the corners of her mouth did things. He leaned closer to her.

"Further," he said, picking up one of her hands, "I can prove I'm healthy. I have a healthy normal desire to kiss you."

"To kiss me?" Her mouth was still insulting him. "You look more as though you wanted to choke me."

She executed some sort of distracting movement of her knees. Her eyes were larger than he had thought. Her hand was cool and smooth in his. His arm slipped slowly down from the back of the sofa behind her. His fingers touched her bare shoulder on the side away from him. He thought profane things about himself and removed her hand from a position where it might interfere with possible progress. Slowly, eye to eye with her, he drew her close to him and placed his lips on hers--left them there for throbbing seconds. The end of her nose was cool against his cheek. Her lips were soft. Her body in the crook of his arm was pliant and small. His mind traveled out of the library, upstairs to Mildred Trudeau.

He took his mouth away, replaced his arm on the back of the sofa. He still looked into her eyes.

"Was that what you wanted me to do?" he asked.

"No; though you do do it rather well. I am quite glad you did. It was very pleasant. Thank you."

"I'm afraid you're not welcome. That one kiss is going to make me feel like a burglar for weeks. You have no idea the mental anguish I'll go through."

"And end up by telling Trudy I made you do it?"

"No, I don't think that. But I'm not proud of myself. I might have a little more self-control." He stood up before her, feet slightly apart, right hand gripping left elbow. "Well----" he said. Then, after a pause, "I hope you'll understand this whole performance. I hope you won't think I go around kissing other girls while I'm engaged to Trudy."

He saw a flicker at the corners of her mouth. He fled. Over his shoulder he heard her words:

"It must be funny to have a conscience." Then a laugh. "Breakfast at eleven thirty."