He thrust his hands in his pockets, and walked at
a sharp pace down Fifth Avenue to his own house.
That evening when Archer came down before dinner
he found the drawing-room empty.
He and May were dining alone, all the family engagements
having been postponed since Mrs. Manson Mingott’s
illness; and as May was the more punctual of the two
he was surprised that she had not preceded him.
He knew that she was at home, for while he dressed
he had heard her moving about in her room; and he
wondered what had delayed her.
He had fallen into the way of dwelling on such conjectures
as a means of tying his thoughts fast to reality.
Sometimes he felt as if he had found the clue to
his father-in-law’s absorption in trifles; perhaps
even Mr. Welland, long ago, had had escapes and visions,
and had conjured up all the hosts of domesticity to
defend himself against them.
When May appeared he thought she looked tired.
She had put on the low-necked and tightly-laced dinner-dress
which the Mingott ceremonial exacted on the most informal
occasions, and had built her fair hair into its usual
accumulated coils; and her face, in contrast, was
wan and almost faded. But she shone on him with
her usual tenderness, and her eyes had kept the blue
dazzle of the day before.
“What became of you, dear?” she asked.
“I was waiting at Granny’s, and Ellen
came alone, and said she had dropped you on the way
because you had to rush off on business. There’s
nothing wrong?”
“Only some letters I’d forgotten, and
wanted to get off before dinner.”
“Ah—” she said; and a moment
afterward: “I’m sorry you didn’t
come to Granny’s—unless the letters
were urgent.”
“They were,” he rejoined, surprised at
her insistence. “Besides, I don’t
see why I should have gone to your grandmother’s.
I didn’t know you were there.”
She turned and moved to the looking-glass above the
mantel-piece. As she stood there, lifting her
long arm to fasten a puff that had slipped from its
place in her intricate hair, Archer was struck by
something languid and inelastic in her attitude, and
wondered if the deadly monotony of their lives had
laid its weight on her also. Then he remembered
that, as he had left the house that morning, she had
called over the stairs that she would meet him at
her grandmother’s so that they might drive home
together. He had called back a cheery “Yes!”
and then, absorbed in other visions, had forgotten
his promise. Now he was smitten with compunction,
yet irritated that so trifling an omission should
be stored up against him after nearly two years of
marriage. He was weary of living in a perpetual
tepid honeymoon, without the temperature of passion
yet with all its exactions. If May had spoken
out her grievances (he suspected her of many) he might
have laughed them away; but she was trained to conceal
imaginary wounds under a Spartan smile.
