Two days later he was with Gloria in New York.
Late one February afternoon Anthony came into the
apartment and groping through the little hall, pitch-dark
in the winter dusk, found Gloria sitting by the window.
She turned as he came in.
“What did Mr. Haight have to say?” she
asked listlessly.
“Nothing,” he answered, “usual thing.
Next month, perhaps.”
She looked at him closely; her ear attuned to his
voice caught the slightest thickness in the dissyllable.
“You’ve been drinking,” she remarked
dispassionately.
“Couple glasses.”
“Oh.”
He yawned in the armchair and there was a moment’s
silence between them. Then she demanded suddenly:
“Did you go to Mr. Haight? Tell me the
truth.”
“No.” He smiled weakly. “As
a matter of fact I didn’t have time.”
“I thought you didn’t go.... He sent
for you.”
“I don’t give a damn. I’m sick
of waiting around his office. You’d think
he was doing me a favor.” He glanced
at Gloria as though expecting moral support, but she
had turned back to her contemplation of the dubious
and unprepossessing out-of-doors.
“I feel rather weary of life to-day,”
he offered tentatively. Still she was silent.
“I met a fellow and we talked in the Biltmore
bar.”
The dusk had suddenly deepened but neither of them
made any move to turn on the lights. Lost in
heaven knew what contemplation, they sat there until
a flurry of snow drew a languid sigh from Gloria.
“What’ve you been doing?” he asked,
finding the silence oppressive.
“Reading a magazine—all full of idiotic
articles by prosperous authors about how terrible
it is for poor people to buy silk shirts. And
while I was reading it I could think of nothing except
how I wanted a gray squirrel coat—and how
we can’t afford one.”
“Yes, we can.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes! If you want a fur coat you can
have one.”
Her voice coming through the dark held an implication
of scorn.
“You mean we can sell another bond?”
“If necessary. I don’t want to go
without things. We have spent a lot, though,
since I’ve been back.”
“Oh, shut up!” she said in irritation.
“Why?”
“Because I’m sick and tired of hearing
you talk about what we’ve spent or what we’ve
done. You came back two months ago and we’ve
been on some sort of a party practically every night
since. We’ve both wanted to go out, and
we’ve gone. Well, you haven’t heard
me complain, have you? But all you do is whine,
whine, whine. I don’t care any more what
we do or what becomes of us and at least I’m
consistent. But I will not tolerate your
complaining and calamity-howling——”
“You’re not very pleasant yourself sometimes,
you know.”
“I’m under no obligations to be.
You’re not making any attempt to make things
different.”
