P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

His manner heightened the feeling. If he had given the least sign of embarrassment she might have softened towards him. He showed no embarrassment whatever. He was very much at his ease. He was cheerful. He was even flippant.

“Welcome to our beautiful little city,” he said.

Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore the past in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him to pulp?

“Won’t you sit down?” he went on. “It’s splendid, seeing you again, Mary. You’re looking very well. How long have you been in New York? Eddy tells me you want to be taken on as a secretary. As it happens, there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy, left by a lady who departed yesterday in a shower of burning words and hairpins. She said she would never return, and, between ourselves, that was the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do? Will you take this letter down?”

Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary took the pencil and pad which he offered-and she took them meekly. Until this moment she had always been astonished by the reports which filtered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Of course, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance; but it takes something more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely, and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure of himself.

“Read it please,” he said, when he had finished dictating. “Yes, that’s all right. You’ll do.”

For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire gripped her to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt of the serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and her heart failed her.

“Thank you,” she said, in a small voice.

As she spoke the door opened.

“Well, well, well!” said Joe. “Here we all are! Come in, Eddy. Mary has just been showing me what she can do.”

If time had done much for Joe, it had done more for his fellow-emigrant, Eddy Moore. He had always been good-looking and-according to local standards-presentable. Tall, slim, with dark eyes that made you catch your breath when they looked into yours, and a ready flow of speech, he had been Dunsterville’s prize exhibit. And here he was with all his excellence heightened and accentuated by the polish of the city. He had filled out. His clothes were wonderful. And his voice, when he spoke, had just that same musical quality.

“So you and Joe have fixed it up? Capital! Shall we all go and lunch somewhere?”

“Got an appointment,” said Joe. “I’m late already. Be here at two sharp, Mary.” He took up his hat and went out.

The effect of Eddy’s suavity had been to make Mary forget the position in which she now stood to Joe. Eddy had created for the moment quite an old-time atmosphere of good-fellowship. She hated Joe for shattering this and reminding her that she was his employée. Her quick flush was not lost on Eddy.

“Dear old Joe is a little abrupt sometimes,” he said. “But-”

“He’s a pig!” said Mary, defiantly.

“But you mustn’t mind it. New York makes men like that.”

“It hasn’t made you-not to me, at any rate. Oh, Eddy,” she cried, impulsively, “I’m frightened. I wish I had never come here. You’re the only thing in this whole city that isn’t hateful.”

“Poor little girl!” he said. “Never mind. Let me take you and give you some lunch. Come along.”

Eddy was soothing. There was no doubt of that. He stayed her with minced chicken and comforted her with soft-shelled crab. His voice was a lullaby, lulling her Joe-harassed nerves to rest.

They discussed the dear old days. A carper might have said that Eddy was the least bit vague on the subject of the dear old days. A carper might have pointed out that the discussion of the dear old days, when you came to analyse it, was practically a monologue on Mary’s part, punctuated with musical “Yes, yes’s” from her companion. But who cares what carpers think? Mary herself had no fault to find. In the roar of New York Dunsterville had suddenly become very dear to her, and she found in Eddy a sympathetic soul to whom she could open her heart.