“Now I think that’s cruel,” she declared, when Eugene laughed heartily. “I never look like that.”
“That’s just the way you look and do,” he declared. “You’re the broad and flowery path that leadeth to destruction.”
“Never mind, Babyette,” put in Angela, “I’ll take your part if no one else will. You’re a nice, demure, shrinking girl and you wouldn’t look at anyone, would you?”
Angela got up and was holding Marietta’s head mock sympathetically in her arms.
“Say, that’s a dandy pet name,” called Smite, moved by Marietta’s beauty.
“Poor Marietta,” observed Eugene. “Come over here to me and I’ll sympathize with you.”
“You don’t take my drawing in the right spirit, Miss Blue,” put in MacHugh cheerfully. “It’s simply to show how popular you are.”
Angela stood beside Eugene as her guests departed, her slender arm about his waist. Marietta was coquetting finally with MacHugh. These two friends of his, thought Eugene, had the privilege of singleness to be gay and alluring to her. With him that was over now. He could not be that way to any girl any more. He had to behave—be calm and circumspect. It cut him, this thought. He saw at once it was not in accord with his nature. He wanted to do just as he had always done—make love to Marietta if she would let him, but he could not. He walked to the fire when the studio door was closed.
“They’re such nice boys,” exclaimed Marietta. “I think Mr. MacHugh is as funny as he can be. He has such droll wit.”
“Smite is nice too,” replied Eugene defensively.
“They’re both lovely—just lovely,” returned Marietta.
“I like Mr. MacHugh a little the best—he’s quainter,” said Angela, “but I think Mr. Smite is just as nice as he can be. He’s so old fashioned. There’s not anyone as nice as my Eugene, though,” she said affectionately, putting her arm about him.
“Oh, dear, you two!” exclaimed Marietta. “Well, I’m going to bed.”
Eugene sighed.
They had arranged a couch for her which could be put behind the silver-spangled fish net in the alcove when company was gone.
Eugene thought what a pity that already this affection of Angela’s was old to him. It was not as it would be if he had taken Marietta or Christina. They went to their bed room to retire and then he saw that all he had was passion. Must he be satisfied with that? Could he be? It started a chain of thought which, while persistently interrupted or befogged, was really never broken. Momentary sympathy, desire, admiration, might obscure it, but always fundamentally it was there. He had made a mistake. He had put his head in a noose. He had subjected himself to conditions which he did not sincerely approve of. How was he going to remedy this—or could it ever be remedied?
Chapter 3
Whatever were Eugene’s secret thoughts, he began his married life with the outward air of one who takes it seriously enough. Now that he was married, was actually bound by legal ties, he felt that he might as well make the best of it. He had once had the notion that it might be possible to say nothing of his marriage, and keep Angela in the background, but this notion had been dispelled by the attitude of MacHugh and Smite, to say nothing of Angela. So he began to consider the necessity of notifying his friends—Miriam Finch and Norma Whitmore and possibly Christina Channing, when she should return. These three women offered the largest difficulty to his mind. He felt the commentary which their personalities represented. What would they think of him? What of Angela? Now that she was right here in the city he could see that she represented a different order of thought. He had opened the campaign by suggesting that they invite Smite and MacHugh. The thing to do now was to go further in this matter.
The one thing that troubled him was the thought of breaking the news to Miriam Finch, for Christina Channing was away, and Norma Whitmore was not of sufficient importance. He argued now that he should have done this beforehand, but having neglected that it behoved him to act at once. He did so, finally, writing to Norma Whitmore and saying, for he had no long explanation to make—”Yours truly is married. May I bring my wife up to see you?” Miss Whitmore was truly taken by surprise. She was sorry at first—very—because Eugene interested her greatly and she was afraid he would make a mistake in his marriage; but she hastened to make the best of a bad turn on the part of fate and wrote a note which ran as follows:
“Dear Eugene and Eugene’s Wife:
“This is news as is news. Congratulations. And I am coming right down as soon as I get my breath. And then you two must come to see me.
“Norma Whitmore.”
Eugene was pleased and grateful that she took it so nicely, but Angela was the least big chagrined secretly that he had not told her before. Why hadn’t he? Was this someone that he was interested in? Those three years in which she had doubtingly waited for Eugene had whetted her suspicions and nurtured her fears. Still she tried to make little of it and to put on an air of joyousness. She would be so glad to meet Miss Whitmore. Eugene told her how kind she had been to him, how much she admired his art, how helpful she was in bringing together young literary and artistic people and how influential with those who counted. She could do him many a good turn. Angela listened patiently, but she was just the least bit resentful that he should think so much of any one woman outside of herself. Why should he, Eugene Witla, be dependent on the favor of any woman? Of course she must be very nice and they would be good friends, but—
Norma came one afternoon two days later with the atmosphere of enthusiasm trailing, as it seemed to Eugene, like a cloud of glory about her. She was both fire and strength to him in her regard and sympathy, even though she resented, ever so slightly, his affectional desertion.
“You piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla,” she exclaimed. “What do you mean by running off and getting married and never saying a word. I never even had a chance to get you a present and now I have to bring it. Isn’t this a charming place—why it’s perfectly delightful,” and as she laid her present down unopened she looked about to see where Mrs. Eugene Witla might be.
Angela was in the bedroom finishing her toilet. She was expecting this descent and so was prepared, being suitably dressed in the light green house gown. When she heard Miss Whitmore’s familiar mode of address she winced, for this spoke volumes for a boon companionship of long endurance. Eugene hadn’t said so much of Miss Whitmore in the past as he had recently, but she could see that they were very intimate. She looked out and saw her—this tall, not very shapely, but graceful woman, whose whole being represented dynamic energy, awareness, subtlety of perception. Eugene was shaking her hand and looking genially into her face.
“Why should Eugene like her so much?” she asked herself instantly. “Why did his face shine with that light of intense enthusiasm?” The “piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla” expression irritated her. It sounded as though she might be in love with him. She came out after a moment with a glad smile on her face and approached with every show of good feeling, but Miss Whitmore could sense opposition.
“So this is Mrs. Witla,” she exclaimed, kissing her. “I’m delighted to know you. I have always wondered what sort of a girl Mr. Witla would marry. You’ll just have to pardon my calling him Eugene. I’ll get over it after a bit, I suppose, now that he’s married. But we’ve been such good friends and I admire his work so much. How do you like studio life—or are you used to it?”
Angela, who was taking in every detail of Eugene’s old friend, replied in what seemed an affected tone that no, she wasn’t used to studio life: she was just from the country, you know—a regular farmer girl—Blackwood, Wisconsin, no less! She stopped to let Norma express friendly surprise, and then went on to say that she supposed Eugene had not said very much about her, but he wrote her often enough. She was rejoicing in the fact that whatever slight Eugene’s previous silence seemed to put upon her, she had the satisfaction that she had won him after all and Miss Whitmore had not. She fancied from Miss Whitmore’s enthusiastic attitude that she must like Eugene very much, and she could see now what sort of women might have made him wish to delay. Who were the others, she wondered?