“You like to romanticize yourself. You’re pure cat, sniffing nervously but surely toward a house in New Rochelle, and a husband making a minimum of fifteen thousand a year.”
“Go climb a tree. Lord, you’re a bore sometimes.”
He laughed. They were walking along the eastern side of the plaza. The breath of the hansom-cab horses across the street smoked in the sunshine. “D’you know, you’ve had an effect on me? I respect cat wisdom. I think now I might very well enjoy that kind of life, myself—and buying in these shops, and staying weekends at the Pierre or the Plaza, and all that—always providing one thing. Providing that my wife and I both regarded such a life as a pleasant comic mask, put on like Mexican living or Fiji Island living, because at the moment it pleased us—but in itself unreal, empty, of no importance, and discardable overnight.” With a sharp turn, he pulled her into a florist’s shop.
“What on earth—”
“Violets, in February! Didn’t you see them in the window? Must buy you a bunch.”
“You’re a madman.”
Noel scribbled a card while the florist prepared the violets. He handed the little purple nosegay and the card to her with a flourish:
Violets in winter,
Sweetness in ice—
Not that you need, dear,
This wily advice.
She blushed, laughed huskily, and dropped the card in the purse. “Very witty. I think I’ll carry the flowers.”
Sam Rothmore’s black Cadillac stood in front of a lean gray stone house which had rococo black iron grillwork on the windows and the massive doors. The chauffeur, a neat gray-haired man in black, greeted Noel respectfully and held the door of the limousine open. “Say, come on, I’ll drop you off at home first,” Noel said.
“Oh no, Noel, the car is for business.”
“Nonsense. There’s all kinds of time. Get in and stop arguing. Seven-forty West End Avenue, Philip.”
“Certainly, Mr. Airman.”
Rolling through Central Park in the Cadillac, Marjorie sniffed the violets, and looked out at the muddy brown-green lawns with patches of ice on the rocks, and thought that it might not be bad to die at this instant. She turned to Noel. “You’re ruining my life. I wonder if you’re doing it deliberately.”
“I’m in love with you,” Noel said.
She glanced at the chauffeur’s back, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’m in love with you, too.”
“One of us must crack,” Noel said.
“Not me,” Marjorie said.
Chapter 24. THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY
Noel did not telephone during the next three weeks, and a very dreary three weeks they were. She spent the time exploring the theatre district, and what she found out mainly was that there were a large number of girls like her—droves of them, indeed—marching doggedly and without much hope from one producer’s office to another, through February snow and slush, under unchanging black skies that seemed to hang a few feet above the tops of the buildings.
When Sandy Goldstone called, inviting her to come with him to Billy Ehrmann’s engagement reception, Marjorie accepted eagerly. She was only mildly curious to see Sandy, or for that matter Billy and his bride-to-be; but she figured that Noel would probably appear at the party. A melancholy, quenched Sandy called for her that Sunday. He seemed to be a foot or so shorter than she remembered him; round-shouldered, listless, dull. But he said bravely that he loved working at Lamm’s, and that everything couldn’t be better. He confided to Marjorie that he had found a way to make a fortune. He owned twenty per cent of a race horse; and while twenty per cent of the horse’s weekly hay consumption cost him most of his salary, he had high hopes of making a killing soon in one of the big stake races.
The ballroom at the Sherry-Netherland was too crowded, when they arrived at the party, for Marjorie to be able to see whether or not Noel was there. Perhaps four hundred people, most of them young, all of them well dressed, were strolling about the smoky flower-decked room and chattering, with highballs or glasses of champagne in their hands.
“Usual brawl,” Sandy said. They were standing inside the door, on the reception line. The engaged couple and their parents were hidden by shuffling handshakers.
“It’s such a waste,” Marjorie said. “I swear I’ll never have a big party. I’ll save the money.”
“You’ll have the big party,” Sandy said. “Why do you keep looking at the door?”
“I wasn’t looking at the door at all.”
The handshakers ahead gave way, there was an open space, and Marjorie was face to face with Marjorie Sundheimer. Immediately she glanced at the ring. It was a very large oblong diamond, but not the largest Marjorie had ever seen; and she felt more kindly toward the girl. Marjorie Sundheimer said, “Margie, I’m so glad you could come!” Her face was flushed, her eyes wide and sparkling, and she looked more nearly pretty than Marjorie would have thought possible. She wore a striking floor-length green and orange gown, with curiously draped shawl sleeves. Marjorie was glad, after all, that her blue dress was insignificant. Her only safe note today was cheerful dowdiness.
Billy Ehrmann grasped her hand eagerly. He was perspiring, his shirt was bunched up, and his gray suit was too new. His blond hair hung straight down on his forehead. “Margie!”
She said demurely, “The other Margie. All the luck in the world, Billy.”
He spluttered, “Well, gosh—Margie—say, did you ever meet my folks? Mother, this is her, this is Marjorie Morgenstern.”
Mrs. Ehrmann’s mechanical smile dissolved, as she glanced at Marjorie, into a look of intense alert friendliness. “Well, Marjorie Morgenstern! My dear, I’m very glad to see you. Dad!” She pulled at the elbow of a tall bald man beside her who was talking to another couple. “Dad, here’s Marjorie Morgenstern.”
He looked around quickly. A long face, a curved long jaw, deep-set blue eyes, scrawny cords in his cheeks and neck; he was Noel grown old. His voice was deep and slow. “Well, my dear, this is a privilege. How do you do?”
“How do you do, Judge Ehrmann?”
“You’ll stay a while, won’t you, Marjorie?” the mother said. “I really want to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course.”
Sandy went off to get her a scotch and soda. She was pushed here and there by people hurrying past. She began to make her way toward the wall, peering around for Noel.
“Hi, Margie. Thought you’d be here.” Wally Wronken came plowing through the crowd, holding by the hand an amazingly young-looking girl with a very pretty face, and the puzzled happy eyes of a baby animal.
“Hello, Wally.”
“Marjorie Morgenstern, I’d like you to meet Marjorie Pechter.”
“Great day!” Marjorie said. “How many Marjories are there in this Godforsaken town?”
“Not many where I come from,” said the girl in a high little voice. “I’m from Harrison, New York.”
“Marjorie’s a freshman at Barnard,” Wally said. “You look wonderful.”
“I live in the dorms,” the girl said.
“Where’s Noel?” Wally said.
“I don’t know. I’m here with Sandy Goldstone.” Marjorie plunged away toward the wall.
She landed near the musicians, and sank on a red and gilt chair. Sandy brought her the drink and went off again. Marjorie sat watching the blathering crowd with the detachment of a Hindu. A third or more of the faces were familiar, the same faces she had seen all through college at school dances, at parties, and at the hotel grills. The boys’ faces were heavier, the girls’ warier and less fresh. Those who had paired off and married seemed to be making more noise and drinking more than the others.
“Hey there, Margie! Where’s Noel?” The saxophonist was waving at her. She recognized him—a South Wind musician; then she realized that all four players were from the camp band. She went and talked to them. “Noel recommended us,” the saxophonist said. “We play these dates all winter, Marge.” The musicians rai
sed their eyebrows at each other when she said she hadn’t come with Noel. Wally Wronken reappeared without the Barnard girl, and asked her to dance. His flat-footed style had not much improved.
“Where’s your date, Wally?”
He tossed his head, with the look of concentration he always wore dancing. “Over there, somewhere.”
Marjorie saw the girl, talking to three of the younger boys, laughing and turning bright eyes from one to the other. “She reminds me of me—a few ages ago.”
“I wish she reminded me of you,” Wally said gloomily. “Good kid, but very vanilla-flavored.”
“What’s my flavor? Red pepper?”
“Samian wine in a cup of gold.”
“Very pretty. I’ll bet you never drank Samian wine in your life.”
“It’s in some Byron poem. It sounds right for you.”
“Samian wine! That’s your whole trouble, Wally Wronken. You’ll probably find out some day it’s a horrible Greek vinegar that puts fur on your teeth.”
“You sound like Noel.”
“What of it? You’ve always sounded like Noel. It’s just something that happens to people who’ve been around him.”
“I know. How is he?”
“Haven’t seen him lately.”
Wally leaned back and looked at her. “How lately?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you two going to get married?”
“Not that I know of.”
“My new Varsity Show’s been accepted.”
“Congratulations.”
“Will you come to the opening with me?”
“Now listen, don’t go dragging your grandmother to that again, it looks very odd, Wally. You take Marjorie Pechter. She’s charming.”
“She’s unconscious. I don’t know how she finds her way around the streets.”
“Don’t be such a snob. You’d better get used to the idea that there aren’t many girls as bright as you, my lad, or you’ll die a mean old bachelor.”
Sandy cut in. His smooth dancing was a relief. But for the moment she missed Wally’s worship, his tender constrained hold on her waist. She and Sandy were as easy together as two girls. She started glancing toward the door again.
At the bar they encountered Phil Boehm and Rosalind, both half drunk. Since Rosalind was obviously pregnant, Marjorie was shocked, and said something about it. Rosalind wagged her head. “Don’t you worry, Margie, I’m a baby-making machine, that’s all, just a baby-making machine. Nothing interferes. Turn ’em out like Fords, don’t I, Phil?”
“Like doughnuts,” said Phil Boehm.
“Good Lord,” Marjorie said to Sandy, as the Boehms waltzed unsteadily away with their highballs splashing in their hands, “what comes over the married ones at engagement parties? I sometimes think—”
There he was.
He stood in the doorway, far down the room, tall, blond, dressed in black, looking around with the casual majesty of a big cat. She wasn’t the only one who noticed him. Lines converging on him might have been drawn through eyes everywhere in the room. There were four girls at the party, to Marjorie’s knowledge, who had had romances with him; all were now married. There were others, without a doubt. He was a legend to many men, too, who were staring just as hard. He strolled into the room, ignoring the reception line. A girl darted at him, seized his hand, and began chattering. Two couples stopped dancing and went to him. In a moment he was surrounded and hidden.
Now for the first time Marjorie became aware that lines of eyes were converging on her, too, and that Sandy was regarding her with dejected amusement. She realized she had been stretching her neck and staring. She became dreadfully confused, almost dropped her highball, and spilled it slightly, taking a hurried sip.
“Getting crowded, isn’t it?” Sandy said.
She smiled piteously at him, and took another sip. He said, “Well, he’s good-looking. I hope you can handle him. They say he’s quite a boy.”
“He is, Sandy.”
“What’s the matter with his arm?”
She was startled. She had not thought of the deformity since the summer, nor indeed consciously seen it. “Why, nothing much. I’m surprised you noticed it at this distance. Let’s dance, shall we?”
It wasn’t long before she saw the long tapered hand in the black sleeve touch Sandy’s shoulder. “Cut?”
“Sure. Take good care of her, she’s fragile,” Sandy said, handing the girl over.
“I know,” Noel said. “Fragile as chrome steel.”
They danced in silence for a few seconds. “Thanks for nothing,” Marjorie said. “Chrome steel, indeed.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Oh, just deliriously happy. And you?”
“Busy, sort of. Is Max here?”
She peered up at him. “Max?”
“Dr. Shapiro, the stomach man.”
“Go to hell.”
“I mean it. That’s what engagement parties are really for, you know. You confront the unattached ones with the terror of passing time, and they start pairing off in panic, then and there. Half the marriages in the world are started up at engagement parties. I thought for sure you’d find Max here today.”
“Well, he hasn’t showed, so you’re still stuck with me, Noel Airman.”
“Who, me? I never heard of you.”
The saxophonist shouted, “Hi, Noel.” Noel nodded, grinning. The musicians finished the number and swung without a pause into It’s Raining Kisses.
Marjorie noticed that people were watching them. A thin irregular line of spectators now bordered the dance space, and there were fewer couples on the floor. “Are you still working for Sam Rothmore?”
“Sure. It’s no picnic, either. Sam gets a day’s work out of you for his money, believe me. None of that brandy-and-chess charm in working hours. In fact he’s a pretty coarse bully. I don’t mind. He amuses me. But he keeps me jumping.”
“Keeps you too busy to call me, I take it.”
“Oh no, no. Don’t blame Sam.”
“Well, who, then?”
“Why, nobody.”
“Look, I don’t care if you never call me again.”
“I’m sure of that.”
The music changed, and the tempo. A chill passed through Marjorie’s body. They were beginning the South Wind Waltz. “Wouldn’t you know. Damn their hides,” she murmured.
Noel was holding her close. “Pleasant little tune,” he said. “Not very original, but sweet.”
Marjorie was flooded with painful feelings: memories of Samson-Aaron, of the smell of the South Wind trees at night in the moonlight, of fierce knee-weakening kisses, of the grease-paint odors backstage… There were only two other couples still dancing. The ring of staring, whispering onlookers had thickened. “I’ve had enough,” she muttered. She broke away, still holding Noel’s hand, and dragged him off the floor.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
She pressed through the spectators, pulling him along. “I don’t know, I suddenly felt as though I were doing the dance of the seven veils. It’s so smoky in here! Let’s walk in the hall. Let’s get out of this room—”
“Noel! Wait!” A middle-sized woman wearing a caracul coat and a Russian-style cap of the same fur came hurrying through the crowd, followed by a thickset man in a swinging topcoat of camel’s hair. Both carried highballs. “So! His Majesty favors us with his presence, after all,” she said, looking keenly at Noel and then at Marjorie. Her face was that of a girl in her twenties, but there was much gray in her brown hair. “Horace and I had about given you up. We were escaping from this rat race. Quite a dancing partner you’ve gotten yourself, brother dear.”
“Marjorie, this is my sister Monica. And this is Horace Sigelman.” Noel’s manner all at once was strangely graceless.
“Hello, Marjorie.” The woman clasped her hand and looked into her face, conveying sweetness and good humor in a glance. “I’ve heard about you. You’re prettier than anybody sai
d.”
Horace Sigelman, who had handsome tanned features and thick black hair, patted Noel on the back. His voice was hoarse and loud. “Boy, you’ve got yourself a real girl this time. How about hanging on to this one?”
Noel said, “I’ll tell you, Horace, I lack the necessary charm. How about giving me lessons?”
“Shut up and dance with me,” the sister said, putting her arm through Noel’s. “You don’t mind, do you, Margie dear? This is a once-in-ten-years proposition, you see. In fact if I hadn’t had five scotch and waters, or is it six, Horace—”
“Seven—”
“—seven, I wouldn’t dare approach him even now. He despises his dumb sister, though I love the big wolf.”
“I don’t despise you, my love, we just disagree on a few little things.”
“Well come on, dance then.”
“You and Horace are the dancers. Why don’t you give us a rumba?”
Monica’s huge blue eyes seemed to be tearful, though she was smiling gaily. She was extraordinarily attractive, with a magnetic presence not unlike Noel’s, and Marjorie realized that she must have cut down a hundred boys in her time. Her all-fur outfit was a slightly false note, strained and flashy. “Please, Saul, dance with your drunken sister, just once. To celebrate Billy’s great day.” She finished the drink and handed the glass to her husband.
“And hurry, Noel. The next train to Portchester is at five,” Horace said. “I’ll be glad to take Marjorie off your hands. I’ll keep her happy, boy.”
Noel’s glance at Horace and Marjorie was bleak. “By all means.” He followed his sister to the dance floor, and they started to glide automatically, like a married couple, the wide black fur skirt of Monica’s coat swirling outward.
“Now she’ll get overheated,” Horace said, “and catch cold, getting in and out of those lousy trains. She’s always catching cold.”
“She’s lovely,” Marjorie said.
Horace’s face filled with pleasure; he watched Monica proudly. “You don’t know her. Hope you pay us a visit real soon. There’s nobody like her. Say, would you like to dance? I can get rid of this coat.”