"Dot."
"Yes?"
"I may be able to get in to-night."
"I'm so glad."
"Do you want to listen to my splendid eloquence for a few starry hours?"
"Oh, you funny--" For an instant he had a memory of five years before--of Geraldine. Then-"I'll arrive about eight."
At seven he would be in a jitney bound for the city, where hundreds of little Southern girls were waiting on moonlit porches for their lovers. He would be excited already for her warm retarded kisses, for the amazed quietude of the glances she gave him--glances nearer to worship than any he had ever inspired. Gloria and he had been equals, giving without thought of thanks or obligation. To this girl his very caresses were an inestimable boon. Crying quietly she had confessed to him that he was not the first man in her life; there had been one other--he gathered that the affair had no sooner commenced than it had been over.
Indeed, so far as she was concerned, she spoke the truth. She had forgotten the clerk, the naval officer, the clothier's son, forgotten her vividness of emotion, which is true forgetting. She knew that in some opaque and shadowy existence some one had taken her--it was as though it had occurred in sleep.
Almost every night Anthony came to town. It was too cool now for the porch, so her mother surrendered to them the tiny sitting room, with its dozens of cheaply framed chromos, its yard upon yard of decorative fringe, and its thick atmosphere of several decades in the proximity of the kitchen. They would build a fire--then, happily, inexhaustibly, she would go about the business of love. Each evening at ten she would walk with him to the door, her black hair in disarray, her face pale without cosmetics, paler still under the whiteness of the moon. As a rule it would be bright and silver outside; now and then there was a slow warm rain, too indolent, almost, to reach the ground.
"Say you love me," she would whisper.
"Why, of course, you sweet baby."
"Am I a baby?" This almost wistfully.
"Just a little baby."
She knew vaguely of Gloria. It gave her pain to think of it, so she imagined her to be haughty and proud and cold. She had decided that Gloria must be older than Anthony, and that there was no love between husband and wife. Sometimes she let herself dream that after the war Anthony would get a divorce and they would be married--but she never mentioned this to Anthony, she scarcely knew why. She shared his company's idea that he was a sort of bank clerk--she thought that he was respectable and poor. She would say: "If I had some money, darlin', I'd give ev'y bit of it to you.... I'd like to have about fifty thousand dollars."