Far away in Stamford, she also was late in falling asleep. That evening she and Eleanor had played together for several hours. But at first the music had gone wrong. Mabel, like Beatrice, like Isadore--like everybody--knew that Yetta was in love with Walter. She was thinking about them, wondering about their meeting, and it had thrown her into discord with Eleanor. They had almost had a quarrel over it, for Eleanor guessed the cause. At last, with an effort of will, Mabel had lost herself in the music, a closer harmony than usual had sprung up between the two friends--it had ended as a very happy evening. But after Eleanor fell asleep, the thought of Walter and Yetta came back again disturbingly. Eleanor, Mabel told herself, was a fool to be jealous. She did not love Walter. She would not have left the city except that she wanted to give Yetta a clear field. She hoped they would marry, for she liked them both. But how she envied Yetta! There was no treasure she could dream of which she would not have sacrificed to feel herself in love as Yetta was.

A little after eight in the morning, Walter was shaken out of sleep by the noisy din of his telephone bell.

"Good morning, Beloved," Yetta's fresh voice came to his sleepy ears. "I couldn't call you up before--not till my room-mate went out. I could get dressed and round to your room in three minutes, but I'll give you ten. Put the water on. You can't have slept much, because a lot of times I felt you kiss me."

"Well, don't waste time talking about it," he interrupted. "Hurry."

"All right," and he heard the click of her receiver.

The scruples of the night before had vanished at the sound of her voice.

He jumped into his bath and clothes with a keen thrill of expectancy. He sat in the window-seat and watched for her coming. G.o.d! What a queer world it was! He had been thinking over the possible expediency of suicide, and now life was opening up to him in thrilling vistas.

He waved his hand when he caught sight of her, and pinched himself to be sure he was awake when he noticed her quicken her pace.

He pretended to scold her for being slow. A dozen times he interrupted the coffee-making at critical moments to kiss her. She said it would surely be spoiled, and he swore he did not care. Yetta pretended to be in a hurry to finish the dishes and get uptown to work. It was a very meagre pretence. And what wonderful plans they made! With his arm about her they explored the two rooms in the back, which the carriage painter used as a storehouse for his brushes and cans. He would have to vacate.

One they would turn into a dining-room. Yetta spoke of the other as the guest-room. But Walter christened it "the nursery."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CRASH

When it was time for lunch, Yetta said she would rather cook than go to a restaurant, so they raided a delicatessen store.

It was during the afternoon that the first shadow fell across their dream. Yetta asked him if he had heard about Mrs. Karner's divorce.

"Yes, I know."

There was a queer ring in his voice which made her look up; something in his face disturbed her.

"What's the matter?"

He took his arms from about her and got up.

"Yetta," he said, pacing the room, "I suppose I'm a fool to ask you. But how much do you want to know? Very few men in this world of ours live up to their own ideals. I certainly haven't. I told you I was getting gray.

Well--she's one of the gray spots--inside. I'd rather not tell you about it. It will only hurt you. But I'm not a good liar. You noticed something at the bare mention of her name. But if you want to know, I'll tell you."

For a moment Yetta was silent.

"I think you'd better tell me," she said. "I'm not afraid."

But she was. She had accepted the idea that Mabel had preceded her in his affection. She had not thought of other women. This was disturbing enough. But what really frightened her was that he was reluctant to tell. If there was any one tangible thing which love meant to her, it was frankness. She had told him everything without his asking. Here was something he had held back. What it was did not matter so much as the different point of view it showed. It was startling to realize how very little she knew of his life.

He pulled up a chair beside the window-seat where she lay, and told her about Beatrice; told it in a way that did not make her seem offensive to Yetta. He told the story as truthfully as might be, without giving its real explanation--his heartbreak over Mabel. He did not want to bring this in. If Yetta had asked him point-blank how long it was since he had been in love with Mabel, he would not have tried to deceive her. But the telling of it would only distress her.

"It may not sound to you like a pretty story," he ended. "I'm not proud of it. But I'm not exactly ashamed either. It's a sick sort of a world we live in. There are better days coming when the relations between men and women will be saner and sweeter--and finer. But I don't think more lightly of Beatrice because of this. She's a remarkable woman. Life has not been very kind to her. But she's fought her way to the place where she is through with pretence. That at least was fine about our friendship. We were not pretending. I haven't told it very well, perhaps I haven't made you understand. But I hope Beatrice can look back on it without being ashamed. I can."

Although Yetta listened intently, she was all the time thinking not so much of Mrs. Karner as of what she typified--the unknown life of the man she loved, the things he had not told her.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked, kneeling beside her and taking her hand.

"Oh! Forgiven! That isn't it. Who am I to forgive you or blame you? It's that I don't understand. And when I don't understand, I'm afraid."

"You mustn't be afraid of the past, darling."

"I don't know about that. When it comes to love, I can't think of any past or present or future. It's just somehow eternally always and now and for ever and ever. I'm not sure we can get away from the past. I can't explain it very well, but some things are real and some aren't. I don't think I'll ever get rid of the real things which have come to me.

They'll never die."

"Well, don't worry about Beatrice,--that was only an interlude--not 'real.'"

"And Mabel?"

"A dream."

"But some dreams are real," she insisted.

"No dream in all the world, Yetta, is real like your lips."

She wanted so much to be kissed, had been so frightened for a moment, that she sought his arms without questioning this statement. But a few minutes later the thought came to her suddenly that he had kissed Beatrice just as he was kissing her. He felt her wince.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm dizzy. Let me go a minute."

She got up and stood by the window. She was doing him an injustice. He had never kissed Beatrice as he had just kissed her. But women seem never to understand that it is an utter impossibility for a man to caress different women in the same way. Probably our Father Adam and Mother Eve are the only couple the Earth has seen who have not had words on this subject. If Yetta had spoken out what was in her mind, Walter also would have taken up the age-old argument--in vain. But Yetta did not speak. She was fighting with herself--striving to regain her self-control. She had always believed that jealousy was contemptible.

But he had kissed Mrs. Karner just as--

"Still thinking of Beatrice?" he asked quietly.

"Trying not to, Walter. Oh, Beloved, you must be patient with me. It is all so new--so dizzyingly new. I've got to trust you, Walter. I've got to believe every word you say. I know I mustn't have doubts. I've got to believe every word you say"--she repeated it as if giving herself a lesson--"and I do, Walter. I mustn't ever think when you kiss me that perhaps you'd rather kiss some one else--and I won't."

She reached out her arms to him, and blinded by tears she stumbled across the room to him.

Walter should have seized this moment to tell her the whole truth. There is one very strong argument for always telling the truth. It is so desperately hard to know which moments in our rapidly moving life are such as to make a lie fatal.

Most of us believe that ultimately truth will out. But most of us try to control its outings. On the basis of what we vaguely call "worldly wisdom," by silences, by false emphasis--sometimes by frank lies--we try to protect our friends and enemies from the vision of Truth in her disturbing nudity. And there is hardly one of us who would not give his right hand if, in some crisis of his life, he had only had sense enough to tell the whole truth.

There were very real obstacles between Walter and his desire. Between their experiences and their outlooks on life there was a great chasm.

But his best chance was to face things frankly.

Beatrice was only an incident. Mabel was a more important matter. But still he could have made out a good case for himself. When he was six--nearly seven--years younger, he had fallen romantically in love with her. He had followed that love with a fidelity which promised well for his future obligations. It had become a habit, and a six years'

habit is hard to break. He had come to the realization that this blind infatuation was leading him to waste. With all the manhood he could muster he had tried to break the habit. Sometimes--possibly for a long time to come--the nerve-cells of his brain would fall back into the old ruts. But when this happened, it would be only the ghost of a dead desire. Even the ghost would be laid in time.

He could have told her that the very sense of life which throbbed within them--that made such questions seem of so great importance--laid upon them in no uncertain terms the imperious duty of the future. He had no Romeo-youth to offer her. Some of his hair was gray beyond dispute. But his strong and promising manhood was worth more than any hothouse flowers of romance. He could have offered her the finest of all comradeships, the communion of ideals, the life and labor shared together.