Not an hour later Mrs. Stephen O'Valley's card was taken in to Mary Faithful as she sat trying to work in the new office--it never ceased to be new to her. She had heard the swift rumours of Steve's failure.

Understanding that the visitor's card had a deeper significance than the messenger who delivered it realized, Mary closed the outer doors of her office and waited for her guest.

It was a very Gorgeous Girl who swept serenely into the room and lost no time in introducing the nature of her errand.

"I don't know how well informed you are in business reports," she began in her high-pitched voice, "but perhaps you have heard----"

"The report of the new leather trust--without including your husband's factory? Yes--but it was bound to come. I always told him so."

Beatrice lost sight of the business introduction she had so carefully planned while dressing and then driving downtown.

"You have told my husband a great many things, haven't you?" she insisted. "Don't seem to be surprised. I am quite well informed."

She was scrutinizing Mary as she talked. Within her mind was the undeniable thought that there was something about this thin, tall woman with gray eyes which was real and comforting. She even wished that Steve had fallen in love with someone else, and that she, Beatrice, might have come to Mary for comfort and advice. If any one could have set her right with herself it would be just such a good-looking thing, as Trudy used to say, a commercial nun who had kept her ideals and was not bereft of ideas. Faith and intellect had been properly introduced in Mary's mind.

Mary blushed. "I have always wished to speak to you about something Mrs. Vondeplosshe told you shortly before her death. Won't you sit down? I am sure we have much to say to each other."

Beatrice found herself obeying like a docile child. As she took a chair facing Mary's desk she realized that in just such a kind, practical fashion would Mary proceed to manage Steve, that the years of experience in the business world as an independent woman would give Mary quite a new-fashioned charm in his eyes. Whether she was dealing with gigantic business interests in deft fashion or showing tenderness for the little girl who puts away her dolls for the last time, Mary possessed a flexibility of comprehension and power. One could not be cheap in dealings with her. And as the eternal s.e.x barrier was not present in Beatrice's behalf she realized that her jargon so impulsively planned would never be said. Nor could she dismiss Mary patronizingly and say the halfway melodramatic things she had said to Steve. It occurred to her as Mary began to talk that Mary had been brave enough to love, not merely be loved, the truth of this causing her to wince within.

"In a malicious moment Trudy told you of my--my affection for your husband. It is true, if that is what you have come to ask me about. I told myself months ago that if you did come to ask me this thing I should answer you truthfully, and we must remain at least polite acquaintances over a hard situation. I think I have played fairly."

Mary's face had a tired look that bore proof to the statement. "I even left his employ. As I once told you from an impersonal statement, I have a theory that many business women of to-day are in love with someone in their office. Propinquity perhaps and the shut-in existence that they lead account for much of it. Yet no woman is a true woman who forgets her employer is a married or engaged man.

"You and I know, however, that love does not stop to ask if this is the case, and I sometimes feel--impersonally, remember--that the business women earn the love of their employers and a.s.sociates more than said employers' and a.s.sociates' wives. Does it sound strange?

Of course you need not agree--I hardly expect it. Yet the fact remains that we watch and save that you Gorgeous Girls may spend and play.

In time the man, tense and non-understanding of it all, discovers that his trust and confidence may be placed in the business woman while romantic love is not enduring in his home. Not always, of course; but many times in these days of overnight prosperity and endless good times. So I have neither shame nor remorse--I have as much right to love your husband as you have--and because of that I shall be as fair to you as I would ask any woman to be toward me in similar circ.u.mstances."

"I think I understand," the Gorgeous Girl said, swiftly. "I see something of the light." She laughed nervously. It was easier to laugh than to cry, and one or the other was necessary at this moment. "I wanted to tell you that my husband is going away to take a rather mediocre position. I shall divorce him."

"He's won out," Mary said, in spite of herself.

"Has he? So you have been the urge behind him and his poverty talk?"

"I'd like to claim the credit," Mary retorted.

"Really?"

Beatrice found herself in another mental box, undecided how to cope with the situation. She had fancied she could make Mary cry and beg for silence, be afraid and unpoised. Instead she felt as ornate as a circus rider in her costume, and as stupid regarding the truth as the snapping Pom under her arm. Her head began to ache. She wondered why all these people delighted in accepting sacrifice and seeking self-denial--and she thought of Gay again and of what a consolation he was. And through it all ran a curious mental pain which informed her that she had not the power to hurt or to please either of these persons, and she was being politely labelled and put in her own groove by Mary Faithful. This stung her on to action, just as any poorly prepared enemy loses his head when he sees the tide is turning.

In desperation she said, coldly: "After all, I shall play square with you because you have played square with him. I'll give you the best advice a retiring wife can give her advancing rival. Don't copy me--no matter how Steve may prosper in years to come, do you understand? Oh, I'm not so terrible or abnormal as you people think. I'd have done quite well if my father had never earned more than three thousand a year and I had had to put my shoulder to the wheel. But don't ever start to be a Gorgeous Girl--stay thrifty and be not too discerning of handmade lace or lap dogs. You know, there's no need to enumerate.

Stay the woman who won my husband away from me--and you'll keep him.

What is more, I think you will make him a success--in time for your golden-wedding anniversary! There, that's as fair as I can be."

"Quite," Mary said, softly.

"Once you admit to him there is a craving in your sensible heart to be as useless as I am--then someone else will come along to play Mary Faithful to your Gorgeous Girl." There was a catch in the light, gay voice. "I don't want him," she added, vigorously. "Heavens, no, we never could patch it up! I shall always think of this last twelve months as _l'annee terrible!_ My Tawny Adonis was a far more soothing companion than Steve. Nor do I envy you and your future. I don't really want Steve--and you deserve him. Besides, we women never feel so secure as novelists like to paint us as being in their last chapters! So I'm giving you the best hint concerning our mutual cave man that a defeated Gorgeous Girl ever gave a Mary Faithful. As far as I am concerned the thing is painless. I shall have a ripping time out West, and some day perhaps marry someone nice and mild, someone who will stand for my moods and not spend too much of my money in ways I don't know about--a society coward out of a job! The thing that does hurt," she finished, suddenly, "is the fact that I'd honestly like to feel broken-hearted--but I don't know how. I've been brought up in such a gorgeous fashion that it would take a jewel robbery or an unbecoming hat to wring my soul."

"Thanks," Mary said, lightly. "I may as well tell you I've determined never to marry Steve, for all your good advice."

"Why?" All the tenseness of her nature rushed to the occasion. This was decidedly interesting, since it resembled her own whims. She felt almost friendly toward the other woman.

"Because," Mary answered, handing the psychologists another problem for a rainy afternoon.

Beatrice nodded, satisfied at the answer and the eternal d.a.m.nable woman's notion inspiring it, for it was just what she would have replied in like circ.u.mstances. She felt there was nothing more to be said about the matter and that Gorgeous Girls and commercial nuns had much in common. As usual, Steve was appointed the official blackguard of the inevitable triangle!

Going home that night Mary felt that truly the "day was a bitter almond." It even began to be dramatically muggy and threatening, in keeping with her state of mind--the sort of forced weather that issues offstage in roars of thunder the moment the villain begins his plotting. She took a street car, having meant to walk and give herself time to pull together and adopt the fat smile of a professional optimist.

A tired-faced woman, heavily rouged, was talking to another tired-faced woman, also rouged. Mary listened because it was a relief to listen to someone else besides herself, to realize there were other persons in this world occupied with other problems besides a commercial nun with a heartache, a tired cave man about to start again, and a Gorgeous Girl defeated in no uncertain terms. The whole thing was beyond Mary's comprehension just now; as much as the graybeards' lack of understanding when they try to Freud the schoolboy's mind.

"That's me, too, Mame, all over--and when she tried telling me she was a natural blonde, never using lemon juice in even the last rinse water--well, when you've been handing out doll dope and baby bl.u.s.ter over the counter of a beauty department as long as I have you know there ain't no such animal! Good-bye, Mame. I hope you get home safe."

"There ain't no such animal," Mary found herself repeating. "No, there sure ain't!"

There were no real commercial nuns; it was a premeditated affair entirely, merely a comfortable phrase borrowed by the lonesome ones unwilling to be called old maids; a big, brave bluff that women have adopted during these times of commercial necessity and economic stress. Commercial nuns! As foolish as the tales told children of the wunks living in the coalbins--as if there ever could be such creatures! The reason Mary would not marry Steve was because she, Mary, did not want to disappoint him even as the Gorgeous Girl had done. She did not want to be all helpmate, practical comrade; she had fed herself with this delusion during the years of loneliness. She had adopted the veneer, convinced herself that it was true, but she knew now that it was false. It had taken a Gorgeous Girl to scratch beneath the veneer in true feminine fashion. Mary did wish to be dependent, helpless--to have Gorgeous Girl propensities. The cheap phrases of the shopwomen kept interrupting her attempts to think of practical detail.

"There ain't no such animal."

She found Luke wild-eyed and excited, brandishing an evening paper.

"Look what's happened--the O'Valley Leather Company has gone under! Won't Constantine help him out? I always said you were the mascot----"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Why? I always tell you everything."

Mary smiled. Luke was so boyish and square. She felt that particularly toward Luke must she keep up the delusion of being a commercial nun, content with her part in things.

"It's such a horrid day. I rode on a car that was as crowded as a cattle shipment. My head aches. The stenographer has left to be married."

"You mean you are not interested about Steve O'Valley?" Luke was not to be trifled with regarding the affair.

Mary sank down into the nearest chair. "Of course I am. But what right have I to be?" she asked, almost bitterly. "It never pays to be too keenly interested."

Luke laid the paper aside. "Mary," he began, his voice very ba.s.so profondo, "do you like this man?"

Mary gave a little cry. "Stop--all of you--all of you!" Then she began sobbing quite as helplessly as the Gorgeous Girl could have done.

Luke stood before her in helpless posture. He might have coped with her temper but his reliable tailor-made sister in tears?--Never. As she cried he experienced a new sympathy, a delightful sense of protectorship. He decided that his wife should cry occasionally--it became women.

"See here," he began, shyly, "you mustn't cry about him; it won't do any good. If he has failed it isn't your fault. And if you do like him--well, you like him. He likes you," he finished with emphasis. "I know it. I've known it all along."

"Oh, Luke!" Mary said, helplessly. "Luke!"

He put his arm round her, clumsily. "There--now I wouldn't--please don't, it makes me feel awful bad--there's no sense worrying about it--you have a lot of good things ahead of you. There, that's the girl."

At that moment Luke grew up and became far more manly and self-sufficient than all Mary's practical naggings and deeply laid plans could have achieved. He felt he must protect his sister; hitherto it had been his sister who had protected him. And he watched with pride the way she smiled up through her tears in rainbow fashion and patted his cheek, calling him a dear. She was a new kind of Mary. Both of them felt the better for the happening.

But when Steve came unceremoniously to Mary's apartment that same evening, and Luke, very amusing and pathetic in his dignity, met him, innocent of the tornado of emotion sweeping about his nice boyish self--Mary almost wished the happening had not taken place. For a moment she feared that Luke would try to take command of the situation. There was something maternal in Mary's wishing Luke to be ignorant of the hard things until the ripe time should come. And Luke, quite willing to be released, since it was a trifle beyond his powers of comprehension, retired to read a magazine and resolve to be ready for action at the first sound of a sister's sob!

"I had to come," Steve said, simply. "I've been like the man who never took time to walk because he had always been so busy running. I want to walk but I don't know how."