A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

“Oh, I couldn’t—” Pat started to say. But she was already standing still and not moving any nearer the door.

“There’s something so real about you. Most of these girls here are just like dolls.” He looked down at the floor and said in a low voice: “No one that was real ever came near me before. And then you walked in the door.”

“The wrong door!” she said.

She should have gone while she still wanted to. But she didn’t want to very much any more. She thought of Larry Cogan waiting for her at the armory. But he could wait a little longer. His eyes had never looked as sad as this, so he could wait just a little longer for her tonight. He’d see her every other night in the year.

“Please stay,” he said. And he looked at her and she knew she would.

He called the orchestra leader over to them and he said: “Lower the lights and let’s have a waltz.” Then he looked at Pat’s dress that wasn’t gold or silver or crystal at all and added: “Play Alice Blue Gown.”

And then they were dancing and it all seemed a dream.

At eleven he said: “You haven’t told me who you are yet.”

Pat said: “I’m Patty Moran of 68th Street and Ninth Avenue.”

“I’m going to like 68th Street and Ninth Avenue,” was all he said to that.

At twelve she said: “I’ll have to go now.”

At one she was still saying she’d have to go. Finally at two she went.

He went with her as far as the spinning glass door, and she saw a big car waiting outside.

“I can’t go with you,” he said, “because it’s my sister Agatha’s coming-out party and she’ll scratch and bite. But Bob will see that you get home safe.”

“Goodnight, Law.”

“Goodnight, Pat.”

That was all they said. They didn’t have to say much. Pat lifted up the speaking tube and said, “Sixty-eighth Street and Ninth Avenue,” and she took a rosebud from the crystal holder and held it in her fingers and looked at it for a long time. “Little flower,” she said finally, “what am I going to do about this?” But the flower didn’t answer.

Her mother was sitting by the open window fanning herself with her apron when Pat got in.

“Look at me!” she groaned. “You see me in the condition I’m in, all weak and warped, from answering that blessed telephone the livelong night. If Larry Cogan’s suicide is announced in the papers tomorrow morning, you’ll have yourself to thank for it. Your brother Tom counted the calls and he says there were twenty-eight of them. Myself, I think there were one hundred and twenty-eight.”

Pat threw her arms around her and hugged her. “Bless you for getting that address wrong.”

“I’m not asking you what happened,” her mother said, pretending to be very much offended, “because Mrs. Moran’s daughter is above rayproach, but I am asking you, daughter or no daughter, the next time you decide to break an appointment, see that your poor old mother doesn’t have to make all the excuses for you.”

“Mother,” Pat asked her, sitting on her lap, “can a girl love two people at the same time, both in a different way?”

“If she does,” her mother answered, “one of them gets left in the end.”

Pat thought a good deal about that before she went to sleep.

The next day two things happened. The first was Larry’s (her Larry’s) phone call before she was even awake.

“What did you do that to me for last night?” he demanded. This went on for quite some time. Pat’s mother even brought the coffee out to the telephone so she could drink it while they were arguing and not lose any time.

“You must have money to burn,” Pat said among other things, “throwing nickels away like you did, just to keep my mother awake half the night.”

He went on and on. “You ought to know by now without being told,” Pat said. “Well, if I have to say it, all right then — I love you. And don’t think for a minute that means you can boss me as much as you please.”

“For the like of those three words,” he said, “I’d gladly live the night over again, worried and jealous and all, glad of the chance.”

“Well,” said Pat, “no one’s asking you to.”

And that night at supper-time the doorbell rang. Tom went to answer it, and when he came back to the table, he said to Pat: “There’s a chauffeur out in the hall with a message for you.” She jumped up and when she got there found Laurence’s chauffeur standing in the door.

“Mr. Pierce sent some flowers over with his regards,” he said, touching his cap. “Can I have them brought up?” And without waiting for her answer, he went out to the head of the stairs and called down: “All right.”

On second thought Pat wasn’t at all sure she liked the idea. Presents the first thing when they had only met the night before for the first time. If he had been poor, it wouldn’t have mattered, but he was rich and it didn’t look right. She knew her mother wouldn’t say anything, but she didn’t want to give the neighbors a chance to talk. In fact she was just about to ask him not to bring them upstairs when in they came, a whole heap of them, and behind them Laurence himself, looking pleased and just a little embarrassed as though he didn’t know whether she’d be glad to see him or not.