TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

In the plain text version words in Italics are denoted by _underscores_.

The book cover was modified by the transcriber and has been added to the public domain.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept.

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

The Table of Contents was added by the transcriber.

IN A YELLOW WOOD

Novels by Gore Vidal

IN A YELLOW WOOD

WILLIWAW

IN A YELLOW WOOD

By

GORE VIDAL

1947
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK

Copyright, 1947, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

FIRST EDITION

No Part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper or radio broadcast.

American Book-Stratford Press, Inc., New York

For Anais Nin

All of the characters, all of the events and most of the places in this book are fictitious.

CONTENT

1
DAY

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller....

—Frost

From Collected Poems by Robert Frost. Copyright, 1930, 1939, by Henry Holt and Company, Inc. Copyright, 1936, by Robert Frost.

Chapter One

Robert Holton removed several dark hairs from his comb and wondered if his hairline was receding. He squinted for a moment at himself in the mirror and decided that he was not losing his hair, not yet anyway.

Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes. He started to tie the laces of the left shoe when he began to think of his dream. He had many dreams: of flying through the air, of walking in empty rooms, of all the standard things that psychiatrists like to hear about. Unfortunately, in the morning he could seldom recall what he had dreamed the night before. He would remember the sensation of the dream but nothing else. He would remember if it had been good or bad but that was all. Last night his dream had been unpleasant and something in the room had suddenly recalled it to him.

Robert Holton frowned and tried to remember. Was it the carpet? He had looked at the carpet while tying his shoe. He looked at it now. The carpet was dusty and uninteresting. It was a solid brown color; the same carpet that covered the floor of every hotel room in New York. No, the carpet was not connected with his dream.

He had been standing at the dresser while combing his hair. He looked at the dresser: plain dull wood with dull scroll work about the mirror. On the dresser was a dingy white cloth and on the cloth were a pair of brushes, his wallet, and a collection of small things. Nothing suggested an unpleasant dream.

The morning light glowed yellowly through the window shade. There was a band of brighter light between the bottom of the shade and the window sill and here the daylight shone into the square room where Robert Holton lived. He looked at the sunlight a moment and forgot his dream.

He glanced at his watch: fifteen minutes to eight. He had to be at the office at eight-thirty. Quickly he tied his shoes and got to his feet. He searched through the bureau drawers for a shirt. He found a white one and put it on. Before the war he had worn colored shirts but now plain white ones seemed more sound. And then it was a good idea not to be too vivid when you worked for a brokerage house.

His tie was pretty, though. It was a striped one, blue and white. Not a dark sullen blue but a light and casual blue. As he knotted his tie in front of the mirror he noticed his face was pale. He was always pale in the morning, of course; still, he looked unhealthy in the city. This morning he looked paler than usual. There were no pouches under his eyes, though, and he was glad of that. Robert Holton looked younger than twenty-six. His features were boyish and undistinguished and certain women had said that he was handsome. Robert Holton had looked well in uniform.

He put on his trousers and tightened the belt. Robert Holton, though he had never been much of an athlete, had a good build. Sitting at desks, however, would ruin it sooner or later and the thought made him sad. There was nothing he could do, of course, for he would always sit at desks.

He picked up his coat from the chair where he had hung it the night before and put it on. He posed for a moment in front of the mirror. Perhaps he was not handsome but he was nicer looking than a great many people and it is better to be nicer looking than a great many people than to be unusually handsome.

Robert Holton turned from the window and went into the bathroom. His watch was on the tile floor beside the bathtub where he had left it the night before. He set the watch by his alarm clock.

Again he tried to recall his dream. On the wall there was a picture of some apples on a table. A Frenchman had painted the picture twenty years before. It had been reproduced and the hotel had bought several copies because they were cheap and because the manager’s wife had thought the picture pleasant. Robert Holton liked the picture. It seemed to suggest his dream to him more than anything else in the room. He studied the picture but he could not remember the dream. The picture only made him uneasy. He looked away.

He went to the closet and took out his trench coat. He had bought it when he became a lieutenant three years before.

It was almost eight o’clock now. Robert Holton opened the door of his room and stepped out into the corridor.

There was a difference in smell. The corridor smelled old and dusty as though no one had walked down it in years. Robert Holton in the one year he had lived in this hotel had never seen anyone else come out of a room. Sometimes he wondered if he might not be the only person living on this floor, or in this hotel, or in the world.

The ceiling of the corridor was high and he enjoyed walking under such a high ceiling. He walked to the elevator and pressed the button marked “Down.”

There was a large pot filled with white sand beside the elevator door. He had always wanted to put something into that white sand. A cigarette butt, anything at all to spoil the white smooth surface. One day he would spit on the sand; he made himself that promise.

There was a clatter as the elevator went past his floor. That always happened. He pushed the button angrily.

Robert Holton tried to recall what he was supposed to do that day at the office. He could think of nothing very important that had to be done. In the afternoon he was supposed to go to a cocktail party and he looked forward to that. Mrs Raymond Stevanson was giving it and she was a very proper person to know. She had been a friend of his mother’s and she had been nice to Robert Holton when his mother had died several years earlier. His father thought Mrs Raymond Stevanson was stupid but his father was often harsh and she was, after all, important socially. When one was starting out in the brokerage business contacts were important. He began to map his day in detail.

There was a loud rattling and the elevator stopped at his floor. The door opened and Robert Holton stepped into the elevator.

“Good morning, Mr Holton,” said the elevator boy, a young man in his middle teens.

“Good morning, Joe. What kind of a day is it?”

“Wonderful out. Real warm for this time of year. Real Indian summer outside. Real nice weather.”

“That’s fine,” said Robert Holton, glad to hear that the weather was good.

“Any news on the market?” asked Joe, stopping at the seventh floor.

“Nothing new.” A middle-aged man, tall and thin, came into the elevator. Robert Holton had seen him almost every day for a year but they never spoke. The middle-aged man wore a black shiny topcoat and he carried a large leather brief case in which the outlines of an apple could be seen.

“I guess there’s nothing for me to put my money in, I guess,” said Joe.

“I shouldn’t advise buying now,” said Robert Holton. It was a daily joke of theirs. Joe would pretend he had money to invest and wanted advice.

They stopped at the second floor and another tall thin man in a shiny black overcoat got into the elevator. This man had a red face, though, and the other man had a white face. Neither of them ever spoke. Robert Holton often wondered what they did for a living, whether they had wives or not.

“Well, here we are,” said Joe, opening the door. “We made it all right this time.”

“We certainly did.” Robert Holton followed the two older men out of the elevator and into the lobby.

The lobby was high-ceilinged and old-fashioned. Tropical bushes grew in buckets and a gray chandelier was suspended from the center of the ceiling. At the desk sat a faded little woman.

She nodded to Robert Holton and he nodded to her. They never spoke. He picked up a newspaper from the desk, looked at his mail box to see if he might have overlooked something the night before. Finding nothing, he put three cents in a saucer beside the newspapers.

Robert Holton went outside. The morning was clear and cool. There was a depth, a golden depth in the air. There was no time of the year as pleasant as autumn, thought Robert Holton; unless it was spring. He liked spring, too.

He walked down the not yet busy side street where he lived. His footsteps sounded sharp and loud on the pavement. The brownstone houses that lined the street seemed large and significant this morning. Perhaps it was because of the clearness of the day. He noticed details in the stone that he had never noticed before. For instance, one of the houses was built of oddly pitted stone. He had seen another place built of pitted stone. He thought a moment: Notre Dame, the cathedral in Paris. During the war he had seen it. He had even walked up a great many winding steps to get to the top. At the top he had noticed the pitted stone which had proved, somehow or other, that the building was very old.

Sleepy children were coming out of the houses. They walked down the street to the bus stop, schoolbooks under their arms. There was a smell of bacon and coffee in the air and Robert Holton’s stomach contracted hungrily.

At the end of the street was the subway station. Every morning he disappeared down it and every evening he came up out of it. He spent a lot of time in the subway.

He went down the dirty cement steps. He put a nickel into the turnstile and walked out onto the cement platform. Twenty or thirty men and women stood on the platform with him, waiting for the downtown train.

The express went crashing by them. The noise of these trains was terrific. After it had passed he had to yawn several times to clear the deafness from his ears. Then the local stopped and he got aboard.

He sat next to a stout man who lived in his hotel. Occasionally they would speak.

“How’s the market?” asked the fat man, deciding not to read his paper.

“The market’s doing fine, should go up.”

“Well, that sure is good news. I’ve a little bit that I’d like to put in it. I’d like to put it in something safe, though. You know of something safe? Something that’s going to go way up, say?”

“Well, that’s a hard question. It’s very hard to tell just yet. Sugar’s doing well,” said Robert Holton. He always said the same things to these questions. No one cared what he said. They would repeat it to acquaintances, saying that a friend of theirs in Wall Street had advised them to buy sugar but they didn’t feel it was such a good buy at this time.

“You was in the army, weren’t you?” asked the stout man suddenly.

Robert Holton nodded.

“Been out long?”

“Over a year.”

“I’ll bet you was glad to get out. To get away from all those rules and things, those restrictions. I was in the army in the last war. I guess the one before last, you’d call it now. I was sure glad to get out.”

“Everyone is,” said Robert Holton and he thought of the things that he had done in London. He had liked London.

“You went to college, didn’t you?” asked the stout man; he was trying to clear up something in his mind.

“That’s right.”

“That’s what I thought. Me, I never had the opportunity. I had to go to work,” said the stout man with pride. “I had to work when I was a youngster. I never went to college.”

“It’s a good experience,” said Robert Holton, wishing the man would read his paper and stop asking questions. The train went around a corner noisily; blue electric sparks sparkled outside the window. Then the train straightened out again.

“I’m in the grocery business,” said the stout man.

“I know,” said Robert Holton, “we’ve talked about that before.”

“I started right in at the bottom,” said the stout man.

“That’s the best place to start,” said Robert Holton, feeling that there was no answer to this. He was wrong.

“Well, I don’t know. It’s hard to say. How did you like the army?”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“It wasn’t good neither. I never got overseas last time, I mean time before last, but we had it rough in training.”

“I can imagine.” Robert Holton looked away and the stout man stopped talking. Robert Holton looked at the upper moulding of the car to see if there were any new advertisements. There weren’t any. His special favorite, a girl advertising beer, was behind him and he couldn’t see it. Gloomily he examined a fat red child devouring a piece of bread. This was the advertisement he liked least. He looked away.

A woman with a small child sat across from him, directly under the bread advertisement. The woman was heavy with a roll of flesh around her middle; she wore a tight black dress. The child with her was about the age of the one in the picture. This child was pale, though, pale and fat.

A Negro was asleep next to the woman and child. He was long and thin and his bare ankles and wrists looked like brown wood. Two Jewish secretaries with yellow hair talked brightly together. They were young women and wore gaily colored clothes and their plump legs were hairless and pink.

An old woman with gray hair and deep lines in her face looked at the two young women and seemed to hate them in a secret womanly manner. Several young boys, wearing discarded army clothing, sat in a corner, their schoolbooks beside them. They talked in hoarse changing voices. Robert Holton could not hear what they were saying but their voices seemed to speak of sexual things.

The train stopped at a station and the stout man left. Two more stops and Robert Holton would get off.

The car was beginning to empty. Only the two girls were opposite him. They still talked brightly and laughed too loudly, conscious that he was watching them.

The train made its two stops and the girls got off. No one sat opposite him now. He studied the advertisements.

Then his stop was made. Quickly he got up, his trench coat under his arm. He went out onto the platform and before the train left he looked in again through the window. Slightly to the right of where he had been sitting was the picture of the girl advertising beer. He looked at her until the train pulled out.

When the train was gone he turned and walked up the dirty cement steps and as he walked he wished that he had a girl as pretty as the one who advertised beer.

Chapter Two

“Hurry up, Marjorie. Let’s get those tables cleaned up.”

“Yes,” said Marjorie Ventusa, “yes, Mrs Merrin, I certainly will,” she spoke sweetly, hoping that Mrs Merrin would get the sarcasm in her voice but Mrs Merrin was already at the other end of the restaurant talking to another waitress.

Marjorie pushed her natural blonde hair out of her eyes. She was never able to keep it in order; perhaps she should have it cut shorter, wear a snood perhaps. Mrs Merrin was watching her, she noticed. Quickly Marjorie began to put the dirty dishes on her tray.

People were coming in and out of the restaurant. It got a lot of the less wealthy Wall Street trade. Clerks and secretaries and stenographers had breakfast and lunch here and the lonelier ones had supper here. When her tray was full she went back to the kitchen.

On the other side of the swinging doors the cooks, wearing fairly clean aprons and white hats, were cooking at ranges. There was always steam and the smell of soap in the air. People shouted at one another and it was like a war. Marjorie hated the kitchen. The front part of the restaurant was all right. She had been a waitress off and on for fifteen years and she didn’t mind noisy people and the clattering of dishes.

She put some glasses of water on her tray before she left the kitchen. Then Marjorie Ventusa gave the swinging door a kick and walked back into the dining room. She had five tables to take care of.

Two women were seated at the table she had just cleared. She could tell from the backs of their heads that they were secretaries and older women; this meant they would be very particular and leave a ten-cent tip for both of them.

“Good morning,” said Marjorie Ventusa, smiling brightly and thinking of nothing at all. She put the water glasses on the table. The two women were frowning at their menus.

“How much extra is a large orange juice?” asked one.

“It’s ten cents more if you take it with the breakfast.”

“All right, I’ll take a double orange juice, some toast and coffee. Do you have any marmalade?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, bring some of that, too.”

The other woman said, “The same for me.” Marjorie Ventusa picked up their menus. As she was turning to go she saw Robert Holton come into the restaurant and she was suddenly happy. She smiled at him and he, seeing her, smiled back. She pointed to one of her tables and he sat down at it. Quickly she went back to the kitchen to give her orders. She pushed her hair back from her face and promised herself that she would get a snood the next day.

Marjorie Ventusa liked Robert Holton. For a year he had been coming into the restaurant; he always spoke pleasantly to her and they would joke together. She had never seen him anywhere except in the restaurant. She knew that he never really noticed her but she was always glad to see him and she was delighted when he talked to her and smiled at her; his smile was pleasant and he had nice teeth. She thought him handsome.

“Good morning, Mr Holton,” she said, putting a glass of water and some silverware on his table.

“How’re you today, Marjorie? You look perfect.”

“Sure, sure, I do; I’m a real beauty.” Marjorie always felt awkward with him, as though she couldn’t think of the right words to say. She was older than he was, too. Marjorie was thirty-seven; she had known a lot of men and still she was awkward with him.

“What you going to have this morning?” she asked.

“Well....” He drawled the word as he looked at the menu and she had a strong urge to touch the short dark hairs on the back of his neck. She tried to think of some excuse to do so. Then she was angry with herself for having thought of such a thing.

“I guess I’ll have some orange juice and scrambled eggs and bacon.”

“Is that all you going to eat? Why, how you ever going to get big and strong?”

He laughed. “Not sitting at a desk and eating your cooking.”

“Oh, is that so?” Marjorie Ventusa walked slowly back to the kitchen. She felt strained as she walked for she could feel he was watching her. She wished suddenly that her hips weren’t so big and that her legs were slimmer.

She shouted his order to the cooks, then she took the two secretaries’ breakfasts out to them. They complained bitterly about the size of the orange juice and one said that it was too sour and the other said that there were seeds in it.

“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie, “would you like something else?”

They said they would not and acted as if she had grown the oranges badly and had put seeds in the juice. One of her other tables was full now and she went and took their order.

Out in the kitchen his breakfast was ready and she put it on her tray. There were some seeds in the orange juice which she carefully removed with a spoon.

He was reading his paper when she came back. He didn’t look up as she arranged the dishes on his table.

“Well, here’s your breakfast,” she said. “You better eat it while it’s hot.”

“Oh, sure.” Robert Holton folded his paper and laid it on the table. She watched him as he drank the orange juice.

“Sour, isn’t it?” she asked.

“A little bit, maybe.”

“I’m glad you’re not going to complain. The rest, they all complain all the time. I get so tired sometimes I could get sick; I get so tired of listening to them.”

“Just don’t take them seriously. Everybody feels awful in the morning. You’ve just been awake longer and you feel better than they do, that’s all.”

Marjorie Ventusa laughed admiringly. “I wouldn’t have ever thought of that,” she said. “You might be right. Anyway a girl gets pretty tired of being shouted at all the time like it’s her fault.”

“Well, just relax. I like the food and the service.”

“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound elegant and funny at the same time.

“When you going to go out dancing with me?” Robert Holton asked, sawing a piece of bacon in half with a blunt knife.

“I’m pretty busy,” she said; she always said that when he asked her that question. He would say it because he thought it was funny and she would answer him as though she thought it was funny too. She wished that he meant it now. She had always wished that he meant it. “I’m pretty busy,” she said. “I got so many people asking to go out with me. You’d have to wait couple of weeks, maybe.”

“I can wait,” he said, smiling at her; smiling the way he would to a child, she thought suddenly. She watched him eat.

“Marjorie,” said a voice behind her.

“Yes, Mrs Merrin, I’m coming. I’ll be right with you. I was just cleaning this table.”

Mrs Merrin was tall and stout with a wide loose mouth which she could make look stern and harsh when she wanted to. She made it look that way now.

“Marjorie,” she said in a low voice, “you stop your hanging around and talking to the customers. I tell you I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Merrin. I was just cleaning the table.” Mrs Merrin smiled warmly at Robert Holton and walked away.

“She’s an awful bitch,” said Marjorie Ventusa.

“What did she say?” asked Robert Holton. “I didn’t hear her.”

“She was just running off at the mouth, that’s all. She thought I was talking too much to you.”

One of her tables called for a check and she walked over quickly and put their used plates on her tray. Then she went back to the kitchen. More orders were ready for her. She loaded her tray and went back to work.

As she worked she watched Robert Holton. It was twenty minutes past eight and she knew that he had to be at his office at eight-thirty. She hoped that he would stay as long as possible. His office was only a block away and he would be able to stay until eight-thirty. He ate slowly, she knew, and he would read his paper as he ate.

She hurried back to the kitchen. Two waitresses were talking and laughing together in a corner. They were young and pretty and would probably marry in another year and never work again; in another year Marjorie Ventusa would still be waiting on tables.

She stopped in front of the mirror behind the swinging doors. Mrs Merrin always said that neatness was an important thing.

Marjorie Ventusa rubbed the kitchen steam from the mirror. Her hair was back in her face again. She pushed it viciously out of her eyes. She hated its color. It was pale blonde, a real pale blonde. But because she was getting older and because she was part Italian everyone thought that she dyed her hair. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have it colored black. Her eyebrows were dark, thin and dark, and that made the color of her hair look even more suspicious.

A sailor she had seen several times during the war had told her that she had a beautiful figure and she had tried to believe him. She was too heavy, though. Well, she hadn’t been heavy at that time. At least not quite so heavy as she was now. She wondered what kind of women Robert Holton liked.

“Marjorie,” said Mrs Merrin. That was all Mrs Merrin said as she walked by. Marjorie Ventusa was glad. One day she would lose her temper and get fired.

The mirror had steamed up again. She took her tray and went out into the dining room. More customers had come. She put glasses of water and silverware on their tables and took their orders and gave them instructions in how to order and how to avoid paying extra for what they wanted.

Robert Holton was halfway through his breakfast. She looked at the clock over the kitchen doors. It was twenty-seven minutes after eight o’clock. She would work very hard now to get her orders taken care of and then she would have a few minutes to talk to him before he left. She usually couldn’t talk to him at lunch because he was always with someone else.

Marjorie Ventusa traveled quickly back and forth from kitchen to dining room and back again. Her hair was hopelessly out of shape now and she was perspiring.

Finally her last customer was satisfied for the moment. She wandered casually over to Robert Holton’s table.

“Breakfast good?” she asked.

“Never better.”

“That don’t make it so good.” They laughed. He was always so polite with her. That was why she liked him, she thought. He was very kind. He was handsome, too, but that wasn’t as important as being polite. A lot of fine people were not handsome.

“What’s in the paper?” she asked. She never quite knew what to talk about when she was with him.

“Not much. The same old stuff. Election stuff mostly.”

“Seems like there’s always an election.”

“There’re a lot of them.”

“I almost don’t read any newspapers. I don’t seem to get time to read them. I’ll bet you read a lot of them.”

“I have to. I read all about the market.”

“That’s right, you’re in Wall Street. That must be exciting. Working there where all those big deals are made.”

“They don’t make them where I am.” He laughed. “I’m just another worker.”

“I thought you were way up in one of the big houses.”

“Well, sort of a clerk which doesn’t pay much. It’s a good way to starve.”

“You ought to do something different. Suppose you marry some girl....”

“I’m not getting married for a long time.”

“I suppose,” said Marjorie Ventusa calmly, “that you got some nice society girl all lined up.”

Robert Holton shook his head. “I haven’t any girl anywhere.”

“Isn’t that like life. All the handsome men don’t have girls and they wonder why so many of us are old maids.”

“You’re not an old maid yet, Marjorie. By the way, what’s your last name? As long as I’ve known you I’ve never known your last name.”

“Ventusa.” She spelled it for him.

“Italian name?”

“My father was Italian, my mother was Irish.”

“That’s a good combination. I knew a lot of pretty girls when I was in Italy.”

“Were you there in the war?”

“I was there over a year.”

“I always wanted to travel. I guess I’d rather travel than do anything. My father, he used to tell me stories about Italy. He came from Sicily. Were you ever in Sicily?”

“Yes, I was in Sicily.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful.”

“Must be real messed up now.”

“Not too bad. The scenery’s still there.”

“I’m going to go there someday,” said Marjorie Ventusa, knowing that she never would.

“You’ll like it.”

Mrs Merrin was looking at her and she pretended to be busy at his table.

“Let me get you some more coffee,” she said. She picked up the plates from his table and put them on her tray. Her arm touched his hand. He pulled away unconsciously, and she walked back to the kitchen.

She got a cup of coffee for him. Two other orders were ready for her. She put them on her tray and returned to the dining room.

She noticed a girl was walking over to Robert Holton’s table. She had seen the girl often before. She worked in Robert Holton’s office. Occasionally they would have lunch together. She was a pretty girl. Her hair was dark and her skin white. Her lips were full and painted a deep red. She had a slim figure and slim legs and her eyes were blue, a deep vivid blue that Marjorie Ventusa envied. The girl spoke to Robert Holton. He stood up. Then they both sat down.

Marjorie Ventusa took care of two tables and then she went to Robert Holton’s table and placed his cup of coffee before him.

“Good morning,” she said to the pretty girl.

“Good morning,” said the pretty girl absently. “I’ll have some grapefruit juice. That’s all I want. I’m reducing,” she said to Robert Holton and she patted her slim waist.

“What on earth are you reducing for?”

“You think I look all right this way?” she asked, pretending surprise.

Marjorie Ventusa hurried to the kitchen. She hated this pretty girl. All day long Robert Holton was with her. Perhaps even at night they were together. She pushed her blonde hair back out of her face. If only she had been pretty and young. Of course, she had been young but she had never been pretty. She was far from old now. They said that if one wanted something badly enough one would get it. That was foolish; Marjorie Ventusa had never gotten anything she wanted, except a yellow satin dress. When she was a child she had wanted a yellow satin dress and her father had bought her one. The dress was in a box in her closet now; she had not looked at it in fifteen years. She picked up a glass of grapefruit juice and put it on her tray.

The pretty girl was laughing when she came back to their table and Robert Holton was watching her. She wore a gray suit buttoned tightly across her small breasts.

“Here’s your grapefruit juice.”

“Thank you very much,” said the girl, paying no attention to Marjorie Ventusa, saying the words mechanically.

The waitress began to clean the table next to Robert Holton’s. She rubbed the gray damp cloth over the shiny black table-top and she listened to Robert Holton and the pretty girl as they talked.

“But Caroline” (her name was Caroline then), “I didn’t know you were expecting me last night.”

“Well, we weren’t really. I just thought you might come on over, that’s all. We had quite a gang. Jimmy Hammond, he was at Yale about the same time you were.”

“I went to Harvard.”

“That’s right, you did. Well, you would’ve liked Jimmy Hammond. He was in the army, too. And there were a whole lot of people around. I just thought you’d have liked to come.”

“I certainly would’ve but I didn’t remember your inviting me.”

“That’s all right,” said Caroline, drinking her grapefruit juice and making a face as she did. “God, but this stuff is sour.”

Marjorie Ventusa, having cleaned the shiny black table-top cleaner than it had ever been before, turned to another table. She was still close enough to hear what they said.

“What did you do last night, Bobby?” She called him Bobby. Marjorie Ventusa wondered if she would ever be able to call him that.

“Not a thing. I went home to bed early.”

“Next time I’ll send you an engraved invitation when I want you to come to the house.”

“You do that. What time’s it getting to be?”

Caroline looked at the clock. “It’s not much after eight-thirty. Let’s take our time.”

“We don’t want to be too late.”

“You haven’t been around long. Nobody gets there on time. What’re you bucking for, Mr Holton?”

He grinned at her. Robert Holton had dark blue eyes. Marjorie Ventusa had never noticed them before. They were beautiful eyes, she thought suddenly.

One of the waitresses came over to her and said, “Boy, you sure must like that guy in the corner.”

“What do you mean? What you talking about?”

“Nothing at all. You needn’t get so excited. I was just noticing you talking to him all the time. I couldn’t help noticing, Marjorie. You was there so long talking to him.”

“He comes in here a lot and we talk, that’s all. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, Marjorie. I was just kidding you.”

Marjorie Ventusa picked up a cup of coffee and went back to the dining room. The waitress had irritated her. She didn’t want anyone to think that she would fall for a man at least ten years younger than she was. Well, perhaps not ten years. Robert Holton could be thirty. The difference between thirty and thirty-seven was not so great.

She walked over to Robert Holton’s table. They were talking.

“I don’t see what you have against Dick. He’s an awful nice fellow.”

“I don’t have anything against him. He just doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m trying to get his job.”

“Well, are you?”

Robert Holton smiled. “I don’t want anything; didn’t you know that?”

“Well, aren’t you the saint. You mean you wouldn’t like to take his job? Not even if it was offered to you?”

“I suppose if it were easier to take a job than refuse it I’d take the job. I’m easy to please.”

Caroline sighed. “You’re easy to please. I guess that’s what war does to you.”

“I was always like that. I was like that at college.”

“Just lazy?”

“Just lazy.”

“Good Lord, it’s almost nine! We have to get out of here.”

Robert Holton waved to Marjorie Ventusa. She came over to their table slowly. She didn’t want him to leave any sooner than he had to.

“Got my check, Marjorie?”

“I’ll get it for you.” She went to the cashier and had his check totalled for him. Then she brought it back and he paid her, leaving a ten-cent tip under his water glass.

Caroline stood up and put her gray coat about her shoulders. Robert Holton picked up his trench coat and slung it over his arm.

“I’ll see you at lunch, Marjorie,” he said.

“See you,” said Marjorie Ventusa and she watched them as they went out the door into the bright autumn morning.

“Say, Marjorie,” said one of her regular customers, “how about some more coffee.”

“O.K., O.K.,” she said.

“When are you going to get those tables cleaned?” said Mrs Merrin who was back in Marjorie Ventusa’s corner. “I wish you’d try to get them done right after the customers leave. I wish you’d make some effort, Marjorie.”

“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie Ventusa.

She began to clear Robert Holton’s table.

“What about my coffee?” asked the customer. “When I going to get it?”

“Right away.” Marjorie Ventusa finished cleaning Robert Holton’s table. Almost sadly she pocketed the ten-cent tip which he had left under the water glass.

Chapter Three

The elevator door opened and Caroline Lawson and Robert Holton stepped out of it and into the New York office of Heywood and Golden, members of the New York Stock Exchange and other organizations equally sound.

The entrance hall was modern and dignified. The walls were clean and white and there was a thick carpet on the floor. Two heavy leather couches furnished the entrance. A dark genteel girl sat behind a reception desk.

“Good morning, Caroline,” she said in a nasal voice. “Good morning, Bob.”

“Hello, Ruth,” said Robert Holton, and Caroline Lawson smiled at her.

“Anything new?” asked Robert Holton.

“Not a thing, Bob, not a thing. Everything’s just as dull as ever. Of course, it’s still early.”

“Sure,” said Caroline, amused at the thought of anything interesting happening to them, “the day’s just started.”

“Is the boss in yet?” asked Robert Holton. He was terribly afraid of getting in bad, thought Caroline, looking at him. He was rather cowardly but nice. Perhaps having been in the war had changed him. Perhaps he would improve.

Ruth shook her head. “No, he’s not in yet. He hasn’t come in yet. He’s always late, Mr Murphy is.” Mr Murphy was the head of the Statistical Section where Robert Holton worked. Caroline was Mr Murphy’s secretary.

“Well, I’m glad,” said Robert Holton.

“You certainly are eager,” said Ruth, looking up at him, her head slightly to one side: the way that movie actresses looked.

Robert Holton laughed. “I guess I am.”

“And after all you’ve been through, too! Why, if I’d seen what you’ve seen I wouldn’t worry what nob ... anybody thought.”

“That’s what I used to say,” said Robert Holton.

“Come on, Bob,” said Caroline. “Let’s get back to the salt mine.”

Ruth nodded to them and they walked into a long room. On one side of the room were the doors of offices; the other side was covered with tremendous pictures of factories and ships and railroads. The pictures were Mr Golden’s idea. He wanted to explain to customers the real meaning of the stocks they were buying. Mr Golden always wanted people to feel that the stock market was a creative, a productive thing.

Women of all ages sat typing at small desks in the long room. The light was indirect and modern and very even. One could see that Heywood and Golden was a well-organized house.

People murmured good mornings to Caroline and Robert Holton as they walked together between the desks. At the end of the room there was a glass door behind which were a large blackboard, ticker tape machines, and men recording the prices of the various stocks.

“Look busy, don’t they?” commented Caroline.

“They certainly do. I wouldn’t have that job for anything.”

“I think it’d be sort of exciting.”

“Too much running around for me. I like to sit still.”

“It takes,” said Caroline, “all kinds to make up a world.”

“Isn’t that lucky?” said Robert Holton and Caroline didn’t know whether he was laughing at her or not. Sometimes he bothered her. She liked him. Almost everybody did because he was nice-looking and quiet. He was weak, though, she thought. She didn’t like a man to be weak. She wanted someone that she could lean on. Caroline Lawson was one of those pretty girls who could never bear weak men and yet, by nature, hated those who were stronger.

They stood and watched the ticker tape machines through the glass door. A tall white-faced boy was slowly marking figures on the blackboard. He stood on a small stepladder and as he wrote the figures his left foot tapped regularly and rhythmically on the top step of the ladder. Caroline wondered what tune he was making.

“You like to dance, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

“What? Dance? Sure, I like to dance. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking, that’s all. I like to dance a whole lot. When I was at college we used to have wonderful dances.”

Robert Holton laughed. “That wasn’t so long ago, when you were at college. Don’t you go out any more?”

“Of course I do. You know I do, all the time, and I’m not trying to get you to ask me out either.”

He laughed at her and that was all.

Caroline looked at him and tried to guess what he was thinking. He was probably thinking that she was very pretty and that he would like to ask her to go out with him. She wouldn’t go out with him, he knew. Not now, not after she had said these things. Later, perhaps, when they had forgotten the words she had said. Caroline sighed as she thought of her own strength and of his weakness.

“Let’s get back to the office,” said Holton.

They walked down a short corridor. At the end of the corridor was the Statistical room. Here a dozen men and women worked at desks. They compiled figures for the executives and the customers and everyone else in the house.

Through a noise of automatic welcomes, Caroline and Robert Holton went into the office. Most of the desks were on the side of the room away from the windows. The windowed end of the room was protected by a railing; behind the railing was Mr Murphy’s desk and at a respectful distance from his desk was Caroline Lawson’s.

“See you later, Bob,” said Caroline and she opened the door of the railing and went into the windowed section of the room. She let the door swing creakily shut and went to her desk. Glancing sideways, she watched Robert Holton go to his desk at the other end of the office. Then she sat down.

The desk was neat. A new blotter was in the center. An inkwell, without ink in it, and a penholder, without a pen in it, held the top of the blotter down. A slim imitation silver vase sat on one corner of the desk. Occasionally Mr Murphy would put a flower in the vase and she would smile at him when he did that and Mr Murphy would wink at her.

One of the two phones on her desk rang. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Someone asked for Mr Murphy. “He isn’t in right now; shall I have him call you? You’ll call back later? Thank you.” She cleared her throat, cleared her professional telephone voice away.

She moved the blotter to one end of the desk. Then she lifted the front of her desk and a typewriter appeared. She ran her fingers over the keys, professionally, like a pianist before he begins to play.

She opened the left-hand top drawer of the desk. This was her personal drawer. Here were several compacts in various stages of use. A slightly crushed box of pale green Kleenex, a carton of cigarettes, and a box of fairly expensive candy. The lid of the candy box was off and Caroline Lawson decided that, since her breakfast had been small, a little candy wouldn’t hurt her. She picked the largest piece and put it in her mouth.

“Good morning, Caroline. How’s the girl?” It was Mr Murphy.

Caroline swallowed quickly. “Fine, fine, Mr Murphy. How’re you today?”

“Me? I’m just fine today. Certainly is a wonderful day today. Makes you feel like going out in the country somewhere. Out to Long Island or some place like that. Go some place to get away from the city.” Mr Murphy sighed. He had spent all his life in the city and he wanted to go live in the country. He would not like the country, of course, but then he would never leave the city and it made no difference.

“Look what I brought you,” said Mr Murphy. He pulled a slightly rumpled white carnation from his buttonhole. “We had a big blowout at the Astor last night. It was quite a show we had.”

“Thank you,” said Caroline, smiling at him. She smelled the white flower; a strong odor of cigar smoke spoiled the scent. “Thank you,” she said again and she put the white flower in the tall vase.

“Any calls? Anything new?”

“You had one call. No message, though. The man said he’d call back later.”

“Good.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk.

There was a pile of letters on his desk. Very precisely he cut the letters open one by one. Caroline watched him with a mixture of admiration and dislike.

Oliver L. Murphy was a tall man. He was heavy but not in the usual manner. His arms and legs and neck were long and thin and his hips were narrow; his stomach and chest, however, were massive. He held himself erect. His face was red as all Irishmen’s faces are supposed to be. His eyes and hair were dark and he had a thick curved nose. Mr Murphy’s clothes fitted him well. They were usually of a somber color and always correct. His cuffs were beautifully starched.

For five years Caroline Lawson had been his secretary. Her first job had been as his secretary; her last job, too, she thought to herself: she would be married soon and that would be the end of typing and putting cigar-scented flowers in fake silver vases. Caroline Lawson was not sure whom she would marry but she would certainly get married to someone soon.

Mr Murphy finished reading his letters.

“Anything important?” asked Caroline.

Mr Murphy shook his head. “Not much of anything. We got one letter here I ought to answer.”

“I’ll get my pad.” Caroline picked up a lightly ruled pad of paper from her desk. Then she went over and sat down in a chair beside Mr Murphy’s desk. She sat close to the window so that the morning sunlight would warm her. As she sat down bits of dust vibrated up into the sunlight from her chair seat. The motes of dust danced and glittered and then slowly sank along the beams of light to the floor.

“I’m ready,” said Caroline Lawson.

Mr Murphy cleared his throat and looked helplessly about him. It was his usual beginning. Then he picked up the letter he was to answer. He waited a moment for the words to come to him.

“Dear,” he began. She made the figure for the word. He paused, studying the ceiling. He began again, “Dear Mr Lachum, In reply to your letter of the 16th, etc., etc....” He stopped and closed his eyes; this seemed to help. “I cannot, I fear, agree with you in your analysis of certain trends now at work ... no, now abroad ... in the financial world.” His voice became firm and concise, “Although I have the greatest personal esteem for the opinions of yourself and associates, uh, in re to the stock market, I must, in this instance, disagree with you, for I am of the opinion that this is a rising market and will continue to be so. All statistics at hand ... no, available, point to just that. Hoping to hear from you again, and so on.” Mr Murphy stopped and opened his eyes. He looked pleased and exhilarated.

“That’s a very nice letter, Mr Murphy. Knowing Mr Lachum, I think you were certainly nice to him.”

“Well, it never does to offend people, Caroline. That’s a rule with me. That’s something I’ve always followed. I wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t been that way.” He paused and they both thought of a world where there was no Mr Murphy because he had offended people.

“All right, let’s hear that letter back.”

Caroline read the letter. Mr Murphy listened, pleased.

“That’s fine,” he said when she had finished. “Type it up please.”

Caroline went back to her desk. The sunlight and the glittering dust were almost out of the room now. Soon they would turn on the fluorescent lights over their desks. Caroline sometimes wished that the morning would last all day.

Caroline put a piece of paper in her typewriter. She started to type; then she remembered that all letters must be done in triplicate. She pulled the sheet of paper out of the machine. Wearily, enjoying her weariness, she arranged more paper in the typewriter.

Her fingers moved swiftly over the keys. She made rhythms as she typed, as the keys clattered on the white paper.

In a few minutes she was finished.

“Very nice,” said Mr Murphy, looking over her shoulder. “Very nice, indeed. I’ll sign that now.”

“O.K.” Caroline took the papers out of the typewriter. She removed the carbon. Mr Murphy signed the letter carefully. During the last five years Caroline had watched Mr Murphy’s signature change. It was becoming more original; the upstrokes were stronger and the “M” was becoming regal.

She blotted his signature. “What’ll I do next?” she asked.

“I expect you’d better get on those reports for Mr Golden. He was asking for them yesterday.”

“What does he think we are? We were only told to do those reports last week. That takes a lot of time. I don’t see what he’s always in such a rush for.”

“Well, you know how some people are,” said Mr Murphy, meaning much more than he said.

Caroline nodded wisely. Mr Murphy was often opposed to Mr Golden’s business ideas. Mr Heywood, who had inherited a lot of money and never bothered much with business, was Mr Murphy’s friend. Mr Golden was a promoter who had become a partner several years before. The conservative element of the house stood firmly against him but his hold over Mr Heywood was equally firm.

“I’ll get to work on it right away,” said Caroline.

“Good, I think I’ll go up to the front office. If there’re any calls tell them I’ll call back.”

“Yes, Mr Murphy.”

Smoothly Mr Murphy moved across the room. All of his movements were smooth and swift. He opened the swinging gate that separated him from his staff. They didn’t look up from their work as he walked between the desks toward the hall.

Caroline took more paper out of her desk and put it in her typewriter. She opened a black notebook. Slowly she began to copy. After a minute or so she stopped. She wasn’t concentrating and she didn’t know what was wrong.

Caroline Lawson leaned back in her swivel chair and her arms dropped limply at her sides. The sunlight was gone out of the room and she could no longer see the dust in the light.

Far away she could hear the sounds of automobile horns blowing, of newsboy shouts in the street; and, from time to time, their building would rumble as a train passed underground.

Closer to her were the sounds of the office. The clattering of typewriters, the constant low buzz of voices; these were the sounds of her days. Caroline was dissatisfied.

Across the room she could see Robert Holton writing something in a black book. She pitied him because he seemed to really like what he was doing. But then it was better than being a soldier: probably anything was better than that. But then Robert Holton wasn’t a woman. That made a lot of difference, thought Caroline. He couldn’t be depressed by things the way she was. Men were never sensitive about such things. She had a malaise. Having thought of this word, she was pleased with it. The word described her sudden fits of depression.

Robert Holton closed the book on his desk. He looked about him uncertainly. Then he stood up and walked toward her. He was presentable, she thought. Certainly better looking than anyone else in Heywood and Golden, but he was not what she wanted at all. Also, there was some doubt in her mind that Robert Holton was interested in her.

“How’s it going, Caroline?”

“I’m slowed up.” She sighed loudly and wilted in her chair.

“That’s too bad,” he said. She didn’t answer. She was quiet for a moment. He watched her and she enjoyed his watching her. Finally he said, “Murphy’s in a good mood today.”

Caroline nodded. “He’s real happy today. He wants to go out in the country. He always wants to do that when he’s feeling good.”

“He’s some character,” said Robert Holton. He sat down on the railing.

“It would be nice,” said Caroline thoughtfully, “to go out in the country; have a picnic maybe.”

“Sure, that would be nice, but you couldn’t do that.”

“No, I guess you couldn’t.” Caroline was contemptuous but because she was a very pretty and popular girl she didn’t show it. She was sensitive herself and that was what she wanted in life: a man who was as sensitive as she, someone who would respond to her moods. She looked at Robert Holton. He was sitting uneasily on the railing. No, he could never understand her great sadness. Perhaps no one would ever understand her. Caroline was sad, for it is a sad thing to be both pretty and sensitive.

“You’re going out tonight, aren’t you?”

Robert Holton nodded. “I’m going to a cocktail party; I’m going to Mrs Raymond Stevanson’s.”

“Oh, is that so? You’re really going around in high circles. I guess I shouldn’t be associating with high society like you.” She had meant to speak lightly and humorously but somehow the words had come out all wrong and there was a bitterness in her voice that embarrassed her.

Robert Holton looked surprised; he smiled finally. “Well, it never hurts to know these people. She was a friend of my mother’s,” he explained, trying to explain these things, to make himself appear like her; she hated him for his kindness.

“Those people are O.K., I guess,” said Caroline. She started to say something about her own family, some improbable but soothing lie, something to prove to herself that she was the same as Mrs Stevanson whose picture was so often in the papers. But she said nothing. She played with the ribbon of her typewriter.

“I hate staying in one place,” said Caroline, after a moment of silence.

“It’s no fun traveling,” said Robert Holton. “Moving around all the time; that’s what I didn’t like in the army. No, traveling’s pretty lousy.”

“That kind is, but I mean to go ... well, you know ... where you want to go, that’s what I mean. I don’t like sitting around here day after day. I want to go some place.”

He shrugged. “A lot of people do, I guess. Marjorie, you know, the waitress, she wants to go to Sicily.”

“Well, that’s different. I mean she’s not ... well, you know what I mean, she’s probably happy doing what she’s doing.”

“I don’t see why,” said Robert Holton. They thought of Marjorie Ventusa for a moment then they didn’t think of her again.

Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline looked about the familiar room. The older women were typing and using their adding machines; the younger women were watching Robert Holton; and the younger men (there were three of them) looked up occasionally to see what Caroline was doing. She posed a little for them. She didn’t pose haughtily, though. Caroline was too clever for that. She just looked girlish and rather innocent. None of them could understand her sadness and her longing. It pleased her to think how well she hid herself. Not even Robert Holton, talking to her now, could realize these things.

“No,” said Robert Holton, “no, I want to stay in one place.”

“You don’t want to be doing the same thing all the time, do you?”

“I don’t know, I’d like to make more money.”

“I think you’re crazy,” she said. She watched her fingers as they tapped lightly on the keys of the typewriter. Her hands weren’t quite what she wanted them to be. She thought of them as long and slender and faintly exotic; actually her hands were short and square and not very clean. The red enamel was beginning to chip off her thumbnails.

“Why’m I crazy? Because I want to make more money?”

“Not because of that, of course. Just because.”

“Oh.”

Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline suddenly didn’t want him to go. Then Richard Kuppelton got up from his desk near the door and came over to them.

“Why, hello, Dick,” said Caroline.

“Good morning, good morning,” said Dick heartily. He was a very hearty person and Caroline liked him. He was so different from Robert Holton. Dick always seemed the same; he acted the same, anyway. Caroline could almost always tell what he was going to say and that was a lot better than being around a person who never said the right things. Dick wasn’t sensitive, however. He and Robert Holton were the same that way but then Caroline couldn’t have everything.

“How’s every little thing?” asked Dick Kuppelton.

“Fine,” said Robert Holton. Caroline only smiled; she smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth. It was important to smile that way.

“Been pretty slow today,” said Dick. “Not much business. I think the market’s falling off.” Someone had told him that, thought Caroline, delighted with her perception.

“It may be,” said Robert Holton without much interest.

“We should have a big rush soon. I’m doing a report now. Well, not really a report; I’ve been getting some statistics on aircraft stock ready for the front office. It’s been some job.” He shook his head to show the largeness of the job.

“I’ve got a report like that to do, too,” said Caroline.

“Something for Golden?”

“Yes.”

Dick nodded knowingly. “Some report, I bet.”

“It’s certainly long,” said Caroline, pointing to the notebook on her desk.

Robert Holton got off the railing and stretched. “I better get to work,” he said. “Murphy might be back soon.” He went back to his desk.

“He’s real eager,” said Dick unpleasantly.

“What? Well, I don’t know about that. He’s sort of funny. He doesn’t want to get anywhere but he doesn’t want to get in bad. I don’t know; he’s awful funny.”

“I’ve seen those guys before,” said Dick. “I know that type. They come in a place and get in good with the top people. Then they get your job. That’s just what he’s up to.”

Caroline smiled and said nothing. She was pretty and popular and she couldn’t always, therefore, say what she thought. She knew, though, that Dick Kuppelton, who had been with Heywood and Golden for six years, disliked Holton. Mr Murphy had never liked Kuppelton and at the end of the year changes were always made and Robert Holton might take Dick’s place. Things were very complicated, thought Caroline.

“I don’t think he’s that smart,” said Caroline.

“I think you’re wrong.” Dick started to straddle the railing, then he changed his mind and leaned against it. He was a large man. He was thirty and pink and blond. He wore large rimless glasses which made his face look clean and blank. He enjoyed what he was doing, thought Caroline. Everyone enjoyed working except herself.

“I’ve got to do some typing,” said Caroline. She wanted him to go away.

“Certainly; I suppose I’d better be getting back.” He stood up straight and stretched. “Well, back to work,” he said.

“See you,” said Caroline. Dick was so dependable: you always knew what to expect.

Caroline coughed. Her cough had a consumptive sound to it which rather appealed to her. When she was a young girl she had seen a play about a beautiful woman with white flowers and a cough. The beautiful woman had been so interesting that Caroline had never forgotten her although she had forgotten the play. Caroline coughed again, quietly, dramatically.

“How’s that report coming?” Oliver L. Murphy had returned from the front office.

“Pretty well, Mr Murphy.”

“Had quite a session with Mr Golden.”

“I bet,” said Caroline with sympathy. “I’ll bet he was something.”

“Well, I handled him O.K. today. He’s not so hard to get along with. Of course, he’s got some queer ideas. Those people often have.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Caroline arranged the paper in her typewriter. Mr Murphy leaned over and smelled the carnation in the imitation silver vase.

“Smells nice, don’t it?”

“It certainly does, Mr Murphy.” She smiled. Mr Murphy went back to his desk and Caroline typed. Several times as she worked she coughed, quietly, almost to herself.

Chapter Four

Richard Kuppelton left Caroline reluctantly. He liked her because she was pretty and much more sensible than the other pretty girls he had known.

He stopped at his desk. It was a dull olive color. His different books of statistics were piled neatly on one corner; notebooks and papers were scattered over the top and it looked as if he were busy.

Kuppelton decided not to work, not just now. From the top drawer of his desk he took a magazine. It had a vivid cover of a large-breasted young woman being carried into a machine by an octopus. He enjoyed this magazine’s stories very much.

He slipped the magazine under his arm, the cover toward his side; and then, busily, he left the room for the lavatory.

There was something cozy about a lavatory, he thought as he opened the door marked “Men.” No one was inside and he would be able to sing. The room was large, white and very clean. The urinals, four of them, stood polished and shining, like soldiers on guard. A thin waterfall constantly descended down their white enamel surfaces; the smell of disinfectant was in the air, but not too strongly.

Richard Kuppelton glanced at himself quickly in one of the four mirrors which shone over the four wash basins. Then he walked to one of the four black-doored stalls. He chose the one nearest the wall. There was strategy in his choice as well as habit, for the light was over this stall.

With the feeling of having come home after a long journey, Richard Kuppelton opened the black door and stepped inside. Then he closed the door and locked it. He was completely alone now; no one could disturb him and he was safe.

Deliberately he hung up his coat and then, after some preparation, he descended with a sigh upon the cool smooth seat. He relaxed happily.

On the subway he had started a story called “The Mad Moon Maidens”; unfortunately, it had been a little dull and he had decided not to finish it. He thumbed through the rough pages of his magazine. Grotesque black and white drawings decorated the pages. There were monsters and ghouls, beautiful women (usually screaming) and lean young men with pongee hats. The title “Satanic Underworld” appealed to him and he started to read.

After only a few minutes, however, he found himself studying the tile floor. Black and white tile in neat one-two-three pattern across the floor; he liked things that were black or white. The pattern was familiar to him and gave him a further feeling of being home.

Great ideas came to Richard Kuppelton enthroned. Here in this retreat the entire world assumed a pattern of great simplicity. All problems could be rendered answerable and in this world he was sovereign. The lavatory was his study. He thought of Robert Holton: the person who currently threatened his career.

Robert Holton was deceitful; he knew that. On the surface he appeared simple and a little shy but Kuppelton knew differently. Little things that the others had not noticed he noticed. For instance, Holton was always trying to get friendly with Mr Murphy. He always called him “sir”; treated him as if he were a colonel or something in the army. That was another thing: the army. Holton had been a soldier and Kuppelton had not. Most of the others in the office had not been in the war either. Both Mr Heywood and Mr Golden had declared that they would do all that they could for the veteran. So far this hadn’t been very much, but still it was their intention. Richard Kuppelton wished suddenly that he could stay forever in this shiny black stall with the tile floor.

There was a noise in the lavatory. Someone had come in. Footsteps clattered on the floor. The door to the stall next to his opened and someone sat down.

He wondered who it was. The person wore plain brown shoes: he could see them through the foot-high space beneath the stall partition. This person also wore brown trousers. Richard Kuppelton thought for a moment, strained to remember who it could be. Then he remembered.

“Hello, Bob,” said Richard Kuppelton.

“What? That you, Dick?”

“The same.”

“You catching up on your reading?”

Richard Kuppelton closed his magazine guiltily. “No, no. Just nature.”

“It’s a good place to think.”

“Well, I suppose it is.”

“What’s wrong with Caroline today?” asked Robert Holton.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I didn’t notice anything wrong with her, did you?”

“Yes, I thought she was sort of irritable.”

“I didn’t notice it.” Richard Kuppelton sighed. He was beginning to get uncomfortable, sitting on the hard seat. He was, also, a little surprised that Holton was as aware of Caroline as this. “Caroline’s a lot of fun,” he said.

“Yes.”

“She’s a lot of fun to go out on a party with. She can be real funny.”

“I suppose so.”

“You ever go out with her?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never went to a party with her. We had dinner once.”

“She didn’t want to go dancing?”

“No.”

“That’s funny.” Richard Kuppelton tried to remember whether he had ever taken Caroline out and they had not danced. No, they had always gone to a dance. He wondered whether she liked Robert Holton better than him. This was a new thought and even more unpleasant than the suspicion that Robert Holton was trying to get his job. “She just likes to talk?”

“Yes, I guess everybody does.”

“That’s right, I guess.” Richard Kuppelton studied Holton’s plain tan shoes gloomily. One of the things he could not understand was why Robert Holton had come to work in this office. It was rumored that he was a friend of Mr Heywood’s but no one had ever been able to prove that. He had gone to Harvard before the war and to Richard Kuppelton that was the most important thing about him. It was also suspicious; he could not understand why a person with that education would do this job in Heywood and Golden unless—and Richard Kuppelton became gloomier—unless he were to be promoted over everyone.

“Looks like there’ll be a lot of changes after the first,” said Kuppelton.

“They tell me there usually are.”

“I suppose you want to end up in the other office, being one of the contact people.”

“I don’t care much. Whatever they want to do. I’d like to move up, of course.”

“We all would.”

Robert Holton mumbled something and stood up. Kuppelton watched the tan shoes as they moved about the stall. There was a swirling of water and Robert Holton left the lavatory, whistling.

Richard Kuppelton studied the tile again. It seemed, somehow, less comforting, less private since Holton had been here. He tried to read again but “Satanic Underworld” had lost its attraction. The seat was becoming harder every minute and he would have to leave soon.

Then he remembered that the acoustics were unusually good in this lavatory. In a low voice he sang an Irish ballad which he had learned in school. His voice came to him pure and vibrant and like no other voice that had ever sung. He finished with a low note, although, strictly speaking, the ballad called for a high note. He sang a popular song next. It was not as great a success as the first because he only knew the chorus. The words that he made up, however, were quite good enough.

At last, his songs finished, Richard Kuppelton stood up. He ached slightly from the strain of sitting on the narrow seat. Deliberately he arranged his trousers, deploring slightly the heaviness of his waist as he did.

The sound of swirling water was in his ears as he crossed the lavatory to the wash basin. Deliberately—he was a deliberate person—he washed his hands. He dried his hands on a paper towel and then, like a king abdicating, he moved slowly but deliberately to the door. With a sigh Richard Kuppelton left the lavatory.

The office had not changed. Mr Murphy was sitting behind his railing, smoking a cigar and reading a letter. Caroline was typing. Robert Holton was copying a row of figures into his notebook. The other men and women in the office were working busily.

Richard Kuppelton sat down at his desk. He enjoyed the sensation of being a part of this great house. Neatly he arranged his books of tables and statistics across the top of his desk. The various books were open at aircraft stock. His statistics would form the basis of a report which would be used in an overall survey of aircraft stock to be used by the front office. His responsibilities were heavy.

He took his fountain pen out of his pocket. It was leaking a little and he had to handle it carefully. Slowly, with pleasure, he copied the figures from the books. He wrote the numbers carefully, making them round and legible. When he had finished copying all his numbers they would be typed up by one of the stenographers in the office.

A tall white-faced boy in a blue suit came into the room. He went to Richard Kuppelton's desk and put some papers on it.

“Good morning, Jim,” said Kuppelton heartily. “How’s the boy?”

“Fine. I think Golden’s coming this way.”

“Really? Wonder what he wants.”

“Hard to say. He always wants something.”

“That’s his privilege,” said Kuppelton righteously.

“I suppose so,” said Jim.

The white-faced boy went on to the next desk, handing out letters and inter-office memoranda.

Richard Kuppelton put his fountain pen down carefully. There were several letters for him. He opened one of them and started to read.

He had read only a few lines when Mr Golden came into the office. Even without looking up from his letter Richard Kuppelton could have told that someone from the front office had arrived. The typewriters clattered more loudly. The usual low buzz of voices died away, and he could hear Mr Murphy’s swivel chair being pushed back from his desk as he stood up to welcome the visitor from the front office. Kuppelton put his letter under the blotter and then he looked up casually.

Benjamin Franklin Golden stood behind Mr Murphy’s railing. He stood very erect, his eyes moving from desk to desk as he studied the office. He was a short man and plump. His eyes were small and black and shiny. Mr Golden had iron-gray hair which he allowed to grow a little longer than necessary. He was proud to have kept his hair. He had a small nose and a rather foolish little mouth and he looked more like a South American or Italian or something like that, thought Kuppelton.

He pretended to write figures in his notebook, while he listened carefully to what Mr Golden was saying to Mr Murphy.

“Everything all right here, Murphy?” Mr Golden had a high thin voice.

“Yes, sir, we’re getting your reports out. I’ll have the special one for you this afternoon.”

“That’s good. I really need that report. That’s an important one. Some of our big steel clients are interested in it. I know you’ve done a good job on it.” There was almost a threat in his voice. It was well known that the two did not like each other.

“Well, I’ve got our best girl, I’ve got Caroline here typing it.” He waved at Caroline who looked up and smiled at Mr Golden who smiled back at her. Richard Kuppelton wondered what Mrs Golden was like.

“I’m sure she’ll do a good job. How’s that aircraft stock report coming?”

“Kuppelton’s doing it.” Mr Murphy pointed to him.

Mr Golden nodded. “I’ll be interested to see it.” Richard Kuppelton copied figures quickly.

“Should be a good survey,” said Mr Murphy. “Is there going to be a board meeting this morning? You said they hadn’t decided earlier.”

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot; there’ll be a meeting at eleven-thirty.” Mr Golden had an irritatingly brusque manner.

“Fine,” said Mr Murphy and he made a note of it on the pad on his desk.

Mr Golden didn’t seem to want to go. He looked around the room again. He looked at Robert Holton and said something to Mr Murphy which Kuppelton couldn’t hear. Mr Murphy smiled and nodded.

Mr Golden finally opened the door of the railing. “See you at the meeting, Murphy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Golden hurried out of the office. There was an immediate change in the sounds of the room after he had left. The hum of voices began again. Richard Kuppelton put down his fountain pen.

Caroline and Mr Murphy were talking together and laughing. Robert Holton was still working quietly at his desk. The women of the office talked about Mr Golden in low voices.

Richard Kuppelton wondered what Mr Golden had said to Mr Murphy about Robert Holton. He looked at Robert Holton with dislike.

“O.K.,” said Kuppelton, “Mr Golden’s gone, you can stop working.”

Robert Holton put down his notebook and smiled. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt to look busy.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t meaning to criticize.”

“I didn’t think you were. Did you hear what they were talking about?”

This was malicious, Richard Kuppelton knew; it would have been very hard for Holton not to have heard. “Oh, they were just talking about reports.”

“That’s what I guessed.” He started to work again.

“You live uptown, don’t you?” remarked Kuppelton.

“Yes. I’ve got a room in a hotel.”

“That’s funny, I thought you lived with your family or something. I thought Caroline said something about it.”

“My father used to live here. He lives in Boston now. He used to work here but he retired when I got out of the army.”

Richard Kuppelton nodded. “That’s right, I remember your telling me that once. Me, I live with all my family in Queens. We all live there. I wish sometimes that I lived alone.”

“It’s not much fun, living alone,” said Robert Holton.

“Think you’ll get married soon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think I might,” said Richard Kuppelton weightily; he had no one in mind, though; except possibly Caroline.

“I guess it’s a good idea if you’ve got the right person,” said Robert Holton.

“That’s very true.” They thought of this a moment. Each thought of it seriously and each regarded it distantly. Richard Kuppelton had no real desire to be married. He supposed that Robert Holton felt the same.

“I wonder,” said Kuppelton subtly, “what the conference is going to be about this afternoon. I wonder if it’s about promotions in the departments.”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Since the war, seniority doesn’t make much difference.”

“I thought it did.”

Kuppelton shook his head, convinced of Holton’s insincerity. For weeks now everyone had discussed the new policy and everyone had watched the veterans in the different offices, especially Holton; it was expected that they would all be promoted: in any event Holton would be.

“No, it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

Robert Holton smiled. He had small white teeth and an agreeable smile which Kuppelton resented. “That’s good news for me. I haven’t been here very long you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” and Kuppelton laughed loudly to show that he was friendly and that it made no difference to him who was promoted.

He glanced toward the windows. Mr Murphy caught his eye and motioned to him. Quickly Richard Kuppelton got to his feet and walked across the room to the railing. He was careful not to let the gate slam when he came into Mr Murphy’s presence.

“Yes, sir?”

“I just wanted to check with you on that aircraft stock report. I just wanted to make sure it was coming along well.”

“I’ve been working on it right along, Mr Murphy. They’ll start typing it up tomorrow.”

Murphy compressed his lips and nodded slowly. “Mr Golden was asking for it. I wanted to be sure, Dick.”

Kuppelton was suddenly glad that Mr Murphy had called him by his first name. He did this only when he was well pleased or when he wanted something.

“It’s been quite a job getting those things together but I finally ... got them together.”

“I know how it is. How’s your family these days?”

“They’re pretty well. My mother’s been better. Her legs don’t bother her so much now.”

“That’s good. Arthritis is pretty bad. I had a grandmother who had it once.”

“It’s pretty bad,” agreed Richard Kuppelton.

They both paused and wondered what to say next. Kuppelton began to edge toward the gate. Murphy stood up. “Let me see that thing as soon as you get it done.”

“I certainly will.”

Mr Murphy turned to Caroline who was typing at her desk. “I’m going to be in conference for a while,” he said. “Take care of the calls, will you?”

“Yes, Mr Murphy.”

“Big conference?” asked Kuppelton when Murphy had gone.

“I don’t know,” said Caroline and she stopped typing. “They were talking about it. Something to do with policy, I think.”

Caroline got up from her desk and stretched. She had nice slim legs, Kuppelton noticed. He wondered if his mother would like her. It was important to him to have his mother like his future wife—if he ever had one. She had been wonderful about the other girls he had liked but somehow they had never been quite what she thought his wife should be. He was her favorite son and he could not disappoint her, naturally.

“I guess that leaves me out,” he said wearily, hoping she would give him some good news.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” she said, a little coldly he thought, “you’ve got a good job now.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” he said emphatically.

“Oh, I know I am. Bob’s the fair-haired boy these days,” she added.

“I expect he is.”

Caroline walked to the window and looked down at the crowded street. “There really are a lot of people in this town,” she said in a distant voice.

“There sure are.”

“Do you ever wonder about all those people ... down there?”

This was the sort of talk that made Richard Kuppelton nervous. He hated it when people started asking him vague questions to which there were no sensible answers. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

She turned around and looked at him then, looked at him rather sadly, he thought. “I’ve got work to do,” was all she said.

“See you, Caroline.”

Robert Holton was leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty dull, isn’t it?” commented Dick.

“The army was a lot duller.”

“I thought that was one thing that it wasn’t ... dull.”

Robert Holton chuckled. “This is a lot better.”

“Don’t you miss moving around?”

He paused before he replied and Kuppelton wondered what the truth really was; however, Robert Holton only said, “No, no, I like staying in one place.”

Richard Kuppelton turned back to his books of figures. He wondered helplessly, as he wrote, how anyone could be as deceitful as Robert Holton. It was obvious to him that Holton would get the job he was to have gotten and he certainly could not get this job without being deceitful. Richard Kuppelton was worried about this. He was also worried because he found himself hating Robert Holton and his mother would never have approved of that.

Chapter Five

The ulcer was the most important thing.

After the ulcer his wife, and then his job, and finally his children. These were Mr Murphy’s interests. At the moment the ulcer was more important to him than all the others together.

Ever since Mr Murphy could remember, he had had pains in his stomach. Not really bad pains: just unpleasant sensations. In recent years this had gotten worse. A month before, a doctor examined him and said that he had an ulcer. The doctor was very serious and there was talk of further tests. Then Mr Murphy read a picture magazine article on cancer.

He did not suspect cancer: he knew. The doctor, although he had been rather grave, had said nothing about cancer, but Mr Murphy was confident he had it. He had tried to do everything right, to cure himself with bicarbonate of soda and other medicines but the pains not only didn’t go away but they got worse when he thought about them.

He pushed his fist into his stomach for a moment and felt the pain under his fingers. He cursed himself for having gone to the party the night before.

As he walked through his office he wished that he were home in bed. It would have been harder, of course, to stay home, because his wife was not very good with an illness. She had a tendency to become hysterical if she had to do anything unusual. No, it was better to be here at the office. To be here even if he was dying. This last thought made him uncomfortable and he put it out of his mind.

He looked at his watch—eleven-fifteen. The meeting would begin soon. Mr Golden insisted that all meetings begin on time.

Mr Murphy left his office. As he walked through the rooms he was pleased to have everyone speak to him politely. He was a person of importance here and he had become this all by himself with no help from anyone; practically no help.

The executive offices were larger and better decorated than the other offices. There were several uniform rooms where the vice-presidents (they used to be partners but Mr Golden had changed that) sat at big desks and received clients and dictated letters and did other things. Then there was the anteroom. This was a small room with red leather couches, a receptionist, some modern lamps and two portraits on the walls. These paintings were of Mr Heywood and Mr Golden. Beyond the anteroom was the boardroom.

The receptionist smiled at Mr Murphy. He smiled back at her and sat down in one of the red leather couches. Two minor vice-presidents were also seated and waiting. They greeted him soberly.

“Nice morning,” said the younger of the vice-presidents; he had been a lieutenant commander in the navy.

“Certainly is,” said Mr Murphy.

“I understood we’re in for a cold winter,” commented the older of the two vice-presidents; he had been a commander in the navy.

“Nothing like a real old-fashioned Christmas,” said Mr Murphy in a smooth low voice. He was conscious of a difference in their voices. His own voice sounded rough to him while their voices were always smooth and almost British. He had noticed these differences before but there was nothing much he could do about them. In the front office he always felt less important because of this difference, and because of this and other things, too, he was made to feel an outsider.

The vice-presidents then talked in their cultured near-British voices about a certain college football game. Mr Murphy lay back in his red couch and wondered if perhaps he should drink more milk. That was good for ulcers; but nothing was good for cancer. He shuddered.

A few more vice-presidents and section heads came into the anteroom. They talked and laughed together and Oliver L. Murphy talked and laughed with them.

There was a buzz and everyone stopped talking. The receptionist looked up from her desk. “They’re ready,” she said.

The men walked into the boardroom of Heywood and Golden.

A long room, with indirect lighting, thick carpets, and a long table with armchairs around it: this was the boardroom. On the walls were charts of stocks and trends.

Mr Heywood was sitting at one end of the table and Mr Golden was sitting at the other end of the table. Murphy sat down on the left of Mr Heywood. This was his usual seat.

“Hello, Oliver,” said Mr Heywood cheerily.

“Hello, Mr Heywood.” Murphy was suddenly glad, glad that Mr Heywood had called him by his first name; he did this only when he was well-pleased, or wanted something.

Oliver L. Murphy leaned back in his leather armchair. Mr Heywood sat rather limply in his own chair at the head of the table. He waited for the others to be seated.

Lawrence Heywood was a gentleman. He had a large estate in Maryland and he collected prints; he had had three wives and a number of children and, generally, he had managed to do everything in a large but tasteful manner.

He was a tall man in his late forties. Completely bald, his neat round head shone pinkly under the indirect lights. His face was smooth and neat and looked as if he had never worried in his life. His voice was not near-British like his vice-presidents: it was British. He had gone to school in Massachusetts which explained a lot of it, thought Murphy.

Mr Heywood did everything properly. He had inherited a lot of money. It seemed as if every year a new relative would die and leave more money to him. His three wives had all been beautiful and that was another thing to be said for him—he knew how to choose women. Mr Murphy wondered what it would be like to marry a beautiful woman.

“How’s that new man in your office?” asked Mr Heywood suddenly.

“You mean Holton? He’s doing very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We have a mutual friend,” and Mr Heywood laughed gently at the thought.

“Is that right? He’s got a good background, I guess,” said Murphy.

“I expect so. I used to know his mother. She was a very attractive woman twenty years ago. She married...” Mr Heywood decided not to reminisce in front of Murphy.

“He’s worked in my section, in the office, just fine.”

“That’s good. I don’t know him myself but I have some plans for him. We’re going to the same party tonight.” Mr Heywood laughed gently again. “Perhaps we’ll get to know each other. It’s so hard ever getting to know employees in the office,” sighed Mr Heywood. “I rather wish there weren’t so many of them sometimes.”

“I know just how it is.”

“We going to call this meeting together?” It was Mr Golden’s high voice from the other end of the table.

“Certainly, Ben,” said Mr Heywood. “We’ll start right now.” He picked up a black ebony gavel and tapped lightly, apologetically with it. The men stopped talking. “Now, let’s see,” began Mr Heywood.

“The Steel account, that’s the big thing we’re going to talk about,” said Mr Golden.

“That’s right.” Mr Heywood sounded bored. “That’s right. Well, gentlemen, it seems that we have a problem.”

Mr Murphy relaxed in his chair. Mr Heywood’s voice, gentle and cultured, came to him soothingly. The Steel account was of no interest to Mr Murphy; in fact, these conferences were generally of no interest to him. He was just there to talk about Statistics.

He played with papers in front of him. The voice of Mr Heywood flowed about him. He was lost in a slow current of polite vowels. The pain in his stomach was, for the time, gone.

Mr Heywood spoke of the market, of stocks and shares, of the state of the Union. He spoke convincingly because his manner was convincing and, also, because his ideas and facts had been given him by many clever men.

Mr Golden sat at his end of the table and listened. He sat there very straight, his little mouth set in a soft line of pseudo-firmness. His small hands drummed on the table and his eyes glanced about the room. His eyes were always in motion. The fear of a thousand years was in Mr Golden’s eyes.

From time to time he interrupted. Mr Heywood would pause and listen; then, when the other had finished, he would continue in his gentle voice to tell the others what clever men had told him about Steel, and the men, whose livings depended upon him, listened respectfully to their ideas.

Mr Murphy observed these things as he sat in his chair. He felt less important in these conferences but he did feel secure. Here in the boardroom he felt himself to be a part of something large and opulent—of American Business. This thought was comforting as well as sobering. There was no security in the world to equal that of belonging. It made no difference to what one belonged just as long as one was a part of something big and secure. And what, Oliver Murphy asked himself, could be bigger or more secure than Business? He saw these things clearly because he had a philosopher’s mind and the Celt’s ability to envisage life in a clear perspective. He could, he knew, see the trees as well as the forest. That was what made him different from the others. They felt, perhaps, that they belonged, but he knew.

Then the ulcer began to bother him.

He no longer was conscious of Mr Heywood’s voice. The only thing of importance now was the dull pain in his stomach. He moved uneasily in his chair. He pushed a hand into his stomach. This helped a little. The pain shifted slightly. He followed it with his hand, his fingers pressing gently into the pain.

“We’ll want complete figures on the rise and fall of Arizona Zinc during the past five years.”

This was said by Mr Heywood. It registered in Mr Murphy’s mind but he didn’t respond for a moment.

“You’ll have those figures for us next meeting, won’t you?” Heywood asked, irritation in his voice.

“Certainly, Mr Heywood,” said Murphy. He sat up straight and Mr Heywood nodded to him and then continued to talk.

Oliver Murphy listened carefully to everything said. He was beginning to sweat from the pain and the fear (more fear than pain, he told himself) but still he strained to hear every word and, slowly, as he listened, magic took place and the pain went away.

At last, when certain decisions had been made, Mr Heywood adjourned the meeting.

Murphy stood up. He felt better now. He wondered if perhaps he might not be mistaken about the cancer.

“Oh, Murphy.”

“Yes, Mr Heywood?”

“That fellow in your office, that Holton, you think he’s quite efficient?”

“I do.”

“I wonder,” said Mr Heywood hesitantly, “I wonder how he might work out as one of our customers’ men. Dealing with the public, all that sort of thing.”

“He’d probably do that very well.”

“You could afford to lose him?”

“Oh, yes, I think so.”

“I wish,” said Mr Heywood petulantly, “that I knew him better. It’s terrible having so little contact with the office people.”

“I could send him in to see you.”

“Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ll wait and see him tonight at Mrs Stevanson’s.”

“When do you think you’ll change him over?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If I think he has the suitable, ah, temperament, we might change him this week.”

“I know he’ll be really tickled to hear this.”

“I expect so.”

“How is Mrs Heywood?” asked Murphy politely.

“She’s fine, thank you,” said Mr Heywood blankly. Trouble, decided Murphy. The third Mrs Heywood seemed to be following the previous Mrs Heywoods.

“Well...” said Murphy and he mumbled words to himself as he walked toward the door. Mr Heywood stared vacantly at him as he left.

Mr Murphy felt well when he was in motion. Walking with great dignity from office to office, conscious of the eyes of others upon him, was good for him. Aware of being a symbol of success he forgot his pains and some of his worries.

As he went into the Statistical office he could feel the atmosphere change. The clerks and typists became busy.

Mr Murphy went to his desk. “Any calls?” he asked.

Caroline shook her head. When she shook, her breasts quivered slightly. Mr Murphy noticed this and his stomach constricted with pain. Emotion was bad for him, according to the doctors. He looked away and tried to think of something else.

“No, there weren’t any calls. Some memorandums came in from the other sections but that was all.”

“Any letters?” He thought of his family.

“Yes.” Caroline sounded surprised. “Right there on your desk. Right where I always put them.”

“Oh, yes.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of neat businesslike envelopes. He had no desire to open them.

Caroline typed rhythmically at her desk.

“Say, Caroline....”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Tell Holton to step over here, will you?”

“Sure, Mr Murphy.” She got up and went through the gate and out into the office. He watched her legs as she walked determinedly to the other end of the room. He was almost pleased to feel the pain come flooding into his stomach. That would teach his stomach, he thought viciously.

The gate creaked and Robert Holton stood before him.

“You want to see me, sir?”

“Yes, yes, Holton. Sit down here. Over here on my left.”

Robert Holton sat down and looked expectant. Mr Murphy wondered for a moment why he had asked to see Holton. Then he remembered what Mr Heywood had said.

“How’s everything coming, Holton?”

“Just fine, Mr Murphy.”

“Well, that’s good. Things have been going pretty well here. But I suppose you find things pretty dull after the army?”

“No, no. I like this sort of work. I had enough moving around.”

“I should think so. Well, that’s what most of us want, I guess,” said Mr Murphy. “We want to settle down. A lot of people say they don’t like routine but I think everybody does. It’s an important thing.”

“Yes, sir. I think it is.”

“There is,” said Mr Murphy, shutting his eyes for a moment to give the illusion of pondering, “there is security in working for a big house like Heywood and Golden.” He opened his eyes and looked directly at Holton. “Don’t you feel that’s true?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Yes, it’s true.” Mr Murphy sighed and thought about going out to the country for a rest. A place that would have neither telephones nor mosquitoes. Most places had one or the other.

He looked at Robert Holton and wondered what he was thinking. He seemed a likeable young man. He was quiet and reserved and didn’t seem too aggressive. In fact that was probably a fault that Mr Murphy had not thought of. Holton was not a go-getter. He might lack initiative. That was why he was quiet and reserved. Or, as Mr Murphy finally thought, that might be a reason for his reserve.

“Tell me, Holton,” said Murphy, “have you had any ideas about, ah, your place here? I mean, what you would like to do. Naturally you wouldn’t be interested in staying here, in this department. With your education....” He permitted his voice to fade.

“No, I haven’t had any ideas; in fact, I haven’t thought too much about it. You see this is all pretty different from what it was like where I was in the army. I don’t suppose I’m quite used to the idea ... well, you know....”

“I think I do. You would like to work in another department perhaps?”

Robert Holton looked at him. Mr Murphy could not tell what he was thinking for his face was relaxed and calm. “Well,” said Holton, “I don’t know. I don’t want to be out of my depth. I’d like to make more money. I like the idea of buying and selling stocks. I like that idea very much. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came here.”

“Of course, there’s a lot of work to knowing about stocks and bonds. You realize all the work that’s involved.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps a place will be found for you in that department. It’s hard to say, though. With your, ah, background it shouldn’t be too hard. That is, if you have the stuff.”

“I hope so.”

“Good.” Mr Murphy watched Caroline typing. “I understand,” said Mr Murphy finally in a changed voice, “that you’re going out tonight.”

Robert Holton looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Mr Heywood said you and he were going to the same party.”

Holton smiled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. Mrs Stevanson’s giving a cocktail party. I guess that’s what he means.”

“It won’t hurt to be nice to him there,” said Mr Murphy with a laugh.

“No, I don’t suppose so.”

Mr Murphy looked at Holton and wondered what would become of him. If he had more initiative he might be a wealthy man because of his background (the important thing was background), but he would probably not go very far. He might not even go as far as Mr Murphy had and Mr Murphy had been a success without background. Robert Holton didn’t look as though he cared to be a success.

“Well, don’t let your night life interfere with business,” said Mr Murphy lightly.

“No,” said Holton rising, “I won’t.”

With a nod Mr Murphy dismissed him.

Mr Murphy watched Caroline absently as she typed. Her hair was rather long. It must be a nuisance to help her into a coat, he thought suddenly. That was something he hated to do. Whenever he helped a woman into a coat there was, first, a certain struggle to get her arms into the sleeves. Some women were better than others at this. And then, second, there was the problem of hair. If the woman had long hair it was inevitably caught inside the coat. This meant that her first motion was usually to free her hair and that involved a wild freeing and flinging of the hair which for anyone still posted behind her meant running a risk of becoming entangled. Mr Murphy wondered about these problems as he looked at Caroline’s long dark hair.

He had started to work on his letters (the ones in the business envelopes) when Richard Kuppelton appeared.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got the first part of that report here, the one on aircraft,” said Kuppelton.

“Yes?” Mr Murphy made himself sound cold and official.

“Well, I wondered if you cared to look at them ... what I’ve done so far, I mean.”

Mr Murphy looked at him for a moment without speaking. When Mr Murphy had first come to work for Heywood and Golden his then immediate boss had impressed him greatly by just looking at him for several seconds at a time without speaking. Mr Murphy had adopted the mannerism and over the years had improved it until now he could be very frightening. He was that way now.

“You want me to do it for you?” he asked finally.

“No ... no, sir, I didn’t mean that. I just thought you would like to see what I got done.” Kuppelton was uncomfortable and Mr Murphy decided that he had done enough.

“Why, I’d be glad to look at it,” he said.

Kuppelton brightened. “Thank you. I only wanted you to see the form I was using here. That was all. I’m making my conclusions in a slightly different way from usual and I thought....”

“Yes, I’ll take a look at it.”

Kuppelton put a pile of papers down on Mr Murphy’s desk.

Mr Murphy nodded at him and Kuppelton left quickly. Mr Murphy felt much better after exercising his power. Poor Kuppelton was a good man in an office but he would never go very far because he didn’t have assurance. He would be promoted after the first of the year if Holton were moved out. That would make Kuppelton happy, which was a good thing. It wasn’t bad, thought Mr Murphy, to have contented people about you in a discontented world. He relaxed in his chair and then the pains started again.

This time the ache was about an inch below his belt and slightly toward the left (his appendix was on the right and, besides, his appendix was in good shape). The pain began to move toward the center. Quickly he pressed his fingers into the pain.

His heart beat rapidly and sweat formed on his face. If the pain didn’t go away by the count of ten he would get up and take the special medicine his doctor had given him.

Frightened, Mr Murphy counted and the pain, not subject to this magic, did not go away.

Chapter Six

“It’s twelve o’clock,” Caroline said to Mr Murphy. “I think I’ll go out to lunch, if that’s O.K.”

“Yes, yes, Caroline.”

She thought he looked rather pale. She was about to ask him how he felt but she stopped herself, remembering how he disliked talking about his health. She had noticed that during the last year he had been taking a lot of medicine. Perhaps he was going to die. Caroline began to compose a little drama to herself. Mr Murphy had just collapsed across his desk and she had been the only one to keep a clear head....

“You coming, Caroline?” It was Robert Holton.

“Be right there.” She arranged the papers on her desk, shut the drawers and joined Robert Holton outside the gate of the railing.

“Where’ll we eat today?” asked Holton.

“At the restaurant, of course. Where did you think we would?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He was smiling now and she wondered if he could have been trying to be funny; she could never be sure.

“Sometimes you don’t make sense,” said Caroline.

They were almost through the door when one of the secretaries called to Holton. “Phone, Bob.”

She waited for him at the door. He went over to his desk and answered the phone. He seemed excited, she noticed, and he talked very quickly. She wished she could hear what he was saying. Finally, he finished and joined her.

“Who was that?”

“An old friend of mine.”

“Man or woman?”

“A guy I used to know. He just got in town. He comes from out West and I haven’t seen him for a couple of years.”

“You knew him in the army?”

“Yes.”

They walked through the offices to the elevator and Holton pressed the button.

“What’s he doing in town?”

“He’s just visiting. I’m going to see him this afternoon. He’s coming over here after lunch.”

“That’ll be nice. What does he look like?” She asked this gaily, hoping to have some effect on him. She didn’t, though.

“I don’t know. He looks all right, I guess.”

“You certainly are good at description. Be sure to let me meet him.”

“I will.”

The elevator stopped for them and they pushed into the lunch-going crowd. With a rush they descended to the street floor.

Outside the sun shone brightly above the street. The sky was a vivid blue and the air smelt clean in spite of the exhaust fumes and the people of the city. The day was warm.

They walked along the crowded street. Men of affairs with brief cases walked in and out of swinging glass doors. Younger men of affairs, wearing bowler hats and dark coats with darker velvet lapels, marched solemnly in the parade of business. The white-faced clerks squinted at the bright sun. Women secretaries walked together, admiring themselves in the windows. As they walked they talked to each other and to themselves.

“What a nice day,” said Caroline, breathing deeply and coughing as the exhaust fumes tickled her throat.

“Must be nice in the country,” commented Robert Holton.

“Not you too?” Caroline laughed. “First Murphy and now you want to go out in the country.”

“I don’t want to go. I just said it must be pleasant there.” They crossed a street and he looked carefully to left and right and when they finally crossed the street the crowd had gone around them and the light was beginning to change again.

“Why do you take so long?” said Caroline disagreeably.

“Just careful, that’s all.”

They walked in silence then. She was very conscious of his being beside her, of her arm being in his. This troubled Caroline, this awareness. She looked at Holton’s face as they walked down the crowded street. There was nothing in his face that she would like to have seen. This made her feel better because he was not the right person.

Over the high gray buildings was a narrow section of bright blue sky. It was almost too bright and contrasted strangely with the dingy buildings and the dark streets. Caroline watched the blue sky suspended upon the buildings. No clouds were in the sky but from time to time a bird would circle in it. And, as she watched the sky, a large air liner, like a rigid bird, moved straightly eastward.

Caroline breathed deeply again, careful this time not to get the exhaust fumes too far down in her lungs. She coughed anyway.

Marjorie Ventusa looked through the plate-glass window at the street. She had been watching off and on for half an hour, waiting for Robert Holton to come.

Some days he would come in at twelve and other days at twelve-thirty, and then there had been certain days when he’d not come in at all and those were bad days for Marjorie Ventusa.

It was a few minutes after twelve when she saw him walking down the street, pushing through the crowd, a man different from all the others walking in the street. She frowned when she saw the pretty secretary with him. Marjorie hated this girl but she was helpless and could only hate all the others who seemed close to Robert Holton.

She pretended to be busy cleaning a table when they came in.

“Hello, Marjorie,” said Holton and he and Caroline came over to her table.

“Oh, hello, it’s you again.” She made herself sound matter-of-fact and bored, but her throat was suddenly full and she had to clear it before she could speak again. “What you going to eat today?”

“I don’t know,” said Holton and he and Caroline sat down at the table, across from each other. “What do you want, Caroline?”

“I’d like to see a menu, I think,” said Caroline in a voice that Marjorie Ventusa would like to have choked out of her.

“Here,” said Marjorie and she handed them two white menus.

They studied the menus.

Many people were coming in and going out of the restaurant. All the tables were full now and there were people standing and waiting for tables. Some of her customers were beginning to look at her, waiting for her to take their order. She hoped Mrs Merrin would not notice how long she was taking with Robert Holton.

“I think,” said Caroline, frowning a thin hair-wide frown, “I think I will have some tomato juice, and a lamb chop....”

“No more lamb chops,” said Marjorie, trying to keep the triumph from her voice.

The hair-wide frown became a scowl. “Then I’ll have the veal.”

“Any vegetables?”

“Yes, the spinach.”

“You can have one other.”

“That’s all.”

And Marjorie thought, “the” spinach indeed. Why was it that when these people wanted to sound elegant they would talk about everything as “the”?

“What do you want, Mr Holton?” She wished that she had the nerve to call him Bob, the right to call him that.

“Oh, I think I’ll take the same.”

“Coffee, tea, or milk?” She said the words as though they were one word.

They both asked for coffee and Marjorie went quickly out of the dining room and into the kitchen.

There was much more steam in the kitchen now than there had been at breakfast; as the day passed the kitchen got hotter, and steamier, and the cooks got more irritable and Mrs Merrin more nervous and Marjorie Ventusa would become tired and sad.

She called the new orders to the cook. Then she picked up two small glasses of tomato juice and put them on her tray. She fingered one of them a moment, thinking that soon he would be drinking from it. She enjoyed thinking of this, though it only made her desire stronger and her sadness greater.

She didn’t want to go back yet. She hoped Mrs Merrin would not come into the kitchen for a while.

But one of the swinging doors opened and Mrs Merrin walked into the kitchen. Quickly Marjorie picked up her tray and went back to the dining room.

Caroline and Robert Holton were talking seriously and Marjorie, because of the noise of voices in the dining room, couldn’t hear what they were saying.

They stopped talking as she came up to them.

“Here you are,” said Marjorie Ventusa brightly, putting the glasses of tomato juice on the table.

Robert Holton smiled at her, showing his white even teeth.

“Have you got a date for tonight?” asked Robert Holton.

“You know I always do.”

“A sailor maybe?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Get one who’ll take you to Italy.”

This was cruel but Marjorie smiled and forgave him. She had not been joking when they spoke of Italy. She did not think it fair of him to say this in front of the pretty girl, but Marjorie forgave him because he was young and because she felt about him in a certain way.

“Maybe we’ll go to Capri together,” she said. “Is it nice there?”

Holton nodded. “Beautiful.”

Caroline said, “I’m sure you don’t want to take up any more of her time, Bob. She’s got a lot of things to do.” Caroline gave Marjorie a brilliant smile. A man from the table next to theirs said loudly, “When are you bringing me my soup?”

“In just a minute, sir.” Marjorie looked at Robert Holton once again, tried to catch his eye but he was talking now to Caroline and Marjorie Ventusa had been put quietly from his mind. She went back to the kitchen.

Outside the restaurant Richard Kuppelton and the receptionist Ruth were wondering whether anybody they knew would be in the restaurant; otherwise they would have to wait for a table.

Kuppelton looked through the window. He blinked nearsightedly. Then he saw Robert Holton and Caroline.

“Caroline’s in there,” he said.

“With Bob?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s go on in.” Ruth liked Robert Holton.

“Hello, hello,” said Kuppelton heartily when they were inside.

Caroline and Robert Holton appeared glad to see them.

“My gracious, it certainly is crowded,” said Ruth, pointing to the people standing.

“Lucky you people were here,” said Kuppelton.

“I don’t,” said Ruth, “see how the town stays so crowded all the time. I could understand it during the war but now ... well, it’s just impossible to go anywhere or do anything.”

“I know,” said Holton. “Took me months to get a room.”

“Is it nice?” asked Caroline.

He shook his head. “It’s very depressing.”

“I guess I’m lucky to be living with my family,” said Kuppelton. “It’s real nice out where we are and there aren’t so many people. I’d hate to have to live in the city.”

They talked of the places where they lived and then they started to talk of the places where they would like to live.

Kuppelton watched Holton as he talked and he tried to learn, by concentrating intensely, what he was thinking; to learn if Mr Murphy had said he would promote him. Holton’s smooth forehead, however, was a wall and Kuppelton could not pierce it, could not discover the dreams behind it.

Marjorie came over to their table and put two plates of veal in front of Caroline and Robert. The veal was a uniform tan color, floating in a sea of red sauce. Two saucers of dark-green spinach floating in water were put beside the plates of veal.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” commented Marjorie.

“Sure, sure,” said Holton, looking at his plate with distaste.

Kuppelton ordered veal and Marjorie left.

Kuppelton looked at Ruth. She was dark, with a big nose and with self-pitying eyes. Her complexion was oily and she wore too much make-up. Ruth liked all men; she was sitting very close to Robert Holton now.

“Any interesting people come into the office?” asked Holton, turning to Ruth: as receptionist she was always able to tell them about celebrities.

Ruth nodded. “Laura Whitner was in to see Mr Heywood.”

Caroline was interested. “She’s the movie star, isn’t she?”

Ruth nodded again, a birdlike motion. “Why, she used to be one of the biggest stars. I used to go see all her pictures. My gracious, they were wonderful.”

Marjorie Ventusa returned with veal for Kuppelton and the ham and eggs for Ruth.

“Oh, thank you,” said Ruth. “I love ham,” she added.

Richard Kuppelton looked at Ruth with disapproval. She was an aggressive woman and he was tired of aggressive women. His mother was that way. Caroline was more what he wanted. She had spirit but was not aggressive. There was a difference between spirit and aggressiveness. He could not quite define it but still there was a difference. Caroline could act irritated with him and he would not mind. And she always smiled, even when she was angry; he could not feel that a woman who always smiled was aggressive. She had a mind of her own but then he could handle that. Eating veal, Richard Kuppelton felt he could handle anything.

Robert Holton finished eating. He sat back in his chair and yawned.

“Bored?” asked Caroline.

He shook his head. “No, not very. Just sleepy.”

“Well, I like that!” exclaimed Ruth. “You’d think we weren’t good enough for him.” She said this in a way to let him know she was being humorous.

Kuppelton decided, however, to develop what she’d said. “Sure, he’s a good friend of Mr Heywood.”

Ruth was impressed. “I certainly wish I had your contacts then. I sure wouldn’t be working in this lousy job.”

Robert Holton wanted to know what was wrong with her job.

“Oh, you know how it is. Doing the same thing day after day. It makes me sick. I’d like to do something exciting.”

“Like what?” asked Richard Kuppelton. These were his secret wishes, too, but he would never have put them into words. He was delighted to hear someone else say them.

Ruth was not sure just what she wanted. She decided she would like to travel. Richard Kuppelton admitted, then, that he would like to travel. Caroline thought a moment and agreed with them that to travel would be the best thing anyone could do, the thing she wanted to do.

Robert Holton, who had traveled, said that he didn’t care to leave New York again: not for many years at least.

“You’re not adventurous,” said Caroline sadly.

Ruth protected him. “After all, he’s had some adventures. He was in the war.”

Richard Kuppelton was glad that Holton did not talk about the war. It made too great a difference between them and the women might have called attention to this difference.

He disliked Robert Holton because he was afraid of him. It was more than the threat to his job, much more than that. Caroline, whom Kuppelton wanted, seemed interested in him. He flattered himself that she was no more interested in Holton than she was in himself; still he was a threat.

Ruth was moving closer to Robert Holton now. Her thick curved lips, heavily painted a dark red, looked unpleasantly moist. Kuppelton had a desire to dry her mouth. He was amused, though, at the way she was playing up to Holton. She liked him now because of his influence, not because he was good-looking. Although Kuppelton, for one, couldn’t see his handsomeness. Holton was well-built but not much better than he was; of course, Kuppelton had a slight stomach and Holton didn’t, but a few days of exercise and he could be as slim. He made a mental note to do some exercise.

Marjorie Ventusa arranged her hair in front of the steamy mirror. It didn’t look too bad when she wore it over her ears. She pinned it back carefully. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to get a snood after all.

She put some other people’s orders on her tray and left the kitchen. The crowd waiting to be seated was beginning to thin and soon the lunch rush would be over.

She waited on the customers whose orders she had and then she moved over to the table where Robert Holton was sitting. He was very handsome, she thought. She looked at the others with him and she envied them all. They didn’t understand what he was, how important he was.

The girl with the blue eyes and slim legs she could not like. This was her rival—one of her rivals, anyway. She was glad that he never seemed particularly interested in this girl and, for that matter, the girl didn’t seem interested in him. Still she was near, worked with him probably: she was a danger.

Then Marjorie Ventusa did not like the dark-haired girl with the big nose who sat so close to him, but at least she was not a danger. She almost pitied this girl who had moved her chair so close to his that their legs were touching.

The other man was dull-looking and obviously interested in the girl with the blue eyes. Marjorie Ventusa wished him luck. Then, having thought these things about her customers, she walked over to their table.

“Ready for dessert?” asked Marjorie Ventusa cheerfully, trying not to look at Robert Holton.

They were ready.

Everyone decided to have vanilla ice cream. Slowly she cleared the table. This was a hard thing to do, because she had to act as if she were in a hurry.

They talked at the table as though she weren’t there. She was, naturally, used to that: she had been a waitress a long time, but today she was almost angry at being treated like a piece of furniture. She could do nothing about it, though. She picked up her tray and went into the kitchen.

Marjorie ordered the ice cream. As she waited she wondered if there was any way she could ever see Robert Holton in his other life: the mysterious important life he had in the brokerage firm. She tried to think of some way she could get to know him in this other life. She could think of nothing.

The ice cream was ready and she took it back to the dining room.

She gave them their dessert and only Holton said thank you. She tried to expand this one phrase into a conversation but it was too difficult. So she walked over to the next table which was now empty. Slowly she placed dishes on her tray. She was near enough to them to hear what they were saying.

Robert Holton was talking about his job: “I don’t mind being in an office all day. I can’t see why people mind that so much.”

The dark girl with the big nose disagreed: “It’s much more natural to be able to wander around like you want to do. It’s natural to travel, I think.”

He laughed. Marjorie liked his laugh. He said, “You should get married, that’s what you should do.”

The dark girl became coquettish. “But I haven’t had any offers yet. Of course, I’m open to any.”

The bitch, thought Marjorie Ventusa, disliking her now.

“You shouldn’t have any trouble,” said Holton gallantly and Marjorie liked him for saying this.

“You’re just saying that.”

Then the girl with the blue eyes and the dull man began to talk together and their voices blended into the ocean-like sound of many voices in the restaurant.

They finished the ice cream.

Marjorie walked over to the table. “Will there be anything else?” she asked officially.

There was nothing else.

“We’ll have our check, please, Marjorie,” said Robert Holton and she liked the way he said her name.

“Certainly.” She went to the cashier and had the four checks totalled. Then she came back.

They paid her.

“Back to work,” said the blue-eyed girl with a sigh.

Chapter Seven

“Here we are,” said Caroline.

Ruth went to her desk in the reception room. “I’ll see you all later,” she said and she sat down and took out a large gold compact. Caroline watched her a moment as she powdered her nose, watched her with a certain pity because she was ugly.

“Come on,” said Kuppelton and he and Robert Holton walked on either side of her through the office. She was conscious of the envious stares of the other girls and she smiled at them as nicely as she could, knowing that they hated her for her smile.

Mr Murphy was not in the Statistical office. Everyone else was back, though. As she entered the room Caroline was conscious of a difference in the atmosphere. The women were quieter than usual and the men were watching. She looked and saw, sitting at Holton’s desk, an army officer.

“Jim!” said Holton when he saw him; the other looked up.

“Hi,” he said and he got to his feet. They shook hands with Anglo-Saxon restraint, muttering monosyllables of greeting, each asking about the other’s health.

Kuppelton went to his own desk without speaking to the army officer. Caroline stood expectantly beside Robert Holton, waiting to be introduced.

“This,” said Holton finally, “is Caroline. Caroline, meet Jim Trebling.”

“How do you do,” said Trebling.

“How do you do,” said Caroline and they shook hands. His hand, she noticed, was rough and hard.

“You live in New York?” asked Caroline. This was always a good beginning because it could lead to all sorts of confessions.

He shook his head. “No, I’m from California. I’m from Los Angeles.”

She was impressed. “That’s where Hollywood is, isn’t it? You from Hollywood?”

No, he was not from Hollywood. He lived near by.

“I’d certainly like to visit out there.”

“It’s not as interesting as New York.”

She gave a little laugh to show her scorn for New York, her laugh leveling the buildings and cracking Grant’s Tomb. “It’s awful here,” she said. “We have an awful climate.”

He raised the buildings again. “Oh, I think it’s pretty exciting. You’ve got so many things. This is really the first time I’ve seen New York. Bob and I went overseas from here and we came back here but I never really saw the town.”

“Are you regular army?” she asked. Men in uniform were becoming rare.

“No, I’m getting out soon. I signed up for a little while longer.”

“Oh.”

He and Robert Holton began to talk then about the army and she felt shut out. She stood there wondering whether she should go or not. She rather liked this young man. He was a lieutenant, at least he had one bar on his shoulder and she thought that lieutenants wore a single bar: the war had been such a long time ago and she had forgotten so many things.

He had dark eyes and bleached-looking hair which Caroline had always found attractive in men. His skin was rather pale for a Californian; all Californians had brown skin in her imagination. He was not particularly handsome, though he looked rather distinguished, with sharp features and circles under his eyes.

“Are you in the East long?” she asked.

He looked at her as if he had forgotten she was there; still, he was very polite. “No, I’m only here for a week.”

“Looking around?”

“Yes, looking around.”

“Caroline,” said Robert Holton, as though explaining an important thing, “Caroline is the belle of the office.”

“I can see that,” said Trebling without too much effort, saying it almost naturally, a hard thing to do.

“Oh, thank you,” said Caroline. Now she didn’t know what to say. She looked at his ribbons. She counted them mechanically, the way she did before the war ended: five ribbons. “You must’ve been around quite a bit,” she said finally, speaking before the silence her last words had made became another conversation.

Trebling nodded seriously. “Yes, I saw quite a bit. No more than Bob did, though.”

“That must’ve been nice,” said Caroline, “your being able to serve together everywhere.”

“Yes, it was.”

She knew that they were waiting for her to go but she wasn’t ready yet. “Do you like being in the army in peacetime?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Well, you’ll be out soon, I suppose.”

“Quite soon.”

She had to go now. She couldn’t understand what kept her standing there foolishly trying to make a conversation by herself. It was not as if Lieutenant Trebling were handsome or unusual.

Caroline made her great effort. “Well,” she said, “I guess I’ll see you later, Mr Trebling.” Was that the right name? She wasn’t sure. She hoped she hadn’t said it wrong.

“Nice to have met you, Caroline.” She smiled at him, her face at a three-quarter angle: her most flattering angle. Then, with great nonchalance, she walked slowly back to her desk.

Trebling was surprised at the way Holton looked out of uniform.

To have lived several years with a person who looked always one way and then to see him later another way is startling. Jim Trebling had always thought of Holton as a soldier: he could not get used to him as a civilian in an office.

“Sit down, Jim.” Holton pointed to a chair beside his desk. They both sat down. Trebling felt a little awkward. The office was too formal for him and he was not at ease.

Jim looked at Holton, trying to get accustomed to him. “You’ve certainly changed. I don’t know if I’d have recognized you.”

Robert Holton laughed a little self-consciously. “These civilian clothes are different. They make you feel different.”

“You’re really settling down, I guess.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I wish I could. Maybe I will when I get out ... I don’t know.”

“What do you think you’re going to do?”

Jim shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking of starting some kind of a business. You know, what we used to talk about before you got out.”

Holton nodded. “That’s a good idea, I guess. I thought of it, too, but of course the odds are against you.”

Trebling was surprised to hear Holton say this. “I know it,” he said.

Holton saw then that he hadn’t said the right thing. He tried to explain. “I don’t mean you shouldn’t start a business. I just mean something might go wrong.” He was saying worse things now; he stopped.

Jim changed the subject. “How do you like being out?”

“Oh, it’s pretty wonderful. Just to be able to stay in one place....”

“I guess it’s nice for a while.”

Holton sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever travel again.”

Jim was surprised. “I thought you were going to go around the world. Don’t you remember when we used to talk about seeing more of Italy?”

“Well, maybe sometime. I hadn’t stopped moving for very long then.”

“No, that’s right, you hadn’t.” As they talked Jim Trebling became more uneasy. This was a person he had not met before and he was surprised and sorry. Robert Holton had been different as a soldier.

As they talked, the words forming conventional patterns and hiding their real thoughts, Jim thought of the war.

“You remember the time we were in Florence?”

Holton said that he remembered it very well.

They spoke then of Florence and as they talked Jim Trebling began to remember many things.

The city had been liberated for several months. The war was almost over and Holton and Trebling were able to take a week’s leave: they went to Florence.

Parts of the city had been badly damaged. The old buildings on the Arno had been leveled in many places but the Ponte Vecchio was still there. These things had not been very important, however, because they had not gone to see antiques. They had gone to rest, to meet women, and to try to find enough liquor to get drunk on.

They stayed with a family outside of the town; they stayed in a place called Fiesole.

Trebling remembered the house clearly: long and rambling, dirty-white stucco with small iron balconies beneath the larger windows. A rock garden, dusty gray-green olive trees and an unearthly view of the valley in which was Florence.

The house belonged to a family named Bruno, friends of Robert Holton’s mother. They had invited the two of them to stay as long as they liked: in those days it was a good policy to have American soldiers in one’s home.

Robert Holton had liked a girl named Carla. Trebling had liked her too, but not as much as Holton did. He remembered one night when the three had sat on the terrace, watching the city.

It was summer and the night was warm and vibrant. The city lights glittered in the valley-cup; the lights were golden and flickering and the river shone darkly.

They sat on a stone ledge, their feet dangling above the rock garden. Carla was between them; her hair was dark and her face pale. They sat like this, watching the lights of the city and listening to the sound of insects whirring in the night.

And Jim had said, embarrassed by the long silence, “It’s so peaceful here.”

The other two acted as if they had not heard him. Holton, sitting close beside Carla, touched her.

And then she had said, “It seems like such a long time ago.” They thought of this as they sat in the blue darkness.

Holton finally spoke, saying, “Isn’t it a shame that this has to change again?”

They had been surprised to hear him say this; Trebling was more surprised than Carla because, though he had known Holton longer, she knew him better. Trebling was surprised to hear Holton speak seriously: he was never serious at other times. He always tried to be funny.

“Why should this change again?” asked Carla, looking at him, trying to tell his expression in the dark.

Holton only sighed and said, “Because everything changes when you go away.”

“You can come back,” said Carla and Jim remembered now the exact way she had said that and he was sorry for her.

Holton didn’t answer for a moment and then he had said, “Yes, I suppose you can.” They knew then that he would not come back and Trebling could sense her sadness as they watched the lights flickering below them.

“Do you remember Carla?” asked Jim suddenly, his mind adjusting to the present.

“The girl in Florence? Sure, I remember her. Was that her name ... Carla?”

“That’s right.”

“She was very nice looking, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, I remember her.”

“I thought you liked her quite a bit,” said Trebling, not looking at Holton.

“I suppose I did. We ran into a lot of people, though. There were so many people.”

Trebling agreed that there had been a number of people in Europe, people they had known.

“That was a good town, Florence,” said Holton suddenly.

“It was.”

“We were there a week, weren’t we?”

“About that.”

Holton nodded, and Trebling watched him to see how he felt; Holton’s face told him nothing, though. He was only remembering.

“It’s certainly a nice feeling to be out,” said Holton finally.

“I guess it must be.”

“Not having to worry about being moved from place to place.”

They were standing in the Roman Forum. All around them were pieces of shattered marble, shattered in earlier wars. Trebling and Holton had looked at three slender columns of marble, all that was left of a temple.

Trebling had remarked, “I’ll bet those pillars are pretty old.”

Holton agreed, “Maybe a thousand years old.”

Together they had looked at the three columns of the ruined temple.

Trebling asked, “Do you think you would’ve ever gotten here except in the army?”

“No. I don’t guess so.”

“I probably wouldn’t have either.”

“It’s sort of interesting.”

And Trebling had said, “I like the traveling part of all this.”

Robert Holton agreed to this and then they began to complain about other things.

Trebling sat back in his chair and looked around the office. He didn’t like offices and he didn’t like this one at all. The clear constant light standardized the people in the room.

“How do you like it here?” he asked.

Holton shrugged. “O.K., I suppose. It’s something to do.”

“You think you’ll stay in this sort of work?”

“Probably, I don’t know yet.”

“I had thought you might go into this new thing with me.

“Well....”

Neither spoke for a moment.

Finally Trebling asked, “Can I smoke in here?”

“I’m sorry, Jim, but....”

“Sure, I know: rules.”

“I’m sorry. These people are awful stiff about a lot of things.”

Jim Trebling wished again that he hadn’t come. He had an impulse to run away. “What’re you doing tonight?” he asked finally.

“I’m going to a big cocktail party.”

“Being social, eh?”

“Well, you know you have to make contacts...” he continued, explaining himself carefully.

Then Holton asked Jim about himself, and he listened as Jim talked. The cataloguing of army camps, the different duties in each, the girl he had decided to marry and then didn’t, his current leave of absence, the trip across the country, the pleasure of seeing Robert Holton again.

Trebling told this story automatically, as one always tells a much-told personal story and as he told this he wondered what had happened to Holton.

In the war he had been considered wild. He had spent most of the time laughing at things. He had been easily bored and now he was changed.

“It must be nice to be out,” Trebling repeated, not knowing what else to say.

And Robert Holton explained to him in detail why it was so nice to be free.

Paris had been the most interesting place of all. They had spent two days there. Trebling had been very conscientious and had insisted that they see palaces and landmarks and they had actually tried to see a few but then Holton decided that there was not enough time for that. They met two girls. Trebling could not remember their names; he could remember nothing about them except that they were rather pretty and claimed to be sisters.

The girls had suggested they go on a picnic. Holton had liked this idea and he managed to get some food from the mess officer of a near-by company. They took bicycles and drove out of Paris. They rode through Sèvres and some small towns on the outskirts. They approached Versailles but the girls didn’t care to go into the town and so they turned left from the main road. At a small town called Jouy-en-Josas they stopped, and on the dark green lawn of a bombed-out château they had their picnic.

The sky was overcast that day. And the woods that surrounded the château were blue and smoky and looked mysterious, like the pictures of enchanted forests in children’s books.

When they had finished lunch Holton wanted to go walk in the woods. Only one of the girls spoke English.

“Let’s take a walk in the woods,” Holton suggested.

The two girls giggled and talked together very quickly in French. The one who spoke English finally said, “Sure, we go walk in the woods with you.” They walked in the woods.

Hand in hand the two couples walked between the misty trees. There was no underbrush here and the trees came up out of the stony, grass-covered ground, free and straight.

The two girls understood what was expected of them. His most vivid memory was not of the one he had but of Holton’s: a stocky, pink-faced girl. He remembered clearly the way her head lolled against the tree, her eyes closed and her thick lips slightly ajar. He remembered that her hair was almost the same color as the bark of the tree.

“Say, Bob, do you remember those two girls from Paris?”

“When was that?”

“You know, the time we went on the picnic.”

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.” That was that.

A large important-looking man came into the office. When he saw Trebling with Holton he stopped in the middle of the room, changed his course with the unself-conscious dignity of a schooner under full sail, and walked straight over to them.

Holton got to his feet quickly and Trebling did the same, sensing that this was a person of importance.

“Jim Trebling, this is Mr Murphy, the Chief of our section.”

“Glad to meet you, Lieutenant.” They shook hands vigorously, Mr Murphy smiling with goodwill.

“Well, Lieutenant, I suppose you’ll be getting out soon?”

Mechanically Trebling explained what he was planning to do.

“Think you’ll go into Business?” asked Mr Murphy.

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Lot of openings now for a young man who wants to get ahead.”

“There probably are.”

They talked for a while of Business as though it were a state of being.

Trebling looked at Holton as Mr Murphy talked, looked at him, trying to find something familiar in his face. For a moment as he looked he thought he could see a tightness about the mouth, an effort at control but Jim Trebling could not tell what Holton was controlling and the mouth soon relaxed and he could tell nothing then.

Coming back on the boat together they had talked of what they were going to do when they got out.

“I think I’d like to make money,” said Holton, looking at the white wake of the ship.

“That’s not a bad idea. How?”

“Damned if I know.”

“We could always start that pottery business I was telling you about, back in California.”

“That’s a thought.”

“Of course there’re a lot of other things we could do.”

“I suppose it’s all a matter of picking the right one.”

They looked at the gray water and thought of new things, of works not yet begun. Pensively Holton leaned out over the railing and spat. Trebling, interested, did the same. For several moments they were in serious contest to determine who could spit the farthest. Holton won, although Trebling claimed he had been helped by a gust of wind.

Then they walked about the decks of the transport. Soldiers were everywhere. They sat in groups on the covered hatches, they leaned over the railing to look at the sea and, also, to be sick.

“I guess all these people are going to be trying the same thing,” said Holton suddenly.

“Try what? Starting a business?”

Sure.

“I don’t think so.”