One Basket | Page 8

pleasure it
gave him to select these things, these fine, soft, silken things. There
were many things about this slow-going, amiable brother of theirs that
they never suspected. If you had told them he was a dreamer of dreams,
for example, they would have been amused. Sometimes, dead-tired by
nine o'clock after a hard day downtown, he would doze over the
evening paper. At intervals he would wake, red-eyed, to a snatch of
conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a blue you can wear it
anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's quiet, too." Eva, the
expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem of the new spring dress.
They never guessed that the com- monplace man in the frayed old
smoking jacket had banished them all from the room long ago; had
banished himself, for that matter. In his place was a tall, debonair, and
rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock spelled evening
clothes. The kind of man who can lean up against a mantel, or propose
a toast, or give an order to a manservant, or whisper a gallant speech in
a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby old house on Calumet Avenue
was transformed into a brocaded and chandeliered rendezvous for the
brilliance of the city. Beauty was here, and wit. But none so beautiful
and witty as She. Mrs.--er--Jo Hertz. There was wine, of course; but no
vulgar display. There was music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. And
he, the gracious, tactful host, king of his own domain----
"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore, go to bed!"

"Why--did I fall asleep?"
"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would
think you were fifty instead of thirty."
And Jo Hertz was again just the dull, gray, commonplace brother of
three well-meaning sisters.
Babe used to say petulantly, "Jo, why don't you ever bring home any of
your men friends? A girl might as well not have any brother, all the
good you do."
Jo, conscience-stricken, did his best to make amends. But a man who
has been petticoat-ridden for years loses the knack, somehow, of
comradeship with men.
One Sunday in May Jo came home from a late-Sunday-afternoon walk
to find company for supper. Carrie often had in one of her
schoolteacher friends, or Babe one of her frivolous intimates, or even
Eva a staid guest of the old-girl type. There was always a Sunday-night
supper of potato salad, and cold meat, and coffee, and perhaps a fresh
cake. Jo rather enjoyed it, being a hospitable soul. But he regarded the
guests with the undazzled eyes of a man to whom they were just so
many petticoats, timid of the night streets and requiring escort home. If
you had suggested to him that some of his sisters' popularity was due to
his own presence, or if you had hinted that the more kittenish of these
visitors were probably making eyes at him, he would have stared in
amazement and unbelief.
This Sunday night it turned out to be one of Carrie's friends.
"Emily," said Carrie, "this is my brother, Jo."
Jo had learned what to expect in Carrie's friends. Drab-looking women
in the late thirties, whose facial lines all slanted downward.
"Happy to meet you," said Jo, and looked down at a different sort
altogether. A most surprisingly different sort, for one of Carrie's friends.

This Emily person was very small, and fluffy, and blue-eyed, and
crinkly looking. The corners of her mouth when she smiled, and her
eyes when she looked up at you, and her hair, which was brown, but
had the miraculous effect, somehow, of looking golden.
Jo shook hands with her. Her hand was incredibly small, and soft, so
that you were afraid of crushing it, until you discovered she had a firm
little grip all her own. It surprised and amused you, that grip, as does a
baby's unexpected clutch on your patronizing forefinger. As Jo felt it in
his own big clasp, the strangest thing happened to him. Something
inside Jo Hertz stopped working for a moment, then lurched
sickeningly, then thumped like mad. It was his heart. He stood staring
down at her, and she up at him, until the others laughed. Then their
hands fell apart, lingeringly.
"Are you a schoolteacher, Emily?" he said.
"Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily, please."
"Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name in the world."
Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, he was perfectly aghast to
find himself saying it. But he meant it.
At supper he passed her things, and stared, until everybody laughed
again, and Eva said acidly, "Why don't you feed her?"
It wasn't that Emily had