The Happiest Time of Their Lives | Page 2

she
came down again, and he hadn't much choice, she said to herself, about
helping her into her motor. Then at the very last moment he had asked
if he mightn't come and see her the next afternoon. Miss Severance,
who was usually sensitive to inconveniencing other people, had not
cared at all about the motor behind hers that was tooting its horn or for
the elderly lady in feathers and diamonds who was waiting to get into it.
She had cared only about arranging the hour and impressing the address
upon him. He had given her back the pleasure of her whole evening
like a parting gift.
As she drove home she couldn't bring herself to doubt, though she tried
to be rational about the whole experience, that it had meant as much to
him as it had to her, perhaps more. Her lips curved a little at the
thought, and she glanced quickly at her maid to see if the smile had
been visible in the glare of the tall, double lamps of Fifth Avenue.
To say she had not slept would be untrue, but she had slept close to the

surface of consciousness, as if a bright light were shining somewhere
near, and she had waked with the definite knowledge that this light was
the certainty of seeing him that very day. The morning had gone very
well; she had even forgotten once or twice for a few seconds, and then
remembered with a start of joy that was almost painful: but, after lunch,
time had begun to drag like the last day of a long sea-voyage.
About three she had gone out with her mother in the motor, with the
understanding that she was to be left at home at four; her mother was
going on to tea with an elderly relation. Fifth Avenue had seemed
unusually crowded even for Fifth Avenue, and the girl had fretted and
wondered at the perversity of the police, who held them up just at the
moment most promising for slipping through; and why Andrews, the
chauffeur, could not see that he would do better by going to Madison
Avenue. She did not speak these thoughts aloud, for she had not told
her mother, not from any natural love of concealment, but because any
announcement of her plans for the afternoon would have made them
seem less certain of fulfilment. Perhaps, too, she had felt an
unacknowledged fear of certain of her mother's phrases that could
delicately puncture delight.
She had been dropped at the house by ten minutes after four, and
exactly at a quarter before five she had been in the drawing-room, in
her favorite dress, with her best slippers, her hands cold, but her heart
warm with the knowledge that he would soon be there.
Only after forty-five minutes of waiting did that faith begin to grow
dim. She was too inexperienced in such matters to know that this was
the inevitable consequence of being ready too early. She had had time
to run through the whole cycle of certainty, eagerness, doubt, and she
was now rapidly approaching despair. He was not coming. Perhaps he
had never meant to come. Possibly he had merely yielded to a polite
impulse; possibly her manner had betrayed her wishes so plainly that a
clever, older person, two or three years out of college, had only too
clearly read her in the moment when she had detained his hand at the
door of the ball-room.
There was a ring at the bell. Her heart stood perfectly still, and then

began beating with a terrible force, as if it gathered itself into a hard,
weighty lump again and again. Several minutes went by, too long for a
man to give to taking off his coat. At last she got up and cautiously
opened the door; a servant was carrying a striped cardboard box to her
mother's room. Miss Severance went back and sat down. She took a
long breath; her heart returned to its normal movement.
Yet, for some unexplained reason, the fact that the door-bell had rung
once made it more possible that it would ring again, and she began to
feel a slight return of confidence.
A servant opened the door, and in the instant before she turned her head
she had time to debate the possibility of a visitor having come in
without ringing while the messenger with the striped box was going out.
But, no; Pringle was alone.
Pringle had been with the family since her mother was a girl, but, like
many red-haired men, he retained an appearance of youth. He wanted
to know if he should take away the tea.
She knew perfectly why he asked. He liked to have the tea-things put
away before he had his