Chapter 3

She turned for one last glance. A horse battery was passing, with a
jangle of metal and creak of leather. In the distance, a band played
“When _you_ come back, and you _will_ come back, there’s a whole world
wa-aiting for _you-ou-ou_.” The battery carried among its flags one
with gold stars to commemorate its dead. All the regiments carried
them. She had watched them passing, all afternoon, scarcely noticing.
As this gold-starred flag passed, someone flung a streamer of scarlet
paper. It twisted on the flagstaff. She noticed that as incongruous.
Then something caught at her heart; and she wanted to weep, for
everyone who was dead, and had lost the gorgeous exciting young world,
where men rode past clanking as if they bore armour, and bands played,
and Spring sunlight slid along oiled guns.

Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and Alan said, “My dear child, what
is the matter?”

“I was thinking how dreadful it must be to die when one’s young. The
gold stars reminded me.”

He was touched. “You mustn’t cry for them really, my dear. I’m sure
they’re having the best possible time in the heaven reserved for
heroes.”

She said, gravely, as she wiped away the two tears, “Do you really
believe there is a heaven for heroes?” Certain courses in astronomy
and biology had already shaken a faith that had been based for her on
uncritical acceptance of Adam and Eve and all the rest.

His voice was very cheerful. “Haven’t a doubt of it,” he said. “At
that,” he thought, “the Valhalla version of hereafter always has
intrigued me more than the others.” He said: “And I’m sure you need a
cocktail, immediately.”

They went to the Brunswick. He waited in the lobby, while she took a
table. She ordered two Martinis and wondered whether the waiter would
really bring them. He did. She didn’t like the taste of hers much,
and asked Alan if she might have a French pastry with it. He looked
startled; managed to persuade her to a sandwich; and then set about
making her talk.

At the end of fifteen minutes, and her first Martini, she had told him
all about her family,–one grandfather and one aunt with whom she lived
when she was not in college, and with whom she was extremely bored,
although she had been taught not to admit anything like that to herself
even.

At the end of half an hour and her second Martini, she had told him
her literary preferences, Mr. Kipling, Mr. Wells, Mr. Dumas, Mr. Shaw,
Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Rupert Brooke, Mr. Arnold Bennett–in about that
order, he gathered.

At the end of an hour, and her third Martini (he was dubious about the
wisdom of that third Martini, but she seemed to be reacting soundly)
she had confided to him the great secret ambition of her life. She
wanted to be a Newspaper Reporter.

Of course, she explained, her grandfather and her aunt thought it would
be nicer for her to teach English, in some smart girls’ school, if she
wanted to do something–that is, if she didn’t marry right away after
college. But, she felt, if she could only be a–didn’t they call it a
Sob Sister?–on some great newspaper like the _New York Times_. Her
eyes shone. Her cheeks glowed. She looked as if she were contemplating
the asphodel-strewn slopes of heaven.

He did not laugh at her. He did not discourage her–even by explaining
that the _Times_ did not employ sob sisters. He said, “Why do you want
to be a newspaper reporter?”

She said, solemnly, “It seems to me the most superb adventure remaining
in the world, now that the War is over. To write down history as it
happens–or just the day after–”

“Poor child,” he thought, “and no city editor would ever give her
anything more serious than society notes to do.” Nevertheless her
answer stirred a man who had pursued adventure all his adult life.

He said, “Are you free for dinner? I should like you to join a friend
of mine and me. I have an engagement with him, and you might find him
amusing. We can do whatever you like until midnight. Then I’m going
back to New York because I’m sailing in two or three days. . . .”

She said, “Yes, I am free for dinner. I’m spending the week-end with
Janet.”

Janet was the daughter of that cousin of his, at whose house she had
met him. She resolved to see a great deal of Janet, throughout college.
He was sailing, in two or three days and that was very sad–but he
would come back one day–and by then, she would be completely grown up.

Three Wellesley girls whom she knew slightly, passed and nodded. That
was a pleasant thing to have happen.

Then she telephoned Janet that she would not be back for dinner.

Afterward, she walked with Alan across the Public Gardens, in the
April dusk, thinking completely inchoate thoughts about the beauty of
life, and talking about her reasons for preferring Lisbeth to Betty as
an abbreviation for her name, Elizabeth, so that, before they reached
his friend’s house, they were calling each other Lisbeth and Alan quite
as a matter of course. Later in life she was to appreciate better the
role of Martinis as aid to swift friendliness.

On the doorstep of his friend’s apartment house, she had a moment
of regret that she hadn’t been able to go home and dress in her
new peach-coloured taffeta. In his friend’s living-room, she had a
moment of dismay, for she had not realized that this was just A Man’s
Apartment, and she had never dined in A Man’s Apartment before. Alan’s
friend turned out to be a Captain and an Aviator, however; and she felt
that to dine between a Major who was a War Correspondent, and a Captain
who was an Aviator, justified breaking any dozen conventions.

She didn’t talk much at dinner. The two men talked principally to each
other about the peace conference at Versailles and things like that.
After dinner, the Aviator produced a bottle of Orange Curaçao, with his
regrets on having a theatre engagement.

She said “good-bye” to him without much sorrow. He had neither a voice
nor a smile comparable to Alan’s; beside, his hair was a dull shade of
brown.

The houseman poured coffee and a liqueur glass of the Orange Curaçao
apiece, and left them. Lisbeth sipped the liqueur slowly. It tasted,
she thought, ever so much better than the Martinis. She sat stiffly
erect, remembering that now she was Alone in a Man’s Apartment and
should say, “I must go home instantly.” But she was having _such_ a
pleasant time in a tall mahogany chair.

* * * * *

Alan stood by a window framed against an oblong of stars and the roofs
of lower Beacon Hill. They regarded each other.

He thought, “She is lovelier looking, without that blue hat.
Honey-coloured hair like that has always warmed my heart–and usually,
softened my head. What an extraordinary capacity for liquor the child
has. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I have wanted to
kiss any woman in years.”