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 Table of Contents
Contents
Preface
Ch 10: Parametric Equations and Polar Coordinates
10.1: Curves Defined by Parametric Equations
10.2: Calculus with Parametric Curves
10.3: Polar Coordinates
10.4: Areas and Lengths in Polar Coordinates
10.5: Conic Sections
10.6: Conic Sections in Polar Coordinates
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 11: Infinite Sequences and Series
11.1: Sequences
11.2: Series
11.3: The Integral Test and Estimates of Sums
11.4: The Comparison Tests
11.5: Alternating Series
11.6: Absolute Convergence and the Ratio and Root Tests
11.7: Strategy for Testing Series
11.8: Power Series
11.9: Representations of Functions as Power Series
11.10: Taylor and Maclaurin Series
11.11: Applications of Taylor Polynomials
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 12: Vectors and the Geometry of Space
12.1: Three-Dimensional Coordinate Systems
12.2: Vectors
12.3: The Dot Product
12.4: The Cross Product
12.5: Equations of Lines and Planes
12.6: Cylinders and Quadric Surfaces
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 13: Vector Functions
13.1: Vector Functions and Space Curves
13.2: Derivatives and Integrals of Vector Functions
13.3: Arc Length and Curvature
13.4: Motion in Space: Velocity and Acceleration
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 14: Partial Derivatives
14.1: Functions of Several Variables
14.2: Limits and Continuity
14.3: Partial Derivatives
14.4: Tangent Planes and Linear Approximations
14.5: The Chain Rule
14.6: Directional Derivatives and the Gradient Vector
14.7: Maximum and Minimum Values
14.8: Lagrange Multipliers
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 15: Multiple Integrals
15.1: Double Integrals Over Rectangles
15.2: Iterated Integrals
15.3: Double Integrals Over General Regions
15.4: Double Integrals in Polar Coordinates
15.5: Applications of Double Integrals
15.7: Triple Integrals
15.8: Triple Integrals in Cylindrical Coordinates
15.9: Triple Integrals in Spherical Coordinates
15.10: Change of Variables in Multiple Integrals
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 16: Vector Calculus
16.1: Vector Fields
16.2: Line Integrals
16.3: The Fundamental Theorem for Line Integrals
16.4: Green's Theorem
16.5: Curl and Divergence
16.6: Parametric Surfaces and Their Areas
16.7: Surface Integrals
16.8: Stokes' Theorem
16.9: The Divergence Theorem
16.10: Summary
Review
Problems Plus
Ch 17: Second-Order Differential Equations
17.1: Second-Order Linear Equations
17.2: Nonhomogeneous Linear Equations
17.3: Applications of Second-Order Differential Equations
17.4: Series Solutions
Review
Appendixes
F: Proofs of Theorems
G: Complex Numbers
H: Answers to Odd-Numbered Exercises
Index
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
and held a mobile force of eight hundred Hungarians, Poles and
Slavs in readiness for battle at any point. No one could enter the
town on an unfriendly errand. Trains were not permitted to stop. The
telegraph office was seized. The Advisory Committee announced that
any attempt on the part of the owners to retake possession of their
property,—say nothing of trying to work it with non-union labor,—
would mean an abundant spilling of blood.
This was the situation when Thane received a telegram from John in
New York, as follows:
“Can buy Wyoming Steel Works for a song. Will close transaction at
once if you will say labor trouble can be straightened out with the
plant in our hands.”
Almost without reflection Thane answered:
“Yes. Go ahead.”
He had no doubt that the mere announcement of their having
bought the works would end the violent phase of the strike. The rest
would be a matter of peaceable negotiation. He might have made
the announcement in Pittsburgh. The strikers there would have
communicated it fast enough. He might have telegraphed it to the
Advisory Committee. He might have done it in one of several ways.
But his natural way was to go himself and see to it. He knew the
strike leaders; he talked their language. An hour after answering
John’s telegram he was in a launch going down the river.
There had been no news from the scene of passion since the
afternoon before. No one knew what was taking place in the
Wyoming Steel Works town.
In the night two barge loads of Pinkerton men, recruited in
Philadelphia, had silently drifted down the river past Pittsburgh. The
manager was resolved to get possession of the plant by force. The
plan was to land the Pinkerton men before daylight on the river
bank. Once inside the works they could stand siege until the state
authorities could be persuaded to send the militia in. But the barges
were sighted by the Advisory Committee’s sentinels a mile above the
town. The siren blew an alarm. Men, women and children tumbled
out of bed. The armed battalion was rushed to receive the Pinkerton
men.
In the darkness a running fire was exchanged between the strikers
on shore and the barges; however, the barges did land at the works
and the leader of the Pinkerton men signalled for a parley. He told
the strikers he had come to take possession of the works and meant
to do it. The strike leaders dared him to try. He did. He formed his
men and started them off the barges. They were stopped by a volley
from the Slav battalion entrenched behind piles of steel in the yard,
—and fled back to the barges. Daylight came. The Pinkerton men,
unwilling to venture forth a second time, hoisted a white flag. The
strikers scoffed at it and went on firing at the barges. They became
discouraged. They could see the holes their shots made in the
planks; they couldn’t be sure they were hitting the men inside. So
they floated burning oil down the river and sent tanks of burning oil
down the bank against the barges. That was ineffective. Pinkerton
men would not burn on earth. Someone thought of dynamite. Cases
of it were brought, and the lightest of arm among the strikers calmly
attached fuses to the sticks of dynamite, lighted them, and hurled
them at the barges, like firecrackers. Once in a while they made the
target, tearing a great hole in the barge planking. Then there would
be a volley of shots at the Pinkerton men suddenly exposed. Two
cannons were brought. They were handled so awkwardly that they
did little damage to the barges and took off one striker’s head. The
use of dynamite increased. In some fashion the Pinkerton men
fought back. When a striker fell groans were heard. When a
Pinkerton man was hit cheers went up from the strikers and were
repeated by the spectators,—women, children and noncombatants,
—who gorged the spectacle from afar.
And that was what had been going on for hours when Thane’s
launch appeared, speeding down the middle of the river. He was
steering it himself; his boatman lay flat on the bottom. Having
recognized him the sentinels above the town passed word down
their line, so that the strikers at the works knew who he was before
he had come within rifle range. Firing ceased. He steered the boat
in, shot it high on the bank, and stepped out.
At that instant there appeared from behind one of the steel piles the
figure of frenzy personified. This was not a striker. It was one of
those weak, anæmic creatures who are intoxicated by participation
in the lusts and passions of others and go mad over matters that do
not concern them. He was a clerk in a dry goods store and taught a
Sunday School class. It must be supposed that the cessation of firing
made him think the strikers were weakening. He brandished a rifle,
shrieking:
“Citizens! There are the men who wreck our homes, assault our
women, take away our bread. Kill them! Kill them without mercy!”
He was unnaturally articulate. “Cowards!” he cried. “Follow me!”
He levelled his rifle at the barges. The only man in sight was Thane,
walking up the bank. The insane neurotic fired and Thane fell in a
crumpled heap.
Several men together leaped at the assassin and disarmed him. He
disappeared.
Thane was unconscious. There was no doctor, no ambulance. They
took him to Pittsburgh in the launch.
John arrived the next morning. He looked once at Agnes and knew
the worst.
Thane lived through that day and into the night. Shortly before he
died he wished to be alone with John. They clasped hands and read
each other in silence. Once the doctor opened the door and softly
closed it again. Thane beckoned to John to bring his head nearer.
“Take ... Agnes,” he said. “That’s ... all ... everything.... Let her ...
come back ... now.”
Only Agnes knew when he died. At daylight the doctor went in and
she was still holding his form in her arms.
 XL

F or John the sense of loss in Thane’s death was as if part of

himself had broken off and sunk out of sight.
To Agnes it was as if the whole world were gone. She seemed to
have forgotten there was ever anything in it but Thane. Her life had
inhabited his.
She went on living in the house, almost as if he were still there,
often calling his name and answering aloud to an audible memory of
his voice. She saw no one but John. She hardly knew anyone else.
And she saw him only because she was aware of his great feeling for
Thane and they could talk about him.
This was a bond between them and led to a companionship without
which both would have missed the Autumn and gone directly from
Midsummer to the Winter of their lives. It was impersonal, yet very
sweet, and they came to rely upon it much more than they knew.
Agnes had neither kin nor friends. John was that solitary being who
has many friends and no brothers among men.
Agnes began to fade. John induced her to travel. She went to
Europe. He joined her there. They went around the world together.
When they returned she seemed much improved in spirits. She had
begun to smile again. After a month in the house among the trees
she became terribly depressed. He coaxed her to New York and
settled her luxuriously in a hotel apartment. She disliked it and
stayed on. More and more of John’s time now passed in New York
for business reasons. He told her this.
“We’ve no one else to visit with,” he said. “Let’s stay in the same
town.”
She said nothing. Often he surprised her looking at him with a
thoughtful, far away expression as if trying to remember what it was
he reminded her of. Suddenly she made up her mind to go to New
Damascus and build herself a house there. It would be something to
do John said at once, and that was what she needed. The house,
which was small but exquisite, occupied her for a year. Before it was
finished she had conceived the idea of building in New Damascus
the finest hospital in the state.
Journeys to New Damascus now became John’s sole recreation.
And so the Autumn stole upon them.
 XLI

H igh in the financial heavens stood a sign,—sign of cabal, sign of

rapture, sign of gold. The time had come to form the trust of
trusts. Lords and barons of the steel industry began to settle down
in Wall Street. They brought their trusts along. One day the Western
crowd loaded six trusts on special trains,—brains, books, good will,
charters and clerks,—and trundled them thither, banners flying,
typewriters clicking, business doing on the way. They took the top
floors of the newest steel skyscrapers and preferred solid mahogany
furniture with brass mountings.
Wall Street said: “Here is the fat of money! It walks into our hands.
How shall we divide it?”
But Wall Street had much to learn. These men, brash, boastful and
boisterous, were also very wise. They did not come to play Wall
Street’s game. Most of them, like John, had sometime meddled with
it and cared not for it. Now they were strong enough to play their
own game. They brought their brokers with them, from Chicago,
Cleveland, and Pittsburgh,—men whose tricks they knew,—and
bought them seats on the New York Stock Exchange.
“Oh,” said Wall Street. “That’s it, is it? Well, well,” and lolled its
tongue in relish. It knew very little about steel and nothing yet about
steel people.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the steel people. “Red or black. High or low.
Any limit or none. Let’s shoot.”
Using their own brokers to buy and sell the shares of their own
trusts they began to make the canyon howl. For a while the play lay
between Wall Street and the barbars, and the barbars held all the
cards. If Wall Street sold steel shares for a fall the dividends were
increased in the night. If it bought them for a rise suddenly the mills
were shut up and dividends ceased. Wall Street was outraged. This
was worse than gambling. It was a pea and shell game. The steel
people were haled to court on the charge of circulating false
information about their properties to influence the value of shares.
Nothing to it! Nobody could prove the information to have been
false. Merely the steel people had it first, as they naturally would,
and acted upon it in the stock market, as everybody would who
could. So they all went back to Wall Street and the play waxed
hotter and steeper. No one had ever seen speculation like this. At
conventions, unwritten rules, limits, the steel people simply
guffawed. They invented rules. Nobody was obliged to play with
them. Their creed was, “Nothing in moderation.”
After hours they played bridge for ten dollars a point. En route from
Wall Street to the Waldorf, which was their rendezvous, they would
lay bets in hundred-dollar units on the odd or even of numbered
objects, like passing street cars. Whiskey was their innocuous
beverage. There was one whose drink was three Scotch high-balls in
succession. As the third one disappeared he would slowly rub his
stomach, saying: “That one rings the bell.” Yet all the time they
attended strenuously to business. They were men of steel, physically
and mentally powerful. Carousing was an emotional outlet. Gambling
on the Stock Exchange was hardly more than pastime. Night and
day they kept their eyes on that sign in the heavens.
They had delivered the steel age. The steel industry was their
private possession to do with as they damn pleased. They could
make a circus of it if they liked. They did. Their way with it had
become a national problem. The steel industry was much too
important to be conducted in that manner. It kept the country in a
state of nerves. These wild, untamable behemoths would have to be
bought out. They were willing to sell. There was a ludicrous fiction
among them that they were weary of doing, whereas they were only
sated with it. However, as they were willing to be bought out and as
to be rid of them had become a public necessity, there remained
only the question of how. It would take all the spare money there
was in the country. Yet it would have to be done. That is what the
sign meant.
John called his crowd together saying: “This is the tall goodbye if we
want to get out.”
They did. He pledged them in writing to leave everything in his
hands and then returned to Wall Street where for months past he
had been preparing his ground unobserved. In one of the new steel
skyscrapers he had established himself an office. On the door was
his name—
John Breakspeare
under that
American Steel Company
North American Manufacturing Company
and nothing more. Inside was a private room of his own with a stock
ticker and a desk with a lot of telephones on it. Beyond was a large
meeting room furnished with a long table, chairs, brass cuspidors, a
humidor and a water cooler. From the window was a panoramic view
of New York harbor. A very simple establishment one would think.
Yet it was the center of a web radiating in all directions. Nothing
much could happen in Wall Street without causing an alarm on his
desk, for he had made some very excellent and timely connections.
His private telephone wires reached the sources of information. One
of them, it would have surprised everyone to know, ran to the office
of John Sabath, with whom he had come to confidential terms. So it
was that perhaps no one man, save only Bullguard, knew more than
he about what was invisibly taking place under that sign which stood
higher and higher in the money firmament.
What was visible had by this time become very exciting. The
newspapers were giving astonished publicity to the doings of the
golden bulls. What they did in Wall Street was recorded by the
financial writers; what they did at large was written by the news
reporters. And the public’s imagination was inflamed. Incipient
Napoleons of finance, greedy little lambs, comet riders,
haberdashers’ clerks, preachers, husbands of actresses, dentists,
small business men, delicatessen shop-keepers, jockeys, authors,
commuters, winesellers, planters, prizefighters, crows and jackals
clamored together at the Wall Street tickers. From ten to three they
watched steel shares go up and down, betting on them, trying to
out-guess the steel men who ordered their fluctuations. In the
evening all this motley appeared at the Waldorf Hotel, sitting in rows
along Peacock Alley, walking to and fro as if at ease, peering in at
the dining-room doors to glimpse the lords and barons of steel at
their food and drink.
Everybody loved it. This was the Steel Court,—a court of twenty
kings, with its rabble and fringe and jesters, sycophants in favor,
men of mystery passing, the unseen lesser deeply bowing to the
greater, sour envy taking judgment at a distance, greed on ass-ear
wings listening everywhere. One might hear a word to make him rich
to-morrow. And the Machiavelli, too. That was Sabath, his beard
now grey, otherwise the same, sitting always by himself, darting
here and there his piercing eyes.
This court made news. Often the steel men, bored with gaping
admiration, would extemporize a midnight stock market and buy and
sell their shares among themselves. Each morning as addenda to the
regular stock market reports would appear: “Transactions at the
Waldorf.” The newest rumors floated here. No financial editor was
safe to go to bed until the Waldorf grill room lights were out, for it
was generally late at night that the steel men spilled their secrets.
One was overheard to say:
“There’s a billion dollar steel trust on the way.”
What tidings!
The remark had gone around the world before daylight, and at the
opening of the stock market in London people began to sell
American securities. Those Yankees, they said, always a bit mad,
now were drunk with the arithmetic of their wealth. Wall Street was
vaguely uneasy, too. There was no such thing as a billion-dollar
corporation.
Rumor for once in its life was below the truth. The great steel trust
was to be capitalized at a billion and a half. There had to be room
for everybody. Bullguard was to be its deity. There could be no other.
The charter had been applied for. Famous lawyers had reconciled it
with the law. All these facts came out gradually, mostly in the form
of midnight rumors. In the highest circles of the steel court an
extremely curious fact was already privately known. Sabath was to
be the manipulator. If he could not perform the unimaginable feat of
selling the shares of a billion-and-a-half dollar corporation to the
public nobody could. Yet how strange that Bullguard and Sabath
should sail a ship together.
At length all the salient probabilities had been established, and
nothing happened. A week passed. Then another. Wall Street was
strung with suspense and the nightly Waldorf swarm buzzed with
adverse rumors. Time was priceless. The public was in a fever of
excitement. If ever there was an opportunity it was then. Why did
Bullguard wait? What unexpected difficulty had been encountered?
There was but one obstacle and that was John. The Breakspeare
properties were too important to be left out. A trust of trusts without
them simply could not be. Bullguard sent for all the other lords and
barons first, and they were quick to come. Then one day John
received a telephone call from the office of Bullguard & Company.
Would he be pleased to come to their office for a conference? His
response was to mention his business address. Next day one of
Bullguard’s partners called in person.
“Mr. Bullguard wishes to see you,” he said.
“If I wished to see Mr. Bullguard, I’d look for him at his office, not
mine,” said John.
“I beg your pardon?”
John repeated it. The partner went away, deeply offended in the
name of Bullguard.
Sabath came to see him. He had been sent. John knew it and
Sabath knew he knew it.
“When are you going to see Mr. Bullguard?” he asked.
“I’m here nearly every day,” said John.
“Mr. Bullguard is performing a great public service,” said Sabath, with
not a twinkle, as if they did not understand each other down to the
ground. “He’s trying to get all you gamblers out of the steel business
and bring some peace to the country. And because he spanked you
once when you were in knee pants, now you’re as proud as a pig
with a ribbon in its hereafter. I’ll tell him what I’ve said.”
“Except the pig allusion. I’ll lay odds you won’t repeat that.”
“I will,” said Sabath, departing. “I will.”
John’s partners began to be alarmed. He kept nothing from them.
When they importuned him to bend a little, thinking his obduracy
might have disastrous consequences for all of them, he would say:
“It amuses me and it will pay you.”
One morning Sabath’s voice called him on the telephone, saying:
“The great mountain is walking. You damn gamblers! Do you want
everything in the world?”
“Thanks,” said John.
Twenty minutes later Bullguard appeared. He walked right in, sat on
the edge of a chair, crossed his arms, leaned forward on his stick,
and glared. When he glared the world was supposed to tremble. He
was rather awful to look at. His purple face was of a strawberry
texture; his nose was monstrous, angry, red, bulbous, with hairy
warts upon it; his eyebrows were almost vertical.
Three words were spoken,—all three by Bullguard.
“How much?” he asked.
John drew a pencil pad out of his desk and wrote slowly in large,
owlish characters, this:
 If you smile—
$300,000,000
No smile
$350,000,000

Having written it he stopped to gaze at it thoughtfully for a minute,

then pulled out the slide leaf of his desk, tossed the pad there for
Bullguard to see, and leaned back.
Bullguard glanced at it and stood up.
“That!” he said, tapping the $350,000,000 with his forefinger, and
stalked out.
Slaymaker, Awns, Wingreene and Pick were waiting in the big room.
John walked in and threw the pad on the table.
“There are the terms.”
Knowing John they understood the pencil writing.
“Did he smile?” they asked as one.
“No,” said John.
“My God!” murmured Slaymaker. He sank into a chair and wept.
Two-fifths of it was John’s. His share included the Thane interest
which amounted to nearly twenty millions. Slaymaker, Awns,
Wingreene and Pick divided $170,000,000. The balance went to
thirty or forty minor stockholders in the Breakspeare companies.
 XLII

S o the fabulous Damosel of the Dirty Face, rescued from the goat
herds who had found and reared her, was clothed in what she
should wear, christened in due manner, annointed in the name of
order, and presented to the American people. Or, that is to say, the
steel industry was bought from the barbars and sold to the public.
Auspicated by Bullguard and Company, manipulated by Sabath,
advertised by common wonder, the shares of the biggest trust in the
world were launched on the New York Stock Exchange. Popular
imagination, prepared in suspense, delivered itself headlong to the
important task of buying them. A craze to exchange money for steel
shares swept the country. That seemed to be only what people got
up every morning to do. Such manias, like panics inverted, have
often occurred. They have a large displacement in the literature of
popular delusions. This one, although of a true type and
spontaneous, was fomented in an extraordinary manner by Sabath,
who for the first time in his life had all the power and sanction of
Wall Street behind him. The hand of the Ishmaelite that everyone
feared now strummed the official lyre and the tune it played untied a
million purse strings.
The steel people removed their hats and bowed.
“We were amateurs,” they admitted.
For weeks and weeks they sat behind piles of steel engraved
certificates, fresh from the printer, and signed their names until they
were weary of making pen strokes at ten thousand dollars each.
Before the ink of their signatures was dry the certificates were cast
upon the market to be converted into cash,—the market Sabath
made. There seemed no bottom or end to it. The capacity of that
market was unlimited. The public’s power to buy was greater than
anybody knew.
When it was over, when Sabath’s sweet melody ceased, when the
public owned the steel industry and the barbars were out, then steel
shares began to fall. For several years they fell, disastrously, and the
public howled with rage. The trust went near the rocks.
All who had had any part in the making of it faced a storm of wild
opprobrium. There is much to be said in reproach. However, given
the problem as it was, how else could anyone have solved it? The
trust got by the rocks. The steel industry was stabilized. And
ultimately the shares were worth much more than the public
originally paid for them.
This eventuality few of the great steel barbars lived to witness. A
little touched with madness anyhow, as heroic stature is, the Wall
Street harvest finished them. They were of a sudden Nabobs with
nothing on earth to do. Their wealth had been in mills and mines
and ships, and business was a very jealous mistress. Now it was in
money and they were free.
In the first place they didn’t know what to do with the money itself.
Some of them bought banks of their own to keep it in. Then what
could they spend it for? What could they invest it in? The only thing
they knew was steel and they were out of that. Some of them began
to buy railroads. They would say: “This looks like a pretty good
railroad. Let’s buy that.” And they would buy it offhand in the stock
market. Then Wall Street, controlling railroads without owning them,
was struck with a new terror. It wasn’t safe to leave control of a
railroad lying around loose. There was no telling what these men
would do next with their money. They had got control of several
great banks and railroads before anyone knew what they were
doing.
But after they had invested their money in banks and railroads they
still had nothing really to do. They built themselves castles, in some
cases two or three each, and seldom if ever lived in them because
they were so lonesome. One transplanted a full grown forest and it
died; he did it again with like result, and a third time, and then he
was weary. He never went back to see. They got rid of their old
wives and bought new and more expensive ones. Even that made no
perceptible hole in their wealth. They tried horses and art and
swamped everything they touched. Gambling they forgot. One
developed a peacock madness, never wore the same garments more
than an hour; his dressing room resembled a clothing store, with
hundreds of suits lying on long tables in pressed piles. One had a
phantasy for living out the myth of Pan and ceased to be spoken of
anywhere. One travelled ceaselessly and carried with him a private
orchestra that played him awake and attended his bath. He died
presently under the delusion that he had lost all his money and all
his friends, which was only half true.
They disappeared.
Blasted prodigies!
Children of the steel age, overwhelmed in its cinders.
 XLIII

J ohn like all the others signed steel trust certificates until his hand
became an automaton. If he noticed what it was doing it faltered
and forgot. He sat in the big room at the long table, a clerk standing
by to remove the engraved sheets one by one and blot the
signature. Suddenly he saw it all as for the first time, in an original,
unfamiliar manner.
“What are we doing?” he asked the clerk.
“Signing the certificates, sir. They want this lot before 2 o’clock.”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
“What does it mean?” the clerk repeated. “I don’t know, sir. What do
you mean?”
“I don’t know either,” said John. He threw the pen away, got up,
reached for his hat.
“You’re not going now, sir? They are waiting for these certificates.”
“Let them wait.”
“What shall I say when they call for them?”
“Anything you like. Ask them what it means.”
Up and down the money canyon people moved with absent
gestures, some in haste, some running, some loitering, all with one
look in their eyes. Bulls were bellowing on the Stock Exchange. Steel
shares were rising. Sabath was in his highest form. To the
strumming of his lyre men of all shapes and conditions turned from
their ways and came hither and wildly importuned brokers to
exchange their money for bits of paper believed to represent steel
mills they had never seen, would never see, had never heard of
before. What did it mean?
As John gazed at the scene it became unreal and detached. He was
alone, as one is in some dreams, there and not there, somehow
concerned in the action but invisible to the actors and to oneself. It
was like a dream of anxiety, full of confusion and grotesque matter.
He was lonely and very wretched and accused Agnes. He would
accuse her to her face. That was what he was on his way to do,
perhaps because there was no other excuse for seeing her in the
middle of the day. He would tell her how selfish and unreasonable
she was. They were two solitary beings in one world together. Their
hours were running away. He loved her. He had always loved her.
And at least she loved nobody else. Then why should they not join
their lives?
Three times he had asked her that question. Each time she had said:
“Let’s go on being friends. That’s very nice, isn’t it?”
A year had passed since the last time. He had watched for some sign
of change. But she was always the same, except that after having
been gently though firmly unwilling to say either yes or no she
seemed to come nearer in friendship and baffled him all the more. If
she had any feeling for him whatever beyond friendship he had been
unable to detect or surprise it, and fate would bear witness that the
possibility was one he had stalked with all patience and subtlety. In
fact, he really believed that if he pressed her to the point she would
say no,—that she had not said it already only because she hated to
hurt him. This notion tormented him exceedingly. It would be a relief
to know.
She had been for some weeks in town, at the Savoy, where he
detained her on the pretext that her presence was necessary in her
own interest. It was only a little past twelve when he arrived there
and called her on the telephone, from the desk, asking her down to
lunch. She was surprised and pleased and answered him in a voice
that had a ring of youth.
The sound of it echoing in his ears evoked memories and caused the
years to fall away. He waited, not there in the hotel lobby, but in a
boxwood hedge, surreptitiously, and saw her as a girl again, plucking
flowers, pretending not to know he was there, yet coming nearer,
always nearer, with a thoughtful air; and for a moment he forgot
that anything had happened since.
“Business or pleasure at this time of day?” she asked, coming up
behind him.
Instantly, at the provocation of her voice, an impish, youth-time
impulse took possession of him. It provided its own idea complete
and he did not stop to examine it. His mood seized it.
“Personal,” he said.
“But you look so serious.”
“It is serious—for me.”
They sat at a table in the far corner of the dining room.
“Out with it. Lucky it isn’t murder. You’d be suspected at first
glance.”
“What shall we eat? Pompano. That ought to be good.... Don’t look
at me like that. I’m so happy I can’t stand it. That’s all that’s the
matter with me.... Filet of sole. How about that?”
“Anything to cure such happiness. Sole, salad and iced tea for me,
please. Now then.”
“A sweet? Or shall we decide about that later?”
“Later. I may be too much surprised by that time to want a sweet.”
She was regarding him intently, with a very curious expression. He
avoided her eyes.
“Yes, it may surprise you,” he said. “Here, waiter!... Of course you
know—(Sole, hearts of lettuce and tomato salad, French dressing,
iced tea for one, large coffee, sweets later)—what an emotional
animal I am.—(Two salads, yes.)—Or romantic. Whatever you like to
call it. (Sole for two.) After all, I don’t know why—(No, hot coffee for
one.)—Why I should be so self-conscious about it. The fact is simple
enough. I’m going to be married.”
“Oh! How exciting. When?”
“When? When, did you say? Why, right away. This evening perhaps.”
“Who is the lady?”
“I’d rather not tell you yet.”
“Yet? But it’s to be this evening, you say.”
“You would know her name at once and you might be prejudiced in
spite of yourself. I can’t very well explain it. But I want you to meet
her first.”
“This afternoon?”
“Or this evening. I’m coming to that. I very much need your help.
It’s an extraordinary thing to ask. I’m anxious to keep it very quiet,
both on her account and my own. Not the fact afterward. That must
come out. But its taking place, when and where. Then of course we
can go away, for a year, two years; live permanently abroad
perhaps.”
“Yes?”
“I say I can’t explain it very clearly. You’ll just have to take a good
deal of it for granted. The newspapers are so curious and
impertinent. I’d like this to happen without anyone knowing it until
the notice is published and we are gone. She has no home. I mean,
she lives at a hotel. I have no home either. At a church or any public
place like that we’d be noticed at once.”
“Will you ask the waiter to bring some more butter, please. Yes, go
on. What can I do to help?”
“Take mine. I hoped you’d guess by this time. There’s no one else I
can ask.”
“Thanks. No, I can’t guess.”
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