Sincerely, Willis Wayde (27 page)

The luncheon at the University Club had been a warm, informal affair. Mr. Hawley had said several times that he had never realized he was going to encounter so many lovely human beings, and there was no doubt he was being sold on the Beakney-Graham service.

“Now, Nat,” Mr. Beakney had said to Mr. Hawley, “I'm putting you all in Willis's hands tonight. Being just a youngster, Willis knows all the hot spots. If he doesn't get you what you want, I'll spank him personally.”

Mr. Hawley had put his arm around Willis's shoulders.

“I know a lovely human being when I see one,” Mr. Hawley said. “And I know that Willis won't ever in this world make me do anything that Mrs. Hawley wouldn't like.”

Mr. Beakney swallowed a digestive tablet, but no one noticed except Willis.

“I'll tell you something, Nat,” Mr. Beakney said. “Willis is a Harvard man, but you wouldn't know it.”

It was pleasant sometimes to be considered a Harvard man, as long as no one perceived it, and Willis could always say that the Harvard Business School did not make him a Harvard man.

It was half past three in the afternoon when Willis left the luncheon group, and there was nothing for him to do between then and six forty-five except to go to his apartment and bathe. It was so warm and sunny that you could smell the asphalt on the Avenue; and the clear sky and the fine buildings, and the shiny cars and the green busses and the yellow taxicabs and the pretty girls who walked past him, all fitted his mood. When everything was going right, a fine spring day on Fifth Avenue always made Willis think of the future, which unrolled in front of him like the thoroughfare. He did not covet the motor cars that moved past him, because he knew that he would own one himself some day. In fact he could buy a small one immediately if he wanted. It was great to be successful and good to be alive.

Even if it did not matter where he was going that afternoon, he must have had some idea of taking a quick walk in the Park, because he had turned uptown. When his glance fell on a tall girl walking toward him, he did not remember her at first. It may have been her quick, easy pace or the awkward cut of her tweed suit, or her gray hat—he never could remember what it was that first attracted his attention. Then he found himself looking at her pale face and her mouth that had hardly a trace of lipstick, and somehow the unkempt look of her dark brown hair made her seem distinguished. Then he had a sense of having seen her somewhere else at some other time or place, and his pace must have slowed automatically. Then he thought of Craigie Street and of Cambridge winters, and he remembered it was Sylvia Hodges.

“Why, hello,” he said, and there was a cordial lift of his voice that made him sound like Mr. Beakney. “Why, hello, Sylvia Hodges.”

This was a technique that he had learned recently, of using the full name in greeting someone when you were not sure whether the first name might not be too informal. He could see that she did not remember him immediately, and there was no reason why she should have, but she did remember before he could tell her who he was.

“Why,” she said, “you're Willis Wayde,” and he was amused by the surprised way she said it.

“You guessed it the first time,” Willis said, and he laughed.

“Why, to think of seeing you here in New York,” she said. It was just what he would have expected her to say, and her voice still had its old nervous and insecure quality.

“Well, here we are,” Willis said. “Are you down here for long?”

Her brown eyes had a surprised look, as though she saw something new and strange in him.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I'm working at Columbia, on some research there.”

“Columbia,” he said. “Well, that's fine. I'm working here myself but not at Columbia. It's funny, running into you.”

“Why, yes,” she said, “it's been such a long time, hasn't it?”

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

“Why,” she said, “I'm doing some research in sociology for Professor Gilchrist there.”

“I mean what are you doing now?” Willis asked.

“Oh, I just came downtown to look at the shops,” she said. “Gilchrist doesn't work on Saturday.”

“Well, if you're just out for a walk,” Willis said, and he felt relaxed and friendly, “how about walking over and having a cup of tea at the Plaza?”

“The Plaza?” she repeated after him. “I've never been to the Plaza.” The way she said it indicated that the Plaza was something she had always wanted to see.

“Well, it's time you went there then,” he said. After all, it was always pleasant to be able to do some small kind deed for someone. “The Plaza is a bit of old New York, you know, like the horses and the cabbies waiting near it to take you through the Park. I always like the Oak Room there for an after-the-theater snack, and you can't help liking the palm court and the fountain and the little tables. It's rather French, you know, but still it's old New York.”

“Well,” she said, “thank you. It would be nice to go there with someone who knows so much about it.”

“Oh, I don't know so much,” he said, “but I do go there occasionally. No one can ever learn
all
about New York, but I've been here long enough to learn a little. For instance here's Bergdorf Goodman's, which stands on the site of the old Vanderbilt mansion. They always have wonderful window displays. Those are nice summer dresses, aren't they?”

They both stopped to look at the pallidly slender figures in chiffon gowns grouped on an abstract summer terrace.

“I hate to think what those things must cost,” Sylvia said, and Willis laughed easily.

“So do I,” he answered. “So do I.” It was very pleasant to be able to be kind to Sylvia, and he could extend his kindness in imagination.

“I'd like to see you in that—er—green gown,” he said, and he hesitated because he didn't know whether or not “gown” was the word for it.

“So would I,” she answered.

It was a useless thought, of course, but it had the quality of Cinderella and the coach, and it blended with all the sights and sounds on the Avenue.

“There's never any harm in wishing,” he said. “Very frankly it's an idea of mine that if you wish for something hard enough and often enough, it might come true sometime.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked him. She looked at him, and then she looked back at the dresses in the window.

“Yes,” he said, “at least that's my theory at present.”

“All right,” she said, “all right, I'm wishing.”

He was glad that he had thought of the spacious, decorous order of the Plaza. There were very few people in the palm court, and the music had not started yet, so that you could hear the gentle splash of water from the fountain. Although he did not know the captain, Willis greeted him as though he did.

“I think the lady would like to sit a little nearer the fountain, if you could manage it,” he said. “Will it be tea or would you rather have something to drink, Sylvia?”

“Oh, tea, thanks,” Sylvia said, “and an English muffin and marmalade, if they have it.”

He watched her take off her gloves and fold them carefully.

“This is great fun,” she said. “And it's so civilized to think of tea. Everyone's always drinking cocktails at Columbia.”

“I agree with you about tea,” Willis said. “I don't mind a drink before dinner, but not in the middle of the afternoon. I hope everything's all right in Cambridge.”

“Oh, Cambridge,” Sylvia said. “It's the same old place, but there comes a time when you want to be independent, don't you think so?” She looked at him with a quick, rather timid smile.

“I've always thought it must be difficult for a girl at home after she's finished with college and everything,” Willis said. “I hope your mother and father are well.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “they're doing splendidly. Father was made president of the Geological Institute last year. He makes fun of it, but secretly he's pleased, and his book—did you know he had finished his book on the Devonian ganoids?”

“No,” Willis said. “Well, that's fine. Personally I don't seem to get much chance to read, but I have bought Dr. Eliot's Five-Foot Shelf of Books. Fifteen minutes' reading a day, you know,” and he laughed.

Sylvia's forehead wrinkled.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I've seen advertisements of it. The family used to know President Eliot. I used to be rather frightened of him. How do you like your tea?”

“Just as it comes,” Willis said, “and two lumps of sugar and lemon. How's your sister?”

“Oh, Laura,” Sylvia said. “Well, Laura's all through with Radcliffe, and she's teaching Latin in a very snooty girls' school in Connecticut, and Tom's in a law office in Boston. He's engaged to Mary Smythe. Did you ever know Mary Smythe in Cambridge?”

“No, I don't think so,” Willis said. “I never got around much when I was in Cambridge.”

“Well, let's just forget about Cambridge and remember that we're here,” Sylvia said. “I really thought for a minute you were a handsome stranger trying to pick me up. Tell me all about yourself and what you're doing and everything.”

It was a conversation that anyone might have conducted who had suddenly met a girl after a considerable lapse of years. Each of them was building up a separate picture behind those brittle words, of what each would like to be.

“Oh, there isn't much that's interesting about me,” Willis said. “I'd rather hear about Cambridge and what you're doing.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “everything I do is very plain and dull.”

“Well,” Willis said, “I'm working in an office—Beakney-Graham and Company. It's a management concern and it sounds dull to everyone but me.”

It was very much like a pencil-and-paper game that they used to play at the Hodgeses'. Sylvia Hodges looked at him with bright attention, like a girl in a college lecture.

“I suppose I ought to know,” she said. “What is a management concern?”

“Well,” he said, “frankly, it's sort of like an industrial doctor's office. If someone is having trouble running his business or his factory, he comes around to us for advice and assistance, and we tinker with the organization, and it's a real industrial education, but I'm afraid it all sounds boring.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “but I still don't see exactly what you do.”

“That's the fascinating part about it,” Willis said, “because we do almost everything. Personally, I'm assisting one of the big shots, Mr. Joe McKitterick, and I go with him on jobs all over the country. A while ago we were down South with a fertilizer company, and before that we were up in Minnesota with a pulp mill, and when we're not doing things like that I'm writing reports or entertaining clients.”

“I don't see why you say it sounds boring,” Sylvia said.

“I mean it doesn't sound interesting unless you know about it,” Willis said. “Oh, excuse me, I should have asked you before. Would you care for a cigarette?”

“Oh, thank you,” Sylvia said, “I would, if you happen to have one with you.”

“Certainly,” Willis said, and he pulled a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket and snapped its lid open. “Excuse me, I should have asked you long ago.”

He held a lighted match for her and that little pause seemed to break the current of their thoughts.

“You certainly look as though you were doing well,” she told him. It was the first personal thing she had said, and he laughed.

“You have to look that way if you work in Beakney-Graham,” he said. “You have to look as though you knew all the answers in the book.”

“You're certainly different from what you were in Cambridge,” she said.

“I guess I was pretty provincial when I was in Cambridge,” Willis said, “but I don't think I've changed much, basically.”

“Oh,” she said, “maybe it's because you have to know the answers. I wish I knew the answers to anything.”

“That's funny,” Willis told her, “I always thought you did.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I must have been terrible when I knew you in Cambridge. You see, I was in love. A girl is always terrible when she's in love.”

Willis felt a slight twinge of embarrassment when he remembered the indifference of Steve Decker.

“Why, I never thought you were terrible,” he said.

“I don't suppose you did,” she answered, “because you never really thought of me at all. Would you like another cup of tea?”

“Thanks,” Willis said, “I would enjoy another cup,” and his mind moved awkwardly as he tried to think of something else to say. “It's a good thing, getting over being in love with someone. It clears the decks, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” Sylvia Hodges said, “it sort of clears the decks. Let's talk about something else.”

“All right,” Willis answered, “anything at all.”

The orchestra had begun to play as they were talking, but Willis had not been aware of the music until then. It was true he had never thought of Sylvia Hodges. This was the first time he had thought of her seriously as a person separate from her environment.

“Suppose you tell me what you really want, I mean out of life and everything,” she said.

“Out of life?” Willis repeated after her.

“I know it's a silly question,” Sylvia said, “and probably it shows why I'm not good at talking to men.”

“How do you mean,” he asked her, “that you can't talk to men?”

“Oh,” she said, “I always say something like that and it drives them off.”

“Well,” Willis said, “personally I always like a good serious talk. I guess everybody tries to figure what he wants out of life. I know I've given it serious thought personally, but I don't want to bore you.”