AS USUAL, PHYLLIS WAS ALREADY at her desk in the small office that adjoined Kenyon’s larger, handsomely furnished one when her employer arrived. Tall and handsome and distinguished, wearing excellently cut clothes, affable in his manner toward his employees, pleasant to his very efficient secretary, Phyllis’ uncontrollable heart did the usual acrobatics as he entered and summoned her from her office to his. As usual his first business of the day was to dictate a memorandum of the flowers to be sent to various feminine acquaintances. The inevitable dark red roses for Letty, of course. That was a daily order; but Kenyon never forgot to mention it, to Phyllis’ secret though carefully hidden resentment.
She bent her head attentively above her notebook, but glanced now and then at Kenyon’s hands. At every glimpse of his long and carefully tended hands she felt herself go weak with desire, and the shame of that colored her face with a burning blush.
They were halfway through the morning’s dictation when the telephone rang and the receptionist from the outer office said carefully, “Mrs. Lawrence is calling. She says her business is urgent and she must see Mr. Rutledge.”
Holding the telephone, Phyllis passed the message on to Rutledge and felt her heart curl a little with despair at the frank pleasure on his face.
“Ask her to come in, of course,” he said swiftly.
And a moment later, Letty entered. Letty never merely came into a room; she made an entrance. And Letty could afford to, for she was beautiful. Sleekly groomed; exquisitely dressed in something thin and dark and cool, perfect for summer in the city; gardenias no less fresh and dainty than herself tucked into the narrow belt of her gown, beneath the gentle swell of one lovely breast.
Kenyon greeted her with every evidence of delight and Phyllis gathered her pencils and notebook to make an unobtrusive departure from the office.
Letty said radiantly, “Good morning, Miss Gordon—how’s the perfect secretary this morning?” And without waiting for Phyllis’ answer, she turned to Kenyon and said, “Darling, I think I’m terribly broad-minded to permit you to have such a beautiful secretary! Miss Gordon is lovely!”
And Phyllis, closing the door behind her, heard Kenyon say lightly, “Is she? I haven’t noticed.”
Phyllis stood stock-still just outside the closed door, and the bitterness of that was a pain that she could not fight down. Of course he had never noticed her; he didn’t know whether she was aged and ugly or young and lovely, because he didn’t care. She set her teeth and made herself go on to her own office.
She was at her desk, forcing herself to concentrate on the heavy accumulation of mail, when Kenyon, with the lovely Letty at his elbow, looked in to say cheerfully, “Can you handle things alone today, Miss Gordon? I find I have an important appointment.”
Letty laughed like a pleased child and slipped her gloved hand through his arm.
“You have an appointment with Mr. Duncan about that merger at twelve, and a luncheon engagement with the directors of the bank at one,” Phyllis reminded him.
His face darkened a little. Letty murmured something and he looked at her fondly.
“Oh, well, call ‘em and say that I’m tied up—change the appointments for tomorrow,” he said recklessly. “Mrs. Lawrence wants my opinion on a house she is buying in the country.”
“And I’m such a dunce about business, Miss Gordon,” pleaded Letty gaily, tightening her pressure on Kenyon’s arm slightly. “And you’re so clever—I’m sure you can cope with the bankers and the Duncan person.”
Kenyon grinned warmly at her, and a moment later they went out together. Phyllis jabbed a pencil ruinously into her nice new desk blotter for a long moment before she took up the telephone and began to “cope,” using all her tact and ingenuity, with the two broken appointments….
It was a grueling day. She refused to admit even to herself that the day was made harder by the thought of Kenyon and Letty somewhere in the country having fun together. When she left her office and came down in the elevator to the street, she had only one thought in mind: home to a cool shower and a salad for dinner out of whatever might be in the icebox. But as she walked toward the street through the lobby crowded with office workers, Terry fell into step beside her.
“Mad at me?” he asked boyishly.
“Of course not, idiot,” she told him swiftly, and forced herself to smile at him.
“I had a good day—sold a block of stock and picked myself up a couple of hundred bucks,” he told her happily. “I thought we’d step out and blow it on a binge.”
“Why not put it in the bank?” she suggested lightly.
He shuddered. “What a gruesome thought. I’ve got five hundred dollars in the bank and I wouldn’t think of having any more. I don’t want to become a ‘feelthy reech’ capitalist,” he told her firmly.
As always, her tired spirits rose a little at Terry’s badinage. He was such a grand person. They had had so many wonderful laughs together. Much better to go out with Terry and forget Kenyon for a while than to sit home and brood.
“I’d love it, Terry,” she told him quickly. “But I’ll have to go home and dress.”
He nodded and whistled for a taxi and was astounded when one slid to the curb. He helped her into it, grinned warmly at her and said cheerily, “While you change, I’ll shake up a couple of drinks to fortify us for our rounds.”
He took her hand and laced his fingers between hers and looked down at her adoringly. “Tired?” he asked gently.
“A little—it’s been a beast of a day,” she admitted.
“We won’t think about it,” he comforted her. “We’ll have dinner some place where they don’t have an orchestra, and then find a nice, silly play, and a bistro that’s amusing.”
Insensibly she relaxed a little from the tension of the day. She was so fond of Terry. What a fool she was not to be in love with him. Terry was with a brokerage firm in the building that housed the Rutledge firm. He earned an excellent living, and if he threw it away as fast as he made it—well, that was only because he had no incentive to save it. If he were married, with a wife and children and a little house in the suburbs—
Phyllis gave herself a mental shake and told herself to snap out of it. She was tired and depressed and in a dangerously sentimental mood when she began to dream of a tiny cottage covered with roses—and the inevitable mortgage.
Terry was taking no apparent notice of her depression. He had launched into an amusing story of the day’s activities and his effort to unload the block of stock, and when the taxi reached her apartment house, she was laughing.
They went up in the elevator, and she gave him her key and he fitted it into the lock. As he swung open the door, they were both startled to see that there was a light in the living room.
As they came into the tiny foyer and paused at the two shallow steps that led down into the living room, a girl appeared at the door of the kitchenette; a young, blond, delectable girl in a blue frock with a ruffly coquettish white apron tied about her slender waist and a long, red-handled kitchen fork in her hand.
“Hello, Cousin Phyllis. I’m so glad to see you. Dinner is almost ready—” she began, and then saw Terry. She flushed and said with pretty confusion, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were alone.”
Phyllis said quietly, “Hello, Anice. I didn’t expect you quite so soon. Your wire said nothing about the time of your arrival.”
Anice looked distressed, and wrinkled her pretty brow.
“I didn’t? Oh, what a dunce I am. I’m terribly sorry, Phyllis. I wondered why you weren’t at the station. My train was late though, and it was after three when it got in,” she apologized anxiously.
“And being a business gal, I was chained to my desk until after five, so I couldn’t have met you anyway,” said Phyllis. She presented Terry, caught the fascinated look on his face and all but grinned derisively.
Anice had accepted the introduction shyly, and then she turned anxiously to Phyllis.
“I do hope, Cousin Phyllis—” her voice put a bridge of years between them, and Phyllis felt that she should have gray hair and at least a touch of arthritis “—that you don’t mind my just barging right in and making myself at home. I explained to the superintendent and he said you never got home before six and he didn’t see any reason why I should have to sit in the lobby and wait. So he let me in and I unpacked and changed. And then I thought it would be nice if I had a good, home-cooked dinner all ready and waiting for you when you came in, and so I went out and got some broilers and things and they’ll be all ready by the time you’ve washed your face and hands.”
The words tumbled out in a childish stream that made Anice seem very young and appealingly anxious to please. But Phyllis, being feminine herself, did not miss the very faint hint of appraisal that Anice gave herself before she turned to Terry and added shyly, “There’s plenty for three, Mr. McLean, and I’d be so glad if you would stay.”
Phyllis stiffened a little. After all, it was her apartment, not Anice’s, even though Anice had cooked dinner. However, Phyllis reminded herself curtly, there was no point in getting her back up over the obvious fact that Anice had dug herself in nicely and was about to take over completely.
“Phyllis and I were dining out,” Terry began, because he, too, had not missed the fact that Anice was smoothly taking over and that the invitation should have come from Phyllis.
“Oh—oh—I’m so terribly sorry. I—I guess it was presumptuous of me to expect to stay. I mean—well, after all, my first night in New York, I shouldn’t have taken it on myself to provide dinner, even if I was just thinking that maybe Phyllis would be too tired to go out.” Anice’s words stumbled and her face was flushed and she blinked her blue eyes hard to keep back the tears.
“I’m sure the dinner you’ve prepared would be much better than anything we could get in a restaurant,” said Terry swiftly, comfortingly, “so why don’t we have dinner here and then do the town—the three of us?”
“Oh!” Anice didn’t clap her hands and jump up and down as an excited child might have done, but she gave the impression that she barely restrained herself. “Oh, but that would be marvelous—I’d love it.” And then she looked swiftly at Phyllis and it was as though a sponge had washed across her face, removing all its bright joy. “But of course I couldn’t think of—thrusting myself on you. I know you two want to be alone.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Anice—of course we’d like to have you along,” snapped Phyllis shortly, and saw Terry look at her, puzzled and a little annoyed at her curtness.
“Of course. Having you along will only add to the general hilarity of the occasion, won’t it, Phyl?” said Terry, and his tone said he thought she was not very nice to have smacked the kid down so hard.
“Of course,” said Phyllis.
Anice flashed her a split-second gleam that might have been triumph, and once more her excited joy was a pretty thing to watch.
“Oh, then that would be wonderful. Oh, I’m so excited. Think of it! My very first night in New York—and I’m going to a party!” she cried youthfully. “Oh, Phyllis, do hurry and dress so we can have dinner and get started. I can’t wait to see New York at night!”
Phyllis gave her a long, level look, but Anice only laughed, a little silvery laugh, and ran back to the kitchenette with an excited comment about dinner. And Phyllis, without a word to Terry, went into the bedroom to change.
Just inside the room, she paused, startled, and looked about her. For the room seemed changed. The dressing table top was divided as by a ruler into two exact halves. On one half, Phyllis’ toilet articles and her various jars of cosmetics and bottles of scent had been herded together; on the other side of the dividing line were other toilet articles and the sort of cosmetics that a blonde would require.
Thoughtfully Phyllis opened the drawers of the dresser in a corner. There were four drawers; Phyllis had always kept them in meticulous order so that, no matter how hurried she was, she could always find fresh gloves, hose and hankies in the top drawer, and so on down. But now the top drawer held slips and nightgowns as well, and the second drawer was filled with Anice’s apple-blossom-tinted lingerie—all of it new and unworn, Phyllis noted in passing. The third drawer held what had formerly been in the two bottom drawers, and the bottom drawer was filled with Anice’s possessions.
Phyllis walked to the closet and swung open the door. By then she was quite prepared for what she would find and she was not disappointed, for her own wardrobe had been crowded as neatly as such crowding permitted into exactly one half of the closet, while the other half held Anice’s possessions. And Phyllis saw that every single garment, every pair of silly little slippers, each of the three hats were brand-new and had never been worn. The labels were from the smartest of New York shops: Bergdorf-Goodman, Lord & Taylor, Saks’ Fifth Avenue.
Puzzled, a thoughtful frown between her eyes, Phyllis took her shower and came back and dressed in a simple white jersey dinner dress. When she returned to the living room, the thoughtful frown was still between her eyes. After all, she tried to tell herself, it was perfectly natural that Anice should have unpacked and made herself at home. And as for the way Anice looked at Terry, Phyllis told herself sternly, “You don’t want Terry, and maybe she does. And Terry likes her….” Nevertheless she barely smothered a little sigh.
The living room looked pleasant and cozy with the gateleg table drawn up before the long windows that looked over a small, ambitious but not too successful garden. The table was spread with a crisp embroidered linen cloth, and there was a black bowl filled with bright-hued zinnias in the center. Phyllis’ peasant china added a gay and colorful note, and the smells from the kitchenette were very appetizing.
Terry came in with a cocktail shaker and two glasses on a tray.
“Anice says she doesn’t imbibe,” he said, explaining the two glasses, and grinned at Phyllis.
“It’s not that I disapprove,” Anice said anxiously. “It’s just that … well, I never thought it was quite ladylike—though of course I don’t mean to criticize you, Cousin Phyllis. I suppose it’s—well, part of being a career girl in New York.”
“I’m not a career girl, Anice,” protested Phyllis shortly. “I am a business girl. I work for my living, not merely for a career.”
“Oh, of course. And I suppose you have to drink in order to keep your job,” said Anice candidly.
Phyllis almost choked over her cocktail and stared at Anice with active dislike in her eyes.
“Odd as it may seem to you, Anice, I’ve never yet had to get drunk in order to hold my job,” she said icily.
Quick tears filled Anice’s eyes and her young chin quivered, but she managed a tremulous smile and said contritely, “I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I? And I’m just terribly sorry—I wouldn’t have done that for anything. I only meant that I didn’t disapprove of your drinking.”
“That’s damn kind of you,” said Phyllis through her teeth, before she could check the angry words.
Anice blinked, caught up her apron in two shaking hands and murmured something as she ran back to the kitchenette.
“You didn’t have to be so rough on the kid, Phyl. She seems like a good kid, anxious to do what’s right,” protested Terry.
Phyllis raised her eyebrows a little and said gently, “Et tu, Brute?”
Terry, sharply annoyed, responded, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Phyl, have a heart! The kid’s trying so hard to make things pleasant.”
Phyllis laughed, a short, mirthless laugh, and said quietly, “Yes, isn’t she?”
Anice, suspiciously flushed and her eyes damp, the golden lashes stuck together in little points, came in bringing food, and as they settled about the table, she watched them anxiously, as though her very life depended on their liking what she had cooked.
“I do hope it’s—well, eatable,” she said.
“It’s delicious—food for the gods. Boy, how you can cook!” said Terry simply, but with heartfelt sincerity.
“Oh, I’m so glad! I was terrified you wouldn’t like it, and I did so want to have a nice, hot meal waiting for Cousin Phyllis. I know how hard she works, and she looks so tired,” cooed Anice sweetly.
Phyllis studied her for a moment and then she asked mildly, “When did you say you got in, Anice?”
“This afternoon a little after three,” said Anice innocently.
“And you came straight here and unpacked and made yourself at home?” commented Phyllis, with almost no expression in her voice.
Terry looked from one to the other, puzzled by a sudden tension that, man-like, he could not quite grasp.
“Why, yes, of course,” said Anice, puzzled, child-like. “I do hope you don’t mind my unpacking and putting things away, Cousin Phyllis? I tried to make everything neat and tidy.”
“Oh, you did—very neat and tidy,” said Phyllis quietly. “The only thing that puzzled me was how you managed to get so much shopping accomplished in just a couple of hours, and to bring the things home and put them away.”
Anice looked at the table and then at Phyllis and said, “But there’s a nice little grocery shop just around the corner.”
“I don’t mean the food, Anice,” said Phyllis quietly. “I mean all the pretty new clothes you put away in the closet and in the dresser drawers. How in the world did you manage to accomplish so much in such a little while?”
“Oh!” For a moment Anice appeared a trifle disconcerted, and then she laughed merrily. “Oh, that The Personal Shopping Agency did that for me—isn’t it wonderful? I sent them my size in everything and they shopped and sent me the things so all I had to do was pack them and, when I got here, unpack them!”
Now why, Phyllis asked herself as Terry said something that was supposed to ease the tension, should she lie about a thing like that? She’s been in town a couple of days, at the very least; she’d have to be to get that much shopping done. And it doesn’t matter a darn to me—so why the heck should she lie about it? There’s a purpose back of everything she does—as I should know! But what is behind this lie?
A little later, they were finishing the apple pie—Anice mourned that it was a bakery pie, because she hadn’t had time to bake one, but she could bake a much better pie than that and some time she would prove it to Terry!—Phyllis asked casually, “Did you rent your house, Anice?”
“No,” said Anice like a delighted child. “Guess what—I sold it! And I got a thousand dollars for it!”
“A thousand dollars? Why, Anice, that was highway robbery!” protested Phyllis.
Anice flushed and looked guilty.
“I suppose it was, but they wanted it just terribly. It was a veteran and his wife and they had two sweet children, and nobody wanted to rent them a house—isn’t it terrible the way landlords won’t rent to anybody with children? And they thought it would be a wonderful place for the kiddies.” She broke off and looked at Terry and at Phyllis, and then asked huskily, “Do you think I should give them back some of the money? Gran was asking nine hundred for it the summer before she died.”
“Then it’s certainly worth a hundred dollars more now than it was then, with the housing shortage!” said Terry firmly. “Dry your pretty eyes, honeychile, and forget it. I bet the vet was tickled silly to get it for a thousand bucks.”
Anice said eagerly, “Oh, he was. It was furnished, you know, and I gave him twenty-four-hour possession, and the wife almost cried, she was so glad to get settled and know she wouldn’t have to be evicted again.”
She beamed happily at Terry, childishly relieved that he had not condemned her for the price she had asked. But Phyllis remembered the generous piles of flowery lingerie, the cobwebby stockings, and the half dozen or more frocks and hats and slippers that had all but crowded Phyllis out of her own room. That outlay must have taken up her thousand dollars—for clothes like that were not cheap, as Phyllis had every reason to know. If Anice had sunk her whole thousand dollars on a new wardrobe, then Phyllis could quite understand her moving in here where she would not have to pay rent.