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Anson paid the telephone bill–the girl tried unsuccessfully to joke with him about its size–and for the second time that afternoon started to leave the Plaza and go he knew not where. Near the revolving door the figure of a woman, obviously with child, stood sideways to the light–a sheer beige cape fluttered at her shoulders when the door turned and, each time, she looked impatiently toward it as if she were weary of waiting. At the first sight of her a strong nervous thrill of familiarity went over him, but not until he was within five feet of her did he realize that it was Paula.

“Why, Anson Hunter!”

His heart turned over.

“Why, Paula–“

“Why, this is wonderful. I can’t believe it, Anson!“

She took both his hands, and he saw in the freedom of the gesture that the memory of him had lost poignancy to her. But not to him–he felt that old mood that she evoked in him stealing over his brain, that gentleness with which he had always met her optimism as if afraid to mar its surface.

“We’re at Rye for the summer. Pete had to come East on business–you know of course I’m Mrs. Peter Hagerty now–so we brought the children and took a house. You’ve got to come out and see us.”

“Can I?” he asked directly.”When?”

“When you like. Here’s Pete.” The revolving door functioned, giving up a fine tall man of thirty with a tanned face and a trim mustache. His immaculate fitness made a sharp contrast with Anson’s increasing bulk, which was obvious under the faintly tight cut-away coat.

“You oughtn’t to be standing,” said Hagerty to his wife.”Let’s sit down here.” He indicated lobby chairs, but Paula hesitated.

“I’ve got to go right home,” she said.”Anson, why don’t you–why don’t you come out and have dinner with us to-night? We’re just getting settled, but if you can stand that–“

Hagerty confirmed the invitation cordially.

“Come out for the night.”

Their car waited in front of the hotel, and Paula with a tired gesture sank back against silk cushions in the corner.

“Ther
e’s so much I want to talk to you about,” she said, “it seems hopeless.”

“I want to hear about you.”

“Well”–she smiled at Hagerty–“that would take a long time too. I have three children–by my first marriage. The oldest is five, then four, then three.” She smiled again.”I didn’t waste much time having them, did I?”

“Boys?”

“A boy and two girls. Then–oh, a lot of things happened, and I got a divorce in Paris a year ago and married Pete. That’s all–except that I’m awfully happy.”

In Rye they drove up to a large house near the Beach Club, from which there issued presently three dark, slim children who broke from an English governess and approached them with an esoteric cry. Abstractedly and with difficulty Paula took each one into her arms, a caress which they accepted stiffly, as they had evidently been told not to bump into Mummy. Even against their fresh faces Paula’s skin showed scarcely any weariness–for all her physical languor she seemed younger than when he had last seen her at Palm Beach seven years ago.

At dinner she was preoccupied, and afterward, during the homage to the radio, she lay with closed eyes on the sofa, until Anson wondered if his presence at this time were not an intrusion. But at nine o’clock, when Hagerty rose and said pleasantly that he was going to leave them by themselves for a while, she began to talk slowly about herself and the past.

“My first baby,” she said–“the one we call Darling, the biggest little girl–I wanted to die when I knew I was going to have her, because Lowell was like a stranger to me. It didn’t seem as though she could be my own. I wrote you a letter and tore it up. Oh, you were sobad to me, Anson.”

It was the dialogue again, rising and falling. Anson felt a sudden quickening of memory.

“Weren’t you engaged once?” she asked–“a girl named Dolly something?”

“I wasn’t ever engaged. I tried to be engaged, but I never loved anybody but you, Paula.”

“Oh,” she said. Then after a moment: “This baby is the first one I ever really wanted. You see, I’m in love now–at last.”