“No, I can’t imagine you any different, Greg. A gilded little playboy. But I have to run away.”

“You want me to settle down, is that it, Mina?”

The Playboy

Helen R. Hull

Illustrations: C. D. Williams

Cosmopolitan, vol. 76, Apr. 1924, pp. 94-97, 120-128.

The sounds of morning hurry nibbled at the edge of Gregory’s sleep; feet clomping on the stairs, a baby’s wah-wahing, voices, doors.

“Can’t let you sleep.” He dragged the comfortable over his ears until only an untidy lock of dark hair marked the end of the long cocoon.

“Greg-ory!” The cocoon wriggled. “Greg-or-y!”

“Yes.” A practised arm lunged out from cover, seized a shoe and dropped it sharply on the floor. “Yes. Coming.” Then quiet again, until a rude hand shook the cocoon, pulled at the tousled hair, dragged the boy clear of the comforting oblivion of sleep. “You must get out of bed this instant. You’ll be late again.”

“Leggo my head, then.” Gregory pulled away from his mother’s fingers, sat up yawning. “What time—gee-gosh, why didn’t you call me when I said to!” He thrust a long leg out of bed.

“I did.” His mother waited at the door until the second leg appeared. “If you’d ever get to bed at a decent hour, you wouldn’t be so dead the next morning. Now you’ll have to rush——”

“Ye-ah.” Gregory stopped beside her, wiggling his chin softly on her dark, curly hair. “Seem’s if I’d heard you say that. Now you run and get my brekkust, that’s a nice little girl.” Her perplexed frown smoothed away as she looked up at the thin, sleepy face above her.

“Well, you never listen to anything.”

“Too busy.” Gregory slammed the door of the bathroom. An instant later he angled over the stairs to shout after her, “You ironed that silk shirt for me?”

“Greg, please!” The round pink face of Alice, his sister-in-law, shone up at him. “The baby! Sh!”

Greg wheeled into the bathroom again, grunting disgustedly. An interim of splashing, banging of drawers, and he was down the stairs three steps at a stride, his coat over his arm.

“Where’s the shirt, Mims?” He stood by the kitchen window while his mother adjusted the cuff links.

“You might have your shirts done at the laundry.” Alice rattled the breakfast dishes, her firm round figure eloquent of disapproval. “Your mother hasn’t even had her breakfast, having to do that up for you. Silk shirts to work!”

“You should consume yourself with worry.” Gregory adjusted his tie, yanked on his coat. “Nice pretty overalls like Frank, eh?” His fingers shoved crumpled papers deeper into the outside pocket of the coat, and a line between his dark brows showed deeply for a second.

“Now, Greg.” His mother shoved him into the dining room.

“Well, Alice can leave me alone.” His white teeth crunched busily at the toast while his mother hovered from kitchen to dining room, with fresh coffee, eggs. “Any mail yet?” He pushed the letters out of sight in a pocket with the briefest inspection. None from Mina. Well, she might have sent it to the store.

“I guess you know what they are.” His mother sat opposite him, troubled. “Greg, I wish——”

“Now, Mims!” He was on his feet again, dashing for cap and overcoat. “Say——” He beckoned to her ingratiatingly and she followed him into the little hall. “Mims, you’re a good sport. Could you lend me a tenner? Mina’s coming back today and I’m stony.”

“Greg!” But he saw her hand close protectingly over the pocket in her blue house dress. “I had to pay Alice your board last week and this.”

“You’ll get it back, you know.” He tapped one toe briskly, his dark eyes beseeching her. “All the Christmas joy left me strapped. Just till Saturday.” His arm crept over her shoulders and his fingers pried at her hand. “Have to give Mina a treat.” He had the bill in his own pocket. “That’s a nice mother.”

“If you’d only have a nice girl, one who’d make you want to settle down——”

“They don’t come nicer than Mina, Mims.”

“She isn’t a home girl, Greg. She’s used to money——”

“Yeah.” Greg’s mouth looked grim. “What she makes herself. She’s smart.”

“Too smart. These modern girls——”

“Is Gregory coming home for lunch today?” Alice stood just behind his mother. How much had she heard?

“Yes, he is.” Gregory pecked at his mother’s cheek. “By-by.” He rushed down the street, his coat flapping in the sharp January wind, his heels crunching bits of ice.

Lucky he’d got that ten-dollar bill. He’d left his car at the garage last night, with two flats. Old Mike wouldn’t let him have it, curses on his stingy heart, without hard, cruel cash. Gregory whistled softly as he swung onto the clattering street-car. Mina’d pucker her face into that little grin of hers all right if he didn’t have the ole bus when he met her train. Course, he could say engine trouble. But he couldn’t fool Mina.

He yanked a handful of letters from his pocket and thumbed them. Bills. No use opening them. The grand total was bad enough if you didn’t know it. His fingers twitched over them as if they ached to tear them in bits, scatter them over the dirty street and forget them. But he pushed them out of sight into his trousers pocket. If he could get hold of a few hundred—say five. That ought to clear him up. A paltry five hundred between him and comfort. His thin, handsome face drew into somber lines. Hang his luck, anyway!

Pretty little doll-face across from him, with the come-hither look in the blue eyes peering at him under the mixing-bowl hat. Gregory flung an arm negligently along the back of his seat. Poor little thing, how disappointed she’d be if he should tell her she couldn’t stir a ripple in his shirt-front. They were all alike, eyes under hat-brims, all except Mina. Funny, wasn’t it, how he couldn’t work up any interest in them?

The street-car janged its way into the business streets.

Gregory dropped to the ground as it slowed and dodging the random eccentricities of small-town traffic, stopped at the corner cigar store.

“How’s.” He held one finger up. “What’s new?”

The boy behind the counter tossed him a package of cigarets.

“What would be, here?” he grunted.

Gregory extracted a cigaret, leaned above the lighter.

“Say, Bill.” He held his ten-dollar bill by one corner. “You wouldn’t ruin this for me this time of day, would you? I’ll be in this noon.” And expertly, before Bill could answer, he was again on the street. Time he was at the store. But his long stride broke in front of a window. Gee, that was some coat! He flung back his shoulders as if they carried the raccoon pelts with assurance. Himself at the wheel of his low car, the striped fur bulking all over the seat, Mina squeezed in beside him.

No harm to dash in and ask Dickey the price. Only last week Dickey had said there’d be bargains after the holidays.

Scarcely fifteen minutes later Gregory emerged through the swinging doors of the department store. His stride was superb. At his knees the fur coat flapped open, turning its plaid lining to the wind. Good old Dickey! He’d taken ten dollars down. To be sure, Gregory had to find forty more within a day. Then the rest would be easy, once a month. Dickey was a rare old scout. Letting him have it at a spring figure in January. It would have been inane folly not to snap it up. Gregory peered with a bland mouth and brightened eyes at the distorted reflection of himself in shop windows. Pity to go inside and take it off. He stood a moment in front of the “Men’s Own Shop,” staring at the chaste display of socks and neckwear. Then the dull green curtain of background parted down the middle, substituting for his own reflection the sallow, long face of Thomas B. Wright. The eyelids flew wide at the sight of Gregory, who stirred into a swift entry of the shop.

“I see,” said Thomas. “You just inherited a million from a great-aunt in the old country and so you ain’t working for me any more.”

“Aw, cut the wits.” Gregory grinned at him. “Say, it hit you in the eye, didn’t it?” He viewed himself in the oval counter mirror, incompletely. “I picked it up at a great bargain.”

“On an ash-can?” Tom watched Gregory’s reluctant peeling off of the coat.

“A fellow really has to have a fur coat,” began Gregory. “Riding around in all sorts of weather. Saves undertakers’ bills.”

“Sure.” Tom hefted it. “Some of us wear red flannel, but we ain’t all rich. Well, I’m glad you deigned to come in to see me.”

Gregory cuffed at him, carried the coat with a kind of subdued reverence to the coat room at the rear of the shop, glancing at the table which served Tom for office.

“Any mail for me?”

“She didn’t write, Greg. She’s forgotten her little boy.”

Greg shrugged. Two days without a letter from Mina!

“Say.” Tom had followed him. “Got your bus here? There’s a box for us at the freight office.”

“Mike’s got it.” Gregory was arranging a disordered box of wool hose. “You’re welcome to it.” He looked up, his face genial. “Here’s the key. You run around and help yourself.”

“I’d like to get the stuff this morning. Wooley’s got a new display in his shop, and if we don’t break something——”

“Toddle along, then.” Gregory thrust his key-ring into Tom’s fingers.

When Tom, in his last year’s belted sports coat, had closed the door, Gregory slapped his hand smartly against his thigh. That wasn’t bad. They’d make Tom cough up to get the bus. He’d take it out, and then it would be out. Gregory had wondered how to replace that ten dollars. Bus and fur coat—he’d give Mina a reception she’d remember. Poor ole Tom, tied up with a wife and two kids so he didn’t dare change a nickel. He’d had a flivver once till the rear fell out and he sold it for junk. That was what marriage did for a man.

Gregory polished the plate glass of the cases. A woman came in for a linen handkerchief, a birthday present, and Gregory, by a tactful display of a corner of pongee silk in his coat pocket, doubled her expenses. That was one reason Tom put up with him. “You’re so confoundedly ornamental, Greg,” he would growl. Well, he could sell stuff. Tom ought to give him a raise.

He looked up into a bullish, strange face thrust over the counter. “You G. McVickar?” Gregory admitted it. “I got a little bill here.” The stubby fingers spread papers on the counter, smearing the polished glass. “Tailor. Item, balance of forty-four dollars. Two years old. Credit Emporium. Item, balance, of sixty-two dollars on furniture unpaid.” The stubby finger pointed at a third, a fourth.

“Just leave them with me and I’ll see to ’em.” Gregory tried to pick up the papers but the thick fingers held them fast.

“My clients say they write you without reply.”

“What you got to do with it?” A little nerve in Gregory’s cheek began to twitch and he put his hand over it. Mustn’t let the fellow see.

“I’m handling these accounts. You going to settle?”

“Tell your clients it’s a poor way to keep a customer!”

“Mebbe they don’t want to keep your kind of customer, see?” The man thrust his chin farther across the counter. “Suppose you settle now.”

“It isn’t convenient.” Gregory was elegant, distant. “If you leave the bills——”

“Gimme something toward them and I’ll see what I can do.”

Gregory’s hand plunged into his pocket. The man waited. Greg crumpled unopened envelopes.

“Now see here, bo.” Gregory dropped his grand manner, leaned an elbow on the counter. “You know how it is, just after Christmas, don’t you? Give a fellow a little rope, can’t you?”

“Broke, eh?” The man nodded. “Your boss in?”

“He’s got nothing to do with it.” Gregory dropped his voice ingratiatingly. “I’ll see you by Saturday, with a fat roll.”

“This is serious, young fellow. These folks”—he thrummed on the papers—“need their money. You got something of them. Now you got to cough up. That’s all. If you don’t, there’s ways of making you.”

“You can’t squeeze a stone.” Gregory shied away from the threat. “Have a heart! By Saturday, I said.”

“The Credit Emporium instructs me to get the furniture.”

“The fools can have it! And the tailor can have his clothes, all but the seat of the pants.” Gregory’s face was scarlet.

“Now, sonny, we know a thing or two about you. I’ll wait till tomorrow. You don’t want real trouble, do you?”

“Fine way to do business!” Gregory was shouting now. “Any firm works on credit.”

“I don’t suppose you get enough here to pay to garnishee your wages. I’ll be in tomorrow. Tomorrow, remember.”

He lumbered out of the door, the papers in his fist. Gregory saw the figure wobbling in a blur before his angry eyes. Good Lord, how did they expect a fellow to live, anyway! It wasn’t as if he didn’t intend to pay. Tomorrow? Forty-four dollars, sixty-two dollars, a hundred dollars; the fur coat. His mind began an agile hurdle-race, catching its toes, leaping dollars, sprawling in the dust. Heat of desperation floated into his head, burning his eyelids, drying out his throat. Money—oh, hang money! The cash register gleamed suddenly visible. Gregory stared at it. Money. It wasn’t as if he was a thief. Never was enough there, anyway. His hand touched the keys with a curious, inquiring gesture.

“Hi, Greg!” Tom’s shout drew him out to the street. There stood his roadster, shining nickel, bright scarlet paint. Old beauty! Tom was struggling with the cords which held a box on the running-board. “Give us a hand.”

Gregory managed to squint at the pointer of the gasoline float at the rear. Yes, Tom had had the tank filled. Good old Tom!

They carried the box to the rear of the store. Tom handed the key-ring to Gregory. “Mike made me cough up four-fifty for you,” he said tentatively.

“He did?” Gregory was busy with hammer and prying bar. His voice came indistinctly between blows. “Skinflint! I’ll settle with you. Here, yank that board, will you?”

The rest of the morning Gregory threw himself with concentrated industry into unpacking, checking off stock, marking price labels, planning a new window display, a new ad. Sober, cautious Tom gazed admiringly at the rough sketch Greg made for the ad.

“Wish I had your imagination,” he sighed.

Gregory’s face looked gaunt as he bent over the counter, arranging goods. “Wish I had less.” Enough less not to see himself dragged into court, made a fool of by paltry shopkeepers, humiliated before Mina.

* * *

At noon he stood a moment beside his new coat, his fingers digging into the stiff fur. He’d have to tackle his brother for a loan. Better not to wear the coat. Then he thrust his arms into it and strolled out to his car. He could hide it when he came near home. The quiet hum of the engine lifted him instantly out of the dust of his hurdle-race. He swung the car easily through traffic, full of an easeful thrill at his awareness of himself lounging there behind the wheel, fur-coated, masterful, commanding respectful admiration from pedestrians, from ordinary drivers of less spectacular cars. He rounded a corner onto a main boulevard, stepped on the gas and lived for a brief spell in a warm, delightful world. Then, around another corner, he stopped at the curb. The street had no spectators as he removed the fur coat, folded it carefully, slipped it into the rear compartment and locked the cover upon it. His old coat was too tight, shabby at pocket edges and buttonholes. He had a sense of virtue in his abstemiousness as he drove the few blocks to the house.

Frank was not there. He had telephoned to say he couldn’t get away easily. Greg ate in hurried silence, the baby gooing at him from its high chair until he laid down his fork and lifted a cautious finger to touch the soft cheek. “Funny little kid.” The baby seized his finger, waggled it. “Like your ole uncle, eh?”

Mrs. McVickar watched them, her eyes misty.

“If you’d only find a nice, homey girl, Greg,” she sighed, “instead of Mina. Someone who’d make you want to get a home.”

“Yeah!” Greg pulled his finger out of the baby’s grasp. “Watch me! I’ve seen enough.”

“I pity the girl that gets Greg,” said Alice as she left the dining room.

“Some don’t feel that way!” shouted Greg after her. He stretched, looked at his watch and rose. His mother was in a good humor but he’d touched her once. No use trying the same thing again. What was she saying?

“A man came here asking for you. I told him where you worked. Did you see him?”

“Uh-huh.” Gregory had seen him, all right.

“What did he want?”

“Just a li’l business. So long. I won’t be here for dinner.”

Again in his car, he hesitated. He’d have to go to the factory to see Frank. It would be too late when he got in tonight. Part of that bill Frank ought to help pay, anyway. Greg’s wedding present to him, that furniture. Three years ago! Stuffed chairs and mahogany lamp. Alice had liked them. Greg had pleased her that time, all right. Threatening to carry them off after all he’d paid on them! Robbers!

Well, he’d tackle Frank, then. He’d pay him back. Frank was almost as bad as old Tom lately. Thinking about pennies.

Most girls wanted to hustle a fellow into harness. Mina was different. His mother didn’t like her much. Too independent. She wasn’t hunting for a bread ticket. Why, she made more right now than he did! Some day when he had lots of money he’d make her marry him. She wasn’t in any hurry. Most women wouldn’t let a fellow alone. They wanted to make him over. Mina just took him—as far as she would. Mina—drawing funny little sketches of him, or of children; teaching drawing to children; selling her sketches. He’d had a hard time making her like him. But she’d been awful sweet before she went home for Christmas. Ah, the times they’d had! She was a rare little sport, his Mina. And more. The medley of broken images and feelings which meant Mina went humming softly through his blood, beating in his heart, in a vague chaos of tenderness.

He stepped on the gas, and as the car responded with a smooth pull up the tricky little hill, Greg felt a similar surge of power in his own veins. Pretty classy, the way that engine would take every drop of gas without a throb. He drove with a flourish into the main entrance of the factory.

“Hi, Greg! How’s the boy!” The one o’clock shift was just coming in as Greg made his way to the employees’ entrance. Greg knew many of the mechanics, although the dark, foreign faces were strange to him; day-laborers from the edges of the town.

“Some little car you drive.” That was chunky little Andy. He and Greg had been in camp together. “Going to let us make you a special sport job, eh?” Andy grinned at him.

“No, you egg. I’m ordering one from the other side. No domestic jobs for me in the future.” Greg strolled up the winding stairs. Andy was a good scout, but slow.

“Where’s Frank?” Greg shoved open the door of the assembling room, full of roar and dust and pale light filtering through high windows. The foreman jerked his fist toward the ceiling and Greg climbed higher. Frank must have some engines on the blocks.

“Lo, Greg.” Frank nodded to him across the vibration of an engine bolted on a heavy block, humming in stationary impotence.

“Say, she sounds fine!” Greg bent over the shining engine.

“All right now.” Frank snapped off the ignition. “Had a lot of trouble with this batch. Cranky. Had to rush ’em through, too.”

He came around the engine to his bench under the window, dropping his tools, wiping his fingers on a bunch of grimy waste. Shorter than Greg, heavier, older.

“Well, what’s eating you?” His eyes were shadowed with weariness.

Greg stared at him a moment. No easy way. He might as well spit it out.

“Frank, I got to have some kale. I hate to bother you, and you know how all-fired awkward it is for me, asking——”

“Same story. Ought not to be awkward for you, with all your practise.” Frank’s jaw looked grim, over-paternal.

“If you want to be nasty!” Greg lounged against the bench. “It’s just a temporary loan. But I’m pressed hard.”

“Heavy expenses?” Frank thrust his hands into his pockets. His serious frown was touched into a grimace by a smear of grease. “So many people to support and all.”

“If you won’t help me, say so!” Greg felt that twitching under his eye again. “Only”—he gulped—“do you want to see me in jail?”

“You couldn’t spend so much there.”

Greg wheeled, a ripple of anger down his legs, into his toes. Humiliating, the way folks treated a decent request. He took one long stride toward the door and then stopped. He couldn’t afford to be angry.

“Here, Greg, wait a minute.” Frank hoisted himself onto the edge of the work-bench, and Greg, glancing swiftly around, saw the gray eyes squinting humorously at him. Frank had a heart sometimes. “Now blat it all out. What’s up?”

Gregory blatted it out, a righteous indignation in his voice against the perfidy of creditors who engaged bill collectors. “I’ve been paying them off when I could, and then to pull this!”

“How much is it?”

“I wouldn’t need the whole of it.” Greg’s fingers wriggled as if they felt money approaching. “Enough to stave ’em off. A couple hundred.”

Frank stared about the long room. There were only two other men there, busy at the other end. He looked back at Greg.

“How do you do it? You haven’t got a care in the world. You don’t pay rent. You don’t pay board, often. Oh, I know mother! She keeps Alice from fussing at you. You act as if you thought people ought to be tickled to give you presents. And you come around and ask for a couple hundred——”

“But I told you it’s those stupid——”

“Yes, you told me. Darn stupid fools to want any money out of you, I’ll say.”

“I work, don’t I? I can’t help it if I ain’t rich. I earn all I can.”

“Nice ladylike job, selling neckties to other fools. I don’t know what to do with you. I haven’t got dollars lying around. I haven’t said much since you got back from France. I tried to help you out.”

“I’ll pay it back. I’ll give you a note, any interest you say.”

“You gave me a note once. The first year after you got back. Forgot that? You wouldn’t go back to school. Too smart. You were going to get a bonus and go in business. What did you do with that bonus? Paid it down on a fancy car. I’ve got your note. And last year you traded that car for one that looked like more money. You haven’t finished paying for that yet, have you? Greg, you act like a baby, strutting around as if you owned the earth.”

“You’d rather see me disgraced, would you?” Greg was shivering visibly now, his face distorted into a snarl. “I’ll do something! I won’t stand it. If your own brother won’t help you out.... I’ll run away. Or worse.”

“Sponging on your mother, when you know how little she has. Begging of me, when you know what it costs me, with Alice and the baby. Still strutting. You got to face it some day.”

“You’ve had an easy time. You went to work and you got married and you couldn’t enlist because of Alice. Nothing stopped you.” Greg had a moment of revulsion, a bad taste in his mouth. He hadn’t meant to sling that at Frank. After all, Frank had been decent about Greg’s being the only one to go off to war.

“If you’d get a man’s job and show you meant business, I’d feel different. It’s like pouring water in a sieve, helping you. I know”—Frank rubbed at his forehead, sighing—“I know it’s different, trying to fit in again.”

“If you’d get a man’s job and show you meant business, Greg,” exclaimed Frank, “I’d feel different.” “I take that back.” Greg looked away, blinking. “Forget it, will you?”

“It’s true, I stayed here and got ahead.” Frank turned his back, his square shoulders heavy, drooping. “Send your bill collector to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Greg was silent, expanding with relief as if Frank’s words cut the cords which trussed him up. Then a furtive dismay—that coat.

“If you’d let me have the cash he wouldn’t need to bother you.”

Frank shook his head. “Nothing doing, young fellow. I’ll fix the mess myself.”

Greg’s thoughts whirled up in a spiral of irritated anxiety. He couldn’t object too much.

“Thanks, old man.” His voice sounded gruff; he ought to show some gratitude. “When pay-day comes——”

“Just one thing, Greg.” Frank turned, his smeared face dignified in a firm tenderness. “You’ve got to see that this is the last time. I can’t always bolster you up. You got to grow up some day. Do you know why I happen to have any spare cash? I been saving for a flivver this spring. Alice doesn’t get out much.”

“I’ll see you get it back with interest.”

“I don’t know where you’ll get it.”

“And I can put you next to a dandy little bus, on time. Your credit’s good.” Greg offered his suggestion ingratiatingly.

“Why is it?” Frank snorted. “You’re an imbecile pup. Wait till you get a family and have to carry insurance and——”

“Yeah, wait.” Greg started toward the door, complete insouciance in his step. Frank followed him.

“You know, that girl of yours may get tired of waiting. She looks as if she had sense. I can get you a job here, as I’ve told you. It’s hard work and dirty. You can’t drift off any hour to the pool-room. But you’d have something ahead of you. You’re good on engines. It’s all you do know about, outside of how to spend money you haven’t got.”

Greg lifted his head, a deepening of the scornful lines which cut from nostrils past his mouth, as he listened to the factory. The building itself had a rhythmic vibration, as if the belts and pulleys, the whirring engines, the high shrill note of metal against metal, all gave the brick walls a secret inner life, like quick blood pounding through the mortar.

“Wouldn’t I be the snake’s hips here, though?” he said carelessly. “Have to think it over. Well, got to beat it now. Much obliged, old man.” Then he was off, running down the stairs, with a little afterthought that he deserved some credit; he hadn’t explained that a large part of that bill was for wedding furniture. Too bad about the fliv. He’d see that Frank got one, all right.

He drove slowly down-town and parked in front of the Men’s Own Shop, his face moody. Hang that collector anyway, butting in. Why, those bills were so old they ought to be outlawed. He had more important things to settle right now without that fool. And here Frank had to be used for that ancient history.

Greg stalked through the shop, hanging the raccoon coat carefully in place. Tom was busy with a hick, trying on woolen gloves. He might hit up Tom. The only trouble was, Tom had the bulge on him. He’d hold back his pittance on Saturday. Tom had the imagination of a bullfrog.

The farmer departed with his gloves. Tom puttered about in the front of the store. Trade had the awful after-the-holidays dullness. A woman came in to exchange socks she had bought for a gift. Gregory served her, suavely effective. When she had gone he glanced at his watch, and having ascertained the hour, still looked at the watch. That might at least line his pocket for the evening. Of course, it had been his father’s. Clapping on his cap, he rushed past Tom with a hasty, “Back soon.”

He strolled back presently with a stiff bit of cardboard in his watch-pocket and money in another pocket. At last he had met the demands of the day. Tomorrow was another day. Two hours more and he could drive to the station and Mina would step from the train.

* * *

The train was posted a half-hour late. Gregory lounged on the platform, careless, elegant, his fur coat open, his hands in his pockets. His eyes dropped occasionally to the vista of himself.

Snow in the air misted past the signal lights down the track, scurried in broken ripples under the wind across the platform. He’d have to put on the side curtains. Funny thing, how waiting for a girl made you think about her so hard. If it was thinking.... Like drowning and seeing your whole life as you went down. No, like having all the pieces of a picture puzzle and not being able to stick them together until she really came. He couldn’t see her face—just bits of it. Eyes far apart, brows feather-brown and fine; short hair, with that adorable little swing like a shining bell over her ears; soft, smooth throat. He couldn’t put those bits together. Mina wasn’t just those bits; more. Her voice, with that droll huskiness. He could almost hear it.

More than a year, now, he had known her. She’d been in town a month or more before they had met. Awful waste. She’d come into the store for a tie and he’d fallen for her right over the counter. Wanted to know who’d get the tie. Her father, she told him later. Seemed bright for a father. “He likes things bright,” she said. “He’s just a kid.” Then he’d seen her at a dance. It was a long time before she’d even admit she liked him. She wasn’t a quick petter like lots of the skirts. Not Mina. Serious, too. Keen about her work. Teaching kids to draw things. Brown jugs with pussy-willows. They’d had one swell drive after those pussy-willows.

He reached for a cigaret, puffed at it once, dropped it. The snow whiffed upward past the light as the arm dropped and the green signal winked out. A whistle through the night, a flash of brilliant light sucking the snow into its dazzling center as the train rounded the curve and groaned to a standstill. Gregory ran along the platform. Where was the chair-car?

“Greg!” He whirled. Mina, on the steps of a coach. The bits in his mind gathered swiftly into the whole that was Mina, her pointed chin trembling against the dark fur of her collar, her eyes shining under her little black hat. He seized her bag, swung her down with one hand under her elbow.

“Did you ride in that?” He pointed derisively at the smoky windows.

“I did.” Mina hugged his arm swiftly. “You weren’t there to stick me into a chair.” She stood away from him, her chin just at his shoulder. “What lugs! Aren’t you magnelegant!”

“Nifty, what?” Gregory assumed a nonchalant tone. “Here, the bus is out back.” He steered Mina through the scattered travelers. “Got any more luggage?”

He thrust her bag into the rear of the car, and with a hasty glance about the shadowed drive, bent over her. Her lips were warm on his cold, eager mouth.

“You darling!” He rushed off with her trunk check, shouted her address to the baggage clerk and hurtled back, climbing in behind the wheel. “Starved?” He sighed contentedly. Just as he had imagined it, his coat bulking furrily between them, Mina’s face vague beside him. “Food first.” He jammed the starter. “How’d I know you were coming back?” He wound past the waiting taxis out to the street. “No letters or nothing.”

“Something happened. I couldn’t write about it. So I waited.”

“I’d of appreciated a word or so. Tell you one thing, when you have the hard deal I’ve been having you want to hear from your girl.”

“Who’s been picking on you?”

“You needn’t grin. The whole rattling world!”

Mina was silent. Greg peered at her as he ran in toward the curb and something in her sober, lifted profile startled him.

“What happened?” He stopped the car and leaned toward her.

“You can’t kiss me here, Greg!” She pried at the door.

“Here.” He reached over her to unfasten the catch. “Somebody been saying things about me?”

“I’ll tell you.” She slipped out to the sidewalk. “Dinner first.”

The Chinese waiter bowed them obsequiously into their favorite booth at the end of the long upstairs restaurant. Greg snapped off the sidelight, flung himself out of his coat, piling it on the bench at his side.

“Steak’ll be good for you. You look tired.” He gave the order with brisk carelessness. Then they were alone, looking at each other across the checkered mosaic of the table. Mina pulled off her gloves and rested her hands, fingers interlaced, at the edge of the table; white, small, competent fingers. No rings. She wouldn’t let Greg give her a ring.

And Gregory, lifting his eyes from her hands to her face, felt a premonition, a kind of chilly shiver along his nerve-ends. Why, they hadn’t seen each other for two weeks! Mina ought to be full of that soft, gay delight which usually shone in her eyes and touched her firm small mouth into shadowy curves. Instead of that she was heavy-lidded and her mouth looked almost derisive. Was Mina going to fail him? Just when he’d worked so hard to straighten up everything the fiendish day had poured on his head?

“Missed me?” he said defiantly. Mina nodded. “You don’t look as if you liked my looks.”

“You’re handsome as ever, Greg.” Mina’s fingers parted, interlaced again.

“You aren’t mad about anything?”

She shook her head. “No, Greg. Wait—till you have your steak.”

“Why wait?” He lolled back in his corner, touched with sulkiness. If she was going to spoil things——

The waiter shuffled into the booth and silence dropped as he served them. Mina mixed the dressing slowly, with graceful motions of her hands. Gregory was solicitous about the steak. Was it too rare? This piece, then? Finally they were again alone.

“My Lord, Mina, I can’t eat opposite a sphinx!” Greg reached abruptly over the table and caught her hand. It trembled, cold to his touch. “Mina!”

“Don’t call me names.” Mina smiled at him. “Greg, I saw the funniest family on the train.” She pulled her hand away and fumbled in her bag. “There, I drew ’em for you.” She spread a sheet of note-paper on the table. “All of them.”

Gregory laughed. Mina had a devilish way of catching folks with her pencil. She was eating now, telling him about the family, amusing him so that he almost forgot that shiver of his nerves until finally, over the coffee, she looked up at him without a trace of smile.

“I’ll tell you now,” she said. “Greg, that publishing house in Chicago, you know, the one that’s been buying some of my sketches? They’ve written me to come. They want an illustrator. Twice what I’m getting now.”

Gregory gulped on coffee so hot that he choked.

“For children’s books. And I—am going.”

“To Chicago?” Greg set down his cup.

“As soon as I find a substitute for my job.”

“You’re going away?” Greg stared at her, his eyes unbelieving, his mouth drooping into the tremulous line of injured youth. “You mean you don’t care enough about me—about us——”

“I am running away, Greg.” Mina leaned back against the partition, her shoulders straight. “Before I care too much.”

“Why, if you go off there I couldn’t see you—once a year! Why, Mina, you’re crazy! What you talking about? You make money enough. And anyway, soon’s I get to earning more——”

“Yes.” Mina flung off her hat suddenly, running her fingers through her fine, disordered hair. She leaned forward again, her elbows on the table, her hands firm under her chin. “Greg, I’ve got to go. I’ve pretended I could play with you, awhile, without minding. You’re a perfect little playboy.” A dull flush crept up to Greg’s cheek-bones. “But you don’t ever grow up. I don’t dare stay.”

“You want me to settle down, as the family says—is that it?”

“No. I can’t imagine you any different, Greg. A gilded little playboy. But I have to run away. I never tried to make you over, have I? You said that was one thing about me——” Mina dropped her hands into her lap. “I’m not trying now. But I’m afraid of you. When I went home this time I stopped to think. It’s been nice, our playing.”

“It isn’t play!” Greg’s fist on the table clattered the coffee-cup in its saucer. “You care more about your career, is that it? One of these modern girls?”

“I’ll tell you about going home, Greg. You saw my people this summer. You didn’t think much of my father, did you? He used to be handsome. He gave mother a radio set for Christmas and he didn’t pay for that. There wasn’t even coal in the cellar. I gave mother money for coal, Greg. They aren’t poor, exactly. But father never catches up to year before last. You see, he’s a playboy, too. Mother has tried to make him over until he can’t endure a word she says.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t want to be ashamed of you. I want to go away, now. Before I find I can’t get on without you. I won’t love you!”

“Ashamed of me!” A mixture of rage and fear confused Greg’s tongue. “Most g-girls don’t feel that way, I’ll tell the universe.”

“You don’t see, do you? Poor Greg.” Mina’s white sharpness was suffused briefly with tenderness. “There’s nothing real about you, is there? All show. The dearest, most amusing show. My father was like that. Only he grew old and never grew up, and an old playboy isn’t nice. Sort of faded and tattered. And awfully cross. Then while I was looking at him and giving him money I had this letter from Chicago. So I’m just stepping out.”

“But Mina! I always thought, even if we never talked about it, that you didn’t want to get married yet. That some day we would. Why, I’m plain nuts about you. I don’t know why you’re lighting into me because of your father.”

“Get married!” Mina settled into white reserve. “I wouldn’t marry a man I didn’t respect. I don’t have to get married. I’ve been foolish, seeing you. If I can’t help loving you, some, I can go away.”

Gregory felt an uprush of rebellious defense, fiery, self-reinstating. But suddenly it leaked away, leaving him empty, amazed.

“Why”—his words rattled as if his head were empty—“why don’t you respect me?”

“If I tell you, you’ll just be angry. Probably never speak to me again. You’ve got a convenient temper, Greg.”

“You tell me.”

Mina caught her lip between shining, small teeth. Then, with a desperate, quick gesture of her hand, she cried out:

“Because you are a cheat. A dodger. And selfish. And so lovable you break my heart. You pretend you’re something. And you’re nothing. Nothing real. Just a child.” She rose, dragging on her coat. Gregory followed her, stopping at the desk to fling down a bill, lighting a cigaret after three matches broke under his fingers. He darted down the stairway and found Mina prying at the luggage compartment after her bag.

“I’ll drive you home,” he grunted.

Greg stared out at the snow blowing crazily across the funnel of light from the car; he watched the red surface creep out as the snow on the hood melted. He knew that Mina shrank into her corner of the seat.

He swung up in front of Mina’s boarding-house, jumped out and dragged her bag from the locker. Then he followed her to the steps, the snow squeaking under their feet. At the door Mina faced him.

Greg dropped the bag and, his arm steel about her shoulders, he kissed her. Her tears stung his lips, but when he released her she said, “Good-by, Greg,” and slipped through the door.

He drove down a dark street towards home, trying frenziedly to whip up his rage. Ashamed of him, was she? Didn’t respect him! But some wire was cut; he could get no fire. He locked the garage and tiptoed through the back entry to his room. He could hear Frank and Alice in the sitting room. He hoped his mother was asleep. He locked his door and sat on the edge of the bed. Presently he became aware of the dark, striped fur under his hands. Why, he’d worn it into the house! He wiggled out of it and dove for the closet. Then he stopped, the coat draped from listless hands. A cheat. Well, he was. He flung it on the bed and slowly drew out of several pockets an array of crumpled envelopes. A playboy. Pretending.

He scrabbled through the litter on his table for a sheet of paper. Queer, how cold he felt. Inside. Cold and empty. Tattered, Mina said. Faded. He felt naked, not tattered. On an icy hilltop. That wind, splattering snow against the window, blew inside him. Funny, how he couldn’t get Mina’s hands out of his eyes. White, firm fingers, so cold when he last touched them....

He sat down at the table and began methodically to open envelopes and to set down figures in a sprawling column. When he had opened the last envelope he turned the sheet. Pencil dug into the paper, he frowned. Then he set down more figures. Out of his head. Debts of honor—Lanky had had all the luck last night. He stopped once, wishing that Mina could see what he was doing. No. Ashamed of him. She hadn’t known about all these things. Finally he began slowly to add his crooked columns. At last his head dropped forward on folded arms over the paper.

“Greg, are you home?”

“Yes.”

“So early! Didn’t Mina come?”

“Yes, mother.” He pushed his voice out in an imitation of cheerfulness. “I’m off to bed nice and early.”

“Don’t you want some hot cocoa?” She tried the knob.

“No.” Reluctantly he unlocked the door. “Just bed.”

She looked up at him, her nostrils quivering slightly as if she scented disaster.

“You feeling well?” He bent docilely for her kiss. “You didn’t quarrel?” At his hasty denial she sighed. “Well, sleep tight.”

* * *

Through the half open window all night the snow-air touched Greg’s face and he dreamed of driving madly through a storm, hunting for Mina. He had to find her, to tell her something ... and then his car lurched past control down long ice-covered slopes until he woke with his heart jumping against his breast, and he ground his face down against his arm and lay, sleepless.

The next morning he maneuvered the fur coat down the front stairs and out to the garage without interruption. Since he was taking it back to Dickey, there was no use inviting trouble.

He hurried through breakfast. Then he drove down through the town. He came out from Dickey’s store minus his coat, gazing ruefully at the five-dollar bill he carried. Well, he’d had to split with Dickey to ease him off. He passed the Men’s Own Shop, stopped with a flourish in front of the red-faced garage and strolled into the office. Presently a mechanic came out, climbed in and disappeared around the corner. Greg lounged against the gas tank, elaborately casual, until the car poked its long nose into sight again.

“Yeah, she’s like silk. You know how to humor a car.” The mechanic peered under the hood. “I’ll tell the boss.”

Some minutes later Greg emerged from the office.

“We might do better if you want to wait for a sale,” the man called after him.

Greg, staring at the check between his fingers, shook his head.

“Guess the ole bus doesn’t owe me much,” he said. “Can’t wait.” He paused an instant beside the car and then with a jerk of his shoulders strode off.

A short interview with Tom. When the four-fifty for tires was deducted, there wasn’t so much coming on part of a week. “Sorry, old boy,” said Tom. “I’ll miss you. But trade is pretty dull.”

Hard-pan. That was it. Greg buttoned his old overcoat—it wasn’t so shabby, at that—and rushed for a passing street-car.

When he came into the test room Frank looked up at him, a flicker of dismay on his face. Greg saw it.

“I don’t want any money,” he blurted out. “You said there was a job here.”

“Good Lord!” Frank whistled. “What’s hit you?”

“None of your business.” Greg stuttered a little. “Or were you running a bluff?”

Greg didn’t go home at noon. Had to see some fellows about a few little matters. Queer, how no one seemed to notice he wasn’t driving the ole bus. No one seemed grateful about getting his money.

Hard old world.

He went back to the assembling room. Frank had told the foreman he was a crack driver. Maybe they’d give him a chance at the trial spins. The fellow hinted he might. That’d be better than watching a Hunky till he caught on.

Lord, he was tired! Four o’clock. The fellows would be hanging around the green table, the smoke in gray-white wreaths about their heads. Huh! Wouldn’t know whether he came or not.

Five. Half past five. He was one of the gang dribbling out of the employees’ entrance. He dodged down the dark street; didn’t want Frank to catch up with him. His hands ached. So did his head.

Feet slithering in the trampled snow, he strode along. Hard-pan. His face twisted grotesquely and he pulled his cap farther over his eyes.

“Greg!” Mina darted at him, seized his arm. He stopped abruptly. “Where have you been?” she gasped, breathless.

“Playing.” He started along, aware of dark figures tramping behind them.

“I went into the store today. Tom said you weren’t there. Then I went to your house, Greg.”

“Wha’ for?” He wouldn’t tell her a thing. She’d think she’d done it.

“I don’t know. I had to see you.” Her face shone palely. “Something drove me.”

“What you want to see anybody you despise so for?”

“Maybe I despise myself.” Mina shook her head, a fierce little gesture. “I’m going. I haven’t changed my mind. But I had to see you.”

“What for?”

“Because—after all—you can’t be different. And I love you. I had to say so. That’s all.”

She sprang away from him and Greg caught her as she slipped in the snowy gutter. “You wait a minute.” He shook her arm. “You can go ahead. Take your ole job. But I’m coming after you. Playboy! I’ll show you. You think you’re more of a man than I am. You wait!” Greg’s explosive phrases ceased and he hesitated, suddenly abashed. “Mina, I’m not so bad. Honest.”

He pulled Mina back to the sidewalk and they walked along together, buffeted by the men hurrying homeward.

“Where have you been?” Mina asked.

“I won’t tell you. Not yet.” He laughed suddenly. “It’s something fierce, having a girl that’s so smart. Keeps a fellow humping hisself!”