“It was nothing.” Her glance scurried off to her husband, who had paused in the midst of a conversation with Helen to watch Miles and Martha laughing and whispering. Helen was looking the other way. “I’m glad,” said Martha, loudly, “that you have a baby. It’s a boy, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Helen from across the room, picking up the child and dandling it on her lap. There was a silence. “What are you writing?” said Martha, with a desperate look, again in a voice that was meant to carry.
Everybody turned to hear Miles’s reply. “A philosophical work,” he said, shortly. “It would bore you to hear about it.” John Sinnott raised an eyebrow. “Not at all,” said Martha, with a queer little smile; a strand of fair hair had escaped from its knot and fallen across her forehead. For a moment, she looked strangely like the portrait, dissociated, fissionized. She had come apart, poor girl, Miles said to himself, as he watched her raise her hand to brush the stray lock back. There was a bandage on her finger and, stealing a look at Sinnott, he observed that he too had a bandage, a fairly large one, on his right hand. What was wrong between them, he wondered. Was it her failure to have children or the failure of her work as an actress? He looked shrewdly at Sinnott. Had he forced her to leave the stage?
“Why, Miles,” said Jane, goggling, “didn’t you know? Martha is a philosopher too.” “Not a real one,” said Martha, as Miles turned to stare at her. “I never took my degree.” “We told you about that, Miles,” put in Warren. “Don’t you remember?” Miles shook his head. “Oh, yes,” said Jane. Miles frowned. Either he was losing his memory, what with the drink and age, or people had ceased to interest him, except perfunctorily. He could see from Helen’s face that he had just had a bad lapse; the Coes must have told him about this development in Martha, and yet he had clean forgotten. “You don’t say?” he muttered, and began to ask her whom she had studied under. But he scarcely heard her answers for thinking how strange it was that any detail about Martha could have eluded his notice, when he had once put detectives on her, not even to get evidence—for he had plenty—but just to learn what she was doing and whether his friends were seeing her. “What are you up to now?” he interrupted. “You doing your dissertation?” Martha smiled, “You just asked me that,” she pointed out. Miles pulled himself together. “The answer is no,” said Martha, with a pert little twinkle. “I decided not to do it two years ago.” Miles nodded. His curiosity stirred. “What are you up to?” he demanded. To his surprise, Martha colored. “I’m writing a play,” she confessed.
Miles gave a start. For a moment, he was violently angry. There it was again, that pattern of imitation. She had not changed in the least; she had come back here to compete with him again. He no longer considered himself a playwright, but that was how the public remembered him. She must have read his thoughts. “I’m not going to take up boxing,” she murmured, twitting him, with a little air of apology, which he thought was in poor taste. He rose on his dignity. “Don’t apologize,” he said. He had always been a magnanimous man and he took comfort in the thought. He had always told Martha, he recalled, that she had a wonderful ear for dialogue. He had no doubt, once he thought about it, that she could write a very clever little comedy. “That’s great,” he said, warmly. “You’ve found yourself at last. I always said you could do a play.” “I remember,” said Martha.
“And you’ll bring something to it that I never had,” he continued, his friendliness increasing, for he truly loved the arts and suffered here in this sterile region from the absence of young shoots of talent to spring up around him. He was nearly fifty-five, now, and Warren Coe, who was close to his own age, was the
Everybody turned to hear Miles’s reply. “A philosophical work,” he said, shortly. “It would bore you to hear about it.” John Sinnott raised an eyebrow. “Not at all,” said Martha, with a queer little smile; a strand of fair hair had escaped from its knot and fallen across her forehead. For a moment, she looked strangely like the portrait, dissociated, fissionized. She had come apart, poor girl, Miles said to himself, as he watched her raise her hand to brush the stray lock back. There was a bandage on her finger and, stealing a look at Sinnott, he observed that he too had a bandage, a fairly large one, on his right hand. What was wrong between them, he wondered. Was it her failure to have children or the failure of her work as an actress? He looked shrewdly at Sinnott. Had he forced her to leave the stage?
“Why, Miles,” said Jane, goggling, “didn’t you know? Martha is a philosopher too.” “Not a real one,” said Martha, as Miles turned to stare at her. “I never took my degree.” “We told you about that, Miles,” put in Warren. “Don’t you remember?” Miles shook his head. “Oh, yes,” said Jane. Miles frowned. Either he was losing his memory, what with the drink and age, or people had ceased to interest him, except perfunctorily. He could see from Helen’s face that he had just had a bad lapse; the Coes must have told him about this development in Martha, and yet he had clean forgotten. “You don’t say?” he muttered, and began to ask her whom she had studied under. But he scarcely heard her answers for thinking how strange it was that any detail about Martha could have eluded his notice, when he had once put detectives on her, not even to get evidence—for he had plenty—but just to learn what she was doing and whether his friends were seeing her. “What are you up to now?” he interrupted. “You doing your dissertation?” Martha smiled, “You just asked me that,” she pointed out. Miles pulled himself together. “The answer is no,” said Martha, with a pert little twinkle. “I decided not to do it two years ago.” Miles nodded. His curiosity stirred. “What are you up to?” he demanded. To his surprise, Martha colored. “I’m writing a play,” she confessed.
Miles gave a start. For a moment, he was violently angry. There it was again, that pattern of imitation. She had not changed in the least; she had come back here to compete with him again. He no longer considered himself a playwright, but that was how the public remembered him. She must have read his thoughts. “I’m not going to take up boxing,” she murmured, twitting him, with a little air of apology, which he thought was in poor taste. He rose on his dignity. “Don’t apologize,” he said. He had always been a magnanimous man and he took comfort in the thought. He had always told Martha, he recalled, that she had a wonderful ear for dialogue. He had no doubt, once he thought about it, that she could write a very clever little comedy. “That’s great,” he said, warmly. “You’ve found yourself at last. I always said you could do a play.” “I remember,” said Martha.
“And you’ll bring something to it that I never had,” he continued, his friendliness increasing, for he truly loved the arts and suffered here in this sterile region from the absence of young shoots of talent to spring up around him. He was nearly fifty-five, now, and Warren Coe, who was close to his own age, was the
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