it,” he said. He glanced at her. Here it was. “And I don’t think the heat has anything to do with my being Jewish.”
“Of course it hasn’t,” she said. “When’ll they run?”
“Oh, Phil’s just started,” Minify put in. “Probably not before summer.” He sounded comfortable. “I’m afraid it’ll be just as timely then.” They all made sounds or gestures of agreement, and the talk went off again to the troublesome next issue.
Phil heard none of it. “It’s done; I’m in,” he told himself. The odd excitement in him when the moment came had been read as high interest in the series itself; that it had to do with anything more personal than that had been apparent to nobody. Of that he was sure. Of course, this was a special crowd; he’d had no hostility to contend with. Nobody had shown surprise; nobody had changed expression; they didn’t give a damn. But it was the first hurdle, anyway, a line of demarcation crossed. He’d said it and he was launched. Like a debutante, he thought, and smiled to himself.
He wasn’t due for another half-hour, but Kathy was dressed and ready. She went to the piano, played a few measures, and then stood up. From the small kitchen where Claudia was getting dinner came the teasing smell of roasting beef. He didn’t know yet that they would have dinner there. He would be pleased.
The room was too warm. She crossed to the window and threw it wide open. At once snow began to sift over the sill. It had been snowing all day, and the radio said there’d be twelve inches before morning. It felt right to have it snow a week before Christmas. Everything felt right these days.
Last night she’d come home from Phil’s and gone straight to bed. She’d propped both pillows behind her as if she were going to read, but she’d never opened a book. She’d lain there, smoking and thinking until past two, just letting the minutes stream by. If ever there was a time, she’d thought lazily, almost cozily, when you’re glad you’re a woman, it’s this first moment of knowing that a man you’re drawn to is falling in love with you. That’s when you’re completely, un-complicatedly glad you are. None of the vague resentment that “it’s a man’s world” held its shape against the good solvent of that first knowing. Suddenly it was an unarguable blessed thing to be a woman, and you felt a kind of indebtedness to the man who made you feel so.
All day she’d felt that, and now, waiting for him to get there, she still did. He’d talked of marriage, obliquely, squeezing the words out. She wanted to marry again. She’d never be fully happy without it.
Perhaps “being conventional” had something to do with it. Once Uncle John had teased her because she’d said she'd never go to a theater alone at night— the vision of herself alone in the lobby for a smoke during intermission made her squirm.
“Give up smoking,” he’d said, and then, “Vassar and Bill between them didn’t have any luck making you conservative, Kathy; they did better about making you conventional.”
“Because I won’t behave just like a man?” She’d felt resentful. “A man can drop into a bar alone and have a drink and get talking to somebody and go have dinner with him—you think I’m conventional because I can’t?”
“Don’t get so emphatic. I didn’t mean much.”
But he’d been partly right. She just didn’t feel right on her own, and maybe that was being conventional about “the things a woman can’t do.” It was trivial, probably a throwback to the nagging envy in childhood about being a boy instead of “just a girl.” Trivial or no, it was there.
She wound her watch. It was seven. She was waiting dinner for a man again and found it sweet to be doing it, and if that made her a conventional fool, why, let it. The bell rang.
He was taking off galoshes in the outside hall, and she waited till he straightened up. When he came in, she put her hand out, and he took it
“Of course it hasn’t,” she said. “When’ll they run?”
“Oh, Phil’s just started,” Minify put in. “Probably not before summer.” He sounded comfortable. “I’m afraid it’ll be just as timely then.” They all made sounds or gestures of agreement, and the talk went off again to the troublesome next issue.
Phil heard none of it. “It’s done; I’m in,” he told himself. The odd excitement in him when the moment came had been read as high interest in the series itself; that it had to do with anything more personal than that had been apparent to nobody. Of that he was sure. Of course, this was a special crowd; he’d had no hostility to contend with. Nobody had shown surprise; nobody had changed expression; they didn’t give a damn. But it was the first hurdle, anyway, a line of demarcation crossed. He’d said it and he was launched. Like a debutante, he thought, and smiled to himself.
He wasn’t due for another half-hour, but Kathy was dressed and ready. She went to the piano, played a few measures, and then stood up. From the small kitchen where Claudia was getting dinner came the teasing smell of roasting beef. He didn’t know yet that they would have dinner there. He would be pleased.
The room was too warm. She crossed to the window and threw it wide open. At once snow began to sift over the sill. It had been snowing all day, and the radio said there’d be twelve inches before morning. It felt right to have it snow a week before Christmas. Everything felt right these days.
Last night she’d come home from Phil’s and gone straight to bed. She’d propped both pillows behind her as if she were going to read, but she’d never opened a book. She’d lain there, smoking and thinking until past two, just letting the minutes stream by. If ever there was a time, she’d thought lazily, almost cozily, when you’re glad you’re a woman, it’s this first moment of knowing that a man you’re drawn to is falling in love with you. That’s when you’re completely, un-complicatedly glad you are. None of the vague resentment that “it’s a man’s world” held its shape against the good solvent of that first knowing. Suddenly it was an unarguable blessed thing to be a woman, and you felt a kind of indebtedness to the man who made you feel so.
All day she’d felt that, and now, waiting for him to get there, she still did. He’d talked of marriage, obliquely, squeezing the words out. She wanted to marry again. She’d never be fully happy without it.
Perhaps “being conventional” had something to do with it. Once Uncle John had teased her because she’d said she'd never go to a theater alone at night— the vision of herself alone in the lobby for a smoke during intermission made her squirm.
“Give up smoking,” he’d said, and then, “Vassar and Bill between them didn’t have any luck making you conservative, Kathy; they did better about making you conventional.”
“Because I won’t behave just like a man?” She’d felt resentful. “A man can drop into a bar alone and have a drink and get talking to somebody and go have dinner with him—you think I’m conventional because I can’t?”
“Don’t get so emphatic. I didn’t mean much.”
But he’d been partly right. She just didn’t feel right on her own, and maybe that was being conventional about “the things a woman can’t do.” It was trivial, probably a throwback to the nagging envy in childhood about being a boy instead of “just a girl.” Trivial or no, it was there.
She wound her watch. It was seven. She was waiting dinner for a man again and found it sweet to be doing it, and if that made her a conventional fool, why, let it. The bell rang.
He was taking off galoshes in the outside hall, and she waited till he straightened up. When he came in, she put her hand out, and he took it
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