she had relied on taxis, today: she couldn’t have managed to drive home. At the moment, too, this walking was necessary. Gradually, the numbness in her mind relaxed.
Today, she didn’t notice the difference in architecture, the shape of a window or a door; she didn’t notice the play of light on the stone buildings from a sky that was blue, white-clouded, promising spring. She was scarcely conscious of the steady stream of cars, hearing its steady hiss as if she were listening to a distant torrent. She stared ahead of her, looking at no one, seeing the trees in Lafayette Square only as a blur of black branches that came nearer and nearer.
“Perhaps I’m wrong,” she had said. “I could be wrong.”
But she hadn’t been wrong.
Suddenly, she felt cold and sick. She halted, standing uncertainly at the kerb. An oncoming taxi slowed down. She nodded, and it came to a stop beside her.
“Where to, miss?”
“Anywhere.”
He turned his head and gave her a shrewd glance. “Want to see some of the sights? You a stranger here?”
She nodded. She was a stranger here, a stranger even to herself.
“You’re too early for the cherry trees,” he said honestly.
“They’ll do as they are.”
“How long do you want to drive around? About an hour?”
She nodded.
“Okay, miss.” He swung the nose of his cab out into the traffic. “That’s Lafayette Square we’re coming to,” he said, “with Old Stonewall himself. And that’s the White House through the trees”—he pointed between the elms in the Square—“being repaired; it will look better when they get that scaffolding down. They say the floors were sagging like a canvas tent.” He talked happily all the way.
“Pity the cherry trees aren’t out,” he said as they reached the Tidal Basin. “Three thousand of them, they say. Never counted them, myself.”
The cab had stopped, but she didn’t move. She sat looking at the massed rows of trees with their twisting branches, delicate and fragile. She spoke almost to herself. “And what if they never came into blossom?”
The driver looked at her in amazement. He was an elderly man, hawk-featured, bald, hard-eyed.
“They are beautiful even now,” she told him, thinking of Payton, who preferred this intricate simplicity to clouds of white and pink. Temporary window-dressing, he had said, blurring the essential lines. Four weeks of pretty fluff and then nothing but a mess of scattered petals.
“In a dead kind of way.” He shook his head slowly, his lips pursed. “That wouldn’t be natural. That would be a waste.”
“Yes,” she said at last, and she turned to look at the river.
* * *
“Sylvia,” Kate said, coming into the hall as soon as she heard her cousin’s voice speaking to Walter, “Sylvia—oh, I was worried about you. And Dr. Formby has been ’phoning. He wants to see you again. Is there anything wrong?”
“No. Nothing at all.” Her voice was calm, decided. “Everything’s all right. And how did you get on, today?”
“I had a wonderful time. I didn’t see anything, of course, at least only in a kind of sweeping way.” Kate was smiling, now. “The car swept along and Stewart swept out his arm to point.” She was watching Walter slowly drawing the long curtains in the library.
“And I hope you weren’t swept off your feet.”
“Of course not.” Kate looked startled.
“He’s a most persuasive character, is Mr. Hallis,” Sylvia reminded her.
“Actually, I think he’s rather sweet.”
Sylvia said, “I’ve heard Stewart labelled many things, but never sweet.” She started upstairs. “Are you going out tonight to see the Marx brothers with Bob Turner?”
“He’s left Washington.”
“No! Well, that’s the Army, of course.”
“Only for a week, he said.” Walter was now in the drawingroom attending to the fire.
“Then we can spend this evening together. Payton’s dining out tonight.”
“May I come up to your room, now?” Kate glanced at the
Today, she didn’t notice the difference in architecture, the shape of a window or a door; she didn’t notice the play of light on the stone buildings from a sky that was blue, white-clouded, promising spring. She was scarcely conscious of the steady stream of cars, hearing its steady hiss as if she were listening to a distant torrent. She stared ahead of her, looking at no one, seeing the trees in Lafayette Square only as a blur of black branches that came nearer and nearer.
“Perhaps I’m wrong,” she had said. “I could be wrong.”
But she hadn’t been wrong.
Suddenly, she felt cold and sick. She halted, standing uncertainly at the kerb. An oncoming taxi slowed down. She nodded, and it came to a stop beside her.
“Where to, miss?”
“Anywhere.”
He turned his head and gave her a shrewd glance. “Want to see some of the sights? You a stranger here?”
She nodded. She was a stranger here, a stranger even to herself.
“You’re too early for the cherry trees,” he said honestly.
“They’ll do as they are.”
“How long do you want to drive around? About an hour?”
She nodded.
“Okay, miss.” He swung the nose of his cab out into the traffic. “That’s Lafayette Square we’re coming to,” he said, “with Old Stonewall himself. And that’s the White House through the trees”—he pointed between the elms in the Square—“being repaired; it will look better when they get that scaffolding down. They say the floors were sagging like a canvas tent.” He talked happily all the way.
“Pity the cherry trees aren’t out,” he said as they reached the Tidal Basin. “Three thousand of them, they say. Never counted them, myself.”
The cab had stopped, but she didn’t move. She sat looking at the massed rows of trees with their twisting branches, delicate and fragile. She spoke almost to herself. “And what if they never came into blossom?”
The driver looked at her in amazement. He was an elderly man, hawk-featured, bald, hard-eyed.
“They are beautiful even now,” she told him, thinking of Payton, who preferred this intricate simplicity to clouds of white and pink. Temporary window-dressing, he had said, blurring the essential lines. Four weeks of pretty fluff and then nothing but a mess of scattered petals.
“In a dead kind of way.” He shook his head slowly, his lips pursed. “That wouldn’t be natural. That would be a waste.”
“Yes,” she said at last, and she turned to look at the river.
* * *
“Sylvia,” Kate said, coming into the hall as soon as she heard her cousin’s voice speaking to Walter, “Sylvia—oh, I was worried about you. And Dr. Formby has been ’phoning. He wants to see you again. Is there anything wrong?”
“No. Nothing at all.” Her voice was calm, decided. “Everything’s all right. And how did you get on, today?”
“I had a wonderful time. I didn’t see anything, of course, at least only in a kind of sweeping way.” Kate was smiling, now. “The car swept along and Stewart swept out his arm to point.” She was watching Walter slowly drawing the long curtains in the library.
“And I hope you weren’t swept off your feet.”
“Of course not.” Kate looked startled.
“He’s a most persuasive character, is Mr. Hallis,” Sylvia reminded her.
“Actually, I think he’s rather sweet.”
Sylvia said, “I’ve heard Stewart labelled many things, but never sweet.” She started upstairs. “Are you going out tonight to see the Marx brothers with Bob Turner?”
“He’s left Washington.”
“No! Well, that’s the Army, of course.”
“Only for a week, he said.” Walter was now in the drawingroom attending to the fire.
“Then we can spend this evening together. Payton’s dining out tonight.”
“May I come up to your room, now?” Kate glanced at the
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