attention she had gone wobbling out of the open front door, down the path and into the road, where the driver of a jeep, scorching his brakes and narrowly missing death in the resulting skid, managed to avoid her by inches.
The driver was a good deal more shaken than Sally. He picked her up and asked her where she lived.
Sally had forgotten Neil, by now, as a human presence; he had passed into her pantheon, along with Gentle Jesus and Santa Claus. But, like many girl-babies, she adored men and could never have enough of them. She embraced the driver confidingly. When he asked her if she would like him to bring her a box of candy, she made sounds of pleasure and clung round his neck.
The driver happened to be detailed for duty next day; but he had children of his own and wouldn’t for worlds have disappointed the kid. He combed the camp for someone to deliver the candy. His two delegates called the next afternoon. They were straight from college, the lean, boyish, gangling kind; very diffident, conscious of their ambassadorial function, courteous and sincere. They explained the candy carefully to Susan, calling her Ma’am. Their youth and their gravity moved her heart; she thought of the harpies dawdling round the camp gates, and asked them in to tea.
Rigidly curbing their appetites (they knew about rationing) they told her how swell of her this was, and how good it felt to be inside a real home. They got out their wallets, and showed her the snapshots of their folks. Susan said that of course they must come again. Sally (to whom the news that candy meant sweets came as a delightful surprise) seconded the motion.
One of them did come the following week, with a different friend. He was about Susan’s own age, and as charming as the others, though he knew a little more about it. He rang Susan up next day, and asked her to a dance at the camp. She went out with him several times, while the help from the village sat in with Sally. He was a good-hearted though not an inexperienced young man. Privately, he thought the girl had a tough break, married to some dusty old professor or something; but as she seemed fond of the guy, he wouldn’t be the one to bust it up. He told her so. He had a girl himself, back in Cleveland. A few friendly kisses would keep them both in training, and do no harm to anyone. He kept his word. It was only pardonable vanity which, when some of his friends formed a wrong impression, kept him from correcting it.
The friends, unoccupied and intrigued, felt themselves challenged. If Pete’s find was as willing as she was pretty, they saw no sense in leaving him a monopoly. One of these, setting out in this spirit of light-hearted competition, fell very nearly in love with Susan; the thing became serious, for him, before long. Susan, for her part, was getting to appreciate the practised approach; the charming boys, with their snapshots of the back porch, began to seem a little insipid. She had been bored and unsatisfied since Neil went away; and, when she did see him, he appeared to be losing his sense of humour. She did not tell him about these developments in her social life, in case he should not understand. He was a little old-fashioned, she was beginning to think.
Now, reconstructing it all as fairly as he could from his broken scraps of knowledge, he accepted a probability he had not admitted to his consciousness till now: that the man who had assisted at her first infidelity had not known he was the first. She liked to please, to avoid awkwardness, to be the kind of person her companion wished her to be; she always affected a little more sophistication than she had.
Whoever the man had been, it would have been the same. She was one of those women to whom the first step is decisive, the rest as easy as a greased slide. If Neil had stayed with her she would never, perhaps, have found it out; habit, sentiment and convention would have reinforced her warm shallow love. Once these cables were cut,
The driver was a good deal more shaken than Sally. He picked her up and asked her where she lived.
Sally had forgotten Neil, by now, as a human presence; he had passed into her pantheon, along with Gentle Jesus and Santa Claus. But, like many girl-babies, she adored men and could never have enough of them. She embraced the driver confidingly. When he asked her if she would like him to bring her a box of candy, she made sounds of pleasure and clung round his neck.
The driver happened to be detailed for duty next day; but he had children of his own and wouldn’t for worlds have disappointed the kid. He combed the camp for someone to deliver the candy. His two delegates called the next afternoon. They were straight from college, the lean, boyish, gangling kind; very diffident, conscious of their ambassadorial function, courteous and sincere. They explained the candy carefully to Susan, calling her Ma’am. Their youth and their gravity moved her heart; she thought of the harpies dawdling round the camp gates, and asked them in to tea.
Rigidly curbing their appetites (they knew about rationing) they told her how swell of her this was, and how good it felt to be inside a real home. They got out their wallets, and showed her the snapshots of their folks. Susan said that of course they must come again. Sally (to whom the news that candy meant sweets came as a delightful surprise) seconded the motion.
One of them did come the following week, with a different friend. He was about Susan’s own age, and as charming as the others, though he knew a little more about it. He rang Susan up next day, and asked her to a dance at the camp. She went out with him several times, while the help from the village sat in with Sally. He was a good-hearted though not an inexperienced young man. Privately, he thought the girl had a tough break, married to some dusty old professor or something; but as she seemed fond of the guy, he wouldn’t be the one to bust it up. He told her so. He had a girl himself, back in Cleveland. A few friendly kisses would keep them both in training, and do no harm to anyone. He kept his word. It was only pardonable vanity which, when some of his friends formed a wrong impression, kept him from correcting it.
The friends, unoccupied and intrigued, felt themselves challenged. If Pete’s find was as willing as she was pretty, they saw no sense in leaving him a monopoly. One of these, setting out in this spirit of light-hearted competition, fell very nearly in love with Susan; the thing became serious, for him, before long. Susan, for her part, was getting to appreciate the practised approach; the charming boys, with their snapshots of the back porch, began to seem a little insipid. She had been bored and unsatisfied since Neil went away; and, when she did see him, he appeared to be losing his sense of humour. She did not tell him about these developments in her social life, in case he should not understand. He was a little old-fashioned, she was beginning to think.
Now, reconstructing it all as fairly as he could from his broken scraps of knowledge, he accepted a probability he had not admitted to his consciousness till now: that the man who had assisted at her first infidelity had not known he was the first. She liked to please, to avoid awkwardness, to be the kind of person her companion wished her to be; she always affected a little more sophistication than she had.
Whoever the man had been, it would have been the same. She was one of those women to whom the first step is decisive, the rest as easy as a greased slide. If Neil had stayed with her she would never, perhaps, have found it out; habit, sentiment and convention would have reinforced her warm shallow love. Once these cables were cut,
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