When Carley went into the reception room of the Plaza that night
Morrison was waiting for her--the same slim, fastidious, elegant,
sallow-faced Morrison whose image she had in mind, yet somehow
different. He had what Carley called the New York masculine face, blase
and lined, with eyes that gleamed, yet had no fire. But at sight of her
his face lighted up.
"By Jove! but you've come back a peach!" he exclaimed, clasping her
extended hand. "Eleanor told me you looked great. It's worth missing you
to see you like this."
"Thanks, Larry," she replied. "I must look pretty well to win that
compliment from you. And how are you feeling? You don't seem robust for
a golfer and horseman. But then I'm used to husky Westerners."
"Oh, I'm fagged with the daily grind," he said. "I'll be glad to get up
in the mountains next month. Let's go down to dinner."
They descended the spiral stairway to the grillroom, where an orchestra
was playing jazz, and dancers gyrated on a polished floor, and diners in
evening dress looked on over their cigarettes.
"Well, Carley, are you still finicky about the eats?" he queried,
consulting the menu.
"No. But I prefer plain food," she replied.
"Have a cigarette," he said, holding out his silver monogrammed case.
"Thanks, Larry. I--I guess I'll not take up smoking again. You see,
while I was West I got out of the habit."
"Yes, they told me you had changed," he returned. "How about drinking?"
"Why, I thought New York had gone dry!" she said, forcing a laugh.
"Only on the surface. Underneath it's wetter than ever."
"Well, I'll obey the law."
He ordered a rather elaborate dinner, and then turning his attention to
Carley, gave her closer scrutiny. Carley knew then that he had become
acquainted with the fact of her broken engagement. It was a relief not
to need to tell him.
"How's that big stiff, Kilbourne?" asked Morrison, suddenly. "Is it true
he got well?"
"Oh--yes! He's fine," replied Carley with eyes cast down. A hot knot
seemed to form deep within her and threatened to break and steal along
her veins. "But if you please--I do not care to talk of him."
"Naturally. But I must tell you that one man's loss is another's gain."
Carley had rather expected renewed courtship from Morrison. She had
not, however, been prepared for the beat of her pulse, the quiver of her
nerves, the uprising of hot resentment at the mere mention of Kilbourne.
It was only natural that Glenn's former rivals should speak of him, and
perhaps disparagingly. But from this man Carley could not bear even a
casual reference. Morrison had escaped the army service. He had been
given a high-salaried post at the ship-yards--the duties of which, if
there had been any, he performed wherever he happened to be. Morrison's
father had made a fortune in leather during the war. And Carley
remembered Glenn telling her he had seen two whole blocks in Paris
piled twenty feet deep with leather army goods that were never used and
probably had never been intended to be used. Morrison represented the
not inconsiderable number of young men in New York who had gained at
the expense of the valiant legion who had lost. But what had Morrison
gained? Carley raised her eyes to gaze steadily at him. He looked
well-fed, indolent, rich, effete, and supremely self-satisfied. She
could not see that he had gained anything. She would rather have been a
crippled ruined soldier.