The Dual Alliance Part 14

"No, he belongs to the hills and a heyday holiday. I doubt if Barbara Garratry, Broadway's darling, would care for that kid."

"I'm partial to nice boys."

"He might be fascinated with you, and make me jealous."

"That is a joke," she laughed. "I had to make a sacrifice, too, you know."

"You mean?"

"I had to exchange a big boy chum for a possible governor, plain garden variety."

"I wonder if that big boy and the little feller will ever play again?"

"'I ain't no pruphut,' as Bill says."

The morrow found them both buckling down to work. Paul went off to his office at nine, and Barbara was due at the theatre an hour later. He stopped at her door a moment before he left.

"I seem to recall a great many truisms about the joy of work!"

"It's flapdoodle," she agreed, "the stuff that dreams are made of."

"No, speeches," he amended.

For a few days they both felt cramped, they shifted the old burden of the day's work uneasily, but routine breaks down resistance in the end, and they fell into step with their tasks. Paul was driven every moment.

Their hurried visits were unsatisfactory enough. Bob kept in touch with his plans and movements as well as she could, but her own work was trying. The late heat was exhausting, and rehearsing always tried her soul.

"You act like a balky pony, Barbara Garratry," she scolded herself, "I wish Bill were here to give you a 'good jawin'."

Paul appeared at night about seven, hot, tired, hara.s.sed.

"Busy to-night?"

"No."

"What do you say to dinner on a roof garden--a city mountain top?"

"Delighted. Are you speaking to-night?"

"Yes, but not until late."

"May I come?"

"Oh, no, don't. I don't know why I dread so to have you in my audience."

"But I've never heard you speak. Maybe you think I couldn't understand your speeches."

"Or maybe I'm afraid you'll find out how much of them you inspire."

They went to the garden on top of the Biltmore, and secured a table as far from people as possible. They looked off over the roofs, which in the half light took on romantic outlines of mosques and minarets. The twin spires of St. Patrick's were mistily dominating it all, as usual.

Lights burst slowly, here, there, then the whole upper way was white with electric radiance.

"This has a certain grandeur, too," Barbara said.

He nodded acquiescence, reading her thought.

"It inspires and stimulates, but it never rests you. I wonder why one's kind is so exhausting?" He indicated the garden, now full to the last seat. The chatter, the raised voices, the whirr of electric fans, they all taxed tired nerves to the snapping point. Barbara caught his weary look.

"Do you use all that force we stored up in the hills?" she asked.

"Of course. It's like a reserve army to a hard-pressed general."

"Let me tell you how I use it. I can plunge into the calm that lies out there in the mountains, just as surely as I stepped into that icy stream the first night we were there. I lie down in it, I drink it, I steep myself in it, and I come out refreshed and renewed. Try it, it's a trick of imagination."

The idea caught and held his attention for several minutes.

"Thanks. I'll try that. You're working very hard, aren't you?"

"Yes. I have to. I can't get interested. I want to go fishing."

"Me, too," he laughed.

"I've had bad news to-day."

He leaned toward her quickly.

"We are to open in Boston."

"No?"

"Yes. I must leave Sunday."

"You don't like Boston? You don't want to go?"

"No, I don't want to go."

"Why?" eagerly.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm more comfortable here."

"Oh!"

"You'll be glad to have me out of the way, while you're so busy."

"On the contrary. I rarely see you, but it is a pleasure to think that you are here."

"Thanks! Boston is suburban; if you could find time to----"

"I may come?"