II
關燈
小
中
大
whydon’tyou,sosomebodycansitdown.”
“Oh,sure,”agreedWilsonhurriedly,andwenttowardthelittleoffice,minglingimmediatelywiththecementcolourofthewalls.Awhiteashendustveiledhisdarksuitandhispalehairasitveiledeverythinginthevicinity—excepthiswife,whomovedclosetoTom.
“Iwanttoseeyou,”saidTomintently.“Getonthenexttrain.”
“Allright.”
“I’llmeetyoubythenewsstandonthelowerlevel.”
ShenoddedandmovedawayfromhimjustasGeorgeWilsonemergedwithtwochairsfromhisofficedoor.
Wewaitedforherdowntheroadandoutofsight.ItwasafewdaysbeforetheFourthofJuly,andagrey,scrawnyItalianchildwassettingtorpedoesinarowalongtherailroadtrack.
“Terribleplace,isn’tit,”saidTom,exchangingafrownwithDoctorEckleburg.
“Awful.”
“Itdoeshergoodtogetaway.”
“Doesn’therhusbandobject?”
“Wilson?HethinksshegoestoseehersisterinNewYork.He’ssodumbhedoesn’tknowhe’salive.”
SoTomBuchananandhisgirlandIwentuptogethertoNewYork—ornotquitetogether,forMrs.Wilsonsatdiscreetlyinanothercar.TomdeferredthatmuchtothesensibilitiesofthoseEastEggerswhomightbeonthetrain.
Shehadchangedherdresstoabrownfiguredmuslin,whichstretchedtightoverherratherwidehipsasTomhelpedhertotheplatforminNewYork.AtthenewsstandsheboughtacopyofTownTattleandamoving-picturemagazine,andinthestationdrugstoresomecoldcreamandasmallflaskofperfume.Upstairs,inthesolemnechoingdrivesheletfourtaxicabsdriveawaybeforesheselectedanewone,lavender-colouredwithgreyupholstery,andinthisweslidoutfromthemassofthestationintotheglowingsunshine.Butimmediatelysheturnedsharplyfromthewindowand,leaningforward,tappedonthefrontglass.
“Iwanttogetoneofthosedogs,”shesaidearnestly.“Iwanttogetonefortheapartment.They’renicetohave—adog.”
WebackeduptoagreyoldmanwhoboreanabsurdresemblancetoJohnD.Rockefeller.Inabasketswungfromhisneckcoweredadozenveryrecentpuppiesofanindeterminatebreed.
“Whatkindarethey?”askedMrs.Wilsoneagerly,ashecametothetaxi-window.
“Allkinds.Whatkinddoyouwant,lady?”
“I’dliketogetoneofthosepolicedogsIdon’tsupposeyougotthatkind?”
Themanpeereddoubtfullyintothebasket,plungedinhishandanddrewoneup,wriggling,bythebackoftheneck.
“That’snopolicedog,”saidTom.
“No,it’snotexactlyapolicedog,”saidthemanwithdisappointmentinhisvoice.“It’smoreofanAiredale.”Hepassedhishandoverthebrownwashragofaback.“Lookatthatcoat.Somecoat.That’sadogthat’llneverbotheryouwithcatchingcold.”
“Ithinkit’scute,”saidMrs.Wilsonenthusiastically.“Howmuchisit?”
“Thatdog?”Helookedatitadmiringly.“Thatdogwillcostyoutendollars.”
TheAiredale—undoubtedlytherewasanAiredaleconcernedinitsomewhere,thoughitsfeetwerestartlinglywhite—changedhandsandsettleddownintoMrs.Wilson’slap,whereshefondledtheweatherproofcoatwithrapture.
“Isitaboyoragirl?”sheaskeddelicately.
“Thatdog?Thatdog’saboy.”
“It’sabitch,”saidTomdecisively.“Here’syourmoney.Goandbuytenmoredogswithit.”
WedroveovertoFifthAvenue,warmandsoft,almostpastoral,onthesummerSundayafternoon.Iwouldn’thavebeensurprisedtoseeagreatflockofwhitesheepturnthecorner.
“Holdon,”Isaid,“Ihavetoleaveyouhere.”
“Noyoudon’t,”interposedTomquickly.“Myrtle’llbehurtifyoudon’tcomeuptotheapartment.Won’tyou,Myrtle?”
“Comeon,”sheurged.“I’lltelephonemysisterCatherine.She’ssaidtobeverybeautifulbypeoplewhooughttoknow.”
“Well,I’dliketo,but—”
Wewenton,cuttingbackagainovertheParktowardtheWestHundreds.At158thStreetthecabstoppedatonesliceinalongwhitecakeofapartment-houses.Throwingaregalhomecomingglancearoundtheneighbourhood,Mrs.Wilsongatheredupherdogandherotherpurchases,andwenthaughtilyin.
“I’mgoingtohavetheMcKeescomeup,”sheannouncedasweroseintheelevator.“And,ofcourse,Igottocallupmysister,too.”
Theapartmentwasonthetopfloor—asmallliving-room,asmalldining-room,asmallbedroom,andabath.Theliving-roomwascrowdedtothedoorswithasetoftapestriedfurnitureentirelytoolargeforit,sothattomoveaboutwastostumblecontinuallyoverscenesofladiesswinginginthegardensofVersailles.Theonlypicturewasanover-enlargedphotograph,apparentlyahensittingonablurredrock.Lookedatfromadistance,however,the
