was a bright mulatto, but he hadn't a particle of the usual negro humor in his make-up. Born and brought up in Charleston, he was such a contrast to the average Northern nigger that we enjoyed drawing him out.

He took himself very seriously. "One thing," he said, "has been a handicap to me all mah life, and that is the way ah hold a grudge. It makes me unconfortable and unhappy, but I cain't help it. Now, down in Cha'l'ston when ah was a youngstah, there was a boy I grew up with that was the meanest fellow I evah knew. He was always doing dirty things to me, and when ah resented it (he was biggah than ah was) he'd lick me, best ah could do, an' rub mah nose in the di't, an' humiliate me in ev'y way he could. I kept a ex'cising, an' practising with mah fists, an' then I'd try him again, but he'd always get the best of me, an' lick me worse'n he needed to, yes, sah, an' especially before girls, an' like that. Then I moved away and I didn't go back for quite a good many years, but I never forgot my grudge, an' I hated that man worse'n evah, until aftah the great Cha'l'ston earthquake, I went back there visitin' for a few days, and I heard that my old enemy, 'Rastus, had got te'bly injured when his house fell on him in the earthquake.

"Well, I walked down there where he lived he hadn't got ve'y fur, as you'd know he wouldn', a nigger like that, and there was 'Rastus sittin' out on the po'ch in front of his cottage, in a armchair, all wrapped up, an' bandaged up, an' he had a li'l table, like, for his ahms to rest on,

an' they was all fixed up with splints an' things, an' so I opened the gate an' went up the walk, an' I said, 'Hello, 'Rastus,' an' he replied, 'Hello, Earnest,' kind of faint-like an' sick, an' I says: 'I hear you got pretty bad bunged up in the earthquake.'

"Yes,' he says, 'Earnest, I did.' "Legs broke?"

"Yes. One of 'em twice.' "Ahms hu't?'

"Cain't move hand or foot?' "No. Cain't move noway. An' worse'n that.'

"An' then it all come ovah me, how many years I'd held a grudge against that poor niggah, an' how many times he'd licked me 'cause he was biggah an' strongah an' I was, an' how he'd humil’ated me, an' rubbed mah nose in the dust, an' ev'ythin', an' here he was all bunged up an' helpless, an' I tried to forget mah grudge an' be forgivin' an' ev'ythin', but even then it hung to me an' I hauled off an' I banged him good, on both sides the mouth, an' then I did it again an' bunged his nose, an' then I found my grudge was all gone, an' I'd forgiven 'Rastus, an' I nevah haven't had no ha'd feelings against him since.

"No, sah. I nevah ain't been back to Cha'l'ston. I came away that day. They won't be anything calling me theah for a long time."

chair-arm, his fingers gently stroking it as if he was pleased with the texture. May noticed that he was paler than when she had last seen him and wondered if he was still working in his father's department store in New York. (How he had hated that job!) Then swiftly she recalled their old room on Charles Street in Greenwich Village and the young blond landlady who was supposed to be a dope fiend. And May tried to imagine with whom Lorry was now living. She was pleased with herself that she could be as cold as that (simultaneously, in a corner of her mind, she was sure there was no one). "Poor Lorry," she said to herself as she watched him reach in his pockets for a cigarette and noticed on the lapel of his shining blue serge suit two gray spots of grease. "Poor Lorry," and she enjoyed feeling sorry for him. Aloud she asked: "When did you come out, Lorry?"

"Last week," he said. He offered her a cigarette from the crumpled green-andred package. She took one and smoothed it out. "I've quit the store," he went on, his voice slow and even. "I bummed my way out from New York to San Francisco and got a lift down here yesterday in a car. I am going to paint stage scenery in Los Angeles. That will make enough money to keep me alive while I am doing my own painting. But I will be here in Santa Barbara two or three weeks before I go."

(May thought of telling him then that she was not going to be here during that time.)

He seemed unenthusiastic about this sudden change in his life, but May knew how he liked the pose of indifference to worldly affairs.

"That's wonderful, Lorry," she said, and she tried to show how interested she was by leaning forward and staring at him. "I'm so glad you left; you hated that job so.'

sheets on the floor, and the smell of Lorry's cigarette burning in the ash-tray— how disgusting it all seemed now-so sloppy, so sordid.

"Well," Lorry went on, "a month later, about the time you married Max Dahlgren, I got a raise. Then followed another and father congratulated me upon settling down. About two months ago he made me head of the furniture department-it's a pretty big job, you know. He told me that he was glad I had given up my painting and that I had forgotten to be temperamental. He looked so damn solid and comfortable that I laughed in his face and went back to the rooms and never saw the office or him again." He paused a moment and folded his arms. "I had the courage, May."

She had listened, smoking her cigarette with quick puffs, and there grew, as Lorry talked, a comforting feeling of complacency. After all, what he had done was merely to sidestep work, but had she not attained a position superior to Lorry's? She was inclined to agree with Max, who said of Lorry: "Oh, he's all right as long as he keeps his feet on the ground."

66

Good for you, Lorry," she said, and then, not feeling that sufficient, she added: "That's splendid."

He looked at her eagerly from the big chair, his hands still slowly rubbing the soft leather arm. "Do you really think so?" he asked. "But then, I knew you would. Good old May, you do understand."

She smiled at him and felt a little pang of shame which quickly left as she thought of Lorry's chance now to do the work he had been so set on doing-his paintingand the courage he showed in doing it. (She admitted it took courage to face Mr. Turner and throw down a position offered by him-courage or fool-heartedness.) But May was glad she had found. safety in Max.

Then Lorry leaned farther back and his hands stopped rubbing the chair and as his eyes caught hers he smiled. "I like the way you are wearing your hair now, May, so black and wavy and careless." May was annoyed at Lorry's flatteryand she wondered why, she had once liked it so-but now it seemed so obvious.

Lorry then asked about Santa Barbara and Max's business, and she answered his questions rather curtly. "We like it here. . . . Yes, Max is still with Rathbun, Starr and Boyd. He is manager of the Santa Barbara office. . . . No, we haven't seen any of them-Max doesn't like them very well. . . . No, we'll probably be here for three more years-Max wants to build up a bigger and more social trade with the Montecito crowd. . . . Yes I gave up dancing, Max thought

Max, Max, Max. Suddenly May began to hate Lorry for asking so many VOL. LXXXI.-22

cigarette dripping ashes on his bare legs, his lips quivering with the stimulation of coffee, and whiskey the night before, had said, his voice almost in a whisper: "May, you are the type that invariably submerges its individuality under the various surfaces of a more dominant character. You have done it with me. You speak of us not yourself. You make your ideas sound original, because you can act, whereas they are mere echoes of my words. I, the man, love it-for it makes me feel powerful-but I, your friend, hate it." Then, with a characteristic gesture of his, he spread his hand, palm down, and

pushed the air aside: "Cut it out, dear." How true it was; and now how deeply she was hidden under Max's likes and dislikes!

Lorry was looking about the room. She could almost hear him say: "There that table perfectly squared off and symmetrically balanced with little German trinkets! Your idea, May?"

compromise it was Lorry whose strength she felt again and again when she wanted to stop her work and go away-to hide, to give up.

Lorry suddenly threw his cigarette into the fireplace and straightened up in the chair. She saw his eyes brighten, become almost fierce, and his white hand with the long fingers sweep through his hair.

"For God's sake, May!" he cried. "Where are you going? What are you doing? I can't bear to see you rot away here you with so much."

May again felt that strange resentment at his obtruding himself this way-why didn't he leave her alone, comfortably settled and unworried? "Oh, a lot," she answered, and tried to recall the name of a novel she had seen lately.

"Good," Lorry said, still looking away, his hands now pressed together before him. "But I cannot understand why you have given up your dancing." Then he quickly looked at her, his black brows drawn closer, and it reminded her of the time he had caught her in a lie.

May thought: 'Now he's trying to look dominant.' Aloud she said: "There is no reason why I should keep up the work here, is there? I used to dance to support myself-Max does that now, and rather well."

"But, your body," Lorry said. "Have you stopped your practice? You'll get soft."

"I know-that would be true if I were ever going to dance again—but I am not. I-I am through, Lorry. Max has made certain sacrifices and I must too." May rather liked the idea-sacrifices. Of course, that's what she was doing-sacrificing her career for her husband! She felt old and tired and indulged in the feeling of superior wisdom over Lorry.

But she noticed the old discontent come up in Lorry's face, the gauntness under his eyes darkening and his sensitive mouth dropping at the corners. And she remembered how ruthless he was when it came to her work and his painting. Nothing must interfere-nothing. It was Lorry who believed so strongly against a

This was what May wanted to avoid. She knew that Lorry would feel this way

she had so often looked upon women such as she now was, growing dull and dependent, and had laughed without pity. She answered Lorry's question indifferently, with a shrug of the shoulders-she had become sane-and settled-and content. Thank God for that!

Then Lorry recalled the days in New York; the long, endless walks they took (always talking of their work) up Riverside Drive, all shiny with cars, and the Hudson, a dirty blue, on the left; the places in which they ate heavy Italian meals with a bottle of wine on a stained table-cloth; the long discussions of life (all in such a very serious mood) indulged in when a few congenial friends had gathered within the bright yellow walls of their apartment; the work-the joyousness of working together; and May listened without enthusiasm and noticed that Lorry had neglected, as usual, to shave that hollow portion of his neck under his big jaw. She wondered why she had ever let herself in with Lorry; and she remembered other men who had almost come as close to her as he had, and might have, if he had not come just then. And as she heard Lorry's voice droning on she thought of Max's vacation which started to-morrow (he was to telephone her this afternoon to let her know the exact arrangements at the office); and that they had planned to take their car into the desert for several weeks' camping. Again she thought she was glad of this chance to avoid Lorry during his stay in Santa Barbara.

Lorry had stopped talking and was looking at her. There was a familiar light in his eyes; a soft blurry glow, as if