been to.
“It beats everything.” He seemed to be breathing in deeply the impression of fountains, sculpture, leafy’ avenues and long-drawn architectural distances fading into the afternoon haze.
“I suppose you’ve been to that old church over there?” he went on, his gold-topped stick pointing toward the towers of Notre Dame.
“Oh, of course; when I used to sightsee. Have you never been to Paris before?”
“No, this is my first look-round. I came across in March.”
“In March?” she echoed inattentively. It never occurred to her that other people’s lives went on when they were out of her range of vision, and she tried in vain to remember what she had last heard of Moffatt. “Wasn’t that a bad time to leave Wall Street?”
“Well, so-so. Fact is, I was played out: needed a change.” Nothing in his robust mien confirmed the statement, and he did not seem inclined to develop it. “I presume you’re settled here now?” he went on. “I saw by the papers—”
“Yes,” she interrupted; adding, after a moment: “It was all a mistake from the first.”
“Well, I never thought he was your form,” said Moffatt.
His eyes had come back to her, and the look in them struck her as something she might use to her advantage; but the next moment he had glanced away with a furrowed brow, and she felt she had not wholly fixed his attention.
“I live at the other end of Paris. Why not come back and have tea with me?” she suggested, half moved by a desire to know more of his affairs, and half by the thought that a talk with him might help to shed some light on hers.
In the open taxi-cab he seemed to recover his sense of well-being, and leaned back, his hands on the knob of his stick, with the air of a man pleasantly aware of his privileges. “This Paris is a thundering good place,” he repeated once or twice as they rolled on through the crush and glitter of the afternoon; and when they had descended at Undine’s door, and he stood in her drawingroom, and looked out on the horse-chestnut trees rounding their green domes under the balcony, his satisfaction culminated in the comment: “I guess this lays out West End Avenue!”
His eyes met Undine’s with their old twinkle, and their expression encouraged her to murmur: “Of course there are times when I’m very lonely.”
She sat down behind the tea-table, and he stood at a little distance, watching her pull off her gloves with a queer comic twitch of his elastic mouth. “Well, I guess it’s only when you want to be,” he said, grasping a lyre-backed chair by its gilt cords, and sitting down astride of it, his light grey trousers stretching too tightly over his plump thighs. Undine was perfectly aware that he was a vulgar over-dressed man, with a red crease of fat above his collar and an impudent swaggering eye; yet she liked to see him there, and was conscious that he stirred the fibres of a self she had forgotten but had not ceased to understand.
She had fancied her avowal of loneliness might call forth some sentimental phrase; but though Moffatt was clearly pleased to be with her she saw that she was not the centre of his thoughts, and the discovery irritated her.
“I don’t suppose YOU’VE known what it is to be lonely since you’ve been in Europe?” she continued as she held out his tea-cup.
“Oh,” he said jocosely, “I don’t always go round with a guide”; and she rejoined on the same note: “Then perhaps I shall see something of you.”
“Why, there’s nothing would suit me better; but the fact is, I’m probably sailing next week.”
“Oh, are you? I’m sorry.” There was nothing feigned in her regret.
“Anything I can do for you across the pond?”
She hesitated. “There’s something you can do for me right off.”
He looked at her more attentively, as if his practised eve had passed through the surface of her beauty to what might be going on behind it. “Do you want my blessing again?” he asked with sudden irony.
Undine opened her eyes with a trustful look. “Yes—I do.”
“Well—I’ll be damned!” said Moffatt gaily.
“You’ve always been so awfully nice,” she began; and he leaned back, grasping both sides of the chair-back, and shaking it a little with his laugh.
He kept the same attitude while she proceeded to unfold her case, listening to her with the air of sober concentration that his frivolous face took on at any serious demand on his attention. When she had ended he kept the same look during an interval of silent pondering. “Is it the fellow who was over at Nice with you that day?”
She looked at him with surprise. “How did you know?”
“Why, I liked his looks,” said Moffatt simply. He got up and strolled toward the window. On the way he stopped before a table covered with showy trifles, and after looking at them for a moment singled out a dim old brown and golden book which Chelles had given her. He examined it lingeringly, as though it touched the spring of some choked-up sensibility for which he had no language. “Say—” he began: it was the usual prelude to his enthusiasms; but he laid the book down and turned back.
“Then you think if you had the cash you could fix it up all right with the Pope?”
Her heart began to beat. She remembered that he had once put a job in Ralph’s way, and had let her understand that he had done it partly for her sake.
“Well,” he continued, relapsing into hyperbole, “I wish I could send the old gentleman my cheque tomorrow morning: but the fact is I’m high and dry.” He looked at her with a sudden odd intensity. “If I WASN’T, I dunno but what—” The phrase was lost in his familiar whistle. “That’s an awfully fetching way you do your hair,” he said. It was a disappointment to Undine to hear that his affairs were not prospering, for she knew that in his world “pull” and solvency were closely related, and that such support as she had hoped he might give her would be contingent on his own situation. But she had again a fleeting sense of his mysterious power of accomplishing things in the teeth of adversity; and she answered: “What I want is your advice.”
He turned away and wandered across the room, his hands in his pockets. On her ornate writing desk he saw a photograph of Paul, bright-curled and sturdy-legged, in a manly reefer, and bent over it with a murmur of approval. “Say—what a fellow! Got him with you?”
Undine coloured. “No—” she began; and seeing his look of surprise, she embarked on her usual explanation. “I can’t tell you how I miss him,” she ended, with a ring of truth that carried conviction to her own ears if not to Moffatt’s.
“Why don’t you get him back, then?”
“Why, I—”
Moffatt had picked up the frame and was looking at the photograph more closely. “Pants!” he chuckled. “I declare!”
He turned back to Undine. “Who DOES he belong to, anyhow?”
“Belong to?”
“Who got him when you were divorced? Did you?”
“Oh, I got everything,” she said, her instinct of self-defense on the alert.
“So I thought.” He stood before her, stoutly planted on his short legs, and speaking with an aggressive energy. “Well, I know what I’d do if he was mine.”
“If he was yours?”
“And you tried to get him away from me. Fight you to a finish! If it cost me down to my last dollar I would.”
The conversation seemed to be wandering from the point, and she answered, with a touch of impatience: “It wouldn’t cost you anything like that. I haven’t got a dollar to fight back with.”
“Well, you ain’t got to fight. Your decree