It was as far as Stacey could get—and this only slowly, with difficulty. But he could, he thought, go back to the real world now and start over again.
Stacey had left Vernon in December; it was on an afternoon in May that he returned to it. Tulips bloomed gaily in well tended beds along the boulevard at which he gazed from his taxi. A fresh spring smell was in the air. The city was at its best.
Stacey looked at it inquiringly, almost as though it were new to him. And in a sense it was new; for he did not feel toward it in any way that he had felt before. He saw the business buildings standing angularly against the blue sky, the handsome residences of varied architecture, the wide streets that were rivers of motor cars, and he noted, as often, that esthetically the city was faulty and aspiring, and that socially it was energetic and confident. He received again an impression of people striving relentlessly to attain certain things and clinging to them desperately when attained. But he did not feel for these characteristics either admiration or disapproval, affection or distaste. What he did feel was curiosity, because it seemed to him that he knew very little about Vernon really, and an odd touch of pity. For the first time it struck him as rather pathetic to care so hard about motor cars and bathrooms and servants. Here were wealthy men riding triumphantly in imported Rolls-Royces, and poor men riding in Fords, or walking, and hating the rich men. What a to-do! Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped! Stacey supposed. Economics were the order of the day.
Presently he reached his father’s house. “Hello, Parker,” he said to the surprised servant who opened the door. “I’m back, you see,—and without so much as sending a wire. How are you? Mr. Carroll well? Take this bag up to my room for me, will you, please? I certainly do need a bath. Oh, yes, I’ve had lunch, thanks.”
An hour later he strolled down to the dining-room for a whiskey and soda, then, glass in hand, into the library. And there, sitting with a book in a high-backed chair, was Catherine.
“Why, Catherine!” Stacey exclaimed, going toward her quickly and holding out his hand.
She had risen swiftly, as surprised as he. She was wearing a black dress, but with a wide pointed collar of white lace at her bare throat. She looked firm and grave and slender.