"No, I don’t think so".
She put down the phone and sat looking at the litter on her desk for a moment, wondering whether Miriam had changed much and whether it would be easy or difficult to get to know her again. Miriam had never been very easy to know, and it was three years since Erica had last seen her, the summer war broke out, when they had had two weeks together in Paris.
There were four other people in Erica’s office beside herself-two reporters who had no business to be there, sitting on the bench by the door, one of whom was asleep with his hat on, and his hands folded across his stomach, and the other yawning over the war news; Erica’s assistant, Sylvia Arnold, a slim, dark-haired girl with gray eyes, a sense of humor and a clear, balanced intelligence, and finally, a very tall, bony youth of about sixteen whose name was Weathersby Canning, one of the Westmount, stock-broking Cannings, who was usually known as "Bubbles". He was a combination copy and messenger boy who was permitted to write up the less important weddings.
Dismissing the subject of Miriam for the time being, Erica read over the page she had just written which was headed "Sugarless Recipes" and remarked, "For someone who can’t cook, this really sounds extraordinarily convincing", then pulled it out of her typewriter and threw it into the cage attached to the side of her desk.
"Who was Wing Commander Howard’s wife before she married him last Saturday?" asked Sylvia.
"Margaret Denham", said Weathersby.
"Bubbles knows everything", said Erica.
"For the love of Mike, will you stop calling me ’Bubbles’?"
"Why, what’s the matter with it?" asked the reporter who was reading the war news.
"It hasn’t any dignity".
"I can’t possibly call you Weathersby", Erica pointed out, running a fresh sheet into her typewriter. "It has too much dignity".
"Call him Butch", advised the reporter.
"Butch Canning", repeated Weathersby. "Say, that’s not bad. How do you spell ’mousseline de soie’?" he asked, and then as nobody answered and his phone rang, he said, "Social Department, Butch Canning speaking…" then to Erica, "Mrs. Wallace Anderson, Mrs. Wallace P. Anderson wants someone from here to cover the A.S.A. meeting this afternoon…".
"I can’t", said Erica. "My sister’s arriving from England. What have you got on for this afternoon?" she asked Sylvia.
"One tea, one art exhibit and one speech", said Sylvia without looking up from her typewriter.
"Can’t you cut the speech?"
Sylvia shook her head. "Some American newspaper woman who’s just back from Chungking".
"How about the art exhibit…?" She thought a moment and said, "Butch can go".
"I hate Art", said Weathersby intensely. "Besides, who’s going to answer the phone?"
"You don’t have to look at the pictures", said Erica. "And switchboard can answer it. What does the P. stand for?"
"Pritchard". He informed Mrs. Wallace P. Anderson that "a member of the staff" would cover her meeting, and then remarked patiently to the room in general, "I still don’t know how to spell ’mousseline de soie’."
"’Mousseline de what?" asked the second reporter, waking up. His name was Mike O’Brien; he had an attractive freckled face and red hair.
"Soie!" said Weathersby.
"Where’s the dope on the Burroughs wedding?" asked Erica, searching through the pile of papers and photographs on her desk.
"Over here-do you want it?" asked Sylvia.
"No, put it with the rest when you’ve got finished. I suppose I’d better do that Merchant Navy story", she remarked vaguely. "What’s the date?"
"The twenty-ninth", someone answered.
Toward the end of the month, René’s secretary had said. The twenty-ninth was certainly toward the end of the month.
"Mike", said Erica absently, beginning on the Merchant Navy.
Mike grunted.
"Tell Butch how to spell ’mousseline de soie,’ only write it out for him".
"What is it?" Mike asked Weathersby.
"How should I know?"
"Well, you work here". Mike pondered, then as the door opened and a middle-aged man in overalls appeared, he asked, "Do you know how to spell ’mousseline de soie’?"
"Nope", said the stranger, trying the light switch and then attacking it with a screwdriver.
"How in hell would he know?" demanded Weathersby.
"He’s probably a French Canadian. Are you a French Canadian?"
"Nope".
"Put something else", Mike advised Weathersby. He got up, yawned and asked, "Would you like us to lunch together, Eric?"
"Is that your delicate way of suggesting that I should pay for myself or both of us?"
"Both of us".
"I’ll just put lace", decided Weathersby.
"No, you don’t", said Sylvia. She printed the words "mousseline de soie" in block capitals on a pad, muttering, "It beats me how you expect to get into the Air Force when you can’t even spell…".
"In the Air Force", said Weathersby loftily, "you are not required to spell words like mousseline de soie".
"Lunch?" repeated Mike hopefully from the door.
"Sorry", said Erica, smiling at him.
"How about you?"
"Do you mean me?" asked Sylvia.
"You don’t think I’d ask Butch to lunch, do you?"
"That depends on whether or not you thought I could afford it", said Weathersby, typing rapidly with two fingers.
"All right, I’ll meet you at Luigi’s at one". Mike and the other reporter went out; Sylvia’s eyes met Erica’s and smiling at her, a little embarrassed, Sylvia said apologetically, "Well, you don’t want him, do you, Eric?"
"Mike?" asked Erica, surprised, and shook her head.
"That’s good, because I do".
"Women", said Weathersby derisively.
"Bubbles, get me René de Sevigny on the phone and be quick about it", said Erica.
After a pause she heard Weathersby asking, "Est-ce que M. de Sevigny est lÃ, s’il vous plaît? O.K., Eric, he’s coming".
Erica picked up her phone. "Hello, René…"
"Is that you, Eric? I was just going to call you. I only got back this morning and I’m in an awful rush but I’ll be through in half an hour. How about lunch?"
"Love to. Where?"
"Charcot’s-in the bar downstairs?"
"Yes. René…"
"Yes?"
"How about bringing Marc Reiser with you?" It was out before she had even realized that she was definitely going to say it.
He started to answer, then stopped. "Just a minute, I’ve got to talk to someone-hold on a moment, will you?"
The silence lasted more than a moment, during which she sat rather nervously, drawing small squares on the back of a photograph of some officers in the Canadian Women’s Army Corps. Then René said, "Hello, Eric-did you say you wanted me to ask Marc?"
"Yes", she answered, adding uncertainly, "if you think he’d like to come".
"Have you heard from him since that day at your house?"
Damn René, she thought, and trying to keep the awkwardness out of her voice, she said, "I wouldn’t be asking you to bring him to lunch if I had".
"Well, I don’t think he’d like to come".
"René, please listen a moment. I want to…"
Weathersby was gesturing violently toward the phone on his desk in the corner of the room; she broke off long enough to say, "Tell whoever it is to go to hell", then heard René’s voice again.
"My dear child, I am listening. I’ll invite him if you like, but after the kick in the pants that he got from your father, I think you’d better leave Marc alone".
She said desperately, "But don’t you see, it’s because of that…"
"Is it, petite?"