Even without the embarrassment, it would have sounded like Peter all over again, and that was enough for Miriam. Out of every ten idealists, nine are likely to be more or less neurotic and only one entirely genuine, and having been tricked once, Miriam was not going to run the risk of being tricked a second time. And genuine or not, she did not want the burden of John’s idealism and above all, she wanted no more embarrassment and no more speeches. Instead of being moved by what he said, because John happened to be a thoroughly genuine human being genuinely in love with her, Miriam froze up. From then on she had scarcely allowed him to touch her. In some very deep sense, she was afraid of him, and because he was so decent and hadn’t the faintest idea what was wrong, he let her get away with it, thereby following up his worst mistake with another which was almost as bad for both of them.
Erica had no idea what it would be like for him when he found out, as he must inevitably find out sometime, that during this past year and in fact up until last night, while he had been denying his own desire for Miriam’s sake and his, and for the sake of their future, as he thought, she had been the mistress of a man for whom he had so little use that he had just described him as something out of Esquire. John hadn’t much vanity, but even if he had had none at all, he could not fail to realize that he was worth a great deal more according to anybody’s standards, except those of the one person who mattered most to him, than Max Eliot. And leaving out everything else, that would hurt. It would hurt like hell.
As though he had guessed a little of what she was thinking he said, "I didn’t know I’d been playing second fiddle again, Eric".
He was looking down at the table, the orchestra was making a great deal of noise and his voice was pitched so low that Erica could hardly make out what he said. She missed the next few words altogether and then, "I ought to have got it through my head by this time that there always is someone else".
"Always?"
"Yes, there was another one she was in love with after Kingsley and before she met Eliot-while I was still in England".
The whole romantic room with the long windows at one end through which you could see a cluster of lighted buildings against the night sky, the orchestra in its fantastic white shell, and the people dancing or talking at their tables-all of it had dropped away from him. He had forgotten where he was and went on sitting half-turned away from her, a tall, fair-haired man in an officer’s uniform whose blue eyes were fixed on some point near the door leading to the bar.
"Eric".
"Yes?"
"Remember that nursery rhyme, ’The Farmer Takes a Wife’ and the wife takes somebody else who takes somebody else? Even when I was a kid I always hated that rhyme".
The next moment Miriam and Marc were skirting the edge of the dance floor on their way back again, Marc with his hands in his trouser pockets and Miriam walking with her head up, her movements as light and full of grace as ever. Except for her burning dark eyes and a slight flush, there was no outward sign that she had eaten almost nothing for the past twenty-four hours and had drunk far too much in the last three and a half.
"Hello", said Marc, smiling down at Erica. He touched her fair hair lightly with one hand and then added, "Come and dance, darling".
She was the right height for him, in fact everything about her was right and he held her close, wishing that they would play a waltz and turn the lights down so that he could kiss her. There was always an interval like this after he came back to her, when everything that had been confused, remote and difficult to understand seemed to be rearranging itself in order, and all he could feel for the first few minutes was relief and happiness and a kind of amazement which usually took a while to wear off. He was in love with her, and it seemed to him that if only Erica and he could stay together, then sooner or later he would know what it was all about. But they could not stay together; all they had left was a handful of days scattered over a month or possibly six weeks at the most, although Erica did not know it yet.
"Do you love me?"
Her arm moved up a little on his shoulder and with her mouth brushing his ear she murmured, "I adore you".
His grip tightened for a moment, then loosened a little and he said, "Don’t, darling".
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t melt in public, it’s not done".
"You started it, I didn’t".
"Damn it", said Marc, "why don’t they play a waltz?" and swerved just in time to avoid an overstuffed colonel who was sailing back and forth across the floor, four sheets to the wind, with a rather bewildered red-headed girl in tow.
"I thought you didn’t like waltzes", said Erica.
"I don’t. It’s what goes with them. By the way, your sister is definitely drunk. I wouldn’t mention it, but she’s bound to tell you herself sooner or later".
"You liked her, didn’t you?" asked Erica anxiously.
"Yes, darling, of course. I never saw a woman who could drink so much and show it so little".
"This is one of her off nights", said Erica apologetically.
"Extremely off, I should say. What I liked most about her is the fact that she likes you. By the way, she asked me if I didn’t think it might be better for you to leave home and get a place of your own to live".
Erica missed a step, said mechanically, "I’m sorry", and then answered matter-of-factly, "She thinks I’m going to develop into one of those spinsters who devote their lives to their parents. It’s just one of her ideas".
"Yes", said Marc.
"What else did she say?" asked Erica over his shoulder.
"Nothing much. My God", said Marc, "he’s back again". The only way to make certain of avoiding him was to dance in a circle around the outside of the dance floor, for the colonel always tacked several feet from the edge.
It took them several minutes to get past the orchestra where Marc could talk again without shouting into her ear. He said, "Don’t look so worried, Eric".
"I’m not, only…"
"Only what?"
"Miriam often makes thing sound much worse than they really are".
"I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about. If you think your sister was giving me a blow-by-blow account of your home life…"
"That’s a nice way of putting it!"
"I was speaking figuratively", said Marc with dignity. "Anyhow, the conversation was entirely general, mostly on the subject of relative values, only just as I was beginning to be really profound, she said she felt sleepy".
The music stopped and they waited, hand in hand, and then the lights went down. "Thank God. Where do you think we’re least likely to be noticed?"
"Out in the middle", said Erica, "but you don’t waltz that badly".
He took her in his arms without answering, steered her out to the middle, kissed her quickly and holding her very close again, he said with his lips against her check, "We’re too tall. I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you that there are distinct advantages in being a dwarf?"
"Well, no, it hadn’t", Erica admitted, "but I see what you mean".
They danced for a while in silence. She could feel his mood changing, and at last he said abruptly, "Eric…"
"Yes?"
He paused and then said, "I’ve got something to tell you".
"Something-unpleasant?"
"Yes, darling".
She drew away from him so that she could look up into his face, his dark, sensitive, intelligent face which she loved so much. The orchestra was playing a waltz left over from the last war; she had been trying to think of its name and for some idiotic reason, she went on trying to think of its name although it did not matter in the least, and she already knew from his expression what was coming. She said, "All right, I’m ready".