Betty’s eyes never left her plate. “I know,” she said, “I was in it at the time.”
“Betty!” everybody gasped.
There was a quenchless pride in her voice, a pride of accomplishment that was like a man’s pride. “When I drive I leave them all behind,” she said.
“Betty!” they all repeated helplessly, “what do you mean?”
She lifted her chin and faced them squarely, her eyes blazing. “You tell the authorities that when I need their help I’ll let them know! The car isn’t stolen. I’ve sent it to New York for repairs.”
“It’s an outrage,” her father said. He emphasized it by bringing his fist down on the table.
“What I could’ve done with a car like that!” sighed her young brother.
“Ram it into a tree, I suppose,” said Betty.
About a month later, at a party, Betty met Gordon Nye. His main qualification was an absolute day-dream of a mochatan roadster. Apart from that Gordon Nye weighed a little too much, was inclined to be a little too sure of himself and had one of those baby-blond Student-Prince mustaches. As a matter of fact, in the beginning her family had almost had to manacle her to get her to go out with him at all. “People will think I’m his trainer,” she said heartlessly. Still, when he let Betty take the wheel and name her own speed on straight never-ending moonlit roads she forgot everything else. He became just like ballast in the car with her. Later on he began to make a habit of holding her hand. Several times during the course of these maneuvers she had noticed a particularly bright diamond on his little finger. Then one day, without exactly realizing how it had happened, she discovered herself to be wearing it on her left hand. She thought of making him take it back but hated to hurt his feelings. He was just the build that was liable to break down and cry on her shoulder. While she was trying to decide what to do about it her family spied it on her and it was too late to do anything but smile weakly and admit that she was engaged. Her mother beamed and her friends showered her with congratulations, and a luncheon-party was arranged, timed to begin at the fashionable hour of three.
Betty’s friends gathered about her, all talking at once. The only thing needed, as far as Betty could see, was something to laugh at. This, to her mind, was adequately supplied by the arrival of her fiancé in a camel’s-hair overcoat that added to his proportions. He came straight to where she was with all the singleness of mind of a steam-roller, took her two hands in his and kissed the tips of her fingers reverently as though he were smelling violets.
“Betty,” he murmured, looking at her soulfully.
They were left alone together in an angle of the living-room provided with rose-taffeta cushions and a droplight, and hinting of intrigue and flirtation. But to flirt with Gordon with that mustache of his was like making eyes at a totem pole, for all the kick Betty got out of it. He sat there gazing into her eyes until she felt like charging him admission.
“I’m so glad we have a chance to be alone together like this.”
“I am, too,” said Betty.
“You’re looking marvelous.”
“I am, too,” said Betty, capturing a yawn before it quite got away from her.
“Tired, dear?”
“I am, too,” murmured Betty.
Relief in the form of cocktails approached. Betty selected the nearest one.
“Precious!” Gordon whined.
“What’s the matter?” she asked innocently.
“You don’t want to drink that, do you, dear?”
“Don’t be silly, of course I do,” she answered. (She felt like saying, “What do you think I want it for, to blow soap bubbles with?”)
“I don’t like to see you do that,” he told her.
“Then look the other way,” she murmured, lifting it to her lips.
Suddenly he took it away from her. “I’ll put it out of your reach,” he said, and finished it.
If Betty had ever felt a spark of tenderness for him, it died at this point.
“Let’s dance,” said Gordon, jumping up.
“Go ahead,” said Betty indifferently.
He went over and switched on the radio. But Betty had no intention of dancing with him. “The heel of my shoe is loose,” she fibbed. “Ask some one else — that’s a good boy.”
So Gordon danced with one of the others while Betty just sat there and watched. But they had no sooner begun than a new number went on. “Station ABC, New York,” said the announcer. “The next selection will be ‘Have You Forgotten?’ by the Pep Twins, Jerry and Jemima Jones.”
Betty turned around with a curious expression on her face. One of those names sounded familiar to her, somehow. She tried to think where she had heard it before and couldn’t place it.
“I like them, they’re good,” Gordon was saying to her over his shoulder.
Betty didn’t hear him and wouldn’t have paid attention even if she had heard. She felt herself grow rigid all at once. It was like a dream that you want to remember and can’t. She had heard that voice before, but when and where? What was it that had happened long ago? She seemed to see a railroad-crossing and a white turnstile slowly falling into place. That was it, she remembered now. His name had been Jones, Jerry Jones. She got up all of a sudden and went over to the cabinet. She couldn’t be mistaken, — that was his voice coming from there. “Have you forgotten?” he pleaded. “Have you forgotten?” Oh, why did she have to be reminded like that? She felt as if she couldn’t stand it another moment, and quickly turned the dial. The sound of his voice stopped.
“It isn’t finished yet,” protested Gordon, turning around.
“Don’t do that,” the rest were saying. “What are you messing it up for like that?”
“No, no,” said Betty, “please. Tune in on something else.” And she ran out of the room.
Dinner came just in time to forestall her handing Gordon his ring back. She decided to wait until afterward and save his appetite for him. Dinner wasn’t a very lively affair. Betty was coughing suspiciously often and her eyes were strangely wet. “Too much cayenne,” she explained with a wistful little smile. And then all at once she noticed the diamond-and-platinum watch on her wrist. It was five to seven. Betty dropped her fork with a great clatter. “What’s the matter, dear?” her mother asked anxiously. “Are you ill?”
“Mother,” asked Betty with a strange look on her face, “when was it I sent my car away? Can you help me remember the date?”
Her mother stopped to think. “Let me see. I think it was the day I had my first bob. Why yes, I remember now. Just a year ago today.”
“Th... thank you, mother. I can’t eat any more dinner.” Betty got as far as the door. Gordon came hurrying after her to stop her. That was just like him; he was always stopping her. “Please, Gordon,” she said. “There’s a call I have to make,” and brushed heedlessly by him. Out in front of the house the white road stretched past the place to the end of the world, where promises lie waiting. It was seven o’clock. She wondered why she had gotten up to come out here like this. There was nothing out here, nothing on the road but a little dust stirring in the wind far away. It came closer. It wasn’t dust after all; it was a car. She could make it out quite plainly now. It was blue. She came down the steps to watch it go by. Only it didn’t go by; it stopped right in front of the gate and a girl in it stepped out and came over to her, swinging her hips as New York girls will.
“Are you Betty Reeves?” she asked. “You remember Jerry, don’t you? He wants to know if you’ll come over and say hullo to him. He’s too bashful to get out of the car.”
She gave the house a good beauty stare over Betty’s shoulder. “Gosh,” she remarked, ceasing to chew her Wrigley’s for a moment, “what a bungalow this is!”