in front were closed; his father's door and the one which had been his mother's. In front, on the third floor, were the chambers of Lloyd Dill and his wife, who had come to keep house after Margaret had married. Lloyd was a second cousin and worked in the Rountree offices.
Ann Dill was not about. No one was about, though some one, Beedy undoubtedly, had unpacked Jay's suitcase, which Ben dutifully had delivered.
Mail heaped Jay's table, the large white and cream envelopes, thick from containing another, enclosing cards of invitation to holiday teas, dances, dinners. He pulled the switch of his lamp and opened the envelopes. Some of them were from people whom he knew, but more, after the modern manner, were from persons of whom he had never heard. He stopped before he had opened all, switched out the lights and threw himself across his bed.
Marrying—marrying Lida Haige! Not just dancing with her; not just kissing her and pressing her close within his arms. Marrying! A bedroom like this somewhere with her . . . his wife . . .
There was a knock, Beedy's knock. "Come in," called Jay, and rolled to face the door. "Hello, Beedy."
"I didn't hear you come in," said Beedy. "I was in back. If you'd called—or whistled . . ."
Beedy remembered he whistled. Beedy liked his whistling; Beedy, Jay knew, liked him and he felt Beedy's fealty to him more than to his father. Beedy was fifty, grayish, lonely—a butler.
"Beedy," said Jay, sitting up, "thanks for unpacking me. I wish I were staying; but I'm not."
"You're off before Christmas?" said Beedy.
