That Old Sweetheart of Mine

Stella Crane had a maid, but preferred answering the telephone herself when she was at home, which was most of the time. Calls came infrequently and were welcome⁠—an invitation to go to the theater with the Smalls, or to play bridge at Bess Cooper’s, or to dine with the Fields. Aside from two or three of her husband’s business acquaintances, whom he had had at the house for evening conferences, the Fields, Smalls and Coopers were about the only people in New York Stella had met.

There was nothing wrong with her or Ralph; they both dressed well and behaved respectably, and Stella played a fair game of contract. But they were not asked out much because Ralph, a patent lawyer, did a great deal of work after hours and was anything but hospitable. If you refrain from inviting people to your house, they are going to invite you less and less often to theirs.

It was hard on Stella, whose life in the city was not what she had expected. Her husband realized this and deluded himself and her with the promise that in the near future he would be able to afford more leisure, and then they’d repay their social indebtedness and make lots of new friends, and Stella would have no cause to complain of loneliness and boredom.

She answered the telephone because the maid had a tendency to confuse names as similar as Gillespie and Hammond; and on this particular morning, the vaguely familiar male voice at the other end of the wire began the conversation with the intriguing challenge, “I’ll bet you don’t know who this is.”

“You sound like somebody,” said Stella. “Just give me a second to think. I do know. Isn’t it Will?”

“You win! I had no idea you’d remember me after all these years.”

“I’d have recognized you sooner if I had thought there was any possibility of your being here.”

“Well, it took me a long time to get here, but I made it.”

“And how long do you expect to stay?”

“Not more than a day or two. It’s just a business trip.”

“Well, tell me something about yourself. Are you married?”

“Not yet.”

“I thought I’d have heard if you were,” said Stella.

“I guess you knew I wouldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Oh, Will! You’re the same old Will!”

“I wish I was.”

“I’d like to see you.”

“It’s perfectly mutual.”

“I’d ask you to dinner, but Ralph’s in Washington and won’t be home till day after tomorrow.”

“I’m not crazy about seeing Ralph.”

“I know, but⁠—”

“Can’t two old friends like us get together and talk? I’m not inviting myself to your place, but I wish you’d have lunch with me, and we could go to a matinée.”

“It sounds wonderful!” said Stella. “Let me think.”

Fifteen years ago, Ralph and Will had been rivals for her love; not exactly her love either, for Will had won that before Ralph appeared on the scene, and though she had married Ralph, because he was “new” and persistent, and chiefly because he was capable of supporting a wife, she had never been quite sure that she was as fond of him as of Will.

Since she had become Mrs. Crane, she had not been alone with any man except her husband, her dentist and the elevator operators in various buildings in which she had lived. Ralph was not of a jealous disposition; she thought he wasn’t, anyway. She had never given him cause to feel jealousy, so she couldn’t be sure.

She had heard him comment on wives who “went around” with other men and had gathered that he disapproved of them, but surely he wouldn’t find fault with her even if the man happened to be an old flame and his former rival. Besides, how would he know? And she was lonely.

“Why, yes, Will. I guess it will be all right.”

“That a girl! I’ll call for you at a quarter of one.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Stella, thinking of the maid. “I’ll meet you at one, wherever you say.”

“You name the place. Remember, I’m a yokel.”

“Well, the Biltmore, in the lobby, if that suits you.”

“Any place suits me. The Biltmore lobby, then.”

“But have you changed much? Will I know you?”

“I’ll wear shoes.”

“Oh, Will! You’re the same old Will!”

“What show would you like to see today?”

“Oh, anything. I haven’t been to one for months.”

“All right. I’ll use my own judgment. One o’clock, then, at the Biltmore.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

Stella’s heart skipped a beat. That “dear” didn’t sound like old friends. It didn’t sound safe, and she knew she was glad he had said it.

She dressed carefully and spent a long time in front of her mirror. It told her that although she had changed a lot since twenty-four, her age when she and Will had parted, she certainly did not look thirty-nine, not within four or five years of it. Her face was unlined and her figure still good, almost youthful, she thought, despite the ten or twelve pounds she had taken on as Mrs. Crane. There was not the same sparkle in her eyes, perhaps, and her smile was less engaging, more artificial; it was a smile she had cultivated for use when one of the Fields, Coopers or Smalls had related a rough story or joke which she hadn’t understood or liked or listened to.

Of course she was not conscious of this or of the difference in her eyes. She felt she could still arouse a man’s interest, particularly the interest of a man who hinted that he had remained single because he could not have her.

Will was more than a little excited. There had been fifty girls and women in his life since Stella had gone out of it, but none who had been able to hold him, none who had seemed as desirable as his sweetheart of fifteen years ago.

He believed she had still cared a great deal for him when she married Crane, and he believed that a woman who had cared for him once never could get entirely over it. Look at Fannie Towns, and May Judson, and most of the others! All he had to do was to whistle and they would come back.

Now he was going to meet the only one he had ever really loved and wanted. She had been easily persuaded to see him, and her husband was out of town. The day would not end with the matinée.

He called up Endicott 9546. “Betty? This is Will again. Say, I’m sorry about tonight, but I just had a wire from Charlie Prince, from Buffalo. He’s getting in at seven o’clock and wants me to meet him and stick around with him all evening. No, it’s business; I can’t get out of it. I’ll call you tomorrow, and meanwhile, don’t forget me.”

He and Stella had no trouble identifying each other. Will immediately noted her plumpness, but was glad it was no worse. He observed, too, the new smile, but charged it to embarrassment. Stella saw that his hair was thin and his face bore the marks of dissipation. Otherwise, he was the same old Will.

He said they had plenty of time and she must order something special to celebrate the occasion.

“I don’t feel like eating,” said Stella. “I just want to talk and hear you talk.”

“And I just want to look at you. That’s feast enough for me.”

But the waiter was hovering, and to get rid of him they had to make a choice.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” said Will, after ordering.

“I’ve changed more than you have. I’m heavier.”

“Very little. And look at my hair, or what’s left of it.”

“I don’t think you’ve lost much⁠—not much.”

“I’m not worrying about it, anyway,” said Will, who worried about it a great deal. “It’s too late for me to care whether I’m handsome or not.”

“I think you’re just as handsome as ever.”

“That’s all that matters.”

“But I want to hear about you, Will. Are you still with Boyer?”

“I’m back with Boyer. I quit them for a while; gave them a chance to miss me. They hired me back for fifteen thousand a year, five thousand more than my old contract.”

Fifteen thousand a year was big money in Will’s eyes; it was three thousand more than he was getting, and he didn’t relish Stella’s comment:

“That ought to be plenty for you, a bachelor with no responsibilities. If you were married and living in a place like New York⁠—well, Ralph makes nearly thirty thousand and we aren’t able to save much. We don’t spend much either, but it goes. Food and clothes and rent⁠—everything’s so frightfully high.”

It didn’t occur to Will that she might have overestimated Ralph’s income as he had his own, and he was not interested in the cost of New York living. He changed the subject.

“I got tickets for Journey’s End.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” said Stella after the briefest of pauses. “Everybody’s mad about it, especially the men.”

“You haven’t seen it, have you?”

“Yes, I have, but I don’t mind a bit.”

“You told me you hadn’t seen anything.”

“I didn’t think you’d pick it out. I thought you liked musical shows. But it honestly doesn’t make any difference.”

“It does, too. I’m going to see if I can’t get something else.”

“Please, Will, don’t! For one thing, it’s late, and I swear I’d just as soon see this again. If it wasn’t so good, I’d let you change. But I wouldn’t have you miss it for the world. There’s no girl in it and it’s a war play and probably more interesting to men than women, but I don’t care.”

“I do. Let me see if I can’t get something for Follow Thru.”

“Oh, they say that’s wonderful, but I know they’d be sold out. And I really want to see Journey’s End again; I may get more out of it the second time.”

“I wish you’d told me. Maybe we can go to Follow Thru tonight.”

“Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Let’s talk about you.”

“That won’t be very interesting.”

“It will to me. I want to hear all about your business affairs and your love affairs, and everything.”

“Well,” said Will, “I’ve done pretty well in business; that is, for me. Nothing like Ralph, I suppose, but I’m satisfied. As for love affairs, you ought to know as much about that as I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I haven’t had any since you.”

Now this was the sort of conversation that appealed to Stella and would have kept her in her most attractive role, that of an interested, almost mute audience. Unfortunately the waiter arrived with food and Will was diverted from his “line,” his appetite for victuals being the one thing powerful enough to make him forget Romance.

“These scallops are great!” he said. “Don’t you like scallops?”

“Yes, indeed! I often order them. I love the way they fix them at the Ritz.”

“Is the Ritz a better place to eat?”

“I don’t know. I guess they’re about the same, only the Ritz is more expensive. Maybe it isn’t either, but you think of it as more expensive. That’s why I didn’t suggest meeting you there.”

“Listen, I’m not a pauper!”

“Of course not, Will. Just the same, I’d feel guilty if you spent more on me than you can afford.”

“A man making fifteen thousand a year⁠—”

Stella laughed. “You’re the same old Will! You talk like a millionaire. Why, the men I know, Ralph’s friends and mine, men who make even a bigger income than Ralph, you don’t see them spending five or six dollars on lunch. They appreciate the value of money, and that’s what you never did, Will. I hate stingy people, but there’s a big difference between stinginess and thrift, and it’s the thrifty ones who get along in this world.”

Will could not boast that he was thrifty, but he did think he had got along and Stella’s theory that he hadn’t would have made him pretty mad if the food had been short of delicious.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Stella at length.

“What question?”

“I asked about your love affairs.”

“I told you I hadn’t had any since you ditched me.”

“Don’t say I ditched’ you, Will. It was just⁠—well, I liked Ralph a lot, and he was serious, and marrying him meant getting away from that deadly place. And you must admit you couldn’t have married anybody in those days. I did care for you, Will. I still do⁠—”

She stopped as if in embarrassment. She hoped he would sustain the sentimental note and his next remark sounded encouraging.

“Not like you used to.”

“How do you know?” she said softly.

“What?”

“I won’t repeat it.”

“I wish you would.”

“No. I mustn’t.”

Will was too intent on his spumoni to insist.

“It will be dark in the theater,” he thought. “I’ll hold her hand and see how she takes it.”

“It will be dark in the theater,” thought Stella, “and maybe he’ll call me ‘dear’ again.”

Her lecture on economy cost the waiter fifty cents, Will giving him half a dollar instead of a whole one as he had planned. He could not help regarding her as a bit inconsistent when she vetoed his suggestion that they walk to the Henry Miller, not four blocks away.

“I’m frightfully lazy,” she said, not mentioning the fact that her shoes hurt.

“All right,” said Will, “but if you’re going to let me buy a taxi, you’ve got to let me take you to dinner at the Ritz.”

“I couldn’t think of it!” said Stella. “For one thing, I’d be sure to see somebody I know. And haven’t you business to attend to, people to look up? I mustn’t take too much of your time.”

“I’ll postpone business till Ralph gets back.”

“I can’t decide just now.”

“You want to be sure you like me.”

“It isn’t that. You know I like you. But there are things to be considered.”

The seats were in the twelfth row.

“These are rotten seats!” said Will.

“You can’t get good ones at the box office.”

“I got these at my hotel.”

“Well, they’re all right. You mustn’t worry on my account. I told you I’d seen it before. We had the fourth row that night, right in the center, just perfect. Herb Small got them through the University Club. He always gets grand seats.”

The curtain rose.

“This is the British front, in the war,” explained Stella. “It’s what they call a dugout, where the officers stay. The whole three acts all take place in the one scene.

“That officer, that lieutenant or whatever he is,” she continued, “he’s a schoolteacher in England. I mean he was, before the war. He gets killed later on. It’s a terribly depressing play. Lillian Fields cried the night we saw it.”

A customer in the eleventh row turned round and gave Stella a nasty look, after which she whispered.

“This young boy, he’s a new officer, he hasn’t been at the front before; at least, not at this front. He’s been transferred or something. And the hero, the captain, is in love with the boy’s sister.

“Not this captain, I don’t mean,” she went on. “The other captain, the leading man, takes this one’s place. He gets mad when he sees his sweetheart’s brother. He doesn’t want anybody that he knows around, because he’s really a coward and of course he’s afraid people will find it out, especially his girl.”

The man in front of them turned round again and said “Ssh!” in none too friendly a manner. Stella thought he must be ssh-ing someone else.

“The only way he can ‘carry on,’ as they call it, is by drinking, so he drinks hard all the time.”

“That man wants us to quit talking,” said Will, and congratulated himself on the diplomatic plural.

“It’s somebody back of us he’s complaining of,” said Stella. “Now when the other captain comes in, you notice him, notice how big he looks. And they say he isn’t really big at all; I mean, off the stage. Some friends of ours, the Coopers, they met him at a party and they say he’s not nearly as big as he looks. He wears some kind of shoes or something that make him look big; I mean, on the stage. You notice when he comes in.”

The theater was dark, but Will seemed to have forgotten the hand-holding test.

“The hero, the captain, the man that’s in love with the young boy’s sister, he went to the same school the young boy went to, and he was the idol of the school. The boy, the girl’s brother, worships him. Of course he doesn’t know he’s a coward and drinks to hide it.

“That other officer there, that young one, he’s a coward, too, and he pretends he’s sick so they’ll send him away from the front. But the hero threatens to kill him unless he quits pretending he’s sick. He points a revolver right at him and says he’ll shoot him dead if he doesn’t ‘buck up.’

“I was frightened to death that he really would shoot him, the night I saw it. I don’t like that part of it at all, and it hasn’t anything to do with the rest of the play, but the play would have been too short without it. It’s awfully short as it is. It doesn’t begin till nearly nine; I mean, at night, and it’s over about half past ten; that’s half past four for a matinée.”

Will wished he had brought a box of molasses taffy.

“Here’s the real captain now, the hero. See how big he looks? And he really isn’t big at all off the stage. He’s mad at the girl’s brother being there. After a while the brother writes a letter to his sister and the captain is afraid he’ll tell her about his drinking and so forth. So he wants to read the letter and the boy doesn’t want him to, but he says he has a right to censor all mail. Finally the schoolteacher reads the letter out loud and it’s so complimentary to the captain that he’s ashamed of having made him read it.

“Isn’t the sergeant funny? I guess he’s a sergeant. It makes you laugh just to look at him. They’re all English, the whole company. I think there are other companies playing it out West or somewhere, and they’re all English, too. And it’s going to be a picture, a talking picture. Do you like talking pictures?”

“No,” said Will. “Or people.”

“After a while the colonel comes in and tells the captain that they want to find out who the Germans are in the trench facing them; that is, the number of the German regiment or something. I don’t see what difference it makes as long as they’re Germans, but Ralph says they always want to know so they can figure out the distribution of the German troops, how they’re distributed. So the captain has to send some men over to the German trenches, across No Man’s Land, and they’re supposed to capture a German prisoner and bring him back and then they’ll know what regiment is facing them.

“The captain hates to send anybody because it’s almost sure death, but he’s got to obey orders. He sends the young boy, the brother, the girl’s brother, and that schoolteacher, and the young boy gets a prisoner and the schoolteacher gets killed.

“The funny thing about it is that you kind of wish it was the boy that got killed in place of the schoolteacher. But the boy gets killed later.

“Of course they know what it means to do it and the boy is terribly nervous, but still he’s glad of a chance to do something important. He and the schoolteacher recite Alice in Wonderland before they go; not all of it; just quotations from it so as not to think of what’s before them. That’s the schoolteacher’s way of keeping his mind off danger, instead of drinking, like the captain.

“You wait till you see how the captain drinks. It must be colored water or tea or something. If it were real whisky he’d fall off the stage. It can’t even be tea or he’d get sick. Do you drink much, Will?”

“I’ve been on the wagon,” said Will, “but I think I’m going to fall off tonight; maybe this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. You used to get so silly when you drank.”

“I still do.”

“But you were kind of funny and amusing, too. And then you usually got very affectionate.”

“I’m different now. I get silly at first; not funny at all. Then I get brutal and want to fight people, whoever is with me, my best friends, even girls.”

“You don’t mean really fight them!”

“Yes, I do. The reason why I got on the wagon is because I was with a girl, a girl I cared quite a lot for; we went on a party and I had about four drinks, and for no reason at all, I socked her in the mouth and knocked her down. It’s whoever I happen to be with when I get that way.”

“Then you ought never to drink anything.”

“That’s good advice, but sometimes I just have to. And it doesn’t seem right not to enjoy myself, my first time in New York.”

“You certainly don’t call it enjoying yourself, to hit women!”

“I do, though. I get quite a kick out of it. I don’t mean I pick on women especially, but this girl just happened to be there.”

For the sake of those readers who have not seen Journey’s End and who hope to, I will not divulge any more of its content, but will merely state that there were at least two men in the audience who wished they could borrow the captain’s gun.

“Will,” said Stella as they went out, “I don’t believe we’d better have dinner together. I’m tired and you look tired yourself.”

“I’m not tired,” said Will. “Even if I was, a few shots of rye will fix me up.”

“But I’m afraid. I’m afraid Ralph might come home.”

“You said he wouldn’t be home till day after tomorrow.”

“He changes his mind sometimes. He never stays away longer than he has to.”

“That’s what he tells you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing at all. But I’m not going to urge you against your better judgment. Do exactly as you like.”

“Well, I really think you’d better send me home. It’s been grand⁠—”

“I’ll take you home.”

“No, that isn’t necessary at all,” she said. “And the maid might see you and wonder.”

“All right, Stell’. We mustn’t let the maid wonder.”

“I’ll get in this taxi. Goodbye, Will. It was wonderful of you to give me such a treat.”

“I’m the one that got the treat.”

“You’re the same old Will!”

The taxi drove off and Will hurried to his hotel, where he immediately called Endicott 9546.

“Betty? Say, I just had another wire from Charlie Prince. He was driving from Buffalo and he burnt out a bearing at Binghamton and can’t get here till tomorrow. You haven’t made another date, have you? That a girl!”