Page 189 - 401_

188

fine imperviousness to mere gentility showed its other face. The other
face was gross, humorous, reckless of everything but pleasure. It
startled her mind temporarily away from him, even led her into a
short covert experiment with an old beau, but it was no use – after
four months of Anson's enveloping vitality there was an anaemic
pallor in all other men.
In July he was ordered abroad, and their tenderness and desire
reached a crescendo. Paula considered a last-minute marriage –
decided against it only because there were always cocktails on his
breath now, but the parting itself made her physically ill with grief.
After his departure she wrote him long letters of regret for the days of
love they had missed by waiting. In August Anson's plane slipped
down into the North Sea. He was pulled onto a destroyer after a night
in the water and sent to hospital with pneumonia; the armistice was
signed before he was finally sent home.
Then, with every opportunity given back to them, with no
material obstacle to overcome, the secret weavings of their
temperaments came between them, drying up their kisses and their
tears, making their voices less loud to one another, muffling the
intimate chatter of their hearts until the old communication was only
possible by letters, from far away. One afternoon a society reporter
waited for two hours in the Hunters' house for a confirmation of their
engagement. Anson denied it; nevertheless an early issue carried the
report as a leading paragraph – they were "constantly seen together at
Southhampton, Hot Springs, and Tuxedo Park." But the serious
dialogue had turned a corner into a long-sustained quarrel, and the
affair was almost played out. Anson got drunk flagrantly and missed
an engagement with her, whereupon Paula made certain behavioristic
demands. His despair was helpless before his pride and his
knowledge of himself: the engagement was definitely broken.
"Dearest," said their letters now, "Dearest, Dearest, when I
wake up in the middle of the night and realize that after all it was not
to be, I feel that I want to die. I can't go on living any more. Perhaps
when we meet this summer we may talk things over and decide
differently – we were so excited and sad that day, and I don't feel that
I can live all my life without you. You speak of other people. Don't
you know there are no other people for me, but only you...."
But as Paula drifted here and there around the East she would
sometimes mention her gaieties to make him wonder. Anson was too