The Mulberry Bush by Helen Topping Miller Page B

so long. “And yet—it can’t be that I don’t believe in Mike!” she told herself desolately.
    Every morning, she looked for Mike’s column, but it was all old stuff, things he had done in Washington and New York. Then, one morning after Teresa had been especially trying, she saw Mike’s byline, and under it “Lima, Peru.”
    She scanned the column swiftly. Mike’s bright, astringent style, his crisp fascination with whatever was unique around him—and with it, statements that indicated conclusively that he was, definitely, urbanely housed and fed, adjacent to postal facilities, well, and able to work and explore. Quick, shamed anger burned her.
    So—her haunted misgivings had had a basis of fact.
    â€œAll right, friend Michael, if you don’t
want
to write!” her teeth clicked together. Her fingers clenched. Her face, if she had taken the trouble to look at it, was drained and stiff, her eyes darkened and dry with aching fury.
    That was the night the telephone rang, and the nurse, answering it, said, “It’s for you, Miss Warfield. It’s a man.”
    Virginia took the receiver, wondering a little. Her father, perhaps, something wrong at home—but it was Bruce Gamble’s voice that came over the wire.
    â€œJust in town for a few hours—I thought you might be persuaded to have dinner with me.”
    â€œBut, how did you find me?” Virginia was trying not to sound stimulated and too bright.
    â€œEasy enough. Two telephone numbers on the Harrison Bureau literature. I tried one—no answer. So I called the other. If you aren’t busy, could I come along—say at eight?”
    â€œOh—of course. I’ll be ready at eight.” She hung up.
    â€œWho is it?” demanded Teresa bluntly. “Not that ink-fish?”
    â€œIt’s a friend.” Virginia was cool. “A friend—of Mike’s,” she prevaricated. “He’s taking me out to dinner.” She would not give Teresa the malicious satisfaction of knowing that things were wrong. She had enough to endure from Teresa now, without adding to it Teresa’s triumphant “I told you so’s.” “Oh, dear,” she worried, “all my good clothes are over in Georgetown.”
    â€œWear my lace blouse,” offered Teresa. “It won’t be much too big—and it won’t show under your coat. It’s supposed to be good—it ought to be, I paid the creature enough for it. And you can have my pearls.”
    â€œThank you—you’re awfully good, Teresa.”
    â€œTime you went out somewhere,” snapped Teresa, “mooning around here with a face like a haunted tomb or something!”
    Across a little table, Virginia said to Bruce Gamble, “This is what I needed. I’ve been so fiendishly tired lately. Mrs. Harrison is still ill, and I’ve had everything to do—such a lot of responsibility—and she isn’t terribly easy to please. Brilliant people never are. They’re so impatient with mediocrity.”
    â€œNot calling yourself a mediocrity?”
    â€œI’m even worse. I’m a timorous mediocrity. And when you’re a bold personality, when you’ve gone up against the world and tamed it and made it feed you and buy pearls for you and respect you, as Teresa has, anxious fumbling can be awfully irritating.”
    â€œLeaving Teresa out of it—and personally she sounds like very cold brass to me—one of those ruthless females with an eye like a saber—stop me if I’m throwing mud on any idols,” he grinned. “But to continue—without Teresa—are you doing anything this weekend? Or on Sunday? I thought—my sister’s a rather nice person, and it only takes an hour or so to drive up there, and you could see Meredith. I’m just one of those fathers—want to show off my cute kid—” There was a thin flush on