The Swing of the Pendulum by Adriana Spadoni

And the next morning, when Jerome came into the office, Jean stood waiting for him.

"Well, when are we going to begin the piers?"

Jerome hung up his hat and sat down at the desk. He knew that Jean had asked him something and was waiting for an answer. While he shuffled his mail, he knew that the welcoming smile in her eyes was quickly hardening to surprise. He did not care. His relation with Jean Herrick was no longer the untangled thing it had been. For eight days he had thought of scarcely anything but this annoying, self-centered woman. He had destroyed a perfectly good garden and acted like a school-boy. And there she stood wanting to know when _he_ was going to begin the piers.

"I thought you had forgotten them," he said at length, still fumbling the mail as if Jean were detaining him from far more important matters.

"I don't see how you could have thought that."

"It didn't take such a stretch of imagination. We had the first scheduled for the day after the wedding -- you may remember."

"Didn't you get my message? " She might have been speaking to a peevish child, so forced was the restraint of her patience.

"No. Did you leave one?"

"I told Minnie to tell you, but I suppose she forgot. Those up-state towns suddenly changed about waiting till fall to organize Consumers' Leagues. It took longer than I thought."

Jerome did not look up. Jean added no personal regret for the inconvenience she might have caused, but moved away toward the door.

"You still wish to do them then?"

"Of course. Don't _you_? " Jean wanted to add that if he were going to continue in this mood she hoped he didn't.

"Certainly, I do. How about to-night?"

"All right for me. I kept it free on purpose."

There it was, the high-handed assurance that her plans would suit others. But he himself had suggested to-night and he would have to comply.

"It won't be any use starting before nine, do you think?"

"No. Not unless we cover two in the same evening."

"I don't believe I feel strenuous enough for that. One will do. I'll call for you then, about half past eight?"

He swung round in his chair and Jean suddenly noticed that he looked tired, not so much physically, but as if something had gone from within. He was desperately lonely and his loneliness had escaped in irritation toward herself, because she happened to be the only outlet at hand. It was what Martha had called "a man's nature cropping out. " It made Jean feel unaccountably tender. And besides she had promised Alice to look out for Jerome.

"I tell you, suppose you come and have supper with me. I've moved, and am keeping house now over in Old Chelsea. Cooking is not my forte and I won't promise anything but delicatessen. Will you be my first guest?"