The Swing of the Pendulum by Adriana Spadoni

Herrick was happier than he had been for a long time as he sat bareheaded on the upper deck and thought back over the day with Jean and of how she had looked as he kissed her. It excited him and made him tender to remember the look in her eyes, and the faint smile deepened as he wondered what she was thinking now. Her lips had not responded in the least, but she had seemed neither angry nor frightened. She had accepted it as she would have accepted a leaf falling from the acacia above. And yet he was sure that she had not often, if ever, been kissed by a man. In some ways she was strangely primitive and in others she seemed to have lived through and left behind in ages past the ordinary emotional reactions. Herrick's brain was on fire with expectation and curiosity. The memory of the kiss quickened his mind more than his body, and his own reaction thrilled him with a new sensation.

He was happy. So happy that he could not go quietly to bed. Nor could he walk alone in the empty streets. His nerves wanted the relaxation of companionship. The perfect day wanted a touch of contrast to finish its perfection. He needed to frame the memory of Jean's cool lips, possess it alone in another setting.

A few moments later he crossed the studio amid the shrieks and catcalls of The Bunch, straight to the couch where The Kitten was curled alone.

"So you thought you'd come and see whether we were alive. It's awfully good of you! But you know we're hard to kill. Skin's so thick the little stings and arrows don't get through, somehow."

The Kitten drawled between puffs of her cigarette and did not move to make room for Herrick.

He lifted her, deposited her farther back among the cushions and tried to take her hand. She was so furious and making such a ridiculous pretense, just as she used to, that Herrick's feel of youth and well-being increased. It was as if the memory of these old tricks, now powerless to hurt, gave him back three years of time. At thirty-three, Herrick wanted the past.

"But claws do, Kittycat."

"If we'd known you were going to honor us," persisted The Kitten, "we'd have ordered champagne. As it is, we only had the same old ink, and that's gone."

"A cigarette, a jug of ink and thou!"

"You -- you -- -- " Then, fearing she was going to cry, she stopped.

Across the room a tall girl with flat, red hair and small red-rimmed eyes like glowing embers in the white ash of her face, broke off a sentence in the middle.

"Who's that man over there, just come in, with The Kitten?"

Flop glared at this interest on the part of his newest inspiration.

"Franklin Herrick, alias Boy Blue. He used to be the real thing, but he hasn't been round for ages."

The girl still stared. "I'd like to model him," she said slowly. "He walks like a panther, has the forehead of a saint and the mouth of a gutter rat."

"Great! Why don't you tell him? He'd be furious inside and look as if he were going to kiss you."

"Maybe I will -- if I get a chance."

"You won't. The Kitten's been sharpening her claws for months."

On the couch Herrick was holding The Kitten's hands, stroking them softly.

"Who's the other woman?"