The Swing of the Pendulum by Adriana Spadoni

For the first week a feeling of relief in going without writing to Jean had persisted in the background of Gregory's mind. But as the heat increased, and the improvements suggested by Amos Palmer and his wife rasped Gregory's nerves to snapping, he realized that he had been colossally rude. He had acted so badly that he could not write except to apologize, and he could not do that without explaining; which was impossible because there was nothing to explain, at least nothing that would not prove him the fool he had been.

What had been his motive? He did not know, and now that he was speeding back on the Express to New York, he did not care.

From Harlem to the Grand Central, Gregory sat in the smoker, his suitcase at his feet, his hat on, hoping that Jean had no engagement that would prevent her from going to dinner. He wanted to sit opposite Jean and tell her about the Palmers, the endless alterations that every few days, had thrown him into a rage and a resolution to quit. He wanted to tell her about the house, as it was finally working out, a compromise between Amos' ideals and his own efforts to keep the man from being a laughing stock. He wanted to hear Jean's chuckle of appreciation, for now that he had left it all definitely behind, it certainly was funny.

When Jean heard the telephone in the outer office ring, she answered quickly. It was one of those blindingly hot afternoons in late September, after a comparatively cool spell, when summer comes back with vindictive pleasure, like a cantankerous relative from the verge of the grave, to spoil one's just expectations. For two hours Jean had clutched her patience and held on through the exhausting insistence of the Friday Committee to do its duty. With the excuse that she was expecting an important message and would have to answer personally, Jean escaped for a moment.

At the sound of Gregory's voice, Jean's heart beat furiously and then seemed to stop.

"Hello. HELLO. I want to speak to Mrs. Herrick, please."

"This is Mrs. Herrick."

"Hello. This is Gregory Allen."

"Well! " It came with just the right degree of heartiness. "When did you get back?"

"About two minutes ago. Am I in time to take you to dinner? Hello. _Hello._ I say, Central, you've cut me off. I want -- -- "

"Hello. No, they haven't cut off. I'm trying to 'phone, and listen to a meeting in the other room at the same time. " With the ease of this falsehood, Jean's composure crept back.

"Who is it, -- The Dalton?"

"Yes, after a month's rest."

"I'll come straight down and rescue you. Give everybody a ton of ice all around and close the meeting."

"It's milk," Jean whispered into the receiver, "the Caseys have had a quart a day for three weeks! We've been half an hour on it now."

"It sounds like an all-night session, but I'm coming just the same. Six thirty, will that be all right?"

"Six would be better. I promised Rachael to see her to-night before eight."

"All right. Six. How's everything?"

"Beyond our dreams. Did you put on the turret?"

"Worse. A cupola with an electric globe on top, a kind of spherical Star of Bethlehem."