The Fourth Side of the Triangle

It could not have been more beautifully executed if he had prepared two weeks for this moment. He had not seen her approach, he had not recognized her, and his reaction was therefore genuine.

“Thanks, Miss Grey. How stupid of me not to recognize you.”

She handed the packages to a young woman who had materialized from somewhere and just as promptly snuffed herself out; and she smiled.

“There’s no reason why you should. If you were a female, I’d be worried.”

Dane murmured something.

His heart had not jumped; his flesh was not crawling; he was feeling neither rage nor contempt. He was wondering why when Sarah Vernier came up, beaming. “Sheila, this is my godson, Dane McKell. Isn’t he lovely?”

“I’d hardly select that adjective, Mrs. Vernier,” Sheila Grey smiled. “Or don’t you object to it, Mr. McKell?”

“I never object to anything Aunt Sarah says, Miss Grey. Incidentally, how did you know who I am?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You addressed me by name twice a few moments ago.”

“Did I?” Did her make-up conceal the slightest flush? “I suppose I must have known who you were from seeing you in the lobby of your parents’ apartment building. You know I have the penthouse?”

“Of course,” said Dane ruefully. “This is my stupid day.”

She was neither short nor tall. She was slender, on the pale side (or was that her make-up?), with lustrous brown hair and gray, gray eyes. Her features were so regular that they seemed to Dane to have no character; certainly he would never have invented her as a femme fatale for a book. He wondered what had attracted his father, who had access — if he wanted to take advantage of his opportunities — to scores of far more beautiful women. It was not her youth alone; youth could be bought, or rented. There had to be something special about her; and he felt a slight anticipation.

“Is this part of the international couturière’s image?” Dane asked, gazing around. “I mean all this unoccupied space? Or do you have invisible customers, Miss Grey?”

“They’re invisible at this time of the year.” She smiled back. “The summer doldrums are at their height. Or is it depth? However you measure doldrums.”

“I’m not enough of a sea-dog to know.”

“Dane, I thought writers knew everything,” said Sarah Vernier, delighted at the opening thus presented to her. “You know, Sheila, Dane’s in town working on his new book.”

“Then you and I are in the same leaky boat, Mr. McKell.” Her eyebrows (unplucked, he noticed) had gone up.

“You’re writing a book, too? On haute couture, I suppose.”

“Heavens, I can barely write my name.” He rather liked her laugh; it was fresh and brisk and brief, like a frank handshake. “No, I’m staying in town to work on my new collection.” Sarah Vernier went, “Ohhhhhh...!” with a rising inflection. The showing was scheduled for November, the designer went on. “I should really be home at my drawing board right now. In fact...” Dane saw that she was preparing gracefully to withdraw.

“Sheila, you mustn’t!” wailed Mrs. Vernier. After all, she had come all the way from Rhinebeck, no one else could wait on her properly, she wanted summer and fall things, too — “Dane, help me.”

“I’d be the last one to keep another suffering soul from creative agony, Miss Grey, but if you’ll spare Aunt Sarah a little more of your time I’ll drive you home afterward.”

And “There!” exclaimed Mrs. Vernier in a you-can’t-refuse-now tone of voice. And “Oh, no, no, that won’t be necessary—” Sheila, hurriedly. And how do you like the pressure, dear heart...? Dane went on boyishly: He had never met a designer before, he threw himself on her fellow craftsmanship, and so on. “And think of poor Aunt Sarah, doomed to wear the same miserable rags.”

“I’ll have you know, Mr. McKell, those ‘rags’ came from my shop.”

“Oh, but Sheila,” cried Mrs. Vernier, “I got them here in April.”

“The riposte supreme,” Dane murmured. “Surely you can’t expect a woman to wear clothes she bought in April? It’s unconstitutional, Miss Grey.”

“Is that a sample of your dialogue?” Sheila dimpled. “Well, all right. But if the French and Italians sweep ahead of us next season, you’ll know just where the fault lies.”

“I accept the awesome responsibility. I’ll turn myself over for being spat upon and stoned.”

“While I go bankrupt. Now, Mr. McKell, you sit over there on that chesterfield and twiddle your thumbs. This is women’s work.”

It was clear that she was, if not exactly interested, at least amused. Perhaps, too, the element of danger contributed to her decision. Or am I overstating the situation? Dane thought. Maybe she figures this is the easiest way to get rid of me. Give the little boy what he wants and then send him off with Auntie.

“Sheila, what do you think about this one?”