The Glass Slipper Read Free Page A

because she forgot for the moment that she was now Mrs Brule Hatterick, enviable in her security, in her luxury, in her position?
    Her sable wrap was light and warm about her shoulders; she pulled on her long white gloves slowly. The tonneau was warm and deliciously comfortable in contrast to the glimpses of cold, wind-swept streets through which they passed. The Wrigley Building rose white, wraithlike under its floodlights; on the other side was the lighted entrance of Tribune Square below tier after tier of offices, lighted only here and there, which rose into the dark night. There was a bitterly cold wind off the lake, and flurries of snow which looked unutterably desolate swept along empty streets. The bridge was up, and they waited for it.
    Andy, beside her, took off his opera hat, smoothed it thoughtfully and replaced it. His white scarf came up to his chin, his profile was clear in the half-light. From the river below, lost in the darkness, a freight boat tooted hoarsely.
    Andy leaned over and rolled up the glass between the tonneau and the front seat where Kendal, the chauffeur, sat, straight-necked and imperturbable.
    How well Andy knew the car! How instantly his gloved hand had found the correct lever when he closed the window!
    Rue wondered what he wanted to say to her. Evidently he didn’t want the chauffeur to overhear. It was something about Brule of course. Was Andy intending to take her to task for some unconscious failure in her role?
    Even in the car, which Crystal had used almost exclusively, there was a lingering, faint scent of roses. Rue moved restlessly and looked out the window. The scent of roses always reminded her strongly of Crystal; it was almost as if it were intentional on Crystal’s part. Crystal, that tall, thin woman with ash-blonde hair, into whose place Rue had stepped.
    How many times, Rue wondered, had Andy, top-hatted and white-tied and correct, escorted Crystal? Well, if he had anything to say, let him say it.
    The barge, unseen in the shadows below, tooted again. Other cars had halted around them; their motors throbbed, and the medicinal smell of alcohol from radiators drifted upon the cold air.
    Andy said suddenly in the semidarkness: “I think we’d better go to the opera, if only for the first act. Then we can leave and go somewhere we can talk. Unheard.”
    Rue turned with a jerk.
    “Why, really, Andy! As if anything you have to tell me can’t be said openly.”
    Andy interrupted her.
    “You are quite wrong. You don’t seem to understand… The bridge is going down again. We’ll not be late.”
    Rue gave a small, rather nervous laugh.
    “What is wrong, Andy? You sound quite forbidding. Is it — have I been neglecting Brule?”
    “No,” said Andy. “You’ve not been neglecting Brule. It’s just that I think it’s best for you to be seen at the opera as if nothing had happened.”
    “As if —” Again Rue turned abruptly toward him. “What on earth do you mean? What has happened? Brule —”
    “Oh, Brule’s all right. Nothing has happened. It was just a chance expression. Don’t pay any attention to what I say.”
    Incoherence was not one of Andy Crittenden’s traits. He had as a rule wit and decision. But he was also obstinate; as obstinate as Brule but not in Brule’s unpleasant manner.
    It meant now that whatever he had to say he found difficult and that he would take his own good time about saying it. Well, then she could be as obstinate.
    Besides, he could have nothing very serious to say; she hastily canvassed the possibilities; he might have a message from Brule to her, and that held unpredictable potentiality. Otherwise there was nothing.
    The bridge went down, and the stream of motors moved smoothly forward across the bridge, with the huge, lighted bulk of the merchandise mart glowing above the river at their right. Into the stream of traffic along Michigan with the lighted store windows looking bright and cold. There were few pedestrians, and those