Jack and Susan in 1913 by Michael McDowell Page B

assessment.

    Having finally said yes to Hosmer’s invitation to visit his studio, and to do so in the company of Mr. Beaumont, Susan was up and about early the next morning. Somehow Tripod seemed to understand that he was about to be left home alone, and he became quite distressed. He fawned and wheedled, and when this didn’t work, he barked threateningly. When this also failed, he climbed on to a chair and gazed forlornly out the window, appearing to suggest that he would throw himself out if Susan did not take him along on her expedition. Susan dragged the chair away from the window, and Tripod skulked into the bedroom.
    But as soon as she opened the hallway door, out the dog ran, barking and happy—as if he assumed that she had been playing a joke on him all the while. When she closed the door behind her, however, Tripod began a ferocious barking, and from the thumps against the door, Susan knew that he was repeatedly flinging himself against the wooden panels.
    She went down the stairs, slowly and clumsily maneuvering with both crutches beneath her left arm.
    Mr. Beaumont was waiting outside his door, ready to go.
    â€œThe dog alerted me,” he explained, not as sourly as she’d expected.
    â€œMr. Beaumont,” said Susan, “I fear I’m going to be such an impediment—”
    â€œNonsense,” he said with a shrug, and a little more than five minutes later they were down three more flights of stairs, standing at the front door.
    She smiled at him tentatively. “Perhaps we simply got off on the wrong footing—”
    He smiled, and blushed more deeply than even Hosmer Collamore did at the extremity of his embarrassment. “Yes, of course—” he began, then tugged at his collar as to allow a little of the blood that suffused his face to spill back down into his body. He really was quite handsome, Susan decided, and in contrast to the thinning of his hair, his beard was quite lush and covered a great expanse of cheek and chin. There was even a certain endearing clumsiness in his movements that she hadn’t noticed before. When he tried to help her out the front door, he succeeded only in getting one of her crutches caught, and then—in releasing it—kicking it down into the street.
    â€œLet’s call a cab,” said Susan, “or else we’ll be all day getting down there. I have the money here,” she added quickly, to spare him the embarrassment of thinking that perhaps he could ill afford such extravagance. She had already figured out the probable tariff: thirty cents for the first half-mile, ten cents for each quarter-mile after that. A trip of approximately three miles, doubtless with some waiting time, came to one dollar and thirty cents plus a ten-cent gratuity to the driver. Which is to say, forty percent of her weekly allowance to herself—an extravagance indeed. Would there be any time, Susan wondered, when she wouldn’t have to labor over such melancholy calculations?
    Jack Beaumont thought for a moment about Susan’s decision to pay for the cab, then nodded. He loped around the corner to Columbus Avenue in search of a vehicle that was free. Susan did not allow herself to be disappointed that Mr. Beaumont did not insist on paying himself. She was certain that he was as financially strapped as she.
    The day was bright for February. It was also warm for February, and all the snow that had lingered for weeks had melted. Everything was quite dirty with soot from the coal fires that burned throughout the city, but it had been so long since Susan had gone on an excursion for pleasure that she was not disposed to find fault with anything that the sky above or the ground beneath had to offer her today.
    A few minutes later a cab swung around the corner and came to a stop in front of the Fenwick. Mr. Beaumont climbed out to help Susan inside. This was no easy task, owing to an inconvenient combination of the height of the cab