Earth and High Heaven by Gwethalyn Graham

rather nervously, drawing small squares on the back of a photograph of some officers in the Canadian Women’s Army Corps. Then René said, “Hello, Eric — did you say you wanted me to ask Marc?”
    â€œYes,” she answered, adding uncertainly, “if you think he’d like to come.”
    â€œHave you heard from him since that day at your house?”
    Damn René, she thought, and trying to keep the awkwardness out of her voice, she said, “I wouldn’t be asking you to bring him to lunch if I had.”
    â€œWell, I don’t think he’d like to come.”
    â€œRené, please listen a moment. I want to ...”
    Weathersby was gesturing violently toward the phone on his desk in the corner or the room; she broke off long enough to say, “Tell whoever it is to go to hell,” then heard René’s voice again.
    â€œMy dear child, I am listening. I’ll invite him if you like, but after the kick in the pants that he got from your father, I think you’d better leave Marc alone.”
    She said desperately, “But don’t you see, it’s because of that ...”
    â€œIs it, petite?”
    â€œAll right,” said Erica, giving up. “Forget the whole thing. Lunch à deux, Charcot’s, one-thirty. Right?”
    â€œEntendu.”
    â€œWell, little man, what now?” she asked Weathersby. “Did you tell him to go to hell?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. It’s the Managing Editor and he’s still there.”
    â€œWhat does he want?”
    â€œHe wants to know if you’ve made up your mind about his niece. Say, Eric, you’re not going to let her work here just because she’s Pansy’s niece, are you?”
    â€œWhat do you think I joined the Guild for? Don’t look so frightened, darling,” she said to Sylvia. “Anybody who gets your job gets it over my dead body and that goes for Pansy’s relations just like everybody else. Switch him on, Bubbles.”
    She took up her phone and disposed of Mr. Prescott’s niece as tactfully as she could and for the time being at any rate; finished the Merchant Navy story, did half a column on wartime clothing, sorted out the announcements of next week’s meetings and with the Woman’s Section of the final edition ready to go to press, she set out to walk to Charcot’s.
    It was a clear, sunny day with a fresh wind blowing off the river and although she was already a little late, she stopped to buy some corn for the pigeons and to chat with the old gaspésien sitting on a stool in the shade of the cathedral. He had been there with his big sack of corn and his pile of little paper bags weighted down with a stone, ever since Erica had gone to work on the Post. During the past six years she had bought enough corn from him to fill several wagons and had finally come to understand his French, which was pure Gaspé to start with and further complicated by the fact that the old man had no teeth. From year to year she had watched him grow steadily older, dirtier, poorer, and happier. He was always happy, even when it was twenty below zero and nobody would stop long enough to buy corn, and he had to feed the pigeons himself.
    René was waiting for her at Charcot’s, having somehow managed to take possession of one of the eight little tables in the crowded little bar downstairs. He was wearing a brown suit and his intelligent face lacked its usual expression of half-amused skepticism; he looked thoroughly tired.
    â€œI’m starved — I’ve ordered a Manhattan for you, a martini for myself, and lunch for both of us.”
    She took the cigarette he offered as he sat down opposite her and asked, slightly irritated, “Do you mind telling me what you ordered?”
    â€œLobster, a green salad, and coffee. You can choose your dessert later.”
    â€œThank you,” murmured Erica.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œFor allowing