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StandardEbooksCollections/f-scott-fitzgerald/se-ebooks-f-scott-fitzgerald-xhtml/f-scott-fitzgerald_short-fiction.xhtml

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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" lang="en-US" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-US">
<head>
<title>Short Fiction</title>
<meta content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1" name="viewport"/>
<link rel="canonical" href="https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/f-scott-fitzgerald/short-fiction/text/single-page" />
<style><![CDATA[
@namespace epub "http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops";
/* core.css */
body{
font-variant-numeric: oldstyle-nums;
hyphens: auto;
text-wrap: pretty;
}
p{
margin: 0;
text-indent: 1em;
}
hr{
border: none;
border-top: 1px solid;
height: 0;
margin: 1.5em auto;
width: 25%;
}
q::before,
q::after{
content: "";
}
blockquote{
margin: 1em 2.5em;
}
h1,
h2,
h3,
h4,
h5,
h6,
hgroup{
break-after: avoid;
break-inside: avoid;
font-variant: small-caps;
hyphens: none;
margin: 3em 0;
text-align: center;
}
/* simulate h3 in an hgroup */
hgroup h2 + p{
font-size: 1.17em;
}
/* simulate h4 in an hgroup */
hgroup h2 + p + p,
hgroup h3 + p{
font-size: 1em;
}
/* simulate h5 in an hgroup */
hgroup h2 + p + p + p,
hgroup h3 + p + p,
hgroup h4 + p{
font-size: .83em;
}
/* simulate h6 in an hgroup */
hgroup h2 + p + p + p + p,
hgroup h3 + p + p + p,
hgroup h4 + p + p,
hgroup h5 + p{
font-size: .67em;
}
hgroup > *{
font-weight: normal;
margin: 0;
}
hgroup > *:first-child{
font-weight: bold;
}
hgroup > p{
text-indent: 0;
}
p.continued,
h2 + p,
h3 + p,
h4 + p,
h5 + p,
h6 + p,
header + p,
hr + p,
hgroup + p,
p:first-child{
hanging-punctuation: first last;
text-indent: 0;
}
cite{
font-style: normal;
}
abbr{
border: none;
white-space: nowrap;
}
blockquote cite{
display: block;
font-style: italic;
text-align: right;
}
blockquote cite i{
font-style: normal;
}
b,
strong{
font-variant: small-caps;
font-weight: normal;
}
i > i,
em > i,
i > em{
font-style: normal;
}
ol,
ul{
margin-bottom: 1em;
margin-top: 1em;
}
header{
break-after: avoid;
break-inside: avoid;
hyphens: none;
text-align: center;
}
header > * + p{
text-indent: 0;
}
article > header + *,
section > header + *{
margin-top: 3em;
}
a[epub|type~="noteref"]{
font-size: smaller;
font-style: normal !important;
vertical-align: super;
}
section[epub|type~="endnotes"] > ol > li{
margin: 1em 0;
}
/* Invert images in dark mode. RMSDK requires a target media as well as a state. */
@media all and (prefers-color-scheme: dark){
img[epub|type~="se:image.color-depth.black-on-transparent"]{
filter: invert(100%);
}
img[epub|type~="se:image.color-depth.black-on-transparent"][epub|type~="se:image.style.realistic"]{
background: currentColor;
filter: none;
}
}
/* se.css */
/* This may appear in the colophon */
abbr[epub|type~="se:era"]{
font-variant: all-small-caps;
}
section[epub|type~="titlepage"] h1,
section[epub|type~="titlepage"] p,
section[epub|type~="colophon"] h2,
section[epub|type~="imprint"] h2{
left: -999em;
position: absolute;
}
section[epub|type~="titlepage"] img{
display: block;
margin: 3em auto auto auto;
width: 100%;
}
section[epub|type~="colophon"],
section[epub|type~="imprint"]{
text-align: center;
}
section[epub|type~="colophon"] header,
section[epub|type~="imprint"] header{
line-height: 0;
margin-top: 3em;
}
img[epub|type~="z3998:publisher-logo"]{
max-width: 25%;
width: 220px;
}
section[epub|type~="colophon"] p,
section[epub|type~="imprint"] p{
margin: 1em auto 0 auto;
text-indent: 0;
}
section[epub|type~="imprint"] p{
font-size: smaller;
text-align: justify;
width: 75%;
}
section[epub|type~="colophon"] p + p::before{
border-top: 1px solid;
content: "";
display: block;
margin: auto auto 1em auto;
width: 25%;
}
section[epub|type~="colophon"] p:nth-last-child(2) time{
font-variant: small-caps;
}
section[epub|type~="colophon"] a{
font-variant: small-caps;
}
section[epub|type~="imprint"] a,
section[epub|type~="colophon"] a{
hyphens: none;
}
section[epub|type~="copyright-page"] p{
margin: 1em auto;
text-indent: 0;
}
section[epub|type~="copyright-page"] blockquote p{
font-style: italic;
text-align: initial;
text-indent: 0;
}
section[epub|type~="copyright-page"] blockquote p span{
display: block;
padding-left: 1em;
text-indent: -1em;
}
section[epub|type~="copyright-page"] blockquote br{
display: none;
}
/* local.css */
.telegram{
font-variant: all-small-caps;
}
/* Table in "The Captured Shadow */
#the-captured-shadow-1 p.continued + table{
margin: 1em auto;
}
#the-captured-shadow-1 p.continued + table thead th{
font-size: larger;
font-weight: normal;
text-align: center;
}
#the-captured-shadow-1 p.continued + table tr td{
font-style: italic;
padding: .25em;
}
/* Two instances of <table> in "Dalyrimples Goes Wrong" */
#dalyrimple-goes-wrong table{
margin: 1em auto 1em auto;
}
#dalyrimple-goes-wrong table td + td{
padding-left: 1.5em;
}
/* Play CSS for "Mr. Icky" and "The Captured Shadow */
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] table{
border-collapse: collapse;
margin: 1em auto;
width: 100%;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:scene"] > p{
margin: 1em auto;
width: 75%;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] tr:first-child td{
padding-top: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] tr:last-child td{
padding-bottom: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td{
padding: .5em;
vertical-align: top;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td:last-child{
padding-right: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td:first-child{
padding-left: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td[epub|type~="z3998:persona"]{
hyphens: none;
text-align: right;
width: 20%;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:stage-direction"]{
font-style: italic;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:stage-direction"] [epub|type~="z3998:persona"],
i [epub|type~="z3998:persona"]{
font-style: normal;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:stage-direction"]::before{
content: "(";
font-style: normal;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:stage-direction"]::after{
content: ")";
font-style: normal;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:persona"]{
font-variant: all-small-caps;
}
/* Poem, song and verse CSS */
[epub|type~="z3998:verse"] p,
[epub|type~="z3998:song"] p{
text-align: initial;
text-indent: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:verse"] p > span,
[epub|type~="z3998:song"] p > span{
display: block;
padding-left: 1em;
text-indent: -1em;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:verse"] p > span + br,
[epub|type~="z3998:song"] p > span + br{
display: none;
}
p span.i1{
padding-left: 2em;
text-indent: -1em;
}
p span.i2{
padding-left: 3em;
text-indent: -1em;
}
blockquote.play-titlecard p,
div.play-titlecard p{
margin-bottom: .5em;
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0;
}
/* Letter CSS */
footer{
margin-top: 1em;
text-align: right;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:sender"]{
font-variant: small-caps;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:postscript"]{
margin-top: 1em;
text-align: initial;
text-indent: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:letter"] header{
text-align: right;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:letter"] header + p{
text-indent: 0;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:signature"]{
font-variant: small-caps;
}
/* Last line of "Porcelain and Pink" */
#porcelain-and-pink > p:last-of-type{
font-variant: small-caps;
text-align: center;
text-indent: 0;
}
/* Title of poem at the end of "Tarquin of Cheapside */
#tarquin-of-cheapside blockquote header p{
text-align: center;
}
/* Bridgehead in "Jemina" */
[epub|type~="bridgehead"]{
display: inline-block;
font-style: italic;
max-width: 60%;
text-align: justify;
text-indent: 0;
}
[epub|type~="bridgehead"] em{
font-style: normal;
}
/* Styling for inner thoughts */
q{
font-style: italic;
}
/* Two blockquotes in "The Bowl" */
#dice-brassknuckles-guitar blockquote,
#the-bowl-2 blockquote{
text-align: center;
}
#dice-brassknuckles-guitar blockquote p,
#the-bowl-2 blockquote p{
text-indent: 0;
}
#head-and-shoulders .play-titlecard{
font-variant: small-caps;
}
@media(max-width: 400px){
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td,
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td[epub|type~="z3998:persona"],
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td:last-child{
display: block;
padding: 0;
text-align: initial;
width: 100%;
}
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td[epub|type~="z3998:persona"]{
break-after: avoid;
margin-top: 1.5em;
}
/* Rows that are only stage direction get a top margin. */
[epub|type~="z3998:drama"] td:first-child:not([epub|type]) + td{
margin-top: 1.5em;
}
}
/* web.css */
body{
display: flex;
flex-direction: column;
font-family: "Georgia", serif;
font-size: 18px;
margin: 0;
line-height: 1.5;
}
main{
flex-grow: 1;
margin: 5rem auto 3rem;
max-width: 55ch;
padding: 0 3rem;
width: calc(100% - 2 * 3rem); /* calc instead of box-sizing: border-box which would make max-width count padding */
}
body > header{
all: unset; /* Remove any properties set by selectors in the ebook itself */
background: #fff;
border-bottom: 1px solid #999;
box-shadow: 0 0 3px #ccc;
left: 0;
position: absolute;
right: 0;
top: 0;
z-index: 1000; /* Required so that SVGs don't scroll over the header */
}
body > header ul{
align-items: center;
display: flex;
list-style: none;
margin: 0;
padding: 1em;
gap: 1.5em;
}
body > header li:first-child{
margin-right: auto;
}
body > header li:first-child > a{
background: no-repeat center / 100% url("/images/logo-full.svg");
display: block;
font-size: 0;
height: 42px;
transition: transform 200ms ease;
width: 180px;
}
body > header li:first-child > a:hover{
transform: scale(1.025) rotate(1deg);
}
body > footer ul{
display: flex;
justify-content: space-between;
list-style: none;
margin: 0;
padding: 0.5em 1em;
}
body > footer li{
max-width: 40%;
}
body > main > section[epub|type~="titlepage"],
body > main > section[epub|type~="halftitlepage"]{
}
nav + section,
section + nav,
section + section,
section + article,
article + section,
article + article{
box-sizing: border-box;
margin-top: 12em !important;
padding: 0;
}
nav[epub|type~="toc"] ol{
list-style: none;
}
@media(max-width: 65ch){
main{
padding: 0 2rem;
width: calc(100% - 2 * 2rem);
}
section[epub|type~="imprint"] p{
width: 100%;
}
}
@media(max-width: 450px){
body > header > nav > ul{
flex-wrap: wrap;
}
body > header > nav > ul > li > a{
font-size: .8rem;
}
body > header li:first-child > a{
background: no-repeat center / 100% url("/images/logo-small.svg");
width: 31px;
height: 20px;
}
}
@media(prefers-color-scheme: dark){
body,
body > header{
background: #222222;
color: #ffffff;
}
/* These three link colors provide WCAG AAA compliance at 16px */
a:link{
color: #6bb9f0;
}
a:active{
color: #e6cc22;
}
a:visited{
color: #dda0dd;
}
body > header li:first-child > a,
img[epub|type~="se:image.color-depth.black-on-transparent"]{
filter: invert(1);
}
}
/* As of July 2022 Chrome on Android doesn't yet understand `or (pointer: none)`
and will just drop this entire query together if it's included. */
@media(pointer: coarse){
body > header{
position: fixed;
}
body > header li:first-child > a{
height: 21px;
width: 90px;
}
nav[epub|type~="toc"] ol li{
margin-bottom: 2em;
margin-top: 2em;
}
*:target{
scroll-margin-top: 4em;
}
}
@media((max-width: 450px) and (pointer: coarse)){
body > header li:first-child > a{
width: 31px;
height: 20px;
}
}
]]></style>
</head>
<body><main>
<section id="titlepage" epub:type="titlepage frontmatter">
<h1 epub:type="title">Short Fiction</h1>
<p>By <b epub:type="z3998:author z3998:personal-name"><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">F.</abbr> Scott Fitzgerald</b>.</p>
<img alt="" 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epub:type="se:image.color-depth.black-on-transparent"/>
</section>
<nav id="toc" epub:type="toc">
<h2 epub:type="title">Table of Contents</h2>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#titlepage">Titlepage</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#imprint">Imprint</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#tarquin-of-cheapside">Tarquin of Cheapside</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#tarquin-of-cheapside-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#tarquin-of-cheapside-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#tarquin-of-cheapside-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#porcelain-and-pink">Porcelain and Pink</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#head-and-shoulders">Head and Shoulders</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#head-and-shoulders-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#head-and-shoulders-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#head-and-shoulders-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#head-and-shoulders-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#head-and-shoulders-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction">Benediction</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#benediction-7" epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong">Dalyrimple Goes Wrong</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-7" epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dalyrimple-goes-wrong-8" epub:type="z3998:roman">VIII</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#mr-icky"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-camels-back">The Camel’s Back</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-camels-back-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-camels-back-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-camels-back-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-camels-back-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-camels-back-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair">Bernice Bobs Her Hair</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#bernice-bobs-her-hair-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace">The Ice Palace</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-ice-palace-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate">The Offshore Pirate</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-offshore-pirate-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-cut-glass-bowl">The Cut-Glass Bowl</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-cut-glass-bowl-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-cut-glass-bowl-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-cut-glass-bowl-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-cut-glass-bowl-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-four-fists">The Four Fists</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-four-fists-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-four-fists-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-four-fists-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-four-fists-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day">May Day</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-7" epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-8" epub:type="z3998:roman">VIII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-9" epub:type="z3998:roman">IX</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-10" epub:type="z3998:roman">X</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#may-day-11" epub:type="z3998:roman">XI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-jelly-bean">The Jelly-Bean</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-jelly-bean-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-jelly-bean-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-jelly-bean-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-jelly-bean-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness">The Lees of Happiness</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-lees-of-happiness-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jemina-the-mountain-girl">Jemina, the Mountain Girl</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#jemina-the-mountain-girl-1">A Wild Thing</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jemina-the-mountain-girl-2">A Mountain Feud</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jemina-the-mountain-girl-3">The Birth of Love</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jemina-the-mountain-girl-4">A Mountain Battle</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jemina-the-mountain-girl-5">“As One.”</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#o-russet-witch">“O Russet Witch!”</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#o-russet-witch-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#o-russet-witch-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#o-russet-witch-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#o-russet-witch-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button">The Curious Case of Benjamin Button</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-7" epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-8" epub:type="z3998:roman">VIII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-9" epub:type="z3998:roman">IX</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-10" epub:type="z3998:roman">X</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-11" epub:type="z3998:roman">XI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz">The Diamond as Big as the Ritz</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-7" epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-8" epub:type="z3998:roman">VIII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-9" epub:type="z3998:roman">IX</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-10" epub:type="z3998:roman">X</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-11" epub:type="z3998:roman">XI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams">Winter Dreams</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#winter-dreams-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#hot-and-cold-blood">Hot and Cold Blood</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#hot-and-cold-blood-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#hot-and-cold-blood-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#hot-and-cold-blood-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#hot-and-cold-blood-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#gretchens-forty-winks">Gretchen’s Forty Winks</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#gretchens-forty-winks-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#gretchens-forty-winks-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#gretchens-forty-winks-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#gretchens-forty-winks-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#absolution">Absolution</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#absolution-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#absolution-2"><span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span>: “On Saturday, Three Days Ago.”</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#absolution-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#absolution-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#absolution-5"><span epub:type="z3998:roman">V</span>: “<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Sagitta Volante in Dei</i>”</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-sensible-thing">“The Sensible Thing”</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-sensible-thing-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-sensible-thing-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-sensible-thing-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-sensible-thing-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-baby-party">The Baby Party</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#dice-brassknuckles-guitar">Dice, Brassknuckles &amp; Guitar</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#love-in-the-night">Love in the Night</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#love-in-the-night-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#love-in-the-night-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#love-in-the-night-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#love-in-the-night-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#love-in-the-night-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-adjuster">The Adjuster</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-adjuster-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-adjuster-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-adjuster-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-adjuster-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-adjuster-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy">The Rich Boy</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-7" epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-rich-boy-8" epub:type="z3998:roman">VIII</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les">Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr‑nce of W‑les</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder">Jacob’s Ladder</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#jacobs-ladder-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#a-short-trip-home">A Short Trip Home</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#a-short-trip-home-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#a-short-trip-home-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#a-short-trip-home-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl">The Bowl</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-bowl-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#magnetism">Magnetism</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#magnetism-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#magnetism-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#magnetism-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#magnetism-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives">The Scandal Detectives</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-scandal-detectives-6" epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#a-night-at-the-fair">A Night at the Fair</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-freshest-boy">The Freshest Boy</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-freshest-boy-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-freshest-boy-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-freshest-boy-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-freshest-boy-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-freshest-boy-5" epub:type="z3998:roman">V</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#he-thinks-hes-wonderful">He Thinks He’s Wonderful</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#he-thinks-hes-wonderful-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#he-thinks-hes-wonderful-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#he-thinks-hes-wonderful-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#he-thinks-hes-wonderful-4" epub:type="z3998:roman">IV</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-captured-shadow">The Captured Shadow</a>
<ol>
<li>
<a href="#the-captured-shadow-1" epub:type="z3998:roman">I</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-captured-shadow-2" epub:type="z3998:roman">II</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#the-captured-shadow-3" epub:type="z3998:roman">III</a>
</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#colophon">Colophon</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#uncopyright">Uncopyright</a>
</li>
</ol>
</nav>
<section id="imprint" epub:type="imprint frontmatter">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">Imprint</h2>
<img alt="The Standard Ebooks logo." 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epub:type="z3998:publisher-logo se:image.color-depth.black-on-transparent"/>
</header>
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</section>
<article id="tarquin-of-cheapside" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Tarquin of Cheapside</h2>
<section id="tarquin-of-cheapside-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Running footsteps⁠—light, soft-soled shoes made of curious leathery cloth brought from Ceylon setting the pace; thick flowing boots, two pairs, dark blue and gilt, reflecting the moonlight in blunt gleams and splotches, following a stone’s throw behind.</p>
<p>Soft Shoes flashes through a patch of moonlight, then darts into a blind labyrinth of alleys and becomes only an intermittent scuffle ahead somewhere in the enfolding darkness. In go Flowing Boots, with short swords lurching and long plumes awry, finding a breath to curse God and the black lanes of London.</p>
<p>Soft Shoes leaps a shadowy gate and crackles through a hedgerow. Flowing Boots leap the gate and crackles through the hedgerow⁠—and there, startlingly, is the watch ahead⁠—two murderous pikemen of ferocious cast of mouth acquired in Holland and the Spanish marches.</p>
<p>But there is no cry for help. The pursued does not fall panting at the feet of the watch, clutching a purse; neither do the pursuers raise a hue and cry. Soft Shoes goes by in a rush of swift air. The watch curse and hesitate, glance after the fugitive, and then spread their pikes grimly across the road and wait for Flowing Boots. Darkness, like a great hand, cuts off the even flow the moon.</p>
<p>The hand moves off the moon whose pale caress finds again the eaves and lintels, and the watch, wounded and tumbled in the dust. Up the street one of Flowing Boots leaves a black trail of spots until he binds himself, clumsily as he runs, with fine lace caught from his throat.</p>
<p>It was no affair for the watch: Satan was at large tonight and Satan seemed to be he who appeared dimly in front, heel over gate, knee over fence. Moreover, the adversary was obviously travelling near home or at least in that section of London consecrated to his coarser whims, for the street narrowed like a road in a picture and the houses bent over further and further, cooping in natural ambushes suitable for murder and its histrionic sister, sudden death.</p>
<p>Down long and sinuous lanes twisted the hunted and the harriers, always in and out of the moon in a perpetual queen’s move over a checkerboard of glints and patches. Ahead, the quarry, minus his leather jerkin now and half blinded by drips of sweat, had taken to scanning his ground desperately on both sides. As a result he suddenly slowed short, and retracing his steps a bit scooted up an alley so dark that it seemed that here sun and moon had been in eclipse since the last glacier slipped roaring over the earth. Two hundred yards down he stopped and crammed himself into a niche in the wall where he huddled and panted silently, a grotesque god without bulk or outline in the gloom.</p>
<p>Flowing Boots, two pairs, drew near, came up, went by, halted twenty yards beyond him, and spoke in deep-lunged, scanty whispers:</p>
<p>“I was attune to that scuffle; it stopped.”</p>
<p>“Within twenty paces.”</p>
<p>“He’s hid.”</p>
<p>“Stay together now and we’ll cut him up.”</p>
<p>The voice faded into a low crunch of a boot, nor did Soft Shoes wait to hear more⁠—he sprang in three leaps across the alley, where he bounded up, flapped for a moment on the top of the wall like a huge bird, and disappeared, gulped down by the hungry night at a mouthful.</p>
</section>
<section id="tarquin-of-cheapside-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>“He read at wine, he read in bed,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">He read aloud, had he the breath,</span>
<br/>
<span>His every thought was with the dead,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">And so he read himself to death.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Any visitor to the old James the First graveyard near Peat’s Hill may spell out this bit of doggerel, undoubtedly one of the worst recorded of an Elizabethan, on the tomb of Wessel Caster.</p>
<p>This death of his, says the antiquary, occurred when he was thirty-seven, but as this story is concerned with the night of a certain chase through darkness, we find him still alive, still reading. His eyes were somewhat dim, his stomach somewhat obvious⁠—he was a mis-built man and indolent⁠—oh, Heavens! But an era is an era, and in the reign of Elizabeth, by the grace of Luther, Queen of England, no man could help but catch the spirit of enthusiasm. Every loft in Cheapside published its <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Magnum Folium</i> (or magazine)⁠—of its new blank verse; the Cheapside Players would produce anything on sight as long as it “got away from those reactionary miracle plays,” and the English Bible had run through seven “very large” printings in as many months.</p>
<p>So Wessel Caxter (who in his youth had gone to sea) was now a reader of all on which he could lay his hands⁠—he read manuscripts in holy friendship; he dined rotten poets; he loitered about the shops where the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Magna Folia</i> were printed, and he listened tolerantly while the young playwrights wrangled and bickered among themselves, and behind each other’s backs made bitter and malicious charges of plagiarism or anything else they could think of.</p>
<p>Tonight he had a book, a piece of work which, though inordinately versed, contained, he thought, some rather excellent political satire. <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Faerie Queene</i> by Edmund Spenser lay before him under the tremulous candlelight. He had ploughed through a canto; he was beginning another:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<header role="presentation">
<p>The Legend of Britomartis or of Chastity</p>
</header>
<p>
<span>It falls me here to write of Chastity.</span>
<br/>
<span>The fayrest vertue, far above the rest.⁠ ⁠…</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>A sudden rush of feet on the stairs, a rusty swing-open of the thin door, and a man thrust himself into the room, a man without a jerkin, panting, sobbing, on the verge of collapse.</p>
<p>“Wessel,” words choked him, “stick me away somewhere, love of Our Lady!”</p>
<p>Caxter rose, carefully closing his book, and bolted the door in some concern.</p>
<p>“I’m pursued,” cried out Soft Shoes. “I vow there’s two short-witted blades trying to make me into mincemeat and near succeeding. They saw me hop the back wall!”</p>
<p>“It would need,” said Wessel, looking at him curiously, “several battalions armed with blunderbusses, and two or three Armadas, to keep you reasonably secure from the revenges of the world.”</p>
<p>Soft Shoes smiled with satisfaction. His sobbing gasps were giving way to quick, precise breathing; his hunted air had faded to a faintly perturbed irony.</p>
<p>“I feel little surprise,” continued Wessel.</p>
<p>“They were two such dreary apes.”</p>
<p>“Making a total of three.”</p>
<p>“Only two unless you stick me away. Man, man, come alive, they’ll be on the stairs in a spark’s age.”</p>
<p>Wessel took a dismantled pikestaff from the corner, and raising it to the high ceiling, dislodged a rough trapdoor opening into a garret above.</p>
<p>“There’s no ladder.”</p>
<p>He moved a bench under the trap, upon which Soft Shoes mounted, crouched, hesitated, crouched again, and then leaped amazingly upward. He caught at the edge of the aperture and swung back and forth, for a moment, shifting his hold; finally doubled up and disappeared into the darkness above. There was a scurry, a migration of rats, as the trapdoor was replaced;⁠ ⁠… silence.</p>
<p>Wessel returned to his reading-table, opened to the Legend of Britomartis or of Chastity⁠—and waited. Almost a minute later there was a scramble on the stairs and an intolerable hammering at the door. Wessel sighed and, picking up his candle, rose.</p>
<p>“Who’s there?”</p>
<p>“Open the door!”</p>
<p>“Who’s there?”</p>
<p>An aching blow frightened the frail wood, splintered it around the edge. Wessel opened it a scarce three inches, and held the candle high. His was to play the timorous, the super-respectable citizen, disgracefully disturbed.</p>
<p>“One small hour of the night for rest. Is that too much to ask from every brawler and⁠—”</p>
<p>“Quiet, gossip! Have you seen a perspiring fellow?”</p>
<p>The shadows of two gallants fell in immense wavering outlines over the narrow stairs; by the light Wessel scrutinized them closely. Gentlemen, they were, hastily but richly dressed⁠—one of them wounded severely in the hand, both radiating a sort of furious horror. Waving aside Wessel’s ready miscomprehension, they pushed by him into the room and with their swords went through the business of poking carefully into all suspected dark spots in the room, further extending their search to Wessel’s bedchamber.</p>
<p>“Is he hid here?” demanded the wounded man fiercely.</p>
<p>“Is who here?”</p>
<p>“Any man but you.”</p>
<p>“Only two others that I know of.”</p>
<p>For a second Wessel feared that he had been too damned funny, for the gallants made as though to prick him through.</p>
<p>“I heard a man on the stairs,” he said hastily, “full five minutes ago, it was. He most certainly failed to come up.”</p>
<p>He went on to explain his absorption in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Faerie Queene</i> but, for the moment at least, his visitors, like the great saints, were anesthetic to culture.</p>
<p>“What’s been done?” inquired Wessel.</p>
<p>“Violence!” said the man with the wounded hand. Wessel noticed that his eyes were quite wild. “My own sister. Oh, Christ in heaven, give us this man!”</p>
<p>Wessel winced.</p>
<p>“Who is the man?”</p>
<p>“God’s word! We know not even that. What’s that trap up there?” he added suddenly.</p>
<p>“It’s nailed down. It’s not been used for years.” He thought of the pole in the corner and quailed in his belly, but the utter despair of the two men dulled their astuteness.</p>
<p>“It would take a ladder for anyone not a tumbler,” said the wounded man listlessly.</p>
<p>His companion broke into hysterical laughter.</p>
<p>“A tumbler. Oh, a tumbler. Oh⁠—”</p>
<p>Wessel stared at them in wonder.</p>
<p>“That appeals to my most tragic humor,” cried the man, “that no one⁠—oh, no one⁠—could get up there but a tumbler.”</p>
<p>The gallant with the wounded hand snapped his good fingers impatiently.</p>
<p>“We must go next door⁠—and then on⁠—”</p>
<p>Helplessly they went as two walking under a dark and storm-swept sky.</p>
<p>Wessel closed and bolted the door and stood a moment by it, frowning in pity.</p>
<p>A low-breathed “Ha!” made him look up. Soft Shoes had already raised the trap and was looking down into the room, his rather elfish face squeezed into a grimace, half of distaste, half of sardonic amusement.</p>
<p>“They take off their heads with their helmets,” he remarked in a whisper, “but as for you and me, Wessel, we are two cunning men.”</p>
<p>“Now you be cursed,” cried Wessel vehemently. “I knew you for a dog, but when I hear even the half of a tale like this, I know you for such a dirty cur that I am minded to club your skull.”</p>
<p>Soft Shoes stared at him, blinking.</p>
<p>“At all events,” he replied finally, “I find dignity impossible in this position.”</p>
<p>With this he let his body through the trap, hung for an instant, and dropped the seven feet to the floor.</p>
<p>“There was a rat considered my ear with the air of a gourmet,” he continued, dusting his hands on his breeches. “I told him in the rat’s peculiar idiom that I was deadly poison, so he took himself off.”</p>
<p>“Let’s hear of this night’s lechery!” insisted Wessel angrily.</p>
<p>Soft Shoes touched his thumb to his nose and wiggled the fingers derisively at Wessel.</p>
<p>“Street gamin!” muttered Wessel.</p>
<p>“Have you any paper?” demanded Soft Shoes irrelevantly, and then rudely added, “or can you write?”</p>
<p>“Why should I give you paper?”</p>
<p>“You wanted to hear of the night’s entertainment. So you shall, an you give me pen, ink, a sheaf of paper, and a room to myself.”</p>
<p>Wessel hesitated.</p>
<p>“Get out!” he said finally.</p>
<p>“As you will. Yet you have missed a most intriguing story.”</p>
<p>Wessel wavered⁠—he was soft as taffy, that man⁠—gave in. Soft Shoes went into the adjoining room with the begrudged writing materials and precisely closed the door. Wessel grunted and returned to <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Faerie Queene</i>; so silence came once more upon the house.</p>
</section>
<section id="tarquin-of-cheapside-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Three o’clock went into four. The room paled, the dark outside was shot through with damp and chill, and Wessel, cupping his brain in his hands, bent low over his table, tracing through the pattern of knights and fairies and the harrowing distresses of many girls. There were dragons chortling along the narrow street outside; when the sleepy armorer’s boy began his work at half-past five the heavy clink and clank of plate and linked mail swelled to the echo of a marching cavalcade.</p>
<p>A fog shut down at the first flare of dawn, and the room was grayish yellow at six when Wessel tiptoed to his cupboard bedchamber and pulled open the door. His guest turned on him a face pale as parchment in which two distraught eyes burned like great red letters. He had drawn a chair close to Wessel’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">prie-dieu</i> which he was using as a desk; and on it was an amazing stack of closely written pages. With a long sigh Wessel withdrew and returned to his siren, calling himself fool for not claiming his bed here at dawn.</p>
<p>The clump of boots outside, the croaking of old beldames from attic to attic, the dull murmur of morning, unnerved him, and, dozing, he slumped in his chair, his brain, overladen with sound and color, working intolerably over the imagery that stacked it. In this restless dream of his he was one of a thousand groaning bodies crushed near the sun, a helpless bridge for the strong-eyed Apollo. The dream tore at him, scraped along his mind like a ragged knife. When a hot hand touched his shoulder, he awoke with what was nearly a scream to find the fog thick in the room and his guest, a gray ghost of misty stuff, beside him with a pile of paper in his hand.</p>
<p>“It should be a most intriguing tale, I believe, though it requires some going over. May I ask you to lock it away, and in God’s name let me sleep?”</p>
<p>He waited for no answer, but thrust the pile at Wessel, and literally poured himself like stuff from a suddenly inverted bottle upon a couch in the corner; slept, with his breathing regular, but his brow wrinkled in a curious and somewhat uncanny manner.</p>
<p>Wessel yawned sleepily and, glancing at the scrawled, uncertain first page, he began reading aloud very softly:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<header role="presentation">
<p>The Rape of Lucrece</p>
</header>
<p>
<span>“From the besieged Ardea all in post,</span>
<br/>
<span>Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,</span>
<br/>
<span>Lust-breathing Tarquin leaves the Roman host⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</section>
</article>
<article id="porcelain-and-pink" epub:type="se:short-story z3998:drama z3998:scene bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Porcelain and Pink</h2>
<p>A room in the downstairs of a summer cottage. High around the wall runs an art frieze of a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and a ship on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and a ship on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and so on. In one place on the frieze there is an overlapping⁠—here we have half a fisherman with half a pile of nets at his foot, crowded damply against half a ship on half a crimson ocean. The frieze is not in the plot, but frankly it fascinates me. I could continue indefinitely, but I am distracted by one of the two objects in the room⁠—a blue porcelain bathtub. It has character, this bathtub. It is not one of the new racing bodies, but is small with a high tonneau and looks as if it were going to jump; discouraged, however, by the shortness of its legs, it has submitted to its environment and to its coat of sky-blue paint. But it grumpily refuses to allow any patron completely to stretch his legs⁠—which brings us neatly to the second object in the room:</p>
<p>It is a girl⁠—clearly an appendage to the bathtub, only her head and throat⁠—beautiful girls have throats instead of necks⁠—and a suggestion of shoulder appearing above the side. For the first ten minutes of the play the audience is engrossed in wondering if she really is playing the game fairly and hasn’t any clothes on or whether it is being cheated and she is dressed.</p>
<p>The girl’s name is <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie Marvis</b>. From the proud way she sits up in the bathtub we deduce that she is not very tall and that she carries herself well. When she smiles, her upper lip rolls a little and reminds you of an Easter Bunny. She is within whispering distance of twenty years old.</p>
<p>One thing more⁠—above and to the right of the bathtub is a window. It is narrow and has a wide sill; it lets in much sunshine, but effectually prevents anyone who looks in from seeing the bathtub. You begin to suspect the plot?</p>
<p>We open, conventionally enough, with a song, but, as the startled gasp of the audience quite drowns out the first half, we will give only the last of it:</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In an airy sophrano⁠—enthusiastico.</i>
</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>When Caesar did the Chicago</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">He was a graceful child,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i2">Those sacred chickens</span>
<br/>
<span class="i2">Just raised the dickens</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">The Vestal Virgins went wild.</span>
<br/>
<span>Whenever the Nervii got nervy</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">He gave them an awful razz</span>
<br/>
<span class="i2">They shook in their shoes</span>
<br/>
<span class="i2">With the Consular blues</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">The Imperial Roman Jazz</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">During the wild applause that follows <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</b> modestly moves her arms and makes waves on the surface of the water⁠—at least we suppose she does. Then the door on the left opens and <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois Marvis</b> enters, dressed but carrying garments and towels. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</b> is a year older than <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</b> and is nearly her double in face and voice, but in her clothes and expression are the marks of the conservative. Yes, you’ve guessed it. Mistaken identity is the old rusty pivot upon which the plot turns.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Starting.</i> Oh, ’scuse me. I didn’t know you were here.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</td>
<td>Oh, hello. I’m giving a little concert⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Interrupting.</i> Why didn’t you lock the door?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Didn’t I?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Of course you didn’t. Do you think I just walked through it?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>I thought you picked the lock, dearest.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>You’re <em>so</em> careless.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>No. I’m happy as a garbageman’s dog and I’m giving a little concert.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Severely.</i> Grow up!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Waving a pink arm around the room.</i> The walls reflect the sound, you see. That’s why there’s something very beautiful about singing in a bathtub. It gives an effect of surpassing loveliness. Can I render you a selection?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>I wish you’d hurry out of the tub.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Shaking her head thoughtfully.</i> Can’t be hurried. This is my kingdom at present, Godliness.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Why the mellow name?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Because you’re next to Cleanliness. Don’t throw anything please!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>How long will you be?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">After some consideration.</i> Not less than fifteen nor more than twenty-five minutes.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>As a favor to me will you make it ten?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Reminiscing.</i> Oh, Godliness, do you remember a day in the chill of last January when one Julie, famous for her Easter-rabbit smile, was going out and there was scarcely any hot water and young Julie had just filled the tub for her own little self when the wicked sister came and did bathe herself therein, forcing the young Julie to perform her ablutions with cold cream⁠—which is expensive and a darn lot of troubles?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Impatiently.</i> Then you won’t hurry?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Why should I?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>I’ve got a date.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Here at the house?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>None of your business.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</b>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">shrugs the visible tips of her shoulders and stirs the water into ripples.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>So be it.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Oh, for Heaven’s sake, yes! I have a date here, at the house⁠—in a way.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>In a way?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>He isn’t coming in. He’s calling for me and we’re walking.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Raising her eyebrows.</i> Oh, the plot clears. It’s that literary <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Calkins. I thought you promised mother you wouldn’t invite him in.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Desperately.</i> She’s so idiotic. She detests him because he’s just got a divorce. Of course she’s had more experience than I have, but⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Wisely.</i> Don’t let her kid you! Experience is the biggest gold brick in the world. All older people have it for sale.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>I like him. We talk literature.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Oh, so that’s why I’ve noticed all these weighty books around the house lately.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>He lends them to me.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Well, you’ve got to play his game. When in Rome do as the Romans would like to do. But I’m through with books. I’m all educated.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>You’re very inconsistent⁠—last summer you read every day.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>If I were consistent I’d still be living on warm milk out of a bottle.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Yes, and probably my bottle. But I like <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Calkins.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>I never met him.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Well, will you hurry up?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Yes. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">After a pause.</i> I wait till the water gets tepid and then I let in more hot.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sarcastically.</i> How interesting!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>’Member when we used to play “soapo”?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Yes⁠—and ten years old. I’m really quite surprised that you don’t play it still.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>I do. I’m going to in a minute.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Silly game.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Warmly.</i> No, it isn’t. It’s good for the nerves. I’ll bet you’ve forgotten how to play it.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Defiantly.</i> No, I haven’t. You⁠—you get the tub all full of soapsuds and then you get up on the edge and slide down.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Shaking her head scornfully.</i> Huh! That’s only part of it. You’ve got to slide down without touching your hand or feet⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Impatiently.</i> Oh, Lord! What do I care? I wish we’d either stop coming here in the summer or else get a house with two bathtubs.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>You can buy yourself a little tin one, or use the hose⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Oh, shut up!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Irrelevantly.</i> Leave the towel.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>What?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Leave the towel when you go.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>This towel?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sweetly.</i> Yes, I forgot my towel.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Looking around for the first time.</i> Why, you idiot! You haven’t even a kimono.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Also looking around.</i> Why, so I haven’t.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Suspicion growing on her.</i> How did you get here?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Laughing.</i> I guess I⁠—I guess I whisked here. You know⁠—a white form whisking down the stairs and⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Scandalized.</i> Why, you little wretch. Haven’t you any pride or self-respect?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Lots of both. I think that proves it. I looked very well. I really am rather cute in my natural state.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Well, you⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Thinking aloud.</i> I wish people didn’t wear any clothes. I guess I ought to have been a pagan or a native or something.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>You’re a⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>I dreamt last night that one Sunday in church a small boy brought in a magnet that attracted cloth. He attracted the clothes right off of everybody; put them in an awful state; people were crying and shrieking and carrying on as if they’d just discovered their skins for the first time. Only <em>I</em> didn’t care. So I just laughed. I had to pass the collection plate because nobody else would.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Who has turned a deaf ear to this speech.</i> Do you mean to tell me that if I hadn’t come you’d have run back to your room⁠—un⁠—unclothed?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Au naturel is so much nicer.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Suppose there had been someone in the living-room.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>There never has been yet.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>Yet! Good grief! How long⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Besides, I usually have a towel.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Completely overcome.</i> Golly! You ought to be spanked. I hope you get caught. I hope there’s a dozen ministers in the living-room when you come out⁠—and their wives, and their daughters.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>There wouldn’t be room for them in the living-room, answered Clean Kate of the Laundry District.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td>All right. You’ve made your own⁠—bathtub; you can lie in it.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</b> starts determinedly for the door.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In alarm.</i> Hey! Hey! I don’t care about the k’mono, but I want the towel. I can’t dry myself on a piece of soap and a wet washrag.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Obstinately.</i> I won’t humor such a creature. You’ll have to dry yourself the best way you can. You can roll on the floor like the animals do that don’t wear any clothes.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Complacent again.</i> All right. Get out!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Haughtily.</i> Huh!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</b> turns on the cold water and with her finger directs a parabolic stream at <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</b>. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</b> retires quickly, slamming the door after her. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</b> laughs and turns off the water.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Singing.</i>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>When the Arrow-collar man</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Meets the D’jer-kiss girl</span>
<br/>
<span>On the smokeless Sante Fé</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Her Pebeco smile</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Her Lucile style</span>
<br/>
<span>De dum da-de-dum one day⁠—</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">She changes to a whistle and leans forward to turn on the taps, but is startled by three loud banging noises in the pipes. Silence for a moment⁠—then she puts her mouth down near the spigot as if it were a telephone.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Hello! <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">.</i> Are you a plumber? <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">No answer.</i> Are you the water department? <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">One loud, hollow bang.</i> What do you want? <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">No answer.</i> I believe you’re a ghost. Are you? <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">No answer.</i> Well, then, stop banging. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">She reaches out and turns on the warm tap. No water flows. Again she puts her mouth down close to the spigot.</i> If you’re the plumber that’s a mean trick. Turn it on for a fellow. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Two loud, hollow bangs.</i> Don’t argue! I want water⁠—water! <em>Water!</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">A young man’s head appears in the window⁠—a head decorated with a slim mustache and sympathetic eyes. These last stare, and though they can see nothing but many fishermen with nets and much crimson ocean, they decide him to speak.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Someone fainted?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Starting up, all ears immediately.</i> Jumping cats!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Helpfully.</i> Water’s no good for fits.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Fits! Who said anything about fits!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>You said something about a cat jumping.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Decidedly.</i> I did not!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Well, we can talk it over later, Are you ready to go out? Or do you still feel that if you go with me just now everybody will gossip?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Smiling.</i> Gossip! Would they? It’d be more than gossip⁠—it’d be a regular scandal.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Here, you’re going it a little strong. Your family might be somewhat disgruntled⁠—but to the pure all things are suggestive. No one else would even give it a thought, except a few old women. Come on.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>You don’t know what you ask.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Do you imagine we’d have a crowd following us?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>A crowd? There’d be a special, all-steel, buffet train leaving New York hourly.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Say, are you housecleaning?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Why?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>I see all the pictures are off the walls.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Why, we never have pictures in this room.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Odd, I never heard of a room without pictures or tapestry or panelling or something.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>There’s not even any furniture in here.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>What a strange house!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>It depend on the angle you see it from.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sentimentally.</i> It’s so nice talking to you like this⁠—when you’re merely a voice. I’m rather glad I can’t see you.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Gratefully.</i> So am I.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>What color are you wearing?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">After a critical survey of her shoulders.</i> Why, I guess it’s a sort of pinkish white.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Is it becoming to you?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Very. It’s⁠—it’s old. I’ve had it for a long while.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>I thought you hated old clothes.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>I do but this was a birthday present and I sort of have to wear it.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Pinkish-white. Well I’ll bet it’s divine. Is it in style?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Quite. It’s very simple, standard model.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>What a voice you have! How it echoes! Sometimes I shut my eyes and seem to see you in a far desert island calling for me. And I plunge toward you through the surf, hearing you call as you stand there, water stretching on both sides of you⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">The soap slips from the side of the tub and splashes in. The young man blinks.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Young Man</td>
<td>What was that? Did I dream it?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Yes. You’re⁠—you’re very poetic, aren’t you?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dreamily.</i> No. I do prose. I do verse only when I am stirred.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Murmuring.</i> Stirred by a spoon⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>I have always loved poetry. I can remember to this day the first poem I ever learned by heart. It was “Evangeline.”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>That’s a fib.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Did I say “Evangeline”? I meant “The Skeleton in Armor.”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>
<p>I’m a lowbrow. But I can remember my first poem. It had one verse:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>Parker and Davis</span>
<br/>
<span>Sittin’ on a fence</span>
<br/>
<span>Tryne to make a dollar</span>
<br/>
<span>Outa fifteen cents.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Eagerly.</i> Are you growing fond of literature?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>If it’s not too ancient or complicated or depressing. Same way with people. I usually like ’em not too ancient or complicated or depressing.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Of course I’ve read enormously. You told me last night that you were very fond of Walter Scott.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Considering.</i> Scott? Let’s see. Yes, I’ve read <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Ivanhoe</i> and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Last of the Mohicans</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>That’s by Cooper.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Angrily.</i> <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Ivanhoe</i> is? You’re crazy! I guess I know. I read it.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>“<i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Last of the Mohicans</i>” is by Cooper.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>What do I care! I like <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry. I don’t see how he ever wrote those stories. Most of them he wrote in prison. “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” he made up in prison.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Biting his lip.</i> Literature⁠—literature! How much it has meant to me!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Well, as Gaby Deslys said to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bergson, with my looks and your brains there’s nothing we couldn’t do.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Laughing.</i> You certainly are hard to keep up with. One day you’re awfully pleasant and the next you’re in a mood. If I didn’t understand your temperament so well⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Impatiently.</i> Oh, you’re one of these amateur character-readers, are you? Size people up in five minutes and then look wise whenever they’re mentioned. I hate that sort of thing.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>I don’t boast of sizing you up. You’re most mysterious, I’ll admit.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>There’s only two mysterious people in history.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Who are they?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>The Man with the Iron Mask and the fella who says “<i>ug uh‑glug uh‑glug uh‑glug</i>” when the line is busy.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>You <em>are</em> mysterious. I love you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known combination.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>You’re a historian. Tell me if there are any bathtubs in history. I think they’ve been frightfully neglected.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Bathtubs! Let’s see. Well, Agamemnon was stabbed in his bathtub. And Charlotte Corday stabbed Marat in his bathtub.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sighing.</i> Way back there! Nothing new besides the sun, is there? Why only yesterday I picked up a musical-comedy score that must have been at least twenty years old; and there on the cover it said “The Shimmies of Normandy,” but shimmie was spelt the old way, with a <i epub:type="z3998:grapheme">C</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>I loathe these modern dances. Oh, Lois, I wish I could see you. Come to the window.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">There is a loud bang in the water-pipe and suddenly the flow starts from the open taps. Julie turns them off quickly.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Puzzled.</i> What on earth was that?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Ingeniously.</i> I heard something, too.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Sounded like running water.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>Didn’t it? Strange like it. As a matter of fact I was filling the goldfish bowl.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Still puzzled.</i> What was that banging noise?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>One of the fish snapping his golden jaws.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">With sudden resolution.</i> Lois, I love you. I am not a mundane man but I am a forger⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Interested at once.</i> Oh, how fascinating.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>—a forger ahead. Lois, I want you.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Skeptically.</i> Huh! What you really want is for the world to come to attention and stand there till you give “Rest!”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td>Lois I⁠—Lois I⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He stops as <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</b> opens the door, comes in, and bangs it behind her. She looks peevishly at <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie</b> and then suddenly catches sight of the young man in the window.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In horror.</i> <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Calkins!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Surprised.</i> Why I thought you said you were wearing pinkish white!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">After one despairing stare <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois</b> shrieks, throws up her hands in surrender, and sinks to the floor.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">The Young Man:</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In great alarm.</i> Good Lord! She’s fainted! I’ll be right in.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><b epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie’s</b> eyes light on the towel which has slipped from <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lois’s</b> inert hand.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Julie:</td>
<td>In that case I’ll be right out.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">She puts her hands on the side of the tub to lift herself out and a murmur, half gasp, half sigh, ripples from the audience.</i>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>A Belasco midnight comes quickly down and blots out the stage.</p>
<p>Curtain.</p>
</article>
<article id="head-and-shoulders" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Head and Shoulders</h2>
<section id="head-and-shoulders-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>In 1915 Horace Tarbox was thirteen years old. In that year he took the examinations for entrance to Princeton University and received the Grade A⁠—excellent⁠—in Caesar, Cicero, Virgil, Xenophon, Homer, Algebra, Plane Geometry, Solid Geometry, and Chemistry.</p>
<p>Two years later while George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Cohan was composing “Over There,” Horace was leading the sophomore class by several lengths and digging out theses on “The Syllogism as an Obsolete Scholastic Form,” and during the battle of Château-Thierry he was sitting at his desk deciding whether or not to wait until his seventeenth birthday before beginning his series of essays on “The Pragmatic Bias of the New Realists.”</p>
<p>After a while some newsboy told him that the war was over, and he was glad, because it meant that Peat Brothers, publishers, would get out their new edition of “Spinoza’s Improvement of the Understanding.” Wars were all very well in their way, made young men self-reliant or something but Horace felt that he could never forgive the President for allowing a brass band to play under his window the night of the false armistice, causing him to leave three important sentences out of his thesis on “German Idealism.”</p>
<p>The next year he went up to Yale to take his degree as Master of Arts.</p>
<p>He was seventeen then, tall and slender, with nearsighted gray eyes and an air of keeping himself utterly detached from the mere words he let drop.</p>
<p>“I never feel as though I’m talking to him,” expostulated Professor Dillinger to a sympathetic colleague. “He makes me feel as though I were talking to his representative. I always expect him to say: ‘Well, I’ll ask myself and find out.’ ”</p>
<p>And then, just as nonchalantly as though Horace Tarbox had been <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Beef the butcher or <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hat the haberdasher, life reached in, seized him, handled him, stretched him, and unrolled him like a piece of Irish lace on a Saturday-afternoon bargain-counter.</p>
<p>To move in the literary fashion I should say that this was all because when way back in colonial days the hardy pioneers had come to a bald place in Connecticut and asked of each other, “Now, what shall we build here?” the hardiest one among ’em had answered: “Let’s build a town where theatrical managers can try out musical comedies!” How afterward they founded Yale College there, to try the musical comedies on, is a story everyone knows. At any rate one December, “Home James” opened at the Shubert, and all the students encored Marcia Meadow, who sang a song about the Blundering Blimp in the first act and did a shaky, shivery, celebrated dance in the last.</p>
<p>Marcia was nineteen. She didn’t have wings, but audiences agreed generally that she didn’t need them. She was a blonde by natural pigment, and she wore no paint on the streets at high noon. Outside of that she was no better than most women.</p>
<p>It was Charlie Moon who promised her five thousand Pall Malls if she would pay a call on Horace Tarbox, prodigy extraordinary. Charlie was a senior in Sheffield, and he and Horace were first cousins. They liked and pitied each other.</p>
<p>Horace had been particularly busy that night. The failure of the Frenchman Laurier to appreciate the significance of the new realists was preying on his mind. In fact, his only reaction to a low, clear-cut rap at his study was to make him speculate as to whether any rap would have actual existence without an ear there to hear it. He fancied he was verging more and more toward pragmatism. But at that moment, though he did not know it, he was verging with astounding rapidity toward something quite different.</p>
<p>The rap sounded⁠—three seconds leaked by⁠—the rap sounded.</p>
<p>“Come in,” muttered Horace automatically.</p>
<p>He heard the door open and then close, but, bent over his book in the big armchair before the fire, he did not look up.</p>
<p>“Leave it on the bed in the other room,” he said absently.</p>
<p>“Leave what on the bed in the other room?”</p>
<p>Marcia Meadow had to talk her songs, but her speaking voice was like byplay on a harp.</p>
<p>“The laundry.”</p>
<p>“I can’t.”</p>
<p>Horace stirred impatiently in his chair.</p>
<p>“Why can’t you?”</p>
<p>“Why, because I haven’t got it.”</p>
<p>“Hm!” he replied testily. “Suppose you go back and get it.”</p>
<p>Across the fire from Horace was another easychair. He was accustomed to change to it in the course of an evening by way of exercise and variety. One chair he called Berkeley, the other he called Hume. He suddenly heard a sound as of a rustling, diaphanous form sinking into Hume. He glanced up.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Marcia with the sweet smile she used in Act Two (“Oh, so the Duke liked my dancing!”) “Well, Omar Khayyám, here I am beside you singing in the wilderness.”</p>
<p>Horace stared at her dazedly. The momentary suspicion came to him that she existed there only as a phantom of his imagination. Women didn’t come into men’s rooms and sink into men’s Humes. Women brought laundry and took your seat in the streetcar and married you later on when you were old enough to know fetters.</p>
<p>This woman had clearly materialized out of Hume. The very froth of her brown gauzy dress was art emanation from Hume’s leather arm there! If he looked long enough he would see Hume right through her and then he would be alone again in the room. He passed his fist across his eyes. He really must take up those trapeze exercises again.</p>
<p>“For Pete’s sake, don’t look so critical!” objected the emanation pleasantly. “I feel as if you were going to wish me away with that patent dome of yours. And then there wouldn’t be anything left of me except my shadow in your eyes.”</p>
<p>Horace coughed. Coughing was one of his two gestures. When he talked you forgot he had a body at all. It was like hearing a phonograph record by a singer who had been dead a long time.</p>
<p>“What do you want?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I want them letters,” whined Marcia melodramatically⁠—“them letters of mine you bought from my grandsire in 1881.”</p>
<p>Horace considered.</p>
<p>“I haven’t got your letters,” he said evenly. “I am only seventeen years old. My father was not born until March 3, 1879. You evidently have me confused with someone else.”</p>
<p>“You’re only seventeen?” repeated March suspiciously.</p>
<p>“Only seventeen.”</p>
<p>“I knew a girl,” said Marcia reminiscently, “who went on the ten-twenty-thirty when she was sixteen. She was so stuck on herself that she could never say ‘sixteen’ without putting the ‘only’ before it. We got to calling her ‘Only Jessie.’ And she’s just where she was when she started⁠—only worse. ‘Only’ is a bad habit, Omar⁠—it sounds like an alibi.”</p>
<p>“My name is not Omar.”</p>
<p>“I know,” agreed Marcia, nodding⁠—“your name’s Horace. I just call you Omar because you remind me of a smoked cigarette.”</p>
<p>“And I haven’t your letters. I doubt if I’ve ever met your grandfather. In fact, I think it very improbable that you yourself were alive in 1881.”</p>
<p>Marcia stared at him in wonder.</p>
<p>“Me⁠—1881? Why sure! I was second-line stuff when the Florodora Sextette was still in the convent. I was the original nurse to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Sol Smith’s Juliette. Why, Omar, I was a canteen singer during the War of 1812.”</p>
<p>Horace’s mind made a sudden successful leap, and he grinned.</p>
<p>“Did Charlie Moon put you up to this?”</p>
<p>Marcia regarded him inscrutably.</p>
<p>“Who’s Charlie Moon?”</p>
<p>“Small⁠—wide nostrils⁠—big ears.”</p>
<p>She grew several inches and sniffed.</p>
<p>“I’m not in the habit of noticing my friends’ nostrils.”</p>
<p>“Then it was Charlie?”</p>
<p>Marcia bit her lip⁠—and then yawned. “Oh, let’s change the subject, Omar. I’ll pull a snore in this chair in a minute.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied Horace gravely, “Hume has often been considered soporific⁠—”</p>
<p>“Who’s your friend⁠—and will he die?”</p>
<p>Then of a sudden Horace Tarbox rose slenderly and began to pace the room with his hands in his pockets. This was his other gesture.</p>
<p>“I don’t care for this,” he said as if he were talking to himself⁠—“at all. Not that I mind your being here⁠—I don’t. You’re quite a pretty little thing, but I don’t like Charlie Moon’s sending you up here. Am I a laboratory experiment on which the janitors as well as the chemists can make experiments? Is my intellectual development humorous in any way? Do I look like the pictures of the little Boston boy in the comic magazines? Has that callow ass, Moon, with his eternal tales about his week in Paris, any right to⁠—”</p>
<p>“No,” interrupted Marcia emphatically. “And you’re a sweet boy. Come here and kiss me.”</p>
<p>Horace stopped quickly in front of her.</p>
<p>“Why do you want me to kiss you?” he asked intently, “Do you just go round kissing people?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes,” admitted Marcia, unruffled. “ ’At’s all life is. Just going round kissing people.”</p>
<p>“Well,” replied Horace emphatically, “I must say your ideas are horribly garbled! In the first place life isn’t just that, and in the second place. I won’t kiss you. It might get to be a habit and I can’t get rid of habits. This year I’ve got in the habit of lolling in bed until seven-thirty⁠—”</p>
<p>Marcia nodded understandingly.</p>
<p>“Do you ever have any fun?” she asked.</p>
<p>“What do you mean by fun?”</p>
<p>“See here,” said Marcia sternly, “I like you, Omar, but I wish you’d talk as if you had a line on what you were saying. You sound as if you were gargling a lot of words in your mouth and lost a bet every time you spilled a few. I asked you if you ever had any fun.”</p>
<p>Horace shook his head.</p>
<p>“Later, perhaps,” he answered. “You see I’m a plan. I’m an experiment. I don’t say that I don’t get tired of it sometimes⁠—I do. Yet⁠—oh, I can’t explain! But what you and Charlie Moon call fun wouldn’t be fun to me.”</p>
<p>“Please explain.”</p>
<p>Horace stared at her, started to speak and then, changing his mind, resumed his walk. After an unsuccessful attempt to determine whether or not he was looking at her Marcia smiled at him.</p>
<p>“Please explain.”</p>
<p>Horace turned.</p>
<p>“If I do, will you promise to tell Charlie Moon that I wasn’t in?”</p>
<p>“Uh-uh.”</p>
<p>“Very well, then. Here’s my history: I was a ‘why’ child. I wanted to see the wheels go round. My father was a young economics professor at Princeton. He brought me up on the system of answering every question I asked him to the best of his ability. My response to that gave him the idea of making an experiment in precocity. To aid in the massacre I had ear trouble⁠—seven operations between the age of nine and twelve. Of course this kept me apart from other boys and made me ripe for forcing. Anyway, while my generation was laboring through Uncle Remus I was honestly enjoying Catullus in the original.</p>
<p>“I passed off my college examinations when I was thirteen because I couldn’t help it. My chief associates were professors, and I took a tremendous pride in knowing that I had a fine intelligence, for though I was unusually gifted I was not abnormal in other ways. When I was sixteen I got tired of being a freak; I decided that someone had made a bad mistake. Still as I’d gone that far I concluded to finish it up by taking my degree of Master of Arts. My chief interest in life is the study of modern philosophy. I am a realist of the School of Anton Laurier⁠—with Bergsonian trimmings⁠—and I’ll be eighteen years old in two months. That’s all.”</p>
<p>“Whew!” exclaimed Marcia. “That’s enough! You do a neat job with the parts of speech.”</p>
<p>“Satisfied?”</p>
<p>“No, you haven’t kissed me.”</p>
<p>“It’s not in my programme,” demurred Horace. “Understand that I don’t pretend to be above physical things. They have their place, but⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t be so darned reasonable!”</p>
<p>“I can’t help it.”</p>
<p>“I hate these slot-machine people.”</p>
<p>“I assure you I⁠—” began Horace.</p>
<p>“Oh shut up!”</p>
<p>“My own rationality⁠—”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say anything about your nationality. You’re Amuricun, ar’n’t you?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s OK with me. I got a notion I want to see you do something that isn’t in your highbrow programme. I want to see if a what-ch-call-em with Brazilian trimmings⁠—that thing you said you were⁠—can be a little human.”</p>
<p>Horace shook his head again.</p>
<p>“I won’t kiss you.”</p>
<p>“My life is blighted,” muttered Marcia tragically. “I’m a beaten woman. I’ll go through life without ever having a kiss with Brazilian trimmings.” She sighed. “Anyways, Omar, will you come and see my show?”</p>
<p>“What show?”</p>
<p>“I’m a wicked actress from ‘Home James’!”</p>
<p>“Light opera?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—at a stretch. One of the characters is a Brazilian rice-planter. That might interest you.”</p>
<p>“I saw ‘The Bohemian Girl’ once,” reflected Horace aloud. “I enjoyed it⁠—to some extent⁠—”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll come?”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m⁠—I’m⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know⁠—you’ve got to run down to Brazil for the weekend.”</p>
<p>“Not at all. I’d be delighted to come⁠—”</p>
<p>Marcia clapped her hands.</p>
<p>“Goodyforyou! I’ll mail you a ticket⁠—Thursday night?”</p>
<p>“Why, I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Good! Thursday night it is.”</p>
<p>She stood up and walking close to him laid both hands on his shoulders.</p>
<p>“I like you, Omar. I’m sorry I tried to kid you. I thought you’d be sort of frozen, but you’re a nice boy.”</p>
<p>He eyed her sardonically.</p>
<p>“I’m several thousand generations older than you are.”</p>
<p>“You carry your age well.”</p>
<p>They shook hands gravely.</p>
<p>“My name’s Marcia Meadow,” she said emphatically. “ ’Member it⁠—Marcia Meadow. And I won’t tell Charlie Moon you were in.”</p>
<p>An instant later as she was skimming down the last flight of stairs three at a time she heard a voice call over the upper banister: “Oh, say⁠—”</p>
<p>She stopped and looked up⁠—made out a vague form leaning over.</p>
<p>“Oh, say!” called the prodigy again. “Can you hear me?”</p>
<p>“Here’s your connection Omar.”</p>
<p>“I hope I haven’t given you the impression that I consider kissing intrinsically irrational.”</p>
<p>“Impression? Why, you didn’t even give me the kiss! Never fret⁠—so long.”</p>
<p>Two doors near her opened curiously at the sound of a feminine voice. A tentative cough sounded from above. Gathering her skirts, Marcia dived wildly down the last flight, and was swallowed up in the murky Connecticut air outside.</p>
<p>Upstairs Horace paced the floor of his study. From time to time he glanced toward Berkeley waiting there in suave dark-red reputability, an open book lying suggestively on his cushions. And then he found that his circuit of the floor was bringing him each time nearer to Hume. There was something about Hume that was strangely and inexpressibly different. The diaphanous form still seemed hovering near, and had Horace sat there he would have felt as if he were sitting on a lady’s lap. And though Horace couldn’t have named the quality of difference, there was such a quality⁠—quite intangible to the speculative mind, but real, nevertheless. Hume was radiating something that in all the two hundred years of his influence he had never radiated before.</p>
<p>Hume was radiating attar of roses.</p>
</section>
<section id="head-and-shoulders-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>On Thursday night Horace Tarbox sat in an aisle seat in the fifth row and witnessed “Home James.” Oddly enough he found that he was enjoying himself. The cynical students near him were annoyed at his audible appreciation of time-honored jokes in the Hammerstein tradition. But Horace was waiting with anxiety for Marcia Meadow singing her song about a Jazz-bound Blundering Blimp. When she did appear, radiant under a floppity flower-faced hat, a warm glow settled over him, and when the song was over he did not join in the storm of applause. He felt somewhat numb.</p>
<p>In the intermission after the second act an usher materialized beside him, demanded to know if he were <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tarbox, and then handed him a note written in a round adolescent band. Horace read it in some confusion, while the usher lingered with withering patience in the aisle.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
<p>“Dear Omar: After the show I always grow an awful hunger. If you want to satisfy it for me in the Taft Grill just communicate your answer to the big-timber guide that brought this and oblige.</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender"><span epub:type="z3998:valediction">Your friend</span>,<br/>
Marcia Meadow.”</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>“Tell her,”⁠—he coughed⁠—“tell her that it will be quite all right. I’ll meet her in front of the theatre.”</p>
<p>The big-timber guide smiled arrogantly.</p>
<p>“I giss she meant for you to come roun’ t’ the stage door.”</p>
<p>“Where⁠—where is it?”</p>
<p>“Ou’side. Tunayulef. Down ee alley.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Ou’side. Turn to y’ left! Down ee alley!”</p>
<p>The arrogant person withdrew. A freshman behind Horace snickered.</p>
<p>Then half an hour later, sitting in the Taft Grill opposite the hair that was yellow by natural pigment, the prodigy was saying an odd thing.</p>
<p>“Do you have to do that dance in the last act?” he was asking earnestly⁠—“I mean, would they dismiss you if you refused to do it?”</p>
<p>Marcia grinned.</p>
<p>“It’s fun to do it. I like to do it.”</p>
<p>And then Horace came out with a faux pas.</p>
<p>“I should think you’d detest it,” he remarked succinctly. “The people behind me were making remarks about your bosom.”</p>
<p>Marcia blushed fiery red.</p>
<p>“I can’t help that,” she said quickly. “The dance to me is only a sort of acrobatic stunt. Lord, it’s hard enough to do! I rub liniment into my shoulders for an hour every night.”</p>
<p>“Do you have⁠—fun while you’re on the stage?”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh⁠—sure! I got in the habit of having people look at me, Omar, and I like it.”</p>
<p>“Hm!” Horace sank into a brownish study.</p>
<p>“How’s the Brazilian trimmings?”</p>
<p>“Hm!” repeated Horace, and then after a pause: “Where does the play go from here?”</p>
<p>“New York.”</p>
<p>“For how long?”</p>
<p>“All depends. Winter⁠—maybe.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“Coming up to lay eyes on me, Omar, or aren’t you int’rested? Not as nice here, is it, as it was up in your room? I wish we was there now.”</p>
<p>“I feel idiotic in this place,” confessed Horace, looking round him nervously.</p>
<p>“Too bad! We got along pretty well.”</p>
<p>At this he looked suddenly so melancholy that she changed her tone, and reaching over patted his hand.</p>
<p>“Ever take an actress out to supper before?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Horace miserably, “and I never will again. I don’t know why I came tonight. Here under all these lights and with all these people laughing and chattering I feel completely out of my sphere. I don’t know what to talk to you about.”</p>
<p>“We’ll talk about me. We talked about you last time.”</p>
<p>“Very well.”</p>
<p>“Well, my name really is Meadow, but my first name isn’t Marcia⁠—it’s Veronica. I’m nineteen. Question⁠—how did the girl make her leap to the footlights? Answer⁠—she was born in Passaic, New Jersey, and up to a year ago she got the right to breathe by pushing Nabiscoes in Marcel’s tearoom in Trenton. She started going with a guy named Robbins, a singer in the Trent House cabaret, and he got her to try a song and dance with him one evening. In a month we were filling the supper-room every night. Then we went to New York with meet-my-friend letters thick as a pile of napkins.</p>
<p>“In two days we landed a job at Divinerries’, and I learned to shimmy from a kid at the Palais Royal. We stayed at Divinerries’ six months until one night Peter Boyce Wendell, the columnist, ate his milk-toast there. Next morning a poem about Marvellous Marcia came out in his newspaper, and within two days I had three vaudeville offers and a chance at the Midnight Frolic. I wrote Wendell a thank-you letter, and he printed it in his column⁠—said that the style was like Carlyle’s, only more rugged and that I ought to quit dancing and do North American literature. This got me a coupla more vaudeville offers and a chance as an ingénue in a regular show. I took it⁠—and here I am, Omar.”</p>
<p>When she finished they sat for a moment in silence she draping the last skeins of a Welsh rabbit on her fork and waiting for him to speak.</p>
<p>“Let’s get out of here,” he said suddenly.</p>
<p>Marcia’s eyes hardened.</p>
<p>“What’s the idea? Am I making you sick?”</p>
<p>“No, but I don’t like it here. I don’t like to be sitting here with you.”</p>
<p>Without another word Marcia signalled for the waiter.</p>
<p>“What’s the check?” she demanded briskly “My part⁠—the rabbit and the ginger ale.”</p>
<p>Horace watched blankly as the waiter figured it.</p>
<p>“See here,” he began, “I intended to pay for yours too. You’re my guest.”</p>
<p>With a half-sigh Marcia rose from the table and walked from the room. Horace, his face a document in bewilderment, laid a bill down and followed her out, up the stairs and into the lobby. He overtook her in front of the elevator and they faced each other.</p>
<p>“See here,” he repeated. “You’re my guest. Have I said something to offend you?”</p>
<p>After an instant of wonder Marcia’s eyes softened.</p>
<p>“You’re a rude fella!” she said slowly. “Don’t you know you’re rude?”</p>
<p>“I can’t help it,” said Horace with a directness she found quite disarming. “You know I like you.”</p>
<p>“You said you didn’t like being with me.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t like it.”</p>
<p>“Why not?” Fire blazed suddenly from the gray forests of his eyes.</p>
<p>“Because I didn’t. I’ve formed the habit of liking you. I’ve been thinking of nothing much else for two days.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you⁠—”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “I’ve got something to say. It’s this: in six weeks I’ll be eighteen years old. When I’m eighteen years old I’m coming up to New York to see you. Is there some place in New York where we can go and not have a lot of people in the room?”</p>
<p>“Sure!” smiled Marcia. “You can come up to my ’partment. Sleep on the couch if you want to.”</p>
<p>“I can’t sleep on couches,” he said shortly. “But I want to talk to you.”</p>
<p>“Why, sure,” repeated Marcia, “in my ’partment.”</p>
<p>In his excitement Horace put his hands in his pockets.</p>
<p>“All right⁠—just so I can see you alone. I want to talk to you as we talked up in my room.”</p>
<p>“Honey boy,” cried Marcia, laughing, “is it that you want to kiss me?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Horace almost shouted. “I’ll kiss you if you want me to.”</p>
<p>The elevator man was looking at them reproachfully. Marcia edged toward the grated door.</p>
<p>“I’ll drop you a postcard,” she said.</p>
<p>Horace’s eyes were quite wild.</p>
<p>“Send me a postcard! I’ll come up any time after January first. I’ll be eighteen then.”</p>
<p>And as she stepped into the elevator he coughed enigmatically, yet with a vague challenge, at the calling, and walked quickly away.</p>
</section>
<section id="head-and-shoulders-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>He was there again. She saw him when she took her first glance at the restless Manhattan audience⁠—down in the front row with his head bent a bit forward and his gray eyes fixed on her. And she knew that to him they were alone together in a world where the high-rouged row of ballet faces and the massed whines of the violins were as imperceivable as powder on a marble Venus. An instinctive defiance rose within her.</p>
<p>“Silly boy!” she said to herself hurriedly, and she didn’t take her encore.</p>
<p>“What do they expect for a hundred a week⁠—perpetual motion?” she grumbled to herself in the wings.</p>
<p>“What’s the trouble? Marcia?”</p>
<p>“Guy I don’t like down in front.”</p>
<p>During the last act as she waited for her specialty she had an odd attack of stage fright. She had never sent Horace the promised postcard. Last night she had pretended not to see him⁠—had hurried from the theatre immediately after her dance to pass a sleepless night in her apartment, thinking⁠—as she had so often in the last month⁠—of his pale, rather intent face, his slim, boyish fore, the merciless, unworldly abstraction that made him charming to her.</p>
<p>And now that he had come she felt vaguely sorry⁠—as though an unwonted responsibility was being forced on her.</p>
<p>“Infant prodigy!” she said aloud.</p>
<p>“What?” demanded the negro comedian standing beside her.</p>
<p>“Nothing⁠—just talking about myself.”</p>
<p>On the stage she felt better. This was her dance⁠—and she always felt that the way she did it wasn’t suggestive any more than to some men every pretty girl is suggestive. She made it a stunt.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Uptown, downtown, jelly on a spoon,</span>
<br/>
<span>After sundown shiver by the moon.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He was not watching her now. She saw that clearly. He was looking very deliberately at a castle on the back drop, wearing that expression he had worn in the Taft Grill. A wave of exasperation swept over her⁠—he was criticising her.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“That’s the vibration that thrills me,</span>
<br/>
<span>Funny how affection fi‑lls me</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Uptown, downtown⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Unconquerable revulsion seized her. She was suddenly and horribly conscious of her audience as she had never been since her first appearance. Was that a leer on a pallid face in the front row, a droop of disgust on one young girl’s mouth? These shoulders of hers⁠—these shoulders shaking⁠—were they hers? Were they real? Surely shoulders weren’t made for this!</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>“Then⁠—you’ll see at a glance</span>
<br/>
<span>I’ll need some funeral ushers with <abbr>St.</abbr> Vitus dance</span>
<br/>
<span>At the end of the world I’ll⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The bassoon and two cellos crashed into a final chord. She paused and poised a moment on her toes with every muscle tense, her young face looking out dully at the audience in what one young girl afterward called “such a curious, puzzled look,” and then without bowing rushed from the stage. Into the dressing-room she sped, kicked out of one dress and into another, and caught a taxi outside.</p>
<p>Her apartment was very warm⁠—small, it was, with a row of professional pictures and sets of Kipling and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O.</abbr> Henry which she had bought once from a blue-eyed agent and read occasionally. And there were several chairs which matched, but were none of them comfortable, and a pink-shaded lamp with blackbirds painted on it and an atmosphere of other stifled pink throughout. There were nice things in it⁠—nice things unrelentingly hostile to each other, offspring of a vicarious, impatient taste acting in stray moments. The worst was typified by a great picture framed in oak bark of Passaic as seen from the Erie Railroad⁠—altogether a frantic, oddly extravagant, oddly penurious attempt to make a cheerful room. Marcia knew it was a failure.</p>
<p>Into this room came the prodigy and took her two hands awkwardly.</p>
<p>“I followed you this time,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“I want you to marry me,” he said.</p>
<p>Her arms went out to him. She kissed his mouth with a sort of passionate wholesomeness.</p>
<p>“There!”</p>
<p>“I love you,” he said.</p>
<p>She kissed him again and then with a little sigh flung herself into an armchair and half lay there, shaken with absurd laughter.</p>
<p>“Why, you infant prodigy!” she cried.</p>
<p>“Very well, call me that if you want to. I once told you that I was ten thousand years older than you⁠—I am.”</p>
<p>She laughed again.</p>
<p>“I don’t like to be disapproved of.”</p>
<p>“No one’s ever going to disapprove of you again.”</p>
<p>“Omar,” she asked, “why do you want to marry me?”</p>
<p>The prodigy rose and put his hands in his pockets.</p>
<p>“Because I love you, Marcia Meadow.”</p>
<p>And then she stopped calling him Omar.</p>
<p>“Dear boy,” she said, “you know I sort of love you. There’s something about you⁠—I can’t tell what⁠—that just puts my heart through the wringer every time I’m round you. But honey⁠—” She paused.</p>
<p>“But what?”</p>
<p>“But lots of things. But you’re only just eighteen, and I’m nearly twenty.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense!” he interrupted. “Put it this way⁠—that I’m in my nineteenth year and you’re nineteen. That makes us pretty close⁠—without counting that other ten thousand years I mentioned.”</p>
<p>Marcia laughed.</p>
<p>“But there are some more ‘buts.’ Your people⁠—”</p>
<p>“My people!” exclaimed the prodigy ferociously. “My people tried to make a monstrosity out of me.” His face grew quite crimson at the enormity of what he was going to say. “My people can go way back and sit down!”</p>
<p>“My heavens!” cried Marcia in alarm. “All that? On tacks, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Tacks⁠—yes,” he agreed wildly⁠—“on anything. The more I think of how they allowed me to become a little dried-up mummy⁠—”</p>
<p>“What makes you thank you’re that?” asked Marcia quietly⁠—“me?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Every person I’ve met on the streets since I met you has made me jealous because they knew what love was before I did. I used to call it the ‘sex impulse.’ Heavens!”</p>
<p>“There’s more ‘buts,’ ” said Marcia.</p>
<p>“What are they?”</p>
<p>“How could we live?”</p>
<p>“I’ll make a living.”</p>
<p>“You’re in college.”</p>
<p>“Do you think I care anything about taking a Master of Arts degree?”</p>
<p>“You want to be Master of Me, hey?”</p>
<p>“Yes! What? I mean, no!”</p>
<p>Marcia laughed, and crossing swiftly over sat in his lap. He put his arm round her wildly and implanted the vestige of a kiss somewhere near her neck.</p>
<p>“There’s something white about you,” mused Marcia, “but it doesn’t sound very logical.”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t be so darned reasonable!”</p>
<p>“I can’t help it,” said Marcia.</p>
<p>“I hate these slot-machine people!”</p>
<p>“But we⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up!”</p>
<p>And as Marcia couldn’t talk through her ears she had to.</p>
</section>
<section id="head-and-shoulders-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Horace and Marcia were married early in February. The sensation in academic circles both at Yale and Princeton was tremendous. Horace Tarbox, who at fourteen had been played up in the Sunday magazines sections of metropolitan newspapers, was throwing over his career, his chance of being a world authority on American philosophy, by marrying a chorus girl⁠—they made Marcia a chorus girl. But like all modern stories it was a four-and-a-half-day wonder.</p>
<p>They took a flat in Harlem. After two weeks’ search, during which his idea of the value of academic knowledge faded unmercifully, Horace took a position as clerk with a South American export company⁠—someone had told him that exporting was the coming thing. Marcia was to stay in her show for a few months⁠—anyway until he got on his feet. He was getting a hundred and twenty-five to start with, and though of course they told him it was only a question of months until he would be earning double that, Marcia refused even to consider giving up the hundred and fifty a week that she was getting at the time.</p>
<p>“We’ll call ourselves Head and Shoulders, dear,” she said softly, “and the shoulders’ll have to keep shaking a little longer until the old head gets started.”</p>
<p>“I hate it,” he objected gloomily.</p>
<p>“Well,” she replied emphatically, “Your salary wouldn’t keep us in a tenement. Don’t think I want to be public⁠—I don’t. I want to be yours. But I’d be a half-wit to sit in one room and count the sunflowers on the wallpaper while I waited for you. When you pull down three hundred a month I’ll quit.”</p>
<p>And much as it hurt his pride, Horace had to admit that hers was the wiser course.</p>
<p>March mellowed into April. May read a gorgeous riot act to the parks and waters of Manhatten, and they were very happy. Horace, who had no habits whatsoever⁠—he had never had time to form any⁠—proved the most adaptable of husbands, and as Marcia entirely lacked opinions on the subjects that engrossed him there were very few jottings and bumping. Their minds moved in different spheres. Marcia acted as practical factotum, and Horace lived either in his old world of abstract ideas or in a sort of triumphantly earthy worship and adoration of his wife. She was a continual source of astonishment to him⁠—the freshness and originality of her mind, her dynamic, clearheaded energy, and her unfailing good humor.</p>
<p>And Marcia’s co-workers in the nine-o’clock show, whither she had transferred her talents, were impressed with her tremendous pride in her husband’s mental powers. Horace they knew only as a very slim, tight-lipped, and immature-looking young man, who waited every night to take her home.</p>
<p>“Horace,” said Marcia one evening when she met him as usual at eleven, “you looked like a ghost standing there against the street lights. You losing weight?”</p>
<p>He shook his head vaguely.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. They raised me to a hundred and thirty-five dollars today, and⁠—”</p>
<p>“I don’t care,” said Marcia severely. “You’re killing yourself working at night. You read those big books on economy⁠—”</p>
<p>“Economics,” corrected Horace.</p>
<p>“Well, you read ’em every night long after I’m asleep. And you’re getting all stooped over like you were before we were married.”</p>
<p>“But, Marcia, I’ve got to⁠—”</p>
<p>“No, you haven’t dear. I guess I’m running this shop for the present, and I won’t let my fella ruin his health and eyes. You got to get some exercise.”</p>
<p>“I do. Every morning I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know! But those dumbbells of yours wouldn’t give a consumptive two degrees of fever. I mean real exercise. You’ve got to join a gymnasium. ’Member you told me you were such a trick gymnast once that they tried to get you out for the team in college and they couldn’t because you had a standing date with Herb Spencer?”</p>
<p>“I used to enjoy it,” mused Horace, “but it would take up too much time now.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Marcia. “I’ll make a bargain with you. You join a gym and I’ll read one of those books from the brown row of ’em.”</p>
<p>“ ‘Pepys’ Diary’? Why, that ought to be enjoyable. He’s very light.”</p>
<p>“Not for me⁠—he isn’t. It’ll be like digesting plate glass. But you been telling me how much it’d broaden my lookout. Well, you go to a gym three nights a week and I’ll take one big dose of Sammy.”</p>
<p>Horace hesitated.</p>
<p>“Well⁠—”</p>
<p>“Come on, now! You do some giant swings for me and I’ll chase some culture for you.”</p>
<p>So Horace finally consented, and all through a baking summer he spent three and sometimes four evenings a week experimenting on the trapeze in Skipper’s Gymnasium. And in August he admitted to Marcia that it made him capable of more mental work during the day.</p>
<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Mens sana in corpore sano</i>,” he said.</p>
<p>“Don’t believe in it,” replied Marcia. “I tried one of those patent medicines once and they’re all bunk. You stick to gymnastics.”</p>
<p>One night in early September while he was going through one of his contortions on the rings in the nearly deserted room he was addressed by a meditative fat man whom he had noticed watching him for several nights.</p>
<p>“Say, lad, do that stunt you were doin’ last night.”</p>
<p>Horace grinned at him from his perch.</p>
<p>“I invented it,” he said. “I got the idea from the fourth proposition of Euclid.”</p>
<p>“What circus he with?”</p>
<p>“He’s dead.”</p>
<p>“Well, he must of broke his neck doin’ that stunt. I set here last night thinkin’ sure you was goin’ to break yours.”</p>
<p>“Like this!” said Horace, and swinging onto the trapeze he did his stunt.</p>
<p>“Don’t it kill your neck an’ shoulder muscles?”</p>
<p>“It did at first, but inside of a week I wrote the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Quod erat demonstrandum</i> on it.”</p>
<p>“Hm!”</p>
<p>Horace swung idly on the trapeze.</p>
<p>“Ever think of takin’ it up professionally?” asked the fat man.</p>
<p>“Not I.”</p>
<p>“Good money in it if you’re willin’ to do stunts like ’at an’ can get away with it.”</p>
<p>“Here’s another,” chirped Horace eagerly, and the fat man’s mouth dropped suddenly agape as he watched this pink-jerseyed Prometheus again defy the gods and Isaac Newton.</p>
<p>The night following this encounter Horace got home from work to find a rather pale Marcia stretched out on the sofa waiting for him.</p>
<p>“I fainted twice today,” she began without preliminaries.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Yep. You see baby’s due in four months now. Doctor says I ought to have quit dancing two weeks ago.”</p>
<p>Horace sat down and thought it over.</p>
<p>“I’m glad of course,” he said pensively⁠—“I mean glad that we’re going to have a baby. But this means a lot of expense.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got two hundred and fifty in the bank,” said Marcia hopefully, “and two weeks’ pay coming.”</p>
<p>Horace computed quickly.</p>
<p>“Inducing my salary, that’ll give us nearly fourteen hundred for the next six months.”</p>
<p>Marcia looked blue.</p>
<p>“That all? Course I can get a job singing somewhere this month. And I can go to work again in March.”</p>
<p>“Of course nothing!” said Horace gruffly. “You’ll stay right here. Let’s see now⁠—there’ll be doctor’s bills and a nurse, besides the maid: We’ve got to have some more money.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Marcia wearily, “I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s up to the old head now. Shoulders is out of business.”</p>
<p>Horace rose and pulled on his coat.</p>
<p>“Where are you going?”</p>
<p>“I’ve got an idea,” he answered. “I’ll be right back.”</p>
<p>Ten minutes later as he headed down the street toward Skipper’s Gymnasium he felt a placid wonder, quite unmixed with humor, at what he was going to do. How he would have gaped at himself a year before! How everyone would have gaped! But when you opened your door at the rap of life you let in many things.</p>
<p>The gymnasium was brightly lit, and when his eyes became accustomed to the glare he found the meditative fat man seated on a pile of canvas mats smoking a big cigar.</p>
<p>“Say,” began Horace directly, “were you in earnest last night when you said I could make money on my trapeze stunts?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes,” said the fat man in surprise.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ve been thinking it over, and I believe I’d like to try it. I could work at night and on Saturday afternoons⁠—and regularly if the pay is high enough.”</p>
<p>The fat men looked at his watch.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, “Charlie Paulson’s the man to see. He’ll book you inside of four days, once he sees you work out. He won’t be in now, but I’ll get hold of him for tomorrow night.”</p>
<p>The fat man was as good as his word. Charlie Paulson arrived next night and put in a wondrous hour watching the prodigy swap through the air in amazing parabolas, and on the night following he brought two age men with him who looked as though they had been born smoking black cigars and talking about money in low, passionate voices. Then on the succeeding Saturday Horace Tarbox’s torso made its first professional appearance in a gymnastic exhibition at the Coleman Street Gardens. But though the audience numbered nearly five thousand people, Horace felt no nervousness. From his childhood he had read papers to audiences⁠—learned that trick of detaching himself.</p>
<p>“Marcia,” he said cheerfully later that same night, “I think we’re out of the woods. Paulson thinks he can get me an opening at the Hippodrome, and that means an all-winter engagement. The Hippodrome you know, is a big⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes, I believe I’ve heard of it,” interrupted Marcia, “but I want to know about this stunt you’re doing. It isn’t any spectacular suicide, is it?”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing,” said Horace quietly. “But if you can think of an nicer way of a man killing himself than taking a risk for you, why that’s the way I want to die.”</p>
<p>Marcia reached up and wound both arms tightly round his neck.</p>
<p>“Kiss me,” she whispered, “and call me ‘dear heart.’ I love to hear you say ‘dear heart.’ And bring me a book to read tomorrow. No more Sam Pepys, but something trick and trashy. I’ve been wild for something to do all day. I felt like writing letters, but I didn’t have anybody to write to.”</p>
<p>“Write to me,” said Horace. “I’ll read them.”</p>
<p>“I wish I could,” breathed Marcia. “If I knew words enough I could write you the longest love-letter in the world⁠—and never get tired.”</p>
<p>But after two more months Marcia grew very tired indeed, and for a row of nights it was a very anxious, weary-looking young athlete who walked out before the Hippodrome crowd. Then there were two days when his place was taken by a young man who wore pale blue instead of white, and got very little applause. But after the two days Horace appeared again, and those who sat close to the stage remarked an expression of beatific happiness on that young acrobat’s face even when he was twisting breathlessly in the air an the middle of his amazing and original shoulder swing. After that performance he laughed at the elevator man and dashed up the stairs to the flat five steps at a time⁠—and then tiptoed very carefully into a quiet room.</p>
<p>“Marcia,” he whispered.</p>
<p>“Hello!” She smiled up at him wanly. “Horace, there’s something I want you to do. Look in my top bureau drawer and you’ll find a big stack of paper. It’s a book⁠—sort of⁠—Horace. I wrote it down in these last three months while I’ve been laid up. I wish you’d take it to that Peter Boyce Wendell who put my letter in his paper. He could tell you whether it’d be a good book. I wrote it just the way I talk, just the way I wrote that letter to him. It’s just a story about a lot of things that happened to me. Will you take it to him, Horace?”</p>
<p>“Yes, darling.”</p>
<p>He leaned over the bed until his head was beside her on the pillow, and began stroking back her yellow hair.</p>
<p>“Dearest Marcia,” he said softly.</p>
<p>“No,” she murmured, “call me what I told you to call me.”</p>
<p>“Dear heart,” he whispered passionately⁠—“dearest heart.”</p>
<p>“What’ll we call her?”</p>
<p>They rested a minute in happy, drowsy content, while Horace considered.</p>
<p>“We’ll call her Marcia Hume Tarbox,” he said at length.</p>
<p>“Why the Hume?”</p>
<p>“Because he’s the fellow who first introduced us.”</p>
<p>“That so?” she murmured, sleepily surprised. “I thought his name was Moon.”</p>
<p>Her eyes dosed, and after a moment the slow lengthening surge of the bedclothes over her breast showed that she was asleep.</p>
<p>Horace tiptoed over to the bureau and opening the top drawer found a heap of closely scrawled, lead-smeared pages. He looked at the first sheet:</p>
<blockquote class="play-titlecard">
<p>Sandra Pepys, Syncopated</p>
<p>By Marcia Tarbox</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He smiled. So Samuel Pepys had made an impression on her after all. He turned a page and began to read. His smile deepened⁠—he read on. Half an hour passed and he became aware that Marcia had waked and was watching him from the bed.</p>
<p>“Honey,” came in a whisper.</p>
<p>“What Marcia?”</p>
<p>“Do you like it?”</p>
<p>Horace coughed.</p>
<p>“I seem to be reading on. It’s bright.”</p>
<p>“Take it to Peter Boyce Wendell. Tell him you got the highest marks in Princeton once and that you ought to know when a book’s good. Tell him this one’s a world beater.”</p>
<p>“All right, Marcia,” Horace said gently.</p>
<p>Her eyes closed again and Horace crossing over kissed her forehead⁠—stood there for a moment with a look of tender pity. Then he left the room.</p>
<p>All that night the sprawly writing on the pages, the constant mistakes in spelling and grammar, and the weird punctuation danced before his eyes. He woke several times in the night, each time full of a welling chaotic sympathy for this desire of Marcia’s soul to express itself in words. To him there was something infinitely pathetic about it, and for the first time in months he began to turn over in his mind his own half-forgotten dreams.</p>
<p>He had meant to write a series of books, to popularize the new realism as Schopenhauer had popularized pessimism and William James pragmatism.</p>
<p>But life hadn’t come that way. Life took hold of people and forced them into flying rings. He laughed to think of that rap at his door, the diaphanous shadow in Hume, Marcia’s threatened kiss.</p>
<p>“And it’s still me,” he said aloud in wonder as he lay awake in the darkness. “I’m the man who sat in Berkeley with temerity to wonder if that rap would have had actual existence had my ear not been there to hear it. I’m still that man. I could be electrocuted for the crimes he committed.</p>
<p>“Poor gauzy souls trying to express ourselves in something tangible. Marcia with her written book; I with my unwritten ones. Trying to choose our mediums and then taking what we get⁠—and being glad.”</p>
</section>
<section id="head-and-shoulders-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>“Sandra Pepys, Syncopated,” with an introduction by Peter Boyce Wendell the columnist, appeared serially in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Jordan’s Magazine</i>, and came out in book form in March. From its first published instalment it attracted attention far and wide. A trite enough subject⁠—a girl from a small New Jersey town coming to New York to go on the stage⁠—treated simply, with a peculiar vividness of phrasing and a haunting undertone of sadness in the very inadequacy of its vocabulary, it made an irresistible appeal.</p>
<p>Peter Boyce Wendell, who happened at that time to be advocating the enrichment of the American language by the immediate adoption of expressive vernacular words, stood as its sponsor and thundered his endorsement over the placid bromides of the conventional reviewers.</p>
<p>Marcia received three hundred dollars an instalment for the serial publication, which came at an opportune time, for though Horace’s monthly salary at the Hippodrome was now more than Marcia’s had ever been, young Marcia was emitting shrill cries which they interpreted as a demand for country air. So early April found them installed in a bungalow in Westchester County, with a place for a lawn, a place for a garage, and a place for everything, including a soundproof impregnable study, in which Marcia faithfully promised <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jordan she would shut herself up when her daughter’s demands began to be abated, and compose immortally illiterate literature.</p>
<p>“It’s not half bad,” thought Horace one night as he was on his way from the station to his house. He was considering several prospects that had opened up, a four months’ vaudeville offer in five figures, a chance to go back to Princeton in charge of all gymnasium work. Odd! He had once intended to go back there in charge of all philosophic work, and now he had not even been stirred by the arrival in New York of Anton Laurier, his old idol.</p>
<p>The gravel crunched raucously under his heel. He saw the lights of his sitting-room gleaming and noticed a big car standing in the drive. Probably <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jordan again, come to persuade Marcia to settle down to work.</p>
<p>She had heard the sound of his approach and her form was silhouetted against the lighted door as she came out to meet him. “There’s some Frenchman here,” she whispered nervously. “I can’t pronounce his name, but he sounds awful deep. You’ll have to jaw with him.”</p>
<p>“What Frenchman?”</p>
<p>“You can’t prove it by me. He drove up an hour ago with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jordan, and said he wanted to meet Sandra Pepys, and all that sort of thing.”</p>
<p>Two men rose from chairs as they went inside.</p>
<p>“Hello Tarbox,” said Jordan. “I’ve just been bringing together two celebrities. I’ve brought M’sieur Laurier out with me. M’sieur Laurier, let me present <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tarbox, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tarbox’s husband.”</p>
<p>“Not Anton Laurier!” exclaimed Horace.</p>
<p>“But, yes. I must come. I have to come. I have read the book of Madame, and I have been charmed”⁠—he fumbled in his pocket⁠—“ah, I have read of you too. In this newspaper which I read today it has your name.”</p>
<p>He finally produced a clipping from a magazine.</p>
<p>“Read it!” he said eagerly. “It has about you too.”</p>
<p>Horace’s eye skipped down the page.</p>
<p>“A distinct contribution to American dialect literature,” it said. “No attempt at literary tone; the book derives its very quality from this fact, as did ‘Huckleberry Finn.’ ”</p>
<p>Horace’s eyes caught a passage lower down; he became suddenly aghast⁠—read on hurriedly:</p>
<p>“Marcia Tarbox’s connection with the stage is not only as a spectator but as the wife of a performer. She was married last year to Horace Tarbox, who every evening delights the children at the Hippodrome with his wondrous flying performance. It is said that the young couple have dubbed themselves Head and Shoulders, referring doubtless to the fact that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tarbox supplies the literary and mental qualities, while the supple and agile shoulder of her husband contribute their share to the family fortunes.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tarbox seems to merit that much-abused title⁠—‘prodigy.’ Only twenty⁠—”</p>
<p>Horace stopped reading, and with a very odd expression in his eyes gazed intently at Anton Laurier.</p>
<p>“I want to advise you⁠—” he began hoarsely.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“About raps. Don’t answer them! Let them alone⁠—have a padded door.”</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="benediction" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Benediction</h2>
<section id="benediction-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The Baltimore Station was hot and crowded, so Lois was forced to stand by the telegraph desk for interminable, sticky seconds while a clerk with big front teeth counted and recounted a large lady’s day message, to determine whether it contained the innocuous forty-nine words or the fatal fifty-one.</p>
<p>Lois, waiting, decided she wasn’t quite sure of the address, so she took the letter out of her bag and ran over it again.</p>
<p>“Darling,” <em>it began</em>⁠—“I understand and I’m happier than life ever meant me to be. If I could give you the things you’ve always been in tune with⁠—but I can’t, Lois; we can’t marry and we can’t lose each other and let all this glorious love end in nothing.</p>
<p>“Until your letter came, dear, I’d been sitting here in the half dark and thinking where I could go and ever forget you; abroad, perhaps, to drift through Italy or Spain and dream away the pain of having lost you where the crumbling ruins of older, mellower civilizations would mirror only the desolation of my heart⁠—and then your letter came.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
<p>“Sweetest, bravest girl, if you’ll wire me I’ll meet you in Wilmington⁠—till then I’ll be here just waiting and hoping for every long dream of you to come true.</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender">“Howard.”</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>She had read the letter so many times that she knew it word by word, yet it still startled her. In it she found many faint reflections of the man who wrote it⁠—the mingled sweetness and sadness in his dark eyes, the furtive, restless excitement she felt sometimes when he talked to her, his dreamy sensuousness that lulled her mind to sleep. Lois was nineteen and very romantic and curious and courageous.</p>
<p>The large lady and the clerk having compromised on fifty words, Lois took a blank and wrote her telegram. And there were no overtones to the finality of her decision.</p>
<p>It’s just destiny⁠—she thought⁠—it’s just the way things work out in this damn world. If cowardice is all that’s been holding me back there won’t be any more holding back. So we’ll just let things take their course and never be sorry.</p>
<p>The clerk scanned her telegram:</p>
<blockquote class="telegram" epub:type="z3998:letter">
<p>“Arrived Baltimore today spend day with my brother meet me Wilmington three <abbr>p.m.</abbr> Wednesday Love</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender">“Lois.”</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>“Fifty-four cents,” said the clerk admiringly.</p>
<p>And never be sorry⁠—thought Lois⁠—and never be sorry⁠—</p>
</section>
<section id="benediction-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Trees filtering light onto dapple grass. Trees like tall, languid ladies with feather fans coquetting airily with the ugly roof of the monastery. Trees like butlers, bending courteously over placid walks and paths. Trees, trees over the hills on either side and scattering out in clumps and lines and woods all through eastern Maryland, delicate lace on the hems of many yellow fields, dark opaque backgrounds for flowered bushes or wild climbing garden.</p>
<p>Some of the trees were very gay and young, but the monastery trees were older than the monastery which, by true monastic standards, wasn’t very old at all. And, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t technically called a monastery, but only a seminary; nevertheless it shall be a monastery here despite its Victorian architecture or its Edward <span epub:type="z3998:roman">VII</span> additions, or even its Woodrow Wilsonian, patented, last-a-century roofing.</p>
<p>Out behind was the farm where half a dozen lay brothers were sweating lustily as they moved with deadly efficiency around the vegetable-gardens. To the left, behind a row of elms, was an informal baseball diamond where three novices were being batted out by a fourth, amid great chasings and puffings and blowings. And in front as a great mellow bell boomed the half-hour a swarm of black, human leaves were blown over the checkerboard of paths under the courteous trees.</p>
<p>Some of these black leaves were very old with cheeks furrowed like the first ripples of a splashed pool. Then there was a scattering of middle-aged leaves whose forms when viewed in profile in their revealing gowns were beginning to be faintly unsymmetrical. These carried thick volumes of Thomas Aquinas and Henry James and Cardinal Mercier and Immanuel Kant and many bulging notebooks filled with lecture data.</p>
<p>But most numerous were the young leaves; blond boys of nineteen with very stern, conscientious expressions; men in the late twenties with a keen self-assurance from having taught out in the world for five years⁠—several hundreds of them, from city and town and country in Maryland and Pennsylvania and Virginia and West Virginia and Delaware.</p>
<p>There were many Americans and some Irish and some tough Irish and a few French, and several Italians and Poles, and they walked informally arm in arm with each other in twos and threes or in long rows, almost universally distinguished by the straight mouth and the considerable chin⁠—for this was the Society of Jesus, founded in Spain five hundred years before by a tough-minded soldier who trained men to hold a breach or a salon, preach a sermon or write a treaty, and do it and not argue⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Lois got out of a bus into the sunshine down by the outer gate. She was nineteen with yellow hair and eyes that people were tactful enough not to call green. When men of talent saw her in a streetcar they often furtively produced little stub-pencils and backs of envelopes and tried to sum up that profile or the thing that the eyebrows did to her eyes. Later they looked at their results and usually tore them up with wondering sighs.</p>
<p>Though Lois was very jauntily attired in an expensively appropriate travelling affair, she did not linger to pat out the dust which covered her clothes, but started up the central walk with curious glances at either side. Her face was very eager and expectant, yet she hadn’t at all that glorified expression that girls wear when they arrive for a Senior Prom at Princeton or New Haven; still, as there were no senior proms here, perhaps it didn’t matter.</p>
<p>She was wondering what he would look like, whether she’d possibly know him from his picture. In the picture, which hung over her mother’s bureau at home, he seemed very young and hollow-cheeked and rather pitiful, with only a well-developed mouth and all ill-fitting probationer’s gown to show that he had already made a momentous decision about his life. Of course he had been only nineteen then and now he was thirty-six⁠—didn’t look like that at all; in recent snapshots he was much broader and his hair had grown a little thin⁠—but the impression of her brother she had always retained was that of the big picture. And so she had always been a little sorry for him. What a life for a man! Seventeen years of preparation and he wasn’t even a priest yet⁠—wouldn’t be for another year.</p>
<p>Lois had an idea that this was all going to be rather solemn if she let it be. But she was going to give her very best imitation of undiluted sunshine, the imitation she could give even when her head was splitting or when her mother had a nervous breakdown or when she was particularly romantic and curious and courageous. This brother of hers undoubtedly needed cheering up, and he was going to be cheered up, whether he liked it or not.</p>
<p>As she drew near the great, homely front door she saw a man break suddenly away from a group and, pulling up the skirts of his gown, run toward her. He was smiling, she noticed, and he looked very big and⁠—and reliable. She stopped and waited, knew that her heart was beating unusually fast.</p>
<p>“Lois!” he cried, and in a second she was in his arms. She was suddenly trembling.</p>
<p>“Lois!” he cried again, “why, this is wonderful! I can’t tell you, Lois, how <em>much</em> I’ve looked forward to this. Why, Lois, you’re beautiful!”</p>
<p>Lois gasped.</p>
<p>His voice, though restrained, was vibrant with energy and that odd sort of enveloping personality she had thought that she only of the family possessed.</p>
<p>“I’m mighty glad, too⁠—Kieth.”</p>
<p>She flushed, but not unhappily, at this first use of his name.</p>
<p>“Lois⁠—Lois⁠—Lois,” he repeated in wonder. “Child, we’ll go in here a minute, because I want you to meet the rector, and then we’ll walk around. I have a thousand things to talk to you about.”</p>
<p>His voice became graver. “How’s mother?”</p>
<p>She looked at him for a moment and then said something that she had not intended to say at all, the very sort of thing she had resolved to avoid.</p>
<p>“Oh, Kieth⁠—she’s⁠—she’s getting worse all the time, every way.”</p>
<p>He nodded slowly as if he understood.</p>
<p>“Nervous, well⁠—you can tell me about that later. Now⁠—”</p>
<p>She was in a small study with a large desk, saying something to a little, jovial, white-haired priest who retained her hand for some seconds.</p>
<p>“So this is Lois!”</p>
<p>He said it as if he had heard of her for years.</p>
<p>He entreated her to sit down.</p>
<p>Two other priests arrived enthusiastically and shook hands with her and addressed her as “Kieth’s little sister,” which she found she didn’t mind a bit.</p>
<p>How assured they seemed; she had expected a certain shyness, reserve at least. There were several jokes unintelligible to her, which seemed to delight everyone, and the little Father Rector referred to the trio of them as “dim old monks,” which she appreciated, because of course they weren’t monks at all. She had a lightning impression that they were especially fond of Kieth⁠—the Father Rector had called him “Kieth” and one of the others had kept a hand on his shoulder all through the conversation. Then she was shaking hands again and promising to come back a little later for some ice-cream, and smiling and smiling and being rather absurdly happy⁠ ⁠… she told herself that it was because Kieth was so delighted in showing her off.</p>
<p>Then she and Kieth were strolling along a path, arm in arm, and he was informing her what an absolute jewel the Father Rector was.</p>
<p>“Lois,” he broke off suddenly, “I want to tell you before we go any farther how much it means to me to have you come up here. I think it was⁠—mighty sweet of you. I know what a gay time you’ve been having.”</p>
<p>Lois gasped. She was not prepared for this. At first when she had conceived the plan of taking the hot journey down to Baltimore staying the night with a friend and then coming out to see her brother, she had felt rather consciously virtuous, hoped he wouldn’t be priggish or resentful about her not having come before⁠—but walking here with him under the trees seemed such a little thing, and surprisingly a happy thing.</p>
<p>“Why, Kieth,” she said quickly, “you know I couldn’t have waited a day longer. I saw you when I was five, but of course I didn’t remember, and how could I have gone on without practically ever having seen my only brother?”</p>
<p>“It was mighty sweet of you, Lois,” he repeated.</p>
<p>Lois blushed⁠—he <em>did</em> have personality.</p>
<p>“I want you to tell me all about yourself,” he said after a pause. “Of course I have a general idea what you and mother did in Europe those fourteen years, and then we were all so worried, Lois, when you had pneumonia and couldn’t come down with mother⁠—let’s see that was two years ago⁠—and then, well, I’ve seen your name in the papers, but it’s all been so unsatisfactory. I haven’t known you, Lois.”</p>
<p>She found herself analyzing his personality as she analyzed the personality of every man she met. She wondered if the effect of⁠—of intimacy that he gave was bred by his constant repetition of her name. He said it as if he loved the word, as if it had an inherent meaning to him.</p>
<p>“Then you were at school,” he continued.</p>
<p>“Yes, at Farmington. Mother wanted me to go to a convent⁠—but I didn’t want to.”</p>
<p>She cast a side glance at him to see if he would resent this.</p>
<p>But he only nodded slowly.</p>
<p>“Had enough convents abroad, eh?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—and Kieth, convents are different there anyway. Here even in the nicest ones there are so many <em>common</em> girls.”</p>
<p>He nodded again.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he agreed, “I suppose there are, and I know how you feel about it. It grated on me here, at first, Lois, though I wouldn’t say that to anyone but you; we’re rather sensitive, you and I, to things like this.”</p>
<p>“You mean the men here?”</p>
<p>“Yes, some of them of course were fine, the sort of men I’d always been thrown with, but there were others; a man named Regan, for instance⁠—I hated the fellow, and now he’s about the best friend I have. A wonderful character, Lois; you’ll meet him later. Sort of man you’d like to have with you in a fight.”</p>
<p>Lois was thinking that Kieth was the sort of man she’d like to have with <em>her</em> in a fight.</p>
<p>“How did you⁠—how did you first happen to do it?” she asked, rather shyly, “to come here, I mean. Of course mother told me the story about the Pullman car.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that⁠—” He looked rather annoyed.</p>
<p>“Tell me that. I’d like to hear you tell it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s nothing except what you probably know. It was evening and I’d been riding all day and thinking about⁠—about a hundred things, Lois, and then suddenly I had a sense that someone was sitting across from me, felt that he’d been there for some time, and had a vague idea that he was another traveller. All at once he leaned over toward me and I heard a voice say: ‘I want you to be a priest, that’s what I want.’ Well I jumped up and cried out, ‘Oh, my God, not that!’⁠—made an idiot of myself before about twenty people; you see there wasn’t anyone sitting there at all. A week after that I went to the Jesuit College in Philadelphia and crawled up the last flight of stairs to the rector’s office on my hands and knees.”</p>
<p>There was another silence and Lois saw that her brother’s eyes wore a faraway look, that he was staring unseeingly out over the sunny fields. She was stirred by the modulations of his voice and the sudden silence that seemed to flow about him when he finished speaking.</p>
<p>She noticed now that his eyes were of the same fibre as hers, with the green left out, and that his mouth was much gentler, really, than in the picture⁠—or was it that the face had grown up to it lately? He was getting a little bald just on top of his head. She wondered if that was from wearing a hat so much. It seemed awful for a man to grow bald and no one to care about it.</p>
<p>“Were you⁠—pious when you were young, Kieth?” she asked. “You know what I mean. Were you religious? If you don’t mind these personal questions.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said with his eyes still far away⁠—and she felt that his intense abstraction was as much a part of his personality as his attention. “Yes, I suppose I was, when I was⁠—sober.”</p>
<p>Lois thrilled slightly.</p>
<p>“Did you drink?”</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>“I was on the way to making a bad hash of things.” He smiled and, turning his gray eyes on her, changed the subject.</p>
<p>“Child, tell me about mother. I know it’s been awfully hard for you there, lately. I know you’ve had to sacrifice a lot and put up with a great deal and I want you to know how fine of you I think it is. I feel, Lois, that you’re sort of taking the place of both of us there.”</p>
<p>Lois thought quickly how little she had sacrificed; how lately she had constantly avoided her nervous, half-invalid mother.</p>
<p>“Youth shouldn’t be sacrificed to age, Kieth,” she said steadily.</p>
<p>“I know,” he sighed, “and you oughtn’t to have the weight on your shoulders, child. I wish I were there to help you.”</p>
<p>She saw how quickly he had turned her remark and instantly she knew what this quality was that he gave off. He was <em>sweet</em>. Her thoughts went of on a sidetrack and then she broke the silence with an odd remark.</p>
<p>“Sweetness is hard,” she said suddenly.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Nothing,” she denied in confusion. “I didn’t mean to speak aloud. I was thinking of something⁠—of a conversation with a man named Freddy Kebble.”</p>
<p>“Maury Kebble’s brother?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said rather surprised to think of him having known Maury Kebble. Still there was nothing strange about it. “Well, he and I were talking about sweetness a few weeks ago. Oh, I don’t know⁠—I said that a man named Howard⁠—that a man I knew was sweet, and he didn’t agree with me, and we began talking about what sweetness in a man was: He kept telling me I meant a sort of soppy softness, but I knew I didn’t⁠—yet I didn’t know exactly how to put it. I see now. I meant just the opposite. I suppose real sweetness is a sort of hardness⁠—and strength.”</p>
<p>Kieth nodded.</p>
<p>“I see what you mean. I’ve known old priests who had it.”</p>
<p>“I’m talking about young men,” she said rather defiantly.</p>
<p>They had reached the now deserted baseball diamond and, pointing her to a wooden bench, he sprawled full length on the grass.</p>
<p>“Are these <em>young</em> men happy here, Kieth?”</p>
<p>“Don’t they look happy, Lois?”</p>
<p>“I suppose so, but those <em>young</em> ones, those two we just passed⁠—have they⁠—are they⁠—”</p>
<p>“Are they signed up?” he laughed. “No, but they will be next month.”</p>
<p>“Permanently?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—unless they break down mentally or physically. Of course in a discipline like ours a lot drop out.”</p>
<p>“But those <em>boys</em>. Are they giving up fine chances outside⁠—like you did?”</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>“Some of them.”</p>
<p>“But Kieth, they don’t know what they’re doing. They haven’t had any experience of what they’re missing.”</p>
<p>“No, I suppose not.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t seem fair. Life has just sort of scared them at first. Do they all come in so <em>young</em>?”</p>
<p>“No, some of them have knocked around, led pretty wild lives⁠—Regan, for instance.”</p>
<p>“I should think that sort would be better,” she said meditatively, “men that had <em>seen</em> life.”</p>
<p>“No,” said Kieth earnestly, “I’m not sure that knocking about gives a man the sort of experience he can communicate to others. Some of the broadest men I’ve known have been absolutely rigid about themselves. And reformed libertines are a notoriously intolerant class. Don’t you think so, Lois?”</p>
<p>She nodded, still meditative, and he continued:</p>
<p>“It seems to me that when one weak reason goes to another, it isn’t help they want; it’s a sort of companionship in guilt, Lois. After you were born, when mother began to get nervous she used to go and weep with a certain <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Comstock. Lord, it used to make me shiver. She said it comforted her, poor old mother. No, I don’t think that to help others you’ve got to show yourself at all. Real help comes from a stronger person whom you respect. And their sympathy is all the bigger because it’s impersonal.”</p>
<p>“But people want human sympathy,” objected Lois. “They want to feel the other person’s been tempted.”</p>
<p>“Lois, in their hearts they want to feel that the other person’s been weak. That’s what they mean by human.</p>
<p>“Here in this old monkery, Lois,” he continued with a smile, “they try to get all that self-pity and pride in our own wills out of us right at the first. They put us to scrubbing floors⁠—and other things. It’s like that idea of saving your life by losing it. You see we sort of feel that the less human a man is, in your sense of human, the better servant he can be to humanity. We carry it out to the end, too. When one of us dies his family can’t even have him then. He’s buried here under plain wooden cross with a thousand others.”</p>
<p>His tone changed suddenly and he looked at her with a great brightness in his gray eyes.</p>
<p>“But way back in a man’s heart there are some things he can’t get rid of⁠—an one of them is that I’m awfully in love with my little sister.”</p>
<p>With a sudden impulse she knelt beside him in the grass and, Leaning over, kissed his forehead.</p>
<p>“You’re hard, Kieth,” she said, “and I love you for it⁠—and you’re sweet.”</p>
</section>
<section id="benediction-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Back in the reception-room Lois met a half-dozen more of Kieth’s particular friends; there was a young man named Jarvis, rather pale and delicate-looking, who, she knew, must be a grandson of old <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Jarvis at home, and she mentally compared this ascetic with a brace of his riotous uncles.</p>
<p>And there was Regan with a scarred face and piercing intent eyes that followed her about the room and often rested on Kieth with something very like worship. She knew then what Kieth had meant about “a good man to have with you in a fight.”</p>
<p>He’s the missionary type⁠—she thought vaguely⁠—China or something.</p>
<p>“I want Kieth’s sister to show us what the shimmy is,” demanded one young man with a broad grin.</p>
<p>Lois laughed.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid the Father Rector would send me shimmying out the gate. Besides, I’m not an expert.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure it wouldn’t be best for Jimmy’s soul anyway,” said Kieth solemnly. “He’s inclined to brood about things like shimmys. They were just starting to do the⁠—maxixe, wasn’t it, Jimmy?⁠—when he became a monk, and it haunted him his whole first year. You’d see him when he was peeling potatoes, putting his arm around the bucket and making irreligious motions with his feet.”</p>
<p>There was a general laugh in which Lois joined.</p>
<p>“An old lady who comes here to Mass sent Kieth this ice-cream,” whispered Jarvis under cover of the laugh, “because she’d heard you were coming. It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>There were tears trembling in Lois’ eyes.</p>
</section>
<section id="benediction-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Then half an hour later over in the chapel things suddenly went all wrong. It was several years since Lois had been at Benediction and at first she was thrilled by the gleaming monstrance with its central spot of white, the air rich and heavy with incense, and the sun shining through the stained-glass window of <abbr>St.</abbr> Francis Xavier overhead and falling in warm red tracery on the cassock of the man in front of her, but at the first notes of the “<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">O salutaris hostia</i>” a heavy weight seemed to descend upon her soul. Kieth was on her right and young Jarvis on her left, and she stole uneasy glance at both of them.</p>
<p>What’s the matter with me? she thought impatiently.</p>
<p>She looked again. Was there a certain coldness in both their profiles, that she had not noticed before⁠—a pallor about the mouth and a curious set expression in their eyes? She shivered slightly: they were like dead men.</p>
<p>She felt her soul recede suddenly from Kieth’s. This was her brother⁠—this, this unnatural person. She caught herself in the act of a little laugh.</p>
<p>“What is the matter with me?”</p>
<p>She passed her hand over her eyes and the weight increased. The incense sickened her and a stray, ragged note from one of the tenors in the choir grated on her ear like the shriek of a slate-pencil. She fidgeted, and raising her hand to her hair touched her forehead, found moisture on it.</p>
<p>“It’s hot in here, hot as the deuce.”</p>
<p>Again she repressed a faint laugh and, then in an instant the weight on her heart suddenly diffused into cold fear.⁠ ⁠… It was that candle on the altar. It was all wrong⁠—wrong. Why didn’t somebody see it? There was something <em>in</em> it. There was something coming out of it, taking form and shape above it.</p>
<p>She tried to fight down her rising panic, told herself it was the wick. If the wick wasn’t straight, candles did something⁠—but they didn’t do this! With incalculable rapidity a force was gathering within her, a tremendous, assimilative force, drawing from every sense, every corner of her brain, and as it surged up inside her she felt an enormous terrified repulsion. She drew her arms in close to her side away from Kieth and Jarvis.</p>
<p>Something in that candle⁠ ⁠… she was leaning forward⁠—in another moment she felt she would go forward toward it⁠—didn’t anyone see it?⁠ ⁠… anyone?</p>
<p>“Ugh!”</p>
<p>She felt a space beside her and something told her that Jarvis had gasped and sat down very suddenly⁠ ⁠… then she was kneeling and as the flaming monstrance slowly left the altar in the hands of the priest, she heard a great rushing noise in her ears⁠—the crash of the bells was like hammer-blows⁠ ⁠… and then in a moment that seemed eternal a great torrent rolled over her heart⁠—there was a shouting there and a lashing as of waves⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>… She was calling, felt herself calling for Kieth, her lips mouthing the words that would not come:</p>
<p>“Kieth! Oh, my God! <em>Kieth!</em>”</p>
<p>Suddenly she became aware of a new presence, something external, in front of her, consummated and expressed in warm red tracery. Then she knew. It was the window of <abbr>St.</abbr> Francis Xavier. Her mind gripped at it, clung to it finally, and she felt herself calling again endlessly, impotently⁠—Kieth⁠—Kieth!</p>
<p>Then out of a great stillness came a voice:</p>
<p>“<em>Blessed be God.</em>”</p>
<p>With a gradual rumble sounded the response rolling heavily through the chapel:</p>
<p>“Blessed be God.”</p>
<p>The words sang instantly in her heart; the incense lay mystically and sweetly peaceful upon the air, and <em>the candle on the altar went out</em>.</p>
<p>“Blessed be His Holy Name.”</p>
<p>“Blessed be His Holy Name.”</p>
<p>Everything blurred into a swinging mist. With a sound half-gasp, half-cry she rocked on her feet and reeled backward into Kieth’s suddenly outstretched arms.</p>
</section>
<section id="benediction-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>“Lie still, child.”</p>
<p>She closed her eyes again. She was on the grass outside, pillowed on Kieth’s arm, and Regan was dabbing her head with a cold towel.</p>
<p>“I’m all right,” she said quietly.</p>
<p>“I know, but just lie still a minute longer. It was too hot in there. Jarvis felt it, too.”</p>
<p>She laughed as Regan again touched her gingerly with the towel.</p>
<p>“I’m all right,” she repeated.</p>
<p>But though a warm peace was falling her mind and heart she felt oddly broken and chastened, as if someone had held her stripped soul up and laughed.</p>
</section>
<section id="benediction-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>Half an hour later she walked leaning on Kieth’s arm down the long central path toward the gate.</p>
<p>“It’s been such a short afternoon,” he sighed, “and I’m so sorry you were sick, Lois.”</p>
<p>“Kieth, I’m feeling fine now, really; I wish you wouldn’t worry.”</p>
<p>“Poor old child. I didn’t realize that Benediction’d be a long service for you after your hot trip out here and all.”</p>
<p>She laughed cheerfully.</p>
<p>“I guess the truth is I’m not much used to Benediction. Mass is the limit of my religious exertions.”</p>
<p>She paused and then continued quickly:</p>
<p>“I don’t want to shock you, Kieth, but I can’t tell you how⁠—how <em>inconvenient</em> being a Catholic is. It really doesn’t seem to apply any more. As far as morals go, some of the wildest boys I know are Catholics. And the brightest boys⁠—I mean the ones who think and read a lot, don’t seem to believe in much of anything any more.”</p>
<p>“Tell me about it. The bus won’t be here for another half-hour.”</p>
<p>They sat down on a bench by the path.</p>
<p>“For instance, Gerald Carter, he’s published a novel. He absolutely roars when people mention immortality. And then Howa⁠—well, another man I’ve known well, lately, who was Phi Beta Kappa at Harvard says that no intelligent person can believe in Supernatural Christianity. He says Christ was a great socialist, though. Am I shocking you?”</p>
<p>She broke off suddenly.</p>
<p>Kieth smiled.</p>
<p>“You can’t shock a monk. He’s a professional shock-absorber.”</p>
<p>“Well,” she continued, “that’s about all. It seems so⁠—so <em>narrow</em>. Church schools, for instance. There’s more freedom about things that Catholic people can’t see⁠—like birth control.”</p>
<p>Kieth winced, almost imperceptibly, but Lois saw it.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she said quickly, “everybody talks about everything now.”</p>
<p>“It’s probably better that way.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, much better. Well, that’s all, Kieth. I just wanted to tell you why I’m a little⁠—lukewarm, at present.”</p>
<p>“I’m not shocked, Lois. I understand better than you think. We all go through those times. But I know it’ll come out all right, child. There’s that gift of faith that we have, you and I, that’ll carry us past the bad spots.”</p>
<p>He rose as he spoke and they started again down the path.</p>
<p>“I want you to pray for me sometimes, Lois. I think your prayers would be about what I need. Because we’ve come very close in these few hours, I think.”</p>
<p>Her eyes were suddenly shining.</p>
<p>“Oh we have, we have!” she cried. “I feel closer to you now than to anyone in the world.”</p>
<p>He stopped suddenly and indicated the side of the path.</p>
<p>“We might⁠—just a minute⁠—”</p>
<p>It was a pietà, a life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin set within a semicircle of rocks.</p>
<p>Feeling a little self-conscious she dropped on her knees beside him and made an unsuccessful attempt at prayer.</p>
<p>She was only half through when he rose. He took her arm again.</p>
<p>“I wanted to thank Her for letting us have this day together,” he said simply.</p>
<p>Lois felt a sudden lump in her throat and she wanted to say something that would tell him how much it had meant to her, too. But she found no words.</p>
<p>“I’ll always remember this,” he continued, his voice trembling a little⁠—“this summer day with you. It’s been just what I expected. You’re just what I expected, Lois.”</p>
<p>“I’m awfully glad, Keith.”</p>
<p>“You see, when you were little they kept sending me snapshots of you, first as a baby and then as a child in socks playing on the beach with a pail and shovel, and then suddenly as a wistful little girl with wondering, pure eyes⁠—and I used to build dreams about you. A man has to have something living to cling to. I think, Lois, it was your little white soul I tried to keep near me⁠—even when life was at its loudest and every intellectual idea of God seemed the sheerest mockery, and desire and love and a million things came up to me and said: ‘Look here at me! See, I’m Life. You’re turning your back on it!’ All the way through that shadow, Lois, I could always see your baby soul flitting on ahead of me, very frail and clear and wonderful.”</p>
<p>Lois was crying softly. They had reached the gate and she rested her elbow on it and dabbed furiously at her eyes.</p>
<p>“And then later, child, when you were sick I knelt all one night and asked God to spare you for me⁠—for I knew then that I wanted more; He had taught me to want more. I wanted to know you moved and breathed in the same world with me. I saw you growing up, that white innocence of yours changing to a flame and burning to give light to other weaker souls. And then I wanted some day to take your children on my knee and hear them call the crabbed old monk Uncle Kieth.”</p>
<p>He seemed to be laughing now as he talked.</p>
<p>“Oh, Lois, Lois, I was asking God for more then. I wanted the letters you’d write me and the place I’d have at your table. I wanted an awful lot, Lois, dear.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got me, Kieth,” she sobbed, “you know it, say you know it. Oh, I’m acting like a baby but I didn’t think you’d be this way, and I⁠—oh, Kieth⁠—Kieth⁠—”</p>
<p>He took her hand and patted it softly.</p>
<p>“Here’s the bus. You’ll come again won’t you?”</p>
<p>She put her hands on his cheeks, add drawing his head down, pressed her tear-wet face against his.</p>
<p>“Oh, Kieth, brother, some day I’ll tell you something.”</p>
<p>He helped her in, saw her take down her handkerchief and smile bravely at him, as the driver kicked his whip and the bus rolled off. Then a thick cloud of dust rose around it and she was gone.</p>
<p>For a few minutes he stood there on the road his hand on the gatepost, his lips half parted in a smile.</p>
<p>“Lois,” he said aloud in a sort of wonder, “Lois, Lois.”</p>
<p>Later, some probationers passing noticed him kneeling before the pietà, and coming back after a time found him still there. And he was there until twilight came down and the courteous trees grew garrulous overhead and the crickets took up their burden of song in the dusky grass.</p>
</section>
<section id="benediction-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h3>
<p>The first clerk in the telegraph booth in the Baltimore Station whistled through his buck teeth at the second clerk:</p>
<p>“S’matter?”</p>
<p>“See that girl⁠—no, the pretty one with the big black dots on her veil. Too late⁠—she’s gone. You missed somep’n.”</p>
<p>“What about her?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. ’Cept she’s damn good-looking. Came in here yesterday and sent a wire to some guy to meet her somewhere. Then a minute ago she came in with a telegram all written out and was standin’ there goin’ to give it to me when she changed her mind or somep’n and all of a sudden tore it up.”</p>
<p>“Hm.”</p>
<p>The first clerk came around tile counter and picking up the two pieces of paper from the floor put them together idly. The second clerk read them over his shoulder and subconsciously counted the words as he read. There were just thirteen.</p>
<blockquote class="telegram" epub:type="z3998:letter">
<p>“This is in the way of a permanent goodbye. I should suggest Italy.</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender">“Lois.”</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>“Tore it up, eh?” said the second clerk.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Dalyrimple Goes Wrong</h2>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>In the millennium an educational genius will write a book to be given to every young man on the date of his disillusion. This work will have the flavor of Montaigne’s essays and Samuel Butler’s notebooks⁠—and a little of Tolstoy and Marcus Aurelius. It will be neither cheerful nor pleasant but will contain numerous passages of striking humor. Since first-class minds never believe anything very strongly until they’ve experienced it, its value will be purely relative⁠ ⁠… all people over thirty will refer to it as “depressing.”</p>
<p>This prelude belongs to the story of a young man who lived, as you and I do, before the book.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The generation which numbered Bryan Dalyrimple drifted out of adolescence to a mighty fanfare of trumpets. Bryan played the star in an affair which included a Lewis gun and a nine-day romp behind the retreating German lines, so luck triumphant or sentiment rampant awarded him a row of medals and on his arrival in the States he was told that he was second in importance only to General Pershing and Sergeant York. This was a lot of fun. The governor of his State, a stray congressman, and a citizens’ committee gave him enormous smiles and “By God, Sirs” on the dock at Hoboken; there were newspaper reporters and photographers who said “would you mind” and “if you could just”; and back in his home town there were old ladies, the rims of whose eyes grew red as they talked to him, and girls who hadn’t remembered him so well since his father’s business went <i>blah!</i> in nineteen-twelve.</p>
<p>But when the shouting died he realized that for a month he had been the house guest of the mayor, that he had only fourteen dollars in the world and that “the name that will live forever in the annals and legends of this State” was already living there very quietly and obscurely.</p>
<p>One morning he lay late in bed and just outside his door he heard the upstairs maid talking to the cook. The upstairs maid said that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hawkins, the mayor’s wife, had been trying for a week to hint Dalyrimple out of the house. He left at eleven o’clock in intolerable confusion, asking that his trunk be sent to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Beebe’s boardinghouse.</p>
<p>Dalyrimple was twenty-three and he had never worked. His father had given him two years at the State University and passed away about the time of his son’s nine-day romp, leaving behind him some mid-Victorian furniture and a thin packet of folded paper that turned out to be grocery bills. Young Dalyrimple had very keen gray eyes, a mind that delighted the army psychological examiners, a trick of having read it⁠—whatever it was⁠—some time before, and a cool hand in a hot situation. But these things did not save him a final, unresigned sigh when he realized that he had to go to work⁠—right away.</p>
<p>It was early afternoon when he walked into the office of Theron <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Macy, who owned the largest wholesale grocery house in town. Plump, prosperous, wearing a pleasant but quite unhumorous smile, Theron <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Macy greeted him warmly.</p>
<p>“Well⁠—how do, Bryan? What’s on your mind?”</p>
<p>To Dalyrimple, straining with his admission, his own words, when they came, sounded like an Arab beggar’s whine for alms.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—this question of a job.” (“This question of a job” seemed somehow more clothed than just “a job.”)</p>
<p>“A job?” An almost imperceptible breeze blew across <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy’s expression.</p>
<p>“You see, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy,” continued Dalyrimple, “I feel I’m wasting time. I want to get started at something. I had several chances about a month ago but they all seem to have⁠—gone⁠—”</p>
<p>“Let’s see,” interrupted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy. “What were they?”</p>
<p>“Well, just at the first the governor said something about a vacancy on his staff. I was sort of counting on that for a while, but I hear he’s given it to Allen Gregg, you know, son of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G. P.</abbr> Gregg. He sort of forgot what he said to me⁠—just talking, I guess.”</p>
<p>“You ought to push those things.”</p>
<p>“Then there was that engineering expedition, but they decided they’d have to have a man who knew hydraulics, so they couldn’t use me unless I paid my own way.”</p>
<p>“You had just a year at the university?”</p>
<p>“Two. But I didn’t take any science or mathematics. Well, the day the battalion paraded, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Peter Jordan said something about a vacancy in his store. I went around there today and I found he meant a sort of floorwalker⁠—and then you said something one day”⁠—he paused and waited for the older man to take him up, but noting only a minute wince continued⁠—“about a position, so I thought I’d come and see you.”</p>
<p>“There was a position,” confessed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy reluctantly, “but since then we’ve filled it.” He cleared his throat again. “You’ve waited quite a while.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I suppose I did. Everybody told me there was no hurry⁠—and I’d had these various offers.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy delivered a paragraph on present-day opportunities which Dalyrimple’s mind completely skipped.</p>
<p>“Have you had any business experience?”</p>
<p>“I worked on a ranch two summers as a rider.”</p>
<p>“Oh, well,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy disparaged this neatly, and then continued: “What do you think you’re worth?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Well, Bryan, I tell you, I’m willing to strain a point and give you a chance.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple nodded.</p>
<p>“Your salary won’t be much. You’ll start by learning the stock. Then you’ll come in the office for a while. Then you’ll go on the road. When could you begin?”</p>
<p>“How about tomorrow?”</p>
<p>“All right. Report to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hanson in the stockroom. He’ll start you off.”</p>
<p>He continued to regard Dalyrimple steadily until the latter, realizing that the interview was over, rose awkwardly.</p>
<p>“Well, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy, I’m certainly much obliged.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right. Glad to help you, Bryan.”</p>
<p>After an irresolute moment, Dalyrimple found himself in the hall. His forehead was covered with perspiration, and the room had not been hot.</p>
<p>“Why the devil did I thank the son of a gun?” he muttered.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Next morning <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hanson informed him coldly of the necessity of punching the time-clock at seven every morning, and delivered him for instruction into the hands of a fellow worker, one Charley Moore.</p>
<p>Charley was twenty-six, with that faint musk of weakness hanging about him that is often mistaken for the scent of evil. It took no psychological examiner to decide that he had drifted into indulgence and laziness as casually as he had drifted into life, and was to drift out. He was pale and his clothes stank of smoke; he enjoyed burlesque shows, billiards, and Robert Service, and was always looking back upon his last intrigue or forward to his next one. In his youth his taste had run to loud ties, but now it seemed to have faded, like his vitality, and was expressed in pale-lilac four-in-hands and indeterminate gray collars. Charley was listlessly struggling that losing struggle against mental, moral, and physical anemia that takes place ceaselessly on the lower fringe of the middle classes.</p>
<p>The first morning he stretched himself on a row of cereal cartons and carefully went over the limitations of the Theron <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Macy Company.</p>
<p>“It’s a piker organization. My Gosh! Lookit what they give me. I’m quittin’ in a coupla months. Hell! Me stay with this bunch!”</p>
<p>The Charley Moores are always going to change jobs next month. They do, once or twice in their careers, after which they sit around comparing their last job with the present one, to the infinite disparagement of the latter.</p>
<p>“What do you get?” asked Dalyrimple curiously.</p>
<p>“Me? I get sixty.” This rather defiantly.</p>
<p>“Did you start at sixty?”</p>
<p>“Me? No, I started at thirty-five. He told me he’d put me on the road after I learned the stock. That’s what he tells ’em all.”</p>
<p>“How long’ve you been here?” asked Dalyrimple with a sinking sensation.</p>
<p>“Me? Four years. My last year, too, you bet your boots.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple rather resented the presence of the store detective as he resented the time-clock, and he came into contact with him almost immediately through the rule against smoking. This rule was a thorn in his side. He was accustomed to his three or four cigarettes in a morning, and after three days without it he followed Charley Moore by a circuitous route up a flight of back stairs to a little balcony where they indulged in peace. But this was not for long. One day in his second week the detective met him in a nook of the stairs, on his descent, and told him sternly that next time he’d be reported to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy. Dalyrimple felt like an errant schoolboy.</p>
<p>Unpleasant facts came to his knowledge. There were “cave-dwellers” in the basement who had worked there for ten or fifteen years at sixty dollars a month, rolling barrels and carrying boxes through damp, cement-walled corridors, lost in that echoing half-darkness between seven and five-thirty and, like himself, compelled several times a month to work until nine at night.</p>
<p>At the end of a month he stood in line and received forty dollars. He pawned a cigarette-case and a pair of field-glasses and managed to live⁠—to eat, sleep, and smoke. It was, however, a narrow scrape; as the ways and means of economy were a closed book to him and the second month brought no increase, he voiced his alarm.</p>
<p>“If you’ve got a drag with old Macy, maybe he’ll raise you,” was Charley’s disheartening reply. “But he didn’t raise <em>me</em> till I’d been here nearly two years.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got to live,” said Dalyrimple simply. “I could get more pay as a laborer on the railroad but, Golly, I want to feel I’m where there’s a chance to get ahead.”</p>
<p>Charles shook his head skeptically and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy’s answer next day was equally unsatisfactory.</p>
<p>Dalyrimple had gone to the office just before closing time.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy, I’d like to speak to you.”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—yes.” The unhumorous smile appeared. The voice was faintly resentful.</p>
<p>“I want to speak to you in regard to more salary.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy nodded.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said doubtfully, “I don’t know exactly what you’re doing. I’ll speak to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hanson.”</p>
<p>He knew exactly what Dalyrimple was doing, and Dalyrimple knew he knew.</p>
<p>“I’m in the stockroom⁠—and, sir, while I’m here I’d like to ask you how much longer I’ll have to stay there.”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—I’m not sure exactly. Of course it takes some time to learn the stock.”</p>
<p>“You told me two months when I started.”</p>
<p>“Yes. Well, I’ll speak to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hanson.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple paused irresolute.</p>
<p>“Thank you, sir.”</p>
<p>Two days later he again appeared in the office with the result of a count that had been asked for by <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hesse, the bookkeeper. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hesse was engaged and Dalyrimple, waiting, began idly fingering in a ledger on the stenographer’s desk.</p>
<p>Half unconsciously he turned a page⁠—he caught sight of his name⁠—it was a salary list:</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td>Dalyrimple</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Demming</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Donahoe</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Everett</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>His eyes stopped⁠—</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td>Everett</td>
<td>$60</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>So Tom Everett, Macy’s weak-chinned nephew, had started at sixty⁠—and in three weeks he had been out of the packing-room and into the office.</p>
<p>So that was it! He was to sit and see man after man pushed over him: sons, cousins, sons of friends, irrespective of their capabilities, while <em>he</em> was cast for a pawn, with “going on the road” dangled before his eyes⁠—put off with the stock remark: “I’ll see; I’ll look into it.” At forty, perhaps, he would be a bookkeeper like old Hesse, tired, listless Hesse with a dull routine for his stint and a dull background of boardinghouse conversation.</p>
<p>This was a moment when a genii should have pressed into his hand the book for disillusioned young men. But the book has not been written.</p>
<p>A great protest swelling into revolt surged up in him. Ideas half forgotten, chaotically perceived and assimilated, filled his mind. Get on⁠—that was the rule of life⁠—and that was all. How he did it, didn’t matter⁠—but to be Hesse or Charley Moore.</p>
<p>“I won’t!” he cried aloud.</p>
<p>The bookkeeper and the stenographers looked up in surprise.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>For a second Dalyrimple stared⁠—then walked up to the desk.</p>
<p>“Here’s that data,” he said brusquely. “I can’t wait any longer.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hesse’s face expressed surprise.</p>
<p>It didn’t matter what he did⁠—just so he got out of this rut. In a dream he stepped from the elevator into the stockroom, and walking to an unused aisle, sat down on a box, covering his face with his hands.</p>
<p>His brain was whirring with the frightful jar of discovering a platitude for himself.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to get out of this,” he said aloud and then repeated, “I’ve got to get out”⁠—and he didn’t mean only out of Macy’s wholesale house.</p>
<p>When he left at five-thirty it was pouring rain, but he struck off in the opposite direction from his boardinghouse, feeling, in the first cool moisture that oozed soggily through his old suit, an odd exultation and freshness. He wanted a world that was like walking through rain, even though he could not see far ahead of him, but fate had put him in the world of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy’s fetid storerooms and corridors. At first merely the overwhelming need of change took him, then half-plans began to formulate in his imagination.</p>
<p>“I’ll go East⁠—to a big city⁠—meet people⁠—bigger people⁠—people who’ll help me. Interesting work somewhere. My God, there <em>must</em> be.”</p>
<p>With sickening truth it occurred to him that his facility for meeting people was limited. Of all places it was here in his own town that he should be known, was known⁠—famous⁠—before the water of oblivion had rolled over him.</p>
<p>You had to cut corners, that was all. Pull⁠—relationship⁠—wealthy marriages⁠—</p>
<p>For several miles the continued reiteration of this preoccupied him and then he perceived that the rain had become thicker and more opaque in the heavy gray of twilight and that the houses were falling away. The district of full blocks, then of big houses, then of scattering little ones, passed and great sweeps of misty country opened out on both sides. It was hard walking here. The sidewalk had given place to a dirt road, streaked with furious brown rivulets that splashed and squashed around his shoes.</p>
<p>Cutting corners⁠—the words began to fall apart, forming curious phrasings⁠—little illuminated pieces of themselves. They resolved into sentences, each of which had a strangely familiar ring.</p>
<p>Cutting corners meant rejecting the old childhood principles that success came from faithfulness to duty, that evil was necessarily punished or virtue necessarily rewarded⁠—that honest poverty was happier than corrupt riches.</p>
<p>It meant being hard.</p>
<p>This phrase appealed to him and he repeated it over and over. It had to do somehow with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy and Charley Moore⁠—the attitudes, the methods of each of them.</p>
<p>He stopped and felt his clothes. He was drenched to the skin. He looked about him and, selecting a place in the fence where a tree sheltered it, perched himself there.</p>
<p>In my credulous years⁠—he thought⁠—they told me that evil was a sort of dirty hue, just as definite as a soiled collar, but it seems to me that evil is only a manner of hard luck, or heredity-and-environment, or “being found out.” It hides in the vacillations of dubs like Charley Moore as certainly as it does in the intolerance of Macy, and if it ever gets much more tangible it becomes merely an arbitrary label to paste on the unpleasant things in other people’s lives.</p>
<p>In fact⁠—he concluded⁠—it isn’t worth worrying over what’s evil and what isn’t. Good and evil aren’t any standard to me⁠—and they can be a devil of a bad hindrance when I want something. When I want something bad enough, common sense tells me to go and take it⁠—and not get caught.</p>
<p>And then suddenly Dalyrimple knew what he wanted first. He wanted fifteen dollars to pay his overdue board bill.</p>
<p>With a furious energy he jumped from the fence, whipped off his coat, and from its black lining cut with his knife a piece about five inches square. He made two holes near its edge and then fixed it on his face, pulling his hat down to hold it in place. It flapped grotesquely and then dampened and clung to his forehead and cheeks.</p>
<p>Now⁠ ⁠… The twilight had merged to dripping dusk⁠ ⁠… black as pitch. He began to walk quickly back toward town, not waiting to remove the mask but watching the road with difficulty through the jagged eyeholes. He was not conscious of any nervousness⁠ ⁠… the only tension was caused by a desire to do the thing as soon as possible.</p>
<p>He reached the first sidewalk, continued on until he saw a hedge far from any lamppost, and turned in behind it. Within a minute he heard several series of footsteps⁠—he waited⁠—it was a woman and he held his breath until she passed⁠ ⁠… and then a man, a laborer. The next passer, he felt, would be what he wanted⁠ ⁠… the laborer’s footfalls died far up the drenched street⁠ ⁠… other steps grew nears grew suddenly louder.</p>
<p>Dalyrimple braced himself.</p>
<p>“Put up your hands!”</p>
<p>The man stopped, uttered an absurd little grunt, and thrust pudgy arms skyward.</p>
<p>Dalyrimple went through the waistcoat.</p>
<p>“Now, you shrimp,” he said, setting his hand suggestively to his own hip pocket, “you run, and stamp⁠—loud! If I hear your feet stop I’ll put a shot after you!”</p>
<p>Then he stood there in sudden uncontrollable laughter as audibly frightened footsteps scurried away into the night.</p>
<p>After a moment he thrust the roll of bills into his pocket, snatched off his mask, and running quickly across the street, darted down an alley.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Yet, however Dalyrimple justified himself intellectually, he had many bad moments in the weeks immediately following his decision. The tremendous pressure of sentiment and inherited ambition kept raising riot with his attitude. He felt morally lonely.</p>
<p>The noon after his first venture he ate in a little lunchroom with Charley Moore and, watching him unspread the paper, waited for a remark about the holdup of the day before. But either the holdup was not mentioned or Charley wasn’t interested. He turned listlessly to the sporting sheet, read Doctor Crane’s crop of seasoned bromides, took in an editorial on ambition with his mouth slightly ajar, and then skipped to Mutt and Jeff.</p>
<p>Poor Charley⁠—with his faint aura of evil and his mind that refused to focus, playing a lifeless solitaire with cast-off mischief.</p>
<p>Yet Charley belonged on the other side of the fence. In him could be stirred up all the flamings and denunciations of righteousness; he would weep at a stage heroine’s lost virtue, he could become lofty and contemptuous at the idea of dishonor.</p>
<p>On my side, thought Dalyrimple, there aren’t any resting-places; a man who’s a strong criminal is after the weak criminals as well, so it’s all guerilla warfare over here.</p>
<p>What will it all do to me? he thought with a persistent weariness. Will it take the color out of life with the honor? Will it scatter my courage and dull my mind?⁠—despiritualize me completely⁠—does it mean eventual barrenness, eventual remorse, failure?</p>
<p>With a great surge of anger, he would fling his mind upon the barrier⁠—and stand there with the flashing bayonet of his pride. Other men who broke the laws of justice and charity lied to all the world. He at any rate would not lie to himself. He was more than Byronic now: not the spiritual rebel, Don Juan; not the philosophical rebel, Faust; but a new psychological rebel of his own century⁠—defying the sentimental <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">a priori</i> forms of his own mind⁠—</p>
<p>Happiness was what he wanted⁠—a slowly rising scale of gratifications of the normal appetites⁠—and he had a strong conviction that the materials, if not the inspiration of happiness, could be bought with money.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>The night came that drew him out upon his second venture, and as he walked the dark street he felt in himself a great resemblance to a cat⁠—a certain supple, swinging litheness. His muscles were rippling smoothly and sleekly under his spare, healthy flesh⁠—he had an absurd desire to bound along the street, to run dodging among trees, to turn “cartwheels” over soft grass.</p>
<p>It was not crisp, but in the air lay a faint suggestion of acerbity, inspirational rather than chilling.</p>
<p>“The moon is down⁠—I have not heard the clock!”</p>
<p>He laughed in delight at the line which an early memory had endowed with a hushed awesome beauty.</p>
<p>He passed a man and then another a quarter of mile afterward.</p>
<p>He was on Philmore Street now and it was very dark. He blessed the city council for not having put in new lampposts as a recent budget had recommended. Here was the redbrick Sterner residence which marked the beginning of the avenue; here was the Jordon house, the Eisenhaurs’, the Dents’, the Markhams’, the Frasers’; the Hawkins’, where he had been a guest; the Willoughbys’, the Everett’s, colonial and ornate; the little cottage where lived the Watts old maids between the imposing fronts of the Macys’ and the Krupstadts’; the Craigs⁠—</p>
<p>Ah⁠ ⁠… <em>there</em>! He paused, wavered violently⁠—far up the street was a blot, a man walking, possibly a policeman. After an eternal second be found himself following the vague, ragged shadow of a lamppost across a lawn, running bent very low. Then he was standing tense, without breath or need of it, in the shadow of his limestone prey.</p>
<p>Interminably he listened⁠—a mile off a cat howled, a hundred yards away another took up the hymn in a demoniacal snarl, and he felt his heart dip and swoop, acting as shock-absorber for his mind. There were other sounds; the faintest fragment of song far away; strident, gossiping laughter from a back porch diagonally across the alley; and crickets, crickets singing in the patched, patterned, moonlit grass of the yard. Within the house there seemed to lie an ominous silence. He was glad he did not know who lived here.</p>
<p>His slight shiver hardened to steel; the steel softened and his nerves became pliable as leather; gripping his hands he gratefully found them supple, and taking out knife and pliers he went to work on the screen.</p>
<p>So sure was he that he was unobserved that, from the dining-room where in a minute he found himself, he leaned out and carefully pulled the screen up into position, balancing it so it would neither fall by chance nor be a serious obstacle to a sudden exit.</p>
<p>Then he put the open knife in his coat pocket, took out his pocket-flash, and tiptoed around the room.</p>
<p>There was nothing here he could use⁠—the dining-room had never been included in his plans for the town was too small to permit disposing of silver.</p>
<p>As a matter of fact his plans were of the vaguest. He had found that with a mind like his, lucrative in intelligence, intuition, and lightning decision, it was best to have but the skeleton of a campaign. The machine-gun episode had taught him that. And he was afraid that a method preconceived would give him two points of view in a crisis⁠—and two points of view meant wavering.</p>
<p>He stumbled slightly on a chair, held his breath, listened, went on, found the hall, found the stairs, started up; the seventh stair creaked at his step, the ninth, the fourteenth. He was counting them automatically. At the third creak he paused again for over a minute⁠—and in that minute he felt more alone than he had ever felt before. Between the lines on patrol, even when alone, he had had behind him the moral support of half a billion people; now he was alone, pitted against that same moral pressure⁠—a bandit. He had never felt this fear, yet he had never felt this exultation.</p>
<p>The stairs came to an end, a doorway approached; he went in and listened to regular breathing. His feet were economical of steps and his body swayed sometimes at stretching as he felt over the bureau, pocketing all articles which held promise⁠—he could not have enumerated them ten seconds afterward. He felt on a chair for possible trousers, found soft garments, women’s lingerie. The corners of his mouth smiled mechanically.</p>
<p>Another room⁠ ⁠… the same breathing, enlivened by one ghastly snort that sent his heart again on its tour of his breast. Round object⁠—watch; chain; roll of bills; stickpins; two rings⁠—he remembered that he had got rings from the other bureau. He started out winced as a faint glow flashed in front of him, facing him. God!⁠—it was the glow of his own wristwatch on his outstretched arm.</p>
<p>Down the stairs. He skipped two crumbing steps but found another. He was all right now, practically safe; as he neared the bottom he felt a slight boredom. He reached the dining-room⁠—considered the silver⁠—again decided against it.</p>
<p>Back in his room at the boardinghouse he examined the additions to his personal property:</p>
<p>Sixty-five dollars in bills.</p>
<p>A platinum ring with three medium diamonds, worth, probably, about seven hundred dollars. Diamonds were going up.</p>
<p>A cheap gold-plated ring with the initials <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">O. S.</abbr> and the date inside⁠—’03⁠—probably a class-ring from school. Worth a few dollars. Unsalable.</p>
<p>A red-cloth case containing a set of false teeth.</p>
<p>A silver watch.</p>
<p>A gold chain worth more than the watch.</p>
<p>An empty ring-box.</p>
<p>A little ivory Chinese god⁠—probably a desk ornament.</p>
<p>A dollar and sixty-two cents in small change.</p>
<p>He put the money under his pillow and the other things in the toe of an infantry boot, stuffing a stocking in on top of them. Then for two hours his mind raced like a high-power engine here and there through his life, past and future, through fear and laughter. With a vague, inopportune wish that he were married, he fell into a deep sleep about half past five.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>Though the newspaper account of the burglary failed to mention the false teeth, they worried him considerably. The picture of a human waking in the cool dawn and groping for them in vain, of a soft, toothless breakfast, of a strange, hollow, lisping voice calling the police station, of weary, dispirited visits to the dentist, roused a great fatherly pity in him.</p>
<p>Trying to ascertain whether they belonged to a man or a woman, he took them carefully out of the case and held them up near his mouth. He moved his own jaws experimentally; he measured with his fingers; but he failed to decide: they might belong either to a large-mouthed woman or a small-mouthed man.</p>
<p>On a warm impulse he wrapped them in brown paper from the bottom of his army trunk, and printed <em>false teeth</em> on the package in clumsy pencil letters. Then, the next night, he walked down Philmore Street, and shied the package onto the lawn so that it would be near the door. Next day the paper announced that the police had a clue⁠—they knew that the burglar was in town. However, they didn’t mention what the clue was.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h3>
<p>At the end of a month “Burglar Bill of the Silver District” was the nurse-girl’s standby for frightening children. Five burglaries were attributed to him, but though Dalyrimple had only committed three, he considered that majority had it and appropriated the title to himself. He had once been seen⁠—“a large bloated creature with the meanest face you ever laid eyes on.” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Henry Coleman, awaking at two o’clock at the beam of an electric torch flashed in her eye, could not have been expected to recognize Bryan Dalyrimple at whom she had waved flags last Fourth of July, and whom she had described as “not at all the daredevil type, do you think?”</p>
<p>When Dalyrimple kept his imagination at white heat he managed to glorify his own attitude, his emancipation from petty scruples and remorses⁠—but let him once allow his thought to rove unarmored, great unexpected horrors and depressions would overtake him. Then for reassurance he had to go back to think out the whole thing over again. He found that it was on the whole better to give up considering himself as a rebel. It was more consoling to think of everyone else as a fool.</p>
<p>His attitude toward <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy underwent a change. He no longer felt a dim animosity and inferiority in his presence. As his fourth month in the store ended he found himself regarding his employer in a manner that was almost fraternal. He had a vague but very assured conviction that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy’s innermost soul would have abetted and approved. He no longer worried about his future. He had the intention of accumulating several thousand dollars and then clearing out⁠—going east, back to France, down to South America. Half a dozen times in the last two months he had been about to stop work, but a fear of attracting attention to his being in funds prevented him. So he worked on, no longer in listlessness, but with contemptuous amusement.</p>
</section>
<section id="dalyrimple-goes-wrong-8" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VIII</h3>
<p>Then with astounding suddenness something happened that changed his plans and put an end to his burglaries.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy sent for him one afternoon and with a great show of jovial mystery asked him if he had an engagement that night. If he hadn’t, would he please call on <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Alfred <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Fraser at eight o’clock. Dalyrimple’s wonder was mingled with uncertainty. He debated with himself whether it were not his cue to take the first train out of town. But an hour’s consideration decided him that his fears were unfounded and at eight o’clock he arrived at the big Fraser house in Philmore Avenue.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Fraser was commonly supposed to be the biggest political influence in the city. His brother was Senator Fraser, his son-in-law was Congressman Demming, and his influence, though not wielded in such a way as to make him an objectionable boss, was strong nevertheless.</p>
<p>He had a great, huge face, deep-set eyes, and a barn-door of an upper lip, the melange approaching a worthy climax in a long professional jaw.</p>
<p>During his conversation with Dalyrimple his expression kept starting toward a smile, reached a cheerful optimism, and then receded back to imperturbability.</p>
<p>“How do you do, sir?” he laid, holding out his hand. “Sit down. I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted you. Sit down.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple sat down.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dalyrimple, how old are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m twenty-three.”</p>
<p>“You’re young. But that doesn’t mean you’re foolish. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dalyrimple, what I’ve got to say won’t take long. I’m going to make you a proposition. To begin at the beginning, I’ve been watching you ever since last Fourth of July when you made that speech in response to the loving-cup.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple murmured disparagingly, but Fraser waved him to silence.</p>
<p>“It was a speech I’ve remembered. It was a brainy speech, straight from the shoulder, and it got to everybody in that crowd. I know. I’ve watched crowds for years.” He cleared his throat as if tempted to digress on his knowledge of crowds⁠—then continued. “But, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dalyrimple, I’ve seen too many young men who promised brilliantly go to pieces, fail through want of steadiness, too many high-power ideas, and not enough willingness to work. So I waited. I wanted to see what you’d do. I wanted to see if you’d go to work, and if you’d stick to what you started.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple felt a glow settle over him.</p>
<p>“So,” continued Fraser, “when Theron Macy told me you’d started down at his place, I kept watching you, and I followed your record through him. The first month I was afraid for awhile. He told me you were getting restless, too good for your job, hinting around for a raise⁠—”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple started.</p>
<p>“⁠⸺⁠But he said after that you evidently made up your mind to shut up and stick to it. That’s the stuff I like in a young man! That’s the stuff that wins out. And don’t think I don’t understand. I know how much harder it was for you after all that silly flattery a lot of old women had been giving you. I know what a fight it must have been⁠—”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple’s face was burning brightly. It felt young and strangely ingenuous.</p>
<p>“Dalyrimple, you’ve got brains and you’ve got the stuff in you⁠—and that’s what I want. I’m going to put you into the State Senate.”</p>
<p>“The <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>“The State Senate. We want a young man who has got brains, but is solid and not a loafer. And when I say State Senate I don’t stop there. We’re up against it here, Dalyrimple. We’ve got to get some young men into politics⁠—you know the old blood that’s been running on the party ticket year in and year out.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple licked his lips.</p>
<p>“You’ll run me for the State Senate?”</p>
<p>“I’ll <em>put</em> you in the State Senate.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Fraser’s expression had now reached the point nearest a smile and Dalyrimple in a happy frivolity felt himself urging it mentally on⁠—but it stopped, locked, and slid from him. The barn-door and the jaw were separated by a line strait as a nail. Dalyrimple remembered with an effort that it was a mouth, and talked to it.</p>
<p>“But I’m through,” he said. “My notoriety’s dead. People are fed up with me.”</p>
<p>“Those things,” answered <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Fraser, “are mechanical. Linotype is a resuscitator of reputations. Wait till you see the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Herald</i>, beginning next week⁠—that is if you’re with us⁠—that is,” and his voice hardened slightly, “if you haven’t got too many ideas yourself about how things ought to be run.”</p>
<p>“No,” said Dalyrimple, looking him frankly in the eye. “You’ll have to give me a lot of advice at first.”</p>
<p>“Very well. I’ll take care of your reputation then. Just keep yourself on the right side of the fence.”</p>
<p>Dalyrimple started at this repetition of a phrase he had thought of so much lately. There was a sudden ring at the doorbell.</p>
<p>“That’s Macy now,” observed Fraser, rising. “I’ll go let him in. The servants have gone to bed.”</p>
<p>He left Dalyrimple there in a dream. The world was opening up suddenly⁠—The State Senate, the United States Senate⁠—so life was this after all⁠—cutting corners⁠—common sense, that was the rule. No more foolish risks now unless necessity called⁠—but it was being hard that counted⁠—Never to let remorse or self-reproach lose him a night’s sleep⁠—let his life be a sword of courage⁠—there was no payment⁠—all that was drivel⁠—drivel.</p>
<p>He sprang to his feet with clinched hands in a sort of triumph.</p>
<p>“Well, Bryan,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy stepping through the portieres.</p>
<p>The two older men smiled their half-smiles at him.</p>
<p>“Well Bryan,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy again.</p>
<p>Dalyrimple smiled also.</p>
<p>“How do, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy?”</p>
<p>He wondered if some telepathy between them had made this new appreciation possible⁠—some invisible realization.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Macy held out his hand.</p>
<p>“I’m glad we’re to be associated in this scheme⁠—I’ve been for you all along⁠—especially lately. I’m glad we’re to be on the same side of the fence.”</p>
<p>“I want to thank you, sir,” said Dalyrimple simply. He felt a whimsical moisture gathering back of his eyes.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="mr-icky" epub:type="se:short-story z3998:drama bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<hgroup>
<h2 epub:type="title"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</h2>
<p epub:type="subtitle">The Quintessence of Quaintness in One Act</p>
</hgroup>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">The Scene is the Exterior of a Cottage in West Issacshire on a desperately Arcadian afternoon in August. <b epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</b>, quaintly dressed in the costume of an Elizabethan peasant, is pottering and doddering among the pots and dods. He is an old man, well past the prime of life, no longer young. From the fact that there is a burr in his speech and that he has absentmindedly put on his coat wrongside out, we surmise that he is either above or below the ordinary superficialities of life.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Near him on the grass lies <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</b>, a little boy. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</b>, of course, has his chin on his palm like the pictures of the young Sir Walter Raleigh. He has a complete set of features, including serious, sombre, even funereal, gray eyes⁠—and radiates that alluring air of never having eaten food. This air can best be radiated during the afterglow of a beef dinner. He is looking at <b epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</b>, fascinated.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Silence.⁠ ⁠… The song of birds.</i>
</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>Often at night I sit at my window and regard the stars. Sometimes I think they’re my stars.⁠ ⁠… <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Gravely.</i> I think I shall be a star some day.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Whimsically.</i> Yes, yes⁠ ⁠… yes.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>I know them all: Venus, Mars, Neptune, Gloria Swanson.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>I don’t take no stock in astronomy.⁠ ⁠… I’ve been thinking o’ Lunnon, laddie. And calling to mind my daughter, who has gone for to be a typewriter.⁠ ⁠… <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He sighs.</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>I liked <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</b>, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky; she was so plump, so round, so buxom.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Not worth the paper she was padded with, laddie. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He stumbles over a pile of pots and dods.</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>How is your asthma, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Worse, thank God!⁠ ⁠… <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Gloomily.</i> I’m a hundred years old⁠ ⁠… I’m getting brittle.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>I suppose life has been pretty tame since you gave up petty arson.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Yes⁠ ⁠… yes.⁠ ⁠… You see, Peter, laddie, when I was fifty I reformed once⁠—in prison.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>You went wrong again?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Worse than that. The week before my term expired they insisted on transferring to me the glands of a healthy young prisoner they were executing.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>And it renovated you?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Renovated me! It put the Old Nick back into me! This young criminal was evidently a suburban burglar and a kleptomaniac. What was a little playful arson in comparison!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Awed.</i> How ghastly! Science is the bunk.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sighing.</i> I got him pretty well subdued now. ’Tisn’t everyone who has to tire out two sets o’ glands in his lifetime. I wouldn’t take another set for all the animal spirits in an orphan asylum.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Considering.</i> I shouldn’t think you’d object to a nice quiet old clergyman’s set.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Clergymen haven’t got glands⁠—they have souls.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">There is a low, sonorous honking off stage to indicate that a large motorcar has stopped in the immediate vicinity. Then a young man handsomely attired in a dress-suit and a patent-leather silk hat comes onto the stage. He is very mundane. His contrast to the spirituality of the other two is observable as far back as the first row of the balcony. This is <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Rodney Divine.</b></i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>I am looking for Ulsa Icky.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><b epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</b> rises and stands tremulously between two dods.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>My daughter is in Lunnon.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>She has left London. She is coming here. I have followed her.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He reaches into the little mother-of-pearl satchel that hangs at his side for cigarettes. He selects one and scratching a match touches it to the cigarette. The cigarette instantly lights.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>I shall wait.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He waits. Several hours pass. There is no sound except an occasional cackle or hiss from the dods as they quarrel among themselves. Several songs can be introduced here or some card tricks by <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</b> or a tumbling act, as desired.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>It’s very quiet here.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Yes, very quiet.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Suddenly a loudly dressed girl appears; she is very worldly. It is <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa Icky</b>. On her is one of those shapeless faces peculiar to early Italian painting.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In a coarse, worldly voice.</i> Feyther! Here I am! Ulsa did what?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Tremulously.</i> Ulsa, little Ulsa. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">They embrace each other’s torsos.</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Hopefully.</i> You’ve come back to help with the ploughing.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sullenly.</i> No, feyther; ploughing’s such a beyther. I’d reyther not.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Though her accent is broad, the content of her speech is sweet and clean.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Conciliatingly.</i> See here, Ulsa. Let’s come to an understanding.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He advances toward her with the graceful, even stride that made him captain of the striding team at Cambridge.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>You still say it would be Jack?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>What does she mean?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Kindly.</i> My dear, of course, it would be Jack. It couldn’t be Frank.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Frank who?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>It <em>would</em> be Frank!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Some risqué joke can be introduced here.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Whimsically.</i> No good fighting⁠ ⁠… no good fighting⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Reaching out to stroke her arm with the powerful movement that made him stroke of the crew at Oxford.</i> You’d better marry me.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Scornfully.</i> Why, they wouldn’t let me in through the servants’ entrance of your house.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Angrily.</i> They wouldn’t! Never fear⁠—you shall come in through the mistress’ entrance.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>Sir!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In confusion.</i> I beg your pardon. You know what I mean?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Aching with whimsey.</i> You want to marry my little Ulsa?⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>I do.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Your record is clean.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>Excellent. I have the best constitution in the world⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>And the worst bylaws.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>At Eton I was a member at Pop; at Rugby I belonged to Near-beer. As a younger son I was destined for the police force⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Skip that.⁠ ⁠… Have you money?⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>Wads of it. I should expect Ulsa to go down town in sections every morning⁠—in two Rolls Royces. I have also a kiddy-car and a converted tank. I have seats at the opera⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sullenly.</i> I can’t sleep except in a box. And I’ve heard that you were cashiered from your club.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>A cashier?⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Hanging his head.</i> I was cashiered.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>What for?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Almost inaudibly.</i> I hid the polo balls one day for a joke.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Is your mind in good shape?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Gloomily.</i> Fair. After all what is brilliance? Merely the tact to sow when no one is looking and reap when everyone is.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Be careful.⁠ ⁠… I will not marry my daughter to an epigram.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">More gloomily.</i> I assure you I’m a mere platitude. I often descend to the level of an innate idea.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dully.</i> None of what you’re saying matters. I can’t marry a man who thinks it would be Jack. Why Frank would⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Interrupting.</i> Nonsense!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Emphatically.</i> You’re a fool!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Tut-tut!⁠ ⁠… One should not judge⁠ ⁠… Charity, my girl. What was it Nero said?⁠—“With malice toward none, with charity toward all⁠—”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>That wasn’t Nero. That was John Drinkwater.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Come! Who is this Frank? Who is this Jack?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Morosely.</i> Gotch.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>Dempsey.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td>We were arguing that if they were deadly enemies and locked in a room together which one would come out alive. Now I claimed that Jack Dempsey would take one⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Angrily.</i> Rot! He wouldn’t have a⁠—</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Quickly.</i> You win.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>Then I love you again.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>So I’m going to lose my little daughter⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa</td>
<td>You’ve still got a houseful of children.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction"><b epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Ulsa’s</b> brother, coming out of the cottage. He is dressed as if to go to sea; a coil of rope is slung about his shoulder and an anchor is hanging from his neck.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Not seeing them.</i> I’m going to sea! I’m going to sea!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">His voice is triumphant.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sadly.</i> You went to seed long ago.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td>I’ve been reading <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Conrad</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Dreamily.</i> <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Conrad</i>, ah! <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Two Years Before the Mast</i>, by Henry James.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td>What?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</td>
<td>Walter Pater’s version of Robinson Crusoe.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">To his feyther.</i> I can’t stay here and rot with you. I want to live my life. I want to hunt eels.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>I will be here⁠ ⁠… when you come back.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Contemptuously.</i> Why, the worms are licking their chops already when they hear your name.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">It will be noticed that some of the characters have not spoken for some time. It will improve the technique if they can be rendering a spirited saxophone number.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Mournfully.</i> These vales, these hills, these McCormick harvesters⁠—they mean nothing to my children. I understand.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">More gently.</i> Then you’ll think of me kindly, feyther. To understand is to forgive.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>No⁠ ⁠… no.⁠ ⁠… We never forgive those we can understand.⁠ ⁠… We can only forgive those who wound us for no reason at all.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Impatiently.</i> I’m so beastly sick of your human nature line. And, anyway, I hate the hours around here.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Several dozen more of <b epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky’s</b> children trip out of the house, trip over the grass, and trip over the pots and dods. They are muttering “We are going away,” and “We are leaving you.”</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">His heart breaking.</i> They’re all deserting me. I’ve been too kind. Spare the rod and spoil the fun. Oh, for the glands of a Bismarck.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">There is a honking outside⁠—probably.<b epub:type="z3998:persona">Divine’s</b> chauffeur growing impatient for his master.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">In misery.</i> They do not love the soil! They have been faithless to the Great Potato Tradition! <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He picks up a handful of soil passionately and rubs it on his bald head. Hair sprouts.</i> Oh, Wordsworth, Wordsworth, how true you spoke!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>“No motion has she now, no force;</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">She does not hear or feel;</span>
<br/>
<span>Roll’d round on earth’s diurnal course</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">In someone’s Oldsmobile.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">They all groan and shouting “Life” and “Jazz” move slowly toward the wings.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td>Back to the soil, yes! I’ve been trying to turn my back to the soil for ten years!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Another Child</td>
<td>The farmers may be the backbone of the country, but who wants to be a backbone?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Another Child</td>
<td>I care not who hoes the lettuce of my country if I can eat the salad!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">All</td>
<td>Life! Psychic Research! Jazz!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Struggling with himself.</i> I must be quaint. That’s all there is. It’s not life that counts, it’s the quaintness you bring to it.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">All</td>
<td>We’re going to slide down the Riviera. We’ve got tickets for Piccadilly Circus. Life! Jazz!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Wait. Let me read to you from the Bible. Let me open it at random. One always finds something that bears on the situation.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He finds a Bible lying in one of the dods and opening it at random begins to read.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>“Ahab and Istemo and Anim, Goson and Olon and Gilo, eleven cities and their villages. Arab, and Ruma, and Esaau⁠—”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Charles</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Cruelly.</i> Buy ten more rings and try again.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Trying again.</i> “How beautiful art thou my love, how beautiful art thou! Thy eyes are dove’s eyes, besides what is hid within. Thy hair is as flocks of goats which come up from Mount Galaad⁠—Hm! Rather a coarse passage.⁠ ⁠…”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">His children laugh at him rudely, shouting “Jazz!” and “All life is primarily suggestive!”</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Despondently.</i> It won’t work today. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Hopefully.</i> Maybe it’s damp. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He feels it.</i> Yes, it’s damp.⁠ ⁠… There was water in the dod.⁠ ⁠… It won’t work.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">All</td>
<td>It’s damp! It won’t work! Jazz!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">One of the Children</td>
<td>Come, we must catch the six-thirty.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Any other cue may be inserted here.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</td>
<td>Goodbye.⁠ ⁠…</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">They all go out. <b epub:type="z3998:persona"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky</b> is left alone. He sighs and walking over to the cottage steps, lies down, and closes his eyes.</i>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Twilight has come down and the stage is flooded with such light as never was on land or sea. There is no sound except a sheepherder’s wife in the distance playing an aria from Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony, on a mouth-organ. The great white and gray moths swoop down and light on the old man until he is completely covered by them. But he does not stir.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">The curtain goes up and down several times to denote the lapse of several minutes. A good comedy effect can be obtained by having <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Icky cling to the curtain and go up and down with it. Fireflies or fairies on wires can also be introduced at this point.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Then <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter</b> appears, a look of almost imbecile sweetness on his face. In his hand he clutches something and from time to time glances at it in a transport of ecstasy. After a struggle with himself he lays it on the old man’s body and then quietly withdraws.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">The moths chatter among themselves and then scurry away in sudden fright. And as night deepens there still sparkles there, small, white and round, breathing a subtle perfume to the West Issacshire breeze, <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Peter’s</b> gift of love⁠—a mothball.</i>
</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">The play can end at this point or can go on indefinitely.</i>
</p>
</article>
<article id="the-camels-back" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Camel’s Back</h2>
<section id="the-camels-back-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The glazed eye of the tired reader resting for a second on the above title will presume it to be merely metaphorical. Stories about the cup and the lip and the bad penny and the new broom rarely have anything, to do with cups or lips or pennies or brooms. This story is the exception. It has to do with a material, visible and large-as-life camel’s back.</p>
<p>Starting from the neck we shall work toward the tail. I want you to meet <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Perry Parkhurst, twenty-eight, lawyer, native of Toledo. Perry has nice teeth, a Harvard diploma, parts his hair in the middle. You have met him before⁠—in Cleveland, Portland, <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul, Indianapolis, Kansas City, and so forth. Baker Brothers, New York, pause on their semiannual trip through the West to clothe him; Montmorency &amp; <abbr>Co.</abbr> dispatch a young man posthaste every three months to see that he has the correct number of little punctures on his shoes. He has a domestic roadster now, will have a French roadster if he lives long enough, and doubtless a Chinese tank if it comes into fashion. He looks like the advertisement of the young man rubbing his sunset-colored chest with liniment and goes East every other year to his class reunion.</p>
<p>I want you to meet his Love. Her name is Betty Medill, and she would take well in the movies. Her father gives her three hundred a month to dress on, and she has tawny eyes and hair and feather fans of five colors. I shall also introduce her father, Cyrus Medill. Though he is to all appearances flesh and blood, he is, strange to say, commonly known in Toledo as the Aluminum Man. But when he sits in his club window with two or three Iron Men, and the White Pine Man, and the Brass Man, they look very much as you and I do, only more so, if you know what I mean.</p>
<p>Now during the Christmas holidays of 1919 there took place in Toledo, counting only the people with the italicized <em>the</em>, forty-one dinner parties, sixteen dances, six luncheons, male and female, twelve teas, four stag dinners, two weddings, and thirteen bridge parties. It was the cumulative effect of all this that moved Perry Parkhurst on the twenty-ninth day of December to a decision.</p>
<p>This Medill girl would marry him and she wouldn’t marry him. She was having such a good time that she hated to take such a definite step. Meanwhile, their secret engagement had got so long that it seemed as if any day it might break off of its own weight. A little man named Warburton, who knew it all, persuaded Perry to superman her, to get a marriage license and go up to the Medill house and tell her she’d have to marry him at once or call it off forever. So he presented himself, his heart, his license, and his ultimatum, and within five minutes they were in the midst of a violent quarrel, a burst of sporadic open fighting such as occurs near the end of all long wars and engagements. It brought about one of those ghastly lapses in which two people who are in love pull up sharp, look at each other coolly and think it’s all been a mistake. Afterward they usually kiss wholesomely and assure the other person it was all their fault. Say it all was my fault! Say it was! I want to hear you say it!</p>
<p>But while reconciliation was trembling in the air, while each was, in a measure, stalling it off, so that they might the more voluptuously and sentimentally enjoy it when it came, they were permanently interrupted by a twenty-minute phone call for Betty from a garrulous aunt. At the end of eighteen minutes Perry Parkhurst, urged on by pride and suspicion and injured dignity, put on his long fur coat, picked up his light brown soft hat, and stalked out the door.</p>
<p>“It’s all over,” he muttered brokenly as he tried to jam his car into first. “It’s all over⁠—if I have to choke you for an hour, damn you!” The last to the car, which had been standing some time and was quite cold.</p>
<p>He drove downtown⁠—that is, he got into a snow rut that led him downtown. He sat slouched down very low in his seat, much too dispirited to care where he went.</p>
<p>In front of the Clarendon Hotel he was hailed from the sidewalk by a bad man named Baily, who had big teeth and lived at the hotel and had never been in love.</p>
<p>“Perry,” said the bad man softly when the roadster drew up beside him at the curb, “I’ve got six quarts of the doggonedest still champagne you ever tasted. A third of it’s yours, Perry, if you’ll come upstairs and help Martin Macy and me drink it.”</p>
<p>“Baily,” said Perry tensely, “I’ll drink your champagne. I’ll drink every drop of it, I don’t care if it kills me.”</p>
<p>“Shut up, you nut!” said the bad man gently. “They don’t put wood alcohol in champagne. This is the stuff that proves the world is more than six thousand years old. It’s so ancient that the cork is petrified. You have to pull it with a stone drill.”</p>
<p>“Take me upstairs,” said Perry moodily. “If that cork sees my heart it’ll fall out from pure mortification.”</p>
<p>The room upstairs was full of those innocent hotel pictures of little girls eating apples and sitting in swings and talking to dogs. The other decorations were neckties and a pink man reading a pink paper devoted to ladies in pink tights.</p>
<p>“When you have to go into the highways and byways⁠—” said the pink man, looking reproachfully at Baily and Perry.</p>
<p>“Hello, Martin Macy,” said Perry shortly, “where’s this stone-age champagne?”</p>
<p>“What’s the rush? This isn’t an operation, understand. This is a party.”</p>
<p>Perry sat down dully and looked disapprovingly at all the neckties.</p>
<p>Baily leisurely opened the door of a wardrobe and brought out six handsome bottles.</p>
<p>“Take off that darn fur coat!” said Martin Macy to Perry. “Or maybe you’d like to have us open all the windows.”</p>
<p>“Give me champagne,” said Perry.</p>
<p>“Going to the Townsends’ circus ball tonight?”</p>
<p>“Am not!”</p>
<p>“ ’Vited?”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh.”</p>
<p>“Why not go?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sick of parties,” exclaimed Perry. “I’m sick of ’em. I’ve been to so many that I’m sick of ’em.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you’re going to the Howard Tates’ party?”</p>
<p>“No, I tell you; I’m sick of ’em.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Macy consolingly, “the Tates’ is just for college kids anyways.”</p>
<p>“I tell you⁠—”</p>
<p>“I thought you’d be going to one of ’em anyways. I see by the papers you haven’t missed a one this Christmas.”</p>
<p>“Hm,” grunted Perry morosely.</p>
<p>He would never go to any more parties. Classical phrases played in his mind⁠—that side of his life was closed, closed. Now when a man says “closed, closed” like that, you can be pretty sure that some woman has double-closed him, so to speak. Perry was also thinking that other classical thought, about how cowardly suicide is. A noble thought that one⁠—warm and inspiring. Think of all the fine men we should lose if suicide were not so cowardly!</p>
<p>An hour later was six o’clock, and Perry had lost all resemblance to the young man in the liniment advertisement. He looked like a rough draft for a riotous cartoon. They were singing⁠—an impromptu song of Baily’s improvisation:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“One Lump Perry, the parlor snake,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Famous through the city for the way he drinks his tea;</span>
<br/>
<span>Plays with it, toys with it</span>
<br/>
<span>Makes no noise with it,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Balanced on a napkin on his well-trained knee⁠—</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Trouble is,” said Perry, who had just banged his hair with Baily’s comb and was tying an orange tie round it to get the effect of Julius Caesar, “that you fellas can’t sing worth a damn. Soon’s I leave the air and start singing tenor you start singin’ tenor too.”</p>
<p>“ ’M a natural tenor,” said Macy gravely. “Voice lacks cultivation, tha’s all. Gotta natural voice, m’aunt used say. Naturally good singer.”</p>
<p>“Singers, singers, all good singers,” remarked Baily, who was at the telephone. “No, not the cabaret; I want night egg. I mean some doggone clerk ’at’s got food⁠—food! I want⁠—”</p>
<p>“Julius Caesar,” announced Perry, turning round from the mirror. “Man of iron will and stern ’termination.”</p>
<p>“Shut up!” yelled Baily. “Say, iss <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Baily. Sen’ up enormous supper. Use y’own judgment. Right away.”</p>
<p>He connected the receiver and the hook with some difficulty, and then with his lips closed and an expression of solemn intensity in his eyes went to the lower drawer of his dresser and pulled it open.</p>
<p>“Lookit!” he commanded. In his hands he held a truncated garment of pink gingham.</p>
<p>“Pants,” he exclaimed gravely. “Lookit!”</p>
<p>This was a pink blouse, a red tie, and a Buster Brown collar.</p>
<p>“Lookit!” he repeated. “Costume for the Townsends’ circus ball. I’m li’l’ boy carries water for the elephants.”</p>
<p>Perry was impressed in spite of himself.</p>
<p>“I’m going to be Julius Caesar,” he announced after a moment of concentration.</p>
<p>“Thought you weren’t going!” said Macy.</p>
<p>“Me? Sure I’m goin’. Never miss a party. Good for the nerves⁠—like celery.”</p>
<p>“Caesar!” scoffed Baily. “Can’t be Caesar! He is not about a circus. Caesar’s Shakespeare. Go as a clown.”</p>
<p>Perry shook his head.</p>
<p>“Nope; Caesar.”</p>
<p>“Caesar?”</p>
<p>“Sure. Chariot.”</p>
<p>Light dawned on Baily.</p>
<p>“That’s right. Good idea.”</p>
<p>Perry looked round the room searchingly.</p>
<p>“You lend me a bathrobe and this tie,” he said finally. Baily considered.</p>
<p>“No good.”</p>
<p>“Sure, tha’s all I need. Caesar was a savage. They can’t kick if I come as Caesar, if he was a savage.”</p>
<p>“No,” said Baily, shaking his head slowly. “Get a costume over at a costumer’s. Over at Nolak’s.”</p>
<p>“Closed up.”</p>
<p>“Find out.”</p>
<p>After a puzzling five minutes at the phone a small, weary voice managed to convince Perry that it was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Nolak speaking, and that they would remain open until eight because of the Townsends’ ball. Thus assured, Perry ate a great amount of filet mignon and drank his third of the last bottle of champagne. At eight-fifteen the man in the tall hat who stands in front of the Clarendon found him trying to start his roadster.</p>
<p>“Froze up,” said Perry wisely. “The cold froze it. The cold air.”</p>
<p>“Froze, eh?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Cold air froze it.”</p>
<p>“Can’t start it?”</p>
<p>“Nope. Let it stand here till summer. One those hot ole August days’ll thaw it out awright.”</p>
<p>“Goin’ let it stand?”</p>
<p>“Sure. Let ’er stand. Take a hot thief to steal it. Gemme taxi.”</p>
<p>The man in the tall hat summoned a taxi.</p>
<p>“Where to, mister?”</p>
<p>“Go to Nolak’s⁠—costume fella.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-camels-back-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak was short and ineffectual looking, and on the cessation of the world war had belonged for a while to one of the new nationalities. Owing to unsettled European conditions she had never since been quite sure what she was. The shop in which she and her husband performed their daily stint was dim and ghostly, and peopled with suits of armor and Chinese mandarins, and enormous papier-mâché birds suspended from the ceiling. In a vague background many rows of masks glared eyelessly at the visitor, and there were glass cases full of crowns and scepters, and jewels and enormous stomachers, and paints, and crape hair, and wigs of all colors.</p>
<p>When Perry ambled into the shop <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak was folding up the last troubles of a strenuous day, so she thought, in a drawer full of pink silk stockings.</p>
<p>“Something for you?” she queried pessimistically.</p>
<p>“Want costume of Julius Hur, the charioteer.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak was sorry, but every stitch of charioteer had been rented long ago. Was it for the Townsends’ circus ball?</p>
<p>It was.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think there’s anything left that’s really circus.”</p>
<p>This was an obstacle.</p>
<p>“Hm,” said Perry. An idea struck him suddenly. “If you’ve got a piece of canvas I could go’s a tent.”</p>
<p>“Sorry, but we haven’t anything like that. A hardware store is where you’d have to go to. We have some very nice Confederate soldiers.”</p>
<p>“No. No soldiers.”</p>
<p>“And I have a very handsome king.”</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>“Several of the gentlemen,” she continued hopefully, “are wearing stovepipe hats and swallowtail coats and going as ringmasters⁠—but we’re all out of tall hats. I can let you have some crape hair for a mustache.”</p>
<p>“Want somep’n ’stinctive.”</p>
<p>“Something⁠—let’s see. Well, we have a lion’s head, and a goose, and a camel⁠—”</p>
<p>“Camel?” The idea seized Perry’s imagination, gripped it fiercely.</p>
<p>“Yes, but it needs two people.”</p>
<p>“Camel. That’s the idea. Lemme see it.”</p>
<p>The camel was produced from his resting place on a top shelf. At first glance he appeared to consist entirely of a very gaunt, cadaverous head and a sizable hump, but on being spread out he was found to possess a dark brown, unwholesome-looking body made of thick, cottony cloth.</p>
<p>“You see it takes two people,” explained <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak, holding the camel in frank admiration. “If you have a friend he could be part of it. You see there’s sorta pants for two people. One pair is for the fella in front, and the other pair for the fella in back. The fella in front does the lookin’ out through these here eyes, an’ the fella in back he’s just gotta stoop over an’ folla the front fella round.”</p>
<p>“Put it on,” commanded Perry.</p>
<p>Obediently <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak put her tabby-cat face inside the camel’s head and turned it from side to side ferociously.</p>
<p>Perry was fascinated.</p>
<p>“What noise does a camel make?”</p>
<p>“What?” asked <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak as her face emerged, somewhat smudgy. “Oh, what noise? Why, he sorta brays.”</p>
<p>“Lemme see it in a mirror.”</p>
<p>Before a wide mirror Perry tried on the head and turned from side to side appraisingly. In the dim light the effect was distinctly pleasing. The camel’s face was a study in pessimism, decorated with numerous abrasions, and it must be admitted that his coat was in that state of general negligence peculiar to camels⁠—in fact, he needed to be cleaned and pressed⁠—but distinctive he certainly was. He was majestic. He would have attracted attention in any gathering, if only by his melancholy cast of feature and the look of hunger lurking round his shadowy eyes.</p>
<p>“You see you have to have two people,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak again.</p>
<p>Perry tentatively gathered up the body and legs and wrapped them about him, tying the hind legs as a girdle round his waist. The effect on the whole was bad. It was even irreverent⁠—like one of those medieval pictures of a monk changed into a beast by the ministrations of Satan. At the very best the ensemble resembled a humpbacked cow sitting on her haunches among blankets.</p>
<p>“Don’t look like anything at all,” objected Perry gloomily.</p>
<p>“No,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak; “you see you got to have two people.”</p>
<p>A solution flashed upon Perry.</p>
<p>“You got a date tonight?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I couldn’t possibly⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on,” said Perry encouragingly. “Sure you can! Here! Be good sport, and climb into these hind legs.”</p>
<p>With difficulty he located them, and extended their yawning depths ingratiatingly. But <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak seemed loath. She backed perversely away.</p>
<p>“Oh, no⁠—”</p>
<p>“C’m on! You can be the front if you want to. Or we’ll flip a coin.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no⁠—”</p>
<p>“Make it worth your while.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak set her lips firmly together.</p>
<p>“Now you just stop!” she said with no coyness implied. “None of the gentlemen ever acted up this way before. My husband⁠—”</p>
<p>“You got a husband?” demanded Perry. “Where is he?”</p>
<p>“He’s home.”</p>
<p>“Wha’s telephone number?”</p>
<p>After considerable parley he obtained the telephone number pertaining to the Nolak penates and got into communication with that small, weary voice he had heard once before that day. But <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Nolak, though taken off his guard and somewhat confused by Perry’s brilliant flow of logic, stuck staunchly to his point. He refused firmly, but with dignity, to help out <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Parkhurst in the capacity of back part of a camel.</p>
<p>Having rung off, or rather having been rung off on, Perry sat down on a three-legged stool to think it over. He named over to himself those friends on whom he might call, and then his mind paused as Betty Medill’s name hazily and sorrowfully occurred to him. He had a sentimental thought. He would ask her. Their love affair was over, but she could not refuse this last request. Surely it was not much to ask⁠—to help him keep up his end of social obligation for one short night. And if she insisted, she could be the front part of the camel and he would go as the back. His magnanimity pleased him. His mind even turned to rosy-colored dreams of a tender reconciliation inside the camel⁠—there hidden away from all the world.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“Now you’d better decide right off.”</p>
<p>The bourgeois voice of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak broke in upon his mellow fancies and roused him to action. He went to the phone and called up the Medill house. Miss Betty was out; had gone out to dinner.</p>
<p>Then, when all seemed lost, the camel’s back wandered curiously into the store. He was a dilapidated individual with a cold in his head and a general trend about him of downwardness. His cap was pulled down low on his head, and his chin was pulled down low on his chest, his coat hung down to his shoes, he looked rundown, down at the heels, and⁠—Salvation Army to the contrary⁠—down and out. He said that he was the taxicab-driver that the gentleman had hired at the Clarendon Hotel. He had been instructed to wait outside, but he had waited some time, and a suspicion had grown upon him that the gentleman had gone out the back way with purpose to defraud him⁠—gentlemen sometimes did⁠—so he had come in. He sank down onto the three-legged stool.</p>
<p>“Wanta go to a party?” demanded Perry sternly.</p>
<p>“I gotta work,” answered the taxi-driver lugubriously. “I gotta keep my job.”</p>
<p>“It’s a very good party.”</p>
<p>“ ’S a very good job.”</p>
<p>“Come on!” urged Perry. “Be a good fella. See⁠—it’s pretty!” He held the camel up and the taxi-driver looked at it cynically.</p>
<p>“Huh!”</p>
<p>Perry searched feverishly among the folds of the cloth.</p>
<p>“See!” he cried enthusiastically, holding up a selection of folds. “This is your part. You don’t even have to talk. All you have to do is to walk⁠—and sit down occasionally. You do all the sitting down. Think of it. I’m on my feet all the time and <em>you</em> can sit down some of the time. The only time <em>I</em> can sit down is when we’re lying down, and you can sit down when⁠—oh, any time. See?”</p>
<p>“What’s ’at thing?” demanded the individual dubiously. “A shroud?”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” said Perry indignantly. “It’s a camel.”</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>Then Perry mentioned a sum of money, and the conversation left the land of grunts and assumed a practical tinge. Perry and the taxi-driver tried on the camel in front of the mirror.</p>
<p>“You can’t see it,” explained Perry, peering anxiously out through the eyeholes, “but honestly, ole man, you look sim’ly great! Honestly!”</p>
<p>A grunt from the hump acknowledged this somewhat dubious compliment.</p>
<p>“Honestly, you look great!” repeated Perry enthusiastically. “Move round a little.”</p>
<p>The hind legs moved forward, giving the effect of a huge cat-camel hunching his back preparatory to a spring.</p>
<p>“No; move sideways.”</p>
<p>The camel’s hips went neatly out of joint; a hula dancer would have writhed in envy.</p>
<p>“Good, isn’t it?” demanded Perry, turning to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak for approval.</p>
<p>“It looks lovely,” agreed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak.</p>
<p>“We’ll take it,” said Perry.</p>
<p>The bundle was stowed under Perry’s arm and they left the shop.</p>
<p>“Go to the party!” he commanded as he took his seat in the back.</p>
<p>“What party?”</p>
<p>“Fanzy-dress party.”</p>
<p>“Where’bouts is it?”</p>
<p>This presented a new problem. Perry tried to remember, but the names of all those who had given parties during the holidays danced confusedly before his eyes. He could ask <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak, but on looking out the window he saw that the shop was dark. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Nolak had already faded out, a little black smudge far down the snowy street.</p>
<p>“Drive uptown,” directed Perry with fine confidence. “If you see a party, stop. Otherwise I’ll tell you when we get there.”</p>
<p>He fell into a hazy daydream and his thoughts wandered again to Betty⁠—he imagined vaguely that they had had a disagreement because she refused to go to the party as the back part of the camel. He was just slipping off into a chilly doze when he was wakened by the taxi-driver opening the door and shaking him by the arm.</p>
<p>“Here we are, maybe.”</p>
<p>Perry looked out sleepily. A striped awning led from the curb up to a spreading gray stone house, from which issued the low drummy whine of expensive jazz. He recognized the Howard Tate house.</p>
<p>“Sure,” he said emphatically; “ ’at’s it! Tate’s party tonight. Sure, everybody’s goin’.”</p>
<p>“Say,” said the individual anxiously after another look at the awning, “you sure these people ain’t gonna romp on me for comin’ here?”</p>
<p>Perry drew himself up with dignity.</p>
<p>“ ’F anybody says anything to you, just tell ’em you’re part of my costume.”</p>
<p>The visualization of himself as a thing rather than a person seemed to reassure the individual.</p>
<p>“All right,” he said reluctantly.</p>
<p>Perry stepped out under the shelter of the awning and began unrolling the camel.</p>
<p>“Let’s go,” he commanded.</p>
<p>Several minutes later a melancholy, hungry-looking camel, emitting clouds of smoke from his mouth and from the tip of his noble hump, might have been seen crossing the threshold of the Howard Tate residence, passing a startled footman without so much as a snort, and heading directly for the main stairs that led up to the ballroom. The beast walked with a peculiar gait which varied between an uncertain lockstep and a stampede⁠—but can best be described by the word “halting.” The camel had a halting gait⁠—and as he walked he alternately elongated and contracted like a gigantic concertina.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-camels-back-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>The Howard Tates are, as everyone who lives in Toledo knows, the most formidable people in town. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Howard Tate was a Chicago Todd before she became a Toledo Tate, and the family generally affect that conscious simplicity which has begun to be the earmark of American aristocracy. The Tates have reached the stage where they talk about pigs and farms and look at you icy-eyed if you are not amused. They have begun to prefer retainers rather than friends as dinner guests, spend a lot of money in a quiet way, and, having lost all sense of competition, are in process of growing quite dull.</p>
<p>The dance this evening was for little Millicent Tate, and though all ages were represented, the dancers were mostly from school and college⁠—the younger married crowd was at the Townsends’ circus ball up at the Tally-ho Club. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tate was standing just inside the ballroom, following Millicent round with her eyes, and beaming whenever she caught her eye. Beside her were two middle-aged sycophants, who were saying what a perfectly exquisite child Millicent was. It was at this moment that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tate was grasped firmly by the skirt and her youngest daughter, Emily, aged eleven, hurled herself with an “Oof!” into her mother’s arms.</p>
<p>“Why, Emily, what’s the trouble?”</p>
<p>“Mamma,” said Emily, wild-eyed but voluble, “there’s something out on the stairs.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“There’s a thing out on the stairs, mamma. I think it’s a big dog, mamma, but it doesn’t look like a dog.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, Emily?”</p>
<p>The sycophants waved their heads sympathetically.</p>
<p>“Mamma, it looks like a⁠—like a camel.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tate laughed.</p>
<p>“You saw a mean old shadow, dear, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t. No, it was some kind of thing, mamma⁠—big. I was going downstairs to see if there were any more people, and this dog or something, he was coming upstairs. Kinda funny, mamma, like he was lame. And then he saw me and gave a sort of growl, and then he slipped at the top of the landing, and I ran.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tate’s laugh faded.</p>
<p>“The child must have seen something,” she said.</p>
<p>The sycophants agreed that the child must have seen something⁠—and suddenly all three women took an instinctive step away from the door as the sounds of muffled steps were audible just outside.</p>
<p>And then three startled gasps rang out as a dark brown form rounded the corner, and they saw what was apparently a huge beast looking down at them hungrily.</p>
<p>“Oof!” cried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Tate.</p>
<p>“O-o-oh!” cried the ladies in a chorus.</p>
<p>The camel suddenly humped his back, and the gasps turned to shrieks.</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—look!”</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>The dancing stopped, but the dancers hurrying over got quite a different impression of the invader; in fact, the young people immediately suspected that it was a stunt, a hired entertainer come to amuse the party. The boys in long trousers looked at it rather disdainfully, and sauntered over with their hands in their pockets, feeling that their intelligence was being insulted. But the girls uttered little shouts of glee.</p>
<p>“It’s a camel!”</p>
<p>“Well, if he isn’t the funniest!”</p>
<p>The camel stood there uncertainly, swaying slightly from side to side, and seeming to take in the room in a careful, appraising glance; then as if he had come to an abrupt decision, he turned and ambled swiftly out the door.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Howard Tate had just come out of the library on the lower floor, and was standing chatting with a young man in the hall. Suddenly they heard the noise of shouting upstairs, and almost immediately a succession of bumping sounds, followed by the precipitous appearance at the foot of the stairway of a large brown beast that seemed to be going somewhere in a great hurry.</p>
<p>“Now what the devil!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate, starting.</p>
<p>The beast picked itself up not without dignity and, affecting an air of extreme nonchalance, as if he had just remembered an important engagement, started at a mixed gait toward the front door. In fact, his front legs began casually to run.</p>
<p>“See here now,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate sternly. “Here! Grab it, Butterfield! Grab it!”</p>
<p>The young man enveloped the rear of the camel in a pair of compelling arms, and, realizing that further locomotion was impossible, the front end submitted to capture and stood resignedly in a state of some agitation. By this time a flood of young people was pouring downstairs, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate, suspecting everything from an ingenious burglar to an escaped lunatic, gave crisp directions to the young man:</p>
<p>“Hold him! Lead him in here; we’ll soon see.”</p>
<p>The camel consented to be led into the library, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate, after locking the door, took a revolver from a table drawer and instructed the young man to take the thing’s head off. Then he gasped and returned the revolver to its hiding-place.</p>
<p>“Well, Perry Parkhurst!” he exclaimed in amazement.</p>
<p>“Got the wrong party, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate,” said Perry sheepishly. “Hope I didn’t scare you.”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—you gave us a thrill, Perry.” Realization dawned on him. “You’re bound for the Townsends’ circus ball.”</p>
<p>“That’s the general idea.”</p>
<p>“Let me introduce <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Butterfield, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Parkhurst.” Then turning to Perry; “Butterfield is staying with us for a few days.”</p>
<p>“I got a little mixed up,” mumbled Perry. “I’m very sorry.”</p>
<p>“Perfectly all right; most natural mistake in the world. I’ve got a clown rig and I’m going down there myself after a while.” He turned to Butterfield. “Better change your mind and come down with us.”</p>
<p>The young man demurred. He was going to bed.</p>
<p>“Have a drink, Perry?” suggested <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate.</p>
<p>“Thanks, I will.”</p>
<p>“And, say,” continued Tate quickly, “I’d forgotten all about your⁠—friend here.” He indicated the rear part of the camel. “I didn’t mean to seem discourteous. Is it anyone I know? Bring him out.”</p>
<p>“It’s not a friend,” explained Perry hurriedly. “I just rented him.”</p>
<p>“Does he drink?”</p>
<p>“Do you?” demanded Perry, twisting himself tortuously round.</p>
<p>There was a faint sound of assent.</p>
<p>“Sure he does!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate heartily. “A really efficient camel ought to be able to drink enough so it’d last him three days.”</p>
<p>“Tell you,” said Perry anxiously, “he isn’t exactly dressed up enough to come out. If you give me the bottle I can hand it back to him and he can take his inside.”</p>
<p>From under the cloth was audible the enthusiastic smacking sound inspired by this suggestion. When a butler had appeared with bottles, glasses, and siphon one of the bottles was handed back; thereafter the silent partner could be heard imbibing long potations at frequent intervals.</p>
<p>Thus passed a benign hour. At ten o’clock <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate decided that they’d better be starting. He donned his clown’s costume; Perry replaced the camel’s head, and side by side they traversed on foot the single block between the Tate house and the Tally-ho Club.</p>
<p>The circus ball was in full swing. A great tent fly had been put up inside the ballroom and round the walls had been built rows of booths representing the various attractions of a circus side show, but these were now vacated and over the floor swarmed a shouting, laughing medley of youth and color⁠—clowns, bearded ladies, acrobats, bareback riders, ringmasters, tattooed men, and charioteers. The Townsends had determined to assure their party of success, so a great quantity of liquor had been surreptitiously brought over from their house and was now flowing freely. A green ribbon ran along the wall completely round the ballroom, with pointing arrows alongside and signs which instructed the uninitiated to “Follow the green line!” The green line led down to the bar, where waited pure punch and wicked punch and plain dark-green bottles.</p>
<p>On the wall above the bar was another arrow, red and very wavy, and under it the slogan: “Now follow this!”</p>
<p>But even amid the luxury of costume and high spirits represented, there, the entrance of the camel created something of a stir, and Perry was immediately surrounded by a curious, laughing crowd attempting to penetrate the identity of this beast that stood by the wide doorway eying the dancers with his hungry, melancholy gaze.</p>
<p>And then Perry saw Betty standing in front of a booth, talking to a comic policeman. She was dressed in the costume of an Egyptian snake-charmer: her tawny hair was braided and drawn through brass rings, the effect crowned with a glittering Oriental tiara. Her fair face was stained to a warm olive glow and on her arms and the half moon of her back writhed painted serpents with single eyes of venomous green. Her feet were in sandals and her skirt was slit to the knees, so that when she walked one caught a glimpse of other slim serpents painted just above her bare ankles. Wound about her neck was a glittering cobra. Altogether a charming costume⁠—one that caused the more nervous among the older women to shrink away from her when she passed, and the more troublesome ones to make great talk about “shouldn’t be allowed” and “perfectly disgraceful.”</p>
<p>But Perry, peering through the uncertain eyes of the camel, saw only her face, radiant, animated, and glowing with excitement, and her arms and shoulders, whose mobile, expressive gestures made her always the outstanding figure in any group. He was fascinated and his fascination exercised a sobering effect on him. With a growing clarity the events of the day came back⁠—rage rose within him, and with a half-formed intention of taking her away from the crowd he started toward her⁠—or rather he elongated slightly, for he had neglected to issue the preparatory command necessary to locomotion.</p>
<p>But at this point fickle Kismet, who for a day had played with him bitterly and sardonically, decided to reward him in full for the amusement he had afforded her. Kismet turned the tawny eyes of the snake-charmer to the camel. Kismet led her to lean toward the man beside her and say, “Who’s that? That camel?”</p>
<p>“Darned if I know.”</p>
<p>But a little man named Warburton, who knew it all, found it necessary to hazard an opinion:</p>
<p>“It came in with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate. I think part of it’s probably Warren Butterfield, the architect from New York, who’s visiting the Tates.”</p>
<p>Something stirred in Betty Medill⁠—that age-old interest of the provincial girl in the visiting man.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she said casually after a slight pause.</p>
<p>At the end of the next dance Betty and her partner finished up within a few feet of the camel. With the informal audacity that was the keynote of the evening she reached out and gently rubbed the camel’s nose.</p>
<p>“Hello, old camel.”</p>
<p>The camel stirred uneasily.</p>
<p>“You ’fraid of me?” said Betty, lifting her eyebrows in reproof. “Don’t be. You see I’m a snake-charmer, but I’m pretty good at camels too.”</p>
<p>The camel bowed very low and someone made the obvious remark about beauty and the beast.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Townsend approached the group.</p>
<p>“Well, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Butterfield,” she said helpfully, “I wouldn’t have recognised you.”</p>
<p>Perry bowed again and smiled gleefully behind his mask.</p>
<p>“And who is this with you?” she inquired.</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Perry, his voice muffled by the thick cloth and quite unrecognizable, “he isn’t a fellow, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Townsend. He’s just part of my costume.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Townsend laughed and moved away. Perry turned again to Betty.</p>
<p>“So,” he thought, “this is how much she cares! On the very day of our final rupture she starts a flirtation with another man⁠—an absolute stranger.”</p>
<p>On an impulse he gave her a soft nudge with his shoulder and waved his head suggestively toward the hall, making it clear that he desired her to leave her partner and accompany him.</p>
<p>“Bye-bye, Rus,” she called to her partner. “This old camel’s got me. Where we going, Prince of Beasts?”</p>
<p>The noble animal made no rejoinder, but stalked gravely along in the direction of a secluded nook on the side stairs.</p>
<p>There she seated herself, and the camel, after some seconds of confusion which included gruff orders and sounds of a heated dispute going on in his interior, placed himself beside her⁠—his hind legs stretching out uncomfortably across two steps.</p>
<p>“Well, old egg,” said Betty cheerfully, “how do you like our happy party?”</p>
<p>The old egg indicated that he liked it by rolling his head ecstatically and executing a gleeful kick with his hoofs.</p>
<p>“This is the first time that I ever had a tête-à-tête with a man’s valet ’round”⁠—she pointed to the hind legs⁠—“or whatever that is.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” mumbled Perry, “he’s deaf and blind.”</p>
<p>“I should think you’d feel rather handicapped⁠—you can’t very well toddle, even if you want to.”</p>
<p>The camel hung his head lugubriously.</p>
<p>“I wish you’d say something,” continued Betty sweetly. “Say you like me, camel. Say you think I’m beautiful. Say you’d like to belong to a pretty snake-charmer.”</p>
<p>The camel would.</p>
<p>“Will you dance with me, camel?”</p>
<p>The camel would try.</p>
<p>Betty devoted half an hour to the camel. She devoted at least half an hour to all visiting men. It was usually sufficient. When she approached a new man the current debutantes were accustomed to scatter right and left like a close column deploying before a machine-gun. And so to Perry Parkhurst was awarded the unique privilege of seeing his love as others saw her. He was flirted with violently!</p>
</section>
<section id="the-camels-back-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>This paradise of frail foundation was broken into by the sounds of a general ingress to the ballroom; the cotillion was beginning. Betty and the camel joined the crowd, her brown hand resting lightly on his shoulder, defiantly symbolizing her complete adoption of him.</p>
<p>When they entered the couples were already seating themselves at tables round the walls, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Townsend, resplendent as a super bareback rider with rather too rotund calves, was standing in the centre with the ringmaster in charge of arrangements. At a signal to the band everyone rose and began to dance.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it just slick!” sighed Betty. “Do you think you can possibly dance?”</p>
<p>Perry nodded enthusiastically. He felt suddenly exuberant. After all, he was here incognito talking to his love⁠—he could wink patronizingly at the world.</p>
<p>So Perry danced the cotillion. I say danced, but that is stretching the word far beyond the wildest dreams of the jazziest terpsichorean. He suffered his partner to put her hands on his helpless shoulders and pull him here and there over the floor while he hung his huge head docilely over her shoulder and made futile dummy motions with his feet. His hind legs danced in a manner all their own, chiefly by hopping first on one foot and then on the other. Never being sure whether dancing was going on or not, the hind legs played safe by going through a series of steps whenever the music started playing. So the spectacle was frequently presented of the front part of the camel standing at ease and the rear keeping up a constant energetic motion calculated to rouse a sympathetic perspiration in any softhearted observer.</p>
<p>He was frequently favored. He danced first with a tall lady covered with straw who announced jovially that she was a bale of hay and coyly begged him not to eat her.</p>
<p>“I’d like to; you’re so sweet,” said the camel gallantly.</p>
<p>Each time the ringmaster shouted his call of “Men up!” he lumbered ferociously for Betty with the cardboard wienerwurst or the photograph of the bearded lady or whatever the favor chanced to be. Sometimes he reached her first, but usually his rushes were unsuccessful and resulted in intense interior arguments.</p>
<p>“For Heaven’s sake,” Perry would snarl, fiercely between his clenched teeth, “get a little pep! I could have gotten her that time if you’d picked your feet up.”</p>
<p>“Well, gimme a little warnin’!”</p>
<p>“I did, darn you.”</p>
<p>“I can’t see a doggone thing in here.”</p>
<p>“All you have to do is follow me. It’s just like dragging a load of sand round to walk with you.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you wanta try back here.”</p>
<p>“You shut up! If these people found you in this room they’d give you the worst beating you ever had. They’d take your taxi license away from you!”</p>
<p>Perry surprised himself by the ease with which he made this monstrous threat, but it seemed to have a soporific influence on his companion, for he gave out an “aw gwan” and subsided into abashed silence.</p>
<p>The ringmaster mounted to the top of the piano and waved his hand for silence.</p>
<p>“Prizes!” he cried. “Gather round!”</p>
<p>“Yea! Prizes!”</p>
<p>Self-consciously the circle swayed forward. The rather pretty girl who had mustered the nerve to come as a bearded lady trembled with excitement, thinking to be rewarded for an evening’s hideousness. The man who had spent the afternoon having tattoo marks painted on him skulked on the edge of the crowd, blushing furiously when anyone told him he was sure to get it.</p>
<p>“Lady and gent performers of this circus,” announced the ringmaster jovially, “I am sure we will all agree that a good time has been had by all. We will now bestow honor where honor is due by bestowing the prizes. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Townsend has asked me to bestow the prices. Now, fellow performers, the first prize is for that lady who has displayed this evening the most striking, becoming”⁠—at this point the bearded lady sighed resignedly⁠—“and original costume.” Here the bale of hay pricked up her ears. “Now I am sure that the decision which has been agreed upon will be unanimous with all here present. The first prize goes to Miss Betty Medill, the charming Egyptian snake-charmer.” There was a burst of applause, chiefly masculine, and Miss Betty Medill, blushing beautifully through her olive paint, was passed up to receive her award. With a tender glance the ringmaster handed down to her a huge bouquet of orchids.</p>
<p>“And now,” he continued, looking round him, “the other prize is for that man who has the most amusing and original costume. This prize goes without dispute to a guest in our midst, a gentleman who is visiting here but whose stay we all hope will be long and merry⁠—in short, to the noble camel who has entertained us all by his hungry look and his brilliant dancing throughout the evening.”</p>
<p>He ceased and there was a violent clapping, and yeaing, for it was a popular choice. The prize, a large box of cigars, was put aside for the camel, as he was anatomically unable to accept it in person.</p>
<p>“And now,” continued the ringmaster, “we will wind up the cotillion with the marriage of Mirth to Folly!</p>
<p>“Form for the grand wedding march, the beautiful snake-charmer and the noble camel in front!”</p>
<p>Betty skipped forward cheerily and wound an olive arm round the camel’s neck. Behind them formed the procession of little boys, little girls, country jakes, fat ladies, thin men, sword-swallowers, wild men of Borneo, and armless wonders, many of them well in their cups, all of them excited and happy and dazzled by the flow of light and color round them, and by the familiar faces, strangely unfamiliar under bizarre wigs and barbaric paint. The voluptuous chords of the wedding march done in blasphemous syncopation issued in a delirious blend from the trombones and saxophones⁠—and the march began.</p>
<p>“Aren’t you glad, camel?” demanded Betty sweetly as they stepped off. “Aren’t you glad we’re going to be married and you’re going to belong to the nice snake-charmer ever afterward?”</p>
<p>The camel’s front legs pranced, expressing excessive joy.</p>
<p>“Minister! Minister! Where’s the minister?” cried voices out of the revel. “Who’s going to be the clergyman?”</p>
<p>The head of Jumbo, obese negro, waiter at the Tally-ho Club for many years, appeared rashly through a half-opened pantry door.</p>
<p>“Oh, Jumbo!”</p>
<p>“Get old Jumbo. He’s the fella!”</p>
<p>“Come on, Jumbo. How ’bout marrying us a couple?”</p>
<p>“Yea!”</p>
<p>Jumbo was seized by four comedians, stripped of his apron, and escorted to a raised dais at the head of the ball. There his collar was removed and replaced back side forward with ecclesiastical effect. The parade separated into two lines, leaving an aisle for the bride and groom.</p>
<p>“Lawdy, man,” roared Jumbo. “Ah got ole Bible ’n’ ev’ythin’, sho nuff.”</p>
<p>He produced a battered Bible from an interior pocket.</p>
<p>“Yea! Jumbo’s got a Bible!”</p>
<p>“Razor, too, I’ll bet!”</p>
<p>Together the snake-charmer and the camel ascended the cheering aisle and stopped in front of Jumbo.</p>
<p>“Where’s yo license, camel?”</p>
<p>A man near by prodded Perry.</p>
<p>“Give him a piece of paper. Anything’ll do.”</p>
<p>Perry fumbled confusedly in his pocket, found a folded paper, and pushed it out through the camel’s mouth. Holding it upside down Jumbo pretended to scan it earnestly.</p>
<p>“Dis yeah’s a special camel’s license,” he said. “Get you ring ready, camel.”</p>
<p>Inside the camel Perry turned round and addressed his worse half.</p>
<p>“Gimme a ring, for Heaven’s sake!”</p>
<p>“I ain’t got none,” protested a weary voice.</p>
<p>“You have. I saw it.”</p>
<p>“I ain’t goin’ to take it offen my hand.”</p>
<p>“If you don’t I’ll kill you.”</p>
<p>There was a gasp and Perry felt a huge affair of rhinestone and brass inserted into his hand.</p>
<p>Again he was nudged from the outside.</p>
<p>“Speak up!”</p>
<p>“I do!” cried Perry quickly.</p>
<p>He heard Betty’s responses given in a debonair tone, and even in this burlesque the sound thrilled him.</p>
<p>Then he had pushed the rhinestone through a tear in the camel’s coat and was slipping it on her finger, muttering ancient and historic words after Jumbo. He didn’t want anyone to know about this ever. His one idea was to slip away without having to disclose his identity, for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tate had so far kept his secret well. A dignified young man, Perry⁠—and this might injure his infant law practice.</p>
<p>“Embrace the bride!”</p>
<p>“Unmask, camel, and kiss her!”</p>
<p>Instinctively his heart beat high as Betty turned to him laughingly and began to stroke the cardboard muzzle. He felt his self-control giving way, he longed to surround her with his arms and declare his identity and kiss those lips that smiled only a foot away⁠—when suddenly the laughter and applause round them died off and a curious hush fell over the hall. Perry and Betty looked up in surprise. Jumbo had given vent to a huge “Hello!” in such a startled voice that all eyes were bent on him.</p>
<p>“Hello!” he said again. He had turned round the camel’s marriage license, which he had been holding upside down, produced spectacles, and was studying it agonizingly.</p>
<p>“Why,” he exclaimed, and in the pervading silence his words were heard plainly by everyone in the room, “this yeah’s a sho-nuff marriage permit.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“Say it again, Jumbo!”</p>
<p>“Sure you can read?”</p>
<p>Jumbo waved them to silence and Perry’s blood burned to fire in his veins as he realized the break he had made.</p>
<p>“Yassuh!” repeated Jumbo. “This yeah’s a sho-nuff license, and the pa’ties concerned one of ’em is dis yeah young lady, Miz Betty Medill, and th’ other’s Mistah Perry Pa’khurst.”</p>
<p>There was a general gasp, and a low rumble broke out as all eyes fell on the camel. Betty shrank away from him quickly, her tawny eyes giving out sparks of fury.</p>
<p>“Is you Mistah Pa’khurst, you camel?”</p>
<p>Perry made no answer. The crowd pressed up closer and stared at him. He stood frozen rigid with embarrassment, his cardboard face still hungry and sardonic as he regarded the ominous Jumbo.</p>
<p>“Y’all bettah speak up!” said Jumbo slowly, “this yeah’s a mighty serious mattah. Outside mah duties at this club ah happens to be a sho-nuff minister in the Firs’ Cullud Baptis’ Church. It done look to me as though y’all is gone an’ got married.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-camels-back-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>The scene that followed will go down forever in the annals of the Tally-ho Club. Stout matrons fainted, one hundred percent Americans swore, wild-eyed debutantes babbled in lightning groups instantly formed and instantly dissolved, and a great buzz of chatter, virulent yet oddly subdued, hummed through the chaotic ballroom. Feverish youths swore they would kill Perry or Jumbo or themselves or someone, and the Baptis’ preacheh was besieged by a tempestuous covey of clamorous amateur lawyers, asking questions, making threats, demanding precedents, ordering the bonds annulled, and especially trying to ferret out any hint of prearrangement in what had occurred.</p>
<p>In the corner <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Townsend was crying softly on the shoulder of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Howard Tate, who was trying vainly to comfort her; they were exchanging “all my fault’s” volubly and voluminously. Outside on a snow-covered walk <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Cyrus Medill, the Aluminum Man, was being paced slowly up and down between two brawny charioteers, giving vent now to a string of unrepeatables, now to wild pleadings that they’d just let him get at Jumbo. He was facetiously attired for the evening as a wild man of Borneo, and the most exacting stage-manager would have acknowledged any improvement in casting the part to be quite impossible.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the two principals held the real centre of the stage. Betty Medill⁠—or was it Betty Parkhurst?⁠—storming furiously, was surrounded by the plainer girls⁠—the prettier ones were too busy talking about her to pay much attention to her⁠—and over on the other side of the hall stood the camel, still intact except for his headpiece, which dangled pathetically on his chest. Perry was earnestly engaged in making protestations of his innocence to a ring of angry, puzzled men. Every few minutes, just as he had apparently proved his case, someone would mention the marriage certificate, and the inquisition would begin again.</p>
<p>A girl named Marion Cloud, considered the second best belle of Toledo, changed the gist of the situation by a remark she made to Betty.</p>
<p>“Well,” she said maliciously, “it’ll all blow over, dear. The courts will annul it without question.”</p>
<p>Betty’s angry tears dried miraculously in her eyes, her lips shut tight together, and she looked stonily at Marion. Then she rose and, scattering her sympathizers right and left, walked directly across the room to Perry, who stared at her in terror. Again silence crept down upon the room.</p>
<p>“Will you have the decency to grant me five minutes’ conversation⁠—or wasn’t that included in your plans?”</p>
<p>He nodded, his mouth unable to form words.</p>
<p>Indicating coldly that he was to follow her she walked out into the hall with her chin uptilted and headed for the privacy of one of the little cardrooms.</p>
<p>Perry started after her, but was brought to a jerky halt by the failure of his hind legs to function.</p>
<p>“You stay here!” he commanded savagely.</p>
<p>“I can’t,” whined a voice from the hump, “unless you get out first and let me get out.”</p>
<p>Perry hesitated, but unable any longer to tolerate the eyes of the curious crowd he muttered a command and the camel moved carefully from the room on its four legs.</p>
<p>Betty was waiting for him.</p>
<p>“Well,” she began furiously, “you see what you’ve done! You and that crazy license! I told you you shouldn’t have gotten it!”</p>
<p>“My dear girl, I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Don’t say ‘dear girl’ to me! Save that for your real wife if you ever get one after this disgraceful performance. And don’t try to pretend it wasn’t all arranged. You know you gave that colored waiter money! You know you did! Do you mean to say you didn’t try to marry me?”</p>
<p>“No⁠—of course⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes, you’d better admit it! You tried it, and now what are you going to do? Do you know my father’s nearly crazy? It’ll serve you right if he tries to kill you. He’ll take his gun and put some cold steel in you. Even if this wed⁠—this <em>thing</em> can be annulled it’ll hang over me all the rest of my life!”</p>
<p>Perry could not resist quoting softly: “ ‘Oh, camel, wouldn’t you like to belong to the pretty snake-charmer for all your⁠—’ ”</p>
<p>“Shut-up!” cried Betty.</p>
<p>There was a pause.</p>
<p>“Betty,” said Perry finally, “there’s only one thing to do that will really get us out clear. That’s for you to marry me.”</p>
<p>“Marry you!”</p>
<p>“Yes. Really it’s the only⁠—”</p>
<p>“You shut up! I wouldn’t marry you if⁠—if⁠—”</p>
<p>“I know. If I were the last man on earth. But if you care anything about your reputation⁠—”</p>
<p>“Reputation!” she cried. “You’re a nice one to think about my reputation <em>now</em>. Why didn’t you think about my reputation before you hired that horrible Jumbo to⁠—to⁠—”</p>
<p>Perry tossed up his hands hopelessly.</p>
<p>“Very well. I’ll do anything you want. Lord knows I renounce all claims!”</p>
<p>“But,” said a new voice, “I don’t.”</p>
<p>Perry and Betty started, and she put her hand to her heart.</p>
<p>“For Heaven’s sake, what was that?”</p>
<p>“It’s me,” said the camel’s back.</p>
<p>In a minute Perry had whipped off the camel’s skin, and a lax, limp object, his clothes hanging on him damply, his hand clenched tightly on an almost empty bottle, stood defiantly before them.</p>
<p>“Oh,” cried Betty, “you brought that object in here to frighten me! You told me he was deaf⁠—that awful person!”</p>
<p>The camel’s back sat down on a chair with a sigh of satisfaction.</p>
<p>“Don’t talk ’at way about me, lady. I ain’t no person. I’m your husband.”</p>
<p>“Husband!”</p>
<p>The cry was wrung simultaneously from Betty and Perry.</p>
<p>“Why, sure. I’m as much your husband as that gink is. The smoke didn’t marry you to the camel’s front. He married you to the whole camel. Why, that’s my ring you got on your finger!”</p>
<p>With a little yelp she snatched the ring from her finger and flung it passionately at the floor.</p>
<p>“What’s all this?” demanded Perry dazedly.</p>
<p>“Jes’ that you better fix me an’ fix me right. If you don’t I’m a-gonna have the same claim you got to bein’ married to her!”</p>
<p>“That’s bigamy,” said Perry, turning gravely to Betty.</p>
<p>Then came the supreme moment of Perry’s evening, the ultimate chance on which he risked his fortunes. He rose and looked first at Betty, where she sat weakly, aghast at this new complication, and then at the individual who swayed from side to side on his chair, uncertainly, menacingly.</p>
<p>“Very well,” said Perry slowly to the individual, “you can have her. Betty, I’m going to prove to you that as far as I’m concerned our marriage was entirely accidental. I’m going to renounce utterly my rights to have you as my wife, and give you to⁠—to the man whose ring you wear⁠—your lawful husband.”</p>
<p>There was a pause and four horror-stricken eyes were turned on him.</p>
<p>“Goodbye, Betty,” he said brokenly. “Don’t forget me in your newfound happiness. I’m going to leave for the Far West on the morning train. Think of me kindly, Betty.”</p>
<p>With a last glance at them he turned and his head rested on his chest as his hand touched the doorknob.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he repeated. He turned the doorknob.</p>
<p>But at this sound the snakes and silk and tawny hair precipitated themselves violently toward him.</p>
<p>“Oh, Perry, don’t leave me! Perry, Perry, take me with you!”</p>
<p>Her tears flowed damply on his neck. Calmly he folded his arms about her.</p>
<p>“I don’t care,” she cried. “I love you and if you can wake up a minister at this hour and have it done over again I’ll go West with you.”</p>
<p>Over her shoulder the front part of the camel looked at the back part of the camel⁠—and they exchanged a particularly subtle, esoteric sort of wink that only true camels can understand.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="bernice-bobs-her-hair" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Bernice Bobs Her Hair</h2>
<section id="bernice-bobs-her-hair-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>After dark on Saturday night one could stand on the first tee of the golf-course and see the country-club windows as a yellow expanse over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of this ocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a few of the more ingenious chauffeurs, the golf professional’s deaf sister⁠—and there were usually several stray, diffident waves who might have rolled inside had they so desired. This was the gallery.</p>
<p>The balcony was inside. It consisted of the circle of wicker chairs that lined the wall of the combination clubroom and ballroom. At these Saturday-night dances it was largely feminine; a great babel of middle-aged ladies with sharp eyes and icy hearts behind lorgnettes and large bosoms. The main function of the balcony was critical, it occasionally showed grudging admiration, but never approval, for it is well known among ladies over thirty-five that when the younger set dance in the summertime it is with the very worst intentions in the world, and if they are not bombarded with stony eyes stray couples will dance weird barbaric interludes in the corners, and the more popular, more dangerous, girls will sometimes be kissed in the parked limousines of unsuspecting dowagers.</p>
<p>But, after all, this critical circle is not close enough to the stage to see the actors’ faces and catch the subtler byplay. It can only frown and lean, ask questions and make satisfactory deductions from its set of postulates, such as the one which states that every young man with a large income leads the life of a hunted partridge. It never really appreciates the drama of the shifting, semi-cruel world of adolescence. No; boxes, orchestra-circle, principals, and chorus be represented by the medley of faces and voices that sway to the plaintive African rhythm of Dyer’s dance orchestra.</p>
<p>From sixteen-year-old Otis Ormonde, who has two more years at Hill School, to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard, over whose bureau at home hangs a Harvard law diploma; from little Madeleine Hogue, whose hair still feels strange and uncomfortable on top of her head, to Bessie MacRae, who has been the life of the party a little too long⁠—more than ten years⁠—the medley is not only the centre of the stage but contains the only people capable of getting an unobstructed view of it.</p>
<p>With a flourish and a bang the music stops. The couples exchange artificial, effortless smiles, facetiously repeat “<em>la-de-da-da dum-dum</em>,” and then the clatter of young feminine voices soars over the burst of clapping.</p>
<p>A few disappointed stags caught in midfloor as they had been about to cut in subsided listlessly back to the walls, because this was not like the riotous Christmas dances⁠—these summer hops were considered just pleasantly warm and exciting, where even the younger marrieds rose and performed ancient waltzes and terrifying fox trots to the tolerant amusement of their younger brothers and sisters.</p>
<p>Warren McIntyre, who casually attended Yale, being one of the unfortunate stags, felt in his dinner-coat pocket for a cigarette and strolled out onto the wide, semidark veranda, where couples were scattered at tables, filling the lantern-hung night with vague words and hazy laughter. He nodded here and there at the less absorbed and as he passed each couple some half-forgotten fragment of a story played in his mind, for it was not a large city and everyone was Who’s Who to everyone else’s past. There, for example, were Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest, who had been privately engaged for three years. Everyone knew that as soon as Jim managed to hold a job for more than two months she would marry him. Yet how bored they both looked, and how wearily Ethel regarded Jim sometimes, as if she wondered why she had trained the vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar.</p>
<p>Warren was nineteen and rather pitying with those of his friends who hadn’t gone East to college. But, like most boys, he bragged tremendously about the girls of his city when he was away from it. There was Genevieve Ormonde, who regularly made the rounds of dances, house-parties, and football games at Princeton, Yale, Williams, and Cornell; there was black-eyed Roberta Dillon, who was quite as famous to her own generation as Hiram Johnson or Ty Cobb; and, of course, there was Marjorie Harvey, who besides having a fairylike face and a dazzling, bewildering tongue was already justly celebrated for having turned five cartwheels in succession during the last pump-and-slipper dance at New Haven.</p>
<p>Warren, who had grown up across the street from Marjorie, had long been “crazy about her.” Sometimes she seemed to reciprocate his feeling with a faint gratitude, but she had tried him by her infallible test and informed him gravely that she did not love him. Her test was that when she was away from him she forgot him and had affairs with other boys. Warren found this discouraging, especially as Marjorie had been making little trips all summer, and for the first two or three days after each arrival home he saw great heaps of mail on the Harveys’ hall table addressed to her in various masculine handwritings. To make matters worse, all during the month of August she had been visited by her cousin Bernice from Eau Claire, and it seemed impossible to see her alone. It was always necessary to hunt round and find someone to take care of Bernice. As August waned this was becoming more and more difficult.</p>
<p>Much as Warren worshipped Marjorie he had to admit that Cousin Bernice was sorta dopeless. She was pretty, with dark hair and high color, but she was no fun on a party. Every Saturday night he danced a long arduous duty dance with her to please Marjorie, but he had never been anything but bored in her company.</p>
<p>“Warren”⁠⸺⁠a soft voice at his elbow broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned to see Marjorie, flushed and radiant as usual. She laid a hand on his shoulder and a glow settled almost imperceptibly over him.</p>
<p>“Warren,” she whispered, “do something for me⁠—dance with Bernice. She’s been stuck with little Otis Ormonde for almost an hour.”</p>
<p>Warren’s glow faded.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—sure,” he answered halfheartedly.</p>
<p>“You don’t mind, do you? I’ll see that you don’t get stuck.”</p>
<p>“ ’Sall right.”</p>
<p>Marjorie smiled⁠—that smile that was thanks enough.</p>
<p>“You’re an angel, and I’m obliged loads.”</p>
<p>With a sigh the angel glanced round the veranda, but Bernice and Otis were not in sight. He wandered back inside, and there in front of the women’s dressing-room he found Otis in the centre of a group of young men who were convulsed with laughter. Otis was brandishing a piece of timber he had picked up, and discoursing volubly.</p>
<p>“She’s gone in to fix her hair,” he announced wildly. “I’m waiting to dance another hour with her.”</p>
<p>Their laughter was renewed.</p>
<p>“Why don’t some of you cut in?” cried Otis resentfully. “She likes more variety.”</p>
<p>“Why, Otis,” suggested a friend “you’ve just barely got used to her.”</p>
<p>“Why the two-by-four, Otis?” inquired Warren, smiling.</p>
<p>“The two-by-four? Oh, this? This is a club. When she comes out I’ll hit her on the head and knock her in again.”</p>
<p>Warren collapsed on a settee and howled with glee.</p>
<p>“Never mind, Otis,” he articulated finally. “I’m relieving you this time.”</p>
<p>Otis simulated a sudden fainting attack and handed the stick to Warren.</p>
<p>“If you need it, old man,” he said hoarsely.</p>
<p>No matter how beautiful or brilliant a girl may be, the reputation of not being frequently cut in on makes her position at a dance unfortunate. Perhaps boys prefer her company to that of the butterflies with whom they dance a dozen times an but, youth in this jazz-nourished generation is temperamentally restless, and the idea of foxtrotting more than one full fox trot with the same girl is distasteful, not to say odious. When it comes to several dances and the intermissions between she can be quite sure that a young man, once relieved, will never tread on her wayward toes again.</p>
<p>Warren danced the next full dance with Bernice, and finally, thankful for the intermission, he led her to a table on the veranda. There was a moment’s silence while she did unimpressive things with her fan.</p>
<p>“It’s hotter here than in Eau Claire,” she said.</p>
<p>Warren stifled a sigh and nodded. It might be for all he knew or cared. He wondered idly whether she was a poor conversationalist because she got no attention or got no attention because she was a poor conversationalist.</p>
<p>“You going to be here much longer?” he asked and then turned rather red. She might suspect his reasons for asking.</p>
<p>“Another week,” she answered, and stared at him as if to lunge at his next remark when it left his lips.</p>
<p>Warren fidgeted. Then with a sudden charitable impulse he decided to try part of his line on her. He turned and looked at her eyes.</p>
<p>“You’ve got an awfully kissable mouth,” he began quietly.</p>
<p>This was a remark that he sometimes made to girls at college proms when they were talking in just such half dark as this. Bernice distinctly jumped. She turned an ungraceful red and became clumsy with her fan. No one had ever made such a remark to her before.</p>
<p>“Fresh!”⁠⸺⁠the word had slipped out before she realized it, and she bit her lip. Too late she decided to be amused, and offered him a flustered smile.</p>
<p>Warren was annoyed. Though not accustomed to have that remark taken seriously, still it usually provoked a laugh or a paragraph of sentimental banter. And he hated to be called fresh, except in a joking way. His charitable impulse died and he switched the topic.</p>
<p>“Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest sitting out as usual,” he commented.</p>
<p>This was more in Bernice’s line, but a faint regret mingled with her relief as the subject changed. Men did not talk to her about kissable mouths, but she knew that they talked in some such way to other girls.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” she said, and laughed. “I hear they’ve been mooning around for years without a red penny. Isn’t it silly?”</p>
<p>Warren’s disgust increased. Jim Strain was a close friend of his brother’s, and anyway he considered it bad form to sneer at people for not having money. But Bernice had had no intention of sneering. She was merely nervous.</p>
</section>
<section id="bernice-bobs-her-hair-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>When Marjorie and Bernice reached home at half after midnight they said good night at the top of the stairs. Though cousins, they were not intimates. As a matter of fact Marjorie had no female intimates⁠—she considered girls stupid. Bernice on the contrary all through this parent-arranged visit had rather longed to exchange those confidences flavored with giggles and tears that she considered an indispensable factor in all feminine intercourse. But in this respect she found Marjorie rather cold; felt somehow the same difficulty in talking to her that she had in talking to men. Marjorie never giggled, was never frightened, seldom embarrassed, and in fact had very few of the qualities which Bernice considered appropriately and blessedly feminine.</p>
<p>As Bernice busied herself with toothbrush and paste this night she wondered for the hundredth time why she never had any attention when she was away from home. That her family were the wealthiest in Eau Claire; that her mother entertained tremendously, gave little diners for her daughter before all dances and bought her a car of her own to drive round in, never occurred to her as factors in her hometown social success. Like most girls she had been brought up on the warm milk prepared by Annie Fellows Johnston and on novels in which the female was beloved because of certain mysterious womanly qualities, always mentioned but never displayed.</p>
<p>Bernice felt a vague pain that she was not at present engaged in being popular. She did not know that had it not been for Marjorie’s campaigning she would have danced the entire evening with one man; but she knew that even in Eau Claire other girls with less position and less pulchritude were given a much bigger rush. She attributed this to something subtly unscrupulous in those girls. It had never worried her, and if it had her mother would have assured her that the other girls cheapened themselves and that men really respected girls like Bernice.</p>
<p>She turned out the light in her bathroom, and on an impulse decided to go in and chat for a moment with her aunt Josephine, whose light was still on. Her soft slippers bore her noiselessly down the carpeted hall, but hearing voices inside she stopped near the partly openers door. Then she caught her own name, and without any definite intention of eavesdropping lingered⁠—and the thread of the conversation going on inside pierced her consciousness sharply as if it had been drawn through with a needle.</p>
<p>“She’s absolutely hopeless!” It was Marjorie’s voice. “Oh, I know what you’re going to say! So many people have told you how pretty and sweet she is, and how she can cook! What of it? She has a bum time. Men don’t like her.”</p>
<p>“What’s a little cheap popularity?”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey sounded annoyed.</p>
<p>“It’s everything when you’re eighteen,” said Marjorie emphatically. “I’ve done my best. I’ve been polite and I’ve made men dance with her, but they just won’t stand being bored. When I think of that gorgeous coloring wasted on such a ninny, and think what Martha Carey could do with it⁠—oh!”</p>
<p>“There’s no courtesy these days.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey’s voice implied that modern situations were too much for her. When she was a girl all young ladies who belonged to nice families had glorious times.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Marjorie, “no girl can permanently bolster up a lame-duck visitor, because these days it’s every girl for herself. I’ve even tried to drop hints about clothes and things, and she’s been furious⁠—given me the funniest looks. She’s sensitive enough to know she’s not getting away with much, but I’ll bet she consoles herself by thinking that she’s very virtuous and that I’m too gay and fickle and will come to a bad end. All unpopular girls think that way. Sour grapes! Sarah Hopkins refers to Genevieve and Roberta and me as gardenia girls! I’ll bet she’d give ten years of her life and her European education to be a gardenia girl and have three or four men in love with her and be cut in on every few feet at dances.”</p>
<p>“It seems to me,” interrupted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey rather wearily, “that you ought to be able to do something for Bernice. I know she’s not very vivacious.”</p>
<p>Marjorie groaned.</p>
<p>“Vivacious! Good grief! I’ve never heard her say anything to a boy except that it’s hot or the floor’s crowded or that she’s going to school in New York next year. Sometimes she asks them what kind of car they have and tells them the kind she has. Thrilling!”</p>
<p>There was a short silence and then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey took up her refrain:</p>
<p>“All I know is that other girls not half so sweet and attractive get partners. Martha Carey, for instance, is stout and loud, and her mother is distinctly common. Roberta Dillon is so thin this year that she looks as though Arizona were the place for her. She’s dancing herself to death.”</p>
<p>“But, mother,” objected Marjorie impatiently, “Martha is cheerful and awfully witty and an awfully slick girl, and Roberta’s a marvellous dancer. She’s been popular for ages!”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey yawned.</p>
<p>“I think it’s that crazy Indian blood in Bernice,” continued Marjorie. “Maybe she’s a reversion to type. Indian women all just sat round and never said anything.”</p>
<p>“Go to bed, you silly child,” laughed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey. “I wouldn’t have told you that if I’d thought you were going to remember it. And I think most of your ideas are perfectly idiotic,” she finished sleepily.</p>
<p>There was another silence, while Marjorie considered whether or not convincing her mother was worth the trouble. People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.</p>
<p>Having decided this, Marjorie said good night. When she came out into the hall it was quite empty.</p>
</section>
<section id="bernice-bobs-her-hair-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>While Marjorie was breakfasting late next day Bernice came into the room with a rather formal good morning, sat down opposite, stared intently over and slightly moistened her lips.</p>
<p>“What’s on your mind?” inquired Marjorie, rather puzzled.</p>
<p>Bernice paused before she threw her hand-grenade.</p>
<p>“I heard what you said about me to your mother last night.”</p>
<p>Marjorie was startled, but she showed only a faintly heightened color and her voice was quite even when she spoke.</p>
<p>“Where were you?”</p>
<p>“In the hall. I didn’t mean to listen⁠—at first.”</p>
<p>After an involuntary look of contempt Marjorie dropped her eyes and became very interested in balancing a stray corn-flake on her finger.</p>
<p>“I guess I’d better go back to Eau Claire⁠—if I’m such a nuisance.” Bernice’s lower lip was trembling violently and she continued on a wavering note: “I’ve tried to be nice, and⁠—and I’ve been first neglected and then insulted. No one ever visited me and got such treatment.”</p>
<p>Marjorie was silent.</p>
<p>“But I’m in the way, I see. I’m a drag on you. Your friends don’t like me.” She paused, and then remembered another one of her grievances. “Of course I was furious last week when you tried to hint to me that that dress was unbecoming. Don’t you think I know how to dress myself?”</p>
<p>“No,” murmured less than half-aloud.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t hint anything,” said Marjorie succinctly. “I said, as I remember, that it was better to wear a becoming dress three times straight than to alternate it with two frights.”</p>
<p>“Do you think that was a very nice thing to say?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t trying to be nice.” Then after a pause: “When do you want to go?”</p>
<p>Bernice drew in her breath sharply.</p>
<p>“Oh!” It was a little half-cry.</p>
<p>Marjorie looked up in surprise.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you say you were going?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, you were only bluffing!”</p>
<p>They stared at each other across the breakfast-table for a moment. Misty waves were passing before Bernice’s eyes, while Marjorie’s face wore that rather hard expression that she used when slightly intoxicated undergraduate’s were making love to her.</p>
<p>“So you were bluffing,” she repeated as if it were what she might have expected.</p>
<p>Bernice admitted it by bursting into tears. Marjorie’s eyes showed boredom.</p>
<p>“You’re my cousin,” sobbed Bernice. “I’m v-v-visiting you. I was to stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she’ll wah-wonder⁠—”</p>
<p>Marjorie waited until the shower of broken words collapsed into little sniffles.</p>
<p>“I’ll give you my month’s allowance,” she said coldly, “and you can spend this last week anywhere you want. There’s a very nice hotel⁠—”</p>
<p>Bernice’s sobs rose to a flute note, and rising of a sudden she fled from the room.</p>
<p>An hour later, while Marjorie was in the library absorbed in composing one of those noncommittal marvelously elusive letters that only a young girl can write, Bernice reappeared, very red-eyed, and consciously calm. She cast no glance at Marjorie but took a book at random from the shelf and sat down as if to read. Marjorie seemed absorbed in her letter and continued writing. When the clock showed noon Bernice closed her book with a snap.</p>
<p>“I suppose I’d better get my railroad ticket.”</p>
<p>This was not the beginning of the speech she had rehearsed upstairs, but as Marjorie was not getting her cues⁠—wasn’t urging her to be reasonable; it’s an a mistake⁠—it was the best opening she could muster.</p>
<p>“Just wait till I finish this letter,” said Marjorie without looking round. “I want to get it off in the next mail.”</p>
<p>After another minute, during which her pen scratched busily, she turned round and relaxed with an air of “at your service.” Again Bernice had to speak.</p>
<p>“Do you want me to go home?”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Marjorie, considering, “I suppose if you’re not having a good time you’d better go. No use being miserable.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you think common kindness⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, please don’t quote <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Little Women</i>!” cried Marjorie impatiently. “That’s out of style.”</p>
<p>“You think so?”</p>
<p>“Heavens, yes! What modern girl could live like those inane females?”</p>
<p>“They were the models for our mothers.”</p>
<p>Marjorie laughed.</p>
<p>“Yes, they were⁠—not! Besides, our mothers were all very well in their way, but they know very little about their daughters’ problems.”</p>
<p>Bernice drew herself up.</p>
<p>“Please don’t talk about my mother.”</p>
<p>Marjorie laughed.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I mentioned her.”</p>
<p>Bernice felt that she was being led away from her subject.</p>
<p>“Do you think you’ve treated me very well?”</p>
<p>“I’ve done my best. You’re rather hard material to work with.”</p>
<p>The lids of Bernice’s eyes reddened.</p>
<p>“I think you’re hard and selfish, and you haven’t a feminine quality in you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, my Lord!” cried Marjorie in desperation “You little nut! Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colorless marriages; all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities. What a blow it must be when a man with imagination marries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he’s been building ideals round, and finds that she’s just a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations!”</p>
<p>Bernice’s mouth had slipped half open.</p>
<p>“The womanly woman!” continued Marjorie. “Her whole early life is occupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really do have a good time.”</p>
<p>Bernice’s jaw descended farther as Marjorie’s voice rose.</p>
<p>“There’s some excuse for an ugly girl whining. If I’d been irretrievably ugly I’d never have forgiven my parents for bringing me into the world. But you’re starting life without any handicap⁠—” Marjorie’s little fist clinched, “If you expect me to weep with you you’ll be disappointed. Go or stay, just as you like.” And picking up her letters she left the room.</p>
<p>Bernice claimed a headache and failed to appear at luncheon. They had a matinée date for the afternoon, but the headache persisting, Marjorie made explanation to a not very downcast boy. But when she returned late in the afternoon she found Bernice with a strangely set face waiting for her in her bedroom.</p>
<p>“I’ve decided,” began Bernice without preliminaries, “that maybe you’re right about things⁠—possibly not. But if you’ll tell me why your friends aren’t⁠—aren’t interested in me I’ll see if I can do what you want me to.”</p>
<p>Marjorie was at the mirror shaking down her hair.</p>
<p>“Do you mean it?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Without reservations? Will you do exactly what I say?”</p>
<p>“Well, I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Well nothing! Will you do exactly as I say?”</p>
<p>“If they’re sensible things.”</p>
<p>“They’re not! You’re no case for sensible things.”</p>
<p>“Are you going to make⁠—to recommend⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes, everything. If I tell you to take boxing-lessons you’ll have to do it. Write home and tell your mother you’re going’ to stay another two weeks.</p>
<p>“If you’ll tell me⁠—”</p>
<p>“All right⁠—I’ll just give you a few examples now. First you have no ease of manner. Why? Because you’re never sure about your personal appearance. When a girl feels that she’s perfectly groomed and dressed she can forget that part of her. That’s charm. The more parts of yourself you can afford to forget the more charm you have.”</p>
<p>“Don’t I look all right?”</p>
<p>“No; for instance you never take care of your eyebrows. They’re black and lustrous, but by leaving them straggly they’re a blemish. They’d be beautiful if you’d take care of them in one-tenth the time you take doing nothing. You’re going to brush them so that they’ll grow straight.”</p>
<p>Bernice raised the brows in question.</p>
<p>“Do you mean to say that men notice eyebrows?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—subconsciously. And when you go home you ought to have your teeth straightened a little. It’s almost imperceptible, still⁠—”</p>
<p>“But I thought,” interrupted Bernice in bewilderment, “that you despised little dainty feminine things like that.”</p>
<p>“I hate dainty minds,” answered Marjorie. “But a girl has to be dainty in person. If she looks like a million dollars she can talk about Russia, ping-pong, or the League of Nations and get away with it.”</p>
<p>“What else?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m just beginning! There’s your dancing.”</p>
<p>“Don’t I dance all right?”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t⁠—you lean on a man; yes, you do⁠—ever so slightly. I noticed it when we were dancing together yesterday. And you dance standing up straight instead of bending over a little. Probably some old lady on the sideline once told you that you looked so dignified that way. But except with a very small girl it’s much harder on the man, and he’s the one that counts.”</p>
<p>“Go on.” Bernice’s brain was reeling.</p>
<p>“Well, you’ve got to learn to be nice to men who are sad birds. You look as if you’d been insulted whenever you’re thrown with any except the most popular boys. Why, Bernice, I’m cut in on every few feet⁠—and who does most of it? Why, those very sad birds. No girl can afford to neglect them. They’re the big part of any crowd. Young boys too shy to talk are the very best conversational practice. Clumsy boys are the best dancing practice. If you can follow them and yet look graceful you can follow a baby tank across a barbwire skyscraper.”</p>
<p>Bernice sighed profoundly, but Marjorie was not through.</p>
<p>“If you go to a dance and really amuse, say, three sad birds that dance with you; if you talk so well to them that they forget they’re stuck with you, you’ve done something. They’ll come back next time, and gradually so many sad birds will dance with you that the attractive boys will see there’s no danger of being stuck⁠—then they’ll dance with you.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” agreed Bernice faintly. “I think I begin to see.”</p>
<p>“And finally,” concluded Marjorie, “poise and charm will just come. You’ll wake up some morning knowing you’ve attained it and men will know it too.”</p>
<p>Bernice rose.</p>
<p>“It’s been awfully kind of you⁠—but nobody’s ever talked to me like this before, and I feel sort of startled.”</p>
<p>Marjorie made no answer but gazed pensively at her own image in the mirror.</p>
<p>“You’re a peach to help me,” continued Bernice.</p>
<p>Still Marjorie did not answer, and Bernice thought she had seemed too grateful.</p>
<p>“I know you don’t like sentiment,” she said timidly.</p>
<p>Marjorie turned to her quickly.</p>
<p>“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was considering whether we hadn’t better bob your hair.”</p>
<p>Bernice collapsed backward upon the bed.</p>
</section>
<section id="bernice-bobs-her-hair-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>On the following Wednesday evening there was a dinner-dance at the country club. When the guests strolled in Bernice found her place-card with a slight feeling of irritation. Though at her right sat <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard, a most desirable and distinguished young bachelor, the all-important left held only Charley Paulson. Charley lacked height, beauty, and social shrewdness, and in her new enlightenment Bernice decided that his only qualification to be her partner was that he had never been stuck with her. But this feeling of irritation left with the last of the soup-plates, and Marjorie’s specific instruction came to her. Swallowing her pride she turned to Charley Paulson and plunged.</p>
<p>“Do you think I ought to bob my hair, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Charley Paulson?”</p>
<p>Charley looked up in surprise.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I’m considering it. It’s such a sure and easy way of attracting attention.”</p>
<p>Charley smiled pleasantly. He could not know this had been rehearsed. He replied that he didn’t know much about bobbed hair. But Bernice was there to tell him.</p>
<p>“I want to be a society vampire, you see,” she announced coolly, and went on to inform him that bobbed hair was the necessary prelude. She added that she wanted to ask his advice, because she had heard he was so critical about girls.</p>
<p>Charley, who knew as much about the psychology of women as he did of the mental states of Buddhist contemplatives, felt vaguely flattered.</p>
<p>“So I’ve decided,” she continued, her voice rising slightly, “that early next week I’m going down to the Sevier Hotel barbershop, sit in the first chair, and get my hair bobbed.” She faltered noticing that the people near her had paused in their conversation and were listening; but after a confused second Marjorie’s coaching told, and she finished her paragraph to the vicinity at large. “Of course I’m charging admission, but if you’ll all come down and encourage me I’ll issue passes for the inside seats.”</p>
<p>There was a ripple of appreciative laughter, and under cover of it <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard leaned over quickly and said close to her ear: “I’ll take a box right now.”</p>
<p>She met his eyes and smiled as if he had said something surprisingly brilliant.</p>
<p>“Do you believe in bobbed hair?” asked <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece in the same undertone.</p>
<p>“I think it’s unmoral,” affirmed Bernice gravely. “But, of course, you’ve either got to amuse people or feed ’em or shock ’em.” Marjorie had culled this from Oscar Wilde. It was greeted with a ripple of laughter from the men and a series of quick, intent looks from the girls. And then as though she had said nothing of wit or moment Bernice turned again to Charley and spoke confidentially in his ear.</p>
<p>“I want to ask you your opinion of several people. I imagine you’re a wonderful judge of character.”</p>
<p>Charley thrilled faintly⁠—paid her a subtle compliment by overturning her water.</p>
<p>Two hours later, while Warren McIntyre was standing passively in the stag line abstractedly watching the dancers and wondering whither and with whom Marjorie had disappeared, an unrelated perception began to creep slowly upon him⁠—a perception that Bernice, cousin to Marjorie, had been cut in on several times in the past five minutes. He closed his eyes, opened them and looked again. Several minutes back she had been dancing with a visiting boy, a matter easily accounted for; a visiting boy would know no better. But now she was dancing with someone else, and there was Charley Paulson headed for her with enthusiastic determination in his eye. Funny⁠—Charley seldom danced with more than three girls an evening.</p>
<p>Warren was distinctly surprised when⁠—the exchange having been effected⁠—the man relieved proved to be none ether than <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard himself. And <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece seemed not at all jubilant at being relieved. Next time Bernice danced near, Warren regarded her intently. Yes, she was pretty, distinctly pretty; and tonight her face seemed really vivacious. She had that look that no woman, however histrionically proficient, can successfully counterfeit⁠—she looked as if she were having a good time. He liked the way she had her hair arranged, wondered if it was brilliantine that made it glisten so. And that dress was becoming⁠—a dark red that set off her shadowy eyes and high coloring. He remembered that he had thought her pretty when she first came to town, before he had realized that she was dull. Too bad she was dull⁠—dull girls unbearable⁠—certainly pretty though.</p>
<p>His thoughts zigzagged back to Marjorie. This disappearance would be like other disappearances. When she reappeared he would demand where she had been⁠—would be told emphatically that it was none of his business. What a pity she was so sure of him! She basked in the knowledge that no other girl in town interested him; she defied him to fall in love with Genevieve or Roberta.</p>
<p>Warren sighed. The way to Marjorie’s affections was a labyrinth indeed. He looked up. Bernice was again dancing with the visiting boy. Half unconsciously he took a step out from the stag line in her direction, and hesitated. Then he said to himself that it was charity. He walked toward her⁠—collided suddenly with <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard.</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” said Warren.</p>
<p>But <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece had not stopped to apologize. He had again cut in on Bernice.</p>
<p>That night at one o’clock Marjorie, with one hand on the electric-light switch in the hall, turned to take a last look at Bernice’s sparkling eyes.</p>
<p>“So it worked?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Marjorie, yes!” cried Bernice.</p>
<p>“I saw you were having a gay time.”</p>
<p>“I did! The only trouble was that about midnight I ran short of talk. I had to repeat myself⁠—with different men of course. I hope they won’t compare notes.”</p>
<p>“Men don’t,” said Marjorie, yawning, “and it wouldn’t matter if they did⁠—they’d think you were even trickier.”</p>
<p>She snapped out the light, and as they started up the stairs Bernice grasped the banister thankfully. For the first time in her life she had been danced tired.</p>
<p>“You see,” said Marjorie it the top of the stairs, “one man sees another man cut in and he thinks there must be something there. Well, we’ll fix up some new stuff tomorrow. Good night.”</p>
<p>“Good night.”</p>
<p>As Bernice took down her hair she passed the evening before her in review. She had followed instructions exactly. Even when Charley Paulson cut in for the eighth time she had simulated delight and had apparently been both interested and flattered. She had not talked about the weather or Eau Claire or automobiles or her school, but had confined her conversation to me, you, and us.</p>
<p>But a few minutes before she fell asleep a rebellious thought was churning drowsily in her brain⁠—after all, it was she who had done it. Marjorie, to be sure, had given her her conversation, but then Marjorie got much of her conversation out of things she read. Bernice had bought the red dress, though she had never valued it highly before Marjorie dug it out of her trunk⁠—and her own voice had said the words, her own lips had smiled, her own feet had danced. Marjorie nice girl⁠—vain, though⁠—nice evening⁠—nice boys⁠—like Warren⁠—Warren⁠—Warren⁠—what’s his name⁠—Warren⁠—</p>
<p>She fell asleep.</p>
</section>
<section id="bernice-bobs-her-hair-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>To Bernice the next week was a revelation. With the feeling that people really enjoyed looking at her and listening to her came the foundation of self-confidence. Of course there were numerous mistakes at first. She did not know, for instance, that Draycott Deyo was studying for the ministry; she was unaware that he had cut in on her because he thought she was a quiet, reserved girl. Had she known these things she would not have treated him to the line which began “Hello, Shell Shock!” and continued with the bathtub story⁠—“It takes a frightful lot of energy to fix my hair in the summer⁠—there’s so much of it⁠—so I always fix it first and powder my face and put on my hat; then I get into the bathtub, and dress afterward. Don’t you think that’s the best plan?”</p>
<p>Though Draycott Deyo was in the throes of difficulties concerning baptism by immersion and might possibly have seen a connection, it must be admitted that he did not. He considered feminine bathing an immoral subject, and gave her some of his ideas on the depravity of modern society.</p>
<p>But to offset that unfortunate occurrence Bernice had several signal successes to her credit. Little Otis Ormonde pleaded off from a trip East and elected instead to follow her with a puppylike devotion, to the amusement of his crowd and to the irritation of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard, several of whose afternoon calls Otis completely ruined by the disgusting tenderness of the glances he bent on Bernice. He even told her the story of the two-by-four and the dressing-room to show her how frightfully mistaken he and everyone else had been in their first judgment of her. Bernice laughed off that incident with a slight sinking sensation.</p>
<p>Of all Bernice’s conversation perhaps the best known and most universally approved was the line about the bobbing of her hair.</p>
<p>“Oh, Bernice, when you goin’ to get the hair bobbed?”</p>
<p>“Day after tomorrow maybe,” she would reply, laughing. “Will you come and see me? Because I’m counting on you, you know.”</p>
<p>“Will we? You know! But you better hurry up.”</p>
<p>Bernice, whose tonsorial intentions were strictly dishonorable, would laugh again.</p>
<p>“Pretty soon now. You’d be surprised.”</p>
<p>But perhaps the most significant symbol of her success was the gray car of the hypercritical Warren McIntyre, parked daily in front of the Harvey house. At first the parlormaid was distinctly startled when he asked for Bernice instead of Marjorie; after a week of it she told the cook that Miss Bernice had gotta holda Miss Marjorie’s best fella.</p>
<p>And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it began with Warren’s desire to rouse jealousy in Marjorie; perhaps it was the familiar though unrecognized strain of Marjorie in Bernice’s conversation; perhaps it was both of these and something of sincere attraction besides. But somehow the collective mind of the younger set knew within a week that Marjorie’s most reliable beau had made an amazing face-about and was giving an indisputable rush to Marjorie’s guest. The question of the moment was how Marjorie would take it. Warren called Bernice on the phone twice a day, sent her notes, and they were frequently seen together in his roadster, obviously engrossed in one of those tense, significant conversations as to whether or not he was sincere.</p>
<p>Marjorie on being twitted only laughed. She said she was mighty glad that Warren had at last found someone who appreciated him. So the younger set laughed, too, and guessed that Marjorie didn’t care and let it go at that.</p>
<p>One afternoon when there were only three days left of her visit Bernice was waiting in the hall for Warren, with whom she was going to a bridge party. She was in rather a blissful mood, and when Marjorie⁠—also bound for the party⁠—appeared beside her and began casually to adjust her hat in the mirror, Bernice was utterly unprepared for anything in the nature of a clash. Marjorie did her work very coldly and succinctly in three sentences.</p>
<p>“You may as well get Warren out of your head,” she said coldly.</p>
<p>“What?” Bernice was utterly astounded.</p>
<p>“You may as well stop making a fool of yourself over Warren McIntyre. He doesn’t care a snap of his fingers about you.”</p>
<p>For a tense moment they regarded each other⁠—Marjorie scornful, aloof; Bernice astounded, half-angry, half-afraid. Then two cars drove up in front of the house and there was a riotous honking. Both of them gasped faintly, turned, and side by side hurried out.</p>
<p>All through the bridge party Bernice strove in vain to master a rising uneasiness. She had offended Marjorie, the sphinx of sphinxes. With the most wholesome and innocent intentions in the world she had stolen Marjorie’s property. She felt suddenly and horribly guilty. After the bridge game, when they sat in an informal circle and the conversation became general, the storm gradually broke. Little Otis Ormonde inadvertently precipitated it.</p>
<p>“When you going back to kindergarten, Otis?” someone had asked.</p>
<p>“Me? Day Bernice gets her hair bobbed.”</p>
<p>“Then your education’s over,” said Marjorie quickly. “That’s only a bluff of hers. I should think you’d have realized.”</p>
<p>“That a fact?” demanded Otis, giving Bernice a reproachful glance.</p>
<p>Bernice’s ears burned as she tried to think up an effectual comeback. In the face of this direct attack her imagination was paralyzed.</p>
<p>“There’s a lot of bluffs in the world,” continued Marjorie quite pleasantly. “I should think you’d be young enough to know that, Otis.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Otis, “maybe so. But gee! With a line like Bernice’s⁠—”</p>
<p>“Really?” yawned Marjorie. “What’s her latest bon mot?”</p>
<p>No one seemed to know. In fact, Bernice, having trifled with her muse’s beau, had said nothing memorable of late.</p>
<p>“Was that really all a line?” asked Roberta curiously.</p>
<p>Bernice hesitated. She felt that wit in some form was demanded of her, but under her cousin’s suddenly frigid eyes she was completely incapacitated.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she stalled.</p>
<p>“Splush!” said Marjorie. “Admit it!”</p>
<p>Bernice saw that Warren’s eyes had left a ukulele he had been tinkering with and were fixed on her questioningly.</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know!” she repeated steadily. Her cheeks were glowing.</p>
<p>“Splush!” remarked Marjorie again.</p>
<p>“Come through, Bernice,” urged Otis. “Tell her where to get off.” Bernice looked round again⁠—she seemed unable to get away from Warren’s eyes.</p>
<p>“I like bobbed hair,” she said hurriedly, as if he had asked her a question, “and I intend to bob mine.”</p>
<p>“When?” demanded Marjorie.</p>
<p>“Any time.”</p>
<p>“No time like the present,” suggested Roberta.</p>
<p>Otis jumped to his feet.</p>
<p>“Good stuff!” he cried. “We’ll have a summer bobbing party. Sevier Hotel barbershop, I think you said.”</p>
<p>In an instant all were on their feet. Bernice’s heart throbbed violently.</p>
<p>“What?” she gasped.</p>
<p>Out of the group came Marjorie’s voice, very clear and contemptuous.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry⁠—she’ll back out!”</p>
<p>“Come on, Bernice!” cried Otis, starting toward the door.</p>
<p>Four eyes⁠—Warren’s and Marjorie’s⁠—stared at her, challenged her, defied her. For another second she wavered wildly.</p>
<p>“All right,” she said swiftly “I don’t care if I do.”</p>
<p>An eternity of minutes later, riding downtown through the late afternoon beside Warren, the others following in Roberta’s car close behind, Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinette bound for the guillotine in a tumbrel. Vaguely she wondered why she did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all she could do to keep from clutching her hair with both bands to protect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither. Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was the test supreme of her sportsmanship; her right to walk unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls.</p>
<p>Warren was moodily silent, and when they came to the hotel he drew up at the curb and nodded to Bernice to precede him out. Roberta’s car emptied a laughing crowd into the shop, which presented two bold plate-glass windows to the street.</p>
<p>Bernice stood on the curb and looked at the sign, Sevier Barbershop. It was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was the first barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking a cigarette, leaned nonchalantly against the first chair. He must have heard of her; he must have been waiting all week, smoking eternal cigarettes beside that portentous, too-often-mentioned first chair. Would they blindfold her? No, but they would tie a white cloth round her neck lest any of her blood⁠—nonsense⁠—hair⁠—should get on her clothes.</p>
<p>“All right, Bernice,” said Warren quickly.</p>
<p>With her chin in the air she crossed the sidewalk, pushed open the swinging screen-door, and giving not a glance to the uproarious, riotous row that occupied the waiting bench, went up to the fat barber.</p>
<p>“I want you to bob my hair.”</p>
<p>The first barber’s mouth slid somewhat open. His cigarette dropped to the floor.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“My hair⁠—bob it!”</p>
<p>Refusing further preliminaries, Bernice took her seat on high. A man in the chair next to her turned on his side and gave her a glance, half lather, half amazement. One barber started and spoiled little Willy Schuneman’s monthly haircut. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> O’Reilly in the last chair grunted and swore musically in ancient Gaelic as a razor bit into his cheek. Two bootblacks became wide-eyed and rushed for her feet. No, Bernice didn’t care for a shine.</p>
<p>Outside a passerby stopped and stared; a couple joined him; half a dozen small boys’ nose sprang into life, flattened against the glass; and snatches of conversation borne on the summer breeze drifted in through the screen-door.</p>
<p>“Lookada long hair on a kid!”</p>
<p>“Where’d yuh get ’at stuff? ’At’s a bearded lady he just finished shavin’.”</p>
<p>But Bernice saw nothing, heard nothing. Her only living sense told her that this man in the white coat had removed one tortoiseshell comb and then another; that his fingers were fumbling clumsily with unfamiliar hairpins; that this hair, this wonderful hair of hers, was going⁠—she would never again feel its long voluptuous pull as it hung in a dark-brown glory down her back. For a second she was near breaking down, and then the picture before her swam mechanically into her vision⁠—Marjorie’s mouth curling in a faint ironic smile as if to say:</p>
<p>“Give up and get down! You tried to buck me and I called your bluff. You see you haven’t got a prayer.”</p>
<p>And some last energy rose up in Bernice, for she clinched her hands under the white cloth, and there was a curious narrowing of her eyes that Marjorie remarked on to someone long afterward.</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later the barber swung her round to face the mirror, and she flinched at the full extent of the damage that had been wrought. Her hair was not curls and now it lay in lank lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It was ugly as sin⁠—she had known it would be ugly as sin. Her face’s chief charm had been a Madonna-like simplicity. Now that was gone and she was⁠—well frightfully mediocre⁠—not stagy; only ridiculous, like a Greenwich Villager who had left her spectacles at home.</p>
<p>As she climbed down from the chair she tried to smile⁠—failed miserably. She saw two of the girls exchange glances; noticed Marjorie’s mouth curved in attenuated mockery⁠—and that Warren’s eyes were suddenly very cold.</p>
<p>“You see,”⁠—her words fell into an awkward pause⁠—“I’ve done it.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you’ve⁠—done it,” admitted Warren.</p>
<p>“Do you like it?”</p>
<p>There was a halfhearted “Sure” from two or three voices, another awkward pause, and then Marjorie turned swiftly and with serpentlike intensity to Warren.</p>
<p>“Would you mind running me down to the cleaners?” she asked. “I’ve simply got to get a dress there before supper. Roberta’s driving right home and she can take the others.”</p>
<p>Warren stared abstractedly at some infinite speck out the window. Then for an instant his eyes rested coldly on Bernice before they turned to Marjorie.</p>
<p>“Be glad to,” he said slowly.</p>
</section>
<section id="bernice-bobs-her-hair-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>Bernice did not fully realize the outrageous trap that had been set for her until she met her aunt’s amazed glance just before dinner.</p>
<p>“Why Bernice!”</p>
<p>“I’ve bobbed it, Aunt Josephine.”</p>
<p>“Why, child!”</p>
<p>“Do you like it?”</p>
<p>“Why Bernice!”</p>
<p>“I suppose I’ve shocked you.”</p>
<p>“No, but what’ll <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Deyo think tomorrow night? Bernice, you should have waited until after the Deyo’s dance⁠—you should have waited if you wanted to do that.”</p>
<p>“It was sudden, Aunt Josephine. Anyway, why does it matter to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Deyo particularly?”</p>
<p>“Why child,” cried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey, “in her paper on ‘The Foibles of the Younger Generation’ that she read at the last meeting of the Thursday Club she devoted fifteen minutes to bobbed hair. It’s her pet abomination. And the dance is for you and Marjorie!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Bernice, what’ll your mother say? She’ll think I let you do it.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Dinner was an agony. She had made a hasty attempt with a curling-iron, and burned her finger and much hair. She could see that her aunt was both worried and grieved, and her uncle kept saying, “Well, I’ll be darned!” over and over in a hurt and faintly hostile torte. And Marjorie sat very quietly, intrenched behind a faint smile, a faintly mocking smile.</p>
<p>Somehow she got through the evening. Three boy’s called; Marjorie disappeared with one of them, and Bernice made a listless unsuccessful attempt to entertain the two others⁠—sighed thankfully as she climbed the stairs to her room at half past ten. What a day!</p>
<p>When she had undressed for the night the door opened and Marjorie came in.</p>
<p>“Bernice,” she said, “I’m awfully sorry about the Deyo dance. I’ll give you my word of honor I’d forgotten all about it.”</p>
<p>“ ’Sall right,” said Bernice shortly. Standing before the mirror she passed her comb slowly through her short hair.</p>
<p>“I’ll take you downtown tomorrow,” continued Marjorie, “and the hairdresser’ll fix it so you’ll look slick. I didn’t imagine you’d go through with it. I’m really mighty sorry.”</p>
<p>“Oh, ’sall right!”</p>
<p>“Still it’s your last night, so I suppose it won’t matter much.”</p>
<p>Then Bernice winced as Marjorie tossed her own hair over her shoulders and began to twist it slowly into two long blond braids until in her cream-colored negligee she looked like a delicate painting of some Saxon princess. Fascinated, Bernice watched the braids grow. Heavy and luxurious they were moving under the supple fingers like restive snakes⁠—and to Bernice remained this relic and the curling-iron and a tomorrow full of eyes. She could see <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">G.</abbr> Reece Stoddard, who liked her, assuming his Harvard manner and telling his dinner partner that Bernice shouldn’t have been allowed to go to the movies so much; she could see Draycott Deyo exchanging glances with his mother and then being conscientiously charitable to her. But then perhaps by tomorrow <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Deyo would have heard the news; would send round an icy little note requesting that she fail to appear⁠—and behind her back they would all laugh and know that Marjorie had made a fool of her; that her chance at beauty had been sacrificed to the jealous whim of a selfish girl. She sat down suddenly before the mirror, biting the inside of her cheek.</p>
<p>“I like it,” she said with an effort. “I think it’ll be becoming.”</p>
<p>Marjorie smiled.</p>
<p>“It looks all right. For heaven’s sake, don’t let it worry you!”</p>
<p>“I won’t.”</p>
<p>“Good night Bernice.”</p>
<p>But as the door closed something snapped within Bernice. She sprang dynamically to her feet, clinching her hands, then swiftly and noiseless crossed over to her bed and from underneath it dragged out her suitcase. Into it she tossed toilet articles and a change of clothing, Then she turned to her trunk and quickly dumped in two drawerfulls of lingerie and stammer dresses. She moved quietly, but deadly efficiency, and in three-quarters of an hour her trunk was locked and strapped and she was fully dressed in a becoming new travelling suit that Marjorie had helped her pick out.</p>
<p>Sitting down at her desk she wrote a short note to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harvey, in which she briefly outlined her reasons for going. She sealed it, addressed it, and laid it on her pillow. She glanced at her watch. The train left at one, and she knew that if she walked down to the Marborough Hotel two blocks away she could easily get a taxicab.</p>
<p>Suddenly she drew in her breath sharply and an expression flashed into her eyes that a practiced character reader might have connected vaguely with the set look she had worn in the barber’s chair⁠—somehow a development of it. It was quite a new look for Bernice⁠—and it carried consequences.</p>
<p>She went stealthily to the bureau, picked up an article that lay there, and turning out all the lights stood quietly until her eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Softly she pushed open the door to Marjorie’s room. She heard the quiet, even breathing of an untroubled conscience asleep.</p>
<p>She was by the bedside now, very deliberate and calm. She acted swiftly. Bending over she found one of the braids of Marjorie’s hair, followed it up with her hand to the point nearest the head, and then holding it a little slack so that the sleeper would feel no pull, she reached down with the shears and severed it. With the pigtail in her hand she held her breath. Marjorie had muttered something in her sleep. Bernice deftly amputated the other braid, paused for an instant, and then flitted swiftly and silently back to her own room.</p>
<p>Downstairs she opened the big front door, closed it carefully behind her, and feeling oddly happy and exuberant stepped off the porch into the moonlight, swinging her heavy grip like a shopping-bag. After a minute’s brisk walk she discovered that her left hand still held the two blond braids. She laughed unexpectedly⁠—had to shut her mouth hard to keep from emitting an absolute peal. She was passing Warren’s house now, and on the impulse she set down her baggage, and swinging the braids like piece of rope flung them at the wooden porch, where they landed with a slight thud. She laughed again, no longer restraining herself.</p>
<p>“Huh,” she giggled wildly. “Scalp the selfish thing!”</p>
<p>Then picking up her staircase she set off at a half-run down the moonlit street.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-ice-palace" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Ice Palace</h2>
<section id="the-ice-palace-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The sunlight dripped over the house like golden paint over an art jar, and the freckling shadows here and there only intensified the rigor of the bath of light. The Butterworth and Larkin houses flanking were entrenched behind great stodgy trees; only the Happer house took the full sun, and all day long faced the dusty road-street with a tolerant kindly patience. This was the city of Tarleton in southernmost Georgia, September afternoon.</p>
<p>Up in her bedroom window Sally Carrol Happer rested her nineteen-year-old chin on a fifty-two-year-old sill and watched Clark Darrow’s ancient Ford turn the corner. The car was hot⁠—being partly metallic it retained all the heat it absorbed or evolved⁠—and Clark Darrow sitting bolt upright at the wheel wore a pained, strained expression as though he considered himself a spare part, and rather likely to break. He laboriously crossed two dust ruts, the wheels squeaking indignantly at the encounter, and then with a terrifying expression he gave the steering-gear a final wrench and deposited self and car approximately in front of the Happer steps. There was a heaving sound, a death-rattle, followed by a short silence; and then the air was rent by a startling whistle.</p>
<p>Sally Carrol gazed down sleepily. She started to yawn, but finding this quite impossible unless she raised her chin from the windowsill, changed her mind and continued silently to regard the car, whose owner sat brilliantly if perfunctorily at attention as he waited for an answer to his signal. After a moment the whistle once more split the dusty air.</p>
<p>“Good mawnin’.”</p>
<p>With difficulty Clark twisted his tall body round and bent a distorted glance on the window.</p>
<p>“Tain’t mawnin’, Sally Carrol.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t it, sure enough?”</p>
<p>“What you doin’?”</p>
<p>“Eatin’ ’n apple.”</p>
<p>“Come on go swimmin’⁠—want to?”</p>
<p>“Reckon so.”</p>
<p>“How ’bout hurryin’ up?”</p>
<p>“Sure enough.”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol sighed voluminously and raised herself with profound inertia from the floor where she had been occupied in alternately destroyed parts of a green apple and painting paper dolls for her younger sister. She approached a mirror, regarded her expression with a pleased and pleasant languor, dabbed two spots of rouge on her lips and a grain of powder on her nose, and covered her bobbed corn-colored hair with a rose-littered sunbonnet. Then she kicked over the painting water, said, “Oh, damn!”⁠—but let it lay⁠—and left the room.</p>
<p>“How you, Clark?” she inquired a minute later as she slipped nimbly over the side of the car.</p>
<p>“Mighty fine, Sally Carrol.”</p>
<p>“Where we go swimmin’?”</p>
<p>“Out to Walley’s Pool. Told Marylyn we’d call by an’ get her an’ Joe Ewing.”</p>
<p>Clark was dark and lean, and when on foot was rather inclined to stoop. His eyes were ominous and his expression somewhat petulant except when startlingly illuminated by one of his frequent smiles. Clark had “a income”⁠—just enough to keep himself in ease and his car in gasolene⁠—and he had spent the two years since he graduated from Georgia Tech in dozing round the lazy streets of his home town, discussing how he could best invest his capital for an immediate fortune.</p>
<p>Hanging round he found not at all difficult; a crowd of little girls had grown up beautifully, the amazing Sally Carrol foremost among them; and they enjoyed being swum with and danced with and made love to in the flower-filled summery evenings⁠—and they all liked Clark immensely. When feminine company palled there were half a dozen other youths who were always just about to do something, and meanwhile were quite willing to join him in a few holes of golf, or a game of billiards, or the consumption of a quart of “hard yella licker.” Every once in a while one of these contemporaries made a farewell round of calls before going up to New York or Philadelphia or Pittsburgh to go into business, but mostly they just stayed round in this languid paradise of dreamy skies and firefly evenings and noisy nigger street fairs⁠—and especially of gracious, soft-voiced girls, who were brought up on memories instead of money.</p>
<p>The Ford having been excited into a sort of restless resentful life Clark and Sally Carrol rolled and rattled down Valley Avenue into Jefferson Street, where the dust road became a pavement; along opiate Millicent Place, where there were half a dozen prosperous, substantial mansions; and on into the downtown section. Driving was perilous here, for it was shopping time; the population idled casually across the streets and a drove of low-moaning oxen were being urged along in front of a placid streetcar; even the shops seemed only yawning their doors and blinking their windows in the sunshine before retiring into a state of utter and finite coma.</p>
<p>“Sally Carrol,” said Clark suddenly, “it a fact that you’re engaged?”</p>
<p>She looked at him quickly.</p>
<p>“Where’d you hear that?”</p>
<p>“Sure enough, you engaged?”</p>
<p>“ ’At’s a nice question!”</p>
<p>“Girl told me you were engaged to a Yankee you met up in Asheville last summer.”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol sighed.</p>
<p>“Never saw such an old town for rumors.”</p>
<p>“Don’t marry a Yankee, Sally Carrol. We need you round here.”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol was silent a moment.</p>
<p>“Clark,” she demanded suddenly, “who on earth shall I marry?”</p>
<p>“I offer my services.”</p>
<p>“Honey, you couldn’t support a wife,” she answered cheerfully. “Anyway, I know you too well to fall in love with you.”</p>
<p>“ ’At doesn’t mean you ought to marry a Yankee,” he persisted.</p>
<p>“S’pose I love him?”</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>“You couldn’t. He’d be a lot different from us, every way.”</p>
<p>He broke off as he halted the car in front of a rambling, dilapidated house. Marylyn Wade and Joe Ewing appeared in the doorway.</p>
<p>“ ’Lo Sally Carrol.”</p>
<p>“Hi!”</p>
<p>“How you-all?”</p>
<p>“Sally Carrol,” demanded Marylyn as they started of again, “you engaged?”</p>
<p>“Lawdy, where’d all this start? Can’t I look at a man ’thout everybody in town engagin’ me to him?”</p>
<p>Clark stared straight in front of him at a bolt on the clattering windshield.</p>
<p>“Sally Carrol,” he said with a curious intensity, “don’t you ’like us?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Us down here?”</p>
<p>“Why, Clark, you know I do. I adore all you boys.”</p>
<p>“Then why you gettin’ engaged to a Yankee?”</p>
<p>“Clark, I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but⁠—well, I want to go places and see people. I want my mind to grow. I want to live where things happen on a big scale.”</p>
<p>“What you mean?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Clark, I love you, and I love Joe here and Ben Arrot, and you-all, but you’ll⁠—you’ll⁠—”</p>
<p>“We’ll all be failures?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I don’t mean only money failures, but just sort of⁠—of ineffectual and sad, and⁠—oh, how can I tell you?”</p>
<p>“You mean because we stay here in Tarleton?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Clark; and because you like it and never want to change things or think or go ahead.”</p>
<p>He nodded and she reached over and pressed his hand.</p>
<p>“Clark,” she said softly, “I wouldn’t change you for the world. You’re sweet the way you are. The things that’ll make you fail I’ll love always⁠—the living in the past, the lazy days and nights you have, and all your carelessness and generosity.”</p>
<p>“But you’re goin’ away?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—because I couldn’t ever marry you. You’ve a place in my heart no one else ever could have, but tied down here I’d get restless. I’d feel I was⁠—wastin’ myself. There’s two sides to me, you see. There’s the sleepy old side you love an’ there’s a sort of energy⁠—the feeling that makes me do wild things. That’s the part of me that may be useful somewhere, that’ll last when I’m not beautiful any more.”</p>
<p>She broke of with characteristic suddenness and sighed, “Oh, sweet cooky!” as her mood changed.</p>
<p>Half closing her eyes and tipping back her head till it rested on the seat-back she let the savory breeze fan her eyes and ripple the fluffy curls of her bobbed hair. They were in the country now, hurrying between tangled growths of bright-green coppice and grass and tall trees that sent sprays of foliage to hang a cool welcome over the road. Here and there they passed a battered negro cabin, its oldest white-haired inhabitant smoking a corncob pipe beside the door, and half a dozen scantily clothed pickaninnies parading tattered dolls on the wild-grown grass in front. Farther out were lazy cottonfields where even the workers seemed intangible shadows lent by the sun to the earth, not for toil, but to while away some age-old tradition in the golden September fields. And round the drowsy picturesqueness, over the trees and shacks and muddy rivers, flowed the heat, never hostile, only comforting, like a great warm nourishing bosom for the infant earth.</p>
<p>“Sally Carrol, we’re here!”</p>
<p>“Poor chile’s soun’ asleep.”</p>
<p>“Honey, you dead at last outa sheer laziness?”</p>
<p>“Water, Sally Carrol! Cool water waitin’ for you!”</p>
<p>Her eyes opened sleepily.</p>
<p>“Hi!” she murmured, smiling.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-ice-palace-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>In November Harry Bellamy, tall, broad, and brisk, came down from his Northern city to spend four days. His intention was to settle a matter that had been hanging fire since he and Sally Carrol had met in Asheville, North Carolina, in midsummer. The settlement took only a quiet afternoon and an evening in front of a glowing open fire, for Harry Bellamy had everything she wanted; and, beside, she loved him⁠—loved him with that side of her she kept especially for loving. Sally Carrol had several rather clearly defined sides.</p>
<p>On his last afternoon they walked, and she found their steps tending half-unconsciously toward one of her favorite haunts, the cemetery. When it came in sight, gray-white and golden-green under the cheerful late sun, she paused, irresolute, by the iron gate.</p>
<p>“Are you mournful by nature, Harry?” she asked with a faint smile.</p>
<p>“Mournful? Not I.”</p>
<p>“Then let’s go in here. It depresses some folks, but I like it.”</p>
<p>They passed through the gateway and followed a path that led through a wavy valley of graves⁠—dusty-gray and mouldy for the fifties; quaintly carved with flowers and jars for the seventies; ornate and hideous for the nineties, with fat marble cherubs lying in sodden sleep on stone pillows, and great impossible growths of nameless granite flowers.</p>
<p>Occasionally they saw a kneeling figure with tributary flowers, but over most of the graves lay silence and withered leaves with only the fragrance that their own shadowy memories could waken in living minds.</p>
<p>They reached the top of a hill where they were fronted by a tall, round headstone, freckled with dark spots of damp and half grown over with vines.</p>
<p>“Margery Lee,” she read; “1844⁠–⁠1873. Wasn’t she nice? She died when she was twenty-nine. Dear Margery Lee,” she added softly. “Can’t you see her, Harry?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Sally Carrol.”</p>
<p>He felt a little hand insert itself into his.</p>
<p>“She was dark, I think; and she always wore her hair with a ribbon in it, and gorgeous hoop-skirts of Alice blue and old rose.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she was sweet, Harry! And she was the sort of girl born to stand on a wide, pillared porch and welcome folks in. I think perhaps a lot of men went away to war meanin’ to come back to her; but maybe none of ’em ever did.”</p>
<p>He stooped down close to the stone, hunting for any record of marriage.</p>
<p>“There’s nothing here to show.”</p>
<p>“Of course not. How could there be anything there better than just ‘Margery Lee,’ and that eloquent date?”</p>
<p>She drew close to him and an unexpected lump came into his throat as her yellow hair brushed his cheek.</p>
<p>“You see how she was, don’t you Harry?”</p>
<p>“I see,” he agreed gently. “I see through your precious eyes. You’re beautiful now, so I know she must have been.”</p>
<p>Silent and close they stood, and he could feel her shoulders trembling a little. An ambling breeze swept up the hill and stirred the brim of her floppidy hat.</p>
<p>“Let’s go down there!”</p>
<p>She was pointing to a flat stretch on the other side of the hill where along the green turf were a thousand grayish-white crosses stretching in endless, ordered rows like the stacked arms of a battalion.</p>
<p>“Those are the Confederate dead,” said Sally Carrol simply.</p>
<p>They walked along and read the inscriptions, always only a name and a date, sometimes quite indecipherable.</p>
<p>“The last row is the saddest⁠—see, ’way over there. Every cross has just a date on it and the word ‘Unknown.’ ”</p>
<p>She looked at him and her eyes brimmed with tears.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you how real it is to me, darling⁠—if you don’t know.”</p>
<p>“How you feel about it is beautiful to me.”</p>
<p>“No, no, it’s not me, it’s them⁠—that old time that I’ve tried to have live in me. These were just men, unimportant evidently or they wouldn’t have been ‘unknown’; but they died for the most beautiful thing in the world⁠—the dead South. You see,” she continued, her voice still husky, her eyes glistening with tears, “people have these dreams they fasten onto things, and I’ve always grown up with that dream. It was so easy because it was all dead and there weren’t any disillusions comin’ to me. I’ve tried in a way to live up to those past standards of noblesse oblige⁠—there’s just the last remnants of it, you know, like the roses of an old garden dying all round us⁠—streaks of strange courtliness and chivalry in some of these boys an’ stories I used to hear from a Confederate soldier who lived next door, and a few old darkies. Oh, Harry, there was something, there was something! I couldn’t ever make you understand but it was there.”</p>
<p>“I understand,” he assured her again quietly.</p>
<p>Sally Carol smiled and dried her eyes on the tip of a handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.</p>
<p>“You don’t feel depressed, do you, lover? Even when I cry I’m happy here, and I get a sort of strength from it.”</p>
<p>Hand in hand they turned and walked slowly away. Finding soft grass she drew him down to a seat beside her with their backs against the remnants of a low broken wall.</p>
<p>“Wish those three old women would clear out,” he complained. “I want to kiss you, Sally Carrol.”</p>
<p>“Me, too.”</p>
<p>They waited impatiently for the three bent figures to move off, and then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade out and all her smiles and tears to vanish in an ecstasy of eternal seconds.</p>
<p>Afterward they walked slowly back together, while on the corners twilight played at somnolent black-and-white checkers with the end of day.</p>
<p>“You’ll be up about mid-January,” he said, “and you’ve got to stay a month at least. It’ll be slick. There’s a winter carnival on, and if you’ve never really seen snow it’ll be like fairyland to you. There’ll be skating and skiing and tobogganing and sleigh-riding, and all sorts of torchlight parades on snowshoes. They haven’t had one for years, so they’re gong to make it a knockout.”</p>
<p>“Will I be cold, Harry?” she asked suddenly.</p>
<p>“You certainly won’t. You may freeze your nose, but you won’t be shivery cold. It’s hard and dry, you know.”</p>
<p>“I guess I’m a summer child. I don’t like any cold I’ve ever seen.”</p>
<p>She broke off and they were both silent for a minute.</p>
<p>“Sally Carol,” he said very slowly, “what do you say to⁠—March?”</p>
<p>“I say I love you.”</p>
<p>“March?”</p>
<p>“March, Harry.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-ice-palace-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>All night in the Pullman it was very cold. She rang for the porter to ask for another blanket, and when he couldn’t give her one she tried vainly, by squeezing down into the bottom of her berth and doubling back the bedclothes, to snatch a few hours’ sleep. She wanted to look her best in the morning.</p>
<p>She rose at six and sliding uncomfortably into her clothes stumbled up to the diner for a cup of coffee. The snow had filtered into the vestibules and covered the door with a slippery coating. It was intriguing this cold, it crept in everywhere. Her breath was quite visible and she blew into the air with a naive enjoyment. Seated in the diner she stared out the window at white hills and valleys and scattered pines whose every branch was a green platter for a cold feast of snow. Sometimes a solitary farmhouse would fly by, ugly and bleak and lone on the white waste; and with each one she had an instant of chill compassion for the souls shut in there waiting for spring.</p>
<p>As she left the diner and swayed back into the Pullman she experienced a surging rush of energy and wondered if she was feeling the bracing air of which Harry had spoken. This was the North, the North⁠—her land now!</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Then blow, ye winds, heigh-ho!</span>
<br/>
<span>A-roving I will go,”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="continued">she chanted exultantly to herself.</p>
<p>“What’s ’at?” inquired the porter politely.</p>
<p>“I said: ‘Brush me off.’ ”</p>
<p>The long wires of the telegraph poles doubled, two tracks ran up beside the train⁠—three⁠—four; came a succession of white-roofed houses, a glimpse of a trolley-car with frosted windows, streets⁠—more streets⁠—the city.</p>
<p>She stood for a dazed moment in the frosty station before she saw three fur-bundled figures descending upon her.</p>
<p>“There she is!”</p>
<p>“Oh, Sally Carrol!”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol dropped her bag.</p>
<p>“Hi!”</p>
<p>A faintly familiar icy-cold face kissed her, and then she was in a group of faces all apparently emitting great clouds of heavy smoke; she was shaking hands. There were Gordon, a short, eager man of thirty who looked like an amateur knocked-about model for Harry, and his wife, Myra, a listless lady with flaxen hair under a fur automobile cap. Almost immediately Sally Carrol thought of her as vaguely Scandinavian. A cheerful chauffeur adopted her bag, and amid ricochets of half-phrases, exclamations and perfunctory listless “my dears” from Myra, they swept each other from the station.</p>
<p>Then they were in a sedan bound through a crooked succession of snowy streets where dozens of little boys were hitching sleds behind grocery wagons and automobiles.</p>
<p>“Oh,” cried Sally Carrol, “I want to do that! Can we Harry?”</p>
<p>“That’s for kids. But we might⁠—”</p>
<p>“It looks like such a circus!” she said regretfully.</p>
<p>Home was a rambling frame house set on a white lap of snow, and there she met a big, gray-haired man of whom she approved, and a lady who was like an egg, and who kissed her⁠—these were Harry’s parents. There was a breathless indescribable hour crammed full of self-sentences, hot water, bacon and eggs and confusion; and after that she was alone with Harry in the library, asking him if she dared smoke.</p>
<p>It was a large room with a Madonna over the fireplace and rows upon rows of books in covers of light gold and dark gold and shiny red. All the chairs had little lace squares where one’s head should rest, the couch was just comfortable, the books looked as if they had been read⁠—some⁠—and Sally Carrol had an instantaneous vision of the battered old library at home, with her father’s huge medical books, and the oil-paintings of her three great-uncles, and the old couch that had been mended up for forty-five years and was still luxurious to dream in. This room struck her as being neither attractive nor particularly otherwise. It was simply a room with a lot of fairly expensive things in it that all looked about fifteen years old.</p>
<p>“What do you think of it up here?” demanded Harry eagerly. “Does it surprise you? Is it what you expected I mean?”</p>
<p>“You are, Harry,” she said quietly, and reached out her arms to him.</p>
<p>But after a brief kiss he seemed to extort enthusiasm from her.</p>
<p>“The town, I mean. Do you like it? Can you feel the pep in the air?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Harry,” she laughed, “you’ll have to give me time. You can’t just fling questions at me.”</p>
<p>She puffed at her cigarette with a sigh of contentment.</p>
<p>“One thing I want to ask you,” he began rather apologetically; “you Southerners put quite an emphasis on family, and all that⁠—not that it isn’t quite all right, but you’ll find it a little different here. I mean⁠—you’ll notice a lot of things that’ll seem to you sort of vulgar display at first, Sally Carrol; but just remember that this is a three-generation town. Everybody has a father, and about half of us have grandfathers. Back of that we don’t go.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“Our grandfathers, you see, founded the place, and a lot of them had to take some pretty queer jobs while they were doing the founding. For instance there’s one woman who at present is about the social model for the town; well, her father was the first public ash man⁠—things like that.”</p>
<p>“Why,” said Sally Carol, puzzled, “did you s’pose I was goin’ to make remarks about people?”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” interrupted Harry, “and I’m not apologizing for anyone either. It’s just that⁠—well, a Southern girl came up here last summer and said some unfortunate things, and⁠—oh, I just thought I’d tell you.”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol felt suddenly indignant⁠—as though she had been unjustly spanked⁠—but Harry evidently considered the subject closed, for he went on with a great surge of enthusiasm.</p>
<p>“It’s carnival time, you know. First in ten years. And there’s an ice palace they’re building new that’s the first they’ve had since eighty-five. Built out of blocks of the clearest ice they could find⁠—on a tremendous scale.”</p>
<p>She rose and walking to the window pushed aside the heavy Turkish portieres and looked out.</p>
<p>“Oh!” she cried suddenly. “There’s two little boys makin’ a snow man! Harry, do you reckon I can go out an’ help ’em?”</p>
<p>“You dream! Come here and kiss me.”</p>
<p>She left the window rather reluctantly.</p>
<p>“I don’t guess this is a very kissable climate, is it? I mean, it makes you so you don’t want to sit round, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>“We’re not going to. I’ve got a vacation for the first week you’re here, and there’s a dinner-dance tonight.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Harry,” she confessed, subsiding in a heap, half in his lap, half in the pillows, “I sure do feel confused. I haven’t got an idea whether I’ll like it or not, an’ I don’t know what people expect, or anythin’. You’ll have to tell me, honey.”</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you,” he said softly, “if you’ll just tell me you’re glad to be here.”</p>
<p>“Glad⁠—just awful glad!” she whispered, insinuating herself into his arms in her own peculiar way. “Where you are is home for me, Harry.”</p>
<p>And as she said this she had the feeling for almost the first time in her life that she was acting a part.</p>
<p>That night, amid the gleaming candles of a dinner-party, where the men seemed to do most of the talking while the girls sat in a haughty and expensive aloofness, even Harry’s presence on her left failed to make her feel at home.</p>
<p>“They’re a good-looking crowd, don’t you think?” he demanded. “Just look round. There’s Spud Hubbard, tackle at Princeton last year, and Junie Morton⁠—he and the red-haired fellow next to him were both Yale hockey captains; Junie was in my class. Why, the best athletes in the world come from these States round here. This is a man’s country, I tell you. Look at John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Fishburn!”</p>
<p>“Who’s he?” asked Sally Carrol innocently.</p>
<p>“Don’t you know?”</p>
<p>“I’ve heard the name.”</p>
<p>“Greatest wheat man in the Northwest, and one of the greatest financiers in the country.”</p>
<p>She turned suddenly to a voice on her right.</p>
<p>“I guess they forget to introduce us. My name’s Roger Patton.”</p>
<p>“My name is Sally Carrol Happer,” she said graciously.</p>
<p>“Yes, I know. Harry told me you were coming.”</p>
<p>“You a relative?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m a professor.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she laughed.</p>
<p>“At the university. You’re from the South, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Yes; Tarleton, Georgia.”</p>
<p>She liked him immediately⁠—a reddish-brown mustache under watery blue eyes that had something in them that these other eyes lacked, some quality of appreciation. They exchanged stray sentences through dinner, and she made up her mind to see him again.</p>
<p>After coffee she was introduced to numerous good-looking young men who danced with conscious precision and seemed to take it for granted that she wanted to talk about nothing except Harry.</p>
<p>“Heavens,” she thought, “They talk as if my being engaged made me older than they are⁠—as if I’d tell their mothers on them!”</p>
<p>In the South an engaged girl, even a young married woman, expected the same amount of half-affectionate badinage and flattery that would be accorded a debutante, but here all that seemed banned. One young man after getting well started on the subject of Sally Carrol’s eyes and, how they had allured him ever since she entered the room, went into a violent convulsion when he found she was visiting the Bellamys⁠—was Harry’s fiancée. He seemed to feel as though he had made some risqué and inexcusable blunder, became immediately formal and left her at the first opportunity.</p>
<p>She was rather glad when Roger Patton cut in on her and suggested that they sit out a while.</p>
<p>“Well,” he inquired, blinking cheerily, “how’s Carmen from the South?”</p>
<p>“Mighty fine. How’s⁠—how’s Dangerous Dan McGrew? Sorry, but he’s the only Northerner I know much about.”</p>
<p>He seemed to enjoy that.</p>
<p>“Of course,” he confessed, “as a professor of literature I’m not supposed to have read Dangerous Dan McGrew.”</p>
<p>“Are you a native?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m a Philadelphian. Imported from Harvard to teach French. But I’ve been here ten years.”</p>
<p>“Nine years, three hundred an’ sixty-four days longer than me.”</p>
<p>“Like it here?”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh. Sure do!”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Well, why not? Don’t I look as if I were havin’ a good time?”</p>
<p>“I saw you look out the window a minute ago⁠—and shiver.”</p>
<p>“Just my imagination,” laughed Sally Carroll “I’m used to havin’ everythin’ quiet outside an’ sometimes I look out an’ see a flurry of snow an’ it’s just as if somethin’ dead was movin’.”</p>
<p>He nodded appreciatively.</p>
<p>“Ever been North before?”</p>
<p>“Spent two Julys in Asheville, North Carolina.”</p>
<p>“Nice-looking crowd aren’t they?” suggested Patton, indicating the swirling floor.</p>
<p>Sally Carrol started. This had been Harry’s remark.</p>
<p>“Sure are! They’re⁠—canine.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>She flushed.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry; that sounded worse than I meant it. You see I always think of people as feline or canine, irrespective of sex.”</p>
<p>“Which are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m feline. So are you. So are most Southern men an’ most of these girls here.”</p>
<p>“What’s Harry?”</p>
<p>“Harry’s canine distinctly. All the men I’ve tonight seem to be canine.”</p>
<p>“What does canine imply? A certain conscious masculinity as opposed to subtlety?”</p>
<p>“Reckon so. I never analyzed it⁠—only I just look at people an’ say ‘canine’ or ‘feline’ right off. It’s right absurd I guess.”</p>
<p>“Not at all. I’m interested. I used to have a theory about these people. I think they’re freezing up.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Well, they’re growing’ like Swedes⁠—Ibsenesque, you know. Very gradually getting gloomy and melancholy. It’s these long winters. Ever read Ibsen?”</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>“Well, you find in his characters a certain brooding rigidity. They’re righteous, narrow, and cheerless, without infinite possibilities for great sorrow or joy.”</p>
<p>“Without smiles or tears?”</p>
<p>“Exactly. That’s my theory. You see there are thousands of Swedes up here. They come, I imagine, because the climate is very much like their own, and there’s been a gradual mingling. There’re probably not half a dozen here tonight, but⁠—we’ve had four Swedish governors. Am I boring you?”</p>
<p>“I’m mighty interested.”</p>
<p>“Your future sister-in-law is half Swedish. Personally I like her, but my theory is that Swedes react rather badly on us as a whole. Scandinavians, you know, have the largest suicide rate in the world.”</p>
<p>“Why do you live here if it’s so depressing?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it doesn’t get me. I’m pretty well cloistered, and I suppose books mean more than people to me anyway.”</p>
<p>“But writers all speak about the South being tragic. You know⁠—Spanish señoritas, black hair and daggers an’ haunting music.”</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>“No, the Northern races are the tragic races⁠—they don’t indulge in the cheering luxury of tears.”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol thought of her graveyard. She supposed that that was vaguely what she had meant when she said it didn’t depress her.</p>
<p>“The Italians are about the gayest people in the world⁠—but it’s a dull subject,” he broke off. “Anyway, I want to tell you you’re marrying a pretty fine man.”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol was moved by an impulse of confidence.</p>
<p>“I know. I’m the sort of person who wants to be taken care of after a certain point, and I feel sure I will be.”</p>
<p>“Shall we dance? You know,” he continued as they rose, “it’s encouraging to find a girl who knows what she’s marrying for. Nine-tenths of them think of it as a sort of walking into a moving-picture sunset.”</p>
<p>She laughed and liked him immensely.</p>
<p>Two hours later on the way home she nestled near Harry in the back seat.</p>
<p>“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, “it’s so co-old!”</p>
<p>“But it’s warm in here, daring girl.”</p>
<p>“But outside it’s cold; and oh, that howling wind!”</p>
<p>She buried her face deep in his fur coat and trembled involuntarily as his cold lips kissed the tip of her ear.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-ice-palace-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>The first week of her visit passed in a whirl. She had her promised toboggan-ride at the back of an automobile through a chill January twilight. Swathed in furs she put in a morning tobogganing on the country-club hill; even tried skiing, to sail through the air for a glorious moment and then land in a tangled laughing bundle on a soft snowdrift. She liked all the winter sports, except an afternoon spent snowshoeing over a glaring plain under pale yellow sunshine, but she soon realized that these things were for children⁠—that she was being humored and that the enjoyment round her was only a reflection of her own.</p>
<p>At first the Bellamy family puzzled her. The men were reliable and she liked them; to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bellamy especially, with his iron-gray hair and energetic dignity, she took an immediate fancy, once she found that he was born in Kentucky; this made of him a link between the old life and the new. But toward the women she felt a definite hostility. Myra, her future sister-in-law, seemed the essence of spiritless conversationality. Her conversation was so utterly devoid of personality that Sally Carrol, who came from a country where a certain amount of charm and assurance could be taken for granted in the women, was inclined to despise her.</p>
<p>“If those women aren’t beautiful,” she thought, “they’re nothing. They just fade out when you look at them. They’re glorified domestics. Men are the centre of every mixed group.”</p>
<p>Lastly there was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bellamy, whom Sally Carrol detested. The first day’s impression of an egg had been confirmed⁠—an egg with a cracked, veiny voice and such an ungracious dumpiness of carriage that Sally Carrol felt that if she once fell she would surely scramble. In addition, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bellamy seemed to typify the town in being innately hostile to strangers. She called Sally Carrol “Sally,” and could not be persuaded that the double name was anything more than a tedious ridiculous nickname. To Sally Carrol this shortening of her name was presenting her to the public half clothed. She loved “Sally Carrol”; she loathed “Sally.” She knew also that Harry’s mother disapproved of her bobbed hair; and she had never dared smoke downstairs after that first day when <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bellamy had come into the library sniffing violently.</p>
<p>Of all the men she met she preferred Roger Patton, who was a frequent visitor at the house. He never again alluded to the Ibsenesque tendency of the populace, but when he came in one day and found her curled upon the sofa bent over <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Peer Gynt</i> he laughed and told her to forget what he’d said⁠—that it was all rot.</p>
<p>They had been walking homeward between mounds of high-piled snow and under a sun which Sally Carrol scarcely recognized. They passed a little girl done up in gray wool until she resembled a small Teddy bear, and Sally Carrol could not resist a gasp of maternal appreciation.</p>
<p>“Look! Harry!”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“That little girl⁠—did you see her face?”</p>
<p>“Yes, why?”</p>
<p>“It was red as a little strawberry. Oh, she was cute!”</p>
<p>“Why, your own face is almost as red as that already! Everybody’s healthy here. We’re out in the cold as soon as we’re old enough to walk. Wonderful climate!”</p>
<p>She looked at him and had to agree. He was mighty healthy-looking; so was his brother. And she had noticed the new red in her own cheeks that very morning.</p>
<p>Suddenly their glances were caught and held, and they stared for a moment at the street-corner ahead of them. A man was standing there, his knees bent, his eyes gazing upward with a tense expression as though he were about to make a leap toward the chilly sky. And then they both exploded into a shout of laughter, for coming closer they discovered it had been a ludicrous momentary illusion produced by the extreme bagginess of the man’s trousers.</p>
<p>“Reckon that’s one on us,” she laughed.</p>
<p>“He must be Southerner, judging by those trousers,” suggested Harry mischievously.</p>
<p>“Why, Harry!”</p>
<p>Her surprised look must have irritated him.</p>
<p>“Those damn Southerners!”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol’s eyes flashed.</p>
<p>“Don’t call ’em that.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, dear,” said Harry, malignantly apologetic, “but you know what I think of them. They’re sort of⁠—sort of degenerates⁠—not at all like the old Southerners. They’ve lived so long down there with all the colored people that they’ve gotten lazy and shiftless.”</p>
<p>“Hush your mouth, Harry!” she cried angrily. “They’re not! They may be lazy⁠—anybody would be in that climate⁠—but they’re my best friends, an’ I don’t want to hear ’em criticised in any such sweepin’ way. Some of ’em are the finest men in the world.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know. They’re all right when they come North to college, but of all the hangdog, ill-dressed, slovenly lot I ever saw, a bunch of small-town Southerners are the worst!”</p>
<p>Sally Carrol was clinching her gloved hands and biting her lip furiously.</p>
<p>“Why,” continued Harry, “if there was one in my class at New Haven, and we all thought that at last we’d found the true type of Southern aristocrat, but it turned out that he wasn’t an aristocrat at all⁠—just the son of a Northern carpetbagger, who owned about all the cotton round Mobile.”</p>
<p>“A Southerner wouldn’t talk the way you’re talking now,” she said evenly.</p>
<p>“They haven’t the energy!”</p>
<p>“Or the somethin’ else.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry Sally Carrol, but I’ve heard you say yourself that you’d never marry⁠—”</p>
<p>“That’s quite different. I told you I wouldn’t want to tie my life to any of the boys that are round Tarleton now, but I never made any sweepin’ generalities.”</p>
<p>They walked along in silence.</p>
<p>“I probably spread it on a bit thick Sally Carrol. I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>She nodded but made no answer. Five minutes later as they stood in the hallway she suddenly threw her arms round him.</p>
<p>“Oh, Harry,” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears; “let’s get married next week. I’m afraid of having fusses like that. I’m afraid, Harry. It wouldn’t be that way if we were married.”</p>
<p>But Harry, being in the wrong, was still irritated.</p>
<p>“That’d be idiotic. We decided on March.”</p>
<p>The tears in Sally Carrol’s eyes faded; her expression hardened slightly.</p>
<p>“Very well⁠—I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”</p>
<p>Harry melted.</p>
<p>“Dear little nut!” he cried. “Come and kiss me and let’s forget.” That very night at the end of a vaudeville performance the orchestra played “Dixie” and Sally Carrol felt something stronger and more enduring than her tears and smiles of the day brim up inside her. She leaned forward gripping the arms of her chair until her face grew crimson.</p>
<p>“Sort of get you dear?” whispered Harry.</p>
<p>But she did not hear him. To the limited throb of the violins and the inspiring beat of the kettledrums her own old ghosts were marching by and on into the darkness, and as fifes whistled and sighed in the low encore they seemed so nearly out of sight that she could have waved goodbye.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Away, Away,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Away down South in Dixie!</span>
<br/>
<span>Away, away,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Away down South in Dixie!”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</section>
<section id="the-ice-palace-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>It was a particularly cold night. A sudden thaw had nearly cleared the streets the day before, but now they were traversed again with a powdery wraith of loose snow that travelled in wavy lines before the feet of the wind, and filled the lower air with a fine-particled mist. There was no sky⁠—only a dark, ominous tent that draped in the tops of the streets and was in reality a vast approaching army of snowflakes⁠—while over it all, chilling away the comfort from the brown-and-green glow of lighted windows and muffling the steady trot of the horse pulling their sleigh, interminably washed the north wind. It was a dismal town after all, she though, dismal.</p>
<p>Sometimes at night it had seemed to her as though no one lived here⁠—they had all gone long ago⁠—leaving lighted houses to be covered in time by tombing heaps of sleet. Oh, if there should be snow on her grave! To be beneath great piles of it all winter long, where even her headstone would be a light shadow against light shadows. Her grave⁠—a grave that should be flower-strewn and washed with sun and rain.</p>
<p>She thought again of those isolated country houses that her train had passed, and of the life there the long winter through⁠—the ceaseless glare through the windows, the crust forming on the soft drifts of snow, finally the slow cheerless melting and the harsh spring of which Roger Patton had told her. Her spring⁠—to lose it forever⁠—with its lilacs and the lazy sweetness it stirred in her heart. She was laying away that spring⁠—afterward she would lay away that sweetness.</p>
<p>With a gradual insistence the storm broke. Sally Carrol felt a film of flakes melt quickly on her eyelashes, and Harry reached over a furry arm and drew down her complicated flannel cap. Then the small flakes came in skirmish-line, and the horse bent his neck patiently as a transparency of white appeared momentarily on his coat.</p>
<p>“Oh, he’s cold, Harry,” she said quickly.</p>
<p>“Who? The horse? Oh, no, he isn’t. He likes it!”</p>
<p>After another ten minutes they turned a corner and came in sight of their destination. On a tall hill outlined in vivid glaring green against the wintry sky stood the ice palace. It was three stories in the air, with battlements and embrasures and narrow icicled windows, and the innumerable electric lights inside made a gorgeous transparency of the great central hall. Sally Carrol clutched Harry’s hand under the fur robe.</p>
<p>“It’s beautiful!” he cried excitedly. “My golly, it’s beautiful, isn’t it! They haven’t had one here since eighty-five!”</p>
<p>Somehow the notion of there not having been one since eighty-five oppressed her. Ice was a ghost, and this mansion of it was surely peopled by those shades of the eighties, with pale faces and blurred snow-filled hair.</p>
<p>“Come on, dear,” said Harry.</p>
<p>She followed him out of the sleigh and waited while he hitched the horse. A party of four⁠—Gordon, Myra, Roger Patton, and another girl⁠—drew up beside them with a mighty jingle of bells. There were quite a crowd already, bundled in fur or sheepskin, shouting and calling to each other as they moved through the snow, which was now so thick that people could scarcely be distinguished a few yards away.</p>
<p>“It’s a hundred and seventy feet tall,” Harry was saying to a muffled figure beside him as they trudged toward the entrance; “covers six thousand square yards.”</p>
<p>She caught snatches of conversation: “One main hall”⁠—“walls twenty to forty inches thick”⁠—“and the ice cave has almost a mile of⁠—”⁠—“this Canuck who built it⁠—”</p>
<p>They found their way inside, and dazed by the magic of the great crystal walls Sally Carrol found herself repeating over and over two lines from “<span epub:type="se:name.publication.poem">Kublai Khan</span>”:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>“It was a miracle of rare device,</span>
<br/>
<span>A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In the great glittering cavern with the dark shut out she took a seat on a wooded bench and the evening’s oppression lifted. Harry was right⁠—it was beautiful; and her gaze travelled the smooth surface of the walls, the blocks for which had been selected for their purity and dearness to obtain this opalescent, translucent effect.</p>
<p>“Look! Here we go⁠—oh, boy!” cried Harry.</p>
<p>A band in a far corner struck up “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here!” which echoed over to them in wild muddled acoustics, and then the lights suddenly went out; silence seemed to flow down the icy sides and sweep over them. Sally Carrol could still see her white breath in the darkness, and a dim row of pale faces over on the other side.</p>
<p>The music eased to a sighing complaint, and from outside drifted in the full-throated remnant chant of the marching clubs. It grew louder like some paean of a viking tribe traversing an ancient wild; it swelled⁠—they were coming nearer; then a row of torches appeared, and another and another, and keeping time with their moccasined feet a long column of gray-mackinawed figures swept in, snowshoes slung at their shoulders, torches soaring and flickering as their voice rose along the great walls.</p>
<p>The gray column ended and another followed, the light streaming luridly this time over red toboggan caps and flaming crimson mackinaws, and as they entered they took up the refrain; then came a long platoon of blue and white, of green, of white, of brown and yellow.</p>
<p>“Those white ones are the Wacouta Club,” whispered Harry eagerly. “Those are the men you’ve met round at dances.”</p>
<p>The volume of the voices grew; the great cavern was a phantasmagoria of torches waving in great banks of fire, of colors and the rhythm of soft-leather steps. The leading column turned and halted, platoon deploys in front of platoon until the whole procession made a solid flag of flame, and then from thousands of voices burst a mighty shout that filled the air like a crash of thunder, and sent the torches wavering. It was magnificent, it was tremendous! To Sally Carol it was the North offering sacrifice on some mighty altar to the gray pagan God of Snow. As the shout died the band struck up again and there came more singing, and then long reverberating cheers by each club. She sat very quiet listening while the staccato cries rent the stillness; and then she started, for there was a volley of explosion, and great clouds of smoke went up here and there through the cavern⁠—the flashlight photographers at work⁠—and the council was over. With the band at their head the clubs formed in column once more, took up their chant, and began to march out.</p>
<p>“Come on!” shouted Harry. “We want to see the labyrinths downstairs before they turn the lights off!”</p>
<p>They all rose and started toward the chute⁠—Harry and Sally Carrol in the lead, her little mitten buried in his big fur gantlet. At the bottom of the chute was a long empty room of ice, with the ceiling so low that they had to stoop⁠—and their hands were parted. Before she realized what he intended Harry had darted down one of the half-dozen glittering passages that opened into the room and was only a vague receding blot against the green shimmer.</p>
<p>“Harry!” she called.</p>
<p>“Come on!” he cried back.</p>
<p>She looked round the empty chamber; the rest of the party had evidently decided to go home, were already outside somewhere in the blundering snow. She hesitated and then darted in after Harry.</p>
<p>“Harry!” she shouted.</p>
<p>She had reached a turning-point thirty feet down; she heard a faint muffled answer far to the left, and with a touch of panic fled toward it. She passed another turning, two more yawning alleys.</p>
<p>“Harry!”</p>
<p>No answer. She started to run straight forward, and then turned like lightning and sped back the way she had come, enveloped in a sudden icy terror.</p>
<p>She reached a turn⁠—was it here?⁠—took the left and came to what should have been the outlet into the long, low room, but it was only another glittering passage with darkness at the end. She called again, but the walls gave back a flat, lifeless echo with no reverberations. Retracing her steps she turned another corner, this time following a wide passage. It was like the green lane between the parted water of the Red Sea, like a damp vault connecting empty tombs.</p>
<p>She slipped a little now as she walked, for ice had formed on the bottom of her overshoes; she had to run her gloves along the half-slippery, half-sticky walls to keep her balance.</p>
<p>“Harry!”</p>
<p>Still no answer. The sound she made bounced mockingly down to the end of the passage.</p>
<p>Then on an instant the lights went out, and she was in complete darkness. She gave a small, frightened cry, and sank down into a cold little heap on the ice. She felt her left knee do something as she fell, but she scarcely noticed it as some deep terror far greater than any fear of being lost settled upon her. She was alone with this presence that came out of the North, the dreary loneliness that rose from icebound whalers in the Arctic seas, from smokeless, trackless wastes where were strewn the whitened bones of adventure. It was an icy breath of death; it was rolling down low across the land to clutch at her.</p>
<p>With a furious, despairing energy she rose again and started blindly down the darkness. She must get out. She might be lost in here for days, freeze to death and lie embedded in the ice like corpses she had read of, kept perfectly preserved until the melting of a glacier. Harry probably thought she had left with the others⁠—he had gone by now; no one would know until next day. She reached pitifully for the wall. Forty inches thick, they had said⁠—forty inches thick!</p>
<p>On both sides of her along the walls she felt things creeping, damp souls that haunted this palace, this town, this North.</p>
<p>“Oh, send somebody⁠—send somebody!” she cried aloud.</p>
<p>Clark Darrow⁠—he would understand; or Joe Ewing; she couldn’t be left here to wander forever⁠—to be frozen, heart, body, and soul. This her⁠—this Sally Carrol! Why, she was a happy thing. She was a happy little girl. She liked warmth and summer and Dixie. These things were foreign⁠—foreign.</p>
<p>“You’re not crying,” something said aloud. “You’ll never cry any more. Your tears would just freeze; all tears freeze up here!”</p>
<p>She sprawled full length on the ice.</p>
<p>“Oh, God!” she faltered.</p>
<p>A long single file of minutes went by, and with a great weariness she felt her eyes dosing. Then someone seemed to sit down near her and take her face in warm, soft hands. She looked up gratefully.</p>
<p>“Why it’s Margery Lee,” she crooned softly to herself. “I knew you’d come.” It really was Margery Lee, and she was just as Sally Carrol had known she would be, with a young, white brow, and wide welcoming eyes, and a hoop-skirt of some soft material that was quite comforting to rest on.</p>
<p>“Margery Lee.”</p>
<p>It was getting darker now and darker⁠—all those tombstones ought to be repainted sure enough, only that would spoil ’em, of course. Still, you ought to be able to see ’em.</p>
<p>Then after a succession of moments that went fast and then slow, but seemed to be ultimately resolving themselves into a multitude of blurred rays converging toward a pale-yellow sun, she heard a great cracking noise break her newfound stillness.</p>
<p>It was the sun, it was a light; a torch, and a torch beyond that, and another one, and voices; a face took flesh below the torch, heavy arms raised her and she felt something on her cheek⁠—it felt wet. Someone had seized her and was rubbing her face with snow. How ridiculous⁠—with snow!</p>
<p>“Sally Carrol! Sally Carrol!”</p>
<p>It was Dangerous Dan McGrew; and two other faces she didn’t know. “Child, child! We’ve been looking for you two hours! Harry’s half-crazy!”</p>
<p>Things came rushing back into place⁠—the singing, the torches, the great shout of the marching clubs. She squirmed in Patton’s arms and gave a long low cry.</p>
<p>“Oh, I want to get out of here! I’m going back home. Take me home”⁠⸺⁠her voice rose to a scream that sent a chill to Harry’s heart as he came racing down the next passage⁠—“tomorrow!” she cried with delirious, unstrained passion⁠—“Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-ice-palace-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>The wealth of golden sunlight poured a quite enervating yet oddly comforting heat over the house where day long it faced the dusty stretch of road. Two birds were making a great to-do in a cool spot found among the branches of a tree next door, and down the street a colored woman was announcing herself melodiously as a purveyor of strawberries. It was April afternoon.</p>
<p>Sally Carrol Happer, resting her chin on her arm, and her arm on an old window-seat, gazed sleepily down over the spangled dust whence the heat waves were rising for the first time this spring. She was watching a very ancient Ford turn a perilous corner and rattle and groan to a jolting stop at the end of the walk. See made no sound and in a minute a strident familiar whistle rent the air. Sally Carrol smiled and blinked.</p>
<p>“Good mawnin’.”</p>
<p>A head appeared tortuously from under the car-top below.</p>
<p>“Tain’t mawnin’, Sally Carrol.”</p>
<p>“Sure enough!” she said in affected surprise. “I guess maybe not.”</p>
<p>“What you doin’?”</p>
<p>“Eatin’ a green peach. ’Spect to die any minute.”</p>
<p>Clark twisted himself a last impossible notch to get a view of her face.</p>
<p>“Water’s warm as a kettla steam, Sally Carol. Wanta go swimmin’?”</p>
<p>“Hate to move,” sighed Sally Carol lazily, “but I reckon so.”</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-offshore-pirate" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Offshore Pirate</h2>
<section id="the-offshore-pirate-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes. From the western half of the sky the sun was shying little golden disks at the sea⁠—if you gazed intently enough you could see them skip from wave tip to wave tip until they joined a broad collar of golden coin that was collecting half a mile out and would eventually be a dazzling sunset. About halfway between the Florida shore and the golden collar a white steam-yacht, very young and graceful, was riding at anchor and under a blue-and-white awning aft a yellow-haired girl reclined in a wicker settee reading <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Revolt of the Angels</i>, by Anatole France.</p>
<p>She was about nineteen, slender and supple, with a spoiled alluring mouth and quick gray eyes full of a radiant curiosity. Her feet, stockingless, and adorned rather than clad in blue-satin slippers which swung nonchalantly from her toes, were perched on the arm of a settee adjoining the one she occupied. And as she read she intermittently regaled herself by a faint application to her tongue of a half-lemon that she held in her hand. The other half, sucked dry, lay on the deck at her feet and rocked very gently to and fro at the almost imperceptible motion of the tide.</p>
<p>The second half-lemon was well-nigh pulpless and the golden collar had grown astonishing in width, when suddenly the drowsy silence which enveloped the yacht was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps and an elderly man topped with orderly gray hair and clad in a white-flannel suit appeared at the head of the companionway. There he paused for a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the sun, and then seeing the girl under the awning he uttered a long even grunt of disapproval.</p>
<p>If he had intended thereby to obtain a rise of any sort he was doomed to disappointment. The girl calmly turned over two pages, turned back one, raised the lemon mechanically to tasting distance, and then very faintly but quite unmistakably yawned.</p>
<p>“Ardita!” said the gray-haired man sternly.</p>
<p>Ardita uttered a small sound indicating nothing.</p>
<p>“Ardita!” he repeated. “Ardita!”</p>
<p>Ardita raised the lemon languidly, allowing three words to slip out before it reached her tongue.</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up.”</p>
<p>“Ardita!”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Will you listen to me⁠—or will I have to get a servant to hold you while I talk to you?”</p>
<p>The lemon descended very slowly and scornfully.</p>
<p>“Put it in writing.”</p>
<p>“Will you have the decency to close that abominable book and discard that damn lemon for two minutes?”</p>
<p>“Oh, can’t you lemme alone for a second?”</p>
<p>“Ardita, I have just received a telephone message from the shore⁠—”</p>
<p>“Telephone?” She showed for the first time a faint interest.</p>
<p>“Yes, it was⁠—”</p>
<p>“Do you mean to say,” she interrupted wonderingly, “ ’at they let you run a wire out here?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and just now⁠—”</p>
<p>“Won’t other boats bump into it?”</p>
<p>“No. It’s run along the bottom. Five min⁠—”</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be darned! Gosh! Science is golden or something⁠—isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Will you let me say what I started to?”</p>
<p>“Shoot!”</p>
<p>“Well it seems⁠—well, I am up here⁠—” He paused and swallowed several times distractedly. “Oh, yes. Young woman, Colonel Moreland has called up again to ask me to be sure to bring you in to dinner. His son Toby has come all the way from New York to meet you and he’s invited several other young people. For the last time, will you⁠—”</p>
<p>“No,” said Ardita shortly, “I won’t. I came along on this darn cruise with the one idea of going to Palm Beach, and you knew it, and I absolutely refuse to meet any darn old colonel or any darn young Toby or any darn old young people or to set foot in any other darn old town in this crazy state. So you either take me to Palm Beach or else shut up and go away.”</p>
<p>“Very well. This is the last straw. In your infatuation for this man.⁠—a man who is notorious for his excesses⁠—a man your father would not have allowed to so much as mention your name⁠—you have rejected the demimonde rather than the circles in which you have presumably grown up. From now on⁠—”</p>
<p>“I know,” interrupted Ardita ironically, “from now on you go your way and I go mine. I’ve heard that story before. You know I’d like nothing better.”</p>
<p>“From now on,” he announced grandiloquently, “you are no niece of mine. I⁠—”</p>
<p>“O-o-o-oh!” The cry was wrung from Ardita with the agony of a lost soul. “Will you stop boring me! Will you go ’way! Will you jump overboard and drown! Do you want me to throw this book at you!”</p>
<p>“If you dare do any⁠—”</p>
<p>Smack! <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Revolt of the Angels</i> sailed through the air, missed its target by the length of a short nose, and bumped cheerfully down the companionway.</p>
<p>The gray-haired man made an instinctive step backward and then two cautious steps forward. Ardita jumped to her five feet four and stared at him defiantly, her gray eyes blazing.</p>
<p>“Keep off!”</p>
<p>“How dare you!” he cried.</p>
<p>“Because I darn please!”</p>
<p>“You’ve grown unbearable! Your disposition⁠—”</p>
<p>“You’ve made me that way! No child ever has a bad disposition unless it’s her fancy’s fault! Whatever I am, you did it.”</p>
<p>Muttering something under his breath her uncle turned and, walking forward called in a loud voice for the launch. Then he returned to the awning, where Ardita had again seated herself and resumed her attention to the lemon.</p>
<p>“I am going ashore,” he said slowly. “I will be out again at nine o’clock tonight. When I return we start back to New York, wither I shall turn you over to your aunt for the rest of your natural, or rather unnatural, life.” He paused and looked at her, and then all at once something in the utter childness of her beauty seemed to puncture his anger like an inflated tire, and render him helpless, uncertain, utterly fatuous.</p>
<p>“Ardita,” he said not unkindly, “I’m no fool. I’ve been round. I know men. And, child, confirmed libertines don’t reform until they’re tired⁠—and then they’re not themselves⁠—they’re husks of themselves.” He looked at her as if expecting agreement, but receiving no sight or sound of it he continued. “Perhaps the man loves you⁠—that’s possible. He’s loved many women and he’ll love many more. Less than a month ago, one month, Ardita, he was involved in a notorious affair with that red-haired woman, Mimi Merril; promised to give her the diamond bracelet that the Czar of Russia gave his mother. You know⁠—you read the papers.”</p>
<p>“Thrilling scandals by an anxious uncle,” yawned Ardita. “Have it filmed. Wicked clubman making eyes at virtuous flapper. Virtuous flapper conclusively vamped by his lurid past. Plans to meet him at Palm Beach. Foiled by anxious uncle.”</p>
<p>“Will you tell me why the devil you want to marry him?”</p>
<p>“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” said Audits shortly. “Maybe because he’s the only man I know, good or bad, who has an imagination and the courage of his convictions. Maybe it’s to get away from the young fools that spend their vacuous hours pursuing me around the country. But as for the famous Russian bracelet, you can set your mind at rest on that score. He’s going to give it to me at Palm Beach⁠—if you’ll show a little intelligence.”</p>
<p>“How about the⁠—red-haired woman?”</p>
<p>“He hasn’t seen her for six months,” she said angrily. “Don’t you suppose I have enough pride to see to that? Don’t you know by this time that I can do any darn thing with any darn man I want to?”</p>
<p>She put her chin in the air like the statue of France Aroused, and then spoiled the pose somewhat by raising the lemon for action.</p>
<p>“Is it the Russian bracelet that fascinates you?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m merely trying to give you the sort of argument that would appeal to your intelligence. And I wish you’d go ’way,” she said, her temper rising again. “You know I never change my mind. You’ve been boring me for three days until I’m about to go crazy. I won’t go ashore! Won’t! Do you hear? Won’t!”</p>
<p>“Very well,” he said, “and you won’t go to Palm Beach either. Of all the selfish, spoiled, uncontrolled disagreeable, impossible girl I have⁠—”</p>
<p>Splush! The half-lemon caught him in the neck. Simultaneously came a hail from over the side.</p>
<p>“The launch is ready, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Farnam.”</p>
<p>Too full of words and rage to speak, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Farnam cast one utterly condemning glance at his niece and, turning, ran swiftly down the ladder.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-offshore-pirate-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Five o’clock robed down from the sun and plumped soundlessly into the sea. The golden collar widened into a glittering island; and a faint breeze that had been playing with the edges of the awning and swaying one of the dangling blue slippers became suddenly freighted with song. It was a chorus of men in close harmony and in perfect rhythm to an accompanying sound of oars dealing the blue writers. Ardita lifted her head and listened.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Carrots and Peas,</span>
<br/>
<span>Beans on their knees,</span>
<br/>
<span>Pigs in the seas,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Lucky fellows!</span>
<br/>
<span>Blow us a breeze,</span>
<br/>
<span>Blow us a breeze,</span>
<br/>
<span>Blow us a breeze,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">With your bellows.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Ardita’s brow wrinkled in astonishment. Sitting very still she listened eagerly as the chorus took up a second verse.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Onions and beans,</span>
<br/>
<span>Marshalls and Deans,</span>
<br/>
<span>Goldbergs and Greens</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">And Costellos.</span>
<br/>
<span>Blow us a breeze,</span>
<br/>
<span>Blow us a breeze,</span>
<br/>
<span>Blow us a breeze,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">With your bellows.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>With an exclamation she tossed her book to the desk, where it sprawled at a straddle, and hurried to the rail. Fifty feet away a large rowboat was approaching containing seven men, six of them rowing and one standing up in the stern keeping time to their song with an orchestra leader’s baton.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Oysters and Rocks,</span>
<br/>
<span>Sawdust and socks,</span>
<br/>
<span>Who could make clocks</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Out of cellos?⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The leader’s eyes suddenly rested on Ardita, who was leaning over the rail spellbound with curiosity. He made a quick movement with his baton and the singing instantly ceased. She saw that he was the only white man in the boat⁠—the six rowers were negroes.</p>
<p>“Narcissus ahoy!” he called politely.</p>
<p>“What’s the idea of all the discord?” demanded Ardita cheerfully. “Is this the varsity crew from the county nut farm?”</p>
<p>By this time the boat was scraping the side of the yacht and a great bulking negro in the bow turned round and grasped the ladder. Thereupon the leader left his position in the stern and before Ardita had realized his intention he ran up the ladder and stood breathless before her on the deck.</p>
<p>“The women and children will be spared!” he said briskly. “All crying babies will be immediately drowned and all males put in double irons!” Digging her hands excitedly down into the pockets of her dress Ardita stared at him, speechless with astonishment. He was a young man with a scornful mouth and the bright blue eyes of a healthy baby set in a dark sensitive face. His hair was pitch black, damp and curly⁠—the hair of a Grecian statue gone brunette. He was trimly built, trimly dressed, and graceful as an agile quarterback.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be a son of a gun!” she said dazedly.</p>
<p>They eyed each other coolly.</p>
<p>“Do you surrender the ship?”</p>
<p>“Is this an outburst of wit?” demanded Ardita. “Are you an idiot⁠—or just being initiated to some fraternity?”</p>
<p>“I asked you if you surrendered the ship.”</p>
<p>“I thought the country was dry,” said Ardita disdainfully. “Have you been drinking fingernail enamel? You better get off this yacht!”</p>
<p>“What?” the young man’s voice expressed incredulity.</p>
<p>“Get off the yacht! You heard me!”</p>
<p>He looked at her for a moment as if considering what she had said.</p>
<p>“No,” said his scornful mouth slowly; “No, I won’t get off the yacht. You can get off if you wish.”</p>
<p>Going to the rail be gave a curt command and immediately the crew of the rowboat scrambled up the ladder and ranged themselves in line before him, a coal-black and burly darky at one end and a miniature mulatto of four feet nine at to other. They seemed to be uniformly dressed in some sort of blue costume ornamented with dust, mud, and tatters; over the shoulder of each was slung a small, heavy-looking white sack, and under their arms they carried large black cases apparently containing musical instruments.</p>
<p>“ ’Ten-<em>shun</em>!” commanded the young man, snapping his own heels together crisply. “Right <em>driss</em>! Front! Step out here, Babe!”</p>
<p>The smallest Negro took a quick step forward and saluted.</p>
<p>“Take command, go down below, catch the crew and tie ’em up⁠—all except the engineer. Bring him up to me. Oh, and pile those bags by the rail there.”</p>
<p>“Yas-suh!”</p>
<p>Babe saluted again and wheeling about motioned for the five others to gather about him. Then after a short whispered consultation they all filed noiselessly down the companionway.</p>
<p>“Now,” said the young man cheerfully to Ardita, who had witnessed this last scene in withering silence, “if you will swear on your honor as a flapper⁠—which probably isn’t worth much⁠—that you’ll keep that spoiled little mouth of yours tight shut for forty-eight hours, you can row yourself ashore in our rowboat.”</p>
<p>“Otherwise what?”</p>
<p>“Otherwise you’re going to sea in a ship.”</p>
<p>With a little sigh as for a crisis well passed, the young man sank into the settee Ardita had lately vacated and stretched his arms lazily. The corners of his mouth relaxed appreciatively as he looked round at the rich striped awning, the polished brass, and the luxurious fittings of the deck. His eye felt on the book, and then on the exhausted lemon.</p>
<p>“Hm,” he said, “Stonewall Jackson claimed that lemon-juice cleared his head. Your head feel pretty clear?”</p>
<p>Ardita disdained to answer.</p>
<p>“Because inside of five minutes you’ll have to make a clear decision whether it’s go or stay.”</p>
<p>He picked up the book and opened it curiously.</p>
<p>“<i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Revolt of the Angels</i>. Sounds pretty good. French, eh?” He stared at her with new interest “You French?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Farnam.”</p>
<p>“Farnam what?”</p>
<p>“Ardita Farnam.”</p>
<p>“Well Ardita, no use standing up there and chewing out the insides of your mouth. You ought to break those nervous habits while you’re young. Come over here and sit down.”</p>
<p>Ardita took a carved jade case from her pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it with a conscious coolness, though she knew her hand was trembling a little; then she crossed over with her supple, swinging walk, and sitting down in the other settee blew a mouthful of smoke at the awning.</p>
<p>“You can’t get me off this yacht,” she raid steadily; “and you haven’t got very much sense if you think you’ll get far with it. My uncle’ll have wirelesses zigzagging all over this ocean by half past six.”</p>
<p>“Hm.”</p>
<p>She looked quickly at his face, caught anxiety stamped there plainly in the faintest depression of the mouth’s corners.</p>
<p>“It’s all the same to me,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “ ’Tisn’t my yacht. I don’t mind going for a coupla hours’ cruise. I’ll even lend you that book so you’ll have something to read on the revenue boat that takes you up to Sing-Sing.”</p>
<p>He laughed scornfully.</p>
<p>“If that’s advice you needn’t bother. This is part of a plan arranged before I ever knew this yacht existed. If it hadn’t been this one it’d have been the next one we passed anchored along the coast.”</p>
<p>“Who are you?” demanded Ardita suddenly. “And what are you?”</p>
<p>“You’ve decided not to go ashore?”</p>
<p>“I never even faintly considered it.”</p>
<p>“We’re generally known,” he said, “all seven of us, as Curtis Carlyle and his Six Black Buddies late of the Winter Garden and the Midnight Frolic.”</p>
<p>“You’re singers?”</p>
<p>“We were until today. At present, due to those white bags you see there we’re fugitives from justice and if the reward offered for our capture hasn’t by this time reached twenty thousand dollars I miss my guess.”</p>
<p>“What’s in the bags?” asked Ardita curiously.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, “for the present we’ll call it⁠—mud⁠—Florida mud.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-offshore-pirate-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Within ten minutes after Curtis Carlyle’s interview with a very frightened engineer the yacht Narcissus was under way, steaming south through a balmy tropical twilight. The little mulatto, Babe, who seems to have Carlyle’s implicit confidence, took full command of the situation. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Farnam’s valet and the chef, the only members of the crew on board except the engineer, having shown fight, were now reconsidering, strapped securely to their bunks below. Trombone Mose, the biggest negro, was set busy with a can of paint obliterating the name Narcissus from the bow, and substituting the name Hula Hula, and the others congregated aft and became intently involved in a game of craps.</p>
<p>Having given order for a meal to be prepared and served on deck at seven-thirty, Carlyle rejoined Ardita, and, sinking back into his settee, half closed his eyes and fell into a state of profound abstraction.</p>
<p>Ardita scrutinized him carefully⁠—and classed him immediately as a romantic figure. He gave the effect of towering self-confidence erected on a slight foundation⁠—just under the surface of each of his decisions she discerned a hesitancy that was in decided contrast to the arrogant curl of his lips.</p>
<p>“He’s not like me,” she thought “There’s a difference somewhere.” Being a supreme egotist Ardita frequently thought about herself; never having had her egotism disputed she did it entirely naturally and with no detraction from her unquestioned charm. Though she was nineteen she gave the effect of a high-spirited precocious child, and in the present glow of her youth and beauty all the men and women she had known were but driftwood on the ripples of her temperament. She had met other egotists⁠—in fact she found that selfish people bored her rather less than unselfish people⁠—but as yet there had not been one she had not eventually defeated and brought to her feet.</p>
<p>But though she recognized an egotist in the settee, she felt none of that usual shutting of doors in her mind which meant clearing ship for action; on the contrary her instinct told her that this man was somehow completely pregnable and quite defenseless. When Ardita defied convention⁠—and of late it had been her chief amusement⁠—it was from an intense desire to be herself, and she felt that this man, on the contrary, was preoccupied with his own defiance.</p>
<p>She was much more interested in him than she was in her own situation, which affected her as the prospect of a matinée might affect a ten-year-old child. She had implicit confidence in her ability to take care of herself under any and all circumstances.</p>
<p>The night deepened. A pale new moon smiled misty-eyed upon the sea, and as the shore faded dimly out and dark clouds were blown like leaves along the far horizon a great haze of moonshine suddenly bathed the yacht and spread an avenue of glittering mail in her swift path. From time to time there was the bright flare of a match as one of them lighted a cigarette, but except for the low undertone of the throbbing engines and the even wash of the waves about the stern the yacht was quiet as a dream boat star-bound through the heavens. Round them bowed the smell of the night sea, bringing with it an infinite languor.</p>
<p>Carlyle broke the silence at last.</p>
<p>“Lucky girl,” he sighed, “I’ve always wanted to be rich⁠—and buy all this beauty.”</p>
<p>Ardita yawned.</p>
<p>“I’d rather be you,” she said frankly.</p>
<p>“You would⁠—for about a day. But you do seem to possess a lot of nerve for a flapper.”</p>
<p>“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”</p>
<p>“Beg your pardon.”</p>
<p>“As to nerve,” she continued slowly, “it’s my one redeemiug feature. I’m not afraid of anything in heaven or earth.”</p>
<p>“Hm, I am.”</p>
<p>“To be afraid,” said Ardita, “a person has either to be very great and strong⁠—or else a coward. I’m neither.” She paused for a moment, and eagerness crept into her tone. “But I want to talk about you. What on earth have you done⁠—and how did you do it?”</p>
<p>“Why?” he demanded cynically. “Going to write a movie, about me?”</p>
<p>“Go on,” she urged. “Lie to me by the moonlight. Do a fabulous story.”</p>
<p>A negro appeared, switched on a string of small lights under the awning, and began setting the wicker table for supper. And while they ate cold sliced chicken, salad, artichokes and strawberry jam from the plentiful larder below, Carlyle began to talk, hesitatingly at first, but eagerly as he saw she was interested. Ardita scarcely touched her food as she watched his dark young face⁠—handsome, ironic faintly ineffectual.</p>
<p>He began life as a poor kid in a Tennessee town, he said, so poor that his people were the only white family in their street. He never remembered any white children⁠—but there were inevitably a dozen pickaninnies streaming in his trail, passionate admirers whom he kept in tow by the vividness of his imagination and the amount of trouble he was always getting them in and out of. And it seemed that this association diverted a rather unusual musical gift into a strange channel.</p>
<p>There had been a colored woman named Belle Pope Calhoun who played the piano at parties given for white children⁠—nice white children that would have passed Curtis Carlyle with a sniff. But the ragged little “poh white” used to sit beside her piano by the hour and try to get in an alto with one of those kazoos that boys hum through. Before he was thirteen he was picking up a living teasing ragtime out of a battered violin in little cafés round Nashville. Eight years later the ragtime craze hit the country, and he took six darkies on the Orpheum circuit. Five of them were boys he had grown up with; the other was the little mulatto, Babe Divine, who was a wharf nigger round New York, and long before that a plantation hand in Bermuda, until he stuck an eight-inch stiletto in his master’s back. Almost before Carlyle realized his good fortune he was on Broadway, with offers of engagements on all sides, and more money than he had ever dreamed of.</p>
<p>It was about then that a change began in his whole attitude, a rather curious, embittering change. It was when he realized that he was spending the golden years of his life gibbering round a stage with a lot of black men. His act was good of its kind⁠—three trombones, three saxohpones, and Carlyle’s flute⁠—and it was his own peculiar sense of rhythm that made all the difference; but he began to grow strangely sensitive about it, began to hate the thought of appearing, dreaded it from day to day.</p>
<p>They were making money⁠—each contract he signed called for more⁠—but when he went to managers and told them that he wanted to separate from his sextet and go on as a regular pianist, they laughed at him and told him he was crazy⁠—it would be an artistic suicide. He used to laugh afterward at the phrase “artistic suicide.” They all used it.</p>
<p>Half a dozen times they played at private dances at three thousand dollars a night, and it seemed as if these crystallized all his distaste for his mode of livelihood. They took place in clubs and houses that he couldn’t have gone into in the daytime. After all, he was merely playing to role of the eternal monkey, a sort of sublimated chorus man. He was sick of the very smell of the theatre, of powder and rouge and the chatter of the greenroom, and the patronizing approval of the boxes. He couldn’t put his heart into it any more. The idea of a slow approach to the luxury of leisure drove him wild. He was, of course, progressing toward it, but, like a child, eating his ice-cream so slowly that he couldn’t taste it at all.</p>
<p>He wanted to have a lot of money and time and opportunity to read and play, and the sort of men and women round him that he could never have⁠—the kind who, if they thought of him at all, would have considered him rather contemptible; in short he wanted all those things which he was beginning to lump under the general head of aristocracy, an aristocracy which it seemed almost any money could buy except money made as he was making it. He was twenty-five then, without family or education or any promise that he would succeed in a business career. He began speculating wildly, and within three weeks he had lost every cent he had saved.</p>
<p>Then the war came. He went to Plattsburg, and even there his profession followed him. A brigadier-general called him up to headquarters and told him he could serve his country better as a band leader⁠—so he spent the war entertaining celebrities behind the line with a headquarters band. It was not so bad⁠—except that when the infantry came limping back from the trenches he wanted to be one of them. The sweat and mud they wore seemed only one of those ineffable symbols of aristocracy that were forever eluding him.</p>
<p>“It was the private dances that did it. After I came back from the war the old routine started. We had an offer from a syndicate of Florida hotels. It was only a question of time then.”</p>
<p>He broke off and Ardita looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head.</p>
<p>“No,” he said, “I’m going to tell you about it. I’m enjoying it too much, and I’m afraid I’d lose a little of that enjoyment if I shared it with anyone else. I want to hang on to those few breathless, heroic moments when I stood out before them all and let them know I was more than a damn bobbing, squawking clown.”</p>
<p>From up forward came suddenly the low sound of singing. The negroes had gathered together on the deck and their voices rose together in a haunting melody that soared in poignant harmonics toward the moon. And Ardita listens in enchantment.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Oh down⁠—</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">oh down,</span>
<br/>
<span>Mammy wanna take me down milky way,</span>
<br/>
<span>Oh down,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">oh down,</span>
<br/>
<span>Pappy say to‑morra‑a‑a‑ah</span>
<br/>
<span>But mammy say today,</span>
<br/>
<span>Yes⁠—mammy say today!”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Carlyle sighed and was silent for a moment looking up at the gathered host of stars blinking like arc-lights in the warm sky. The negroes’ song had died away to a plaintive humming and it seemed as if minute by minute the brightness and the great silence were increasing until he could almost hear the midnight toilet of the mermaids as they combed their silver dripping curls under the moon and gossiped to each other of the fine wrecks they lived on the green opalescent avenues below.</p>
<p>“You see,” said Carlyle softly, “this is the beauty I want. Beauty has got to be astonishing, astounding⁠—it’s got to burst in on you like a dream, like the exquisite eyes of a girl.”</p>
<p>He turned to her, but she was silent.</p>
<p>“You see, don’t you, Anita⁠—I mean, Ardita?”</p>
<p>Again she made no answer. She had been sound asleep for some time.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-offshore-pirate-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>In the dense sun-flooded noon of next day a spot in the sea before them resolved casually into a green-and-gray islet, apparently composed of a great granite cliff at its northern end which slanted south through a mile of vivid coppice and grass to a sandy beach melting lazily into the surf. When Ardita, reading in her favorite seat, came to the last page of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Revolt of the Angels</i>, and slamming the book shut looked up and saw it, she gave a little cry of delight, and called to Carlyle, who was standing moodily by the rail.</p>
<p>“Is this it? Is this where you’re going?”</p>
<p>Carlyle shrugged his shoulders carelessly.</p>
<p>“You’ve got me.” He raised his voice and called up to the acting skipper: “Oh, Babe, is this your island?”</p>
<p>The mulatto’s miniature head appeared from round the corner of the deck-house.</p>
<p>“Yas-suh! This yeah’s it.”</p>
<p>Carlyle joined Ardita.</p>
<p>“Looks sort of sporting, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she agreed; “but it doesn’t look big enough to be much of a hiding-place.”</p>
<p>“You still putting your faith in those wirelesses your uncle was going to have zigzagging round?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Ardita frankly. “I’m all for you. I’d really like to see you make a getaway.”</p>
<p>He laughed.</p>
<p>“You’re our Lady Luck. Guess we’ll have to keep you with us as a mascot⁠—for the present anyway.”</p>
<p>“You couldn’t very well ask me to swim back,” she said coolly. “If you do I’m going to start writing dime novels founded on that interminable history of your life you gave me last night.”</p>
<p>He flushed and stiffened slightly.</p>
<p>“I’m very sorry I bored you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you didn’t⁠—until just at the end with some story about how furious you were because you couldn’t dance with the ladies you played music for.”</p>
<p>He rose angrily.</p>
<p>“You have got a darn mean little tongue.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” she said melting into laughter, “but I’m not used to having men regale me with the story of their life ambitions⁠—especially if they’ve lived such deathly platonic lives.”</p>
<p>“Why? What do men usually regale you with?”</p>
<p>“Oh, they talk about me,” she yawned. “They tell me I’m the spirit of youth and beauty.”</p>
<p>“What do you tell them?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I agree quietly.”</p>
<p>“Does every man you meet tell you he loves you?”</p>
<p>Ardita nodded.</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t he? All life is just a progression toward, and then a recession from, one phrase⁠—‘I love you.’ ”</p>
<p>Carlyle laughed and sat down.</p>
<p>“That’s very true. That’s⁠—that’s not bad. Did you make that up?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—or rather I found it out. It doesn’t mean anything especially. It’s just clever.”</p>
<p>“It’s the sort of remark,” he said gravely, “that’s typical of your class.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she interrupted impatiently, “don’t start that lecture on aristocracy again! I distrust people who can be intense at this hour in the morning. It’s a mild form of insanity⁠—a sort of breakfast-food jag. Morning’s the time to sleep, swim, and be careless.”</p>
<p>Ten minutes later they had swung round in a wide circle as if to approach the island from the north.</p>
<p>“There’s a trick somewhere,” commented Ardita thoughtfully. “He can’t mean just to anchor up against this cliff.”</p>
<p>They were heading straight in now toward the solid rock, which must have been well over a hundred feet tall, and not until they were within fifty yards of it did Ardita see their objective. Then she clapped her hands in delight. There was a break in the cliff entirely hidden by a curious overlapping of rock, and through this break the yacht entered and very slowly traversed a narrow channel of crystal-clear water between high gray walls. Then they were riding at anchor in a miniature world of green and gold, a gilded bay smooth as glass and set round with tiny palms, the whole resembling the mirror lakes and twig trees that children set up in sand piles.</p>
<p>“Not so darned bad!” cried Carlyle excitedly.</p>
<p>“I guess that little coon knows his way round this corner of the Atlantic.”</p>
<p>His exuberance was contagious, and Ardita became quite jubilant.</p>
<p>“It’s an absolutely sure-fire hiding-place!”</p>
<p>“Lordy, yes! It’s the sort of island you read about.”</p>
<p>The rowboat was lowered into the golden lake and they pulled to shore.</p>
<p>“Come on,” said Carlyle as they landed in the slushy sand, “we’ll go exploring.”</p>
<p>The fringe of palms was in turn ringed in by a round mile of flat, sandy country. They followed it south and brushing through a farther rim of tropical vegetation came out on a pearl-gray virgin beach where Ardita kicked of her brown golf shoes⁠—she seemed to have permanently abandoned stockings⁠—and went wading. Then they sauntered back to the yacht, where the indefatigable Babe had luncheon ready for them. He had posted a lookout on the high cliff to the north to watch the sea on both sides, though he doubted if the entrance to the cliff was generally known⁠—he had never even seen a map on which the island was marked.</p>
<p>“What’s its name,” asked Ardita⁠—“the island, I mean?”</p>
<p>“No name ’tall,” chuckled Babe. “Reckin she jus’ island, ’at’s all.”</p>
<p>In the late afternoon they sat with their backs against great boulders on the highest part of the cliff and Carlyle sketched for her his vague plans. He was sure they were hot after him by this time. The total proceeds of the coup he had pulled off and concerning which he still refused to enlighten her, he estimated as just under a million dollars. He counted on lying up here several weeks and then setting off southward, keeping well outside the usual channels of travel rounding the Horn and heading for Callao, in Peru. The details of coaling and provisioning he was leaving entirely to Babe who, it seemed, had sailed these seas in every capacity from cabin-boy aboard a coffee trader to virtual first mate on a Brazillian pirate craft, whose skipper had long since been hung.</p>
<p>“If he’d been white he’d have been king of South America long ago,” said Carlyle emphatically. “When it comes to intelligence he makes Booker <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Washington look like a moron. He’s got the guile of every race and nationality whose blood is in his veins, and that’s half a dozen or I’m a liar. He worships me because I’m the only man in the world who can play better ragtime than he can. We used to sit together on the wharfs down on the New York waterfront, he with a bassoon and me with an oboe, and we’d blend minor keys in African harmonics a thousand years old until the rats would crawl up the posts and sit round groaning and squeaking like dogs will in front of a phonograph.”</p>
<p>Ardita roared.</p>
<p>“How you can tell ’em!”</p>
<p>Carlyle grinned.</p>
<p>“I swear that’s the gos⁠—”</p>
<p>“What you going to do when you get to Callao?” she interrupted.</p>
<p>“Take ship for India. I want to be a rajah. I mean it. My idea is to go up into Afghanistan somewhere, buy up a palace and a reputation, and then after about five years appear in England with a foreign accent and a mysterious past. But India first. Do you know, they say that all the gold in the world drifts very gradually back to India. Something fascinating about that to me. And I want leisure to read⁠—an immense amount.”</p>
<p>“How about after that?”</p>
<p>“Then,” he answered defiantly, “comes aristocracy. Laugh if you want to⁠—but at least you’ll have to admit that I know what I want⁠—which I imagine is more than you do.”</p>
<p>“On the contrary,” contradicted Ardita, reaching in her pocket for her cigarette case, “when I met you I was in the midst of a great uproar of all my friends and relatives because I did know what I wanted.”</p>
<p>“What was it?”</p>
<p>“A man.”</p>
<p>He started.</p>
<p>“You mean you were engaged?”</p>
<p>“After a fashion. If you hadn’t come aboard I had every intention of slipping ashore yesterday evening⁠—how long ago it seems⁠—and meeting him in Palm Beach. He’s waiting there for me with a bracelet that once belonged to Catherine of Russia. Now don’t mutter anything about aristocracy,” she put in quickly. “I liked him simply because he had had an imagination and the utter courage of his convictions.”</p>
<p>“But your family disapproved, eh?”</p>
<p>“What there is of it⁠—only a silly uncle and a sillier aunt. It seems he got into some scandal with a red-haired woman name Mimi something⁠—it was frightfully exaggerated, he said, and men don’t lie to me⁠—and anyway I didn’t care what he’d done; it was the future that counted. And I’d see to that. When a man’s in love with me he doesn’t care for other amusements. I told him to drop her like a hot cake, and he did.”</p>
<p>“I feel rather jealous,” said Carlyle, frowning⁠—and then he laughed. “I guess I’ll just keep you along with us until we get to Callao. Then I’ll lend you enough money to get back to the States. By that time you’ll have had a chance to think that gentleman over a little more.”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk to me like that!” fired up Ardita. “I won’t tolerate the parental attitude from anybody! Do you understand me?” He chuckled and then stopped, rather abashed, as her cold anger seemed to fold him about and chill him.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he offered uncertainly.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t apologize! I can’t stand men who say ‘I’m sorry’ in that manly, reserved tone. Just shut up!”</p>
<p>A pause ensued, a pause which Carlyle found rather awkward, but which Ardita seemed not to notice at all as she sat contentedly enjoying her cigarette and gazing out at the shining sea. After a minute she crawled out on the rock and lay with her face over the edge looking down. Carlyle, watching her, reflected how it seemed impossible for her to assume an ungraceful attitude.</p>
<p>“Oh, look,” she cried. “There’s a lot of sort of ledges down there. Wide ones of all different heights.”</p>
<p>“We’ll go swimming tonight!” she said excitedly. “By moonlight.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t you rather go in at the beach on the other end?”</p>
<p>“Not a chance. I like to dive. You can use my uncle’s bathing suit, only it’ll fit you like a gunny sack, because he’s a very flabby man. I’ve got a one-piece that’s shocked the natives all along the Atlantic coast from Biddeford Pool to <abbr>St.</abbr> Augustine.”</p>
<p>“I suppose you’re a shark.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m pretty good. And I look cute too. A sculptor up at Rye last summer told me my calves are worth five hundred dollars.”</p>
<p>There didn’t seem to be any answer to this, so Carlyle was silent, permitting himself only a discreet interior smile.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-offshore-pirate-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>When the night crept down in shadowy blue and silver they threaded the shimmering channel in the rowboat and, tying it to a jutting rock, began climbing the cliff together. The first shelf was ten feet up, wide, and furnishing a natural diving platform. There they sat down in the bright moonlight and watched the faint incessant surge of the waters almost stilled now as the tide set seaward.</p>
<p>“Are you happy?” he asked suddenly.</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>“Always happy near the sea. You know,” she went on, “I’ve been thinking all day that you and I are somewhat alike. We’re both rebels⁠—only for different reasons. Two years ago, when I was just eighteen and you were⁠—”</p>
<p>“Twenty-five.”</p>
<p>“⁠⸺⁠well, we were both conventional successes. I was an utterly devastating debutante and you were a prosperous musician just commissioned in the army⁠—”</p>
<p>“Gentleman by act of Congress,” he put in ironically.</p>
<p>“Well, at any rate, we both fitted. If our corners were not rubbed off they were at least pulled in. But deep in us both was something that made us require more for happiness. I didn’t know what I wanted. I went from man to man, restless, impatient, month by month getting less acquiescent and more dissatisfied. I used to sit sometimes chewing at the insides of my mouth and thinking I was going crazy⁠—I had a frightful sense of transiency. I wanted things now⁠—now⁠—now! Here I was⁠—beautiful⁠—I am, aren’t I?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” agreed Carlyle tentatively.</p>
<p>Ardita rose suddenly.</p>
<p>“Wait a second. I want to try this delightful-looking sea.”</p>
<p>She walked to the end of the ledge and shot out over the sea, doubling up in midair and then straightening out and entering to water straight as a blade in a perfect jackknife dive.</p>
<p>In a minute her voice floated up to him.</p>
<p>“You see, I used to read all day and most of the night. I began to resent society⁠—”</p>
<p>“Come on up here,” he interrupted. “What on earth are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Just floating round on my back. I’ll be up in a minute. Let me tell you. The only thing I enjoyed was shocking people; wearing something quite impossible and quite charming to a fancy-dress party, going round with the fastest men in New York, and getting into some of the most hellish scrapes imaginable.”</p>
<p>The sounds of splashing mingled with her words, and then he heard her hurried breathing as she began climbing up side to the ledge.</p>
<p>“Go on in!” she called.</p>
<p>Obediently he rose and dived. When he emerged, dripping, and made the climb he found that she was no longer on the ledge, but after a second frightened he heard her light laughter from another shelf ten feet up. There he joined her and they both sat quietly for a moment, their arms clasped round their knees, panting a little from the climb.</p>
<p>“The family were wild,” she said suddenly. “They tried to marry me off. And then when I’d begun to feel that after all life was scarcely worth living I found something”⁠—her eyes went skyward exultantly⁠—“I found something!”</p>
<p>Carlyle waited and her words came with a rush.</p>
<p>“Courage⁠—just that; courage as a rule of life, and something to cling to always. I began to build up this enormous faith in myself. I began to see that in all my idols in the past some manifestation of courage had unconsciously been the thing that attracted me. I began separating courage from the other things of life. All sorts of courage⁠—the beaten, bloody prizefighter coming up for more⁠—I used to make men take me to prizefights; the déclassé woman sailing through a nest of cats and looking at them as if they were mud under her feet; the liking what you like always; the utter disregard for other people’s opinions⁠—just to live as I liked always and to die in my own way⁠—Did you bring up the cigarettes?”</p>
<p>He handed one over and held a match for her gently.</p>
<p>“Still,” Ardita continued, “the men kept gathering⁠—old men and young men, my mental and physical inferiors, most of them, but all intensely desiring to have me⁠—to own this rather magnificent proud tradition I’d built up round me. Do you see?”</p>
<p>“Sort of. You never were beaten and you never apologized.”</p>
<p>“Never!”</p>
<p>She sprang to the edge, poised for a moment like a crucified figure against the sky; then describing a dark parabola plunked without a slash between two silver ripples twenty feet below.</p>
<p>Her voice floated up to him again.</p>
<p>“And courage to me meant ploughing through that dull gray mist that comes down on life⁠—not only overriding people and circumstances but overriding the bleakness of living. A sort of insistence on the value of life and the worth of transient things.”</p>
<p>She was climbing up now, and at her last words her head, with the damp yellow hair slicked symmetrically back appeared on his level.</p>
<p>“All very well,” objected Carlyle. “You can call it courage, but your courage is really built, after all, on a pride of birth. You were bred to that defiant attitude. On my gray days even courage is one of the things that’s gray and lifeless.”</p>
<p>She was sitting near the edge, hugging her knees and gazing abstractedly at the white moon; he was farther back, crammed like a grotesque god into a niche in the rock.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna,” she began, “but you haven’t grasped me yet. My courage is faith⁠—faith in the eternal resilience of me⁠—that joy’ll come back, and hope and spontaneity. And I feel that till it does I’ve got to keep my lips shut and my chin high, and my eyes wide⁠—not necessarily any silly smiling. Oh, I’ve been through hell without a whine quite often⁠—and the female hell is deadlier than the male.”</p>
<p>“But supposing,” suggested Carlyle, “that before joy and hope and all that came back the curtain was drawn on you for good?”</p>
<p>Ardita rose, and going to the wall climbed with some difficulty to the next ledge, another ten or fifteen feet above.</p>
<p>“Why,” she called back “then I’d have won!”</p>
<p>He edged out till he could see her.</p>
<p>“Better not dive from there! You’ll break your back,” he said quickly.</p>
<p>She laughed.</p>
<p>“Not I!”</p>
<p>Slowly she spread her arms and stood there swan-like, radiating a pride in her young perfection that lit a warm glow in Carlyle’s heart.</p>
<p>“We’re going through the black air with our arms wide and our feet straight out behind like a dolphin’s tail, and we’re going to think we’ll never hit the silver down there till suddenly it’ll be all warm round us and full of little kissing, caressing waves.”</p>
<p>Then she was in the air, and Carlyle involuntarily held his breath. He had not realized that the dive was nearly forty feet. It seemed an eternity before he heard the swift compact sound as she reached the sea.</p>
<p>And it was with his glad sigh of relief when her light watery laughter curled up the side of the cliff and into his anxious ears that he knew he loved her.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-offshore-pirate-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>Time, having no axe to grind, showered down upon them three days of afternoons. When the sun cleared the porthole of Ardita’s cabin an hour after dawn she rose cheerily, donned her bathing-suit, and went up on deck. The negroes would leave their work when they saw her, and crowd, chuckling and chattering, to the rail as she floated, an agile minnow, on and under the surface of the clear water. Again in the cool of the afternoon she would swim⁠—and loll and smoke with Carlyle upon the cliff; or else they would lie on their sides in the sands of the southern beach, talking little, but watching the day fade colorfully and tragically into the infinite langour of a tropical evening.</p>
<p>And with the long, sunny hours Ardita’s idea of the episode as incidental, madcap, a sprig of romance in a desert of reality, gradually left her. She dreaded the time when he would strike off southward; she dreaded all the eventualities that presented themselves to her; thoughts were suddenly troublesome and decisions odious. Had prayers found place in the pagan rituals of her soul she would have asked of life only to be unmolested for a while, lazily acquiescent to the ready, naive flow of Carlyle’s ideas, his vivid boyish imagination, and the vein of monomania that seemed to run crosswise through his temperament and colored his every action.</p>
<p>But this is not a story of two on an island, nor concerned primarily with love bred of isolation. It is merely the presentation of two personalities, and its idyllic setting among the palms of the Gulf Stream is quite incidental. Most of us are content to exist and breed and fight for the right to do both, and the dominant idea, the foredoomed attest to control one’s destiny, is reserved for the fortunate or unfortunate few. To me the interesting thing about Ardita is the courage that will tarnish with her beauty and youth.</p>
<p>“Take me with you,” she said late one night as they sat lazily in the grass under the shadowy spreading palms. The negroes had brought ashore their musical instruments, and the sound of weird ragtime was drifting softly over on the warm breath of the night. “I’d love to reappear in ten years, as a fabulously wealthy high-caste Indian lady,” she continued.</p>
<p>Carlyle looked at her quickly.</p>
<p>“You can, you know.”</p>
<p>She laughed.</p>
<p>“Is it a proposal of marriage? Extra! Ardita Farnam becomes pirate’s bride. Society girl kidnapped by ragtime bank robber.”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t a bank.”</p>
<p>“What was it? Why won’t you tell me?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to break down your illusions.”</p>
<p>“My dear man, I have no illusions about you.”</p>
<p>“I mean your illusions about yourself.”</p>
<p>She looked up in surprise.</p>
<p>“About myself! What on earth have I got to do with whatever stray felonies you’ve committed?”</p>
<p>“That remains to be seen.”</p>
<p>She reached over and patted his hand.</p>
<p>“Dear <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Curtis Carlyle,” she said softly, “are you in love with me?”</p>
<p>“As if it mattered.”</p>
<p>“But it does⁠—because I think I’m in love with you.”</p>
<p>He looked at her ironically.</p>
<p>“Thus swelling your January total to half a dozen,” he suggested. “Suppose I call your bluff and ask you to come to India with me?”</p>
<p>“Shall I?”</p>
<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>“We can get married in Callao.”</p>
<p>“What sort of life can you offer me? I don’t mean that unkindly, but seriously; what would become of me if the people who want that twenty-thousand-dollar reward ever catch up with you?”</p>
<p>“I thought you weren’t afraid.”</p>
<p>“I never am⁠—but I won’t throw my life away just to show one man I’m not.”</p>
<p>“I wish you’d been poor. Just a little poor girl dreaming over a fence in a warm cow country.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t it have been nice?”</p>
<p>“I’d have enjoyed astonishing you⁠—watching your eyes open on things. If you only wanted things! Don’t you see?”</p>
<p>“I know⁠—like girls who stare into the windows of jewelry-stores.”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—and want the big oblong watch that’s platinum and has diamonds all round the edge. Only you’d decide it was too expensive and choose one of white gold for a hundred dollar. Then I’d say: ‘Expensive? I should say not!’ And we’d go into the store and pretty soon the platinum one would be gleaming on your wrist.”</p>
<p>“That sounds so nice and vulgar⁠—and fun, doesn’t it?” murmured Ardita.</p>
<p>“Doesn’t it? Can’t you see us travelling round and spending money right and left, and being worshipped by bellboys and waiters? Oh, blessed are the simple rich for they inherit the earth!”</p>
<p>“I honestly wish we were that way.”</p>
<p>“I love you, Ardita,” he said gently.</p>
<p>Her face lost its childish look for moment and became oddly grave.</p>
<p>“I love to be with you,” she said, “more than with any man I’ve ever met. And I like your looks and your dark old hair, and the way you go over the side of the rail when we come ashore. In fact, Curtis Carlyle, I like all the things you do when you’re perfectly natural. I think you’ve got nerve and you know how I feel about that. Sometimes when you’re around I’ve been tempted to kiss you suddenly and tell you that you were just an idealistic boy with a lot of caste nonsense in his head. Perhaps if I were just a little bit older and a little more bored I’d go with you. As it is, I think I’ll go back and marry⁠—that other man.”</p>
<p>Over across the silver lake the figures of the negroes writhed and squirmed in the moonlight like acrobats who, having been too long inactive, must go through their tacks from sheer surplus energy. In single file they marched, weaving in concentric circles, now with their heads thrown back, now bent over their instruments like piping fauns. And from trombone and saxohpone ceaselessly whined a blended melody, sometimes riotous and jubilant, sometimes haunting and plaintive as a death-dance from the Congo’s heart.</p>
<p>“Let’s dance,” cried Ardita. “I can’t sit still with that perfect jazz going on.”</p>
<p>Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor. They floated out like drifting moths under the rich hazy light, and as the fantastic symphony wept and exulted and wavered and despaired Ardita’s last sense of reality dropped away, and she abandoned her imagination to the dreamy summer scents of tropical flowers and the infinite starry spaces overhead, feeling that if she opened her eyes it would be to find herself dancing with a ghost in a land created by her own fancy.</p>
<p>“This is what I should call an exclusive private dance,” he whispered.</p>
<p>“I feel quite mad⁠—but delightfully mad!”</p>
<p>“We’re enchanted. The shades of unnumbered generations of cannibals are watching us from high up on the side of the cliff there.”</p>
<p>“And I’ll bet the cannibal women are saying that we dance too close, and that it was immodest of me to come without my nose-ring.”</p>
<p>They both laughed softly⁠—and then their laughter died as over across the lake they heard the trombones stop in the middle of a bar, and the saxohpones give a startled moan and fade out.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” called Carlyle.</p>
<p>After a moment’s silence they made out the dark figure of a man rounding the silver lake at a run. As he came closer they saw it was Babe in a state of unusual excitement. He drew up before them and gasped out his news in a breath.</p>
<p>“Ship stan’in’ off sho’ ’bout half a mile suh. Mose, he uz on watch, he say look’s if she’s done ancho’d.”</p>
<p>“A ship⁠—what kind of a ship?” demanded Carlyle anxiously.</p>
<p>Dismay was in his voice, and Ardita’s heart gave a sudden wrench as she saw his whole face suddenly droop.</p>
<p>“He say he don’t know, suh.”</p>
<p>“Are they landing a boat?”</p>
<p>“No, suh.”</p>
<p>“We’ll go up,” said Carlyle.</p>
<p>They ascended the hill in silence, Ardita’s hand still resting in Carlyle’s as it had when they finished dancing. She felt it clinch nervously from time to time as though he were unaware of the contact, but though he hurt her she made no attempt to remove it. It seemed an hour’s climb before they reached the top and crept cautiously across the silhouetted plateau to the edge of the cliff. After one short look Carlyle involuntarily gave a little cry. It was a revenue boat with six-inch guns mounted fore and aft.</p>
<p>“They know!” he said with a short intake of breath. “They know! They picked up the trail somewhere.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure they know about the channel? They may be only standing by to take a look at the island in the morning. From where they are they couldn’t see the opening in the cliff.”</p>
<p>“They could with field-glasses,” he said hopelessly. He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly two now. They won’t do anything until dawn, that’s certain. Of course there’s always the faint possibility that they’re waiting for some other ship to join; or for a coaler.”</p>
<p>“I suppose we may as well stay right here.”</p>
<p>The hour passed and they lay there side by side, very silently, their chins in their hands like dreaming children. In back of them squatted the negroes, patient, resigned, acquiescent, announcing now and then with sonorous snores that not even the presence of danger could subdue their unconquerable African craving for sleep.</p>
<p>Just before five o’clock Babe approached Carlyle. There were half a dozen rifles aboard the Narcissus he said. Had it been decided to offer no resistance?</p>
<p>A pretty good fight might be made, he thought, if they worked out some plan.</p>
<p>Carlyle laughed and shook his head.</p>
<p>“That isn’t a Spic army out there, Babe. That’s a revenue boat. It’d be like a bow and arrow trying to fight a machine-gun. If you want to bury those bags somewhere and take a chance on recovering them later, go on and do it. But it won’t work⁠—they’d dig this island over from one end to the other. It’s a lost battle all round, Babe.”</p>
<p>Babe inclined his head silently and turned away, and Carlyle’s voice was husky as he turned to Ardita.</p>
<p>“There’s the best friend I ever had. He’d die for me, and be proud to, if I’d let him.”</p>
<p>“You’ve given up?”</p>
<p>“I’ve no choice. Of course there’s always one way out⁠—the sure way⁠—but that can wait. I wouldn’t miss my trial for anything⁠—it’ll be an interesting experiment in notoriety. ‘Miss Farnam testifies that the pirate’s attitude to her was at all times that of a gentleman.’ ”</p>
<p>“Don’t!” she said. “I’m awfully sorry.”</p>
<p>When the color faded from the sky and lustreless blue changed to leaden gray a commotion was visible on the ship’s deck, and they made out a group of officers clad in white duck, gathered near the rail. They had field-glasses in their hands and were attentively examining the islet.</p>
<p>“It’s all up,” said Carlyle grimly.</p>
<p>“Damn,” whispered Ardita. She felt tears gathering in her eyes “We’ll go back to the yacht,” he said. “I prefer that to being hunted out up here like a possum.”</p>
<p>Leaving the plateau they descended the hill, and reaching the lake were rowed out to the yacht by the silent negroes. Then, pale and weary, they sank into the settees and waited.</p>
<p>Half an hour later in the dim gray light the nose of the revenue boat appeared in the channel and stopped, evidently fearing that the bay might be too shallow. From the peaceful look of the yacht, the man and the girl in the settees, and the negroes lounging curiously against the rail, they evidently judged that there would be no resistance, for two boats were lowered casually over the side, one containing an officer and six bluejackets, and the other, four rowers and in the stern two gray-haired men in yachting flannels. Ardita and Carlyle stood up, and half unconsciously started toward each other.</p>
<p>Then he paused and putting his hand suddenly into his pocket he pulled out a round, glittering object and held it out to her.</p>
<p>“What is it?” she asked wonderingly.</p>
<p>“I’m not positive, but I think from the Russian inscription inside that it’s your promised bracelet.”</p>
<p>“Where⁠—where on earth⁠—”</p>
<p>“It came out of one of those bags. You see, Curtis Carlyle and his Six Black Buddies, in the middle of their performance in the tearoom of the hotel at Palm Beach, suddenly changed their instruments for automatics and held up the crowd. I took this bracelet from a pretty, overrouged woman with red hair.”</p>
<p>Ardita frowned and then smiled.</p>
<p>“So that’s what you did! You <em>have</em> got nerve!”</p>
<p>He bowed.</p>
<p>“A well-known bourgeois quality,” he said.</p>
<p>And then dawn slanted dynamically across the deck and flung the shadows reeling into gray corners. The dew rose and turned to golden mist, thin as a dream, enveloping them until they seemed gossamer relics of the late night, infinitely transient and already fading. For a moment sea and sky were breathless, and dawn held a pink hand over the young mouth of life⁠—then from out in the lake came the complaint of a rowboat and the swish of oars.</p>
<p>Suddenly against the golden furnace low in the east their two graceful figures melted into one, and he was kissing her spoiled young mouth.</p>
<p>“It’s a sort of glory,” he murmured after a second.</p>
<p>She smiled up at him.</p>
<p>“Happy, are you?”</p>
<p>Her sigh was a benediction⁠—an ecstatic surety that she was youth and beauty now as much as she would ever know. For another instant life was radiant and time a phantom and their strength eternal⁠—then there was a bumping, scraping sound as the rowboat scraped alongside.</p>
<p>Up the ladder scrambled the two gray-haired men, the officer and two of the sailors with their hands on their revolvers. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Farnam folded his arms and stood looking at his niece.</p>
<p>“So,” he said nodding his head slowly.</p>
<p>With a sigh her arms unwound from Carlyle’s neck, and her eyes, transfigured and far away, fell upon the boarding party. Her uncle saw her upper lip slowly swell into that arrogant pout he knew so well.</p>
<p>“So,” he repeated savagely. “So this is your idea of⁠—of romance. A runaway affair, with a high-seas pirate.”</p>
<p>Ardita glanced at him carelessly.</p>
<p>“What an old fool you are!” she said quietly.</p>
<p>“Is that the best you can say for yourself?”</p>
<p>“No,” she said as if considering. “No, there’s something else. There’s that well-known phrase with which I have ended most of our conversations for the past few years⁠—‘Shut up!’ ”</p>
<p>And with that she turned, included the two old men, the officer, and the two sailors in a curt glance of contempt, and walked proudly down the companionway.</p>
<p>But had she waited an instant longer she would have heard a sound from her uncle quite unfamiliar in most of their interviews. He gave vent to a wholehearted amused chuckle, in which the second old man joined.</p>
<p>The latter turned briskly to Carlyle, who had been regarding this scene with an air of cryptic amusement.</p>
<p>“Well Toby,” he said genially, “you incurable, harebrained romantic chaser of rainbows, did you find that she was the person you wanted?”</p>
<p>Carlyle smiled confidently.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—naturally,” he said, “I’ve been perfectly sure ever since I first heard tell of her wild career. That’d why I had Babe send up the rocket last night.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad you did,” said Colonel Moreland gravely. “We’ve been keeping pretty close to you in case you should have trouble with those six strange niggers. And we hoped we’d find you two in some such compromising position,” he sighed. “Well, set a crank to catch a crank!”</p>
<p>“Your father and I sat up all night hoping for the best⁠—or perhaps it’s the worst. Lord knows you’re welcome to her, my boy. She’s run me crazy. Did you give her the Russian bracelet my detective got from that Mimi woman?”</p>
<p>Carlyle nodded.</p>
<p>“Sh!” he said. “She’s coming on deck.”</p>
<p>Ardita appeared at the head of the companionway and gave a quick involuntary glance at Carlyle’s wrists. A puzzled look passed across her face. Back aft the negroes had begun to sing, and the cool lake, fresh with dawn, echoed serenely to their low voices.</p>
<p>“Ardita,” said Carlyle unsteadily.</p>
<p>She swayed a step toward him.</p>
<p>“Ardita,” he repeated breathlessly, “I’ve got to tell you the⁠—the truth. It was all a plant, Ardita. My name isn’t Carlyle. It’s Moreland, Toby Moreland. The story was invented, Ardita, invented out of thin Florida air.”</p>
<p>She stared at him, bewildered, amazement, disbelief, and anger flowing in quick waves across her face. The three men held their breaths. Moreland, Senior, took a step toward her; <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Farnam’s mouth dropped a little open as he waited, panic-stricken, for the expected crash.</p>
<p>But it did not come. Ardita’s face became suddenly radiant, and with a little laugh she went swiftly to young Moreland and looked up at him without a trace of wrath in her gray eyes.</p>
<p>“Will you swear,” she said quietly “That it was entirely a product of your own brain?”</p>
<p>“I swear,” said young Moreland eagerly.</p>
<p>She drew his head down and kissed him gently.</p>
<p>“What an imagination!” she said softly and almost enviously. “I want you to lie to me just as sweetly as you know how for the rest of my life.”</p>
<p>The negroes’ voices floated drowsily back, mingled in an air that she had heard them singing before.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Time is a thief;</span>
<br/>
<span>Gladness and grief</span>
<br/>
<span>Cling to the leaf</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">As it yellows⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“What was in the bags?” she asked softly.</p>
<p>“Florida mud,” he answered. “That was one of the two true things I told you.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps I can guess the other one,” she said; and reaching up on her tiptoes she kissed him softly in the illustration.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-cut-glass-bowl" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Cut-Glass Bowl</h2>
<section id="the-cut-glass-bowl-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>There was a rough stone age and a smooth stone age and a bronze age, and many years afterward a cut-glass age. In the cut-glass age, when young ladies had persuaded young men with long, curly mustaches to marry them, they sat down several months afterward and wrote thank-you notes for all sorts of cut-glass presents⁠—punch-bowls, finger-bowls, dinner-glasses, wineglasses, ice-cream dishes, bonbon dishes, decanters, and vases⁠—for, though cut glass was nothing new in the nineties, it was then especially busy reflecting the dazzling light of fashion from the Back Bay to the fastnesses of the Middle West.</p>
<p>After the wedding the punch-bowls were arranged in the sideboard with the big bowl in the centre; the glasses were set up in the china-closet; the candlesticks were put at both ends of things⁠—and then the struggle for existence began. The bonbon dish lost its little handle and became a pin-tray upstairs; a promenading cat knocked the little bowl off the sideboard, and the hired girl chipped the middle-sized one with the sugar-dish; then the wineglasses succumbed to leg fractures, and even the dinner-glasses disappeared one by one like the ten little niggers, the last one ending up, scarred and maimed as a toothbrush holder among other shabby genteels on the bathroom shelf. But by the time all this had happened the cut-glass age was over, anyway.</p>
<p>It was well past its first glory on the day the curious <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Roger Fairboalt came to see the beautiful <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harold Piper.</p>
<p>“My <em>dear</em>,” said the curious <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Roger Fairboalt, “I <em>love</em> your house. I think it’s <em>quite</em> artistic.”</p>
<p>“I’m <em>so</em> glad,” said the beautiful <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harold Piper, lights appearing in her young, dark eyes; “and you <em>must</em> come often. I’m almost <em>always</em> alone in the afternoon.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Fairboalt would have liked to remark that she didn’t believe this at all and couldn’t see how she’d be expected to⁠—it was all over town that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Freddy Gedney had been dropping in on <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper five afternoons a week for the past six months. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Fairboalt was at that ripe age where she distrusted all beautiful women⁠—</p>
<p>“I love the dining-room <em>most</em>,” she said, “all that <em>marvellous</em> china, and that <em>huge</em> cut-glass bowl.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper laughed, so prettily that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Fairboalt’s lingering reservations about the Freddy Gedney story quite vanished.</p>
<p>“Oh, that big bowl!” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper’s mouth forming the words was a vivid rose petal. “There’s a story about that bowl⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—”</p>
<p>“You remember young Carleton Canby? Well, he was very attentive at one time, and the night I told him I was going to marry Harold, seven years ago in ninety-two, he drew himself way up and said: ‘Evylyn, I’m going to give a present that’s as hard as you are and as beautiful and as empty and as easy to see through.’ He frightened me a little⁠—his eyes were so black. I thought he was going to deed me a haunted house or something that would explode when you opened it. That bowl came, and of course it’s beautiful. Its diameter or circumference or something is two and a half feet⁠—or perhaps it’s three and a half. Anyway, the sideboard is really too small for it; it sticks way out.”</p>
<p>“My <em>dear</em>, wasn’t that <em>odd</em>! And he left town about then didn’t he?” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Fairboalt was scribbling italicized notes on her memory⁠—“hard, beautiful, empty, and easy to see through.”</p>
<p>“Yes, he went West⁠—or South⁠—or somewhere,” answered <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper, radiating that divine vagueness that helps to lift beauty out of time.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Fairboalt drew on her gloves, approving the effect of largeness given by the open sweep from the spacious music-room through the library, disclosing a part of the dining-room beyond. It was really the nicest smaller house in town, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper had talked of moving to a larger one on Devereaux Avenue. Harold Piper must be <em>coining</em> money.</p>
<p>As she turned into the sidewalk under the gathering autumn dusk she assumed that disapproving, faintly unpleasant expression that almost all successful women of forty wear on the street.</p>
<p>If <em>I</em> were Harold Piper, she thought, I’d spend a <em>little</em> less time on business and a little more time at home. Some <em>friend</em> should speak to him.</p>
<p>But if <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Fairboalt had considered it a successful afternoon she would have named it a triumph had she waited two minutes longer. For while she was still a black receding figure a hundred yards down the street, a very good-looking distraught young man turned up the walk to the Piper house. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper answered the doorbell herself, and with a rather dismayed expression led him quickly into the library.</p>
<p>“I had to see you,” he began wildly; “your note played the devil with me. Did Harold frighten you into this?”</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>“I’m through, Fred,” she said slowly, and her lips had never looked to him so much like tearings from a rose. “He came home last night sick with it. Jessie Piper’s sense of duty was to much for her, so she went down to his office and told him. He was hurt and⁠—oh, I can’t help seeing it his way, Fred. He says we’ve been club gossip all summer and he didn’t know it, and now he understands snatches of conversation he’s caught and veiled hints people have dropped about me. He’s mighty angry, Fred, and he loves me and I love him⁠—rather.”</p>
<p>Gedney nodded slowly and half closed his eyes.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said, “yes, my trouble’s like yours. I can see other people’s points of view too plainly.” His gray eyes met her dark ones frankly. “The blessed thing’s over. My God, Evylyn, I’ve been sitting down at the office all day looking at the outside of your letter, and looking at it and looking at it⁠—”</p>
<p>“You’ve got to go, Fred,” she said steadily, and the slight emphasis of hurry in her voice was a new thrust for him. “I gave him my word of honor I wouldn’t see you. I know just how far I can go with Harold, and being here with you this evening is one of the things I can’t do.”</p>
<p>They were still standing, and as she spoke she made a little movement toward the door. Gedney looked at her miserably, trying, here at the end, to treasure up a last picture of her⁠—and then suddenly both of them were stiffened into marble at the sound of steps on the walk outside. Instantly her arm reached out grasping the lapel of his coat⁠—half urged, half swung him through the big door into the dark dining-room.</p>
<p>“I’ll make him go upstairs,” she whispered close to his ear; “don’t move till you hear him on the stairs. Then go out the front way.”</p>
<p>Then he was alone listening as she greeted her husband in the hall.</p>
<p>Harold Piper was thirty-six, nine years older than his wife. He was handsome⁠—with marginal notes: these being eyes that were too close together, and a certain woodenness when his face was in repose. His attitude toward this Gedney matter was typical of all his attitudes. He had told Evylyn that he considered the subject closed and would never reproach her nor allude to it in any form; and he told himself that this was rather a big way of looking at it⁠—that she was not a little impressed. Yet, like all men who are preoccupied with their own broadness, he was exceptionally narrow.</p>
<p>He greeted Evylyn with emphasized cordiality this evening.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to hurry and dress, Harold,” she said eagerly; “we’re going to the Bronsons’.”</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t take me long to dress, dear,” and, his words trailing off, he walked on into the library. Evylyn’s heart clattered loudly.</p>
<p>“Harold⁠—” she began, with a little catch in her voice, and followed him in. He was lighting a cigarette. “You’ll have to hurry, Harold,” she finished, standing in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Why?” he asked a trifle impatiently; “you’re not dressed yourself yet, Evie.”</p>
<p>He stretched out in a Morris chair and unfolded a newspaper. With a sinking sensation Evylyn saw that this meant at least ten minutes⁠—and Gedney was standing breathless in the next room. Supposing Harold decided that before he went upstairs he wanted a drink from the decanter on the sideboard. Then it occurred to her to forestall this contingency by bringing him the decanter and a glass. She dreaded calling his attention to the dining-room in any way, but she couldn’t risk the other chance.</p>
<p>But at the same moment Harold rose and, throwing his paper down, came toward her.</p>
<p>“Evie, dear,” he said, bending and putting his arms about her, “I hope you’re not thinking about last night⁠—” She moved close to him, trembling. “I know,” he continued, “it was just an imprudent friendship on your part. We all make mistakes.”</p>
<p>Evylyn hardly heard him. She was wondering if by sheer clinging to him she could draw him out and up the stairs. She thought of playing sick, asking to be carried up⁠—unfortunately she knew he would lay her on the couch and bring her whiskey.</p>
<p>Suddenly her nervous tension moved up a last impossible notch. She had heard a very faint but quite unmistakable creak from the floor of the dining room. Fred was trying to get out the back way.</p>
<p>Then her heart took a flying leap as a hollow ringing note like a gong echoed and reechoed through the house. Gedney’s arm had struck the big cut-glass bowl.</p>
<p>“What’s that!” cried Harold. “Who’s there?”</p>
<p>She clung to him but he broke away, and the room seemed to crash about her ears. She heard the pantry-door swing open, a scuffle, the rattle of a tin pan, and in wild despair she rushed into the kitchen and pulled up the gas. Her husband’s arm slowly unwound from Gedney’s neck, and he stood there very still, first in amazement, then with pain dawning in his face.</p>
<p>“My golly!” he said in bewilderment, and then repeated: “My <em>golly</em>!”</p>
<p>He turned as if to jump again at Gedney, stopped, his muscles visibly relaxed, and he gave a bitter little laugh.</p>
<p>“You people⁠—you people⁠—” Evylyn’s arms were around him and her eyes were pleading with him frantically, but he pushed her away and sank dazed into a kitchen chair, his face like porcelain. “You’ve been doing things to me, Evylyn. Why, you little devil! You little <em>devil</em>!”</p>
<p>She had never felt so sorry for him; she had never loved him so much.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t her fault,” said Gedney rather humbly. “I just came.” But Piper shook his head, and his expression when he stared up was as if some physical accident had jarred his mind into a temporary inability to function. His eyes, grown suddenly pitiful, struck a deep, unsounded chord in Evylyn⁠—and simultaneously a furious anger surged in her. She felt her eyelids burning; she stamped her foot violently; her hands scurried nervously over the table as if searching for a weapon, and then she flung herself wildly at Gedney.</p>
<p>“Get out!” she screamed, dark eves blazing, little fists beating helplessly on his outstretched arm. “You did this! Get out of here⁠—get out⁠—get <em>out</em>! <em>get</em> <em>out</em>!”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-cut-glass-bowl-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Concerning <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Harold Piper at thirty-five, opinion was divided⁠—women said she was still handsome; men said she was pretty no longer. And this was probably because the qualities in her beauty that women had feared and men had followed had vanished. Her eyes were still as large and as dark and as sad, but the mystery had departed; their sadness was no longer eternal, only human, and she had developed a habit, when she was startled or annoyed, of twitching her brows together and blinking several times. Her mouth also had lost: the red had receded and the faint down-turning of its corners when she smiled, that had added to the sadness of the eyes and been vaguely mocking and beautiful, was quite gone. When she smiled now the corners of her lips turned up. Back in the days when she revelled in her own beauty Evylyn had enjoyed that smile of hers⁠—she had accentuated it. When she stopped accentuating it, it faded out and the last of her mystery with it.</p>
<p>Evylyn had ceased accentuating her smile within a month after the Freddy Gedney affair. Externally things had gone an very much as they had before. But in those few minutes during which she had discovered how much she loved her husband, Evylyn had realized how indelibly she had hurt him. For a month she struggled against aching silences, wild reproaches and accusations⁠—she pled with him, made quiet, pitiful little love to him, and he laughed at her bitterly⁠—and then she, too, slipped gradually into silence and a shadowy, impenetrable barrier dropped between them. The surge of love that had risen in her she lavished on Donald, her little boy, realizing him almost wonderingly as a part of her life.</p>
<p>The next year a piling up of mutual interests and responsibilities and some stray flicker from the past brought husband and wife together again⁠—but after a rather pathetic flood of passion Evylyn realized that her great opportunity was gone. There simply wasn’t anything left. She might have been youth and love for both⁠—but that time of silence had slowly dried up the springs of affection and her own desire to drink again of them was dead.</p>
<p>She began for the first time to seek women friends, to prefer books she had read before, to sew a little where she could watch her two children to whom she was devoted. She worried about little things⁠—if she saw crumbs on the dinner-table her mind drifted off the conversation: she was receding gradually into middle age.</p>
<p>Her thirty-fifth birthday had been an exceptionally busy one, for they were entertaining on short notice that night, as she stood in her bedroom window in the late afternoon she discovered that she was quite tired. Ten years before she would have lain down and slept, but now she had a feeling that things needed watching: maids were cleaning downstairs, bric-a-brac was all over the floor, and there were sure to be grocery-men that had to be talked to imperatively⁠—and then there was a letter to write Donald, who was fourteen and in his first year away at school.</p>
<p>She had nearly decided to lie down, nevertheless, when she heard a sudden familiar signal from little Julie downstairs. She compressed her lips, her brows twitched together, and she blinked.</p>
<p>“Julie!” she called.</p>
<p>“<em>Ah‑h‑h‑ow!</em>” prolonged Julie plaintively. Then the voice of Hilda, the second maid, floated up the stairs.</p>
<p>“She cut herself a little, Mis’ Piper.”</p>
<p>Evylyn flew to her sewing-basket, rummaged until she found a torn handkerchief, and hurried downstairs. In a moment Julie was crying in her arms as she searched for the cut, faint, disparaging evidences of which appeared on Julie’s dress.</p>
<p>“My <em>thu</em>‑umb!” explained Julie. “<em>Oh‑h‑h‑h</em>, t’urts.”</p>
<p>“It was the bowl here, the he one,” said Hilda apologetically. “It was waitin’ on the floor while I polished the sideboard, and Julie come along an’ went to foolin’ with it. She yust scratch herself.”</p>
<p>Evylyn frowned heavily at Hilda, and twisting Julie decisively in her lap, began tearing strips of the handkerchief.</p>
<p>“Now⁠—let’s see it, dear.”</p>
<p>Julie held it up and Evelyn pounced.</p>
<p>“There!”</p>
<p>Julie surveyed her swathed thumb doubtfully. She crooked it; it waggled. A pleased, interested look appeared in her tear-stained face. She sniffled and waggled it again.</p>
<p>“You <em>precious</em>!” cried Evylyn and kissed her, but before she left the room she levelled another frown at Hilda. Careless! Servants all that way nowadays. If she could get a good Irishwoman⁠—but you couldn’t any more⁠—and these Swedes⁠—</p>
<p>At five o’clock Harold arrived and, coming up to her room, threatened in a suspiciously jovial tone to kiss her thirty-five times for her birthday. Evylyn resisted.</p>
<p>“You’ve been drinking,” she said shortly, and then added qualitatively, “a little. You know I loathe the smell of it.”</p>
<p>“Evie,” he said after a pause, seating himself in a chair by the window, “I can tell you something now. I guess you’ve known things haven’t beep going quite right downtown.”</p>
<p>She was standing at the window combing her hair, but at these words she turned and looked at him.</p>
<p>“How do you mean? You’ve always said there was room for more than one wholesale hardware house in town.” Her voice expressed some alarm.</p>
<p>“There <em>was</em>,” said Harold significantly, “but this Clarence Ahearn is a smart man.”</p>
<p>“I was surprised when you said he was coming to dinner.”</p>
<p>“Evie,” he went on, with another slap at his knee, “after January first ‘The Clarence Ahearn Company’ becomes ‘The Ahearn, Piper Company’⁠—and ‘Piper Brothers’ as a company ceases to exist.”</p>
<p>Evylyn was startled. The sound of his name in second place was somehow hostile to her; still he appeared jubilant.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand, Harold.”</p>
<p>“Well, Evie, Ahearn has been fooling around with Marx. If those two had combined we’d have been the little fellow, struggling along, picking up smaller orders, hanging back on risks. It’s a question of capital, Evie, and ‘Ahearn and Marx’ would have had the business just like ‘Ahearn and Piper’ is going to now.” He paused and coughed and a little cloud of whiskey floated up to her nostrils. “Tell you the truth, Evie, I’ve suspected that Ahearn’s wife had something to do with it. Ambitious little lady, I’m told. Guess she knew the Marxes couldn’t help her much here.”</p>
<p>“Is she⁠—common?” asked Evie.</p>
<p>“Never met her, I’m sure⁠—but I don’t doubt it. Clarence Ahearn’s name’s been up at the Country Club five months⁠—no action taken.” He waved his hand disparagingly. “Ahearn and I had lunch together today and just about clinched it, so I thought it’d be nice to have him and his wife up tonight⁠—just have nine, mostly family. After all, it’s a big thing for me, and of course we’ll have to see something of them, Evie.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Evie thoughtfully, “I suppose we will.”</p>
<p>Evylyn was not disturbed over the social end of it⁠—but the idea of “Piper Brothers” becoming “The Ahearn, Piper Company” startled her. It seemed like going down in the world.</p>
<p>Half an hour later, as she began to dress for dinner, she heard his voice from downstairs.</p>
<p>“Oh, Evie, come down!”</p>
<p>She went out into the hall and called over the banister:</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“I want you to help me make some of that punch before dinner.”</p>
<p>Hurriedly rehooking her dress, she descended the stairs and found him grouping the essentials on the dining-room table. She went to the sideboard and, lifting one of the bowls, carried it over.</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” he protested, “let’s use the big one. There’ll be Ahearn and his wife and you and I and Milton, that’s five, and Tom and Jessie, that’s seven: and your sister and Joe Ambler, that’s nine. You don’t know how quick that stuff goes when <em>you</em> make it.”</p>
<p>“We’ll use this bowl,” she insisted. “It’ll hold plenty. You know how Tom is.”</p>
<p>Tom Lowrie, husband to Jessie, Harold’s first cousin, was rather inclined to finish anything in a liquid way that he began.</p>
<p>Harold shook his head.</p>
<p>“Don’t be foolish. That one holds only about three quarts and there’s nine of us, and the servants’ll want some⁠—and it isn’t strong punch. It’s so much more cheerful to have a lot, Evie; we don’t have to drink all of it.”</p>
<p>“I say the small one.”</p>
<p>Again he shook his head obstinately.</p>
<p>“No; be reasonable.”</p>
<p>“I <em>am</em> reasonable,” she said shortly. “I don’t want any drunken men in the house.”</p>
<p>“Who said you did?”</p>
<p>“Then use the small bowl.”</p>
<p>“Now, Evie⁠—”</p>
<p>He grasped the smaller bowl to lift it back. Instantly her hands were on it, holding it down. There was a momentary struggle, and then, with a little exasperated grunt, he raised his side, slipped it from her fingers, and carried it to the sideboard.</p>
<p>She looked at him and tried to make her expression contemptuous, but he only laughed. Acknowledging her defeat but disclaiming all future interest in the punch, she left the room.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-cut-glass-bowl-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>At seven-thirty, her cheeks glowing and her high-piled hair gleaming with a suspicion of brilliantine, Evylyn descended the stairs. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn, a little woman concealing a slight nervousness under red hair and an extreme Empire gown, greeted her volubly. Evelyn disliked her on the spot, but the husband she rather approved of. He had keen blue eyes and a natural gift of pleasing people that might have made him, socially, had he not so obviously committed the blunder of marrying too early in his career.</p>
<p>“I’m glad to know Piper’s wife,” he said simply. “It looks as though your husband and I are going to see a lot of each other in the future.”</p>
<p>She bowed, smiled graciously, and turned to greet the others: Milton Piper, Harold’s quiet, unassertive younger brother; the two Lowries, Jessie and Tom; Irene, her own unmarried sister; and finally Joe Ambler, a confirmed bachelor and Irene’s perennial beau.</p>
<p>Harold led the way into dinner.</p>
<p>“We’re having a punch evening,” he announced jovially⁠—Evylyn saw that he had already sampled his concoction⁠—“so there won’t be any cocktails except the punch. It’s m’ wife’s greatest achievement, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn; she’ll give you the recipe if you want it; but owing to a slight”⁠—he caught his wife’s eye and paused⁠—“to a slight indisposition; I’m responsible for this batch. Here’s how!”</p>
<p>All through dinner there was punch, and Evylyn, noticing that Ahearn and Milton Piper and all the women were shaking their heads negatively at the maid, knew she had been right about the bowl; it was still half full. She resolved to caution Harold directly afterward, but when the women left the table <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn cornered her, and she found herself talking cities and dressmakers with a polite show of interest.</p>
<p>“We’ve moved around a lot,” chattered <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn, her red head nodding violently. “Oh, yes, we’ve never stayed so long in a town before⁠—but I do hope we’re here for good. I like it here; don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Well, you see, I’ve always lived here, so, naturally⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s true,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn and laughed. Clarence always used to tell me he had to have a wife he could come home to and say: “Well, we’re going to Chicago tomorrow to live, so pack up.”</p>
<p>“I got so I never expected to live <em>any</em>where.” She laughed her little laugh again; Evylyn suspected that it was her society laugh.</p>
<p>“Your husband is a very able man, I imagine.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn assured her eagerly. “He’s brainy, Clarence is. Ideas and enthusiasm, you know. Finds out what he wants and then goes and gets it.”</p>
<p>Evylyn nodded. She was wondering if the men were still drinking punch back in the dining-room. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn’s history kept unfolding jerkily, but Evylyn had ceased to listen. The first odor of massed cigars began to drift in. It wasn’t really a large house, she reflected; on an evening like this the library sometimes grew blue with smoke, and next day one had to leave the windows open for hours to air the heavy staleness out of the curtains. Perhaps this partnership might⁠ ⁠… she began to speculate on a new house⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn’s voice drifted in on her:</p>
<p>“I really would like the recipe if you have it written down somewhere⁠—”</p>
<p>Then there was a sound of chairs in the dining-room and the men strolled in. Evylyn saw at once that her worst fears were realized. Harold’s face was flushed and his words ran together at the ends of sentences, while Tom Lowrie lurched when he walked and narrowly missed Irene’s lap when he tried to sink onto the couch beside her. He sat there blinking dazedly at the company. Evylyn found herself blinking back at him, but she saw no humor in it. Joe Ambler was smiling contentedly and purring on his cigar. Only Ahearn and Milton Piper seemed unaffected.</p>
<p>“It’s a pretty fine town, Ahearn,” said Ambler, “you’ll find that.”</p>
<p>“I’ve found it so,” said Ahearn pleasantly.</p>
<p>“You find it more, Ahearn,” said Harold, nodding emphatically “ ’f I’ve an’thin’ do ’th it.”</p>
<p>He soared into a eulogy of the city, and Evylyn wondered uncomfortably if it bored everyone as it bored her. Apparently not. They were all listening attentively. Evylyn broke in at the first gap.</p>
<p>“Where’ve you been living, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Ahearn?” she asked interestedly. Then she remembered that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn had told her, but it didn’t matter. Harold mustn’t talk so much. He was such an <em>ass</em> when he’d been drinking. But he plopped directly back in.</p>
<p>“Tell you, Ahearn. Firs’ you wanna get a house up here on the hill. Get Stearne house or Ridgeway house. Wanna have it so people say: ‘There’s Ahearn house.’ Solid, you know, tha’s effec’ it gives.”</p>
<p>Evylyn flushed. This didn’t sound right at all. Still Ahearn didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, only nodded gravely.</p>
<p>“Have you been looking⁠—” But her words trailed off unheard as Harold’s voice boomed on.</p>
<p>“Get house⁠—tha’s start. Then you get know people. Snobbish town first toward outsider, but not long⁠—after know you. People like you”⁠—he indicated Ahearn and his wife with a sweeping gesture⁠—“all right. Cordial as an’thin’ once get by first barrer-bar-barrer⁠—” He swallowed, and then said “barrier,” repeated it masterfully.</p>
<p>Evylyn looked appealingly at her brother-in-law, but before he could intercede a thick mumble had come crowding out of Tom Lowrie, hindered by the dead cigar which he gripped firmly with his teeth.</p>
<p>“Huma uma ho huma ahdy um⁠—”</p>
<p>“What?” demanded Harold earnestly.</p>
<p>Resignedly and with difficulty Tom removed the cigar⁠—that is, he removed part of it, and then blew the remainder with a <em>whut</em> sound across the room, where it landed liquidly and limply in <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn’s lap.</p>
<p>“Beg pardon,” he mumbled, and rose with the vague intention of going after it. Milton’s hand on his coat collapsed him in time, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn not ungracefully flounced the tobacco from her skirt to the floor, never once looking at it.</p>
<p>“I was sayin’,” continued Tom thickly, “ ’fore ’at happened,”⁠—he waved his hand apologetically toward <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn⁠—“I was sayin’ I heard all truth that Country Club matter.”</p>
<p>Milton leaned and whispered something to him.</p>
<p>“Lemme ’lone,” he said petulantly; “know what I’m doin’. ’Ats what they came for.”</p>
<p>Evylyn sat there in a panic, trying to make her mouth form words. She saw her sister’s sardonic expression and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn’s face turning a vivid red. Ahearn was looking down at his watch-chain, fingering it.</p>
<p>“I heard who’s been keepin’ y’ out, an’ he’s not a bit better’n you. I can fix whole damn thing up. Would’ve before, but I didn’t know you. Harol’ tol’ me you felt bad about the thing⁠—”</p>
<p>Milton Piper rose suddenly and awkwardly to his feet. In a second everyone was standing tensely and Milton was saying something very hurriedly about having to go early, and the Ahearns were listening with eager intentness. Then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn swallowed and turned with a forced smile toward Jessie. Evylyn saw Tom lurch forward and put his hand on Ahearns shoulder⁠—and suddenly she was listening to a new, anxious voice at her elbow, and, turning, found Hilda, the second maid.</p>
<p>“Please, Mis’ Piper, I tank Yulie got her hand poisoned. It’s all swole up and her cheeks is hot and she’s moanin’ an’ groanin’⁠—”</p>
<p>“Julie is?” Evylyn asked sharply. The party suddenly receded. She turned quickly, sought with her eyes for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Ahearn, slipped toward her.</p>
<p>“If you’ll excuse me, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr>⁠—” She had momentarily forgotten the name, but she went right on: “My little girl’s been taken sick. I’ll be down when I can.” She turned and ran quickly up the stairs, retaining a confused picture of rays of cigar smoke and a loud discussion in the centre of the room that seemed to be developing into an argument.</p>
<p>Switching on the light in the nursery, she found Julie tossing feverishly and giving out odd little cries. She put her hand against the cheeks. They were burning. With an exclamation she followed the arm down under the cover until she found the hand. Hilda was right. The whole thumb was swollen to the wrist and in the centre was a little inflamed sore. Blood-poisoning! her mind cried in terror. The bandage had come off the cut and she’d gotten something in it. She’d cut it at three o’clock⁠—it was now nearly eleven. Eight hours. Blood-poisoning couldn’t possibly develop so soon.</p>
<p>She rushed to the phone.</p>
<p>Doctor Martin across the street was out. Doctor Foulke, their family physician, didn’t answer. She racked her brains and in desperation called her throat specialist, and bit her lip furiously while he looked up the numbers of two physicians. During that interminable moment she thought she heard loud voices downstairs⁠—but she seemed to be in another world now. After fifteen minutes she located a physician who sounded angry and sulky at being called out of bed. She ran back to the nursery and, looking at the hand, found it was somewhat more swollen.</p>
<p>“Oh, God!” she cried, and kneeling beside the bed began smoothing back Julie’s hair over and over. With a vague idea of getting some hot water, she rose and stared toward the door, but the lace of her dress caught in the bed-rail and she fell forward on her hands and knees. She struggled up and jerked frantically at the lace. The bed moved and Julie groaned. Then more quietly but with suddenly fumbling fingers she found the pleat in front, tore the whole pannier completely off, and rushed from the room.</p>
<p>Out in the hall she heard a single loud, insistent voice, but as she reached the head of the stairs it ceased and an outer door banged.</p>
<p>The music-room came into view. Only Harold and Milton were there, the former leaning against a chair, his face very pale, his collar open, and his mouth moving loosely.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>Milton looked at her anxiously.</p>
<p>“There was a little trouble⁠—”</p>
<p>Then Harold saw her and, straightening up with an effort, began to speak.</p>
<p>“Sult m’own cousin m’own house. God damn common nouveau rish. ’Sult m’own cousin⁠—”</p>
<p>“Tom had trouble with Ahearn and Harold interfered,” said Milton. “My Lord Milton,” cried Evylyn, “couldn’t you have done something?”</p>
<p>“I tried; I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Julie’s sick,” she interrupted; “she’s poisoned herself. Get him to bed if you can.”</p>
<p>Harold looked up.</p>
<p>“Julie sick?”</p>
<p>Paying no attention, Evylyn brushed by through the dining-room, catching sight, with a burst of horror, of the big punch-bowl still on the table, the liquid from melted ice in its bottom. She heard steps on the front stairs⁠—it was Milton helping Harold up⁠—and then a mumble: “Why, Julie’s a’righ’.”</p>
<p>“Don’t let him go into the nursery!” she shouted.</p>
<p>The hours blurred into a nightmare. The doctor arrived just before midnight and within a half-hour had lanced the wound. He left at two after giving her the addresses of two nurses to call up and promising to return at half past six. It was blood-poisoning.</p>
<p>At four, leaving Hilda by the bedside, she went to her room, and slipping with a shudder out of her evening dress, kicked it into a corner. She put on a house dress and returned to the nursery while Hilda went to make coffee.</p>
<p>Not until noon could she bring herself to look into Harold’s room, but when she did it was to find him awake and staring very miserably at the ceiling. He turned bloodshot hollow eyes upon her. For a minute she hated him, couldn’t speak. A husky voice came from the bed.</p>
<p>“What time is it?”</p>
<p>“Noon.”</p>
<p>“I made a damn fool⁠—”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” she said sharply. “Julie’s got blood-poisoning. They may”⁠—she choked over the words⁠—“they think she’ll have to lose her hand.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“She cut herself on that⁠—that bowl.”</p>
<p>“Last night?”</p>
<p>“Oh, what does it matter?” see cried; “she’s got blood-poisoning. Can’t you hear?” He looked at her bewildered⁠—sat halfway up in bed.</p>
<p>“I’ll get dressed,” he said.</p>
<p>Her anger subsided and a great wave of weariness and pity for him rolled over her. After all, it was his trouble, too.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she answered listlessly, “I suppose you’d better.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-cut-glass-bowl-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>If Evylyn’s beauty had hesitated an her early thirties it came to an abrupt decision just afterward and completely left her. A tentative outlay of wrinkles on her face suddenly deepened and flesh collected rapidly on her legs and hips and arms. Her mannerism of drawing her brows together had become an expression⁠—it was habitual when she was reading or speaking and even while she slept. She was forty-six.</p>
<p>As in most families whose fortunes have gone down rather than up, she and Harold had drifted into a colorless antagonism. In repose they looked at each other with the toleration they might have felt for broken old chairs; Evylyn worried a little when he was sick and did her best to be cheerful under the wearying depression of living with a disappointed man.</p>
<p>Family bridge was over for the evening and she sighed with relief. She had made more mistakes than usual this evening and she didn’t care. Irene shouldn’t have made that remark about the infantry being particularly dangerous. There had been no letter for three weeks now, and, while this was nothing out of the ordinary, it never failed to make her nervous; naturally she hadn’t known how many clubs were out.</p>
<p>Harold had gone upstairs, so she stepped out on the porch for a breath of fresh air. There was a bright glamour of moonlight diffusing on the sidewalks and lawns, and with a little half yawn, half laugh, she remembered one long moonlight affair of her youth. It was astonishing to think that life had once been the sum of her current love-affairs. It was now the sum of her current problems.</p>
<p>There was the problem of Julie⁠—Julie was thirteen, and lately she was growing more and more sensitive about her deformity and preferred to stay always in her room reading. A few years before she had been frightened at the idea of going to school, and Evylyn could not bring herself to send her, so she grew up in her mother’s shadow, a pitiful little figure with the artificial hand that she made no attempt to use but kept forlornly in her pocket. Lately she had been taking lessons in using it because Evylyn had feared she would cease to lift the arm altogether, but after the lessons, unless she made a move with it in listless obedience to her mother, the little hand would creep back to the pocket of her dress. For a while her dresses were made without pockets, but Julie had moped around the house so miserably at a loss all one month that Evylyn weakened and never tried the experiment again.</p>
<p>The problem of Donald had been different from the start. She had attempted vainly to keep him near her as she had tried to teach Julie to lean less on her⁠—lately the problem of Donald had been snatched out of her hands; his division had been abroad for three months.</p>
<p>She yawned again⁠—life was a thing for youth. What a happy youth she must have had! She remembered her pony, Bijou, and the trip to Europe with her mother when she was eighteen⁠—</p>
<p>“Very, very complicated,” she said aloud and severely to the moon, and, stepping inside, was about to close the door when she heard a noise in the library and started.</p>
<p>It was Martha, the middle-aged servant: they kept only one now.</p>
<p>“Why, Martha!” she said in surprise.</p>
<p>Martha turned quickly.</p>
<p>“Oh, I thought you was upstairs. I was jist⁠—”</p>
<p>“Is anything the matter?”</p>
<p>Martha hesitated.</p>
<p>“No; I⁠—” She stood there fidgeting. “It was a letter, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper, that I put somewhere.”</p>
<p>“A letter? Your own letter?” asked Evylyn.</p>
<p>“No, it was to you. ’Twas this afternoon, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Piper, in the last mail. The postman give it to me and then the back doorbell rang. I had it in my hand, so I must have stuck it somewhere. I thought I’d just slip in now and find it.”</p>
<p>“What sort of a letter? From <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Donald?”</p>
<p>“No, it was an advertisement, maybe, or a business letter. It was a long narrow one, I remember.”</p>
<p>They began a search through the music-room, looking on trays and mantelpieces, and then through the library, feeling on the tops of rows of books. Martha paused in despair.</p>
<p>“I can’t think where. I went straight to the kitchen. The dining-room, maybe.” She started hopefully for the dining-room, but turned suddenly at the sound of a gasp behind her. Evylyn had sat down heavily in a Morris chair, her brows drawn very close together eyes blanking furiously.</p>
<p>“Are you sick?”</p>
<p>For a minute there was no answer. Evylyn sat there very still and Martha could see the very quick rise and fall of her bosom.</p>
<p>“Are you sick?” she repeated.</p>
<p>“No,” said Evylyn slowly, “but I know where the letter is. Go ’way, Martha. I know.”</p>
<p>Wonderingly, Martha withdrew, and still Evylyn sat there, only the muscles around her eyes moving⁠—contracting and relaxing and contracting again. She knew now where the letter was⁠—she knew as well as if she had put it there herself. And she felt instinctively and unquestionably what the letter was. It was long and narrow like an advertisement, but up in the corner in large letters it said “War Department” and, in smaller letters below, “Official Business.” She knew it lay there in the big bowl with her name in ink on the outside and her soul’s death within.</p>
<p>Rising uncertainly, she walked toward the dining-room, feeling her way along the bookcases and through the doorway. After a moment she found the light and switched it on.</p>
<p>There was the bowl, reflecting the electric light in crimson squares edged with black and yellow squares edged with blue, ponderous and glittering, grotesquely and triumphantly ominous. She took a step forward and paused again; another step and she would see over the top and into the inside⁠—another step and she would see an edge of white⁠—another step⁠—her hands fell on the rough, cold surface⁠—</p>
<p>In a moment she was tearing it open, fumbling with an obstinate fold, holding it before her while the typewritten page glared out and struck at her. Then it fluttered like a bird to the floor. The house that had seemed whirring, buzzing a moment since, was suddenly very quiet; a breath of air crept in through the open front door carrying the noise of a passing motor; she heard faint sounds from upstairs and then a grinding racket in the pipe behind the bookcases-her husband turning of a water-tap⁠—</p>
<p>And in that instant it was as if this were not, after all, Donald’s hour except in so far as he was a marker in the insidious contest that had gone on in sudden surges and long, listless interludes between Evylyn and this cold, malignant thing of beauty, a gift of enmity from a man whose face she had long since forgotten. With its massive, brooding passivity it lay there in the centre of her house as it had lain for years, throwing out the ice-like beams of a thousand eyes, perverse glitterings merging each into each, never aging, never changing.</p>
<p>Evylyn sat down on the edge of the table and stared at it fascinated. It seemed to be smiling now, a very cruel smile, as if to say:</p>
<p>“You see, this time I didn’t have to hurt you directly. I didn’t bother. You know it was I who took your son away. You know how cold I am and how hard and how beautiful, because once you were just as cold and hard and beautiful.”</p>
<p>The bowl seemed suddenly to turn itself over and then to distend and swell until it became a great canopy that glittered and trembled over the room, over the house, and, as the walls melted slowly into mist, Evylyn saw that it was still moving out, out and far away from her, shutting off far horizons and suns and moons and stars except as inky blots seen faintly through it. And under it walked all the people, and the light that came through to them was refracted and twisted until shadow seamed light and light seemed shadow⁠—until the whole panoply of the world became changed and distorted under the twinkling heaven of the bowl.</p>
<p>Then there came a faraway, booming voice like a low, clear bell. It came from the centre of the bowl and down the great sides to the ground and then bounced toward her eagerly.</p>
<p>“You see, I am fate,” it shouted, “and stronger than your puny plans; and I am how-things-turnout and I am different from your little dreams, and I am the flight of time and the end of beauty and unfulfilled desire; all the accidents and imperceptions and the little minutes that shape the crucial hours are mine. I am the exception that proves no rules, the limits of your control, the condiment in the dish of life.”</p>
<p>The booming sound stopped; the echoes rolled away over the wide land to the edge of the bowl that bounded the world and up the great sides and back to the centre where they hummed for a moment and died. Then the great walls began slowly to bear down upon her, growing smaller and smaller, coming closer and closer as if to crush her; and as she clinched her hands and waited for the swift bruise of the cold glass, the bowl gave a sudden wrench and turned over⁠—and lay there on the sideboard, shining and inscrutable, reflecting in a hundred prisms, myriad, many-colored glints and gleams and crossings and interlaces of light.</p>
<p>The cold wind blew in again through to front door, and with a desperate, frantic energy Evylyn stretched both her arms around the bowl. She must be quick⁠—she must be strong. She tightened her arms until they ached, tauted the thin strips of muscle under her soft flesh, and with a mighty effort raised it and held it. She felt the wind blow cold on her back where her dress had come apart from the strain of her effort, and as she felt it she turned toward it and staggered under the great weight out through the library and on toward the front door. She must be quick⁠—she must be strong. The blood in her arms throbbed dully and her knees kept giving way under her, but the feel of the cool glass was good.</p>
<p>Out the front door she tottered and over to the stone steps, and there, summoning every fibre of her soul and body for a last effort, swung herself half around⁠—for a second, as she tried to loose her hold, her numb fingers clung to the rough surface, and in that second she slipped and, losing balance, toppled forward with a despairing cry, her arms still around the bowl⁠ ⁠… down⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Over the way lights went on; far down the block the crash was heard, and pedestrians rushed up wonderingly; upstairs a tired man awoke from the edge of sleep and a little girl whimpered in a haunted doze. And all over the moonlit sidewalk around the still, black form, hundreds of prisms and cubes and splinters of glass reflected the light in little gleams of blue, and black edged with yellow, and yellow, and crimson edged with black.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-four-fists" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Four Fists</h2>
<section id="the-four-fists-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>At the present time no one I know has the slightest desire to hit Samuel Meredith; possibly this is because a man over fifty is liable to be rather severely cracked at the impact of a hostile fist, but, for my part, I am inclined to think that all his hitable qualities have quite vanished. But it is certain that at various times in his life hitable qualities were in his face, as surely as kissable qualities have ever lurked in a girl’s lips.</p>
<p>I’m sure everyone has met a man like that, been casually introduced, even made a friend of him, yet felt he was the sort who aroused passionate dislike⁠—expressed by some in the involuntary clinching of fists, and in others by mutterings about “takin’ a poke” and “landin’ a swift smash in ee eye.” In the juxtaposition of Samuel Meredith’s features this quality was so strong that it influenced his entire life.</p>
<p>What was it? Not the shape, certainly, for he was a pleasant-looking man from earliest youth: broad-bowed with gray eyes that were frank and friendly. Yet I’ve heard him tell a room full of reporters angling for a “success” story that he’d be ashamed to tell them the truth that they wouldn’t believe it, that it wasn’t one story but four, that the public would not want to read about a man who had been walloped into prominence.</p>
<p>It all started at Phillips Andover Academy when he was fourteen. He had been brought up on a diet of caviar and bellboys’ legs in half the capitals of Europe, and it was pure luck that his mother had nervous prostration and had to delegate his education to less tender, less biased hands.</p>
<p>At Andover he was given a roommate named Gilly Hood. Gilly was thirteen, undersized, and rather the school pet. From the September day when <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Meredith’s valet stowed Samuel’s clothing in the best bureau and asked, on departing, “hif there was hanything helse, Master Samuel?” Gilly cried out that the faculty had played him false. He felt like an irate frog in whose bowl has been put goldfish.</p>
<p>“Good gosh!” he complained to his sympathetic contemporaries, “he’s a damn stuck-up Willie. He said, ‘Are the crowd here gentlemen?’ and I said, ‘No, they’re boys,’ and he said age didn’t matter, and I said, ‘Who said it did?’ Let him get fresh with me, the ole pieface!”</p>
<p>For three weeks Gilly endured in silence young Samuel’s comments on the clothes and habits of Gilly’s personal friends, endured French phrases in conversation, endured a hundred half-feminine meannesses that show what a nervous mother can do to a boy, if she keeps close enough to him⁠—then a storm broke in the aquarium.</p>
<p>Samuel was out. A crowd had gathered to hear Gilly be wrathful about his roommate’s latest sins.</p>
<p>“He said, ‘Oh, I don’t like the windows open at night,’ he said, ‘except only a little bit,’ ” complained Gilly.</p>
<p>“Don’t let him boss you.”</p>
<p>“Boss me? You bet he won’t. I open those windows, I guess, but the darn fool won’t take turns shuttin’ ’em in the morning.”</p>
<p>“Make him, Gilly, why don’t you?”</p>
<p>“I’m going to.” Gilly nodded his head in fierce agreement. “Don’t you worry. He needn’t think I’m any ole butler.”</p>
<p>“Le’s see you make him.”</p>
<p>At this point the darn fool entered in person and included the crowd in one of his irritating smiles. Two boys said, “ ’Lo, Mer’dith”; the others gave him a chilly glance and went on talking to Gilly. But Samuel seemed unsatisfied.</p>
<p>“Would you mind not sitting on my bed?” he suggested politely to two of Gilly’s particulars who were perched very much at ease.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“My bed. Can’t you understand English?”</p>
<p>This was adding insult to injury. There were several comments on the bed’s sanitary condition and the evidence within it of animal life.</p>
<p>“S’matter with your old bed?” demanded Gilly truculently.</p>
<p>“The bed’s all right, but⁠—”</p>
<p>Gilly interrupted this sentence by rising and walking up to Samuel. He paused several inches away and eyed him fiercely.</p>
<p>“You an’ your crazy ole bed,” he began. “You an’ your crazy⁠—”</p>
<p>“Go to it, Gilly,” murmured someone.</p>
<p>“Show the darn fool⁠—”</p>
<p>Samuel returned the gaze coolly.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said finally, “it’s my bed⁠—”</p>
<p>He got no further, for Gilly hauled off and hit him succinctly in the nose.</p>
<p>“Yea! Gilly!”</p>
<p>“Show the big bully!”</p>
<p>“Just let him touch you⁠—he’ll see!”</p>
<p>The group closed in on them and for the first time in his life Samuel realized the insuperable inconvenience of being passionately detested. He gazed around helplessly at the glowering, violently hostile faces. He towered a head taller than his roommate, so if he hit back he’d be called a bully and have half a dozen more fights on his hands within five minutes; yet if he didn’t he was a coward. For a moment he stood there facing Gilly’s blazing eyes, and then, with a sudden choking sound, he forced his way through the ring and rushed from the room.</p>
<p>The month following bracketed the thirty most miserable days of his life. Every waking moment he was under the lashing tongues of his contemporaries; his habits and mannerisms became butts for intolerable witticisms and, of course, the sensitiveness of adolescence was a further thorn. He considered that he was a natural pariah; that the unpopularity at school would follow him through life. When he went home for the Christmas holidays he was so despondent that his father sent him to a nerve specialist. When he returned to Andover he arranged to arrive late so that he could be alone in the bus during the drive from station to school.</p>
<p>Of course when he had learned to keep his mouth shut everyone promptly forgot all about him. The next autumn, with his realization that consideration for others was the discreet attitude, he made good use of the clean start given him by the shortness of boyhood memory. By the beginning of his senior year Samuel Meredith was one of the best-liked boys of his class⁠—and no one was any stronger for him than his first friend and constant companion, Gilly Hood.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-four-fists-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Samuel became the sort of college student who in the early nineties drove tandems and coaches and tally-hos between Princeton and Yale and New York City to show that they appreciated the social importance of football games. He believed passionately in good form⁠—his choosing of gloves, his tying of ties, his holding of reins were imitated by impressionable freshmen. Outside of his own set he was considered rather a snob, but as his set was <em>the</em> set, it never worried him. He played football in the autumn, drank highballs in the winter, and rowed in the spring. Samuel despised all those who were merely sportsmen without being gentlemen or merely gentlemen without being sportsmen.</p>
<p>He lived in New York and often brought home several of his friends for the weekend. Those were the days of the horsecar and in case of a crush it was, of course, the proper thing for any one of Samuel’s set to rise and deliver his seat to a standing lady with a formal bow. One night in Samuel’s junior year he boarded a car with two of his intimates. There were three vacant seats. When Samuel sat down he noticed a heavy-eyed laboring man sitting next to him who smelt objectionably of garlic, sagged slightly against Samuel and, spreading a little as a tired man will, took up quite too much room.</p>
<p>The car had gone several blocks when it stopped for a quartet of young girls, and, of course, the three men of the world sprang to their feet and proffered their seats with due observance of form. Unfortunately, the laborer, being unacquainted with the code of neckties and tally-hos, failed to follow their example, and one young lady was left at an embarrassed stance. Fourteen eyes glared reproachfully at the barbarian; seven lips curled slightly; but the object of scorn stared stolidly into the foreground in sturdy unconsciousness of his despicable conduct. Samuel was the most violently affected. He was humiliated that any male should so conduct himself. He spoke aloud.</p>
<p>“There’s a lady standing,” he said sternly.</p>
<p>That should have been quite enough, but the object of scorn only looked up blankly. The standing girl tittered and exchanged nervous glances with her companions. But Samuel was aroused.</p>
<p>“There’s a lady standing,” he repeated, rather raspingly. The man seemed to comprehend.</p>
<p>“I pay my fare,” he said quietly.</p>
<p>Samuel turned red and his hands clinched, but the conductor was looking their way, so at a warning nod from his friends he subsided into sullen gloom.</p>
<p>They reached their destination and left the car, but so did the laborer, who followed them, swinging his little pail. Seeing his chance, Samuel no longer resisted his aristocratic inclination. He turned around and, launching a full-featured, dime-novel sneer, made a loud remark about the right of the lower animals to ride with human beings.</p>
<p>In a half-second the workman had dropped his pail and let fly at him. Unprepared, Samuel took the blow neatly on the jaw and sprawled full length into the cobblestone gutter.</p>
<p>“Don’t laugh at me!” cried his assailant. “I been workin’ all day. I’m tired as hell!”</p>
<p>As he spoke the sudden anger died out of his eyes and the mask of weariness dropped again over his face. He turned and picked up his pail. Samuel’s friends took a quick step in his direction.</p>
<p>“Wait!” Samuel had risen slowly and was motioning back. Some time, somewhere, he had been struck like that before. Then he remembered⁠—Gilly Hood. In the silence, as he dusted himself off, the whole scene in the room at Andover was before his eyes⁠—and he knew intuitively that he had been wrong again. This man’s strength, his rest, was the protection of his family. He had more use for his seat in the streetcar than any young girl.</p>
<p>“It’s all right,” said Samuel gruffly. “Don’t touch him. I’ve been a damn fool.”</p>
<p>Of course it took more than an hour, or a week, for Samuel to rearrange his ideas on the essential importance of good form. At first he simply admitted that his wrongness had made him powerless⁠—as it had made him powerless against Gilly⁠—but eventually his mistake about the workman influenced his entire attitude. Snobbishness is, after all, merely good breeding grown dictatorial; so Samuel’s code remained but the necessity of imposing it upon others had faded out in a certain gutter. Within that year his class had somehow stopped referring to him as a snob.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-four-fists-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>After a few years Samuel’s university decided that it had shone long enough in the reflected glory of his neckties, so they declaimed to him in Latin, charged him ten dollars for the paper which proved him irretrievably educated, and sent him into the turmoil with much self-confidence, a few friends, and the proper assortment of harmless bad habits.</p>
<p>His family had by that time started back to shirtsleeves, through a sudden decline in the sugar-market, and it had already unbuttoned its vest, so to speak, when Samuel went to work. His mind was that exquisite tabula rasa that a university education sometimes leaves, but he had both energy and influence, so he used his former ability as a dodging halfback in twisting through Wall Street crowds as runner for a bank.</p>
<p>His diversion was⁠—women. There were half a dozen: two or three debutantes, an actress (in a minor way), a grass-widow, and one sentimental little brunette who was married and lived in a little house in Jersey City.</p>
<p>They had met on a ferryboat. Samuel was crossing from New York on business (he had been working several years by this time) and he helped her look for a package that she had dropped in the crush.</p>
<p>“Do you come over often?” he inquired casually.</p>
<p>“Just to shop,” she said shyly. She had great brown eyes and the pathetic kind of little mouth. “I’ve only been married three months, and we find it cheaper to live over here.”</p>
<p>“Does he⁠—does your husband like your being alone like this?”</p>
<p>She laughed, a cheery young laugh.</p>
<p>“Oh, dear me, no. We were to meet for dinner but I must have misunderstood the place. He’ll be awfully worried.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Samuel disapprovingly, “he ought to be. If you’ll allow me I’ll see you home.”</p>
<p>She accepted his offer thankfully, so they took the cable-car together. When they walked up the path to her little house they saw a light there; her husband had arrived before her.</p>
<p>“He’s frightfully jealous,” she announced, laughingly apologetic.</p>
<p>“Very well,” answered Samuel, rather stiffly. “I’d better leave you here.”</p>
<p>She thanked him and, waving a good night, he left her.</p>
<p>That would have been quite all if they hadn’t met on Fifth Avenue one morning a week later. She started and blushed and seemed so glad to see him that they chatted like old friends. She was going to her dressmaker’s, eat lunch alone at Taine’s, shop all afternoon, and meet her husband on the ferry at five. Samuel told her that her husband was a very lucky man. She blushed again and scurried off.</p>
<p>Samuel whistled all the way back to his office, but about twelve o’clock he began to see that pathetic, appealing little mouth everywhere⁠—and those brown eyes. He fidgeted when he looked at the clock; he thought of the grill downstairs where he lunched and the heavy male conversation thereof, and opposed to that picture appeared another; a little table at Taine’s with the brown eyes and the mouth a few feet away. A few minutes before twelve-thirty he dashed on his hat and rushed for the cable-car.</p>
<p>She was quite surprised to see him.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—hello,” she said. Samuel could tell that she was just pleasantly frightened.</p>
<p>“I thought we might lunch together. It’s so dull eating with a lot of men.”</p>
<p>She hesitated.</p>
<p>“Why, I suppose there’s no harm in it. How could there be!”</p>
<p>It occurred to her that her husband should have taken lunch with her⁠—but he was generally so hurried at noon. She told Samuel all about him: he was a little smaller than Samuel, but, oh, <em>much</em> better-looking. He was a bookkeeper and not making a lot of money, but they were very happy and expected to be rich within three or four years.</p>
<p>Samuel’s grass-widow had been in a quarrelsome mood for three or four weeks, and through contrast, he took an accentuated pleasure in this meeting; so fresh was she, and earnest, and faintly adventurous. Her name was Marjorie.</p>
<p>They made another engagement; in fact, for a month they lunched together two or three times a week. When she was sure that her husband would work late Samuel took her over to New Jersey on the ferry, leaving her always on the tiny front porch, after she had gone in and lit the gas to use the security of his masculine presence outside. This grew to be a ceremony⁠—and it annoyed him. Whenever the comfortable glow fell out through the front windows, that was his congé; yet he never suggested coming in and Marjorie didn’t invite him.</p>
<p>Then, when Samuel and Marjorie had reached a stage in which they sometimes touched each other’s arms gently, just to show that they were very good friends, Marjorie and her husband had one of those ultrasensitive, supercritical quarrels that couples never indulge in unless they care a great deal about each other. It started with a cold mutton-chop or a leak in the gas-jet⁠—and one day Samuel found her in Taine’s, with dark shadows under her brown eyes and a terrifying pout.</p>
<p>By this time Samuel thought he was in love with Marjorie⁠—so he played up the quarrel for all it was worth. He was her best friend and patted her hand⁠—and leaned down close to her brown curls while she whispered in little sobs what her husband had said that morning; and he was a little more than her best friend when he took her over to the ferry in a hansom.</p>
<p>“Marjorie,” he said gently, when he left her, as usual, on the porch, “if at any time you want to call on me, remember that I am always waiting, always waiting.”</p>
<p>She nodded gravely and put both her hands in his. “I know,” she said. “I know you’re my friend, my best friend.”</p>
<p>Then she ran into the house and he watched there until the gas went on.</p>
<p>For the next week Samuel was in a nervous turmoil. Some persistently rational strain warned him that at bottom he and Marjorie had little in common, but in such cases there is usually so much mud in the water that one can seldom see to the bottom. Every dream and desire told him that he loved Marjorie, wanted her, had to have her.</p>
<p>The quarrel developed. Marjorie’s husband took to staying in New York until late at night, came home several times disagreeably overstimulated, and made her generally miserable. They must have had too much pride to talk it out⁠—for Marjorie’s husband was, after all, pretty decent⁠—so it drifted on from one misunderstanding to another. Marjorie kept coming more and more to Samuel; when a woman can accept masculine sympathy at is much more satisfactory to her than crying to another girl. But Marjorie didn’t realize how much she had begun to rely on him, how much he was part of her little cosmos.</p>
<p>One night, instead of turning away when Marjorie went in and lit the gas, Samuel went in, too, and they sat together on the sofa in the little parlor. He was very happy. He envied their home, and he felt that the man who neglected such a possession out of stubborn pride was a fool and unworthy of his wife. But when he kissed Marjorie for the first time she cried softly and told him to go. He sailed home on the wings of desperate excitement, quite resolved to fan this spark of romance, no matter how big the blaze or who was burned. At the time he considered that his thoughts were unselfishly of her; in a later perspective he knew that she had meant no more than the white screen in a motion picture: it was just Samuel⁠—blind, desirous.</p>
<p>Next day at Taine’s, when they met for lunch, Samuel dropped all pretense and made frank love to her. He had no plans, no definite intentions, except to kiss her lips again, to hold her in his arms and feel that she was very little and pathetic and lovable.⁠ ⁠… He took her home, and this time they kissed until both their hearts beat high⁠—words and phrases formed on his lips.</p>
<p>And then suddenly there were steps on the porch⁠—a hand tried the outside door. Marjorie turned dead-white.</p>
<p>“Wait!” she whispered to Samuel, in a frightened voice, but in angry impatience at the interruption he walked to the front door and threw it open.</p>
<p>Everyone has seen such scenes on the stage⁠—seen them so often that when they actually happen people behave very much like actors. Samuel felt that he was playing a part and the lines came quite naturally: he announced that all had a right to lead their own lives and looked at Marjorie’s husband menacingly, as if daring him to doubt it. Marjorie’s husband spoke of the sanctity of the home, forgetting that it hadn’t seemed very holy to him lately; Samuel continued along the line of “the right to happiness”; Marjorie’s husband mentioned firearms and the divorce court. Then suddenly he stopped and scrutinized both of them⁠—Marjorie in pitiful collapse on the sofa, Samuel haranguing the furniture in a consciously heroic pose.</p>
<p>“Go upstairs, Marjorie,” he said, in a different tone.</p>
<p>“Stay where you are!” Samuel countered quickly.</p>
<p>Marjorie rose, wavered, and sat down, rose again and moved hesitatingly toward the stairs.</p>
<p>“Come outside,” said her husband to Samuel. “I want to talk to you.”</p>
<p>Samuel glanced at Marjorie, tried to get some message from her eyes; then he shut his lips and went out.</p>
<p>There was a bright moon and when Marjorie’s husband came down the steps Samuel could see plainly that he was suffering⁠—but he felt no pity for him.</p>
<p>They stood and looked at each other, a few feet apart, and the husband cleared his throat as though it were a bit husky.</p>
<p>“That’s my wife,” he said quietly, and then a wild anger surged up inside him. “Damn you!” he cried⁠—and hit Samuel in the face with all his strength.</p>
<p>In that second, as Samuel slumped to the ground, it flashed to him that he had been hit like that twice before, and simultaneously the incident altered like a dream⁠—he felt suddenly awake. Mechanically he sprang to his feet and squared off. The other man was waiting, fists up, a yard away, but Samuel knew that though physically he had him by several inches and many pounds, he wouldn’t hit him. The situation had miraculously and entirely changed⁠—a moment before Samuel had seemed to himself heroic; now he seemed the cad, the outsider, and Marjorie’s husband, silhouetted against the lights of the little house, the eternal heroic figure, the defender of his home.</p>
<p>There was a pause and then Samuel turned quickly away and went down the path for the last time.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-four-fists-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Of course, after the third blow Samuel put in several weeks at conscientious introspection. The blow years before at Andover had landed on his personal unpleasantness; the workman of his college days had jarred the snobbishness out of his system, and Marjorie’s husband had given a severe jolt to his greedy selfishness. It threw women out of his ken until a year later, when he met his future wife; for the only sort of woman worth while seemed to be the one who could be protected as Marjorie’s husband had protected her. Samuel could not imagine his grass-widow, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> De Ferriac, causing any very righteous blows on her own account.</p>
<p>His early thirties found him well on his feet. He was associated with old Peter Carhart, who was in those days a national figure. Carhart’s physique was like a rough model for a statue of Hercules, and his record was just as solid⁠—a pile made for the pure joy of it, without cheap extortion or shady scandal. He had been a great friend of Samuel’s father, but he watched the son for six years before taking him into his own office. Heaven knows how many things he controlled at that time⁠—mines, railroads, banks, whole cities. Samuel was very close to him, knew his likes and dislikes, his prejudices, weaknesses and many strengths.</p>
<p>One day Carhart sent for Samuel and, closing the door of his inner office, offered him a chair and a cigar.</p>
<p>“Everything O. K., Samuel?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Why, yes.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been afraid you’re getting a bit stale.”</p>
<p>“Stale?” Samuel was puzzled.</p>
<p>“You’ve done no work outside the office for nearly ten years?”</p>
<p>“But I’ve had vacations, in the Adiron⁠—”</p>
<p>Carhart waved this aside.</p>
<p>“I mean outside work. Seeing the things move that we’ve always pulled the strings of here.”</p>
<p>“No,” admitted Samuel; “I haven’t.”</p>
<p>“So,” he said abruptly “I’m going to give you an outside job that’ll take about a month.”</p>
<p>Samuel didn’t argue. He rather liked the idea and he made up his mind that, whatever it was, he would put it through just as Carhart wanted it. That was his employer’s greatest hobby, and the men around him were as dumb under direct orders as infantry subalterns.</p>
<p>“You’ll go to San Antonio and see Hamil,” continued Carhart. “He’s got a job on hand and he wants a man to take charge.”</p>
<p>Hamil was in charge of the Carhart interests in the Southwest, a man who had grown up in the shadow of his employer, and with whom, though they had never met, Samuel had had much official correspondence.</p>
<p>“When do I leave?”</p>
<p>“You’d better go tomorrow,” answered Carhart, glancing at the calendar. “That’s the 1st of May. I’ll expect your report here on the 1st of June.”</p>
<p>Next morning Samuel left for Chicago, and two days later he was facing Hamil across a table in the office of the Merchants’ Trust in San Antonio. It didn’t take long to get the gist of the thing. It was a big deal in oil which concerned the buying up of seventeen huge adjoining ranches. This buying up had to be done in one week, and it was a pure squeeze. Forces had been set in motion that put the seventeen owners between the devil and the deep sea, and Samuel’s part was simply to “handle” the matter from a little village near Pueblo. With tact and efficiency the right man could bring it off without any friction, for it was merely a question of sitting at the wheel and keeping a firm hold. Hamil, with an astuteness many times valuable to his chief, had arranged a situation that would give a much greater clear gain than any dealing in the open market. Samuel shook hands with Hamil, arranged to return in two weeks, and left for San Felipe, New Mexico.</p>
<p>It occurred to him, of course, that Carhart was trying him out. Hamil’s report on his handling of this might be a factor in something big for him, but even without that he would have done his best to put the thing through. Ten years in New York hadn’t made him sentimental and he was quite accustomed to finish everything he began⁠—and a little bit more.</p>
<p>All went well at first. There was no enthusiasm, but each one of the seventeen ranchers concerned knew Samuel’s business, knew what he had behind him, and that they had as little chance of holding out as flies on a windowpane. Some of them were resigned⁠—some of them cared like the devil, but they’d talked it over, argued it with lawyers and couldn’t see any possible loophole. Five of the ranches had oil, the other twelve were part of the chance, but quite as necessary to Hamil’s purpose, in any event.</p>
<p>Samuel soon saw that the real leader was an early settler named McIntyre, a man of perhaps fifty, gray-haired, clean-shaven, bronzed by forty New Mexico summers, and with those clear steady eye that Texas and New Mexico weather are apt to give. His ranch had not as yet shown oil, but it was in the pool, and if any man hated to lose his land McIntyre did. Everyone had rather looked to him at first to avert the big calamity, and he had hunted all over the territory for the legal means with which to do it, but he had failed, and he knew it. He avoided Samuel assiduously, but Samuel was sure that when the day came for the signatures he would appear.</p>
<p>It came⁠—a baking May day, with hot wave rising off the parched land as far as eyes could see, and as Samuel sat stewing in his little improvised office⁠—a few chairs, a bench, and a wooden table⁠—he was glad the thing was almost over. He wanted to get back East the worst way, and join his wife and children for a week at the seashore.</p>
<p>The meeting was set for four o’clock, and he was rather surprised at three-thirty when the door opened and McIntyre came in. Samuel could not help respecting the man’s attitude, and feeling a bit sorry for him. McIntyre seemed closely related to the prairies, and Samuel had the little flicker of envy that city people feel toward men who live in the open.</p>
<p>“Afternoon,” said McIntyre, standing in the open doorway, with his feet apart and his hands on his hips.</p>
<p>“Hello, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> McIntyre.” Samuel rose, but omitted the formality of offering his hand. He imagined the rancher cordially loathed him, and he hardly blamed him. McIntyre came in and sat down leisurely.</p>
<p>“You got us,” he said suddenly.</p>
<p>This didn’t seem to require any answer.</p>
<p>“When I heard Carhart was back of this,” he continued, “I gave up.”</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Carhart is⁠—” began Samuel, but McIntyre waved him silent.</p>
<p>“Don’t talk about the dirty sneak-thief!”</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> McIntyre,” said Samuel briskly, “if this half-hour is to be devoted to that sort of talk⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, dry up, young man,” McIntyre interrupted, “you can’t abuse a man who’d do a thing like this.”</p>
<p>Samuel made no answer.</p>
<p>“It’s simply a dirty filch. There just <em>are</em> skunks like him too big to handle.”</p>
<p>“You’re being paid liberally,” offered Samuel.</p>
<p>“Shut up!” roared McIntyre suddenly. “I want the privilege of talking.” He walked to the door and looked out across the land, the sunny, steaming pasturage that began almost at his feet and ended with the gray-green of the distant mountains. When he turned around his mouth was trembling.</p>
<p>“Do you fellows love Wall Street?” he said hoarsely, “or wherever you do your dirty scheming⁠—” He paused. “I suppose you do. No critter gets so low that he doesn’t sort of love the place he’s worked, where he’s sweated out the best he’s had in him.”</p>
<p>Samuel watched him awkwardly. McIntyre wiped his forehead with a huge blue handkerchief, and continued:</p>
<p>“I reckon this rotten old devil had to have another million. I reckon we’re just a few of the poor he’s blotted out to buy a couple more carriages or something.” He waved his hand toward the door. “I built a house out there when I was seventeen, with these two hands. I took a wife there at twenty-one, added two wings, and with four mangy steers I started out. Forty summers I’ve saw the sun come up over those mountains and drop down red as blood in the evening, before the heat drifted off and the stars came out. I been happy in that house. My boy was born there and he died there, late one spring, in the hottest part of an afternoon like this. Then the wife and I lived there alone like we’d lived before, and sort of tried to have a home, after all, not a real home but nigh it⁠—cause the boy always seemed around close, somehow, and we expected a lot of nights to see him runnin’ up the path to supper.” His voice was shaking so he could hardly speak and he turned again to the door, his gray eyes contracted.</p>
<p>“That’s my land out there,” he said, stretching out his arm, “my land, by God⁠—It’s all I got in the world⁠—and ever wanted.” He dashed his sleeve across his face, and his tone changed as he turned slowly and faced Samuel. “But I suppose it’s got to go when they want it⁠—it’s got to go.”</p>
<p>Samuel had to talk. He felt that in a minute more he would lose his head. So he began, as level-voiced as he could⁠—in the sort of tone he saved for disagreeable duties.</p>
<p>“It’s business, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> McIntyre,” he said. “It’s inside the law. Perhaps we couldn’t have bought out two or three of you at any price, but most of you did have a price. Progress demands some things⁠—”</p>
<p>Never had he felt so inadequate, and it was with the greatest relief that he heard hoof-beats a few hundred yards away.</p>
<p>But at his words the grief in McIntyre’s eyes had changed to fury.</p>
<p>“You and your dirty gang of crooks!” he cried. “Not one of you has got an honest love for anything on God’s earth! You’re a herd of money-swine!”</p>
<p>Samuel rose and McIntyre took a step toward him.</p>
<p>“You long-winded dude. You got our land⁠—take that for Peter Carhart!”</p>
<p>He swung from the shoulder quick as lightning and down went Samuel in a heap. Dimly he heard steps in the doorway and knew that someone was holding McIntyre, but there was no need. The rancher had sunk down in his chair, and dropped his head in his hands.</p>
<p>Samuel’s brain was whirring. He realized that the fourth fist had hit him, and a great flood of emotion cried out that the law that had inexorably ruled his life was in motion again. In a half-daze he got up and strode from the room.</p>
<p>The next ten minutes were perhaps the hardest of his life. People talk of the courage of convictions, but in actual life a man’s duty to his family may make a rigid corpse seem a selfish indulgence of his own righteousness. Samuel thought mostly of his family, yet he never really wavered. That jolt had brought him to.</p>
<p>When he came back in the room there were a log of worried faces waiting for him, but he didn’t waste any time explaining.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” he said, “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> McIntyre has been kind enough to convince me that in this matter you are absolutely right and the Peter Carhart interests absolutely wrong. As far as I am concerned you can keep your ranches to the rest of your days.”</p>
<p>He pushed his way through an astounded gathering, and within a half-hour he had sent two telegrams that staggered the operator into complete unfitness for business; one was to Hamil in San Antonio; one was to Peter Carhart in New York.</p>
<p>Samuel didn’t sleep much that night. He knew that for the first time in his business career he had made a dismal, miserable failure. But some instinct in him, stronger than will, deeper than training, had forced him to do what would probably end his ambitions and his happiness. But it was done and it never occurred to him that he could have acted otherwise.</p>
<p>Next morning two telegrams were waiting for him. The first was from Hamil. It contained three words:</p>
<p>“You blamed idiot!”</p>
<p>The second was from New York:</p>
<p>“Deal off come to New York immediately Carhart.”</p>
<p>Within a week things had happened. Hamil quarrelled furiously and violently defended his scheme. He was summoned to New York and spent a bad half-hour on the carpet in Peter Carhart’s office. He broke with the Carhart interests in July, and in August Samuel Meredith, at thirty-five years old, was, to all intents, made Carhart’s partner. The fourth fist had done its work.</p>
<p>I suppose that there’s a caddish streak in every man that runs crosswise across his character and disposition and general outlook. With some men it’s secret and we never know it’s there until they strike us in the dark one night. But Samuel’s showed when it was in action, and the sight of it made people see red. He was rather lucky in that, because every time his little devil came up it met a reception that sent it scurrying down below in a sickly, feeble condition. It was the same devil, the same streak that made him order Gilly’s friends off the bed, that made him go inside Marjorie’s house.</p>
<p>If you could run your hand along Samuel Meredith’s jaw you’d feel a lump. He admits he’s never been sure which fist left it there, but he wouldn’t lose it for anything. He says there’s no cad like an old cad, and that sometimes just before making a decision, it’s a great help to stroke his chin. The reporters call it a nervous characteristic, but it’s not that. It’s so he can feel again the gorgeous clarity, the lightning sanity of those four fists.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="may-day" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">May Day</h2>
<p>There had been a war fought and won and the great city of the conquering people was crossed with triumphal arches and vivid with thrown flowers of white, red, and rose. All through the long spring days the returning soldiers marched up the chief highway behind the strump of drums and the joyous, resonant wind of the brasses, while merchants and clerks left their bickerings and figurings and, crowding to the windows, turned their white-bunched faces gravely upon the passing battalions.</p>
<p>Never had there been such splendor in the great city, for the victorious war had brought plenty in its train, and the merchants had flocked thither from the South and West with their households to taste of all the luscious feasts and witness the lavish entertainments prepared⁠—and to buy for their women furs against the next winter and bags of golden mesh and varicolored slippers of silk and silver and rose satin and cloth of gold.</p>
<p>So gaily and noisily were the peace and prosperity impending hymned by the scribes and poets of the conquering people that more and more spenders had gathered from the provinces to drink the wine of excitement, and faster and faster did the merchants dispose of their trinkets and slippers until they sent up a mighty cry for more trinkets and more slippers in order that they might give in barter what was demanded of them. Some even of them flung up their hands helplessly, shouting:</p>
<p>“Alas! I have no more slippers! and alas! I have no more trinkets! May heaven help me for I know not what I shall do!”</p>
<p>But no one listened to their great outcry, for the throngs were far too busy⁠—day by day, the foot-soldiers trod jauntily the highway and all exulted because the young men returning were pure and brave, sound of tooth and pink of cheek, and the young women of the land were virgins and comely both of face and of figure.</p>
<p>So during all this time there were many adventures that happened in the great city, and, of these, several⁠—or perhaps one⁠—are here set down.</p>
<section id="may-day-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>At nine o’clock on the morning of the first of May, 1919, a young man spoke to the room clerk at the Biltmore Hotel, asking if <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Philip Dean were registered there, and if so, could he be connected with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dean’s rooms. The inquirer was dressed in a well-cut, shabby suit. He was small, slender, and darkly handsome; his eyes were framed above with unusually long eyelashes and below with the blue semicircle of ill health, this latter effect heightened by an unnatural glow which colored his face like a low, incessant fever.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dean was staying there. The young man was directed to a telephone at the side.</p>
<p>After a second his connection was made; a sleepy voice hello’d from somewhere above.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dean?”⁠—this very eagerly⁠—“it’s Gordon, Phil. It’s Gordon Sterrett. I’m downstairs. I heard you were in New York and I had a hunch you’d be here.”</p>
<p>The sleepy voice became gradually enthusiastic. Well, how was Gordy, old boy! Well, he certainly was surprised and tickled! Would Gordy come right up, for Pete’s sake!</p>
<p>A few minutes later Philip Dean, dressed in blue silk pajamas, opened his door and the two young men greeted each other with a half-embarrassed exuberance. They were both about twenty-four, Yale graduates of the year before the war; but there the resemblance stopped abruptly. Dean was blond, ruddy, and rugged under his thin pajamas. Everything about him radiated fitness and bodily comfort. He smiled frequently, showing large and prominent teeth.</p>
<p>“I was going to look you up,” he cried enthusiastically. “I’m taking a couple of weeks off. If you’ll sit down a sec I’ll be right with you. Going to take a shower.”</p>
<p>As he vanished into the bathroom his visitor’s dark eyes roved nervously around the room, resting for a moment on a great English travelling bag in the corner and on a family of thick silk shirts littered on the chairs amid impressive neckties and soft woollen socks.</p>
<p>Gordon rose and, picking up one of the shirts, gave it a minute examination. It was of very heavy silk, yellow, with a pale blue stripe⁠—and there were nearly a dozen of them. He stared involuntarily at his own shirt-cuffs⁠—they were ragged and linty at the edges and soiled to a faint gray. Dropping the silk shirt, he held his coat-sleeves down and worked the frayed shirt-cuffs up till they were out of sight. Then he went to the mirror and looked at himself with listless, unhappy interest. His tie, of former glory, was faded and thumb-creased⁠—it served no longer to hide the jagged buttonholes of his collar. He thought, quite without amusement, that only three years before he had received a scattering vote in the senior elections at college for being the best-dressed man in his class.</p>
<p>Dean emerged from the bathroom polishing his body.</p>
<p>“Saw an old friend of yours last night,” he remarked. “Passed her in the lobby and couldn’t think of her name to save my neck. That girl you brought up to New Haven senior year.”</p>
<p>Gordon started.</p>
<p>“Edith Bradin? That whom you mean?”</p>
<p>“ ’At’s the one. Damn good looking. She’s still sort of a pretty doll⁠—you know what I mean: as if you touched her she’d smear.”</p>
<p>He surveyed his shining self complacently in the mirror, smiled faintly, exposing a section of teeth.</p>
<p>“She must be twenty-three anyway,” he continued.</p>
<p>“Twenty-two last month,” said Gordon absently.</p>
<p>“What? Oh, last month. Well, I imagine she’s down for the Gamma Psi dance. Did you know we’re having a Yale Gamma Psi dance tonight at Delmonico’s? You better come up, Gordy. Half of New Haven’ll probably be there. I can get you an invitation.”</p>
<p>Draping himself reluctantly in fresh underwear, Dean lit a cigarette and sat down by the open window, inspecting his calves and knees under the morning sunshine which poured into the room.</p>
<p>“Sit down, Gordy,” he suggested, “and tell me all about what you’ve been doing and what you’re doing now and everything.”</p>
<p>Gordon collapsed unexpectedly upon the bed; lay there inert and spiritless. His mouth, which habitually dropped a little open when his face was in repose, became suddenly helpless and pathetic.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Dean quickly.</p>
<p>“Oh, God!”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Every God damn thing in the world,” he said miserably. “I’ve absolutely gone to pieces, Phil. I’m all in.”</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“I’m all in.” His voice was shaking.</p>
<p>Dean scrutinized him more closely with appraising blue eyes.</p>
<p>“You certainly look all shot.”</p>
<p>“I am. I’ve made a hell of a mess of everything.” He paused. “I’d better start at the beginning⁠—or will it bore you?”</p>
<p>“Not at all; go on.” There was, however, a hesitant note in Dean’s voice. This trip East had been planned for a holiday⁠—to find Gordon Sterrett in trouble exasperated him a little.</p>
<p>“Go on,” he repeated, and then added half under his breath, “Get it over with.”</p>
<p>“Well,” began Gordon unsteadily, “I got back from France in February, went home to Harrisburg for a month, and then came down to New York to get a job. I got one⁠—with an export company. They fired me yesterday.”</p>
<p>“Fired you?”</p>
<p>“I’m coming to that, Phil. I want to tell you frankly. You’re about the only man I can turn to in a matter like this. You won’t mind if I just tell you frankly, will you, Phil?”</p>
<p>Dean stiffened a bit more. The pats he was bestowing on his knees grew perfunctory. He felt vaguely that he was being unfairly saddled with responsibility; he was not even sure he wanted to be told. Though never surprised at finding Gordon Sterrett in mild difficulty, there was something in this present misery that repelled him and hardened him, even though it excited his curiosity.</p>
<p>“Go on.”</p>
<p>“It’s a girl.”</p>
<p>“Hm.” Dean resolved that nothing was going to spoil his trip. If Gordon was going to be depressing, then he’d have to see less of Gordon.</p>
<p>“Her name is Jewel Hudson,” went on the distressed voice from the bed. “She used to be ‘pure,’ I guess, up to about a year ago. Lived here in New York⁠—poor family. Her people are dead now and she lives with an old aunt. You see it was just about the time I met her that everybody began to come back from France in droves⁠—and all I did was to welcome the newly arrived and go on parties with ’em. That’s the way it started, Phil, just from being glad to see everybody and having them glad to see me.”</p>
<p>“You ought to’ve had more sense.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Gordon paused, and then continued listlessly. “I’m on my own now, you know, and Phil, I can’t stand being poor. Then came this darn girl. She sort of fell in love with me for a while and, though I never intended to get so involved, I’d always seem to run into her somewhere. You can imagine the sort of work I was doing for those exporting people⁠—of course, I always intended to draw; do illustrating for magazines; there’s a pile of money in it.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you? You’ve got to buckle down if you want to make good,” suggested Dean with cold formalism.</p>
<p>“I tried, a little, but my stuff’s crude. I’ve got talent, Phil; I can draw⁠—but I just don’t know how. I ought to go to art school and I can’t afford it. Well, things came to a crisis about a week ago. Just as I was down to about my last dollar this girl began bothering me. She wants some money; claims she can make trouble for me if she doesn’t get it.”</p>
<p>“Can she?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid she can. That’s one reason I lost my job⁠—she kept calling up the office all the time, and that was sort of the last straw down there. She’s got a letter all written to send to my family. Oh, she’s got me, all right. I’ve got to have some money for her.”</p>
<p>There was an awkward pause. Gordon lay very still, his hands clenched by his side.</p>
<p>“I’m all in,” he continued, his voice trembling. “I’m half crazy, Phil. If I hadn’t known you were coming East, I think I’d have killed myself. I want you to lend me three hundred dollars.”</p>
<p>Dean’s hands, which had been patting his bare ankles, were suddenly quiet⁠—and the curious uncertainty playing between the two became taut and strained.</p>
<p>After a second Gordon continued:</p>
<p>“I’ve bled the family until I’m ashamed to ask for another nickel.”</p>
<p>Still Dean made no answer.</p>
<p>“Jewel says she’s got to have two hundred dollars.”</p>
<p>“Tell her where she can go.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that sounds easy, but she’s got a couple of drunken letters I wrote her. Unfortunately she’s not at all the flabby sort of person you’d expect.”</p>
<p>Dean made an expression of distaste.</p>
<p>“I can’t stand that sort of woman. You ought to have kept away.”</p>
<p>“I know,” admitted Gordon wearily.</p>
<p>“You’ve got to look at things as they are. If you haven’t got money you’ve got to work and stay away from women.”</p>
<p>“That’s easy for you to say,” began Gordon, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got all the money in the world.”</p>
<p>“I most certainly have not. My family keep darn close tab on what I spend. Just because I have a little leeway I have to be extra careful not to abuse it.”</p>
<p>He raised the blind and let in a further flood of sunshine.</p>
<p>“I’m no prig, Lord knows,” he went on deliberately. “I like pleasure⁠—and I like a lot of it on a vacation like this, but you’re⁠—you’re in awful shape. I never heard you talk just this way before. You seem to be sort of bankrupt⁠—morally as well as financially.”</p>
<p>“Don’t they usually go together?”</p>
<p>Dean shook his head impatiently.</p>
<p>“There’s a regular aura about you that I don’t understand. It’s a sort of evil.”</p>
<p>“It’s an air of worry and poverty and sleepless nights,” said Gordon, rather defiantly.</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I admit I’m depressing. I depress myself. But, my God, Phil, a week’s rest and a new suit and some ready money and I’d be like⁠—like I was. Phil, I can draw like a streak, and you know it. But half the time I haven’t had the money to buy decent drawing materials⁠—and I can’t draw when I’m tired and discouraged and all in. With a little ready money I can take a few weeks off and get started.”</p>
<p>“How do I know you wouldn’t use it on some other woman?”</p>
<p>“Why rub it in?” said Gordon, quietly.</p>
<p>“I’m not rubbing it in. I hate to see you this way.”</p>
<p>“Will you lend me the money, Phil?”</p>
<p>“I can’t decide right off. That’s a lot of money and it’ll be darn inconvenient for me.”</p>
<p>“It’ll be hell for me if you can’t⁠—I know I’m whining, and it’s all my own fault but⁠—that doesn’t change it.”</p>
<p>“When could you pay it back?”</p>
<p>This was encouraging. Gordon considered. It was probably wisest to be frank.</p>
<p>“Of course, I could promise to send it back next month, but⁠—I’d better say three months. Just as soon as I start to sell drawings.”</p>
<p>“How do I know you’ll sell any drawings?”</p>
<p>A new hardness in Dean’s voice sent a faint chill of doubt over Gordon. Was it possible that he wouldn’t get the money?</p>
<p>“I supposed you had a little confidence in me.”</p>
<p>“I did have⁠—but when I see you like this I begin to wonder.”</p>
<p>“Do you suppose if I wasn’t at the end of my rope I’d come to you like this? Do you think I’m enjoying it?” He broke off and bit his lip, feeling that he had better subdue the rising anger in his voice. After all, he was the suppliant.</p>
<p>“You seem to manage it pretty easily,” said Dean angrily. “You put me in the position where, if I don’t lend it to you, I’m a sucker⁠—oh, yes, you do. And let me tell you it’s no easy thing for me to get hold of three hundred dollars. My income isn’t so big but that a slice like that won’t play the deuce with it.”</p>
<p>He left his chair and began to dress, choosing his clothes carefully. Gordon stretched out his arms and clenched the edges of the bed, fighting back a desire to cry out. His head was splitting and whirring, his mouth was dry and bitter and he could feel the fever in his blood resolving itself into innumerable regular counts like a slow dripping from a roof.</p>
<p>Dean tied his tie precisely, brushed his eyebrows, and removed a piece of tobacco from his teeth with solemnity. Next he filled his cigarette case, tossed the empty box thoughtfully into the waste basket, and settled the case in his vest pocket.</p>
<p>“Had breakfast?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“No; I don’t eat it any more.”</p>
<p>“Well, we’ll go out and have some. We’ll decide about that money later. I’m sick of the subject. I came East to have a good time.</p>
<p>“Let’s go over to the Yale Club,” he continued moodily, and then added with an implied reproof: “You’ve given up your job. You’ve got nothing else to do.”</p>
<p>“I’d have a lot to do if I had a little money,” said Gordon pointedly.</p>
<p>“Oh, for Heaven’s sake drop the subject for a while! No point in glooming on my whole trip. Here, here’s some money.”</p>
<p>He took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it over to Gordon, who folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. There was an added spot of color in his cheeks, an added glow that was not fever. For an instant before they turned to go out their eyes met and in that instant each found something that made him lower his own glance quickly. For in that instant they quite suddenly and definitely hated each other.</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street swarmed with the noon crowd. The wealthy, happy sun glittered in transient gold through the thick windows of the smart shops, lighting upon mesh bags and purses and strings of pearls in gray velvet cases; upon gaudy feather fans of many colors; upon the laces and silks of expensive dresses; upon the bad paintings and the fine period furniture in the elaborate show rooms of interior decorators.</p>
<p>Working-girls, in pairs and groups and swarms, loitered by these windows, choosing their future boudoirs from some resplendent display which included even a man’s silk pajamas laid domestically across the bed. They stood in front of the jewelry stores and picked out their engagement rings, and their wedding rings and their platinum wrist watches, and then drifted on to inspect the feather fans and opera cloaks; meanwhile digesting the sandwiches and sundaes they had eaten for lunch.</p>
<p>All through the crowd were men in uniform, sailors from the great fleet anchored in the Hudson, soldiers with divisional insignia from Massachusetts to California, wanting fearfully to be noticed, and finding the great city thoroughly fed up with soldiers unless they were nicely massed into pretty formations and uncomfortable under the weight of a pack and rifle. Through this medley Dean and Gordon wandered; the former interested, made alert by the display of humanity at its frothiest and gaudiest; the latter reminded of how often he had been one of the crowd, tired, casually fed, overworked, and dissipated. To Dean the struggle was significant, young, cheerful; to Gordon it was dismal, meaningless, endless.</p>
<p>In the Yale Club they met a group of their former classmates who greeted the visiting Dean vociferously. Sitting in a semicircle of lounges and great chairs, they had a highball all around.</p>
<p>Gordon found the conversation tiresome and interminable. They lunched together en masse, warmed with liquor as the afternoon began. They were all going to the Gamma Psi dance that night⁠—it promised to be the best party since the war.</p>
<p>“Edith Bradin’s coming,” said someone to Gordon. “Didn’t she used to be an old flame of yours? Aren’t you both from Harrisburg?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” He tried to change the subject. “I see her brother occasionally. He’s sort of a socialistic nut. Runs a paper or something here in New York.”</p>
<p>“Not like his gay sister, eh?” continued his eager informant. “Well, she’s coming tonight⁠—with a junior named Peter Himmel.”</p>
<p>Gordon was to meet Jewel Hudson at eight o’clock⁠—he had promised to have some money for her. Several times he glanced nervously at his wrist watch. At four, to his relief, Dean rose and announced that he was going over to Rivers Brothers to buy some collars and ties. But as they left the Club another of the party joined them, to Gordon’s great dismay. Dean was in a jovial mood now, happy, expectant of the evening’s party, faintly hilarious. Over in Rivers’ he chose a dozen neckties, selecting each one after long consultations with the other man. Did he think narrow ties were coming back? And wasn’t it a shame that Rivers couldn’t get any more Welsh Margotson collars? There never was a collar like the “Covington.”</p>
<p>Gordon was in something of a panic. He wanted the money immediately. And he was now inspired also with a vague idea of attending the Gamma Psi dance. He wanted to see Edith⁠—Edith whom he hadn’t met since one romantic night at the Harrisburg Country Club just before he went to France. The affair had died, drowned in the turmoil of the war and quite forgotten in the arabesque of these three months, but a picture of her, poignant, debonnaire, immersed in her own inconsequential chatter, recurred to him unexpectedly and brought a hundred memories with it. It was Edith’s face that he had cherished through college with a sort of detached yet affectionate admiration. He had loved to draw her⁠—around his room had been a dozen sketches of her⁠—playing golf, swimming⁠—he could draw her pert, arresting profile with his eyes shut.</p>
<p>They left Rivers’ at five-thirty and paused for a moment on the sidewalk.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Dean genially, “I’m all set now. Think I’ll go back to the hotel and get a shave, haircut, and massage.”</p>
<p>“Good enough,” said the other man, “I think I’ll join you.”</p>
<p>Gordon wondered if he was to be beaten after all. With difficulty he restrained himself from turning to the man and snarling out, “Go on away, damn you!” In despair he suspected that perhaps Dean had spoken to him, was keeping him along in order to avoid a dispute about the money.</p>
<p>They went into the Biltmore⁠—a Biltmore alive with girls⁠—mostly from the West and South, the stellar debutantes of many cities gathered for the dance of a famous fraternity of a famous university. But to Gordon they were faces in a dream. He gathered together his forces for a last appeal, was about to come out with he knew not what, when Dean suddenly excused himself to the other man and taking Gordon’s arm led him aside.</p>
<p>“Gordy,” he said quickly, “I’ve thought the whole thing over carefully and I’ve decided that I can’t lend you that money. I’d like to oblige you, but I don’t feel I ought to⁠—it’d put a crimp in me for a month.”</p>
<p>Gordon, watching him dully, wondered why he had never before noticed how much those upper teeth projected.</p>
<p>“I’m⁠—mighty sorry, Gordon,” continued Dean, “but that’s the way it is.”</p>
<p>He took out his wallet and deliberately counted out seventy-five dollars in bills.</p>
<p>“Here,” he said, holding them out, “here’s seventy-five; that makes eighty all together. That’s all the actual cash I have with me, besides what I’ll actually spend on the trip.”</p>
<p>Gordon raised his clenched hand automatically, opened it as though it were a tongs he was holding, and clenched it again on the money.</p>
<p>“I’ll see you at the dance,” continued Dean. “I’ve got to get along to the barber shop.”</p>
<p>“So-long,” said Gordon in a strained and husky voice.</p>
<p>“So-long.”</p>
<p>Dean, began to smile, but seemed to change his mind. He nodded briskly and disappeared.</p>
<p>But Gordon stood there, his handsome face awry with distress, the roll of bills clenched tightly in his hand. Then, blinded by sudden tears, he stumbled clumsily down the Biltmore steps.</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>About nine o’clock of the same night two human beings came out of a cheap restaurant in Sixth Avenue. They were ugly, ill-nourished, devoid of all except the very lowest form of intelligence, and without even that animal exuberance that in itself brings color into life; they were lately vermin-ridden, cold, and hungry in a dirty town of a strange land; they were poor, friendless; tossed as driftwood from their births, they would be tossed as driftwood to their deaths. They were dressed in the uniform of the United States Army, and on the shoulder of each was the insignia of a drafted division from New Jersey, landed three days before.</p>
<p>The taller of the two was named Carrol Key, a name hinting that in his veins, however thinly diluted by generations of degeneration, ran blood of some potentiality. But one could stare endlessly at the long, chinless face, the dull, watery eyes, and high cheekbones, without finding suggestion of either ancestral worth or native resourcefulness.</p>
<p>His companion was swart and bandy-legged, with rat-eyes and a much-broken hooked nose. His defiant air was obviously a pretense, a weapon of protection borrowed from that world of snarl and snap, of physical bluff and physical menace, in which he had always lived. His name was Gus Rose.</p>
<p>Leaving the café they sauntered down Sixth Avenue, wielding toothpicks with great gusto and complete detachment.</p>
<p>“Where to?” asked Rose, in a tone which implied that he would not be surprised if Key suggested the South Sea Islands.</p>
<p>“What you say we see if we can getta holda some liquor?” Prohibition was not yet. The ginger in the suggestion was caused by the law forbidding the selling of liquor to soldiers.</p>
<p>Rose agreed enthusiastically.</p>
<p>“I got an idea,” continued Key, after a moment’s thought, “I got a brother somewhere.”</p>
<p>“In New York?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. He’s an old fella.” He meant that he was an elder brother. “He’s a waiter in a hash joint.”</p>
<p>“Maybe he can get us some.”</p>
<p>“I’ll say he can!”</p>
<p>“B’lieve me, I’m goin’ to get this darn uniform off me to‑morra. Never get me in it again, neither. I’m goin’ to get me some regular clothes.”</p>
<p>“Say, maybe I’m not.”</p>
<p>As their combined finances were something less than five dollars, this intention can be taken largely as a pleasant game of words, harmless and consoling. It seemed to please both of them, however, for they reinforced it with chuckling and mention of personages high in biblical circles, adding such further emphasis as “Oh, boy!” “You know!” and “I’ll say so!” repeated many times over.</p>
<p>The entire mental pabulum of these two men consisted of an offended nasal comment extended through the years upon the institution⁠—army, business, or poorhouse⁠—which kept them alive, and toward their immediate superior in that institution. Until that very morning the institution had been the “government” and the immediate superior had been the “Cap’n”⁠—from these two they had glided out and were now in the vaguely uncomfortable state before they should adopt their next bondage. They were uncertain, resentful, and somewhat ill at ease. This they hid by pretending an elaborate relief at being out of the army, and by assuring each other that military discipline should never again rule their stubborn, liberty-loving wills. Yet, as a matter of fact, they would have felt more at home in a prison than in this newfound and unquestionable freedom.</p>
<p>Suddenly Key increased his gait. Rose, looking up and following his glance, discovered a crowd that was collecting fifty yards down the street. Key chuckled and began to run in the direction of the crowd; Rose thereupon also chuckled and his short bandy legs twinkled beside the long, awkward strides of his companion.</p>
<p>Reaching the outskirts of the crowd they immediately became an indistinguishable part of it. It was composed of ragged civilians somewhat the worse for liquor, and of soldiers representing many divisions and many stages of sobriety, all clustered around a gesticulating little Jew with long black whiskers, who was waving his arms and delivering an excited but succinct harangue. Key and Rose, having wedged themselves into the approximate parquet, scrutinized him with acute suspicion, as his words penetrated their common consciousness.</p>
<p>“⁠—What have you got outa the war?” he was crying fiercely. “Look arounja, look arounja! Are you rich? Have you got a lot of money offered you?⁠—no; you’re lucky if you’re alive and got both your legs; you’re lucky if you came back an’ find your wife ain’t gone off with some other fella that had the money to buy himself out of the war! That’s when you’re lucky! Who got anything out of it except <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J. P.</abbr> Morgan an’ John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Rockerfeller?”</p>
<p>At this point the little Jew’s oration was interrupted by the hostile impact of a fist upon the point of his bearded chin and he toppled backward to a sprawl on the pavement.</p>
<p>“God damn Bolsheviki!” cried the big soldier-blacksmith who had delivered the blow. There was a rumble of approval, the crowd closed in nearer.</p>
<p>The Jew staggered to his feet, and immediately went down again before a half-dozen reaching-in fists. This time he stayed down, breathing heavily, blood oozing from his lip where it was cut within and without.</p>
<p>There was a riot of voices, and in a minute Rose and Key found themselves flowing with the jumbled crowd down Sixth Avenue under the leadership of a thin civilian in a slouch hat and the brawny soldier who had summarily ended the oration. The crowd had marvellously swollen to formidable proportions and a stream of more noncommittal citizens followed it along the sidewalks lending their moral support by intermittent huzzas.</p>
<p>“Where we goin’?” yelled Key to the man nearest him.</p>
<p>His neighbor pointed up to the leader in the slouch hat.</p>
<p>“That guy knows where there’s a lot of ’em! We’re goin’ to show ’em!”</p>
<p>“We’re goin’ to show ’em!” whispered Key delightedly to Rose, who repeated the phrase rapturously to a man on the other side.</p>
<p>Down Sixth Avenue swept the procession, joined here and there by soldiers and marines, and now and then by civilians, who came up with the inevitable cry that they were just out of the army themselves, as if presenting it as a card of admission to a newly formed Sporting and Amusement Club.</p>
<p>Then the procession swerved down a cross street and headed for Fifth Avenue and the word filtered here and there that they were bound for a Red meeting at Tolliver Hall.</p>
<p>“Where is it?”</p>
<p>The question went up the line and a moment later the answer floated hack. Tolliver Hall was down on Tenth Street. There was a bunch of other sojers who was goin’ to break it up and was down there now!</p>
<p>But Tenth Street had a faraway sound and at the word a general groan went up and a score of the procession dropped out. Among these were Rose and Key, who slowed down to a saunter and let the more enthusiastic sweep on by.</p>
<p>“I’d rather get some liquor,” said Key as they halted and made their way to the sidewalk amid cries of “Shell hole!” and “Quitters!”</p>
<p>“Does your brother work around here?” asked Rose, assuming the air of one passing from the superficial to the eternal.</p>
<p>“He oughta,” replied Key. “I ain’t seen him for a coupla years. I been out to Pennsylvania since. Maybe he don’t work at night anyhow. It’s right along here. He can get us some o’right if he ain’t gone.”</p>
<p>They found the place after a few minutes’ patrol of the street⁠—a shoddy tablecloth restaurant between Fifth Avenue and Broadway. Here Key went inside to inquire for his brother George, while Rose waited on the sidewalk.</p>
<p>“He ain’t here no more,” said Key emerging. “He’s a waiter up to Delmonico’s.”</p>
<p>Rose nodded wisely, as if he’d expected as much. One should not be surprised at a capable man changing jobs occasionally. He knew a waiter once⁠—there ensued a long conversation as they waited as to whether waiters made more in actual wages than in tips⁠—it was decided that it depended on the social tone of the joint wherein the waiter labored. After having given each other vivid pictures of millionaires dining at Delmonico’s and throwing away fifty-dollar bills after their first quart of champagne, both men thought privately of becoming waiters. In fact, Key’s narrow brow was secreting a resolution to ask his brother to get him a job.</p>
<p>“A waiter can drink up all the champagne those fellas leave in bottles,” suggested Rose with some relish, and then added as an afterthought, “Oh, boy!”</p>
<p>By the time they reached Delmonico’s it was half past ten, and they were surprised to see a stream of taxis driving up to the door one after the other and emitting marvelous, hatless young ladies, each one attended by a stiff young gentleman in evening clothes.</p>
<p>“It’s a party,” said Rose with some awe. “Maybe we better not go in. He’ll be busy.”</p>
<p>“No, he won’t. He’ll be o’right.”</p>
<p>After some hesitation they entered what appeared to them to be the least elaborate door and, indecision falling upon them immediately, stationed themselves nervously in an inconspicuous corner of the small dining-room in which they found themselves. They took off their caps and held them in their hands. A cloud of gloom fell upon them and both started when a door at one end of the room crashed open, emitting a comet-like waiter who streaked across the floor and vanished through another door on the other side.</p>
<p>There had been three of these lightning passages before the seekers mustered the acumen to hail a waiter. He turned, looked at them suspiciously, and then approached with soft, catlike steps, as if prepared at any moment to turn and flee.</p>
<p>“Say,” began Key, “say, do you know my brother? He’s a waiter here.”</p>
<p>“His name is Key,” annotated Rose.</p>
<p>Yes, the waiter knew Key. He was upstairs, he thought. There was a big dance going on in the main ballroom. He’d tell him.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later George Key appeared and greeted his brother with the utmost suspicion; his first and most natural thought being that he was going to be asked for money.</p>
<p>George was tall and weak chinned, but there his resemblance to his brother ceased. The waiter’s eyes were not dull, they were alert and twinkling, and his manner was suave, indoor, and faintly superior. They exchanged formalities. George was married and had three children. He seemed fairly interested, but not impressed by the news that Carrol had been abroad in the army. This disappointed Carrol.</p>
<p>“George,” said the younger brother, these amenities having been disposed of, “we want to get some booze, and they won’t sell us none. Can you get us some?”</p>
<p>George considered.</p>
<p>“Sure. Maybe I can. It may be half an hour, though.”</p>
<p>“All right,” agreed Carrol, “we’ll wait.”</p>
<p>At this Rose started to sit down in a convenient chair, but was hailed to his feet by the indignant George.</p>
<p>“Hey! Watch out, you! Can’t sit down here! This room’s all set for a twelve o’clock banquet.”</p>
<p>“I ain’t goin’ to hurt it,” said Rose resentfully. “I been through the delouser.”</p>
<p>“Never mind,” said George sternly, “if the head waiter seen me here talkin’ he’d romp all over me.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>The mention of the head waiter was full explanation to the other two; they fingered their overseas caps nervously and waited for a suggestion.</p>
<p>“I tell you,” said George, after a pause, “I got a place you can wait; you just come here with me.”</p>
<p>They followed him out the far door, through a deserted pantry and up a pair of dark winding stairs, emerging finally into a small room chiefly furnished by piles of pails and stacks of scrubbing brushes, and illuminated by a single dim electric light. There he left them, after soliciting two dollars and agreeing to return in half an hour with a quart of whiskey.</p>
<p>“George is makin’ money, I bet,” said Key gloomily as he seated himself on an inverted pail. “I bet he’s making fifty dollars a week.”</p>
<p>Rose nodded his head and spat.</p>
<p>“I bet he is, too.”</p>
<p>“What’d he say the dance was of?”</p>
<p>“A lot of college fellas. Yale College.”</p>
<p>They both nodded solemnly at each other.</p>
<p>“Wonder where that crowda sojers is now?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I know that’s too damn long to walk for me.”</p>
<p>“Me too. You don’t catch me walkin’ that far.”</p>
<p>Ten minutes later restlessness seized them.</p>
<p>“I’m goin’ to see what’s out here,” said Rose, stepping cautiously toward the other door.</p>
<p>It was a swinging door of green baize and he pushed it open a cautious inch.</p>
<p>“See anything?”</p>
<p>For answer Rose drew in his breath sharply.</p>
<p>“Doggone! Here’s some liquor I’ll say!”</p>
<p>“Liquor?”</p>
<p>Key joined Rose at the door, and looked eagerly.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell the world that’s liquor,” he said, after a moment of concentrated gazing.</p>
<p>It was a room about twice as large as the one they were in⁠—and in it was prepared a radiant feast of spirits. There were long walls of alternating bottles set along two white covered tables; whiskey, gin, brandy, French and Italian vermouths, and orange juice, not to mention an array of syphons and two great empty punch bowls. The room was as yet uninhabited.</p>
<p>“It’s for this dance they’re just starting,” whispered Key; “hear the violins playin’? Say, boy, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a dance.”</p>
<p>They closed the door softly and exchanged a glance of mutual comprehension. There was no need of feeling each other out.</p>
<p>“I’d like to get my hands on a coupla those bottles,” said Rose emphatically.</p>
<p>“Me too.”</p>
<p>“Do you suppose we’d get seen?”</p>
<p>Key considered.</p>
<p>“Maybe we better wait till they start drinkin’ ’em. They got ’em all laid out now, and they know how many of them there are.”</p>
<p>They debated this point for several minutes. Rose was all for getting his hands on a bottle now and tucking it under his coat before anyone came into the room. Key, however, advocated caution. He was afraid he might get his brother in trouble. If they waited till some of the bottles were opened it’d be all right to take one, and everybody’d think it was one of the college fellas.</p>
<p>While they were still engaged in argument George Key hurried through the room and, barely grunting at them, disappeared by way of the green baize door. A minute later they heard several corks pop, and then the sound of cracking ice and splashing liquid. George was mixing the punch.</p>
<p>The soldiers exchanged delighted grins.</p>
<p>“Oh, boy!” whispered Rose.</p>
<p>George reappeared.</p>
<p>“Just keep low, boys,” he said quickly. “I’ll have your stuff for you in five minutes.”</p>
<p>He disappeared through the door by which he had come.</p>
<p>As soon as his footsteps receded down the stairs, Rose, after a cautious look, darted into the room of delights and reappeared with a bottle in his hand.</p>
<p>“Here’s what I say,” he said, as they sat radiantly digesting their first drink. “We’ll wait till he comes up, and we’ll ask him if we can’t just stay here and drink what he brings us⁠—see. We’ll tell him we haven’t got any place to drink it⁠—see. Then we can sneak in there whenever there ain’t nobody in that there room and tuck a bottle under our coats. We’ll have enough to last us a coupla days⁠—see?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” agreed Rose enthusiastically. “Oh, boy! And if we want to we can sell it to sojers any time we want to.”</p>
<p>They were silent for a moment thinking rosily of this idea. Then Key reached up and unhooked the collar of his <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">O.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">D.</abbr> coat.</p>
<p>“It’s hot in here, ain’t it?”</p>
<p>Rose agreed earnestly.</p>
<p>“Hot as hell.”</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>She was still quite angry when she came out of the dressing-room and crossed the intervening parlor of politeness that opened onto the hall⁠—angry not so much at the actual happening which was, after all, the merest commonplace of her social existence, but because it had occurred on this particular night. She had no quarrel with herself. She had acted with that correct mixture of dignity and reticent pity which she always employed. She had succinctly and deftly snubbed him.</p>
<p>It had happened when their taxi was leaving the Biltmore⁠—hadn’t gone half a block. He had lifted his right arm awkwardly⁠—she was on his right side⁠—and attempted to settle it snugly around the crimson fur-trimmed opera cloak she wore. This in itself had been a mistake. It was inevitably more graceful for a young man attempting to embrace a young lady of whose acquiescence he was not certain, to first put his far arm around her. It avoided that awkward movement of raising the near arm.</p>
<p>His second faux pas was unconscious. She had spent the afternoon at the hairdresser’s; the idea of any calamity overtaking her hair was extremely repugnant⁠—yet as Peter made his unfortunate attempt the point of his elbow had just faintly brushed it. That was his second faux pas. Two were quite enough.</p>
<p>He had begun to murmur. At the first murmur she had decided that he was nothing but a college boy⁠—Edith was twenty-two, and anyhow, this dance, first of its kind since the war, was reminding her, with the accelerating rhythm of its associations, of something else⁠—of another dance and another man, a man for whom her feelings had been little more than a sad-eyed, adolescent mooniness. Edith Bradin was falling in love with her recollection of Gordon Sterrett.</p>
<p>So she came out of the dressing-room at Delmonico’s and stood for a second in the doorway looking over the shoulders of a black dress in front of her at the groups of Yale men who flitted like dignified black moths around the head of the stairs. From the room she had left drifted out the heavy fragrance left by the passage to and fro of many scented young beauties⁠—rich perfumes and the fragile memory-laden dust of fragrant powders. This odor drifting out acquired the tang of cigarette smoke in the hall, and then settled sensuously down the stairs and permeated the ballroom where the Gamma Psi dance was to be held. It was an odor she knew well, exciting, stimulating, restlessly sweet⁠—the odor of a fashionable dance.</p>
<p>She thought of her own appearance. Her bare arms and shoulders were powdered to a creamy white. She knew they looked very soft and would gleam like milk against the black backs that were to silhouette them tonight. The hairdressing had been a success; her reddish mass of hair was piled and crushed and creased to an arrogant marvel of mobile curves. Her lips were finely made of deep carmine; the irises of her eyes were delicate, breakable blue, like china eyes. She was a complete, infinitely delicate, quite perfect thing of beauty, flowing in an even line from a complex coiffure to two small slim feet.</p>
<p>She thought of what she would say tonight at this revel, faintly prestiged already by the sounds of high and low laughter and slippered footsteps, and movements of couples up and down the stairs. She would talk the language she had talked for many years⁠—her line⁠—made up of the current expressions, bits of journalese and college slang strung together into an intrinsic whole, careless, faintly provocative, delicately sentimental. She stalled faintly as she heard a girl sitting on the stairs near her say: “You don’t know the half of it, dearie!”</p>
<p>And as she smiled her anger melted for a moment, and closing her eyes she drew in a deep breath of pleasure. She dropped her arms to her side until they were faintly touching the sleek sheath that covered and suggested her figure. She had never felt her own softness so much nor so enjoyed the whiteness of her own arms.</p>
<p>“I smell sweet,” she said to herself simply, and then came another thought “I’m made for love.”</p>
<p>She liked the sound of this and thought it again; then in inevitable succession came her newborn riot of dreams about Gordon. The twist of her imagination which, two months before, had disclosed to her her unguessed desire to see him again, seemed now to have been leading up to this dance, this hour.</p>
<p>For all her sleek beauty, Edith was a grave, slow-thinking girl. There was a streak in her of that same desire to ponder, of that adolescent idealism that had turned her brother socialist and pacifist. Henry Bradin had left Cornell, where he had been an instructor in economies, and had come to New York to pour the latest cures for incurable evils into the columns of a radical weekly newspaper.</p>
<p>Edith, less fatuously, would have been content to cure Gordon Sterrett. There was a quality of weakness in Gordon that she wanted to take care of; there was a helplessness in him that she wanted to protect. And she wanted someone she had known a long while, someone who had loved her a long while. She was a little tired; she wanted to get married. Out of a pile of letters, half a dozen pictures and as many memories, and this weariness, she had decided that next time she saw Gordon their relations were going to be changed. She would say something that would change them. There was this evening. This was her evening. All evenings were her evenings.</p>
<p>Then her thoughts were interrupted by a solemn undergraduate with a hurt look and an air of strained formality who presented himself before her and bowed unusually low. It was the man she had come with, Peter Himmel. He was tall and humorous, with horned-rimmed glasses and an air of attractive whimsicality. She suddenly rather disliked him⁠—probably because he had not succeeded in kissing her.</p>
<p>“Well,” she began, “are you still furious at me?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>She stepped forward and took his arm.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t know why I snapped out that way. I’m in a bum humor tonight for some strange reason. I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“S’all right,” he mumbled, “don’t mention it.”</p>
<p>He felt disagreeably embarrassed. Was she rubbing in the fact of his late failure?</p>
<p>“It was a mistake,” she continued, on the same consciously gentle key. “We’ll both forget it.” For this he hated her.</p>
<p>A few minutes later they drifted out on the floor while the dozen swaying, sighing members of the specially hired jazz orchestra informed the crowded ballroom that “if a saxophone and me are left alone why then two is com-pan-ee!”</p>
<p>A man with a mustache cut in.</p>
<p>“Hello,” he began reprovingly. “You don’t remember me.”</p>
<p>“I can’t just think of your name,” she said lightly⁠—“and I know you so well.”</p>
<p>“I met you up at⁠—” His voice trailed disconsolately off as a man with very fair hair cut in. Edith murmured a conventional “Thanks, loads⁠—cut in later,” to the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">inconnu</i>.</p>
<p>The very fair man insisted on shaking hands enthusiastically. She placed him as one of the numerous Jims of her acquaintance⁠—last name a mystery. She remembered even that he had a peculiar rhythm in dancing and found as they started that she was right.</p>
<p>“Going to be here long?” he breathed confidentially.</p>
<p>She leaned back and looked up at him.</p>
<p>“Couple of weeks.”</p>
<p>“Where are you?”</p>
<p>“Biltmore. Call me up some day.”</p>
<p>“I mean it,” he assured her. “I will. We’ll go to tea.”</p>
<p>“So do I⁠—Do.”</p>
<p>A dark man cut in with intense formality.</p>
<p>“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said gravely.</p>
<p>“I should say I do. Your name’s Harlan.”</p>
<p>“No-ope. Barlow.”</p>
<p>“Well, I knew there were two syllables anyway. You’re the boy that played the ukulele so well up at Howard Marshall’s house party.</p>
<p>“I played⁠—but not⁠—”</p>
<p>A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary⁠—much easier to talk to.</p>
<p>“My name’s Dean, Philip Dean,” he said cheerfully. “You don’t remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett.”</p>
<p>Edith looked up quickly.</p>
<p>“Yes, I went up with him twice⁠—to the Pump and Slipper and the Junior prom.”</p>
<p>“You’ve seen him, of course,” said Dean carelessly. “He’s here tonight. I saw him just a minute ago.”</p>
<p>Edith started. Yet she had felt quite sure he would be here.</p>
<p>“Why, no, I haven’t⁠—”</p>
<p>A fat man with red hair cut in.</p>
<p>“Hello, Edith,” he began.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—hello there⁠—”</p>
<p>She slipped, stumbled lightly.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, dear,” she murmured mechanically.</p>
<p>She had seen Gordon⁠—Gordon very white and listless, leaning against the side of a doorway, smoking, and looking into the ballroom. Edith could see that his face was thin and wan⁠—that the hand he raised to his lips with a cigarette, was trembling. They were dancing quite close to him now.</p>
<p>“⁠—They invite so darn many extra fellas that you⁠—” the short man was saying.</p>
<p>“Hello, Gordon,” called Edith over her partner’s shoulder. Her heart was pounding wildly.</p>
<p>His large dark eyes were fixed on her. He took a step in her direction. Her partner turned her away⁠—she heard his voice bleating⁠—</p>
<p>“⁠—but half the stags get lit and leave before long, so⁠—” Then a low tone at her side.</p>
<p>“May I, please?”</p>
<p>She was dancing suddenly with Gordon; one of his arms was around her; she felt it tighten spasmodically; felt his hand on her back with the fingers spread. Her hand holding the little lace handkerchief was crushed in his.</p>
<p>“Why Gordon,” she began breathlessly.</p>
<p>“Hello, Edith.”</p>
<p>She slipped again⁠—was tossed forward by her recovery until her face touched the black cloth of his dinner coat. She loved him⁠—she knew she loved him⁠—then for a minute there was silence while a strange feeling of uneasiness crept over her. Something was wrong.</p>
<p>Of a sudden her heart wrenched, and turned over as she realized what it was. He was pitiful and wretched, a little drunk, and miserably tired.</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—” she cried involuntarily.</p>
<p>His eyes looked down at her. She saw suddenly that they were blood-streaked and rolling uncontrollably.</p>
<p>“Gordon,” she murmured, “we’ll sit down; I want to sit down.”</p>
<p>They were nearly in midfloor, but she had seen two men start toward her from opposite sides of the room, so she halted, seized Gordon’s limp hand and led him bumping through the crowd, her mouth tight shut, her face a little pale under her rouge, her eyes trembling with tears.</p>
<p>She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down heavily beside her.</p>
<p>“Well,” he began, staring at her unsteadily, “I certainly am glad to see you, Edith.”</p>
<p>She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first time she was seized with a new feeling⁠—an unutterable horror.</p>
<p>“Gordon,” she said accusingly and almost crying, “you look like the devil.”</p>
<p>He nodded, “I’ve had trouble, Edith.”</p>
<p>“Trouble?”</p>
<p>“All sorts of trouble. Don’t you say anything to the family, but I’m all gone to pieces. I’m a mess, Edith.”</p>
<p>His lower lip was sagging. He seemed scarcely to see her.</p>
<p>“Can’t you⁠—can’t you,” she hesitated, “can’t you tell me about it, Gordon? You know I’m always interested in you.”</p>
<p>She bit her lip⁠—she had intended to say something stronger, but found at the end that she couldn’t bring it out.</p>
<p>Gordon shook his head dully. “I can’t tell you. You’re a good woman. I can’t tell a good woman the story.”</p>
<p>“Rot,” she said, defiantly. “I think it’s a perfect insult to call anyone a good woman in that way. It’s a slam. You’ve been drinking, Gordon.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.” He inclined his head gravely. “Thanks for the information.”</p>
<p>“Why do you drink?”</p>
<p>“Because I’m so damn miserable.”</p>
<p>“Do you think drinking’s going to make it any better?”</p>
<p>“What you doing⁠—trying to reform me?”</p>
<p>“No; I’m trying to help you, Gordon. Can’t you tell me about it?”</p>
<p>“I’m in an awful mess. Best thing you can do is to pretend not to know me.”</p>
<p>“Why, Gordon?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I cut in on you⁠—its unfair to you. You’re pure woman⁠—and all that sort of thing. Here, I’ll get someone else to dance with you.”</p>
<p>He rose clumsily to his feet, but she reached up and pulled him down beside her on the stairs.</p>
<p>“Here, Gordon. You’re ridiculous. You’re hurting me. You’re acting like a⁠—like a crazy man⁠—”</p>
<p>“I admit it. I’m a little crazy. Something’s wrong with me, Edith. There’s something left me. It doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>“It does, tell me.”</p>
<p>“Just that. I was always queer⁠—little bit different from other boys. All right in college, but now it’s all wrong. Things have been snapping inside me for four months like little hooks on a dress, and it’s about to come off when a few more hooks go. I’m very gradually going loony.”</p>
<p>He turned his eyes full on her and began to laugh, and she shrank away from him.</p>
<p>“What <em>is</em> the matter?”</p>
<p>“Just me,” he repeated. “I’m going loony. This whole place is like a dream to me⁠—this Delmonico’s⁠—”</p>
<p>As he talked she saw he had changed utterly. He wasn’t at all light and gay and careless⁠—a great lethargy and discouragement had come over him. Revulsion seized her, followed by a faint, surprising boredom. His voice seemed to come out of a great void.</p>
<p>“Edith,” he said, “I used to think I was clever, talented, an artist. Now I know I’m nothing. Can’t draw, Edith. Don’t know why I’m telling you this.”</p>
<p>She nodded absently.</p>
<p>“I can’t draw, I can’t do anything. I’m poor as a church mouse.” He laughed, bitterly and rather too loud. “I’ve become a damn beggar, a leech on my friends. I’m a failure. I’m poor as hell.”</p>
<p>Her distaste was growing. She barely nodded this time, waiting for her first possible cue to rise.</p>
<p>Suddenly Gordon’s eyes filled with tears.</p>
<p>“Edith,” he said, turning to her with what was evidently a strong effort at self-control, “I can’t tell you what it means to me to know there’s one person left who’s interested in me.”</p>
<p>He reached out and patted her hand, and involuntarily she drew it away.</p>
<p>“It’s mighty fine of you,” he repeated.</p>
<p>“Well,” she said slowly, looking him in the eye, “anyone’s always glad to see an old friend⁠—but I’m sorry to see you like this, Gordon.”</p>
<p>There was a pause while they looked at each other, and the momentary eagerness in his eyes wavered. She rose and stood looking at him, her face quite expressionless.</p>
<p>“Shall we dance?” she suggested, coolly.</p>
<p><q>Love is fragile</q>⁠—she was thinking⁠—<q>but perhaps the pieces are saved, the things that hovered on lips, that might have been said. The new love words, the tendernesses learned, are treasured up for the next lover.</q></p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>Peter Himmel, escort to the lovely Edith, was unaccustomed to being snubbed; having been snubbed, he was hurt and embarrassed, and ashamed of himself. For a matter of two months he had been on special delivery terms with Edith Bradin, and knowing that the one excuse and explanation of the special delivery letter is its value in sentimental correspondence, he had believed himself quite sure of his ground. He searched in vain for any reason why she should have taken this attitude in the matter of a simple kiss.</p>
<p>Therefore when he was cut in on by the man with the mustache he went out into the hall and, making up a sentence, said it over to himself several times. Considerably deleted, this was it:</p>
<p>“Well, if any girl ever led a man on and then jolted him, she did⁠—and she has no kick coming if I go out and get beautifully boiled.”</p>
<p>So he walked through the supper room into a small room adjoining it, which he had located earlier in the evening. It was a room in which there were several large bowls of punch flanked by many bottles. He took a seat beside the table which held the bottles.</p>
<p>At the second highball, boredom, disgust, the monotony of time, the turbidity of events, sank into a vague background before which glittering cobwebs formed. Things became reconciled to themselves, things lay quietly on their shelves; the troubles of the day arranged themselves in trim formation and at his curt wish of dismissal, marched off and disappeared. And with the departure of worry came brilliant, permeating symbolism. Edith became a flighty, negligible girl, not to be worried over; rather to be laughed at. She fitted like a figure of his own dream into the surface world forming about him. He himself became in a measure symbolic, a type of the continent bacchanal, the brilliant dreamer at play.</p>
<p>Then the symbolic mood faded and as he sipped his third highball his imagination yielded to the warm glow and he lapsed into a state similar to floating on his back in pleasant water. It was at this point that he noticed that a green baize door near him was open about two inches, and that through the aperture a pair of eyes were watching him intently.</p>
<p>“Hm,” murmured Peter calmly.</p>
<p>The green door closed⁠—and then opened again⁠—a bare half inch this time.</p>
<p>“Peek-a-boo,” murmured Peter.</p>
<p>The door remained stationary and then he became aware of a series of tense intermittent whispers.</p>
<p>“One guy.”</p>
<p>“What’s he doin’?”</p>
<p>“He’s sittin’ lookin’.”</p>
<p>“He better beat it off. We gotta get another li’l’ bottle.”</p>
<p>Peter listened while the words filtered into his consciousness.</p>
<p>“Now this,” he thought, “is most remarkable.”</p>
<p>He was excited. He was jubilant. He felt that he had stumbled upon a mystery. Affecting an elaborate carelessness he arose and waited around the table⁠—then, turning quickly, pulled open the green door, precipitating Private Rose into the room.</p>
<p>Peter bowed.</p>
<p>“How do you do?” he said.</p>
<p>Private Rose set one foot slightly in front of the other, poised for fight, flight, or compromise.</p>
<p>“How do you do?” repeated Peter politely.</p>
<p>“I’m o’right.”</p>
<p>“Can I offer you a drink?”</p>
<p>Private Rose looked at him searchingly, suspecting possible sarcasm.</p>
<p>“O’right,” he said finally.</p>
<p>Peter indicated a chair.</p>
<p>“Sit down.”</p>
<p>“I got a friend,” said Rose, “I got a friend in there.” He pointed to the green door.</p>
<p>“By all means let’s have him in.”</p>
<p>Peter crossed over, opened the door and welcomed in Private Key, very suspicious and uncertain and guilty. Chairs were found and the three took their seats around the punch bowl. Peter gave them each a highball and offered them a cigarette from his case. They accepted both with some diffidence.</p>
<p>“Now,” continued Peter easily, “may I ask why you gentlemen prefer to lounge away your leisure hours in a room which is chiefly furnished, as far as I can see, with scrubbing brushes. And when the human race has progressed to the stage where seventeen thousand chairs are manufactured on every day except Sunday⁠—” he paused. Rose and Key regarded him vacantly. “Will you tell me,” went on Peter, “why you choose to rest yourselves on articles, intended for the transportation of water from one place to another?”</p>
<p>At this point Rose contributed a grunt to the conversation.</p>
<p>“And lastly,” finished Peter, “will you tell me why, when you are in a building beautifully hung with enormous candelabra, you prefer to spend these evening hours under one anemic electric light?”</p>
<p>Rose looked at Key; Key looked at Rose. They laughed; they laughed uproariously; they found it was impossible to look at each other without laughing. But they were not laughing with this man⁠—they were laughing at him. To them a man who talked after this fashion was either raving drunk or raving crazy.</p>
<p>“You are Yale men, I presume,” said Peter, finishing his highball and preparing another.</p>
<p>They laughed again.</p>
<p>“Na-ah.”</p>
<p>“So? I thought perhaps you might be members of that lowly section of the university known as the Sheffield Scientific School.”</p>
<p>“Na-ah.”</p>
<p>“Hm. Well, that’s too bad. No doubt you are Harvard men, anxious to preserve your incognito in this⁠—this paradise of violet blue, as the newspapers say.”</p>
<p>“Na-ah,” said Key scornfully, “we was just waitin’ for somebody.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” exclaimed Peter, rising and filling their glasses, “very interestin’. Had a date with a scrublady, eh?”</p>
<p>They both denied this indignantly.</p>
<p>“It’s all right,” Peter reassured them, “don’t apologize. A scrublady’s as good as any lady in the world. Kipling says ‘Any lady and Judy O’Grady under the skin.’ ”</p>
<p>“Sure,” said Key, winking broadly at Rose.</p>
<p>“My case, for instance,” continued Peter, finishing his glass. “I got a girl up here that’s spoiled. Spoildest darn girl I ever saw. Refused to kiss me; no reason whatsoever. Led me on deliberately to think sure I want to kiss you and then plunk! Threw me over! What’s the younger generation comin’ to?”</p>
<p>“Say tha’s hard luck,” said Key⁠—“that’s awful hard luck.”</p>
<p>“Oh, boy!” said Rose.</p>
<p>“Have another?” said Peter.</p>
<p>“We got in a sort of fight for a while,” said Key after a pause, “but it was too far away.”</p>
<p>“A fight?⁠—tha’s stuff!” said Peter, seating himself unsteadily. “Fight ’em all! I was in the army.”</p>
<p>“This was with a Bolshevik fella.”</p>
<p>“Tha’s stuff!” exclaimed Peter, enthusiastic. “That’s what I say! Kill the Bolshevik! Exterminate ’em!”</p>
<p>“We’re Americuns,” said Rose, implying a sturdy, defiant patriotism.</p>
<p>“Sure,” said Peter. “Greatest race in the world! We’re all Americans! Have another.”</p>
<p>They had another.</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>At one o’clock a special orchestra, special even in a day of special orchestras, arrived at Delmonico’s, and its members, seating themselves arrogantly around the piano, took up the burden of providing music for the Gamma Psi Fraternity. They were headed by a famous flute-player, distinguished throughout New York for his feat of standing on his head and shimmying with his shoulders while he played the latest jazz on his flute. During his performance the lights were extinguished except for the spotlight on the flute-player and another roving beam that threw flickering shadows and changing kaleidoscopic colors over the massed dancers.</p>
<p>Edith had danced herself into that tired, dreamy state habitual only with debutantes, a state equivalent to the glow of a noble soul after several long highballs. Her mind floated vaguely on the bosom of her music; her partners changed with the unreality of phantoms under the colorful shifting dusk, and to her present coma it seemed as if days had passed since the dance began. She had talked on many fragmentary subjects with many men. She had been kissed once and made love to six times. Earlier in the evening different undergraduates had danced with her, but now, like all the more popular girls there, she had her own entourage⁠—that is, half a dozen gallants had singled her out or were alternating her charms with those of some other chosen beauty; they cut in on her in regular, inevitable succession.</p>
<p>Several times she had seen Gordon⁠—he had been sitting a long time on the stairway with his palm to his head, his dull eyes fixed at an infinite spark on the floor before him, very depressed, he looked, and quite drunk⁠—but Edith each time had averted her glance hurriedly. All that seemed long ago; her mind was passive now, her senses were lulled to trance-like sleep; only her feet danced and her voice talked on in hazy sentimental banter.</p>
<p>But Edith was not nearly so tired as to be incapable of moral indignation when Peter Himmel cut in on her, sublimely and happily drunk. She gasped and looked up at him.</p>
<p>“Why, <em>Peter</em>!”</p>
<p>“I’m a li’l’ stewed, Edith.”</p>
<p>“Why, Peter, you’re a <em>peach</em>, you are! Don’t you think it’s a bum way of doing⁠—when you’re with me?”</p>
<p>Then she smiled unwillingly, for he was looking at her with owlish sentimentality varied with a silly spasmodic smile.</p>
<p>“Darlin’ Edith,” he began earnestly, “you know I love you, don’t you?”</p>
<p>“You tell it well.”</p>
<p>“I love you⁠—and I merely wanted you to kiss me,” he added sadly.</p>
<p>His embarrassment, his shame, were both gone. She was a mos’ beautiful girl in whole worl’. Mos’ beautiful eyes, like stars above. He wanted to ’pologize⁠—firs’, for presuming try to kiss her; second, for drinking⁠—but he’d been so discouraged ’cause he had thought she was mad at him⁠—</p>
<p>The red-fat man cut in, and looking up at Edith smiled radiantly.</p>
<p>“Did you bring any one?” she asked.</p>
<p>No. The red-fat man was a stag.</p>
<p>“Well, would you mind⁠—would it be an awful bother for you to⁠—to take me home tonight?” (this extreme diffidence was a charming affectation on Edith’s part⁠—she knew that the red-fat man would immediately dissolve into a paroxysm of delight).</p>
<p>“Bother? Why, good Lord, I’d be darn glad to! You know I’d be darn glad to.”</p>
<p>“Thanks <em>loads</em>! You’re awfully sweet.”</p>
<p>She glanced at her wristwatch. It was half-past one. And, as she said “half-past one” to herself, it floated vaguely into her mind that her brother had told her at luncheon that he worked in the office of his newspaper until after one-thirty every evening.</p>
<p>Edith turned suddenly to her current partner.</p>
<p>“What street is Delmonico’s on, anyway?”</p>
<p>“Street? Oh, why Fifth Avenue, of course.”</p>
<p>“I mean, what cross street?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—let’s see⁠—it’s on Forty-fourth Street.”</p>
<p>This verified what she had thought. Henry’s office must be across the street and just around the corner, and it occurred to her immediately that she might slip over for a moment and surprise him, float in on him, a shimmering marvel in her new crimson opera cloak and “cheer him up.” It was exactly the sort of thing Edith revelled in doing⁠—an unconventional, jaunty thing. The idea reached out and gripped at her imagination⁠—after an instant’s hesitation she had decided.</p>
<p>“My hair is just about to tumble entirely down,” she said pleasantly to her partner; “would you mind if I go and fix it?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>“You’re a peach.”</p>
<p>A few minutes later, wrapped in her crimson opera cloak, she flitted down a side-stairs, her cheeks glowing with excitement at her little adventure. She ran by a couple who stood at the door⁠—a weak-chinned waiter and an overrouged young lady, in hot dispute⁠—and opening the outer door stepped into the warm May night.</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h3>
<p>The overrouged young lady followed her with a brief, bitter glance⁠—then turned again to the weak-chinned waiter and took up her argument.</p>
<p>“You better go up and tell him I’m here,” she said defiantly, “or I’ll go up myself.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t!” said George sternly.</p>
<p>The girl smiled sardonically.</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Well, let me tell you I know more college fellas and more of ’em know me, and are glad to take me out on a party, than you ever saw in your whole life.”</p>
<p>“Maybe so⁠—”</p>
<p>“Maybe so,” she interrupted. “Oh, it’s all right for any of ’em like that one that just ran out⁠—God knows where <em>she</em> went⁠—it’s all right for them that are asked here to come or go as they like⁠—but when I want to see a friend they have some cheap, ham-slinging, bring-me-a-doughnut waiter to stand here and keep me out.”</p>
<p>“See here,” said the elder Key indignantly, “I can’t lose my job. Maybe this fella you’re talkin’ about doesn’t want to see you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, he wants to see me all right.”</p>
<p>“Anyways, how could I find him in all that crowd?”</p>
<p>“Oh, he’ll be there,” she asserted confidently. “You just ask anybody for Gordon Sterrett and they’ll point him out to you. They all know each other, those fellas.”</p>
<p>She produced a mesh bag, and taking out a dollar bill handed it to George.</p>
<p>“Here,” she said, “here’s a bribe. You find him and give him my message. You tell him if he isn’t here in five minutes I’m coming up.”</p>
<p>George shook his head pessimistically, considered the question for a moment, wavered violently, and then withdrew.</p>
<p>In less than the allotted time Gordon came downstairs. He was drunker than he had been earlier in the evening and in a different way. The liquor seemed to have hardened on him like a crust. He was heavy and lurching⁠—almost incoherent when he talked.</p>
<p>“ ’Lo, Jewel,” he said thickly. “Came right away, Jewel, I couldn’t get that money. Tried my best.”</p>
<p>“Money nothing!” she snapped. “You haven’t been near me for ten days. What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>He shook his head slowly.</p>
<p>“Been very low, Jewel. Been sick.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you tell me if you were sick. I don’t care about the money that bad. I didn’t start bothering you about it at all until you began neglecting me.”</p>
<p>Again he shook his head.</p>
<p>“Haven’t been neglecting you. Not at all.”</p>
<p>“Haven’t! You haven’t been near me for three weeks, unless you been so drunk you didn’t know what you were doing.”</p>
<p>“Been sick, Jewel,” he repeated, turning his eyes upon her wearily.</p>
<p>“You’re well enough to come and play with your society friends here all right. You told me you’d meet me for dinner, and you said you’d have some money for me. You didn’t even bother to ring me up.”</p>
<p>“I couldn’t get any money.”</p>
<p>“Haven’t I just been saying that doesn’t matter? I wanted to see <em>you</em>, Gordon, but you seem to prefer your somebody else.”</p>
<p>He denied this bitterly.</p>
<p>“Then get your hat and come along,” she suggested. Gordon hesitated⁠—and she came suddenly close to him and slipped her arms around his neck.</p>
<p>“Come on with me, Gordon,” she said in a half whisper. “We’ll go over to Devineries’ and have a drink, and then we can go up to my apartment.”</p>
<p>“I can’t, Jewel⁠—”</p>
<p>“You can,” she said intensely.</p>
<p>“I’m sick as a dog!”</p>
<p>“Well, then, you oughtn’t to stay here and dance.”</p>
<p>With a glance around him in which relief and despair were mingled, Gordon hesitated; then she suddenly pulled him to her and kissed him with soft, pulpy lips.</p>
<p>“All right,” he said heavily. “I’ll get my hat.”</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-8" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VIII</h3>
<p>When Edith came out into the clear blue of the May night she found the Avenue deserted. The windows of the big shops were dark; over their doors were drawn great iron masks until they were only shadowy tombs of the late day’s splendor. Glancing down toward Forty-second Street she saw a commingled blur of lights from the all-night restaurants. Over on Sixth Avenue the elevated, a flare of fire, roared across the street between the glimmering parallels of light at the station and streaked along into the crisp dark. But at Forty-fourth Street it was very quiet.</p>
<p>Pulling her cloak close about her Edith darted across the Avenue. She started nervously as a solitary man passed her and said in a hoarse whisper⁠—“Where bound, kiddo?” She was reminded of a night in her childhood when she had walked around the block in her pajamas and a dog had howled at her from a mystery-big back yard.</p>
<p>In a minute she had reached her destination, a two-story, comparatively old building on Forty-fourth, in the upper window of which she thankfully detected a wisp of light. It was bright enough outside for her to make out the sign beside the window⁠—the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">New York Trumpet</i>. She stepped inside a dark hall and after a second saw the stairs in the corner.</p>
<p>Then she was in a long, low room furnished with many desks and hung on all sides with file copies of newspapers. There were only two occupants. They were sitting at different ends of the room, each wearing a green eyeshade and writing by a solitary desk light.</p>
<p>For a moment she stood uncertainly in the doorway, and then both men turned around simultaneously and she recognized her brother.</p>
<p>“Why, Edith!” He rose quickly and approached her in surprise, removing his eyeshade. He was tall, lean, and dark, with black, piercing eyes under very thick glasses. They were faraway eyes that seemed always fixed just over the head of the person to whom he was talking.</p>
<p>He put his hands on her arms and kissed her cheek.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he repeated in some alarm.</p>
<p>“I was at a dance across at Delmonico’s, Henry,” she said excitedly, “and I couldn’t resist tearing over to see you.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad you did.” His alertness gave way quickly to a habitual vagueness. “You oughtn’t to be out alone at night though, ought you?”</p>
<p>The man at the other end of the room had been looking at them curiously, but at Henry’s beckoning gesture he approached. He was loosely fat with little twinkling eyes, and, having removed his collar and tie, he gave the impression of a Middle-Western farmer on a Sunday afternoon.</p>
<p>“This is my sister,” said Henry. “She dropped in to see me.”</p>
<p>“How do you do?” said the fat man, smiling. “My name’s Bartholomew, Miss Bradin. I know your brother has forgotten it long ago.”</p>
<p>Edith laughed politely.</p>
<p>“Well,” he continued, “not exactly gorgeous quarters we have here, are they?”</p>
<p>Edith looked around the room.</p>
<p>“They seem very nice,” she replied. “Where do you keep the bombs?”</p>
<p>“The bombs?” repeated Bartholomew, laughing. “That’s pretty good⁠—the bombs. Did you hear her, Henry? She wants to know where we keep the bombs. Say, that’s pretty good.”</p>
<p>Edith swung herself onto a vacant desk and sat dangling her feet over the edge. Her brother took a seat beside her.</p>
<p>“Well,” he asked, absentmindedly, “how do you like New York this trip?”</p>
<p>“Not bad. I’ll be over at the Biltmore with the Hoyts until Sunday. Can’t you come to luncheon tomorrow?”</p>
<p>He thought a moment.</p>
<p>“I’m especially busy,” he objected, “and I hate women in groups.”</p>
<p>“All right,” she agreed, unruffled. “Let’s you and me have luncheon together.”</p>
<p>“Very well.”</p>
<p>“I’ll call for you at twelve.”</p>
<p>Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some parting pleasantry.</p>
<p>“Well”⁠—he began awkwardly.</p>
<p>They both turned to him.</p>
<p>“Well, we⁠—we had an exciting time earlier in the evening.”</p>
<p>The two men exchanged glances.</p>
<p>“You should have come earlier,” continued Bartholomew, somewhat encouraged. “We had a regular vaudeville.”</p>
<p>“Did you really?”</p>
<p>“A serenade,” said Henry. “A lot of soldiers gathered down there in the street and began to yell at the sign.”</p>
<p>“Why?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“Just a crowd,” said Henry, abstractedly. “All crowds have to howl. They didn’t have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they’d probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, “you should have been here.”</p>
<p>He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal, for he turned abruptly and went back to his desk.</p>
<p>“Are the soldiers all set against the Socialists?” demanded Edith of her brother. “I mean do they attack you violently and all that?”</p>
<p>Henry replaced his eyeshade and yawned.</p>
<p>“The human race has come a long way,” he said casually, “but most of us are throwbacks; the soldiers don’t know what they want, or what they hate, or what they like. They’re used to acting in large bodies, and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be against us. There’ve been riots all over the city tonight. It’s May Day, you see.”</p>
<p>“Was the disturbance here pretty serious?”</p>
<p>“Not a bit,” he said scornfully. “About twenty-five of them stopped in the street about nine o’clock, and began to bellow at the moon.”</p>
<p>“Oh”⁠—She changed the subject. “You’re glad to see me, Henry?”</p>
<p>“Why, sure.”</p>
<p>“You don’t seem to be.”</p>
<p>“I am.”</p>
<p>“I suppose you think I’m a⁠—a waster. Sort of the World’s Worst Butterfly.”</p>
<p>Henry laughed.</p>
<p>“Not at all. Have a good time while you’re young. Why? Do I seem like the priggish and earnest youth?”</p>
<p>“No⁠—” she paused,“⁠—but somehow I began thinking how absolutely different the party I’m on is from⁠—from all your purposes. It seems sort of⁠—of incongruous, doesn’t it?⁠—me being at a party like that, and you over here working for a thing that’ll make that sort of party impossible ever any more, if your ideas work.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think of it that way. You’re young, and you’re acting just as you were brought up to act. Go ahead⁠—have a good time?”</p>
<p>Her feet, which had been idly swinging, stopped and her voice dropped a note.</p>
<p>“I wish you’d⁠—you’d come back to Harrisburg and have a good time. Do you feel sure that you’re on the right track⁠—”</p>
<p>“You’re wearing beautiful stockings,” he interrupted. “What on earth are they?”</p>
<p>“They’re embroidered,” she replied, glancing down; “Aren’t they cunning?” She raised her skirts and uncovered slim, silk-sheathed calves. “Or do you disapprove of silk stockings?”</p>
<p>He seemed slightly exasperated, bent his dark eyes on her piercingly.</p>
<p>“Are you trying to make me out as criticizing you in any way, Edith?”</p>
<p>“Not at all⁠—”</p>
<p>She paused. Bartholomew had uttered a grunt. She turned and saw that he had left his desk and was standing at the window.</p>
<p>“What is it?” demanded Henry.</p>
<p>“People,” said Bartholomew, and then after an instant: “Whole jam of them. They’re coming from Sixth Avenue.”</p>
<p>“People?”</p>
<p>The fat man pressed his nose to the pane.</p>
<p>“Soldiers, by God!” he said emphatically. “I had an idea they’d come back.”</p>
<p>Edith jumped to her feet, and running over joined Bartholomew at the window.</p>
<p>“There’s a lot of them!” she cried excitedly. “Come here, Henry!”</p>
<p>Henry readjusted his shade, but kept his seat.</p>
<p>“Hadn’t we better turn out the lights?” suggested Bartholomew.</p>
<p>“No. They’ll go away in a minute.”</p>
<p>“They’re not,” said Edith, peering from the window. “They’re not even thinking of going away. There’s more of them coming. Look⁠—there’s a whole crowd turning the corner of Sixth Avenue.”</p>
<p>By the yellow glow and blue shadows of the street lamp she could see that the sidewalk was crowded with men. They were mostly in uniform, some sober, some enthusiastically drunk, and over the whole swept an incoherent clamor and shouting.</p>
<p>Henry rose, and going to the window exposed himself as a long silhouette against the office lights. Immediately the shouting became a steady yell, and a rattling fusillade of small missiles, corners of tobacco plugs, cigarette-boxes, and even pennies beat against the window. The sounds of the racket now began floating up the stairs as the folding doors revolved.</p>
<p>“They’re coming up!” cried Bartholomew.</p>
<p>Edith turned anxiously to Henry.</p>
<p>“They’re coming up, Henry.”</p>
<p>From downstairs in the lower hall their cries were now quite audible.</p>
<p>“⁠—God damn Socialists!”</p>
<p>“Pro-Germans! Boche-lovers!”</p>
<p>“Second floor, front! Come on!”</p>
<p>“We’ll get the sons⁠—”</p>
<p>The next five minutes passed in a dream. Edith was conscious that the clamor burst suddenly upon the three of them like a cloud of rain, that there was a thunder of many feet on the stairs, that Henry had seized her arm and drawn her back toward the rear of the office. Then the door opened and an overflow of men were forced into the room⁠—not the leaders, but simply those who happened to be in front.</p>
<p>“Hello, Bo!”</p>
<p>“Up late, ain’t you!”</p>
<p>“You an’ your girl. Damn <em>you</em>!”</p>
<p>She noticed that two very drunken soldiers had been forced to the front, where they wobbled fatuously⁠—one of them was short and dark, the other was tall and weak of chin.</p>
<p>Henry stepped forward and raised his hand.</p>
<p>“Friends!” he said.</p>
<p>The clamor faded into a momentary stillness, punctuated with mutterings.</p>
<p>“Friends!” he repeated, his faraway eyes fixed over the heads of the crowd, “you’re injuring no one but yourselves by breaking in here tonight. Do we look like rich men? Do we look like Germans? I ask you in all fairness⁠—”</p>
<p>“Pipe down!”</p>
<p>“I’ll say you do!”</p>
<p>“Say, who’s your lady friend, buddy?”</p>
<p>A man in civilian clothes, who had been pawing over a table, suddenly held up a newspaper.</p>
<p>“Here it is!” he shouted, “They wanted the Germans to win the war!”</p>
<p>A new overflow from the stairs was shouldered in and of a sudden the room was full of men all closing around the pale little group at the back. Edith saw that the tall soldier with the weak chin was still in front. The short dark one had disappeared.</p>
<p>She edged slightly backward, stood close to the open window, through which came a clear breath of cool night air.</p>
<p>Then the room was a riot. She realized that the soldiers were surging forward, glimpsed the fat man swinging a chair over his head⁠—instantly the lights went out and she felt the push of warm bodies under rough cloth, and her ears were full of shouting and trampling and hard breathing.</p>
<p>A figure flashed by her out of nowhere, tottered, was edged sideways, and of a sudden disappeared helplessly out through the open window with a frightened, fragmentary cry that died staccato on the bosom of the clamor. By the faint light streaming from the building backing on the area Edith had a quick impression that it had been the tall soldier with the weak chin.</p>
<p>Anger rose astonishingly in her. She swung her arms wildly, edged blindly toward the thickest of the scuffling. She heard grunts, curses, the muffled impact of fists.</p>
<p>“Henry!” she called frantically, “Henry!”</p>
<p>Then, it was minutes later, she felt suddenly that there were other figures in the room. She heard a voice, deep, bullying, authoritative; she saw yellow rays of light sweeping here and there in the fracas. The cries became more scattered. The scuffling increased and then stopped.</p>
<p>Suddenly the lights were on and the room was full of policemen, clubbing left and right. The deep voice boomed out:</p>
<p>“Here now! Here now! Here now!”</p>
<p>And then:</p>
<p>“Quiet down and get out! Here now!”</p>
<p>The room seemed to empty like a washbowl. A policeman fast-grappled in the corner released his hold on his soldier antagonist and started him with a shove toward the door. The deep voice continued. Edith perceived now that it came from a bull-necked police captain standing near the door.</p>
<p>“Here now! This is no way! One of your own sojers got shoved out of the back window an’ killed hisself!”</p>
<p>“Henry!” called Edith, “Henry!”</p>
<p>She beat wildly with her fists on the back of the man in front of her; she brushed between two others; fought, shrieked, and beat her way to a very pale figure sitting on the floor close to a desk.</p>
<p>“Henry,” she cried passionately, “what’s the matter? What’s the matter? Did they hurt you?”</p>
<p>His eyes were shut. He groaned and then looking up said disgustedly⁠—</p>
<p>“They broke my leg. My God, the fools!”</p>
<p>“Here now!” called the police captain. “Here now! Here now!”</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-9" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IX</h3>
<p>“Childs’, Fifty-ninth Street,” at eight o’clock of any morning differs from its sisters by less than the width of their marble tables or the degree of polish on the frying-pans. You will see there a crowd of poor people with sleep in the corners of their eyes, trying to look straight before them at their food so as not to see the other poor people. But Childs’, Fifty-ninth, four hours earlier is quite unlike any Childs’ restaurant from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. Within its pale but sanitary walls one finds a noisy medley of chorus girls, college boys, debutantes, rakes, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">filles de joie</i>⁠—a not unrepresentative mixture of the gayest of Broadway, and even of Fifth Avenue.</p>
<p>In the early morning of May the second it was unusually full. Over the marble-topped tables were bent the excited faces of flappers whose fathers owned individual villages. They were eating buckwheat cakes and scrambled eggs with relish and gusto, an accomplishment that it would have been utterly impossible for them to repeat in the same place four hours later.</p>
<p>Almost the entire crowd were from the Gamma Psi dance at Delmonico’s except for several chorus girls from a midnight revue who sat at a side table and wished they’d taken off a little more makeup after the show. Here and there a drab, mouse-like figure, desperately out of place, watched the butterflies with a weary, puzzled curiosity. But the drab figure was the exception. This was the morning after May Day, and celebration was still in the air.</p>
<p>Gus Rose, sober but a little dazed, must be classed as one of the drab figures. How he had got himself from Forty-fourth Street to Fifty-ninth Street after the riot was only a hazy half-memory. He had seen the body of Carrol Key put in an ambulance and driven off, and then he had started up town with two or three soldiers. Somewhere between Forty-fourth Street and Fifty-ninth Street the other soldiers had met some women and disappeared. Rose had wandered to Columbus Circle and chosen the gleaming lights of Childs’ to minister to his craving for coffee and doughnuts. He walked in and sat down.</p>
<p>All around him floated airy, inconsequential chatter and high-pitched laughter. At first he failed to understand, but after a puzzled five minutes he realized that this was the aftermath of some gay party. Here and there a restless, hilarious young man wandered fraternally and familiarly between the tables, shaking hands indiscriminately and pausing occasionally for a facetious chat, while excited waiters, bearing cakes and eggs aloft, swore at him silently, and bumped him out of the way. To Rose, seated at the most inconspicuous and least crowded table, the whole scene was a colorful circus of beauty and riotous pleasure.</p>
<p>He became gradually aware, after a few moments, that the couple seated diagonally across from him with their backs to the crowd, were not the least interesting pair in the room. The man was drunk. He wore a dinner coat with a dishevelled tie and shirt swollen by spillings of water and wine. His eyes, dim and bloodshot, roved unnaturally from side to side. His breath came short between his lips.</p>
<p>“He’s been on a spree!” thought Rose.</p>
<p>The woman was almost if not quite sober. She was pretty, with dark eyes and feverish high color, and she kept her active eyes fixed on her companion with the alertness of a hawk. From time to time she would lean and whisper intently to him, and he would answer by inclining his head heavily or by a particularly ghoulish and repellent wink.</p>
<p>Rose scrutinized them dumbly for some minutes until the woman gave him a quick, resentful look; then he shifted his gaze to two of the most conspicuously hilarious of the promenaders who were on a protracted circuit of the tables. To his surprise he recognized in one of them the young man by whom he had been so ludicrously entertained at Delmonico’s. This started him thinking of Key with a vague sentimentality, not unmixed with awe. Key was dead. He had fallen thirty-five feet and split his skull like a cracked coconut.</p>
<p>“He was a darn good guy,” thought Rose mournfully. “He was a darn good guy, o’right. That was awful hard luck about him.”</p>
<p>The two promenaders approached and started down between Rose’s table and the next, addressing friends and strangers alike with jovial familiarity. Suddenly Rose saw the fair-haired one with the prominent teeth stop, look unsteadily at the man and girl opposite, and then begin to move his head disapprovingly from side to side.</p>
<p>The man with the bloodshot eyes looked up.</p>
<p>“Gordy,” said the promenader with the prominent teeth, “Gordy.”</p>
<p>“Hello,” said the man with the stained shirt thickly.</p>
<p>Prominent teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving the woman a glance of aloof condemnation.</p>
<p>“What’d I tell you Gordy?”</p>
<p>Gordon stirred in his seat.</p>
<p>“Go to hell!” he said.</p>
<p>Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to get angry.</p>
<p>“You go way!” she cried fiercely. “You’re drunk, that’s what you are!”</p>
<p>“So’s he,” suggested Dean, staying the motion of his finger and pointing it at Gordon.</p>
<p>Peter Himmel ambled up, owlish now and oratorically inclined.</p>
<p>“Here now,” he began as if called upon to deal with some petty dispute between children. “Wha’s all trouble?”</p>
<p>“You take your friend away,” said Jewel tartly. “He’s bothering us.”</p>
<p>“What’s at?”</p>
<p>“You heard me!” she said shrilly. “I said to take your drunken friend away.”</p>
<p>Her rising voice rang out above the clatter of the restaurant and a waiter came hurrying up.</p>
<p>“You gotta be more quiet!”</p>
<p>“That fella’s drunk,” she cried. “He’s insulting us.”</p>
<p>“<em>Ah‑ha</em>, Gordy,” persisted the accused. “What’d I tell you.” He turned to the waiter. “Gordy an’ I friends. Been tryin’ help him, haven’t I, Gordy?”</p>
<p>Gordy looked up.</p>
<p>“Help me? Hell, no!”</p>
<p>Jewel rose suddenly, and seizing Gordon’s arm assisted him to his feet.</p>
<p>“Come on, Gordy!” she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a half whisper. “Let’s us get out of here. This fella’s got a mean drunk on.”</p>
<p>Gordon allowed himself to be urged to his feet and started toward the door. Jewel turned for a second and addressed the provoker of their flight.</p>
<p>“I know all about <em>you</em>!” she said fiercely. “Nice friend, you are, I’ll say. He told me about you.”</p>
<p>Then she seized Gordon’s arm, and together they made their way through the curious crowd, paid their check, and went out.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to sit down,” said the waiter to Peter after they had gone.</p>
<p>“What’s ’at? Sit down?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—or get out.”</p>
<p>Peter turned to Dean.</p>
<p>“Come on,” he suggested. “Let’s beat up this waiter.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>They advanced toward him, their faces grown stern. The waiter retreated.</p>
<p>Peter suddenly reached over to a plate on the table beside him and picking up a handful of hash tossed it into the air. It descended as a languid parabola in snowflake effect on the heads of those near by.</p>
<p>“Hey! Ease up!”</p>
<p>“Put him out!”</p>
<p>“Sit down, Peter!”</p>
<p>“Cut out that stuff!”</p>
<p>Peter laughed and bowed.</p>
<p>“Thank you for your kind applause, ladies and gents. If someone will lend me some more hash and a tall hat we will go on with the act.”</p>
<p>The bouncer bustled up.</p>
<p>“You’ve gotta get out!” he said to Peter.</p>
<p>“Hell, no!”</p>
<p>“He’s my friend!” put in Dean indignantly.</p>
<p>A crowd of waiters were gathering. “Put him out!”</p>
<p>“Better go, Peter.”</p>
<p>There was a short struggle and the two were edged and pushed toward the door.</p>
<p>“I got a hat and a coat here!” cried Peter.</p>
<p>“Well, go get ’em and be spry about it!”</p>
<p>The bouncer released his hold on Peter, who, adopting a ludicrous air of extreme cunning, rushed immediately around to the other table, where he burst into derisive laughter and thumbed his nose at the exasperated waiters.</p>
<p>“Think I just better wait a l’il longer,” he announced.</p>
<p>The chase began. Four waiters were sent around one way and four another. Dean caught hold of two of them by the coat, and another struggle took place before the pursuit of Peter could be resumed; he was finally pinioned after overturning a sugar-bowl and several cups of coffee. A fresh argument ensued at the cashier’s desk, where Peter attempted to buy another dish of hash to take with him and throw at policemen.</p>
<p>But the commotion upon his exit proper was dwarfed by another phenomenon which drew admiring glances and a prolonged involuntary “<em>Oh‑h‑h!</em>” from every person in the restaurant.</p>
<p>The great plate-glass front had turned to a deep blue, the color of a Maxfield Parrish moonlight⁠—a blue that seemed to press close upon the pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-10" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h3>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out are not listed by the census-taker. You will search for them in vain through the social register or the births, marriages, and deaths, or the grocer’s credit list. Oblivion has swallowed them and the testimony that they ever existed at all is vague and shadowy, and inadmissible in a court of law. Yet I have it upon the best authority that for a brief space <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out lived, breathed, answered to their names and radiated vivid personalities of their own.</p>
<p>During the brief span of their lives they walked in their native garments down the great highway of a great nation; were laughed at, sworn at, chased, and fled from. Then they passed and were heard of no more.</p>
<p>They were already taking form dimly, when a taxi cab with the top open breezed down Broadway in the faintest glimmer of May dawn. In this car sat the souls of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out discussing with amazement the blue light that had so precipitately colored the sky behind the statue of Christopher Columbus, discussing with bewilderment the old, gray faces of the early risers which skimmed palely along the street like blown bits of paper on a gray lake. They were agreed on all things, from the absurdity of the bouncer in Childs’ to the absurdity of the business of life. They were dizzy with the extreme maudlin happiness that the morning had awakened in their glowing souls. Indeed, so fresh and vigorous was their pleasure in living that they felt it should be expressed by loud cries.</p>
<p>“<em>Ye‑ow‑ow!</em>” hooted Peter, making a megaphone with his hands⁠—and Dean joined in with a call that, though equally significant and symbolic, derived its resonance from its very inarticulateness.</p>
<p>“Yo-ho! Yea! Yoho! Yo-buba!”</p>
<p>Fifty-third Street was a bus with a dark, bobbed-hair beauty atop; Fifty-second was a street cleaner who dodged, escaped, and sent up a yell of, “Look where you’re aimin’!” in a pained and grieved voice. At Fiftieth Street a group of men on a very white sidewalk in front of a very white building turned to stare after them, and shouted:</p>
<p>“Some party, boys!”</p>
<p>At Forty-ninth Street Peter turned to Dean. “Beautiful morning,” he said gravely, squinting up his owlish eyes.</p>
<p>“Probably is.”</p>
<p>“Go get some breakfast, hey?”</p>
<p>Dean agreed⁠—with additions.</p>
<p>“Breakfast and liquor.”</p>
<p>“Breakfast and liquor,” repeated Peter, and they looked at each other, nodding. “That’s logical.”</p>
<p>Then they both burst into loud laughter.</p>
<p>“Breakfast and liquor! Oh, gosh!”</p>
<p>“No such thing,” announced Peter.</p>
<p>“Don’t serve it? Ne’mind. We force ’em serve it. Bring pressure bear.”</p>
<p>“Bring logic bear.”</p>
<p>The taxi cut suddenly off Broadway, sailed along a cross street, and stopped in front of a heavy tomb-like building in Fifth Avenue.</p>
<p>“What’s idea?”</p>
<p>The taxi-driver informed them that this was Delmonico’s.</p>
<p>This was somewhat puzzling. They were forced to devote several minutes to intense concentration, for if such an order had been given there must have been a reason for it.</p>
<p>“Somep’m ’bouta coat,” suggested the taxi-man.</p>
<p>That was it. Peter’s overcoat and hat. He had left them at Delmonico’s. Having decided this, they disembarked from the taxi and strolled toward the entrance arm in arm.</p>
<p>“Hey!” said the taxi-driver.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“You better pay me.”</p>
<p>They shook their heads in shocked negation.</p>
<p>“Later, not now⁠—we give orders, you wait.”</p>
<p>The taxi-driver objected; he wanted his money now. With the scornful condescension of men exercising tremendous self-control they paid him.</p>
<p>Inside Peter groped in vain through a dim, deserted checkroom in search of his coat and derby.</p>
<p>“Gone, I guess. Somebody stole it.”</p>
<p>“Some Sheff student.”</p>
<p>“All probability.”</p>
<p>“Never mind,” said Dean, nobly. “I’ll leave mine here too⁠—then we’ll both be dressed the same.”</p>
<p>He removed his overcoat and hat and was hanging them up when his roving glance was caught and held magnetically by two large squares of cardboard tacked to the two coatroom doors. The one on the left-hand door bore the word “In” in big black letters, and the one on the right-hand door flaunted the equally emphatic word “Out.”</p>
<p>“Look!” he exclaimed happily⁠—</p>
<p>Peter’s eyes followed his pointing finger.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Look at the signs. Let’s take ’em.”</p>
<p>“Good idea.”</p>
<p>“Probably pair very rare an’ valuable signs. Probably come in handy.”</p>
<p>Peter removed the left-hand sign from the door and endeavored to conceal it about his person. The sign being of considerable proportions, this was a matter of some difficulty. An idea flung itself at him, and with an air of dignified mystery he turned his back. After an instant he wheeled dramatically around, and stretching out his arms displayed himself to the admiring Dean. He had inserted the sign in his vest, completely covering his shirt front. In effect, the word “In” had been painted upon his shirt in large black letters.</p>
<p>“Yoho!” cheered Dean. “Mister In.”</p>
<p>He inserted his own sign in like manner.</p>
<p>“Mister Out!” he announced triumphantly. “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In meet <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.”</p>
<p>They advanced and shook hands. Again laughter overcame them and they rocked in a shaken spasm of mirth.</p>
<p>“Yoho!”</p>
<p>“We probably get a flock of breakfast.”</p>
<p>“We’ll go⁠—go to the Commodore.”</p>
<p>Arm in arm they sallied out the door, and turning east in Forty-fourth Street set out for the Commodore.</p>
<p>As they came out a short dark soldier, very pale and tired, who had been wandering listlessly along the sidewalk, turned to look at them.</p>
<p>He started over as though to address them, but as they immediately bent on him glances of withering unrecognition, he waited until they had started unsteadily down the street, and then followed at about forty paces, chuckling to himself and saying, “Oh, boy!” over and over under his breath, in delighted, anticipatory tones.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out were meanwhile exchanging pleasantries concerning their future plans.</p>
<p>“We want liquor; we want breakfast. Neither without the other. One and indivisible.”</p>
<p>“We want both ’em!”</p>
<p>“Both ’em!”</p>
<p>It was quite light now, and passersby began to bend curious eyes on the pair. Obviously they were engaged in a discussion, which afforded each of them intense amusement, for occasionally a fit of laughter would seize upon them so violently that, still with their arms interlocked, they would bend nearly double.</p>
<p>Reaching the Commodore, they exchanged a few spicy epigrams with the sleepy-eyed doorman, navigated the revolving door with some difficulty, and then made their way through a thinly populated but startled lobby to the dining-room, where a puzzled waiter showed them an obscure table in a corner. They studied the bill of fare helplessly, telling over the items to each other in puzzled mumbles.</p>
<p>“Don’t see any liquor here,” said Peter reproachfully.</p>
<p>The waiter became audible but unintelligible.</p>
<p>“Repeat,” continued Peter, with patient tolerance, “that there seems to be unexplained and quite distasteful lack of liquor upon bill of fare.”</p>
<p>“Here!” said Dean confidently, “let me handle him.” He turned to the waiter⁠—“Bring us⁠—bring us⁠—” he scanned the bill of fare anxiously. “Bring us a quart of champagne and a⁠—a⁠—probably ham sandwich.”</p>
<p>The waiter looked doubtful.</p>
<p>“Bring it!” roared <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out in chorus.</p>
<p>The waiter coughed and disappeared. There was a short wait during which they were subjected without their knowledge to a careful scrutiny by the headwaiter. Then the champagne arrived, and at the sight of it <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out became jubilant.</p>
<p>“Imagine their objecting to us having, champagne for breakfast⁠—jus’ imagine.”</p>
<p>They both concentrated upon the vision of such an awesome possibility, but the feat was too much for them. It was impossible for their joint imaginations to conjure up a world where anyone might object to anyone else having champagne for breakfast. The waiter drew the cork with an enormous <em>pop</em> and their glasses immediately foamed with pale yellow froth.</p>
<p>“Here’s health, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In.”</p>
<p>“Here’s same to you, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.”</p>
<p>The waiter withdrew; the minutes passed; the champagne became low in the bottle.</p>
<p>“It’s⁠—it’s mortifying,” said Dean suddenly.</p>
<p>“Wha’s mortifying?”</p>
<p>“The idea their objecting us having champagne breakfast.”</p>
<p>“Mortifying?” Peter considered. “Yes, tha’s word⁠—mortifying.”</p>
<p>Again they collapsed into laughter, howled, swayed, rocked back and forth in their chairs, repeating the word “mortifying” over and over to each other⁠—each repetition seeming to make it only more brilliantly absurd.</p>
<p>After a few more gorgeous minutes they decided on another quart. Their anxious waiter consulted his immediate superior, and this discreet person gave implicit instructions that no more champagne should be served. Their check was brought.</p>
<p>Five minutes later, arm in arm, they left the Commodore and made their way through a curious, staring crowd along Forty-second Street, and up Vanderbilt Avenue to the Biltmore. There, with sudden cunning, they rose to the occasion and traversed the lobby, walking fast and standing unnaturally erect.</p>
<p>Once in the dining-room they repeated their performance. They were torn between intermittent convulsive laughter and sudden spasmodic discussions of politics, college, and the sunny state of their dispositions. Their watches told them that it was now nine o’clock, and a dim idea was born in them that they were on a memorable party, something that they would remember always. They lingered over the second bottle. Either of them had only to mention the word “mortifying” to send them both into riotous gasps. The dining-room was whirring and shifting now; a curious lightness permeated and rarefied the heavy air.</p>
<p>They paid their check and walked out into the lobby.</p>
<p>It was at this moment that the exterior doors revolved for the thousandth time that morning, and admitted into the lobby a very pale young beauty with dark circles under her eyes, attired in a much-rumpled evening dress. She was accompanied by a plain stout man, obviously not an appropriate escort.</p>
<p>At the top of the stairs this couple encountered <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.</p>
<p>“Edith,” began <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In, stepping toward her hilariously and making a sweeping bow, “darling, good morning.”</p>
<p>The stout man glanced questioningly at Edith, as if merely asking her permission to throw this man summarily out of the way.</p>
<p>“ ’Scuse familiarity,” added Peter, as an afterthought. “Edith, good morning.”</p>
<p>He seized Dean’s elbow and impelled him into the foreground.</p>
<p>“Meet <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In, Edith, my bes’ frien’. Inseparable. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out advanced and bowed; in fact, he advanced so far and bowed so low that he tipped slightly forward and only kept his balance by placing a hand lightly on Edith’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“I’m <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out, Edith,” he mumbled pleasantly. “S’misterin Misterout.”</p>
<p>“ ’Smisterinanout,” said Peter proudly.</p>
<p>But Edith stared straight by them, her eyes fixed on some infinite speck in the gallery above her. She nodded slightly to the stout man, who advanced bull-like and with a sturdy brisk gesture pushed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out to either side. Through this alley he and Edith walked.</p>
<p>But ten paces farther on Edith stopped again⁠—stopped and pointed to a short, dark soldier who was eying the crowd in general, and the tableau of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out in particular, with a sort of puzzled, spellbound awe.</p>
<p>“There,” cried Edith. “See there!”</p>
<p>Her voice rose, became somewhat shrill. Her pointing finger shook slightly.</p>
<p>“There’s the soldier who broke my brother’s leg.”</p>
<p>There were a dozen exclamations; a man in a cutaway coat left his place near the desk and advanced alertly; the stout person made a sort of lightning-like spring toward the short, dark soldier, and then the lobby closed around the little group and blotted them from the sight of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.</p>
<p>But to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out this event was merely a parti-colored iridescent segment of a whirring, spinning world.</p>
<p>They heard loud voices; they saw the stout man spring; the picture suddenly blurred.</p>
<p>Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.</p>
<p>“What floor, please?” said the elevator man.</p>
<p>“Any floor,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In.</p>
<p>“Top floor,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.</p>
<p>“This is the top floor,” said the elevator man.</p>
<p>“Have another floor put on,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.</p>
<p>“Higher,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> In.</p>
<p>“Heaven,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Out.</p>
</section>
<section id="may-day-11" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h3>
<p>In a bedroom of a small hotel just off Sixth Avenue Gordon Sterrett awoke with a pain in the back of his head and a sick throbbing in all his veins. He looked at the dusky gray shadows in the corners of the room and at a raw place on a large leather chair in the corner where it had long been in use. He saw clothes, dishevelled, rumpled clothes on the floor and he smelt stale cigarette smoke and stale liquor. The windows were tight shut. Outside the bright sunlight had thrown a dust-filled beam across the sill⁠—a beam broken by the head of the wide wooden bed in which he had slept. He lay very quiet⁠—comatose, drugged, his eyes wide, his mind clicking wildly like an unoiled machine.</p>
<p>It must have been thirty seconds after he perceived the sunbeam with the dust on it and the rip on the large leather chair that he had the sense of life close beside him, and it was another thirty seconds after that before that he realized that he was irrevocably married to Jewel Hudson.</p>
<p>He went out half an hour later and bought a revolver at a sporting goods store. Then he took a taxi to the room where he had been living on East Twenty-seventh Street, and, leaning across the table that held his drawing materials, fired a cartridge into his head just behind the temple.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-jelly-bean" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Jelly-Bean</h2>
<section id="the-jelly-bean-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Jim Powell was a Jelly-bean. Much as I desire to make him an appealing character, I feel that it would be unscrupulous to deceive you on that point. He was a bred-in-the-bone, dyed-in-the-wool, ninety-nine three-quarters percent Jelly-bean and he grew lazily all during Jelly-bean season, which is every season, down in the land of the Jelly-beans well below the Mason-Dixon line.</p>
<p>Now if you call a Memphis man a Jelly-bean he will quite possibly pull a long sinewy rope from his hip pocket and hang you to a convenient telegraph-pole. If you call a New Orleans man a Jelly-bean he will probably grin and ask you who is taking your girl to the Mardi Gras ball. The particular Jelly-bean patch which produced the protagonist of this history lies somewhere between the two⁠—a little city of forty thousand that has dozed sleepily for forty thousand years in southern Georgia, occasionally stirring in its slumbers and muttering something about a war that took place sometime, somewhere, and that everyone else has forgotten long ago.</p>
<p>Jim was a Jelly-bean. I write that again because it has such a pleasant sound⁠—rather like the beginning of a fairy story⁠—as if Jim were nice. It somehow gives me a picture of him with a round, appetizing face and all sort of leaves and vegetables growing out of his cap. But Jim was long and thin and bent at the waist from stooping over pool-tables, and he was what might have been known in the indiscriminating North as a corner loafer. “Jelly-bean” is the name throughout the undissolved Confederacy for one who spends his life conjugating the verb to idle in the first person singular⁠—I am idling, I have idled, I will idle.</p>
<p>Jim was born in a white house on a green corner. It had four weather-beaten pillars in front and a great amount of latticework in the rear that made a cheerful crisscross background for a flowery sun-drenched lawn. Originally the dwellers in the white house had owned the ground next door and next door to that and next door to that, but this had been so long ago that even Jim’s father scarcely remembered it. He had, in fact, thought it a matter of so little moment that when he was dying from a pistol wound got in a brawl he neglected even to tell little Jim, who was five years old and miserably frightened. The white house became a boardinghouse run by a tight-lipped lady from Macon, whom Jim called Aunt Mamie and detested with all his soul.</p>
<p>He became fifteen, went to high school, wore his hair in black snarls, and was afraid of girls. He hated his home where four women and one old man prolonged an interminable chatter from summer to summer about what lots the Powell place had originally included and what sorts of flowers would be out next. Sometimes the parents of little girls in town, remembering Jim’s mother and fancying a resemblance in the dark eyes and hair, invited him to parties, but parties made him shy and he much preferred sitting on a disconnected axle in Tilly’s Garage, rolling the bones or exploring his mouth endlessly with a long straw. For pocket money, he picked up odd jobs, and it was due to this that he stopped going to parties. At his third party little Marjorie Haight had whispered indiscreetly and within hearing distance that he was a boy who brought the groceries sometimes. So instead of the two-step and polka, Jim had learned to throw any number he desired on the dice and had listened to spicy tales of all the shootings that had occurred in the surrounding country during the past fifty years.</p>
<p>He became eighteen. The war broke out and he enlisted as a gob and polished brass in the Charleston Navy-yard for a year. Then, by way of variety, he went North and polished brass in the Brooklyn Navy-yard for a year.</p>
<p>When the war was over he came home. He was twenty-one, his trousers were too short and too tight. His buttoned shoes were long and narrow. His tie was an alarming conspiracy of purple and pink marvellously scrolled, and over it were two blue eyes faded like a piece of very good old cloth long exposed to the sun.</p>
<p>In the twilight of one April evening when a soft gray had drifted down along the cottonfields and over the sultry town, he was a vague figure leaning against a board fence, whistling and gazing at the moon’s rim above the lights of Jackson Street. His mind was working persistently on a problem that had held his attention for an hour. The Jelly-bean had been invited to a party.</p>
<p>Back in the days when all the boys had detested all the girls, Clark Darrow and Jim had sat side by side in school. But, while Jim’s social aspirations had died in the oily air of the garage, Clark had alternately fallen in and out of love, gone to college, taken to drink, given it up, and, in short, become one of the best beaux of the town. Nevertheless Clark and Jim had retained a friendship that, though casual, was perfectly definite. That afternoon Clark’s ancient Ford had slowed up beside Jim, who was on the sidewalk and, out of a clear sky, Clark invited him to a party at the country club. The impulse that made him do this was no stranger than the impulse which made Jim accept. The latter was probably an unconscious ennui, a half-frightened sense of adventure. And now Jim was soberly thinking it over.</p>
<p>He began to sing, drumming his long foot idly on a stone block in the sidewalk till it wobbled up and down in time to the low throaty tune:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>One smile from Home in Jelly-bean town,</span>
<br/>
<span>Lives Jeanne, the Jelly-bean Queen.</span>
<br/>
<span>She loves her dice and treats ’em nice;</span>
<br/>
<span>No dice would treat her mean.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He broke off and agitated the sidewalk to a bumpy gallop.</p>
<p>“Daggone!” he muttered, half aloud. They would all be there⁠—the old crowd, the crowd to which, by right of the white house, sold long since, and the portrait of the officer in gray over the mantel, Jim should have belonged. But that crowd had grown up together into a tight little set as gradually as the girls’ dresses had lengthened inch by inch, as definitely as the boys’ trousers had dropped suddenly to their ankles. And to that society of first names and dead puppy loves Jim was an outsider⁠—a running mate of poor whites. Most of the men knew him, condescendingly; he tipped his hat to three or four girls. That was all.</p>
<p>When the dusk had thickened into a blue setting for the moon, he walked through the hot, pleasantly pungent town to Jackson Street. The stores were closing and the last shoppers were drifting homeward, as if borne on the dreamy revolution of a slow merry-go-round. A street-fair farther down made a brilliant alley of varicolored booths and contributed a blend of music to the night⁠—an oriental dance on a calliope, a melancholy bugle in front of a freak show, a cheerful rendition of “Back Home in Tennessee” on a hand-organ.</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean stopped in a store and bought a collar. Then he sauntered along toward Soda Sam’s, where he found the usual three or four cars of a summer evening parked in front and the little darkies running back and forth with sundaes and lemonades.</p>
<p>“Hello, Jim.”</p>
<p>It was a voice at his elbow⁠—Joe Ewing sitting in an automobile with Marylyn Wade. Nancy Lamar and a strange man were in the back seat.</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean tipped his hat quickly.</p>
<p>“Hi, Ben⁠—” then, after an almost imperceptible pause⁠—“How y’ all?”</p>
<p>Passing, he ambled on toward the garage where he had a room upstairs. His “How y’all” had been said to Nancy Lamar, to whom he had not spoken in fifteen years.</p>
<p>Nancy had a mouth like a remembered kiss and shadowy eyes and blue-black hair inherited from her mother who had been born in Budapest. Jim passed her often on the street, walking small-boy fashion with her hands in her pockets and he knew that with her inseparable Sally Carrol Hopper she had left a trail of broken hearts from Atlanta to New Orleans.</p>
<p>For a few fleeting moments Jim wished he could dance. Then he laughed and as he reached his door began to sing softly to himself:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>Her Jelly Roll can twist your soul,</span>
<br/>
<span>Her eyes are big and brown,</span>
<br/>
<span>She’s the Queen of the Queens of the Jelly-beans⁠—</span>
<br/>
<span>My Jeanne of Jelly-bean Town.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
</section>
<section id="the-jelly-bean-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>At nine-thirty, Jim and Clark met in front of Soda Sam’s and started for the Country Club in Clark’s Ford. “Jim,” asked Clark casually, as they rattled through the jasmine-scented night, “how do you keep alive?”</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean paused, considered.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said finally, “I got a room over Tilly’s garage. I help him some with the cars in the afternoon an’ he gives it to me free. Sometimes I drive one of his taxies and pick up a little thataway. I get fed up doin’ that regular though.”</p>
<p>“That all?”</p>
<p>“Well, when there’s a lot of work I help him by the day⁠—Saturdays usually⁠—and then there’s one main source of revenue I don’t generally mention. Maybe you don’t recollect I’m about the champion crapshooter of this town. They make me shoot from a cup now because once I get the feel of a pair of dice they just roll for me.”</p>
<p>Clark grinned appreciatively.</p>
<p>“I never could learn to set ’em so’s they’d do what I wanted. Wish you’d shoot with Nancy Lamar some day and take all her money away from her. She will roll ’em with the boys and she loses more than her daddy can afford to give her. I happen to know she sold a good ring last month to pay a debt.”</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean was noncommittal.</p>
<p>“The white house on Elm Street still belong to you?”</p>
<p>Jim shook his head.</p>
<p>“Sold. Got a pretty good price, seein’ it wasn’t in a good part of town no more. Lawyer told me to put it into Liberty bonds. But Aunt Mamie got so she didn’t have no sense, so it takes all the interest to keep her up at Great Farms Sanitarium.</p>
<p>“Hm.”</p>
<p>“I got an old uncle upstate an’ I reckin I kin go up there if ever I get sure enough pore. Nice farm, but not enough niggers around to work it. He’s asked me to come up and help him, but I don’t guess I’d take much to it. Too doggone lonesome⁠—” He broke off suddenly. “Clark, I want to tell you I’m much obliged to you for askin’ me out, but I’d be a lot happier if you’d just stop the car right here an’ let me walk back into town.”</p>
<p>“Shucks!” Clark grunted. “Do you good to step out. You don’t have to dance⁠—just get out there on the floor and shake.”</p>
<p>“Hold on,” exclaimed Jim uneasily, “Don’t you go leadin’ me up to any girls and leavin’ me there so I’ll have to dance with ’em.”</p>
<p>Clark laughed.</p>
<p>“ ’Cause,” continued Jim desperately, “without you swear you won’t do that I’m agoin’ to get out right here an’ my good legs goin’ carry me back to Jackson street.”</p>
<p>They agreed after some argument that Jim, unmolested by females, was to view the spectacle from a secluded settee in the corner where Clark would join him whenever he wasn’t dancing.</p>
<p>So ten o’clock found the Jelly-bean with his legs crossed and his arms conservatively folded, trying to look casually at home and politely uninterested in the dancers. At heart he was torn between overwhelming self-consciousness and an intense curiosity as to all that went on around him. He saw the girls emerge one by one from the dressing-room, stretching and pluming themselves like bright birds, smiling over their powdered shoulders at the chaperones, casting a quick glance around to take in the room and, simultaneously, the room’s reaction to their entrance⁠—and then, again like birds, alighting and nestling in the sober arms of their waiting escorts. Sally Carrol Hopper, blonde and lazy-eyed, appeared clad in her favorite pink and blinking like an awakened rose. Marjorie Haight, Marylyn Wade, Harriet Cary, all the girls he had seen loitering down Jackson Street by noon, now, curled and brilliantined and delicately tinted for the overhead lights, were miraculously strange Dresden figures of pink and blue and red and gold, fresh from the shop and not yet fully dried.</p>
<p>He had been there half an hour, totally uncheered by Clark’s jovial visits which were each one accompanied by a “Hello, old boy, how you making out?” and a slap at his knee. A dozen males had spoken to him or stopped for a moment beside him, but he knew that they were each one surprised at finding him there and fancied that one or two were even slightly resentful. But at half past ten his embarrassment suddenly left him and a pull of breathless interest took him completely out of himself⁠—Nancy Lamar had come out of the dressing-room.</p>
<p>She was dressed in yellow organdie, a costume of a hundred cool corners, with three tiers of ruffles and a big bow in back until she shed black and yellow around her in a sort of phosphorescent lustre. The Jelly-bean’s eyes opened wide and a lump arose in his throat. For she stood beside the door until her partner hurried up. Jim recognized him as the stranger who had been with her in Joe Ewing’s car that afternoon. He saw her set her arms akimbo and say something in a low voice, and laugh. The man laughed too and Jim experienced the quick pang of a weird new kind of pain. Some ray had passed between the pair, a shaft of beauty from that sun that had warmed him a moment since. The Jelly-bean felt suddenly like a weed in a shadow.</p>
<p>A minute later Clark approached him, bright-eyed and glowing.</p>
<p>“Hi, old man,” he cried with some lack of originality. “How you making out?”</p>
<p>Jim replied that he was making out as well as could be expected.</p>
<p>“You come along with me,” commanded Clark. “I’ve got something that’ll put an edge on the evening.”</p>
<p>Jim followed him awkwardly across the floor and up the stairs to the locker-room where Clark produced a flask of nameless yellow liquid.</p>
<p>“Good old corn.”</p>
<p>Ginger ale arrived on a tray. Such potent nectar as “good old corn” needed some disguise beyond seltzer.</p>
<p>“Say, boy,” exclaimed Clark breathlessly, “doesn’t Nancy Lamar look beautiful?”</p>
<p>Jim nodded.</p>
<p>“Mighty beautiful,” he agreed.</p>
<p>“She’s all dolled up to a fare-you-well tonight,” continued Clark. “Notice that fellow she’s with?”</p>
<p>“Big fella? White pants?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Well, that’s Ogden Merritt from Savannah. Old man Merritt makes the Merritt safety razors. This fella’s crazy about her. Been chasing after her all year.</p>
<p>“She’s a wild baby,” continued Clark, “but I like her. So does everybody. But she sure does do crazy stunts. She usually gets out alive, but she’s got scars all over her reputation from one thing or another she’s done.”</p>
<p>“That so?” Jim passed over his glass. “That’s good corn.”</p>
<p>“Not so bad. Oh, she’s a wild one. Shoot craps, say, boy! And she do like her highballs. Promised I’d give her one later on.”</p>
<p>“She in love with this⁠—Merritt?”</p>
<p>“Damned if I know. Seems like all the best girls around here marry fellas and go off somewhere.”</p>
<p>He poured himself one more drink and carefully corked the bottle.</p>
<p>“Listen, Jim, I got to go dance and I’d be much obliged if you just stick this corn right on your hip as long as you’re not dancing. If a man notices I’ve had a drink he’ll come up and ask me and before I know it it’s all gone and somebody else is having my good time.”</p>
<p>So Nancy Lamar was going to marry. This toast of a town was to become the private property of an individual in white trousers⁠—and all because white trousers’ father had made a better razor than his neighbor. As they descended the stairs Jim found the idea inexplicably depressing. For the first time in his life he felt a vague and romantic yearning. A picture of her began to form in his imagination⁠—Nancy walking boylike and debonnaire along the street, taking an orange as tithe from a worshipful fruit-dealer, charging a dope on a mythical account at Soda Sam’s, assembling a convoy of beaux and then driving off in triumphal state for an afternoon of splashing and singing.</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean walked out on the porch to a deserted corner, dark between the moon on the lawn and the single lighted door of the ballroom. There he found a chair and, lighting a cigarette, drifted into the thoughtless reverie that was his usual mood. Yet now it was a reverie made sensuous by the night and by the hot smell of damp powder puffs, tucked in the fronts of low dresses and distilling a thousand rich scents, to float out through the open door. The music itself, blurred by a loud trombone, became hot and shadowy, a languorous overtone to the scraping of many shoes and slippers.</p>
<p>Suddenly the square of yellow light that fell through the door was obscured by a dark figure. A girl had come out of the dressing-room and was standing on the porch not more than ten feet away. Jim heard a low-breathed “doggone” and then she turned and saw him. It was Nancy Lamar.</p>
<p>Jim rose to his feet.</p>
<p>“Howdy?”</p>
<p>“Hello⁠—” she paused, hesitated and then approached. “Oh, it’s⁠—Jim Powell.”</p>
<p>He bowed slightly, tried to think of a casual remark.</p>
<p>“Do you suppose,” she began quickly, “I mean⁠—do you know anything about gum?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I’ve got gum on my shoe. Some utter ass left his or her gum on the floor and of course I stepped in it.”</p>
<p>Jim blushed, inappropriately.</p>
<p>“Do you know how to get it off?” she demanded petulantly. “I’ve tried a knife. I’ve tried every damn thing in the dressing-room. I’ve tried soap and water⁠—and even perfume and I’ve ruined my powder-puff trying to make it stick to that.”</p>
<p>Jim considered the question in some agitation.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—I think maybe gasolene⁠—”</p>
<p>The words had scarcely left his lips when she grasped his hand and pulled him at a run off the low veranda, over a flower bed and at a gallop toward a group of cars parked in the moonlight by the first hole of the golf course.</p>
<p>“Turn on the gasolene,” she commanded breathlessly.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“For the gum of course. I’ve got to get it off. I can’t dance with gum on.”</p>
<p>Obediently Jim turned to the cars and began inspecting them with a view to obtaining the desired solvent. Had she demanded a cylinder he would have done his best to wrench one out.</p>
<p>“Here,” he said after a moment’s search. “Here’s one that’s easy. Got a handkerchief?”</p>
<p>“It’s upstairs wet. I used it for the soap and water.”</p>
<p>Jim laboriously explored his pockets.</p>
<p>“Don’t believe I got one either.”</p>
<p>“Doggone it! Well, we can turn it on and let it run on the ground.”</p>
<p>He turned the spout; a dripping began.</p>
<p>“More!”</p>
<p>He turned it on fuller. The dripping became a flow and formed an oily pool that glistened brightly, reflecting a dozen tremulous moons on its quivering bosom.</p>
<p>“Ah,” she sighed contentedly, “let it all out. The only thing to do is to wade in it.”</p>
<p>In desperation he turned on the tap full and the pool suddenly widened sending tiny rivers and trickles in all directions.</p>
<p>“That’s fine. That’s something like.”</p>
<p>Raising her skirts she stepped gracefully in.</p>
<p>“I know this’ll take it off,” she murmured.</p>
<p>Jim smiled.</p>
<p>“There’s lots more cars.”</p>
<p>She stepped daintily out of the gasolene and began scraping her slippers, side and bottom, on the running-board of the automobile. The jelly-bean contained himself no longer. He bent double with explosive laughter and after a second she joined in.</p>
<p>“You’re here with Clark Darrow, aren’t you?” she asked as they walked back toward the veranda.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“You know where he is now?”</p>
<p>“Out dancin’, I reckin.”</p>
<p>“The deuce. He promised me a highball.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Jim, “I guess that’ll be all right. I got his bottle right here in my pocket.”</p>
<p>She smiled at him radiantly.</p>
<p>“I guess maybe you’ll need ginger ale though,” he added.</p>
<p>“Not me. Just the bottle.”</p>
<p>“Sure enough?”</p>
<p>She laughed scornfully.</p>
<p>“Try me. I can drink anything any man can. Let’s sit down.”</p>
<p>She perched herself on the side of a table and he dropped into one of the wicker chairs beside her. Taking out the cork she held the flask to her lips and took a long drink. He watched her fascinated.</p>
<p>“Like it?”</p>
<p>She shook her head breathlessly.</p>
<p>“No, but I like the way it makes me feel. I think most people are that way.”</p>
<p>Jim agreed.</p>
<p>“My daddy liked it too well. It got him.”</p>
<p>“American men,” said Nancy gravely, “don’t know how to drink.”</p>
<p>“What?” Jim was startled.</p>
<p>“In fact,” she went on carelessly, “they don’t know how to do anything very well. The one thing I regret in my life is that I wasn’t born in England.”</p>
<p>“In England?”</p>
<p>“Yes. It’s the one regret of my life that I wasn’t.”</p>
<p>“Do you like it over there?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Immensely. I’ve never been there in person, but I’ve met a lot of Englishmen who were over here in the army, Oxford and Cambridge men⁠—you know, that’s like Sewanee and University of Georgia are here⁠—and of course I’ve read a lot of English novels.”</p>
<p>Jim was interested, amazed.</p>
<p>“D’ you ever hear of Lady Diana Manner?” she asked earnestly.</p>
<p>No, Jim had not.</p>
<p>“Well, she’s what I’d like to be. Dark, you know, like me, and wild as sin. She’s the girl who rode her horse up the steps of some cathedral or church or something and all the novelists made their heroines do it afterwards.”</p>
<p>Jim nodded politely. He was out of his depths.</p>
<p>“Pass the bottle,” suggested Nancy. “I’m going to take another little one. A little drink wouldn’t hurt a baby.</p>
<p>“You see,” she continued, again breathless after a draught. “People over there have style. Nobody has style here. I mean the boys here aren’t really worth dressing up for or doing sensational things for. Don’t you know?”</p>
<p>“I suppose so⁠—I mean I suppose not,” murmured Jim.</p>
<p>“And I’d like to do ’em an’ all. I’m really the only girl in town that has style.”</p>
<p>She stretched out her arms and yawned pleasantly.</p>
<p>“Pretty evening.”</p>
<p>“Sure is,” agreed Jim.</p>
<p>“Like to have boat,” she suggested dreamily. “Like to sail out on a silver lake, say the Thames, for instance. Have champagne and caviar sandwiches along. Have about eight people. And one of the men would jump overboard to amuse the party, and get drowned like a man did with Lady Diana Manners once.”</p>
<p>“Did he do it to please her?”</p>
<p>“Didn’t mean drown himself to please her. He just meant to jump overboard and make everybody laugh.”</p>
<p>“I reckin they just died laughin’ when he drowned.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I suppose they laughed a little,” she admitted. “I imagine she did, anyway. She’s pretty hard, I guess⁠—like I am.”</p>
<p>“You hard?”</p>
<p>“Like nails.” She yawned again and added, “Give me a little more from that bottle.”</p>
<p>Jim hesitated but she held out her hand defiantly, “Don’t treat me like a girl,” she warned him. “I’m not like any girl <em>you</em> ever saw.” She considered. “Still, perhaps you’re right. You got⁠—you got old head on young shoulders.”</p>
<p>She jumped to her feet and moved toward the door. The Jelly-bean rose also.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” she said politely, “goodbye. Thanks, Jelly-bean.”</p>
<p>Then she stepped inside and left him wide-eyed upon the porch.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-jelly-bean-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>At twelve o’clock a procession of cloaks issued single file from the women’s dressing-room and, each one pairing with a coated beau like dancers meeting in a cotillion figure, drifted through the door with sleepy happy laughter⁠—through the door into the dark where autos backed and snorted and parties called to one another and gathered around the water-cooler.</p>
<p>Jim, sitting in his corner, rose to look for Clark. They had met at eleven; then Clark had gone in to dance. So, seeking him, Jim wandered into the soft-drink stand that had once been a bar. The room was deserted except for a sleepy negro dozing behind the counter and two boys lazily fingering a pair of dice at one of the tables. Jim was about to leave when he saw Clark coming in. At the same moment Clark looked up.</p>
<p>“Hi, Jim!” he commanded. “C’mon over and help us with this bottle. I guess there’s not much left, but there’s one all around.”</p>
<p>Nancy, the man from Savannah, Marylyn Wade, and Joe Ewing were lolling and laughing in the doorway. Nancy caught Jim’s eye and winked at him humorously.</p>
<p>They drifted over to a table and arranging themselves around it waited for the waiter to bring ginger ale. Jim, faintly ill at ease, turned his eyes on Nancy, who had drifted into a nickel crap game with the two boys at the next table.</p>
<p>“Bring them over here,” suggested Clark.</p>
<p>Joe looked around.</p>
<p>“We don’t want to draw a crowd. It’s against club rules.”</p>
<p>“Nobody’s around,” insisted Clark, “except <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Taylor. He’s walking up and down like a wild-man trying find out who let all the gasolene out of his car.”</p>
<p>There was a general laugh.</p>
<p>“I bet a million Nancy got something on her shoe again. You can’t park when she’s around.”</p>
<p>“O Nancy, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Taylor’s looking for you!”</p>
<p>Nancy’s cheeks were glowing with excitement over the game. “I haven’t seen his silly little flivver in two weeks.”</p>
<p>Jim felt a sudden silence. He turned and saw an individual of uncertain age standing in the doorway.</p>
<p>Clark’s voice punctuated the embarrassment.</p>
<p>“Won’t you join us, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Taylor?”</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Taylor spread his unwelcome presence over a chair. “Have to, I guess. I’m waiting till they dig me up some gasolene. Somebody got funny with my car.”</p>
<p>His eyes narrowed and he looked quickly from one to the other. Jim wondered what he had heard from the doorway⁠—tried to remember what had been said.</p>
<p>“I’m right tonight,” Nancy sang out, “and my four bits is in the ring.”</p>
<p>“Faded!” snapped Taylor suddenly.</p>
<p>“Why, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Taylor, I didn’t know you shot craps!” Nancy was overjoyed to find that he had seated himself and instantly covered her bet. They had openly disliked each other since the night she had definitely discouraged a series of rather pointed advances.</p>
<p>“All right, babies, do it for your mamma. Just one little seven.” Nancy was <em>cooing</em> to the dice. She rattled them with a brave underhand flourish, and rolled them out on the table.</p>
<p>“<em>Ah‑h!</em> I suspected it. And now again with the dollar up.”</p>
<p>Five passes to her credit found Taylor a bad loser. She was making it personal, and after each success Jim watched triumph flutter across her face. She was doubling with each throw⁠—such luck could scarcely last. “Better go easy,” he cautioned her timidly.</p>
<p>“Ah, but watch this one,” she whispered. It was eight on the dice and she called her number.</p>
<p>“Little Ada, this time we’re going South.”</p>
<p>Ada from Decatur rolled over the table. Nancy was flushed and half-hysterical, but her luck was holding.</p>
<p>She drove the pot up and up, refusing to drag. Taylor was drumming with his fingers on the table but he was in to stay.</p>
<p>Then Nancy tried for a ten and lost the dice. Taylor seized them avidly. He shot in silence, and in the hush of excitement the clatter of one pass after another on the table was the only sound.</p>
<p>Now Nancy had the dice again, but her luck had broken. An hour passed. Back and forth it went. Taylor had been at it again⁠—and again and again. They were even at last⁠—Nancy lost her ultimate five dollars.</p>
<p>“Will you take my check,” she said quickly, “for fifty, and we’ll shoot it all?” Her voice was a little unsteady and her hand shook as she reached to the money.</p>
<p>Clark exchanged an uncertain but alarmed glance with Joe Ewing. Taylor shot again. He had Nancy’s check.</p>
<p>“How ’bout another?” she said wildly. “Jes’ any bank’ll do⁠—money everywhere as a matter of fact.”</p>
<p>Jim understood⁠—the “good old corn” he had given her⁠—the “good old corn” she had taken since. He wished he dared interfere⁠—a girl of that age and position would hardly have two bank accounts. When the clock struck two he contained himself no longer.</p>
<p>“May I⁠—can’t you let me roll ’em for you?” he suggested, his low, lazy voice a little strained.</p>
<p>Suddenly sleepy and listless, Nancy flung the dice down before him.</p>
<p>“All right⁠—old boy! As Lady Diana Manners says, ‘Shoot ’em, Jelly-bean’⁠—My luck’s gone.”</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Taylor,” said Jim, carelessly, “we’ll shoot for one of those there checks against the cash.”</p>
<p>Half an hour later Nancy swayed forward and clapped him on the back.</p>
<p>“Stole my luck, you did.” She was nodding her head sagely.</p>
<p>Jim swept up the last check and putting it with the others tore them into confetti and scattered them on the floor. Someone started singing and Nancy kicking her chair backward rose to her feet.</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “Ladies⁠—that’s you Marylyn. I want to tell the world that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jim Powell, who is a well-known Jelly-bean of this city, is an exception to the great rule⁠—‘lucky in dice⁠—unlucky in love.’ He’s lucky in dice, and as matter of fact I⁠—I <em>love</em> him. Ladies and gentlemen, Nancy Lamar, famous dark-haired beauty often featured in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Herald</i> as one th’ most popular members of younger set as other girls are often featured in this particular case. Wish to announce⁠—wish to announce, anyway, Gentlemen⁠—” She tipped suddenly. Clark caught her and restored her balance.</p>
<p>“My error,” she laughed, “she⁠—stoops to⁠—stoops to⁠—anyways⁠—We’ll drink to Jelly-bean⁠ ⁠… <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jim Powell, King of the Jelly-beans.”</p>
<p>And a few minutes later as Jim waited hat in hand for Clark in the darkness of that same corner of the porch where she had come searching for gasolene, she appeared suddenly beside him.</p>
<p>“Jelly-bean,” she said, “are you here, Jelly-bean? I think⁠—” and her slight unsteadiness seemed part of an enchanted dream⁠—“I think you deserve one of my sweetest kisses for that, Jelly-bean.”</p>
<p>For an instant her arms were around his neck⁠—her lips were pressed to his.</p>
<p>“I’m a wild part of the world, Jelly-bean, but you did me a good turn.”</p>
<p>Then she was gone, down the porch, over the cricket-loud lawn. Jim saw Merritt come out the front door and say something to her angrily⁠—saw her laugh and, turning away, walk with averted eyes to his car. Marylyn and Joe followed, singing a drowsy song about a Jazz baby.</p>
<p>Clark came out and joined Jim on the steps. “All pretty lit, I guess,” he yawned. “Merritt’s in a mean mood. He’s certainly off Nancy.”</p>
<p>Over east along the golf course a faint rug of gray spread itself across the feet of the night. The party in the car began to chant a chorus as the engine warmed up.</p>
<p>“Good night everybody,” called Clark.</p>
<p>“Good night, Clark.”</p>
<p>“Good night.”</p>
<p>There was a pause, and then a soft, happy voice added,</p>
<p>“Good night, Jelly-bean.”</p>
<p>The car drove off to a burst of singing. A rooster on a farm across the way took up a solitary mournful crow, and behind them, a last negro waiter turned out the porch light. Jim and Clark strolled over toward the Ford, their shoes crunching raucously on the gravel drive.</p>
<p>“Oh boy!” sighed Clark softly, “how you can set those dice!”</p>
<p>It was still too dark for him to see the flush on Jim’s thin cheeks⁠—or to know that it was a flush of unfamiliar shame.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-jelly-bean-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Over Tilly’s garage a bleak room echoed all day to the rumble and snorting downstairs and the singing of the negro washers as they turned the hose on the cars outside. It was a cheerless square of a room, punctuated with a bed and a battered table on which lay half a dozen books⁠—Joe Miller’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Slow Train Thru Arkansas</i>, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Lucille</i>, in an old edition very much annotated in an old-fashioned hand; <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Eyes of the World</i>, by Harold Bell Wright, and an ancient prayerbook of the Church of England with the name Alice Powell and the date 1831 written on the flyleaf.</p>
<p>The East, gray when Jelly-bean entered the garage, became a rich and vivid blue as he turned on his solitary electric light. He snapped it out again, and going to the window rested his elbows on the sill and stared into the deepening morning. With the awakening of his emotions, his first perception was a sense of futility, a dull ache at the utter grayness of his life. A wall had sprung up suddenly around him hedging him in, a wall as definite and tangible as the white wall of his bare room. And with his perception of this wall all that had been the romance of his existence, the casualness, the lighthearted improvidence, the miraculous openhandedness of life faded out. The Jelly-bean strolling up Jackson Street humming a lazy song, known at every shop and street stand, cropful of easy greeting and local wit, sad sometimes for only the sake of sadness and the flight of time⁠—that Jelly-bean was suddenly vanished. The very name was a reproach, a triviality. With a flood of insight he knew that Merritt must despise him, that even Nancy’s kiss in the dawn would have awakened not jealousy but only a contempt for Nancy’s so lowering herself. And on his part the Jelly-bean had used for her a dingy subterfuge learned from the garage. He had been her moral laundry; the stains were his.</p>
<p>As the gray became blue, brightened and filled the room, he crossed to his bed and threw himself down on it, gripping the edges fiercely.</p>
<p>“I love her,” he cried aloud, “God!”</p>
<p>As he said this something gave way within him like a lump melting in his throat. The air cleared and became radiant with dawn, and turning over on his face he began to sob dully into the pillow.</p>
<hr/>
<p>In the sunshine of three o’clock Clark Darrow chugging painfully along Jackson Street was hailed by the Jelly-bean, who stood on the curb with his fingers in his vest pockets.</p>
<p>“Hi!” called Clark, bringing his Ford to an astonishing stop alongside. “Just get up?”</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean shook his head.</p>
<p>“Never did go to bed. Felt sorta restless, so I took a long walk this morning out in the country. Just got into town this minute.”</p>
<p>“Should think you <em>would</em> feel restless. I been feeling thataway all day⁠—”</p>
<p>“I’m thinkin’ of leavin’ town,” continued the Jelly-bean, absorbed by his own thoughts. “Been thinkin’ of goin’ up on the farm, and takin’ a little that work off Uncle Dun. Reckin I been bummin’ too long.”</p>
<p>Clark was silent and the Jelly-bean continued:</p>
<p>“I reckin maybe after Aunt Mamie dies I could sink that money of mine in the farm and make somethin’ out of it. All my people originally came from that part up there. Had a big place.”</p>
<p>Clark looked at him curiously.</p>
<p>“That’s funny,” he said. “This⁠—this sort of affected me the same way.”</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean hesitated.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he began slowly, “somethin’ about⁠—about that girl last night talkin’ about a lady named Diana Manners⁠—an English lady, sorta got me thinkin’!” He drew himself up and looked oddly at Clark, “I had a family once,” he said defiantly.</p>
<p>Clark nodded.</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“And I’m the last of ’em,” continued the Jelly-bean his voice rising slightly, “and I ain’t worth shucks. Name they call me by means jelly⁠—weak and wobbly like. People who weren’t nothin’ when my folks was a lot turn up their noses when they pass me on the street.”</p>
<p>Again Clark was silent.</p>
<p>“So I’m through, I’m goin’ today. And when I come back to this town it’s going to be like a gentleman.”</p>
<p>Clark took out his handkerchief and wiped his damp brow.</p>
<p>“Reckon you’re not the only one it shook up,” he admitted gloomily. “All this thing of girls going round like they do is going to stop right quick. Too bad, too, but everybody’ll have to see it thataway.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean,” demanded Jim in surprise, “that all that’s leaked out?”</p>
<p>“Leaked out? How on earth could they keep it secret. It’ll be announced in the papers tonight. Doctor Lamar’s got to save his name somehow.”</p>
<p>Jim put his hands on the sides of the car and tightened his long fingers on the metal.</p>
<p>“Do you mean Taylor investigated those checks?”</p>
<p>It was Clark’s turn to be surprised.</p>
<p>“Haven’t you heard what happened?”</p>
<p>Jim’s startled eyes were answer enough.</p>
<p>“Why,” announced Clark dramatically, “those four got another bottle of corn, got tight and decided to shock the town⁠—so Nancy and that fella Merritt were married in Rockville at seven o’clock this morning.”</p>
<p>A tiny indentation appeared in the metal under the Jelly-bean’s fingers.</p>
<p>“Married?”</p>
<p>“Sure enough. Nancy sobered up and rushed back into town, crying and frightened to death⁠—claimed it’d all been a mistake. First Doctor Lamar went wild and was going to kill Merritt, but finally they got it patched up some way, and Nancy and Merritt went to Savannah on the two-thirty train.”</p>
<p>Jim closed his eyes and with an effort overcame a sudden sickness.</p>
<p>“It’s too bad,” said Clark philosophically. “I don’t mean the wedding⁠—reckon that’s all right, though I don’t guess Nancy cared a darn about him. But it’s a crime for a nice girl like that to hurt her family that way.”</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean let go the car and turned away. Again something was going on inside him, some inexplicable but almost chemical change.</p>
<p>“Where you going?” asked Clark.</p>
<p>The Jelly-bean turned and looked dully back over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Got to go,” he muttered. “Been up too long; feelin’ right sick.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>The street was hot at three and hotter still at four, the April dust seeming to enmesh the sun and give it forth again as a world-old joke forever played on an eternity of afternoons. But at half past four a first layer of quiet fell and the shades lengthened under the awnings and heavy foliaged trees. In this heat nothing mattered. All life was weather, a waiting through the hot where events had no significance for the cool that was soft and caressing like a woman’s hand on a tired forehead. Down in Georgia there is a feeling⁠—perhaps inarticulate⁠—that this is the greatest wisdom of the South⁠—so after a while the Jelly-bean turned into a poolhall on Jackson Street where he was sure to find a congenial crowd who would make all the old jokes⁠—the ones he knew.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-lees-of-happiness" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Lees of Happiness</h2>
<section id="the-lees-of-happiness-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>If you should look through the files of old magazines for the first years of the present century you would find, sandwiched in between the stories of Richard Harding Davis and Frank Norris and others long since dead, the work of one Jeffrey Curtain: a novel or two, and perhaps three or four dozen short stories. You could, if you were interested, follow them along until, say, 1908, when they suddenly disappeared.</p>
<p>When you had read them all you would have been quite sure that here were no masterpieces⁠—here were passably amusing stories, a bit out of date now, but doubtless the sort that would then have whiled away a dreary half hour in a dental office. The man who did them was of good intelligence, talented, glib, probably young. In the samples of his work you found there would have been nothing to stir you to more than a faint interest in the whims of life⁠—no deep interior laughs, no sense of futility or hint of tragedy.</p>
<p>After reading them you would yawn and put the number back in the files, and perhaps, if you were in some library reading-room, you would decide that by way of variety you would look at a newspaper of the period and see whether the Japs had taken Port Arthur. But if by any chance the newspaper you had chosen was the right one and had crackled open at the theatrical page, your eyes would have been arrested and held, and for at least a minute you would have forgotten Port Arthur as quickly as you forgot Château Thierry. For you would, by this fortunate chance, be looking at the portrait of an exquisite woman.</p>
<p>Those were the days of “Florodora” and of sextets, of pinched-in waists and blown-out sleeves, of almost bustles and absolute ballet skirts, but here, without doubt, disguised as she might be by the unaccustomed stiffness and old fashion of her costume, was a butterfly of butterflies. Here was the gayety of the period⁠—the soft wine of eyes, the songs that flurried hearts, the toasts and the bouquets, the dances and the dinners. Here was a Venus of the hansom cab, the Gibson girl in her glorious prime. Here was⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>… here was, you find by looking at the name beneath, one Roxanne Milbank, who had been chorus girl and understudy in “The Daisy Chain,” but who, by reason of an excellent performance when the star was indisposed, had gained a leading part.</p>
<p>You would look again⁠—and wonder. Why you had never heard of her. Why did her name not linger in popular songs and vaudeville jokes and cigar bands, and the memory of that gay old uncle of yours along with Lillian Russell and Stella Mayhew and Anna Held? Roxanne Milbank⁠—whither had she gone? What dark trapdoor had opened suddenly and swallowed her up? Her name was certainly not in last Sunday’s supplement on the list of actresses married to English noblemen. No doubt she was dead⁠—poor beautiful young lady⁠—and quite forgotten.</p>
<p>I am hoping too much. I am having you stumble on Jeffrey Curtains’s stories and Roxanne Milbank’s picture. It would be incredible that you should find a newspaper item six months later, a single item two inches by four, which informed the public of the marriage, very quietly, of Miss Roxanne Milbank, who had been on tour with “The Daisy Chain,” to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jeffrey Curtain, the popular author. “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Curtain,” it added dispassionately, “will retire from the stage.”</p>
<p>It was a marriage of love. He was sufficiently spoiled to be charming; she was ingenuous enough to be irresistible. Like two floating logs they met in a head-on rush, caught, and sped along together. Yet had Jeffrey Curtain kept at scrivening for twoscore years he could not have put a quirk into one of his stories weirder than the quirk that came into his own life. Had Roxanne Milbank played three dozen parts and filled five thousand houses she could never have had a role with more happiness and more despair than were in the fate prepared for Roxanne Curtain.</p>
<p>For a year they lived in hotels, travelled to California, to Alaska, to Florida, to Mexico, loved and quarrelled gently, and gloried in the golden triflings of his wit with her beauty⁠—they were young and gravely passionate; they demanded everything and then yielded everything again in ecstasies of unselfishness and pride. She loved the swift tones of his voice and his frantic, if unfounded jealousy. He loved her dark radiance, the white irises of her eyes, the warm, lustrous enthusiasm of her smile.</p>
<p>“Don’t you like her?” he would demand rather excitedly and shyly. “Isn’t she wonderful? Did you ever see⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes,” they would answer, grinning. “She’s a wonder. You’re lucky.”</p>
<p>The year passed. They tired of hotels. They bought an old house and twenty acres near the town of Marlowe, half an hour from Chicago; bought a little car, and moved out riotously with a pioneering hallucination that would have confounded Balboa.</p>
<p>“Your room will be here!” they cried in turn.</p>
<p>And then:</p>
<p>“And my room here!”</p>
<p>“And the nursery here when we have children.”</p>
<p>“And we’ll build a sleeping porch⁠—oh, next year.”</p>
<p>They moved out in April. In July Jeffrey’s closest friend, Harry Cromwell came to spend a week⁠—they met him at the end of the long lawn and hurried him proudly to the house.</p>
<p>Harry was married also. His wife had had a baby some six months before and was still recuperating at her mother’s in New York. Roxanne had gathered from Jeffrey that Harry’s wife was not as attractive as Harry⁠—Jeffrey had met her once and considered her⁠—“shallow.” But Harry had been married nearly two years and was apparently happy, so Jeffrey guessed that she was probably all right.</p>
<p>“I’m making biscuits,” chattered Roxanne gravely. “Can your wife make biscuits? The cook is showing me how. I think every woman should know how to make biscuits. It sounds so utterly disarming. A woman who can make biscuits can surely do no⁠—”</p>
<p>“You’ll have to come out here and live,” said Jeffrey. “Get a place out in the country like us, for you and Kitty.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know Kitty. She hates the country. She’s got to have her theatres and vaudevilles.”</p>
<p>“Bring her out,” repeated Jeffrey. “We’ll have a colony. There’s an awfully nice crowd here already. Bring her out!”</p>
<p>They were at the porch steps now and Roxanne made a brisk gesture toward a dilapidated structure on the right.</p>
<p>“The garage,” she announced. “It will also be Jeffrey’s writing-room within the month. Meanwhile dinner is at seven. Meanwhile to that I will mix a cocktail.”</p>
<p>The two men ascended to the second floor⁠—that is, they ascended halfway, for at the first landing Jeffrey dropped his guest’s suitcase and in a cross between a query and a cry exclaimed:</p>
<p>“For God’s sake, Harry, how do you like her?”</p>
<p>“We will go upstairs,” answered his guest, “and we will shut the door.”</p>
<p>Half an hour later as they were sitting together in the library Roxanne reissued from the kitchen, bearing before her a pan of biscuits. Jeffrey and Harry rose.</p>
<p>“They’re beautiful, dear,” said the husband, intensely.</p>
<p>“Exquisite,” murmured Harry.</p>
<p>Roxanne beamed.</p>
<p>“Taste one. I couldn’t bear to touch them before you’d seen them all and I can’t bear to take them back until I find what they taste like.”</p>
<p>“Like manna, darling.”</p>
<p>Simultaneously the two men raised the biscuits to their lips, nibbled tentatively. Simultaneously they tried to change the subject. But Roxanne undeceived, set down the pan and seized a biscuit. After a second her comment rang out with lugubrious finality:</p>
<p>“Absolutely bum!”</p>
<p>“Really⁠—”</p>
<p>“Why, I didn’t notice⁠—”</p>
<p>Roxanne roared.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m useless,” she cried laughing. “Turn me out, Jeffrey⁠—I’m a parasite; I’m no good⁠—”</p>
<p>Jeffrey put his arm around her.</p>
<p>“Darling, I’ll eat your biscuits.”</p>
<p>“They’re beautiful, anyway,” insisted Roxanne.</p>
<p>“They’re⁠—they’re decorative,” suggested Harry.</p>
<p>Jeffrey took him up wildly.</p>
<p>“That’s the word. They’re decorative; they’re masterpieces. We’ll use them.”</p>
<p>He rushed to the kitchen and returned with a hammer and a handful of nails.</p>
<p>“We’ll use them, by golly, Roxanne! We’ll make a frieze out of them.”</p>
<p>“Don’t!” wailed Roxanne. “Our beautiful house.”</p>
<p>“Never mind. We’re going to have the library repapered in October. Don’t you remember?”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—”</p>
<p>Bang! The first biscuit was impaled to the wall, where it quivered for a moment like a live thing.</p>
<p>Bang!⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>When Roxanne returned, with a second round of cocktails the biscuits were in a perpendicular row, twelve of them, like a collection of primitive spearheads.</p>
<p>“Roxanne,” exclaimed Jeffrey, “you’re an artist! Cook?⁠—nonsense! You shall illustrate my books!”</p>
<p>During dinner the twilight faltered into dusk, and later it was a starry dark outside, filled and permeated with the frail gorgeousness of Roxanne’s white dress and her tremulous, low laugh.</p>
<p><q>Such a little girl she is,</q> thought Harry. <q>Not as old as Kitty.</q></p>
<p>He compared the two. Kitty⁠—nervous without being sensitive, temperamental without temperament, a woman who seemed to flit and never light⁠—and Roxanne, who was as young as spring night, and summed up in her own adolescent laughter.</p>
<p><q>A good match for Jeffrey,</q> he thought again. <q>Two very young people, the sort who’ll stay very young until they suddenly find themselves old.</q></p>
<p>Harry thought these things between his constant thoughts about Kitty. He was depressed about Kitty. It seemed to him that she was well enough to come back to Chicago and bring his little son. He was thinking vaguely of Kitty when he said good night to his friend’s wife and his friend at the foot of the stairs.</p>
<p>“You’re our first real house guest,” called Roxanne after him. “Aren’t you thrilled and proud?”</p>
<p>When he was out of sight around the stair corner she turned to Jeffrey, who was standing beside her resting his hand on the end of the banister.</p>
<p>“Are you tired, my dearest?”</p>
<p>Jeffrey rubbed the centre of his forehead with his fingers.</p>
<p>“A little. How did you know?”</p>
<p>“Oh, how could I help knowing about you?”</p>
<p>“It’s a headache,” he said moodily. “Splitting. I’ll take some aspirin.”</p>
<p>She reached over and snapped out the light, and with his arm tight about her waist they walked up the stairs together.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-lees-of-happiness-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Harry’s week passed. They drove about the dreaming lanes or idled in cheerful inanity upon lake or lawn. In the evening Roxanne, sitting inside, played to them while the ashes whitened on the glowing ends of their cigars. Then came a telegram from Kitty saying that she wanted Harry to come East and get her, so Roxanne and Jeffrey were left alone in that privacy of which they never seemed to tire.</p>
<p>“Alone” thrilled them again. They wandered about the house, each feeling intimately the presence of the other; they sat on the same side of the table like honeymooners; they were intensely absorbed, intensely happy.</p>
<p>The town of Marlowe, though a comparatively old settlement, had only recently acquired a “society.” Five or six years before, alarmed at the smoky swelling of Chicago, two or three young married couples, “bungalow people,” had moved out; their friends had followed. The Jeffrey Curtains found an already formed “set” prepared to welcome them; a country club, ballroom, and golf links yawned for them, and there were bridge parties, and poker parties, and parties where they drank beer, and parties where they drank nothing at all.</p>
<p>It was at a poker party that they found themselves a week after Harry’s departure. There were two tables, and a good proportion of the young wives were smoking and shouting their bets, and being very daringly mannish for those days.</p>
<p>Roxanne had left the game early and taken to perambulation; she wandered into the pantry and found herself some grape juice⁠—beer gave her a headache⁠—and then passed from table to table, looking over shoulders at the hands, keeping an eye on Jeffrey and being pleasantly unexcited and content. Jeffrey, with intense concentration, was raising a pile of chips of all colors, and Roxanne knew by the deepened wrinkle between his eyes that he was interested. She liked to see him interested in small things.</p>
<p>She crossed over quietly and sat down on the arm of his chair.</p>
<p>She sat there five minutes, listening to the sharp intermittent comments of the men and the chatter of the women, which rose from the table like soft smoke⁠—and yet scarcely hearing either. Then quite innocently she reached out her hand, intending to place it on Jeffrey’s shoulder⁠—as it touched him he started of a sudden, gave a short grunt, and, sweeping back his arm furiously, caught her a glancing blow on her elbow.</p>
<p>There was a general gasp. Roxanne regained her balance, gave a little cry, and rose quickly to her feet. It had been the greatest shock of her life. This, from Jeffrey, the heart of kindness, of consideration⁠—this instinctively brutal gesture.</p>
<p>The gasp became a silence. A dozen eyes were turned on Jeffrey, who looked up as though seeing Roxanne for the first time. An expression of bewilderment settled on his face.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—Roxanne⁠—” he said haltingly.</p>
<p>Into a dozen minds entered a quick suspicion, a rumor of scandal. Could it be that behind the scenes with this couple, apparently so in love, lurked some curious antipathy? Why else this streak of fire, across such a cloudless heaven?</p>
<p>“Jeffrey!”⁠—Roxanne’s voice was pleading⁠—startled and horrified, she yet knew that it was a mistake. Not once did it occur to her to blame him or to resent it. Her word was a trembling supplication⁠—“Tell me, Jeffrey,” it said, “tell Roxanne, your own Roxanne.”</p>
<p>“Why, Roxanne⁠—” began Jeffrey again. The bewildered look changed to pain. He was clearly as startled as she. “I didn’t intend that,” he went on; “you startled me. You⁠—I felt as if someone were attacking me. I⁠—how⁠—why, how idiotic!”</p>
<p>“Jeffrey!” Again the word was a prayer, incense offered up to a high God through this new and unfathomable darkness.</p>
<p>They were both on their feet, they were saying goodbye, faltering, apologizing, explaining. There was no attempt to pass it off easily. That way lay sacrilege. Jeffrey had not been feeling well, they said. He had become nervous. Back of both their minds was the unexplained horror of that blow⁠—the marvel that there had been for an instant something between them⁠—his anger and her fear⁠—and now to both a sorrow, momentary, no doubt, but to be bridged at once, at once, while there was yet time. Was that swift water lashing under their feet⁠—the fierce glint of some uncharted chasm?</p>
<p>Out in their car under the harvest moon he talked brokenly. It was just⁠—incomprehensible to him, he said. He had been thinking of the poker game⁠—absorbed⁠—and the touch on his shoulder had seemed like an attack. An attack! He clung to that word, flung it up as a shield. He had hated what touched him. With the impact of his hand it had gone, that⁠—nervousness. That was all he knew.</p>
<p>Both their eyes filled with tears and they whispered love there under the broad night as the serene streets of Marlowe sped by. Later, when they went to bed, they were quite calm. Jeffrey was to take a week off all work⁠—was simply to loll, and sleep, and go on long walks until this nervousness left him. When they had decided this safety settled down upon Roxanne. The pillows underhead became soft and friendly; the bed on which they lay seemed wide, and white, and sturdy beneath the radiance that streamed in at the window.</p>
<p>Five days later, in the first cool of late afternoon, Jeffrey picked up an oak chair and sent it crashing through his own front window. Then he lay down on the couch like a child, weeping piteously and begging to die. A blood clot the size of a marble had broken his brain.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-lees-of-happiness-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>There is a sort of waking nightmare that sets in sometimes when one has missed a sleep or two, a feeling that comes with extreme fatigue and a new sun, that the quality of the life around has changed. It is a fully articulate conviction that somehow the existence one is then leading is a branch shoot of life and is related to life only as a moving picture or a mirror⁠—that the people, and streets, and houses are only projections from a very dim and chaotic past. It was in such a state that Roxanne found herself during the first months of Jeffrey’s illness. She slept only when she was utterly exhausted; she awoke under a cloud. The long, sober-voiced consultations, the faint aura of medicine in the halls, the sudden tiptoeing in a house that had echoed to many cheerful footsteps, and, most of all, Jeffrey’s white face amid the pillows of the bed they had shared⁠—these things subdued her and made her indelibly older. The doctors held out hope, but that was all. A long rest, they said, and quiet. So responsibility came to Roxanne. It was she who paid the bills, pored over his bankbook, corresponded with his publishers. She was in the kitchen constantly. She learned from the nurse how to prepare his meals and after the first month took complete charge of the sickroom. She had had to let the nurse go for reasons of economy. One of the two colored girls left at the same time. Roxanne was realizing that they had been living from short story to short story.</p>
<p>The most frequent visitor was Harry Cromwell. He had been shocked and depressed by the news, and though his wife was now living with him in Chicago he found time to come out several times a month. Roxanne found his sympathy welcome⁠—there was some quality of suffering in the man, some inherent pitifulness that made her comfortable when he was near. Roxanne’s nature had suddenly deepened. She felt sometimes that with Jeffrey she was losing her children also, those children that now most of all she needed and should have had.</p>
<p>It was six months after Jeffrey’s collapse and when the nightmare had faded, leaving not the old world but a new one, grayer and colder, that she went to see Harry’s wife. Finding herself in Chicago with an extra hour before train time, she decided out of courtesy to call.</p>
<p>As she stepped inside the door she had an immediate impression that the apartment was very like some place she had seen before⁠—and almost instantly she remembered a round-the-corner bakery of her childhood, a bakery full of rows and rows of pink frosted cakes⁠—a stuffy pink, pink as a food, pink triumphant, vulgar, and odious.</p>
<p>And this apartment was like that. It was pink. It smelled pink!</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell, attired in a wrapper of pink and black, opened the door. Her hair was yellow, heightened, Roxanne imagined, by a dash of peroxide in the rinsing water every week. Her eyes were a thin waxen blue⁠—she was pretty and too consciously graceful. Her cordiality was strident and intimate, hostility melted so quickly to hospitality that it seemed they were both merely in the face and voice⁠—never touching nor touched by the deep core of egotism beneath.</p>
<p>But to Roxanne these things were secondary; her eyes were caught and held in uncanny fascination by the wrapper. It was vilely unclean. From its lowest hem up four inches it was sheerly dirty with the blue dust of the floor; for the next three inches it was gray⁠—then it shaded off into its natural color, which was⁠—pink. It was dirty at the sleeves, too, and at the collar⁠—and when the woman turned to lead the way into the parlor, Roxanne was sure that her neck was dirty.</p>
<p>A one-sided rattle of conversation began. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell became explicit about her likes and dislikes, her head, her stomach, her teeth, her apartment⁠—avoiding with a sort of insolent meticulousness any inclusion of Roxanne with life, as if presuming that Roxanne, having been dealt a blow, wished life to be carefully skirted.</p>
<p>Roxanne smiled. That kimono! That neck!</p>
<p>After five minutes a little boy toddled into the parlor⁠—a dirty little boy clad in dirty pink rompers. His face was smudgy⁠—Roxanne wanted to take him into her lap and wipe his nose; other parts in the vicinity of his head needed attention, his tiny shoes were kicked out at the toes. Unspeakable!</p>
<p>“What a darling little boy!” exclaimed Roxanne, smiling radiantly. “Come here to me.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell looked coldly at her son.</p>
<p>“He <em>will</em> get dirty. Look at that face!” She held her head on one side and regarded it critically.</p>
<p>“Isn’t he a <em>darling</em>?” repeated Roxanne.</p>
<p>“Look at his rompers,” frowned <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell.</p>
<p>“He needs a change, don’t you, George?”</p>
<p>George stared at her curiously. To his mind the word rompers connotated a garment extraneously smeared, as this one.</p>
<p>“I tried to make him look respectable this morning,” complained <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell as one whose patience had been sorely tried, “and I found he didn’t have any more rompers⁠—so rather than have him go round without any I put him back in those⁠—and his face⁠—”</p>
<p>“How many pairs has he?” Roxanne’s voice was pleasantly curious. “How many feather fans have you?” she might have asked.</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell considered, wrinkling her pretty brow. “Five, I think. Plenty, I know.”</p>
<p>“You can get them for fifty cents a pair.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell’s eyes showed surprise⁠—and the faintest superiority. The price of rompers!</p>
<p>“Can you really? I had no idea. He ought to have plenty, but I haven’t had a minute all week to send the laundry out.” Then, dismissing the subject as irrelevant⁠—“I must show you some things⁠—”</p>
<p>They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn’t been sent out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the quintessence of pinkness. This was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell’s room.</p>
<p>Here the hostess opened a closet door and displayed before Roxanne’s eyes an amazing collection of lingerie.</p>
<p>There were dozens of filmy marvels of lace and silk, all clean, unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers beside them were three new evening dresses.</p>
<p>“I have some beautiful things,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cromwell, “but not much of a chance to wear them. Harry doesn’t care about going out.” Spite crept into her voice. “He’s perfectly content to let me play nursemaid and housekeeper all day and loving wife in the evening.”</p>
<p>Roxanne smiled again.</p>
<p>“You’ve got some beautiful clothes here.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I have. Let me show you⁠—”</p>
<p>“Beautiful,” repeated Roxanne, interrupting, “but I’ll have to run if I’m going to catch my train.”</p>
<p>She felt that her hands were trembling. She wanted to put them on this woman and shake her⁠—shake her. She wanted her locked up somewhere and set to scrubbing floors.</p>
<p>“Beautiful,” she repeated, “and I just came in for a moment.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m sorry Harry isn’t here.”</p>
<p>They moved toward the door.</p>
<p>“⁠—and, oh,” said Roxanne with an effort⁠—yet her voice was still gentle and her lips were smiling⁠—“I think it’s Argile’s where you can get those rompers. Goodbye.”</p>
<p>It was not until she had reached the station and bought her ticket to Marlowe that Roxanne realized it was the first five minutes in six months that her mind had been off Jeffrey.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-lees-of-happiness-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>A week later Harry appeared at Marlowe, arrived unexpectedly at five o’clock, and coming up the walk sank into a porch chair in a state of exhaustion. Roxanne herself had had a busy day and was worn out. The doctors were coming at five-thirty, bringing a celebrated nerve specialist from New York. She was excited and thoroughly depressed, but Harry’s eyes made her sit down beside him.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, Roxanne,” he denied. “I came to see how Jeff was doing. Don’t you bother about me.”</p>
<p>“Harry,” insisted Roxanne, “there’s something the matter.”</p>
<p>“Nothing,” he repeated. “How’s Jeff?”</p>
<p>Anxiety darkened her face.</p>
<p>“He’s a little worse, Harry. Doctor Jewett has come on from New York. They thought he could tell me something definite. He’s going to try and find whether this paralysis has anything to do with the original blood clot.”</p>
<p>Harry rose.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said jerkily. “I didn’t know you expected a consultation. I wouldn’t have come. I thought I’d just rock on your porch for an hour⁠—”</p>
<p>“Sit down,” she commanded.</p>
<p>Harry hesitated.</p>
<p>“Sit down, Harry, dear boy.” Her kindness flooded out now⁠—enveloped him. “I know there’s something the matter. You’re white as a sheet. I’m going to get you a cool bottle of beer.”</p>
<p>All at once he collapsed into his chair and covered his face with his hands.</p>
<p>“I can’t make her happy,” he said slowly. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried. This morning we had some words about breakfast⁠—I’d been getting my breakfast down town⁠—and⁠—well, just after I went to the office she left the house, went East to her mother’s with George and a suitcase full of lace underwear.”</p>
<p>“Harry!”</p>
<p>“And I don’t know⁠—”</p>
<p>There was a crunch on the gravel, a car turning into the drive. Roxanne uttered a little cry.</p>
<p>“It’s Doctor Jewett.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll⁠—”</p>
<p>“You’ll wait, won’t you?” she interrupted abstractedly. He saw that his problem had already died on the troubled surface of her mind.</p>
<p>There was an embarrassing minute of vague, elided introductions and then Harry followed the party inside and watched them disappear up the stairs. He went into the library and sat down on the big sofa.</p>
<p>For an hour he watched the sun creep up the patterned folds of the chintz curtains. In the deep quiet a trapped wasp buzzing on the inside of the window pane assumed the proportions of a clamor. From time to time another buzzing drifted down from upstairs, resembling several more larger wasps caught on larger windowpanes. He heard low footfalls, the clink of bottles, the clamor of pouring water.</p>
<p>What had he and Roxanne done that life should deal these crashing blows to them? Upstairs there was taking place a living inquest on the soul of his friend; he was sitting here in a quiet room listening to the plaint of a wasp, just as when he was a boy he had been compelled by a strict aunt to sit hour-long on a chair and atone for some misbehavior. But who had put him here? What ferocious aunt had leaned out of the sky to make him atone for⁠—what?</p>
<p>About Kitty he felt a great hopelessness. She was too expensive⁠—that was the irremediable difficulty. Suddenly he hated her. He wanted to throw her down and kick at her⁠—to tell her she was a cheat and a leech⁠—that she was dirty. Moreover, she must give him his boy.</p>
<p>He rose and began pacing up and down the room. Simultaneously he heard someone begin walking along the hallway upstairs in exact time with him. He found himself wondering if they would walk in time until the person reached the end of the hall.</p>
<p>Kitty had gone to her mother. God help her, what a mother to go to! He tried to imagine the meeting: the abused wife collapsing upon the mother’s breast. He could not. That Kitty was capable of any deep grief was unbelievable. He had gradually grown to think of her as something unapproachable and callous. She would get a divorce, of course, and eventually she would marry again. He began to consider this. Whom would she marry? He laughed bitterly, stopped; a picture flashed before him⁠—of Kitty’s arms around some man whose face he could not see, of Kitty’s lips pressed close to other lips in what was surely passion.</p>
<p>“God!” he cried aloud. “God! God! God!”</p>
<p>Then the pictures came thick and fast. The Kitty of this morning faded; the soiled kimono rolled up and disappeared; the pouts, and rages, and tears all were washed away. Again she was Kitty Carr⁠—Kitty Carr with yellow hair and great baby eyes. Ah, she had loved him, she had loved him.</p>
<p>After a while he perceived that something was amiss with him, something that had nothing to do with Kitty or Jeff, something of a different genre. Amazingly it burst on him at last; he was hungry. Simple enough! He would go into the kitchen in a moment and ask the colored cook for a sandwich. After that he must go back to the city.</p>
<p>He paused at the wall, jerked at something round, and, fingering it absently, put it to his mouth and tasted it as a baby tastes a bright toy. His teeth closed on it⁠—Ah!</p>
<p>She’d left that damn kimono, that dirty pink kimono. She might have had the decency to take it with her, he thought. It would hang in the house like the corpse of their sick alliance. He would try to throw it away, but he would never be able to bring himself to move it. It would be like Kitty, soft and pliable, withal impervious. You couldn’t move Kitty; you couldn’t reach Kitty. There was nothing there to reach. He understood that perfectly⁠—he had understood it all along.</p>
<p>He reached to the wall for another biscuit and with an effort pulled it out, nail and all. He carefully removed the nail from the centre, wondering idly if he had eaten the nail with the first biscuit. Preposterous! He would have remembered⁠—it was a huge nail. He felt his stomach. He must be very hungry. He considered⁠—remembered⁠—yesterday he had had no dinner. It was the girl’s day out and Kitty had lain in her room eating chocolate drops. She had said she felt “smothery” and couldn’t bear having him near her. He had given George a bath and put him to bed, and then lain down on the couch intending to rest a minute before getting his own dinner. There he had fallen asleep and awakened about eleven, to find that there was nothing in the icebox except a spoonful of potato salad. This he had eaten, together with some chocolate drops that he found on Kitty’s bureau. This morning he had breakfasted hurriedly down town before going to the office. But at noon, beginning to worry about Kitty, he had decided to go home and take her out to lunch. After that there had been the note on his pillow. The pile of lingerie in the closet was gone⁠—and she had left instructions for sending her trunk.</p>
<p>He had never been so hungry, he thought.</p>
<p>At five o’clock, when the visiting nurse tiptoed downstairs, he was sitting on the sofa staring at the carpet.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Cromwell?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Oh, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Curtain won’t be able to see you at dinner. She’s not well. She told me to tell you that the cook will fix you something and that there’s a spare bedroom.”</p>
<p>“She’s sick, you say?”</p>
<p>“She’s lying down in her room. The consultation is just over.”</p>
<p>“Did they⁠—did they decide anything?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said the nurse softly. “Doctor Jewett says there’s no hope. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Curtain may live indefinitely, but he’ll never see again or move again or think. He’ll just breathe.”</p>
<p>“Just breathe?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>For the first time the nurse noted that beside the writing-desk where she remembered that she had seen a line of a dozen curious round objects she had vaguely imagined to be some exotic form of decoration, there was now only one. Where the others had been, there was now a series of little nail-holes.</p>
<p>Harry followed her glance dazedly and then rose to his feet.</p>
<p>“I don’t believe I’ll stay. I believe there’s a train.”</p>
<p>She nodded. Harry picked up his hat.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” she said pleasantly.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he answered, as though talking to himself and, evidently moved by some involuntary necessity, he paused on his way to the door and she saw him pluck the last object from the wall and drop it into his pocket.</p>
<p>Then he opened the screen door and, descending the porch steps, passed out of her sight.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-lees-of-happiness-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>After a while the coat of clean white paint on the Jeffrey Curtain house made a definite compromise with the suns of many Julys and showed its good faith by turning gray. It scaled⁠—huge peelings of very brittle old paint leaned over backward like aged men practising grotesque gymnastics and finally dropped to a moldy death in the overgrown grass beneath. The paint on the front pillars became streaky; the white ball was knocked off the left-hand doorpost; the green blinds darkened, then lost all pretense of color.</p>
<p>It began to be a house that was avoided by the tender-minded⁠—some church bought a lot diagonally opposite for a graveyard, and this, combined with “the place where <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Curtain stays with that living corpse,” was enough to throw a ghostly aura over that quarter of the road. Not that she was left alone. Men and women came to see her, met her down town, where she went to do her marketing, brought her home in their cars⁠—and came in for a moment to talk and to rest, in the glamour that still played in her smile. But men who did not know her no longer followed her with admiring glances in the street; a diaphanous veil had come down over her beauty, destroying its vividness, yet bringing neither wrinkles nor fat.</p>
<p>She acquired a character in the village⁠—a group of little stories were told of her: how when the country was frozen over one winter so that no wagons nor automobiles could travel, she taught herself to skate so that she could make quick time to the grocer and druggist, and not leave Jeffrey alone for long. It was said that every night since his paralysis she slept in a small bed beside his bed, holding his hand.</p>
<p>Jeffrey Curtain was spoken of as though he were already dead. As the years dropped by those who had known him died or moved away⁠—there were but half a dozen of the old crowd who had drunk cocktails together, called each other’s wives by their first names, and thought that Jeff was about the wittiest and most talented fellow that Marlowe had ever known. Now, to the casual visitor, he was merely the reason that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Curtain excused herself sometimes and hurried upstairs; he was a groan or a sharp cry borne to the silent parlor on the heavy air of a Sunday afternoon.</p>
<p>He could not move; he was stone blind, dumb and totally unconscious. All day he lay in his bed, except for a shift to his wheelchair every morning while she straightened the room. His paralysis was creeping slowly toward his heart. At first⁠—for the first year⁠—Roxanne had received the faintest answering pressure sometimes when she held his hand⁠—then it had gone, ceased one evening and never come back, and through two nights Roxanne lay wide-eyed, staring into the dark and wondering what had gone, what fraction of his soul had taken flight, what last grain of comprehension those shattered broken nerves still carried to the brain.</p>
<p>After that hope died. Had it not been for her unceasing care the last spark would have gone long before. Every morning she shaved and bathed him, shifted him with her own hands from bed to chair and back to bed. She was in his room constantly, bearing medicine, straightening a pillow, talking to him almost as one talks to a nearly human dog, without hope of response or appreciation, but with the dim persuasion of habit, a prayer when faith has gone.</p>
<p>Not a few people, one celebrated nerve specialist among them, gave her a plain impression that it was futile to exercise so much care, that if Jeffrey had been conscious he would have wished to die, that if his spirit were hovering in some wider air it would agree to no such sacrifice from her, it would fret only for the prison of its body to give it full release.</p>
<p>“But you see,” she replied, shaking her head gently, “when I married Jeffrey it was⁠—until I ceased to love him.”</p>
<p>“But,” was protested, in effect, “you can’t love that.”</p>
<p>“I can love what it once was. What else is there for me to do?”</p>
<p>The specialist shrugged his shoulders and went away to say that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Curtain was a remarkable woman and just about as sweet as an angel⁠—but, he added, it was a terrible pity.</p>
<p>“There must be some man, or a dozen, just crazy to take care of her.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>Casually⁠—there were. Here and there someone began in hope⁠—and ended in reverence. There was no love in the woman except, strangely enough, for life, for the people in the world, from the tramp to whom she gave food she could ill afford to the butcher who sold her a cheap cut of steak across the meaty board. The other phase was sealed up somewhere in that expressionless mummy who lay with his face turned ever toward the light as mechanically as a compass needle and waited dumbly for the last wave to wash over his heart.</p>
<p>After eleven years he died in the middle of a May night, when the scent of the syringa hung upon the windowsill and a breeze wafted in the shrillings of the frogs and cicadas outside. Roxanne awoke at two, and realized with a start she was alone in the house at last.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-lees-of-happiness-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>After that she sat on her weather-beaten porch through many afternoons, gazing down across the fields that undulated in a slow descent to the white and green town. She was wondering what she would do with her life. She was thirty-six⁠—handsome, strong, and free. The years had eaten up Jeffrey’s insurance; she had reluctantly parted with the acres to right and left of her, and had even placed a small mortgage on the house.</p>
<p>With her husband’s death had come a great physical restlessness. She missed having to care for him in the morning, she missed her rush to town, and the brief and therefore accentuated neighborly meetings in the butcher’s and grocer’s; she missed the cooking for two, the preparation of delicate liquid food for him. One day, consumed with energy, she went out and spaded up the whole garden, a thing that had not been done for years.</p>
<p>And she was alone at night in the room that had seen the glory of her marriage and then the pain. To meet Jeff again she went back in spirit to that wonderful year, that intense, passionate absorption and companionship, rather than looked forward to a problematical meeting hereafter; she awoke often to lie and wish for that presence beside her⁠—inanimate yet breathing⁠—still Jeff.</p>
<p>One afternoon six months after his death she was sitting on the porch, in a black dress which took away the faintest suggestion of plumpness from her figure. It was Indian summer⁠—golden brown all about her; a hush broken by the sighing of leaves; westward a four o’clock sun dripping streaks of red and yellow over a flaming sky. Most of the birds had gone⁠—only a sparrow that had built itself a nest on the cornice of a pillar kept up an intermittent cheeping varied by occasional fluttering sallies overhead. Roxanne moved her chair to where she could watch him and her mind idled drowsily on the bosom of the afternoon.</p>
<p>Harry Cromwell was coming out from Chicago to dinner. Since his divorce over eight years before he had been a frequent visitor. They had kept up what amounted to a tradition between them: when he arrived they would go to look at Jeff; Harry would sit down on the edge of the bed and in a hearty voice ask:</p>
<p>“Well, Jeff, old man, how do you feel today?”</p>
<p>Roxanne, standing beside, would look intently at Jeff, dreaming that some shadowy recognition of this former friend had passed across that broken mind⁠—but the head, pale, carven, would only move slowly in its sole gesture toward the light as if something behind the blind eyes were groping for another light long since gone out.</p>
<p>These visits stretched over eight years⁠—at Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and on many a Sunday Harry had arrived, paid his call on Jeff, and then talked for a long while with Roxanne on the porch. He was devoted to her. He made no pretense of hiding, no attempt to deepen, this relation. She was his best friend as the mass of flesh on the bed there had been his best friend. She was peace, she was rest; she was the past. Of his own tragedy she alone knew.</p>
<p>He had been at the funeral, but since then the company for which he worked had shifted him to the East and only a business trip had brought him to the vicinity of Chicago. Roxanne had written him to come when he could⁠—after a night in the city he had caught a train out.</p>
<p>They shook hands and he helped her move two rockers together.</p>
<p>“How’s George?”</p>
<p>“He’s fine, Roxanne. Seems to like school.”</p>
<p>“Of course it was the only thing to do, to send him.”</p>
<p>“Of course⁠—”</p>
<p>“You miss him horribly, Harry?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—I do miss him. He’s a funny boy⁠—”</p>
<p>He talked a lot about George. Roxanne was interested. Harry must bring him out on his next vacation. She had only seen him once in her life⁠—a child in dirty rompers.</p>
<p>She left him with the newspaper while she prepared dinner⁠—she had four chops tonight and some late vegetables from her own garden. She put it all on and then called him, and sitting down together they continued their talk about George.</p>
<p>“If I had a child⁠—” she would say.</p>
<p>Afterward, Harry having given her what slender advice he could about investments, they walked through the garden, pausing here and there to recognize what had once been a cement bench or where the tennis court had lain.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“Do you remember⁠—”</p>
<p>Then they were off on a flood of reminiscences: the day they had taken all the snapshots and Jeff had been photographed astride the calf; and the sketch Harry had made of Jeff and Roxanne, lying sprawled in the grass, their heads almost touching. There was to have been a covered lattice connecting the barn-studio with the house, so that Jeff could get there on wet days⁠—the lattice had been started, but nothing remained except a broken triangular piece that still adhered to the house and resembled a battered chicken coop.</p>
<p>“And those mint juleps!”</p>
<p>“And Jeff’s notebook! Do you remember how we’d laugh, Harry, when we’d get it out of his pocket and read aloud a page of material. And how frantic he used to get?”</p>
<p>“Wild! He was such a kid about his writing.”</p>
<p>They were both silent a moment, and then Harry said:</p>
<p>“We were to have a place out here, too. Do you remember? We were to buy the adjoining twenty acres. And the parties we were going to have!”</p>
<p>Again there was a pause, broken this time by a low question from Roxanne.</p>
<p>“Do you ever hear of her, Harry?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—yes,” he admitted placidly. “She’s in Seattle. She’s married again to a man named Horton, a sort of lumber king. He’s a great deal older than she is, I believe.”</p>
<p>“And she’s behaving?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—that is, I’ve heard so. She has everything, you see. Nothing much to do except dress up for this fellow at dinnertime.”</p>
<p>“I see.”</p>
<p>Without effort he changed the subject.</p>
<p>“Are you going to keep the house?”</p>
<p>“I think so,” she said, nodding. “I’ve lived here so long, Harry, it’d seem terrible to move. I thought of trained nursing, but of course that’d mean leaving. I’ve about decided to be a boardinghouse lady.”</p>
<p>“Live in one?”</p>
<p>“No. Keep one. Is there such an anomaly as a boardinghouse lady? Anyway I’d have a negress and keep about eight people in the summer and two or three, if I can get them, in the winter. Of course I’ll have to have the house repainted and gone over inside.”</p>
<p>Harry considered.</p>
<p>“Roxanne, why⁠—naturally you know best what you can do, but it does seem a shock, Roxanne. You came here as a bride.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s why I don’t mind remaining here as a boardinghouse lady.”</p>
<p>“I remember a certain batch of biscuits.”</p>
<p>“Oh, those biscuits,” she cried. “Still, from all I heard about the way you devoured them, they couldn’t have been so bad. I was <em>so</em> low that day, yet somehow I laughed when the nurse told me about those biscuits.”</p>
<p>“I noticed that the twelve nail-holes are still in the library wall where Jeff drove them.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>It was getting very dark now, a crispness settled in the air; a little gust of wind sent down a last spray of leaves. Roxanne shivered slightly.</p>
<p>“We’d better go in.”</p>
<p>He looked at his watch.</p>
<p>“It’s late. I’ve got to be leaving. I go East tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Must you?”</p>
<p>They lingered for a moment just below the stoop, watching a moon that seemed full of snow float out of the distance where the lake lay. Summer was gone and now Indian summer. The grass was cold and there was no mist and no dew. After he left she would go in and light the gas and close the shutters, and he would go down the path and on to the village. To these two life had come quickly and gone, leaving not bitterness, but pity; not disillusion, but only pain. There was already enough moonlight when they shook hands for each to see the gathered kindness in the other’s eyes.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="jemina-the-mountain-girl" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">Jemina, the Mountain Girl</h2>
<p epub:type="bridgehead">This don’t pretend to be “Literature.” This is just a tale for red-blooded folks who want a <em>story</em> and not just a lot of “psychological” stuff or “analysis.” Boy, you’ll love it! Read it here, see it in the movies, play it on the phonograph, run it through the sewing-machine.</p>
</header>
<section id="jemina-the-mountain-girl-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">A Wild Thing</h3>
<p>It was night in the mountains of Kentucky. Wild hills rose on all sides. Swift mountain streams flowed rapidly up and down the mountains.</p>
<p>Jemina Tantrum was down at the stream, brewing whiskey at the family still.</p>
<p>She was a typical mountain girl.</p>
<p>Her feet were bare. Her hands, large and powerful, hung down below her knees. Her face showed the ravages of work. Although but sixteen, she had for over a dozen years been supporting her aged pappy and mappy by brewing mountain whiskey. From time to time she would pause in her task, and, filling a dipper full of the pure, invigorating liquid, would drain it off⁠—then pursue her work with renewed vigor.</p>
<p>She would place the rye in the vat, thresh it out with her feet and, in twenty minutes, the completed product would be turned out.</p>
<p>A sudden cry made her pause in the act of draining a dipper and look up.</p>
<p>“Hello,” said a voice. It came from a man clad in hunting boots reaching to his neck, who had emerged.</p>
<p>“Can you tell me the way to the Tantrums’ cabin?”</p>
<p>“Are you uns from the settlements down thar?”</p>
<p>She pointed her hand down to the bottom of the hill, where Louisville lay. She had never been there; but once, before she was born, her great-grandfather, old Gore Tantrum, had gone into the settlements in the company of two marshals, and had never come back. So the Tantrums, from generation to generation, had learned to dread civilization.</p>
<p>The man was amused. He laughed a light tinkling laugh, the laugh of a Philadelphian. Something in the ring of it thrilled her. She drank off another dipper of whiskey.</p>
<p>“Where is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Tantrum, little girl?” he asked, not without kindness.</p>
<p>She raised her foot and pointed her big toe toward the woods. “Thar in the cabing behind those thar pines. Old Tantrum air my old man.”</p>
<p>The man from the settlements thanked her and strode off. He was fairly vibrant with youth and personality. As he walked along he whistled and sang and turned handsprings and flapjacks, breathing in the fresh, cool air of the mountains.</p>
<p>The air around the still was like wine.</p>
<p>Jemina Tantrum watched him entranced. No one like him had ever come into her life before.</p>
<p>She sat down on the grass and counted her toes. She counted eleven. She had learned arithmetic in the mountain school.</p>
</section>
<section id="jemina-the-mountain-girl-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">A Mountain Feud</h3>
<p>Ten years before a lady from the settlements had opened a school on the mountain. Jemina had no money, but she had paid her way in whiskey, bringing a pailful to school every morning and leaving it on Miss Lafarge’s desk. Miss Lafarge had died of delirium tremens after a year’s teaching, and so Jemina’s education had stopped.</p>
<p>Across the still stream, still another still was standing. It was that of the Doldrums. The Doldrums and the Tantrums never exchanged calls.</p>
<p>They hated each other.</p>
<p>Fifty years before old Jem Doldrum and old Jem Tantrum had quarrelled in the Tantrum cabin over a game of slapjack. Jem Doldrum had thrown the king of hearts in Jem Tantrum’s face, and old Tantrum, enraged, had felled the old Doldrum with the nine of diamonds. Other Doldrums and Tantrums had joined in and the little cabin was soon filled with flying cards. Harstrum Doldrum, one of the younger Doldrums, lay stretched on the floor writhing in agony, the ace of hearts crammed down his throat. Jem Tantrum, standing in the doorway, ran through suit after suit, his face alight with fiendish hatred. Old Mappy Tantrum stood on the table wetting down the Doldrums with hot whiskey. Old Heck Doldrum, having finally run out of trumps, was backed out of the cabin, striking left and right with his tobacco pouch, and gathering around him the rest of his clan. Then they mounted their steers and galloped furiously home.</p>
<p>That night old man Doldrum and his sons, vowing vengeance, had returned, put a ticktock on the Tantrum window, stuck a pin in the doorbell, and beaten a retreat.</p>
<p>A week later the Tantrums had put Cod Liver Oil in the Doldrums’ still, and so, from year to year, the feud had continued, first one family being entirely wiped out, then the other.</p>
</section>
<section id="jemina-the-mountain-girl-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">The Birth of Love</h3>
<p>Every day little Jemina worked the still on her side of the stream, and Boscoe Doldrum worked the still on his side.</p>
<p>Sometimes, with automatic inherited hatred, the feudists would throw whiskey at each other, and Jemina would come home smelling like a French table d’hôte.</p>
<p>But now Jemina was too thoughtful to look across the stream.</p>
<p>How wonderful the stranger had been and how oddly he was dressed! In her innocent way she had never believed that there were any civilized settlements at all, and she had put the belief in them down to the credulity of the mountain people.</p>
<p>She turned to go up to the cabin, and, as she turned something struck her in the neck. It was a sponge, thrown by Boscoe Doldrum⁠—a sponge soaked in whiskey from his still on the other side of the stream.</p>
<p>“Hi, thar, Boscoe Doldrum,” she shouted in her deep bass voice.</p>
<p>“Yo! Jemina Tantrum. Gosh ding yo’!” he returned.</p>
<p>She continued her way to the cabin.</p>
<p>The stranger was talking to her father. Gold had been discovered on the Tantrum land, and the stranger, Edgar Edison, was trying to buy the land for a song. He was considering what song to offer.</p>
<p>She sat upon her hands and watched him.</p>
<p>He was wonderful. When he talked his lips moved.</p>
<p>She sat upon the stove and watched him.</p>
<p>Suddenly there came a bloodcurdling scream. The Tantrums rushed to the windows.</p>
<p>It was the Doldrums.</p>
<p>They had hitched their steers to trees and concealed themselves behind the bushes and flowers, and soon a perfect rattle of stones and bricks beat against the windows, bending them inward.</p>
<p>“Father! father!” shrieked Jemina.</p>
<p>Her father took down his slingshot from his slingshot rack on the wall and ran his hand lovingly over the elastic band. He stepped to a loophole. Old Mappy Tantrum stepped to the coalhole.</p>
</section>
<section id="jemina-the-mountain-girl-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">A Mountain Battle</h3>
<p>The stranger was aroused at last. Furious to get at the Doldrums, he tried to escape from the house by crawling up the chimney. Then he thought there might be a door under the bed, but Jemina told him there was not. He hunted for doors under the beds and sofas, but each time Jemina pulled him out and told him there were no doors there. Furious with anger, he beat upon the door and hollered at the Doldrums. They did not answer him, but kept up their fusillade of bricks and stones against the window. Old Pappy Tantrum knew that just as soon as they were able to effect an aperture they would pour in and the fight would be over.</p>
<p>Then old Heck Doldrum, foaming at the mouth and expectorating on the ground, left and right, led the attack.</p>
<p>The terrific slingshots of Pappy Tantrum had not been without their effect. A master shot had disabled one Doldrum, and another Doldrum, shot almost incessantly through the abdomen, fought feebly on.</p>
<p>Nearer and nearer they approached the house.</p>
<p>“We must fly,” shouted the stranger to Jemina. “I will sacrifice myself and bear you away.”</p>
<p>“No,” shouted Pappy Tantrum, his face begrimed. “You stay here and fit on. I will bar Jemina away. I will bar Mappy away. I will bar myself away.”</p>
<p>The man from the settlements, pale and trembling with anger, turned to Ham Tantrum, who stood at the door throwing loophole after loophole at the advancing Doldrums.</p>
<p>“Will you cover the retreat?”</p>
<p>But Ham said that he too had Tantrums to bear away, but that he would leave himself here to help the stranger cover the retreat, if he could think of a way of doing it.</p>
<p>Soon smoke began to filter through the floor and ceiling. Shem Doldrum had come up and touched a match to old Japhet Tantrum’s breath as he leaned from a loophole, and the alcoholic flames shot up on all sides.</p>
<p>The whiskey in the bathtub caught fire. The walls began to fall in.</p>
<p>Jemina and the man from the settlements looked at each other.</p>
<p>“Jemina,” he whispered.</p>
<p>“Stranger,” she answered.</p>
<p>“We will die together,” he said. “If we had lived I would have taken you to the city and married you. With your ability to hold liquor, your social success would have been assured.”</p>
<p>She caressed him idly for a moment, counting her toes softly to herself. The smoke grew thicker. Her left leg was on fire.</p>
<p>She was a human alcohol lamp.</p>
<p>Their lips met in one long kiss and then a wall fell on them and blotted them out.</p>
</section>
<section id="jemina-the-mountain-girl-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="title">“As One.”</h3>
<p>When the Doldrums burst through the ring of flame, they found them dead where they had fallen, their arms about each other.</p>
<p>Old Jem Doldrum was moved.</p>
<p>He took off his hat.</p>
<p>He filled it with whiskey and drank it off.</p>
<p>“They air dead,” he said slowly, “they hankered after each other. The fit is over now. We must not part them.”</p>
<p>So they threw them together into the stream and the two splashes they made were as one.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="o-russet-witch" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">“O Russet Witch!”</h2>
<section id="o-russet-witch-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Merlin Grainger was employed by the Moonlight Quill Bookshop, which you may have visited, just around the corner from the Ritz-Carlton on Forty-seventh Street. The Moonlight Quill is, or rather was, a very romantic little store, considered radical and admitted dark. It was spotted interiorly with red and orange posters of breathless exotic intent, and lit no less by the shiny reflecting bindings of special editions than by the great squat lamp of crimson satin that, lighted through all the day, swung overhead. It was truly a mellow bookshop. The words “Moonlight Quill” were worked over the door in a sort of serpentine embroidery. The windows seemed always full of something that had passed the literary censors with little to spare; volumes with covers of deep orange which offer their titles on little white paper squares. And over all there was the smell of the musk, which the clever, inscrutable <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill ordered to be sprinkled about⁠—the smell half of a curiosity shop in Dickens’ London and half of a coffeehouse on the warm shores of the Bosphorus.</p>
<p>From nine until five-thirty Merlin Grainger asked bored old ladies in black and young men with dark circles under their eyes if they “cared for this fellow” or were interested in first editions. Did they buy novels with Arabs on the cover, or books which gave Shakespeare’s newest sonnets as dictated psychically to Miss Sutton of South Dakota? he sniffed. As a matter of fact, his own taste ran to these latter, but as an employee at the Moonlight Quill he assumed for the working day the attitude of a disillusioned connoisseur.</p>
<p>After he had crawled over the window display to pull down the front shade at five-thirty every afternoon, and said goodbye to the mysterious <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill and the lady clerk, Miss McCracken, and the lady stenographer, Miss Masters, he went home to the girl, Caroline. He did not eat supper with Caroline. It is unbelievable that Caroline would have considered eating off his bureau with the collar buttons dangerously near the cottage cheese, and the ends of Merlin’s necktie just missing his glass of milk⁠—he had never asked her to eat with him. He ate alone. He went into Braegdort’s delicatessen on Sixth Avenue and bought a box of crackers, a tube of anchovy paste, and some oranges, or else a little jar of sausages and some potato salad and a bottled soft drink, and with these in a brown package he went to his room at Fifty-something West Fifty-eighth Street and ate his supper and saw Caroline.</p>
<p>Caroline was a very young and gay person who lived with some older lady and was possibly nineteen. She was like a ghost in that she never existed until evening. She sprang into life when the lights went on in her apartment at about six, and she disappeared, at the latest, about midnight. Her apartment was a nice one, in a nice building with a white stone front, opposite the south side of Central Park. The back of her apartment faced the single window of the single room occupied by the single <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Grainger.</p>
<p>He called her Caroline because there was a picture that looked like her on the jacket of a book of that name down at the Moonlight Quill.</p>
<p>Now, Merlin Grainger was a thin young man of twenty-five, with dark hair and no mustache or beard or anything like that, but Caroline was dazzling and light, with a shimmering morass of russet waves to take the place of hair, and the sort of features that remind you of kisses⁠—the sort of features you thought belonged to your first love, but know, when you come across an old picture, didn’t. She dressed in pink or blue usually, but of late she had sometimes put on a slender black gown that was evidently her especial pride, for whenever she wore it she would stand regarding a certain place on the wall, which Merlin thought must be a mirror. She sat usually in the profile chair near the window, but sometimes honored the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chaise longue</i> by the lamp, and often she leaned ’way back and smoked a cigarette with posturings of her arms and hands that Merlin considered very graceful.</p>
<p>At another time she had come to the window and stood in it magnificently, and looked out because the moon had lost its way and was dripping the strangest and most transforming brilliance into the areaway between, turning the motif of ashcans and clotheslines into a vivid impressionism of silver casks and gigantic gossamer cobwebs. Merlin was sitting in plain sight, eating cottage cheese with sugar and milk on it; and so quickly did he reach out for the window cord that he tipped the cottage cheese into his lap with his free hand⁠—and the milk was cold and the sugar made spots on his trousers, and he was sure that she had seen him after all.</p>
<p>Sometimes there were callers⁠—men in dinner coats, who stood and bowed, hat in hand and coat on arm, as they talked to Caroline; then bowed some more and followed her out of the light, obviously bound for a play or for a dance. Other young men came and sat and smoked cigarettes, and seemed trying to tell Caroline something⁠—she sitting either in the profile chair and watching them with eager intentness or else in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chaise longue</i> by the lamp, looking very lovely and youthfully inscrutable indeed.</p>
<p>Merlin enjoyed these calls. Of some of the men he approved. Others won only his grudging toleration, one or two he loathed⁠—especially the most frequent caller, a man with black hair and a black goatee and a pitch-dark soul, who seemed to Merlin vaguely familiar, but whom he was never quite able to recognize.</p>
<p>Now, Merlin’s whole life was not “bound up with this romance he had constructed”; it was not “the happiest hour of his day.” He never arrived in time to rescue Caroline from “clutches”; nor did he even marry her. A much stranger thing happened than any of these, and it is this strange thing that will presently be set down here. It began one October afternoon when she walked briskly into the mellow interior of the Moonlight Quill.</p>
<p>It was a dark afternoon, threatening rain and the end of the world, and done in that particularly gloomy gray in which only New York afternoons indulge. A breeze was crying down the streets, whisking along battered newspapers and pieces of things, and little lights were pricking out all the windows⁠—it was so desolate that one was sorry for the tops of skyscrapers lost up there in the dark green and gray heaven, and felt that now surely the farce was to close, and presently all the buildings would collapse like card houses, and pile up in a dusty, sardonic heap upon all the millions who presumed to wind in and out of them.</p>
<p>At least these were the sort of musings that lay heavily upon the soul of Merlin Grainger, as he stood by the window putting a dozen books back in a row after a cyclonic visit by a lady with ermine trimmings. He looked out of the window full of the most distressing thoughts⁠—of the early novels of <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. G.</abbr> Wells, of the book of Genesis, of how Thomas Edison had said that in thirty years there would be no dwelling-houses upon the island, but only a vast and turbulent bazaar; and then he set the last book right side up, turned⁠—and Caroline walked coolly into the shop.</p>
<p>She was dressed in a jaunty but conventional walking costume⁠—he remembered this when he thought about it later. Her skirt was plaid, pleated like a concertina; her jacket was a soft but brisk tan; her shoes and spats were brown and her hat, small and trim, completed her like the top of a very expensive and beautifully filled candy box.</p>
<p>Merlin, breathless and startled, advanced nervously toward her.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon⁠—” he said, and then stopped⁠—why, he did not know, except that it came to him that something very portentous in his life was about to occur, and that it would need no furbishing but silence, and the proper amount of expectant attention. And in that minute before the thing began to happen he had the sense of a breathless second hanging suspended in time: he saw through the glass partition that bounded off the little office the malevolent conical head of his employer, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill, bent over his correspondence. He saw Miss McCracken and Miss Masters as two patches of hair drooping over piles of paper; he saw the crimson lamp overhead, and noticed with a touch of pleasure how really pleasant and romantic it made the bookstore seem.</p>
<p>Then the thing happened, or rather it began to happen. Caroline picked up a volume of poems lying loose upon a pile, fingered it absently with her slender white hand, and suddenly, with an easy gesture, tossed it upward toward the ceiling where it disappeared in the crimson lamp and lodged there, seen through the illuminated silk as a dark, bulging rectangle. This pleased her⁠—she broke into young, contagious laughter, in which Merlin found himself presently joining.</p>
<p>“It stayed up!” she cried merrily. “It stayed up, didn’t it?” To both of them this seemed the height of brilliant absurdity. Their laughter mingled, filled the bookshop, and Merlin was glad to find that her voice was rich and full of sorcery.</p>
<p>“Try another,” he found himself suggesting⁠—“try a red one.”</p>
<p>At this her laughter increased, and she had to rest her hands upon the stack to steady herself.</p>
<p>“Try another,” she managed to articulate between spasms of mirth. “Oh, golly, try another!”</p>
<p>“Try two.”</p>
<p>“Yes, try two. Oh, I’ll choke if I don’t stop laughing. Here it goes.”</p>
<p>Suiting her action to the word, she picked up a red book and sent it in a gentle hyperbola toward the ceiling, where it sank into the lamp beside the first. It was a few minutes before either of them could do more than rock back and forth in helpless glee; but then by mutual agreement they took up the sport anew, this time in unison. Merlin seized a large, specially bound French classic and whirled it upward. Applauding his own accuracy, he took a bestseller in one hand and a book on barnacles in the other, and waited breathlessly while she made her shot. Then the business waxed fast and furious⁠—sometimes they alternated, and, watching, he found how supple she was in every movement; sometimes one of them made shot after shot, picking up the nearest book, sending it off, merely taking time to follow it with a glance before reaching for another. Within three minutes they had cleared a little place on the table, and the lamp of crimson satin was so bulging with books that it was near breaking.</p>
<p>“Silly game, basketball,” she cried scornfully as a book left her hand. “High-school girls play it in hideous bloomers.”</p>
<p>“Idiotic,” he agreed.</p>
<p>She paused in the act of tossing a book, and replaced it suddenly in its position on the table.</p>
<p>“I think we’ve got room to sit down now,” she said gravely.</p>
<p>They had; they had cleared an ample space for two. With a faint touch of nervousness Merlin glanced toward <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill’s glass partition, but the three heads were still bent earnestly over their work, and it was evident that they had not seen what had gone on in the shop. So when Caroline put her hands on the table and hoisted herself up Merlin calmly imitated her, and they sat side by side looking very earnestly at each other.</p>
<p>“I had to see you,” she began, with a rather pathetic expression in her brown eyes.</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“It was that last time,” she continued, her voice trembling a little, though she tried to keep it steady. “I was frightened. I don’t like you to eat off the dresser. I’m so afraid you’ll⁠—you’ll swallow a collar button.”</p>
<p>“I did once⁠—almost,” he confessed reluctantly, “but it’s not so easy, you know. I mean you can swallow the flat part easy enough or else the other part⁠—that is, separately⁠—but for a whole collar button you’d have to have a specially made throat.” He was astonishing himself by the debonnaire appropriateness of his remarks. Words seemed for the first time in his life to run at him shrieking to be used, gathering themselves into carefully arranged squads and platoons, and being presented to him by punctilious adjutants of paragraphs.</p>
<p>“That’s what scared me,” she said. “I knew you had to have a specially made throat⁠—and I knew, at least I felt sure, that you didn’t have one.”</p>
<p>He nodded frankly.</p>
<p>“I haven’t. It costs money to have one⁠—more money unfortunately than I possess.”</p>
<p>He felt no shame in saying this⁠—rather a delight in making the admission⁠—he knew that nothing he could say or do would be beyond her comprehension; least of all his poverty, and the practical impossibility of ever extricating himself from it.</p>
<p>Caroline looked down at her wrist watch, and with a little cry slid from the table to her feet.</p>
<p>“It’s after five,” she cried. “I didn’t realize. I have to be at the Ritz at five-thirty. Let’s hurry and get this done. I’ve got a bet on it.”</p>
<p>With one accord they set to work. Caroline began the matter by seizing a book on insects and sending it whizzing, and finally crashing through the glass partition that housed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill. The proprietor glanced up with a wild look, brushed a few pieces of glass from his desk, and went on with his letters. Miss McCracken gave no sign of having heard⁠—only Miss Masters started and gave a little frightened scream before she bent to her task again.</p>
<p>But to Merlin and Caroline it didn’t matter. In a perfect orgy of energy they were hurling book after book in all directions until sometimes three or four were in the air at once, smashing against shelves, cracking the glass of pictures on the walls, falling in bruised and torn heaps upon the floor. It was fortunate that no customers happened to come in, for it is certain they would never have come in again⁠—the noise was too tremendous, a noise of smashing and ripping and tearing, mixed now and then with the tinkling of glass, the quick breathing of the two throwers, and the intermittent outbursts of laughter to which both of them periodically surrendered.</p>
<p>At five-thirty Caroline tossed a last book at the lamp, and gave the final impetus to the load it carried. The weakened silk tore and dropped its cargo in one vast splattering of white and color to the already littered floor. Then with a sigh of relief she turned to Merlin and held out her hand.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” she said simply.</p>
<p>“Are you going?” He knew she was. His question was simply a lingering wile to detain her and extract for another moment that dazzling essence of light he drew from her presence, to continue his enormous satisfaction in her features, which were like kisses and, he thought, like the features of a girl he had known back in 1910. For a minute he pressed the softness of her hand⁠—then she smiled and withdrew it and, before he could spring to open the door, she had done it herself and was gone out into the turbid and ominous twilight that brooded narrowly over Forty-seventh Street.</p>
<p>I would like to tell you how Merlin, having seen how beauty regards the wisdom of the years, walked into the little partition of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill and gave up his job then and there; thence issuing out into the street a much finer and nobler and increasingly ironic man. But the truth is much more commonplace. Merlin Grainger stood up and surveyed the wreck of the bookshop, the ruined volumes, the torn silk remnants of the once beautiful crimson lamp, the crystalline sprinkling of broken glass which lay in iridescent dust over the whole interior⁠—and then he went to a corner where a broom was kept and began cleaning up and rearranging and, as far as he was able, restoring the shop to its former condition. He found that, though some few of the books were uninjured, most of them had suffered in varying extents. The backs were off some, the pages were torn from others, still others were just slightly cracked in the front, which, as all careless book returners know, makes a book unsalable, and therefore secondhand.</p>
<p>Nevertheless by six o’clock he had done much to repair the damage. He had returned the books to their original places, swept the floor, and put new lights in the sockets overhead. The red shade itself was ruined beyond redemption, and Merlin thought in some trepidation that the money to replace it might have to come out of his salary. At six, therefore, having done the best he could, he crawled over the front window display to pull down the blind. As he was treading delicately back, he saw <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill rise from his desk, put on his overcoat and hat, and emerge into the shop. He nodded mysteriously at Merlin and went toward the door. With his hand on the knob he paused, turned around, and in a voice curiously compounded of ferocity and uncertainty, he said:</p>
<p>“If that girl comes in here again, you tell her to behave.”</p>
<p>With that he opened the door, drowning Merlin’s meek “Yessir” in its creak, and went out.</p>
<p>Merlin stood there for a moment, deciding wisely not to worry about what was for the present only a possible futurity, and then he went into the back of the shop and invited Miss Masters to have supper with him at Pulpat’s French Restaurant, where one could still obtain red wine at dinner, despite the Great Federal Government. Miss Masters accepted.</p>
<p>“Wine makes me feel all tingly,” she said.</p>
<p>Merlin laughed inwardly as he compared her to Caroline, or rather as he didn’t compare her. There was no comparison.</p>
</section>
<section id="o-russet-witch-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill, mysterious, exotic, and oriental in temperament was, nevertheless, a man of decision. And it was with decision that he approached the problem of his wrecked shop. Unless he should make an outlay equal to the original cost of his entire stock⁠—a step which for certain private reasons he did not wish to take⁠—it would be impossible for him to continue in business with the Moonlight Quill as before. There was but one thing to do. He promptly turned his establishment from an up-to-the-minute bookstore into a secondhand bookshop. The damaged books were marked down from twenty-five to fifty percent, the name over the door whose serpentine embroidery had once shone so insolently bright, was allowed to grow dim and take on the indescribably vague color of old paint, and, having a strong penchant for ceremonial, the proprietor even went so far as to buy two skullcaps of shoddy red felt, one for himself and one for his clerk, Merlin Grainger. Moreover, he let his goatee grow until it resembled the tail-feathers of an ancient sparrow and substituted for a once dapper business suit a reverence-inspiring affair of shiny alpaca.</p>
<p>In fact, within a year after Caroline’s catastrophic visit to the bookshop the only thing in it that preserved any semblance of being up to date was Miss Masters. Miss McCracken had followed in the footsteps of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill and become an intolerable dowd.</p>
<p>For Merlin too, from a feeling compounded of loyalty and listlessness, had let his exterior take on the semblance of a deserted garden. He accepted the red felt skullcap as a symbol of his decay. Always a young man known as a “pusher,” he had been, since the day of his graduation from the manual training department of a New York High School, an inveterate brusher of clothes, hair, teeth, and even eyebrows, and had learned the value of laying all his clean socks toe upon toe and heel upon heel in a certain drawer of his bureau, which would be known as the sock drawer.</p>
<p>These things, he felt, had won him his place in the greatest splendor of the Moonlight Quill. It was due to them that he was not still making “chests useful for keeping things,” as he was taught with breathless practicality in High School, and selling them to whoever had use of such chests⁠—possibly undertakers. Nevertheless when the progressive Moonlight Quill became the retrogressive Moonlight Quill he preferred to sink with it, and so took to letting his suits gather undisturbed the wispy burdens of the air and to throwing his socks indiscriminately into the shirt drawer, the underwear drawer, and even into no drawer at all. It was not uncommon in his new carelessness to let many of his clean clothes go directly back to the laundry without having ever been worn, a common eccentricity of impoverished bachelors. And this in the face of his favorite magazines, which at that time were fairly staggering with articles by successful authors against the frightful impudence of the condemned poor, such as the buying of wearable shirts and nice cuts of meat, and the fact that they preferred good investments in personal jewelry to respectable ones in four percent saving-banks.</p>
<p>It was indeed a strange state of affairs and a sorry one for many worthy and God-fearing men. For the first time in the history of the Republic almost any negro north of Georgia could change a one-dollar bill. But as at that time the cent was rapidly approaching the purchasing power of the Chinese ubu and was only a thing you got back occasionally after paying for a soft drink, and could use merely in getting your correct weight, this was perhaps not so strange a phenomenon as it at first seems. It was too curious a state of things, however, for Merlin Grainger to take the step that he did take⁠—the hazardous, almost involuntary step of proposing to Miss Masters. Stranger still that she accepted him.</p>
<p>It was at Pulpat’s on Saturday night and over a $1.75 bottle of water diluted with <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vin ordinaire</i> that the proposal occurred.</p>
<p>“Wine makes me feel all tingly, doesn’t it you?” chattered Miss Masters gaily.</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered Merlin absently; and then, after a long and pregnant pause: “Miss Masters⁠—Olive⁠—I want to say something to you if you’ll listen to me.”</p>
<p>The tingliness of Miss Masters (who knew what was coming) increased until it seemed that she would shortly be electrocuted by her own nervous reactions. But her “Yes, Merlin,” came without a sign or flicker of interior disturbance. Merlin swallowed a stray bit of air that he found in his mouth.</p>
<p>“I have no fortune,” he said with the manner of making an announcement. “I have no fortune at all.”</p>
<p>Their eyes met, locked, became wistful, and dreamy and beautiful.</p>
<p>“Olive,” he told her, “I love you.”</p>
<p>“I love you too, Merlin,” she answered simply. “Shall we have another bottle of wine?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he cried, his heart beating at a great rate. “Do you mean⁠—”</p>
<p>“To drink to our engagement,” she interrupted bravely. “May it be a short one!”</p>
<p>“No!” he almost shouted, bringing his fist fiercely down upon the table. “May it last forever!”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I mean⁠—oh, I see what you mean. You’re right. May it be a short one.” He laughed and added, “My error.”</p>
<p>After the wine arrived they discussed the matter thoroughly.</p>
<p>“We’ll have to take a small apartment at first,” he said, “and I believe, yes, by golly, I know there’s a small one in the house where I live, a big room and a sort of a dressing-room-kitchenette and the use of a bath on the same floor.”</p>
<p>She clapped her hands happily, and he thought how pretty she was really, that is, the upper part of her face⁠—from the bridge of the nose down she was somewhat out of true. She continued enthusiastically:</p>
<p>“And as soon as we can afford it we’ll take a real swell apartment, with an elevator and a telephone girl.”</p>
<p>“And after that a place in the country⁠—and a car.”</p>
<p>“I can’t imagine nothing more fun. Can you?”</p>
<p>Merlin fell silent a moment. He was thinking that he would have to give up his room, the fourth floor rear. Yet it mattered very little now. During the past year and a half⁠—in fact, from the very date of Caroline’s visit to the Moonlight Quill⁠—he had never seen her. For a week after that visit her lights had failed to go on⁠—darkness brooded out into the areaway, seemed to grope blindly in at his expectant, uncurtained window. Then the lights had appeared at last, and instead of Caroline and her callers they showed a stodgy family⁠—a little man with a bristly mustache and a full-bosomed woman who spent her evenings patting her hips and rearranging bric-a-brac. After two days of them Merlin had callously pulled down his shade.</p>
<p>No, Merlin could think of nothing more fun than rising in the world with Olive. There would be a cottage in a suburb, a cottage painted blue, just one class below the sort of cottages that are of white stucco with a green roof. In the grass around the cottage would be rusty trowels and a broken green bench and a baby-carriage with a wicker body that sagged to the left. And around the grass and the baby-carriage and the cottage itself, around his whole world there would be the arms of Olive, a little stouter, the arms of her neo-Olivian period, when, as she walked, her cheeks would tremble up and down ever so slightly from too much face-massaging. He could hear her voice now, two spoons’ length away:</p>
<p>“I knew you were going to say this tonight, Merlin. I could see⁠—”</p>
<p>She could see. Ah⁠—suddenly he wondered how much she could see. Could she see that the girl who had come in with a party of three men and sat down at the next table was Caroline? Ah, could she see that? Could she see that the men brought with them liquor far more potent than Pulpat’s red ink condensed threefold?⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Merlin stared breathlessly, half-hearing through an auditory ether Olive’s low, soft monologue, as like a persistent honeybee she sucked sweetness from her memorable hour. Merlin was listening to the clinking of ice and the fine laughter of all four at some pleasantry⁠—and that laughter of Caroline’s that he knew so well stirred him, lifted him, called his heart imperiously over to her table, whither it obediently went. He could see her quite plainly, and he fancied that in the last year and a half she had changed, if ever so slightly. Was it the light or were her cheeks a little thinner and her eyes less fresh, if more liquid, than of old? Yet the shadows were still purple in her russet hair; her mouth hinted yet of kisses, as did the profile that came sometimes between his eyes and a row of books, when it was twilight in the bookshop where the crimson lamp presided no more.</p>
<p>And she had been drinking. The threefold flush in her cheeks was compounded of youth and wine and fine cosmetic⁠—that he could tell. She was making great amusement for the young man on her left and the portly person on her right, and even for the old fellow opposite her, for the latter from time to time uttered the shocked and mildly reproachful cackles of another generation. Merlin caught the words of a song she was intermittently singing⁠—</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Just snap your fingers at care,</span>
<br/>
<span>Don’t cross the bridge ’til you’re there⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The portly person filled her glass with chill amber. A waiter after several trips about the table, and many helpless glances at Caroline, who was maintaining a cheerful, futile questionnaire as to the succulence of this dish or that, managed to obtain the semblance of an order and hurried away.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Olive was speaking to Merlin⁠—</p>
<p>“When, then?” she asked, her voice faintly shaded with disappointment. He realized that he had just answered no to some question she had asked him.</p>
<p>“Oh, sometime.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you⁠—care?”</p>
<p>A rather pathetic poignancy in her question brought his eyes back to her.</p>
<p>“As soon as possible, dear,” he replied with surprising tenderness. “In two months⁠—in June.”</p>
<p>“So soon?” Her delightful excitement quite took her breath away.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I think we’d better say June. No use waiting.”</p>
<p>Olive began to pretend that two months was really too short a time for her to make preparations. Wasn’t he a bad boy! Wasn’t he impatient, though! Well, she’d show him he mustn’t be too quick with <em>her</em>. Indeed he was so sudden she didn’t exactly know whether she ought to marry him at all.</p>
<p>“June,” he repeated sternly.</p>
<p>Olive sighed and smiled and drank her coffee, her little finger lifted high above the others in true refined fashion. A stray thought came to Merlin that he would like to buy five rings and throw at it.</p>
<p>“By gosh!” he exclaimed aloud. Soon he <em>would</em> be putting rings on one of her fingers.</p>
<p>His eyes swung sharply to the right. The party of four had become so riotous that the headwaiter had approached and spoken to them. Caroline was arguing with this headwaiter in a raised voice, a voice so clear and young that it seemed as though the whole restaurant would listen⁠—the whole restaurant except Olive Masters, self-absorbed in her new secret.</p>
<p>“How do you do?” Caroline was saying. “Probably the handsomest headwaiter in captivity. Too much noise? Very unfortunate. Something’ll have to be done about it. Gerald”⁠—she addressed the man on her right⁠—“the headwaiter says there’s too much noise. Appeals to us to have it stopped. What’ll I say?”</p>
<p>“Sh!” remonstrated Gerald, with laughter. “Sh!” and Merlin heard him add in an undertone: “All the bourgeoisie will be aroused. This is where the floorwalkers learn French.”</p>
<p>Caroline sat up straight in sudden alertness.</p>
<p>“Where’s a floorwalker?” she cried. “Show me a floorwalker.” This seemed to amuse the party, for they all, including Caroline, burst into renewed laughter. The headwaiter, after a last conscientious but despairing admonition, became Gallic with his shoulders and retired into the background.</p>
<p>Pulpat’s, as everyone knows, has the unvarying respectability of the table d’hôte. It is not a gay place in the conventional sense. One comes, drinks the red wine, talks perhaps a little more and a little louder than usual under the low, smoky ceilings, and then goes home. It closes up at nine-thirty, tight as a drum; the policeman is paid off and given an extra bottle of wine for the missis, the coatroom girl hands her tips to the collector, and then darkness crushes the little round tables out of sight and life. But excitement was prepared for Pulpat’s this evening⁠—excitement of no mean variety. A girl with russet, purple-shadowed hair mounted to her tabletop and began to dance thereon.</p>
<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Sacré nom de Dieu!</i> Come down off there!” cried the headwaiter. “Stop that music!”</p>
<p>But the musicians were already playing so loud that they could pretend not to hear his order; having once been young, they played louder and gayer than ever, and Caroline danced with grace and vivacity, her pink, filmy dress swirling about her, her agile arms playing in supple, tenuous gestures along the smoky air.</p>
<p>A group of Frenchmen at a table near by broke into cries of applause, in which other parties joined⁠—in a moment the room was full of clapping and shouting; half the diners were on their feet, crowding up, and on the outskirts the hastily summoned proprietor was giving indistinct vocal evidences of his desire to put an end to this thing as quickly as possible.</p>
<p>“… Merlin!” cried Olive, awake, aroused at last; “she’s such a wicked girl! Let’s get out⁠—now!”</p>
<p>The fascinated Merlin protested feebly that the check was not paid.</p>
<p>“It’s all right. Lay five dollars on the table. I despise that girl. I can’t <em>bear</em> to look at her.” She was on her feet now, tagging at Merlin’s arm.</p>
<p>Helplessly, listlessly, and then with what amounted to downright unwillingness, Merlin rose, followed Olive dumbly as she picked her way through the delirious clamor, now approaching its height and threatening to become a wild and memorable riot. Submissively he took his coat and stumbled up half a dozen steps into the moist April air outside, his ears still ringing with the sound of light feet on the table and of laughter all about and over the little world of the café. In silence they walked along toward Fifth Avenue and a bus.</p>
<p>It was not until next day that she told him about the wedding⁠—how she had moved the date forward: it was much better that they should be married on the first of May.</p>
</section>
<section id="o-russet-witch-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>And married they were, in a somewhat stuffy manner, under the chandelier of the flat where Olive lived with her mother. After marriage came elation, and then, gradually, the growth of weariness. Responsibility descended upon Merlin, the responsibility of making his thirty dollars a week and her twenty suffice to keep them respectably fat and to hide with decent garments the evidence that they were.</p>
<p>It was decided after several weeks of disastrous and well-nigh humiliating experiments with restaurants that they would join the great army of the delicatessen-fed, so he took up his old way of life again, in that he stopped every evening at Braegdort’s delicatessen and bought potatoes in salad, ham in slices, and sometimes even stuffed tomatoes in bursts of extravagance.</p>
<p>Then he would trudge homeward, enter the dark hallway, and climb three rickety flights of stairs covered by an ancient carpet of long obliterated design. The hall had an ancient smell⁠—of the vegetables of 1880, of the furniture polish in vogue when “Adam-and-Eve” Bryan ran against William McKinley, of portieres an ounce heavier with dust, from worn-out shoes, and lint from dresses turned long since into patchwork quilts. This smell would pursue him up the stairs, revivified and made poignant at each landing by the aura of contemporary cooking, then, as he began the next flight, diminishing into the odor of the dead routine of dead generations.</p>
<p>Eventually would occur the door of his room, which slipped open with indecent willingness and closed with almost a sniff upon his “Hello, dear! Got a treat for you tonight.”</p>
<p>Olive, who always rode home on the bus to “get a morsel of air,” would be making the bed and hanging up things. At his call she would come up to him and give him a quick kiss with wide-open eyes, while he held her upright like a ladder, his hands on her two arms, as though she were a thing without equilibrium, and would, once he relinquished hold, fall stiffly backward to the floor. This is the kiss that comes in with the second year of marriage, succeeding the bridegroom kiss (which is rather stagey at best, say those who know about such things, and apt to be copied from passionate movies).</p>
<p>Then came supper, and after that they went out for a walk, up two blocks and through Central Park, or sometimes to a moving picture, which taught them patiently that they were the sort of people for whom life was ordered, and that something very grand and brave and beautiful would soon happen to them if they were docile and obedient to their rightful superiors and kept away from pleasure.</p>
<p>Such was their day for three years. Then change came into their lives: Olive had a baby, and as a result Merlin had a new influx of material resources. In the third week of Olive’s confinement, after an hour of nervous rehearsing, he went into the office of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill and demanded an enormous increase in salary.</p>
<p>“I’ve been here ten years,” he said; “since I was nineteen. I’ve always tried to do my best in the interests of the business.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill said that he would think it over. Next morning he announced, to Merlin’s great delight, that he was going to put into effect a project long premeditated⁠—he was going to retire from active work in the bookshop, confining himself to periodic visits and leaving Merlin as manager with a salary of fifty dollars a week and a one-tenth interest in the business. When the old man finished, Merlin’s cheeks were glowing and his eyes full of tears. He seized his employer’s hand and shook it violently, saying over and over again:</p>
<p>“It’s very nice of you, sir. It’s very white of you. It’s very, very nice of you.”</p>
<p>So after ten years of faithful work in the store he had won out at last. Looking back, he saw his own progress toward this hill of elation no longer as a sometimes sordid and always gray decade of worry and failing enthusiasm and failing dreams, years when the moonlight had grown duller in the areaway and the youth had faded out of Olive’s face, but as a glorious and triumphant climb over obstacles which he had determinedly surmounted by unconquerable willpower. The optimistic self-delusion that had kept him from misery was seen now in the golden garments of stern resolution. Half a dozen times he had taken steps to leave the Moonlight Quill and soar upward, but through sheer faintheartedness he had stayed on. Strangely enough he now thought that those were times when he had exerted tremendous persistence and had “determined” to fight it out where he was.</p>
<p>At any rate, let us not for this moment begrudge Merlin his new and magnificent view of himself. He had arrived. At thirty he had reached a post of importance. He left the shop that evening fairly radiant, invested every penny in his pocket in the most tremendous feast that Braegdort’s delicatessen offered, and staggered homeward with the great news and four gigantic paper bags. The fact that Olive was too sick to eat, that he made himself faintly but unmistakably ill by a struggle with four stuffed tomatoes, and that most of the food deteriorated rapidly in an iceless icebox: all next day did not mar the occasion. For the first time since the week of his marriage Merlin Grainger lived under a sky of unclouded tranquillity.</p>
<p>The baby boy was christened Arthur, and life became dignified, significant, and, at length, centered. Merlin and Olive resigned themselves to a somewhat secondary place in their own cosmos; but what they lost in personality they regained in a sort of primordial pride. The country house did not come, but a month in an Asbury Park boardinghouse each summer filled the gap; and during Merlin’s two weeks’ holiday this excursion assumed the air of a really merry jaunt⁠—especially when, with the baby asleep in a wide room opening technically on the sea, Merlin strolled with Olive along the thronged boardwalk puffing at his cigar and trying to look like twenty thousand a year.</p>
<p>With some alarm at the slowing up of the days and the accelerating of the years, Merlin became thirty-one, thirty-two⁠—then almost with a rush arrived at that age which, with all its washing and panning, can only muster a bare handful of the precious stuff of youth: he became thirty-five. And one day on Fifth Avenue he saw Caroline.</p>
<p>It was Sunday, a radiant, flowerful Easter morning and the avenue was a pageant of lilies and cutaways and happy April-colored bonnets. Twelve o’clock: the great churches were letting out their people⁠—<abbr>St.</abbr> Simon’s, <abbr>St.</abbr> Hilda’s, the Church of the Epistles, opened their doors like wide mouths until the people pouring forth surely resembled happy laughter as they met and strolled and chattered, or else waved white bouquets at waiting chauffeurs.</p>
<p>In front of the Church of the Epistles stood its twelve vestrymen, carrying out the time-honored custom of giving away Easter eggs full of face-powder to the churchgoing debutantes of the year. Around them delightedly danced the two thousand miraculously groomed children of the very rich, correctly cute and curled, shining like sparkling little jewels upon their mothers’ fingers. Speaks the sentimentalist for the children of the poor? Ah, but the children of the rich, laundered, sweet-smelling, complexioned of the country, and, above all, with soft, indoor voices.</p>
<p>Little Arthur was five, child of the middle class. Undistinguished, unnoticed, with a nose that forever marred what Grecian yearnings his features might have had, he held tightly to his mother’s warm, sticky hand, and, with Merlin on his other side, moved upon the homecoming throng. At Fifty-third Street, where there were two churches, the congestion was at its thickest, its richest. Their progress was of necessity retarded to such an extent that even little Arthur had not the slightest difficulty in keeping up. Then it was that Merlin perceived an open landaulet of deepest crimson, with handsome nickel trimmings, glide slowly up to the curb and come to a stop. In it sat Caroline.</p>
<p>She was dressed in black, a tight-fitting gown trimmed with lavender, flowered at the waist with a corsage of orchids. Merlin started and then gazed at her fearfully. For the first time in the eight years since his marriage he was encountering the girl again. But a girl no longer. Her figure was slim as ever⁠—or perhaps not quite, for a certain boyish swagger, a sort of insolent adolescence, had gone the way of the first blooming of her cheeks. But she was beautiful; dignity was there now, and the charming lines of a fortuitous nine-and-twenty; and she sat in the car with such perfect appropriateness and self-possession that it made him breathless to watch her.</p>
<p>Suddenly she smiled⁠—the smile of old, bright as that very Easter and its flowers, mellower than ever⁠—yet somehow with not quite the radiance and infinite promise of that first smile back there in the bookshop nine years before. It was a steelier smile, disillusioned and sad.</p>
<p>But it was soft enough and smile enough to make a pair of young men in cutaway coats hurry over, to pull their high hats off their wetted, iridescent hair; to bring them, flustered and bowing, to the edge of her landaulet, where her lavender gloves gently touched their gray ones. And these two were presently joined by another, and then two more, until there was a rapidly swelling crowd around the landaulet. Merlin would hear a young man beside him say to his perhaps well-favored companion:</p>
<p>“If you’ll just pardon me a moment, there’s someone I <em>have</em> to speak to. Walk right ahead. I’ll catch up.”</p>
<p>Within three minutes every inch of the landaulet, front, back, and side, was occupied by a man⁠—a man trying to construct a sentence clever enough to find its way to Caroline through the stream of conversation. Luckily for Merlin a portion of little Arthur’s clothing had chosen the opportunity to threaten a collapse, and Olive had hurriedly rushed him over against a building for some extemporaneous repair work, so Merlin was able to watch, unhindered, the salon in the street.</p>
<p>The crowd swelled. A row formed in back of the first, two more behind that. In the midst, an orchid rising from a black bouquet, sat Caroline enthroned in her obliterated car, nodding and crying salutations and smiling with such true happiness that, of a sudden, a new relay of gentlemen had left their wives and consorts and were striding toward her.</p>
<p>The crowd, now phalanx deep, began to be augmented by the merely curious; men of all ages who could not possibly have known Caroline jostled over and melted into the circle of ever-increasing diameter, until the lady in lavender was the centre of a vast impromptu auditorium.</p>
<p>All about her were faces⁠—clean-shaven, bewhiskered, old, young, ageless, and now, here and there, a woman. The mass was rapidly spreading to the opposite curb, and, as <abbr>St.</abbr> Anthony’s around the corner let out its box-holders, it overflowed to the sidewalk and crushed up against the iron picket-fence of a millionaire across the street. The motors speeding along the avenue were compelled to stop, and in a jiffy were piled three, five, and six deep at the edge of the crowd; auto-busses, top-heavy turtles of traffic, plunged into the jam, their passengers crowding to the edges of the roofs in wild excitement and peering down into the centre of the mass, which presently could hardly be seen from the mass’s edge.</p>
<p>The crush had become terrific. No fashionable audience at a Yale-Princeton football game, no damp mob at a world’s series, could be compared with the panoply that talked, stared, laughed, and honked about the lady in black and lavender. It was stupendous; it was terrible. A quarter mile down the block a half-frantic policeman called his precinct; on the same corner a frightened civilian crashed in the glass of a fire-alarm and sent in a wild paean for all the fire-engines of the city; up in an apartment high in one of the tall buildings a hysterical old maid telephoned in turn for the prohibition enforcement agent; the special deputies on Bolshevism, and the maternity ward of Bellevue Hospital.</p>
<p>The noise increased. The first fire-engine arrived, filling the Sunday air with smoke, clanging and crying a brazen, metallic message down the high, resounding walls. In the notion that some terrible calamity had overtaken the city, two excited deacons ordered special services immediately and set tolling the great bells of <abbr>St.</abbr> Hilda’s and <abbr>St.</abbr> Anthony’s, presently joined by the jealous gongs of <abbr>St.</abbr> Simon’s and the Church of the Epistles. Even far off in the Hudson and the East River the sounds of the commotion were heard, and the ferryboats and tugs and ocean liners set up sirens and whistles that sailed in melancholy cadence, now varied, now reiterated, across the whole diagonal width of the city from Riverside Drive to the gray waterfronts of the lower East Side.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>In the centre of her landaulet sat the lady in black and lavender, chatting pleasantly first with one, then with another of that fortunate few in cutaways who had found their way to speaking distance in the first rush. After a while she glanced around her and beside her with a look of growing annoyance.</p>
<p>She yawned and asked the man nearest her if he couldn’t run in somewhere and get her a glass of water. The man apologized in some embarrassment. He could not have moved hand or foot. He could not have scratched his own ear.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>As the first blast of the river sirens keened along the air, Olive fastened the last safety-pin in little Arthur’s rompers and looked up. Merlin saw her start, stiffen slowly like hardening stucco, and then give a little gasp of surprise and disapproval.</p>
<p>“That woman,” she cried suddenly. “Oh!”</p>
<p>She flashed a glance at Merlin that mingled reproach and pain, and without another word gathered up little Arthur with one hand, grasped her husband by the other, and darted amazingly in a winding, bumping canter through the crowd. Somehow people gave way before her; somehow she managed to retain her grasp on her son and husband; somehow she managed to emerge two blocks up, battered and dishevelled, into an open space, and, without slowing up her pace, darted down a side-street. Then at last, when uproar had died away into a dim and distant clamor, did she come to a walk and set little Arthur upon his feet.</p>
<p>“And on Sunday, too! Hasn’t she disgraced herself enough?” This was her only comment. She said it to Arthur, as she seemed to address her remarks to Arthur throughout the remainder of the day. For some curious and esoteric reason she had never once looked at her husband during the entire retreat.</p>
</section>
<section id="o-russet-witch-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>The years between thirty-five and sixty-five revolve before the passive mind as one unexplained, confusing merry-go-round. True, they are a merry-go-round of ill-gaited and wind-broken horses, painted first in pastel colors, then in dull grays and browns, but perplexing and intolerably dizzy the thing is, as never were the merry-go-rounds of childhood or adolescence; as never, surely, were the certain-coursed, dynamic roller-coasters of youth. For most men and women these thirty years are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from life, a retreat first from a front with many shelters, those myriad amusements and curiosities of youth, to a line with less, when we peel down our ambitions to one ambition, our recreations to one recreation, our friends to a few to whom we are anesthetic; ending up at last in a solitary, desolate strong point that is not strong, where the shells now whistle abominably, now are but half-heard as, by turns frightened and tired, we sit waiting for death.</p>
<p>At forty, then, Merlin was no different from himself at thirty-five; a larger paunch, a gray twinkling near his ears, a more certain lack of vivacity in his walk. His forty-five differed from his forty by a like margin, unless one mention a slight deafness in his left ear. But at fifty-five the process had become a chemical change of immense rapidity. Yearly he was more and more an “old man” to his family⁠—senile almost, so far as his wife was concerned. He was by this time complete owner of the bookshop. The mysterious <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill, dead some five years and not survived by his wife, had deeded the whole stock and store to him, and there he still spent his days, conversant now by name with almost all that man has recorded for three thousand years, a human catalogue, an authority upon tooling and binding, upon folios and first editions, an accurate inventory of a thousand authors whom he could never have understood and had certainly never read.</p>
<p>At sixty-five he distinctly doddered. He had assumed the melancholy habits of the aged so often portrayed by the second old man in standard Victorian comedies. He consumed vast warehouses of time searching for mislaid spectacles. He “nagged” his wife and was nagged in turn. He told the same jokes three or four times a year at the family table, and gave his son weird, impossible directions as to his conduct in life. Mentally and materially he was so entirely different from the Merlin Grainger of twenty-five that it seemed incongruous that he should bear the same name.</p>
<p>He worked still in the bookshop with the assistance of a youth, whom, of course, he considered very idle, indeed, and a new young woman, Miss Gaffney. Miss McCracken, ancient and unvenerable as himself, still kept the accounts. Young Arthur was gone into Wall Street to sell bonds, as all the young men seemed to be doing in that day. This, of course, was as it should be. Let old Merlin get what magic he could from his books⁠—the place of young King Arthur was in the countinghouse.</p>
<p>One afternoon at four when he had slipped noiselessly up to the front of the store on his soft-soled slippers, led by a newly formed habit, of which, to be fair, he was rather ashamed, of spying upon the young man clerk, he looked casually out of the front window, straining his faded eyesight to reach the street. A limousine, large, portentous, impressive, had drawn to the curb, and the chauffeur, after dismounting and holding some sort of conversation with persons in the interior of the car, turned about and advanced in a bewildered fashion toward the entrance of the Moonlight Quill. He opened the door, shuffled in, and, glancing uncertainly at the old man in the skullcap, addressed him in a thick, murky voice, as though his words came through a fog.</p>
<p>“Do you⁠—do you sell additions?”</p>
<p>Merlin nodded.</p>
<p>“The arithmetic books are in the back of the store.”</p>
<p>The chauffeur took off his cap and scratched a close-cropped, fuzzy head.</p>
<p>“Oh, naw. This I want’s a detecatif story.” He jerked a thumb back toward the limousine. “She seen it in the paper. Firs’ addition.”</p>
<p>Merlin’s interest quickened. Here was possibly a big sale.</p>
<p>“Oh, editions. Yes, we’ve advertised some firsts, but⁠—detective stories, I⁠—don’t⁠—believe⁠—What was the title?”</p>
<p>“I forget. About a crime.”</p>
<p>“About a crime. I have⁠—well, I have ‘The Crimes of the Borgias’⁠—full morocco, London 1769, beautifully⁠—”</p>
<p>“Naw,” interrupted the chauffeur, “this was one fella did this crime. She seen you had it for sale in the paper.” He rejected several possible titles with the air of connoisseur.</p>
<p>“ ‘Silver Bones,’ ” he announced suddenly out of a slight pause.</p>
<p>“What?” demanded Merlin, suspecting that the stiffness of his sinews were being commented on.</p>
<p>“Silver Bones. That was the guy that done the crime.”</p>
<p>“Silver Bones?”</p>
<p>“Silver Bones. Indian, maybe.”</p>
<p>Merlin, stroked his grizzly cheeks. “Gees, Mister,” went on the prospective purchaser, “if you wanna save me an awful bawln’ out jes’ try an’ think. The old lady goes wile if everything don’t run smooth.”</p>
<p>But Merlin’s musings on the subject of Silver Bones were as futile as his obliging search through the shelves, and five minutes later a very dejected charioteer wound his way back to his mistress. Through the glass Merlin could see the visible symbols of a tremendous uproar going on in the interior of the limousine. The chauffeur made wild, appealing gestures of his innocence, evidently to no avail, for when he turned around and climbed back into the driver’s seat his expression was not a little dejected.</p>
<p>Then the door of the limousine opened and gave forth a pale and slender young man of about twenty, dressed in the attenuation of fashion and carrying a wisp of a cane. He entered the shop, walked past Merlin, and proceeded to take out a cigarette and light it. Merlin approached him.</p>
<p>“Anything I can do for you, sir?”</p>
<p>“Old boy,” said the youth coolly, “there are seveereal things. You can first let me smoke my ciggy in here out of sight of that old lady in the limousine, who happens to be my grandmother. Her knowledge as to whether I smoke it or not before my majority happens to be a matter of five thousand dollars to me. The second thing is that you should look up your first edition of the ‘Crime of Sylvester Bonnard’ that you advertised in last Sunday’s <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Times</i>. My grandmother there happens to want to take it off your hands.”</p>
<p>Detecatif story! Crime of somebody! Silver Bones! All was explained. With a faint deprecatory chuckle, as if to say that he would have enjoyed this had life put him in the habit of enjoying anything, Merlin doddered away to the back of his shop where his treasures were kept, to get this latest investment which he had picked up rather cheaply at the sale of a big collection.</p>
<p>When he returned with it the young man was drawing on his cigarette and blowing out quantities of smoke with immense satisfaction.</p>
<p>“My God!” he said, “She keeps me so close to her the entire day running idiotic errands that this happens to be my first puff in six hours. What’s the world coming to, I ask you, when a feeble old lady in the milk-toast era can dictate to a man as to his personal vices. I happen to be unwilling to be so dictated to. Let’s see the book.”</p>
<p>Merlin passed it to him tenderly and the young man, after opening it with a carelessness that gave a momentary jump to the book-dealer’s heart, ran through the pages with his thumb.</p>
<p>“No illustrations, eh?” he commented. “Well, old boy, what’s it worth? Speak up! We’re willing to give you a fair price, though why I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“One hundred dollars,” said Merlin with a frown.</p>
<p>The young man gave a startled whistle.</p>
<p>“Whew! Come on. You’re not dealing with somebody from the cornbelt. I happen to be a city-bred man and my grandmother happens to be a city-bred woman, though I’ll admit it’d take a special tax appropriation to keep her in repair. We’ll give you twenty-five dollars, and let me tell you that’s liberal. We’ve got books in our attic, up in our attic with my old playthings, that were written before the old boy that wrote this was born.”</p>
<p>Merlin stiffened, expressing a rigid and meticulous horror.</p>
<p>“Did your grandmother give you twenty-five dollars to buy this with?”</p>
<p>“She did not. She gave me fifty, but she expects change. I know that old lady.”</p>
<p>“You tell her,” said Merlin with dignity, “that she has missed a very great bargain.”</p>
<p>“Give you forty,” urged the young man. “Come on now⁠—be reasonable and don’t try to hold us up⁠—”</p>
<p>Merlin had wheeled around with the precious volume under his arm and was about to return it to its special drawer in his office when there was a sudden interruption. With unheard-of magnificence the front door burst rather than swung open, and admitted in the dark interior a regal apparition in black silk and fur which bore rapidly down upon him. The cigarette leaped from the fingers of the urban young man and he gave breath to an inadvertent “Damn!”⁠—but it was upon Merlin that the entrance seemed to have the most remarkable and incongruous effect⁠—so strong an effect that the greatest treasure of his shop slipped from his hand and joined the cigarette on the floor. Before him stood Caroline.</p>
<p>She was an old woman, an old woman remarkably preserved, unusually handsome, unusually erect, but still an old woman. Her hair was a soft, beautiful white, elaborately dressed and jewelled; her face, faintly <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rouged à la grande dame</i>, showed webs of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes and two deeper lines in the form of stanchions connected her nose with the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were dim, ill natured, and querulous.</p>
<p>But it was Caroline without a doubt: Caroline’s features though in decay; Caroline’s figure, if brittle and stiff in movement; Caroline’s manner, unmistakably compounded of a delightful insolence and an enviable self assurance; and, most of all, Caroline’s voice, broken and shaky, yet with a ring in it that still could and did make chauffeurs want to drive laundry wagons and cause cigarettes to fall from the fingers of urban grandsons.</p>
<p>She stood and sniffed. Her eyes found the cigarette upon the floor.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” she cried. The words were not a question⁠—they were an entire litany of suspicion, accusation, confirmation, and decision. She tarried over them scarcely an instant. “Stand up!” she said to her grandson, “stand up and blow that nicotine out of your lungs!”</p>
<p>The young man looked at her in trepidation.</p>
<p>“Blow!” she commanded.</p>
<p>He pursed his lips feebly and blew into the air.</p>
<p>“Blow!” she repeated, more peremptorily than before.</p>
<p>He blew again, helplessly, ridiculously.</p>
<p>“Do you realize,” she went on briskly, “that you’ve forfeited five thousand dollars in five minutes?”</p>
<p>Merlin momentarily expected the young man to fall pleading upon his knees, but such is the nobility of human nature that he remained standing⁠—even blew again into the air, partly from nervousness, partly, no doubt, with some vague hope of reingratiating himself.</p>
<p>“Young ass!” cried Caroline. “Once more, just once more and you leave college and go to work.”</p>
<p>This threat had such an overwhelming effect upon the young man that he took on an even paler pallor than was natural to him. But Caroline was not through.</p>
<p>“Do you think I don’t know what you and your brothers, yes, and your asinine father too, think of me? Well, I do. You think I’m senile. You think I’m soft. I’m not!” She struck herself with her fist as though to prove that she was a mass of muscle and sinew. “And I’ll have more brains left when you’ve got me laid out in the drawing-room some sunny day than you and the rest of them were born with.”</p>
<p>“But Grandmother⁠—”</p>
<p>“Be quiet. You, a thin little stick of a boy, who if it weren’t for my money might have risen to be a journeyman barber out in the Bronx⁠—Let me see your hands. Ugh! The hands of a barber⁠—<em>you</em> presume to be smart with <em>me</em>, who once had three counts and a bona-fide duke, not to mention half a dozen papal titles pursue me from the city of Rome to the city of New York.” She paused, took breath. “Stand up! Blow’!”</p>
<p>The young man obediently blew. Simultaneously the door opened and an excited gentleman of middle age who wore a coat and hat trimmed with fur, and seemed, moreover, to be trimmed with the same sort of fur himself on upper lip and chin, rushed into the store and up to Caroline.</p>
<p>“Found you at last,” he cried. “Been looking for you all over town. Tried your house on the phone and your secretary told me he thought you’d gone to a bookshop called the Moonlight⁠—”</p>
<p>Caroline turned to him irritably.</p>
<p>“Do I employ you for your reminiscences?” she snapped. “Are you my tutor or my broker?”</p>
<p>“Your broker,” confessed the fur-trimmed man, taken somewhat aback. “I beg your pardon. I came about that phonograph stock. I can sell for a hundred and five.”</p>
<p>“Then do it.”</p>
<p>“Very well. I thought I’d better⁠—”</p>
<p>“Go sell it. I’m talking to my grandson.”</p>
<p>“Very well. I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Goodbye.”</p>
<p>“Goodbye, Madame.” The fur-trimmed man made a slight bow and hurried in some confusion from the shop.</p>
<p>“As for you,” said Caroline, turning to her grandson, “you stay just where you are and be quiet.”</p>
<p>She turned to Merlin and included his entire length in a not unfriendly survey. Then she smiled and he found himself smiling too. In an instant they had both broken into a cracked but none the less spontaneous chuckle. She seized his arm and hurried him to the other side of the store. There they stopped, faced each other, and gave vent to another long fit of senile glee.</p>
<p>“It’s the only way,” she gasped in a sort of triumphant malignity. “The only thing that keeps old folks like me happy is the sense that they can make other people step around. To be old and rich and have poor descendants is almost as much fun as to be young and beautiful and have ugly sisters.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” chuckled Merlin. “I know. I envy you.”</p>
<p>She nodded, blinking.</p>
<p>“The last time I was in here, forty years ago,” she said, “you were a young man very anxious to kick up your heels.”</p>
<p>“I was,” he confessed.</p>
<p>“My visit must have meant a good deal to you.”</p>
<p>“You have all along,” he exclaimed. “I thought⁠—I used to think at first that you were a real person⁠—human, I mean.”</p>
<p>She laughed.</p>
<p>“Many men have thought me inhuman.”</p>
<p>“But now,” continued Merlin excitedly, “I understand. Understanding is allowed to us old people⁠—after nothing much matters. I see now that on a certain night when you danced upon a tabletop you were nothing but my romantic yearning for a beautiful and perverse woman.”</p>
<p>Her old eyes were far away, her voice no more than the echo of a forgotten dream.</p>
<p>“How I danced that night! I remember.”</p>
<p>“You were making an attempt at me. Olive’s arms were closing about me and you warned me to be free and keep my measure of youth and irresponsibility. But it seemed like an effect gotten up at the last moment. It came too late.”</p>
<p>“You are very old,” she said inscrutably. “I did not realize.”</p>
<p>“Also I have not forgotten what you did to me when I was thirty-five. You shook me with that traffic tie-up. It was a magnificent effort. The beauty and power you radiated! You became personified even to my wife, and she feared you. For weeks I wanted to slip out of the house at dark and forget the stuffiness of life with music and cocktails and a girl to make me young. But then⁠—I no longer knew how.”</p>
<p>“And now you are so very old.”</p>
<p>With a sort of awe she moved back and away from him.</p>
<p>“Yes, leave me!” he cried. “You are old also; the spirit withers with the skin. Have you come here only to tell me something I had best forget: that to be old and poor is perhaps more wretched than to be old and rich; to remind me that <em>my</em> son hurls my gray failure in my face?”</p>
<p>“Give me my book,” she commanded harshly. “Be quick, old man!”</p>
<p>Merlin looked at her once more and then patiently obeyed. He picked up the book and handed it to her, shaking his head when she offered him a bill.</p>
<p>“Why go through the farce of paying me? Once you made me wreck these very premises.”</p>
<p>“I did,” she said in anger, “and I’m glad. Perhaps there had been enough done to ruin <em>me</em>.”</p>
<p>She gave him a glance, half disdain, half ill-concealed uneasiness, and with a brisk word to her urban grandson moved toward the door.</p>
<p>Then she was gone⁠—out of his shop⁠—out of his life. The door clicked. With a sigh he turned and walked brokenly back toward the glass partition that enclosed the yellowed accounts of many years as well as the mellowed, wrinkled Miss McCracken.</p>
<p>Merlin regarded her parched, cobwebbed face with an odd sort of pity. She, at any rate, had had less from life than he. No rebellious, romantic spirit popping out unbidden had, in its memorable moments, given her life a zest and a glory.</p>
<p>Then Miss McCracken looked up and spoke to him:</p>
<p>“Still a spunky old piece, isn’t she?”</p>
<p>Merlin started.</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“Old Alicia Dare. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Thomas Allerdyce she is now, of course; has been, these thirty years.”</p>
<p>“What? I don’t understand you.” Merlin sat down suddenly in his swivel chair; his eyes were wide.</p>
<p>“Why, surely, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Grainger, you can’t tell me that you’ve forgotten her, when for ten years she was the most notorious character in New York. Why, one time when she was the correspondent in the Throckmorton divorce case she attracted so much attention on Fifth Avenue that there was a traffic tie-up. Didn’t you read about it in the papers.”</p>
<p>“I never used to read the papers.” His ancient brain was whirring.</p>
<p>“Well, you can’t have forgotten the time she came in here and ruined the business. Let me tell you I came near asking <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill for my salary, and clearing out.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean, that⁠—that you <em>saw</em> her?”</p>
<p>“Saw her! How could I help it with the racket that went on. Heaven knows <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Moonlight Quill didn’t like it either but of course <em>he</em> didn’t say anything. He was daffy about her and she could twist him around her little finger. The second he opposed one of her whims she’d threaten to tell his wife on him. Served him right. The idea of that man falling for a pretty adventuress! Of course he was never rich enough for <em>her</em> even though the shop paid well in those days.”</p>
<p>“But when I saw her,” stammered Merlin, “that is, when I <em>thought</em> saw her, she lived with her mother.”</p>
<p>“Mother, trash!” said Miss McCracken indignantly. “She had a woman there she called ‘Aunty,’ who was no more related to her than I am. Oh, she was a bad one⁠—but clever. Right after the Throckmorton divorce case she married Thomas Allerdyce, and made herself secure for life.”</p>
<p>“Who was she?” cried Merlin. “For God’s sake what was she⁠—a witch?”</p>
<p>“Why, she was Alicia Dare, the dancer, of course. In those days you couldn’t pick up a paper without finding her picture.”</p>
<p>Merlin sat very quiet, his brain suddenly fatigued and stilled. He was an old man now indeed, so old that it was impossible for him to dream of ever having been young, so old that the glamour was gone out of the world, passing not into the faces of children and into the persistent comforts of warmth and life, but passing out of the range of sight and feeling. He was never to smile again or to sit in a long reverie when spring evenings wafted the cries of children in at his window until gradually they became the friends of his boyhood out there, urging him to come and play before the last dark came down. He was too old now even for memories.</p>
<p>That night he sat at supper with his wife and son, who had used him for their blind purposes. Olive said:</p>
<p>“Don’t sit there like a death’s-head. Say something.”</p>
<p>“Let him sit quiet,” growled Arthur. “If you encourage him he’ll tell us a story we’ve heard a hundred times before.”</p>
<p>Merlin went upstairs very quietly at nine o’clock. When he was in his room and had closed the door tight he stood by it for a moment, his thin limbs trembling. He knew now that he had always been a fool.</p>
<p>“O Russet Witch!”</p>
<p>But it was too late. He had angered Providence by resisting too many temptations. There was nothing left but heaven, where he would meet only those who, like him, had wasted earth.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Curious Case of Benjamin Button</h2>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>As long ago as 1860 it was the proper thing to be born at home. At present, so I am told, the high gods of medicine have decreed that the first cries of the young shall be uttered upon the anesthetic air of a hospital, preferably a fashionable one. So young <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Roger Button were fifty years ahead of style when they decided, one day in the summer of 1860, that their first baby should be born in a hospital. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the astonishing history I am about to set down will never be known.</p>
<p>I shall tell you what occurred, and let you judge for yourself.</p>
<p>The Roger Buttons held an enviable position, both social and financial, in antebellum Baltimore. They were related to the This Family and the That Family, which, as every Southerner knew, entitled them to membership in that enormous peerage which largely populated the Confederacy. This was their first experience with the charming old custom of having babies⁠—<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College in Connecticut, at which institution <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button himself had been known for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of “Cuff.”</p>
<p>On the September morning consecrated to the enormous event he arose nervously at six o’clock, dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable stock, and hurried forth through the streets of Baltimore to the hospital, to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in new life upon its bosom.</p>
<p>When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen he saw Doctor Keene, the family physician, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together with a washing movement⁠—as all doctors are required to do by the unwritten ethics of their profession.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Roger Button, the president of Roger Button &amp; <abbr>Co.</abbr>, Wholesale Hardware, began to run toward Doctor Keene with much less dignity than was expected from a Southern gentleman of that picturesque period. “Doctor Keene!” he called. “Oh, Doctor Keene!”</p>
<p>The doctor heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curious expression settling on his harsh, medicinal face as <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button drew near.</p>
<p>“What happened?” demanded <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, as he came up in a gasping rush. “What was it? How is she? A boy? Who is it? What⁠—”</p>
<p>“Talk sense!” said Doctor Keene sharply. He appeared somewhat irritated.</p>
<p>“Is the child born?” begged <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button.</p>
<p>Doctor Keene frowned. “Why, yes, I suppose so⁠—after a fashion.” Again he threw a curious glance at <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button.</p>
<p>“Is my wife all right?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Is it a boy or a girl?”</p>
<p>“Here now!” cried Doctor Keene in a perfect passion of irritation, “I’ll ask you to go and see for yourself. Outrageous!” He snapped the last word out in almost one syllable, then he turned away muttering: “Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? One more would ruin me⁠—ruin anybody.”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” demanded <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button appalled. “Triplets?”</p>
<p>“No, not triplets!” answered the doctor cuttingly. “What’s more, you can go and see for yourself. And get another doctor. I brought you into the world, young man, and I’ve been physician to your family for forty years, but I’m through with you! I don’t want to see you or any of your relatives ever again! Goodbye!”</p>
<p>Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his phaeton, which was waiting at the curbstone, and drove severely away.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from head to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred? He had suddenly lost all desire to go into the Maryland Private Hospital for Ladies and Gentlemen⁠—it was with the greatest difficulty that, a moment later, he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door.</p>
<p>A nurse was sitting behind a desk in the opaque gloom of the hall. Swallowing his shame, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button approached her.</p>
<p>“Good morning,” she remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.</p>
<p>“Good morning. I⁠—I am <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button.”</p>
<p>At this a look of utter terror spread itself over the girl’s face. She rose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining herself only with the most apparent difficulty.</p>
<p>“I want to see my child,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button.</p>
<p>The nurse gave a little scream. “Oh⁠—of course!” she cried hysterically. “Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go⁠—<em>up!</em>”</p>
<p>She pointed the direction, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, bathed in cool perspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached him, basin in hand. “I’m <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button,” he managed to articulate. “I want to see my⁠—”</p>
<p>Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical descent as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.</p>
<p>“I want to see my child!” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button almost shrieked. He was on the verge of collapse.</p>
<p>Clank! The basin reached the first floor. The nurse regained control of herself, and threw <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button a look of hearty contempt.</p>
<p>“All <em>right</em>, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button,” she agreed in a hushed voice. “Very <em>well</em>! But if you <em>knew</em> what a state it’s put us all in this morning! It’s perfectly outrageous! The hospital will never have a ghost of a reputation after⁠—”</p>
<p>“Hurry!” he cried hoarsely. “I can’t stand this!”</p>
<p>“Come this way, then, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button.”</p>
<p>He dragged himself after her. At the end of a long hall they reached a room from which proceeded a variety of howls⁠—indeed, a room which, in later parlance, would have been known as the “crying-room.” They entered.</p>
<p>“Well,” gasped <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, “which is mine?”</p>
<p>“There!” said the nurse.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button’s eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long smoke-coloured beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button with dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.</p>
<p>“Am I mad?” thundered <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, his terror resolving into rage. “Is this some ghastly hospital joke?</p>
<p>“It doesn’t seem like a joke to us,” replied the nurse severely. “And I don’t know whether you’re mad or not⁠—but that is most certainly your child.”</p>
<p>The cool perspiration redoubled on <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button’s forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake⁠—he was gazing at a man of threescore and ten⁠—a <em>baby</em> of threescore and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib in which it was reposing.</p>
<p>The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. “Are you my father?” he demanded.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button and the nurse started violently.</p>
<p>“Because if you are,” went on the old man querulously, “I wish you’d get me out of this place⁠—or, at least, get them to put a comfortable rocker in here.”</p>
<p>“Where in God’s name did you come from? Who are you?” burst out <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button frantically.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you <em>exactly</em> who I am,” replied the querulous whine, “because I’ve only been born a few hours⁠—but my last name is certainly Button.”</p>
<p>“You lie! You’re an impostor!”</p>
<p>The old man turned wearily to the nurse. “Nice way to welcome a newborn child,” he complained in a weak voice. “Tell him he’s wrong, why don’t you?”</p>
<p>“You’re wrong, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button,” said the nurse severely. “This is your child, and you’ll have to make the best of it. We’re going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible⁠—some time today.”</p>
<p>“Home?” repeated <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button incredulously.</p>
<p>“Yes, we can’t have him here. We really can’t, you know?”</p>
<p>“I’m right glad of it,” whined the old man. “This is a fine place to keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something to eat”⁠—here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest⁠—“and they brought me a bottle of milk!”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed his face in his hands. “My heavens!” he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror. “What will people say? What must I do?”</p>
<p>“You’ll have to take him home,” insisted the nurse⁠—“immediately!”</p>
<p>A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man⁠—a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side.</p>
<p>“I can’t. I can’t,” he moaned.</p>
<p>People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this⁠—this septuagenarian: “This is my son, born early this morning.” And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, the slave market⁠—for a dark instant <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button wished passionately that his son was black⁠—past the luxurious houses of the residential district, past the home for the aged.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“Come! Pull yourself together,” commanded the nurse.</p>
<p>“See here,” the old man announced suddenly, “if you think I’m going to walk home in this blanket, you’re entirely mistaken.”</p>
<p>“Babies always have blankets.”</p>
<p>With a malicious crackle the old man held up a small white swaddling garment. “Look!” he quavered. “<em>This</em> is what they had ready for me.”</p>
<p>“Babies always wear those,” said the nurse primly.</p>
<p>“Well,” said the old man, “this baby’s not going to wear anything in about two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have given me a sheet.”</p>
<p>“Keep it on! Keep it on!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button hurriedly. He turned to the nurse. “What’ll I do?”</p>
<p>“Go down town and buy your son some clothes.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button’s son’s voice followed him down into the hall: “And a cane, father. I want to have a cane.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button banged the outer door savagely.⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>“Good morning,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button said nervously, to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. “I want to buy some clothes for my child.”</p>
<p>“How old is your child, sir?”</p>
<p>“About six hours,” answered <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, without due consideration.</p>
<p>“Babies’ supply department in the rear.”</p>
<p>“Why, I don’t think⁠—I’m not sure that’s what I want. It’s⁠—he’s an unusually large-size child. Exceptionally⁠—ah large.”</p>
<p>“They have the largest child’s sizes.”</p>
<p>“Where is the boys’ department?” inquired <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, shifting his ground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely scent his shameful secret.</p>
<p>“Right here.”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—” He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men’s clothes was repugnant to him. If, say, he could only find a very large boy’s suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white hair brown, and thus manage to conceal the worst, and to retain something of his own self-respect⁠—not to mention his position in Baltimore society.</p>
<p>But a frantic inspection of the boys’ department revealed no suits to fit the newborn Button. He blamed the store, of course⁠—in such cases it is the thing to blame the store.</p>
<p>“How old did you say that boy of yours was?” demanded the clerk curiously.</p>
<p>“He’s⁠—sixteen.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six <em>hours</em>. You’ll find the youths’ department in the next aisle.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. “There!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take that suit, out there on the dummy.”</p>
<p>The clerk stared. “Why,” he protested, “that’s not a child’s suit. At least it <em>is</em>, but it’s for fancy dress. You could wear it yourself!”</p>
<p>“Wrap it up,” insisted his customer nervously. “That’s what I want.”</p>
<p>The astonished clerk obeyed.</p>
<p>Back at the hospital <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son. “Here’s your clothes,” he snapped out.</p>
<p>The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical eye.</p>
<p>“They look sort of funny to me,” he complained, “I don’t want to be made a monkey of⁠—”</p>
<p>“You’ve made a monkey of me!” retorted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button fiercely. “Never you mind how funny you look. Put them on⁠—or I’ll⁠—or I’ll <em>spank</em> you.” He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.</p>
<p>“All right, father”⁠—this with a grotesque simulation of filial respect⁠—“you’ve lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.”</p>
<p>As before, the sound of the word “father” caused <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button to start violently.</p>
<p>“And hurry.”</p>
<p>“I’m hurrying, father.”</p>
<p>When his son was dressed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the latter waved the long whitish beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good.</p>
<p>“Wait!”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button seized a hospital shears and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of tone with the gaiety of the costume. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, however, was obdurate⁠—he held out his hand. “Come along!” he said sternly.</p>
<p>His son took the hand trustingly. “What are you going to call me, dad?” he quavered as they walked from the nursery⁠—“just ‘baby’ for a while? till you think of a better name?”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button grunted. “I don’t know,” he answered harshly. “I think we’ll call you Methuselah.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Even after the new addition to the Button family had had his hair cut short and then dyed to a sparse unnatural black, had had his face shaved so close that it glistened, and had been attired in small-boy clothes made to order by a flabbergasted tailor, it was impossible for Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor excuse for a first family baby. Despite his aged stoop, Benjamin Button⁠—for it was by this name they called him instead of by the appropriate but invidious Methuselah⁠—was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this, nor did the clipping and dyeing of his eyebrows disguise the fact that the eyes underneath were faded and watery and tired. In fact, the baby-nurse who had been engaged in advance left the house after one look, in a state of considerable indignation.</p>
<p>But <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button persisted in his unwavering purpose. Benjamin was a baby, and a baby he should remain. At first he declared that if Benjamin didn’t like warm milk he could go without food altogether, but he was finally prevailed upon to allow his son bread and butter, and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day he brought home a rattle and, giving it to Benjamin, insisted in no uncertain terms that he should “play with it,” whereupon the old man took it with a weary expression and could be heard jingling it obediently at intervals throughout the day.</p>
<p>There can be no doubt, though, that the rattle bored him, and that he found other and more soothing amusements when he was left alone. For instance, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button discovered one day that during the preceding week he had smoked more cigars than ever before⁠—a phenomenon, which was explained a few days later when, entering the nursery unexpectedly, he found the room full of faint blue haze and Benjamin, with a guilty expression on his face, trying to conceal the butt of a dark Havana. This, of course, called for a severe spanking, but <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button found that he could not bring himself to administer it. He merely warned his son that he would “stunt his growth.”</p>
<p>Nevertheless he persisted in his attitude. He brought home lead soldiers, he brought toy trains, he brought large pleasant animals made of cotton, and, to perfect the illusion which he was creating⁠—for himself at least⁠—he passionately demanded of the clerk in the toy-store whether “the paint would come off the pink duck if the baby put it in his mouth.” But, despite all his father’s efforts, Benjamin refused to be interested. He would steal down the back stairs and return to the nursery with a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica, over which he would pore through an afternoon, while his cotton cows and his Noah’s ark were left neglected on the floor. Against such a stubbornness <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button’s efforts were of little avail.</p>
<p>The sensation created in Baltimore was, at first, prodigious. What the mishap would have cost the Buttons and their kinsfolk socially cannot be determined, for the outbreak of the Civil War drew the city’s attention to other things. A few people who were unfailingly polite racked their brains for compliments to give to the parents⁠—and finally hit upon the ingenious device of declaring that the baby resembled his grandfather, a fact which, due to the standard state of decay common to all men of seventy, could not be denied. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Roger Button were not pleased, and Benjamin’s grandfather was furiously insulted.</p>
<p>Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he found it. Several small boys were brought to see him, and he spent a stiff-jointed afternoon trying to work up an interest in tops and marbles⁠—he even managed, quite accidentally, to break a kitchen window with a stone from a sling shot, a feat which secretly delighted his father.</p>
<p>Thereafter Benjamin contrived to break something every day, but he did these things only because they were expected of him, and because he was by nature obliging.</p>
<p>When his grandfather’s initial antagonism wore off, Benjamin and that gentleman took enormous pleasure in one another’s company. They would sit for hours, these two, so far apart in age and experience, and, like old cronies, discuss with tireless monotony the slow events of the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather’s presence than in his parents’⁠—they seemed always somewhat in awe of him and, despite the dictatorial authority they exercised over him, frequently addressed him as “<abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr>”</p>
<p>He was as puzzled as anyone else at the apparently advanced age of his mind and body at birth. He read up on it in the medical journal, but found that no such case had been previously recorded. At his father’s urging he made an honest attempt to play with other boys, and frequently he joined in the milder games⁠—football shook him up too much, and he feared that in case of a fracture his ancient bones would refuse to knit.</p>
<p>When he was five he was sent to kindergarten, where he was initiated into the art of pasting green paper on orange paper, of weaving coloured maps and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined to drowse off to sleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit which both irritated and frightened his young teacher. To his relief she complained to his parents, and he was removed from the school. The Roger Buttons told their friends that they felt he was too young.</p>
<p>By the time he was twelve years old his parents had grown used to him. Indeed, so strong is the force of custom that they no longer felt that he was different from any other child⁠—except when some curious anomaly reminded them of the fact. But one day a few weeks after his twelfth birthday, while looking in the mirror, Benjamin made, or thought he made, an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him, or had his hair turned in the dozen years of his life from white to iron-gray under its concealing dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his face becoming less pronounced? Was his skin healthier and firmer, with even a touch of ruddy winter colour? He could not tell. He knew that he no longer stooped, and that his physical condition had improved since the early days of his life.</p>
<p>“Can it be⁠—?” he thought to himself, or, rather, scarcely dared to think.</p>
<p>He went to his father. “I am grown,” he announced determinedly. “I want to put on long trousers.”</p>
<p>His father hesitated. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know. Fourteen is the age for putting on long trousers⁠—and you are only twelve.”</p>
<p>“But you’ll have to admit,” protested Benjamin, “that I’m big for my age.”</p>
<p>His father looked at him with illusory speculation. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said. “I was as big as you when I was twelve.”</p>
<p>This was not true⁠—it was all part of Roger Button’s silent agreement with himself to believe in his son’s normality.</p>
<p>Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In return for these concessions he was allowed his first suit of long trousers.⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Of the life of Benjamin Button between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he was erect as a man of fifty; he had more hair and it was of a dark gray; his step was firm, his voice had lost its cracked quaver and descended to a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College. Benjamin passed his examination and became a member of the freshman class.</p>
<p>On the third day following his matriculation he received a notification from <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart, the college registrar, to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye, but an anxious inspection of his bureau drawer disclosed that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered⁠—he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away.</p>
<p>He was in a dilemma. He was due at the registrar’s in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it⁠—he must go as he was. He did.</p>
<p>“Good morning,” said the registrar politely. “You’ve come to inquire about your son.”</p>
<p>“Why, as a matter of fact, my name’s Button⁠—” began Benjamin, but <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart cut him off.</p>
<p>“I’m very glad to meet you, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button. I’m expecting your son here any minute.”</p>
<p>“That’s me!” burst out Benjamin. “I’m a freshman.”</p>
<p>“What!”</p>
<p>“I’m a freshman.”</p>
<p>“Surely you’re joking.”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him. “Why, I have <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Benjamin Button’s age down here as eighteen.”</p>
<p>“That’s my age,” asserted Benjamin, flushing slightly.</p>
<p>The registrar eyed him wearily. “Now surely, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Button, you don’t expect me to believe that.”</p>
<p>Benjamin smiled wearily. “I am eighteen,” he repeated.</p>
<p>The registrar pointed sternly to the door. “Get out,” he said. “Get out of college and get out of town. You are a dangerous lunatic.”</p>
<p>“I am eighteen.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart opened the door. “The idea!” he shouted. “A man of your age trying to enter here as a freshman. Eighteen years old, are you? Well, I’ll give you eighteen minutes to get out of town.”</p>
<p>Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room, and half a dozen undergraduates, who were waiting in the hall, followed him curiously with their eyes. When he had gone a little way he turned around, faced the infuriated registrar, who was still standing in the doorway, and repeated in a firm voice: “I am eighteen years old.”</p>
<p>To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, Benjamin walked away.</p>
<p>But he was not fated to escape so easily. On his melancholy walk to the railroad station he found that he was being followed by a group, then by a swarm, and finally by a dense mass of undergraduates. The word had gone around that a lunatic had passed the entrance examinations for Yale and attempted to palm himself off as a youth of eighteen. A fever of excitement permeated the college. Men ran hatless out of classes, the football team abandoned its practice and joined the mob, professors’ wives with bonnets awry and bustles out of position, ran shouting after the procession, from which proceeded a continual succession of remarks aimed at the tender sensibilities of Benjamin Button.</p>
<p>“He must be the wandering Jew!”</p>
<p>“He ought to go to prep school at his age!”</p>
<p>“Look at the infant prodigy!”</p>
<p>“He thought this was the old men’s home.”</p>
<p>“Go up to Harvard!”</p>
<p>Benjamin increased his gait, and soon he was running. He would show them! He <em>would</em> go to Harvard, and then they would regret these ill-considered taunts!</p>
<p>Safely on board the train for Baltimore, he put his head from the window. “You’ll regret this!” he shouted.</p>
<p>“Ha-ha!” the undergraduates laughed. “<em>Ha-ha-ha!</em>” It was the biggest mistake that Yale College had ever made.⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>In 1880 Benjamin Button was twenty years old, and he signalised his birthday by going to work for his father in Roger Button &amp; <abbr>Co.</abbr>, Wholesale Hardware. It was in that same year that he began “going out socially”⁠—that is, his father insisted on taking him to several fashionable dances. Roger Button was now fifty, and he and his son were more and more companionable⁠—in fact, since Benjamin had ceased to dye his hair (which was still grayish) they appeared about the same age, and could have passed for brothers.</p>
<p>One night in August they got into the phaeton attired in their full-dress suits and drove out to a dance at the Shevlins’ country house, situated just outside of Baltimore. It was a gorgeous evening. A full moon drenched the road to the lustreless colour of platinum, and late-blooming harvest flowers breathed into the motionless air aromas that were like low, half-heard laughter. The open country, carpeted for rods around with bright wheat, was translucent as in the day. It was almost impossible not to be affected by the sheer beauty of the sky⁠—almost.</p>
<p>“There’s a great future in the dry-goods business,” Roger Button was saying. He was not a spiritual man⁠—his aesthetic sense was rudimentary.</p>
<p>“Old fellows like me can’t learn new tricks,” he observed profoundly. “It’s you youngsters with energy and vitality that have the great future before you.”</p>
<p>Far up the road the lights of the Shevlins’ country house drifted into view, and presently there was a sighing sound that crept persistently toward them⁠—it might have been the fine plaint of violins or the rustle of the silver wheat under the moon.</p>
<p>They pulled up behind a handsome brougham whose passengers were disembarking at the door. A lady got out, then an elderly gentleman, then another young lady, beautiful as sin. Benjamin started; an almost chemical change seemed to dissolve and recompose the very elements of his body. A rigour passed over him, blood rose into his cheeks, his forehead, and there was a steady thumping in his ears. It was first love.</p>
<p>The girl was slender and frail, with hair that was ashen under the moon and honey-coloured under the sputtering gas-lamps of the porch. Over her shoulders was thrown a Spanish mantilla of softest yellow, butterflied in black; her feet were glittering buttons at the hem of her bustled dress.</p>
<p>Roger Button leaned over to his son. “That,” he said, “is young Hildegarde Moncrief, the daughter of General Moncrief.”</p>
<p>Benjamin nodded coldly. “Pretty little thing,” he said indifferently. But when the negro boy had led the buggy away, he added: “Dad, you might introduce me to her.”</p>
<p>They approached a group, of which Miss Moncrief was the centre. Reared in the old tradition, she curtsied low before Benjamin. Yes, he might have a dance. He thanked her and walked away⁠—staggered away.</p>
<p>The interval until the time for his turn should arrive dragged itself out interminably. He stood close to the wall, silent, inscrutable, watching with murderous eyes the young bloods of Baltimore as they eddied around Hildegarde Moncrief, passionate admiration in their faces. How obnoxious they seemed to Benjamin; how intolerably rosy! Their curling brown whiskers aroused in him a feeling equivalent to indigestion.</p>
<p>But when his own time came, and he drifted with her out upon the changing floor to the music of the latest waltz from Paris, his jealousies and anxieties melted from him like a mantle of snow. Blind with enchantment, he felt that life was just beginning.</p>
<p>“You and your brother got here just as we did, didn’t you?” asked Hildegarde, looking up at him with eyes that were like bright blue enamel.</p>
<p>Benjamin hesitated. If she took him for his father’s brother, would it be best to enlighten her? He remembered his experience at Yale, so he decided against it. It would be rude to contradict a lady; it would be criminal to mar this exquisite occasion with the grotesque story of his origin. Later, perhaps. So he nodded, smiled, listened, was happy.</p>
<p>“I like men of your age,” Hildegarde told him. “Young boys are so idiotic. They tell me how much champagne they drink at college, and how much money they lose playing cards. Men of your age know how to appreciate women.”</p>
<p>Benjamin felt himself on the verge of a proposal⁠—with an effort he choked back the impulse. “You’re just the romantic age,” she continued⁠—“fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly-wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is⁠—oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty.”</p>
<p>Fifty seemed to Benjamin a glorious age. He longed passionately to be fifty.</p>
<p>“I’ve always said,” went on Hildegarde, “that I’d rather marry a man of fifty and be taken care of than marry a man of thirty and take care of <em>him</em>.”</p>
<p>For Benjamin the rest of the evening was bathed in a honey-coloured mist. Hildegarde gave him two more dances, and they discovered that they were marvellously in accord on all the questions of the day. She was to go driving with him on the following Sunday, and then they would discuss all these questions further.</p>
<p>Going home in the phaeton just before the crack of dawn, when the first bees were humming and the fading moon glimmered in the cool dew, Benjamin knew vaguely that his father was discussing wholesale hardware.</p>
<p>“.⁠ ⁠… And what do you think should merit our biggest attention after hammers and nails?” the elder Button was saying.</p>
<p>“Love,” replied Benjamin absentmindedly.</p>
<p>“Lugs?” exclaimed Roger Button, “Why, I’ve just covered the question of lugs.”</p>
<p>Benjamin regarded him with dazed eyes just as the eastern sky was suddenly cracked with light, and an oriole yawned piercingly in the quickening trees⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>When, six months later, the engagement of Miss Hildegarde Moncrief to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Benjamin Button was made known (I say “made known,” for General Moncrief declared he would rather fall upon his sword than announce it), the excitement in Baltimore society reached a feverish pitch. The almost forgotten story of Benjamin’s birth was remembered and sent out upon the winds of scandal in picaresque and incredible forms. It was said that Benjamin was really the father of Roger Button, that he was his brother who had been in prison for forty years, that he was John Wilkes Booth in disguise⁠—and, finally, that he had two small conical horns sprouting from his head.</p>
<p>The Sunday supplements of the New York papers played up the case with fascinating sketches which showed the head of Benjamin Button attached to a fish, to a snake, and, finally, to a body of solid brass. He became known, journalistically, as the Mystery Man of Maryland. But the true story, as is usually the case, had a very small circulation.</p>
<p>However, everyone agreed with General Moncrief that it was “criminal” for a lovely girl who could have married any beau in Baltimore to throw herself into the arms of a man who was assuredly fifty. In vain <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Roger Button published his son’s birth certificate in large type in the Baltimore <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Blaze</i>. No one believed it. You had only to look at Benjamin and see.</p>
<p>On the part of the two people most concerned there was no wavering. So many of the stories about her fiancé were false that Hildegarde refused stubbornly to believe even the true one. In vain General Moncrief pointed out to her the high mortality among men of fifty⁠—or, at least, among men who looked fifty; in vain he told her of the instability of the wholesale hardware business. Hildegarde had chosen to marry for mellowness, and marry she did.⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h3>
<p>In one particular, at least, the friends of Hildegarde Moncrief were mistaken. The wholesale hardware business prospered amazingly. In the fifteen years between Benjamin Button’s marriage in 1880 and his father’s retirement in 1895, the family fortune was doubled⁠—and this was due largely to the younger member of the firm.</p>
<p>Needless to say, Baltimore eventually received the couple to its bosom. Even old General Moncrief became reconciled to his son-in-law when Benjamin gave him the money to bring out his <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">History of the Civil War</i> in twenty volumes, which had been refused by nine prominent publishers.</p>
<p>In Benjamin himself fifteen years had wrought many changes. It seemed to him that the blood flowed with new vigour through his veins. It began to be a pleasure to rise in the morning, to walk with an active step along the busy, sunny street, to work untiringly with his shipments of hammers and his cargoes of nails. It was in 1890 that he executed his famous business coup: he brought up the suggestion that <em>all nails used in nailing up the boxes in which nails are shipped are the property of the shippee</em>, a proposal which became a statute, was approved by Chief Justice Fossile, and saved Roger Button and Company, Wholesale Hardware, more than <em>six hundred nails every year</em>.</p>
<p>In addition, Benjamin discovered that he was becoming more and more attracted by the gay side of life. It was typical of his growing enthusiasm for pleasure that he was the first man in the city of Baltimore to own and run an automobile. Meeting him on the street, his contemporaries would stare enviously at the picture he made of health and vitality.</p>
<p>“He seems to grow younger every year,” they would remark. And if old Roger Button, now sixty-five years old, had failed at first to give a proper welcome to his son he atoned at last by bestowing on him what amounted to adulation.</p>
<p>And here we come to an unpleasant subject which it will be well to pass over as quickly as possible. There was only one thing that worried Benjamin Button; his wife had ceased to attract him.</p>
<p>At that time Hildegarde was a woman of thirty-five, with a son, Roscoe, fourteen years old. In the early days of their marriage Benjamin had worshipped her. But, as the years passed, her honey-coloured hair became an unexciting brown, the blue enamel of her eyes assumed the aspect of cheap crockery⁠—moreover, and, most of all, she had become too settled in her ways, too placid, too content, too anemic in her excitements, and too sober in her taste. As a bride it had been she who had “dragged” Benjamin to dances and dinners⁠—now conditions were reversed. She went out socially with him, but without enthusiasm, devoured already by that eternal inertia which comes to live with each of us one day and stays with us to the end.</p>
<p>Benjamin’s discontent waxed stronger. At the outbreak of the Spanish-American War in 1898 his home had for him so little charm that he decided to join the army. With his business influence he obtained a commission as captain, and proved so adaptable to the work that he was made a major, and finally a lieutenant-colonel just in time to participate in the celebrated charge up San Juan Hill. He was slightly wounded, and received a medal.</p>
<p>Benjamin had become so attached to the activity and excitement of array life that he regretted to give it up, but his business required attention, so he resigned his commission and came home. He was met at the station by a brass band and escorted to his house.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-8" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VIII</h3>
<p>Hildegarde, waving a large silk flag, greeted him on the porch, and even as he kissed her he felt with a sinking of the heart that these three years had taken their toll. She was a woman of forty now, with a faint skirmish line of gray hairs in her head. The sight depressed him.</p>
<p>Up in his room he saw his reflection in the familiar mirror⁠—he went closer and examined his own face with anxiety, comparing it after a moment with a photograph of himself in uniform taken just before the war.</p>
<p>“Good Lord!” he said aloud. The process was continuing. There was no doubt of it⁠—he looked now like a man of thirty. Instead of being delighted, he was uneasy⁠—he was growing younger. He had hitherto hoped that once he reached a bodily age equivalent to his age in years, the grotesque phenomenon which had marked his birth would cease to function. He shuddered. His destiny seemed to him awful, incredible.</p>
<p>When he came downstairs Hildegarde was waiting for him. She appeared annoyed, and he wondered if she had at last discovered that there was something amiss. It was with an effort to relieve the tension between them that he broached the matter at dinner in what he considered a delicate way.</p>
<p>“Well,” he remarked lightly, “everybody says I look younger than ever.”</p>
<p>Hildegarde regarded him with scorn. She sniffed. “Do you think it’s anything to boast about?”</p>
<p>“I’m not boasting,” he asserted uncomfortably. She sniffed again. “The idea,” she said, and after a moment: “I should think you’d have enough pride to stop it.”</p>
<p>“How can I?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to argue with you,” she retorted. “But there’s a right way of doing things and a wrong way. If you’ve made up your mind to be different from everybody else, I don’t suppose I can stop you, but I really don’t think it’s very considerate.”</p>
<p>“But, Hildegarde, I can’t help it.”</p>
<p>“You can too. You’re simply stubborn. You think you don’t want to be like anyone else. You always have been that way, and you always will be. But just think how it would be if everyone else looked at things as you do⁠—what would the world be like?”</p>
<p>As this was an inane and unanswerable argument Benjamin made no reply, and from that time on a chasm began to widen between them. He wondered what possible fascination she had ever exercised over him.</p>
<p>To add to the breach, he found, as the new century gathered headway, that his thirst for gaiety grew stronger. Never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a dowager of evil omen, sat among the chaperons, now in haughty disapproval, and now following him with solemn, puzzled, and reproachful eyes.</p>
<p>“Look!” people would remark. “What a pity! A young fellow that age tied to a woman of forty-five. He must be twenty years younger than his wife.” They had forgotten⁠—as people inevitably forget⁠—that back in 1880 their mammas and papas had also remarked about this same ill-matched pair.</p>
<p>Benjamin’s growing unhappiness at home was compensated for by his many new interests. He took up golf and made a great success of it. He went in for dancing: in 1906 he was an expert at “The Boston,” and in 1908 he was considered proficient at the “Maxine,” while in 1909 his “Castle Walk” was the envy of every young man in town.</p>
<p>His social activities, of course, interfered to some extent with his business, but then he had worked hard at wholesale hardware for twenty-five years and felt that he could soon hand it on to his son, Roscoe, who had recently graduated from Harvard.</p>
<p>He and his son were, in fact, often mistaken for each other. This pleased Benjamin⁠—he soon forgot the insidious fear which had come over him on his return from the Spanish-American War, and grew to take a naive pleasure in his appearance. There was only one fly in the delicious ointment⁠—he hated to appear in public with his wife. Hildegarde was almost fifty, and the sight of her made him feel absurd.⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-9" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IX</h3>
<p>One September day in 1910⁠—a few years after Roger Button &amp; <abbr>Co.</abbr>, Wholesale Hardware, had been handed over to young Roscoe Button⁠—a man, apparently about twenty years old, entered himself as a freshman at Harvard University in Cambridge. He did not make the mistake of announcing that he would never see fifty again, nor did he mention the fact that his son had been graduated from the same institution ten years before.</p>
<p>He was admitted, and almost immediately attained a prominent position in the class, partly because he seemed a little older than the other freshmen, whose average age was about eighteen.</p>
<p>But his success was largely due to the fact that in the football game with Yale he played so brilliantly, with so much dash and with such a cold, remorseless anger that he scored seven touchdowns and fourteen field goals for Harvard, and caused one entire eleven of Yale men to be carried singly from the field, unconscious. He was the most celebrated man in college.</p>
<p>Strange to say, in his third or junior year he was scarcely able to “make” the team. The coaches said that he had lost weight, and it seemed to the more observant among them that he was not quite as tall as before. He made no touchdowns⁠—indeed, he was retained on the team chiefly in hope that his enormous reputation would bring terror and disorganisation to the Yale team.</p>
<p>In his senior year he did not make the team at all. He had grown so slight and frail that one day he was taken by some sophomores for a freshman, an incident which humiliated him terribly. He became known as something of a prodigy⁠—a senior who was surely no more than sixteen⁠—and he was often shocked at the worldliness of some of his classmates. His studies seemed harder to him⁠—he felt that they were too advanced. He had heard his classmates speak of <abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s, the famous preparatory school, at which so many of them had prepared for college, and he determined after his graduation to enter himself at <abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s, where the sheltered life among boys his own size would be more congenial to him.</p>
<p>Upon his graduation in 1914 he went home to Baltimore with his Harvard diploma in his pocket. Hildegarde was now residing in Italy, so Benjamin went to live with his son, Roscoe. But though he was welcomed in a general way there was obviously no heartiness in Roscoe’s feeling toward him⁠—there was even perceptible a tendency on his son’s part to think that Benjamin, as he moped about the house in adolescent mooniness, was somewhat in the way. Roscoe was married now and prominent in Baltimore life, and he wanted no scandal to creep out in connection with his family.</p>
<p>Benjamin, no longer persona grata with the debutantes and younger college set, found himself left much alone, except for the companionship of three or four fifteen-year-old boys in the neighbourhood. His idea of going to <abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s school recurred to him.</p>
<p>“Say,” he said to Roscoe one day, “I’ve told you over and over that I want to go to prep school.”</p>
<p>“Well, go, then,” replied Roscoe shortly. The matter was distasteful to him, and he wished to avoid a discussion.</p>
<p>“I can’t go alone,” said Benjamin helplessly. “You’ll have to enter me and take me up there.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t got time,” declared Roscoe abruptly. His eyes narrowed and he looked uneasily at his father. “As a matter of fact,” he added, “you’d better not go on with this business much longer. You better pull up short. You better⁠—you better”⁠—he paused and his face crimsoned as he sought for words⁠—“you better turn right around and start back the other way. This has gone too far to be a joke. It isn’t funny any longer. You⁠—you behave yourself!”</p>
<p>Benjamin looked at him, on the verge of tears.</p>
<p>“And another thing,” continued Roscoe, “when visitors are in the house I want you to call me ‘Uncle’⁠—not ‘Roscoe,’ but ‘Uncle,’ do you understand? It looks absurd for a boy of fifteen to call me by my first name. Perhaps you’d better call me ‘Uncle’ <em>all</em> the time, so you’ll get used to it.”</p>
<p>With a harsh look at his father, Roscoe turned away.⁠ ⁠…</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-10" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h3>
<p>At the termination of this interview, Benjamin wandered dismally upstairs and stared at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but he could find nothing on his face but a faint white down with which it seemed unnecessary to meddle. When he had first come home from Harvard, Roscoe had approached him with the proposition that he should wear eyeglasses and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks, and it had seemed for a moment that the farce of his early years was to be repeated. But whiskers had itched and made him ashamed. He wept and Roscoe had reluctantly relented.</p>
<p>Benjamin opened a book of boys’ stories, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Boy Scouts in Bimini Bay</i>, and began to read. But he found himself thinking persistently about the war. America had joined the Allied cause during the preceding month, and Benjamin wanted to enlist, but, alas, sixteen was the minimum age, and he did not look that old. His true age, which was fifty-seven, would have disqualified him, anyway.</p>
<p>There was a knock at his door, and the butler appeared with a letter bearing a large official legend in the corner and addressed to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open eagerly, and read the enclosure with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers who had served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service with a higher rank, and it enclosed his commission as brigadier-general in the United States army with orders to report immediately.</p>
<p>Benjamin jumped to his feet fairly quivering with enthusiasm. This was what he had wanted. He seized his cap, and ten minutes later he had entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street, and asked in his uncertain treble to be measured for a uniform.</p>
<p>“Want to play soldier, sonny?” demanded a clerk casually.</p>
<p>Benjamin flushed. “Say! Never mind what I want!” he retorted angrily. “My name’s Button and I live on <abbr>Mt.</abbr> Vernon Place, so you know I’m good for it.”</p>
<p>“Well,” admitted the clerk hesitantly, “if you’re not, I guess your daddy is, all right.”</p>
<p>Benjamin was measured, and a week later his uniform was completed. He had difficulty in obtaining the proper general’s insignia because the dealer kept insisting to Benjamin that a nice <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">V.W.C.A.</abbr> badge would look just as well and be much more fun to play with.</p>
<p>Saying nothing to Roscoe, he left the house one night and proceeded by train to Camp Mosby, in South Carolina, where he was to command an infantry brigade. On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to the camp, paid off the taxicab which had brought him from the station, and turned to the sentry on guard.</p>
<p>“Get someone to handle my luggage!” he said briskly.</p>
<p>The sentry eyed him reproachfully. “Say,” he remarked, “where you goin’ with the general’s duds, sonny?”</p>
<p>Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish-American War, whirled upon him with fire in his eye, but with, alas, a changing treble voice.</p>
<p>“Come to attention!” he tried to thunder; he paused for breath⁠—then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together and bring his rifle to the present. Benjamin concealed a smile of gratification, but when he glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired obedience, but an imposing artillery colonel who was approaching on horseback.</p>
<p>“Colonel!” called Benjamin shrilly.</p>
<p>The colonel came up, drew rein, and looked coolly down at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Whose little boy are you?” he demanded kindly.</p>
<p>“I’ll soon darn well show you whose little boy I am!” retorted Benjamin in a ferocious voice. “Get down off that horse!”</p>
<p>The colonel roared with laughter.</p>
<p>“You want him, eh, general?”</p>
<p>“Here!” cried Benjamin desperately. “Read this.” And he thrust his commission toward the colonel.</p>
<p>The colonel read it, his eyes popping from their sockets.</p>
<p>“Where’d you get this?” he demanded, slipping the document into his own pocket.</p>
<p>“I got it from the Government, as you’ll soon find out!”</p>
<p>“You come along with me,” said the colonel with a peculiar look. “We’ll go up to headquarters and talk this over. Come along.”</p>
<p>The colonel turned and began walking his horse in the direction of headquarters. There was nothing for Benjamin to do but follow with as much dignity as possible⁠—meanwhile promising himself a stern revenge.</p>
<p>But this revenge did not materialise. Two days later, however, his son Roscoe materialised from Baltimore, hot and cross from a hasty trip, and escorted the weeping general, sans uniform, back to his home.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-curious-case-of-benjamin-button-11" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h3>
<p>In 1920 Roscoe Button’s first child was born. During the attendant festivities, however, no one thought it “the thing” to mention, that the little grubby boy, apparently about ten years of age who played around the house with lead soldiers and a miniature circus, was the new baby’s own grandfather.</p>
<p>No one disliked the little boy whose fresh, cheerful face was crossed with just a hint of sadness, but to Roscoe Button his presence was a source of torment. In the idiom of his generation Roscoe did not consider the matter “efficient.” It seemed to him that his father, in refusing to look sixty, had not behaved like a “red-blooded he-man”⁠—this was Roscoe’s favourite expression⁠—but in a curious and perverse manner. Indeed, to think about the matter for as much as a half an hour drove him to the edge of insanity. Roscoe believed that “live wires” should keep young, but carrying it out on such a scale was⁠—was⁠—was inefficient. And there Roscoe rested.</p>
<p>Five years later Roscoe’s little boy had grown old enough to play childish games with little Benjamin under the supervision of the same nurse. Roscoe took them both to kindergarten on the same day, and Benjamin found that playing with little strips of coloured paper, making mats and chains and curious and beautiful designs, was the most fascinating game in the world. Once he was bad and had to stand in the corner⁠—then he cried⁠—but for the most part there were gay hours in the cheerful room, with the sunlight coming in the windows and Miss Bailey’s kind hand resting for a moment now and then in his tousled hair.</p>
<p>Roscoe’s son moved up into the first grade after a year, but Benjamin stayed on in the kindergarten. He was very happy. Sometimes when other tots talked about what they would do when they grew up a shadow would cross his little face as if in a dim, childish way he realised that those were things in which he was never to share.</p>
<p>The days flowed on in monotonous content. He went back a third year to the kindergarten, but he was too little now to understand what the bright shining strips of paper were for. He cried because the other boys were bigger than he, and he was afraid of them. The teacher talked to him, but though he tried to understand he could not understand at all.</p>
<p>He was taken from the kindergarten. His nurse, Nana, in her starched gingham dress, became the centre of his tiny world. On bright days they walked in the park; Nana would point at a great gray monster and say “elephant,” and Benjamin would say it after her, and when he was being undressed for bed that night he would say it over and over aloud to her: “Elyphant, elyphant, elyphant.” Sometimes Nana let him jump on the bed, which was fun, because if you sat down exactly right it would bounce you up on your feet again, and if you said “Ah” for a long time while you jumped you got a very pleasing broken vocal effect.</p>
<p>He loved to take a big cane from the hat-rack and go around hitting chairs and tables with it and saying: “Fight, fight, fight.” When there were people there the old ladies would cluck at him, which interested him, and the young ladies would try to kiss him, which he submitted to with mild boredom. And when the long day was done at five o’clock he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed on oatmeal and nice soft mushy foods with a spoon.</p>
<p>There were no troublesome memories in his childish sleep; no token came to him of his brave days at college, of the glittering years when he flustered the hearts of many girls. There were only the white, safe walls of his crib and Nana and a man who came to see him sometimes, and a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at just before his twilight bed hour and called “sun.” When the sun went his eyes were sleepy⁠—there were no dreams, no dreams to haunt him.</p>
<p>The past⁠—the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill; the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved; the days before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather-all these had faded like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. He did not remember.</p>
<p>He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his last feeding or how the days passed⁠—there was only his crib and Nana’s familiar presence. And then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry he cried⁠—that was all. Through the noons and nights he breathed and over him there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he scarcely heard, and faintly differentiated smells, and light and darkness.</p>
<p>Then it was all dark, and his white crib and the dim faces that moved above him, and the warm sweet aroma of the milk, faded out altogether from his mind.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Diamond as Big as the Ritz</h2>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades⁠—a small town on the Mississippi River⁠—for several generations. John’s father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Unger was known “from hotbox to hotbed,” as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home. That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to <abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s School near Boston⁠—Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son.</p>
<p>Now in Hades⁠—as you know if you ever have been there⁠—the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as “perhaps a little tacky.”</p>
<p>John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger was on the eve of departure. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocketbook stuffed with money.</p>
<p>“Remember, you are always welcome here,” he said. “You can be sure, boy, that we’ll keep the home fires burning.”</p>
<p>“I know,” answered John huskily.</p>
<p>“Don’t forget who you are and where you come from,” continued his father proudly, “and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger⁠—from Hades.”</p>
<p>So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as “Hades⁠—Your Opportunity,” or else a plain “Welcome” sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Unger had thought⁠—but now.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty.</p>
<hr/>
<p><abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s School is half an hour from Boston in a Rolls-Pierce motorcar. The actual distance will never be known, for no one, except John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger, had ever arrived there save in a Rolls-Pierce and probably no one ever will again. <abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s is the most expensive and the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in the world.</p>
<p>John’s first two years there passed pleasantly. The fathers of all the boys were money-kings, and John spent his summer visiting at fashionable resorts. While he was very fond of all the boys he visited, their fathers struck him as being much of a piece, and in his boyish way he often wondered at their exceeding sameness. When he told them where his home was they would ask jovially, “Pretty hot down there?” and John would muster a faint smile and answer, “It certainly is.” His response would have been heartier had they not all made this joke⁠—at best varying it with, “Is it hot enough for you down there?” which he hated just as much.</p>
<p>In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet, handsome boy named Percy Washington had been put in John’s form. The newcomer was pleasant in his manner and exceedingly well dressed even for <abbr>St.</abbr> Midas’s, but for some reason he kept aloof from the other boys. The only person with whom he was intimate was John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger, but even to John he was entirely uncommunicative concerning his home or his family. That he was wealthy went without saying, but beyond a few such deductions John knew little of his friend, so it promised rich confectionery for his curiosity when Percy invited him to spend the summer at his home “in the West.” He accepted, without hesitation.</p>
<p>It was only when they were in the train that Percy became, for the first time, rather communicative. One day while they were eating lunch in the dining-car and discussing the imperfect characters of several of the boys at school, Percy suddenly changed his tone and made an abrupt remark.</p>
<p>“My father,” he said, “is by far the richest man in the world.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” said John politely. He could think of no answer to make to this confidence. He considered “That’s very nice,” but it sounded hollow and was on the point of saying, “Really?” but refrained since it would seem to question Percy’s statement. And such an astounding statement could scarcely be questioned.</p>
<p>“By far the richest,” repeated Percy.</p>
<p>“I was reading in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">World Almanac</i>,” began John, “that there was one man in America with an income of over five million a year and four men with incomes of over three million a year, and⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’re nothing.” Percy’s mouth was a half-moon of scorn. “Catchpenny capitalists, financial small-fry, petty merchants and moneylenders. My father could buy them out and not know he’d done it.”</p>
<p>“But how does he⁠—”</p>
<p>“Why haven’t they put down <em>his</em> income-tax? Because he doesn’t pay any. At least he pays a little one⁠—but he doesn’t pay any on his <em>real</em> income.”</p>
<p>“He must be very rich,” said John simply, “I’m glad. I like very rich people.”</p>
<p>“The richer a fella is, the better I like him.” There was a look of passionate frankness upon his dark face. “I visited the Schnlitzer-Murphys last Easter. Vivian Schnlitzer-Murphy had rubies as big as hen’s eggs, and sapphires that were like globes with lights inside them⁠—”</p>
<p>“I love jewels,” agreed Percy enthusiastically. “Of course I wouldn’t want anyone at school to know about it, but I’ve got quite a collection myself. I used to collect them instead of stamps.”</p>
<p>“And diamonds,” continued John eagerly. “The Schnlitzer-Murphys had diamonds as big as walnuts⁠—”</p>
<p>“That’s nothing.” Percy had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “That’s nothing at all. My father has a diamond bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The Montana sunset lay between two mountains like a gigantic bruise from which dark arteries spread themselves over a poisoned sky. An immense distance under the sky crouched the village of Fish, minute, dismal, and forgotten. There were twelve men, so it was said, in the village of Fish, twelve sombre and inexplicable souls who sucked a lean milk from the almost literally bare rock upon which a mysterious populatory force had begotten them. They had become a race apart, these twelve men of Fish, like some species developed by an early whim of nature, which on second thought had abandoned them to struggle and extermination.</p>
<p>Out of the blue-black bruise in the distance crept a long line of moving lights upon the desolation of the land, and the twelve men of Fish gathered like ghosts at the shanty depot to watch the passing of the seven o’clock train, the Transcontinental Express from Chicago. Six times or so a year the Transcontinental Express, through some inconceivable jurisdiction, stopped at the village of Fish, and when this occurred a figure or so would disembark, mount into a buggy that always appeared from out of the dusk, and drive off toward the bruised sunset. The observation of this pointless and preposterous phenomenon had become a sort of cult among the men of Fish. To observe, that was all; there remained in them none of the vital quality of illusion which would make them wonder or speculate, else a religion might have grown up around these mysterious visitations. But the men of Fish were beyond all religion⁠—the barest and most savage tenets of even Christianity could gain no foothold on that barren rock⁠—so there was no altar, no priest, no sacrifice; only each night at seven the silent concourse by the shanty depot, a congregation who lifted up a prayer of dim, anemic wonder.</p>
<p>On this June night, the Great Brakeman, whom, had they deified anyone, they might well have chosen as their celestial protagonist, had ordained that the seven o’clock train should leave its human (or inhuman) deposit at Fish. At two minutes after seven Percy Washington and John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger disembarked, hurried past the spellbound, the agape, the fearsome eyes of the twelve men of Fish, mounted into a buggy which had obviously appeared from nowhere, and drove away.</p>
<p>After half an hour, when the twilight had coagulated into dark, the silent negro who was driving the buggy hailed an opaque body somewhere ahead of them in the gloom. In response to his cry, it turned upon them a luminous disc which regarded them like a malignant eye out of the unfathomable night. As they came closer, John saw that it was the taillight of an immense automobile, larger and more magnificent than any he had ever seen. Its body was of gleaming metal richer than nickel and lighter than silver, and the hubs of the wheels were studded with iridescent geometric figures of green and yellow⁠—John did not dare to guess whether they were glass or jewel.</p>
<p>Two negroes, dressed in glittering livery such as one sees in pictures of royal processions in London, were standing at attention beside the car and, as the two young men dismounted from the buggy, they were greeted in some language which the guest could not understand, but which seemed to be an extreme form of the Southern negro’s dialect.</p>
<p>“Get in,” said Percy to his friend, as their trunks were tossed to the ebony roof of the limousine. “Sorry we had to bring you this far in that buggy, but of course it wouldn’t do for the people on the train or those Godforsaken fellas in Fish to see this automobile.”</p>
<p>“Gosh! What a car!” This ejaculation was provoked by its interior. John saw that the upholstery consisted of a thousand minute and exquisite tapestries of silk, woven with jewels and embroideries, and set upon a background of cloth of gold. The two armchair seats in which the boys luxuriated were covered with stuff that resembled duvetyn, but seemed woven in numberless colours of the ends of ostrich feathers.</p>
<p>“What a car!” cried John again, in amazement.</p>
<p>“This thing?” Percy laughed. “Why, it’s just an old junk we use for a station wagon.”</p>
<p>By this time they were gliding along through the darkness toward the break between the two mountains.</p>
<p>“We’ll be there in an hour and a half,” said Percy, looking at the clock. “I may as well tell you it’s not going to be like anything you ever saw before.”</p>
<p>If the car was any indication of what John would see, he was prepared to be astonished indeed. The simple piety prevalent in Hades has the earnest worship of and respect for riches as the first article of its creed⁠—had John felt otherwise than radiantly humble before them, his parents would have turned away in horror at the blasphemy.</p>
<p>They had now reached and were entering the break between the two mountains and almost immediately the way became much rougher.</p>
<p>“If the moon shone down here, you’d see that we’re in a big gulch,” said Percy, trying to peer out of the window. He spoke a few words into the mouthpiece and immediately the footman turned on a searchlight and swept the hillsides with an immense beam.</p>
<p>“Rocky, you see. An ordinary car would be knocked to pieces in half an hour. In fact, it’d take a tank to navigate it unless you knew the way. You notice we’re going uphill now.”</p>
<p>They were obviously ascending, and within a few minutes the car was crossing a high rise, where they caught a glimpse of a pale moon newly risen in the distance. The car stopped suddenly and several figures took shape out of the dark beside it⁠—these were negroes also. Again the two young men were saluted in the same dimly recognisable dialect; then the negroes set to work and four immense cables dangling from overhead were attached with hooks to the hubs of the great jewelled wheels. At a resounding “Hey-yah!” John felt the car being lifted slowly from the ground⁠—up and up⁠—clear of the tallest rocks on both sides⁠—then higher, until he could see a wavy, moonlit valley stretched out before him in sharp contrast to the quagmire of rocks that they had just left. Only on one side was there still rock⁠—and then suddenly there was no rock beside them or anywhere around.</p>
<p>It was apparent that they had surmounted some immense knife-blade of stone, projecting perpendicularly into the air. In a moment they were going down again, and finally with a soft bump they were landed upon the smooth earth.</p>
<p>“The worst is over,” said Percy, squinting out the window. “It’s only five miles from here, and our own road⁠—tapestry brick⁠—all the way. This belongs to us. This is where the United States ends, father says.”</p>
<p>“Are we in Canada?”</p>
<p>“We are not. We’re in the middle of the Montana Rockies. But you are now on the only five square miles of land in the country that’s never been surveyed.”</p>
<p>“Why hasn’t it? Did they forget it?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Percy, grinning, “they tried to do it three times. The first time my grandfather corrupted a whole department of the State survey; the second time he had the official maps of the United States tinkered with⁠—that held them for fifteen years. The last time was harder. My father fixed it so that their compasses were in the strongest magnetic field ever artificially set up. He had a whole set of surveying instruments made with a slight defection that would allow for this territory not to appear, and he substituted them for the ones that were to be used. Then he had a river deflected and he had what looked like a village built up on its banks⁠—so that they’d see it, and think it was a town ten miles farther up the valley. There’s only one thing my father’s afraid of,” he concluded, “only one thing in the world that could be used to find us out.”</p>
<p>“What’s that?”</p>
<p>Percy sank his voice to a whisper.</p>
<p>“Aeroplanes,” he breathed. “We’ve got half a dozen antiaircraft guns and we’ve arranged it so far⁠—but there’ve been a few deaths and a great many prisoners. Not that we mind <em>that</em>, you know, father and I, but it upsets mother and the girls, and there’s always the chance that some time we won’t be able to arrange it.”</p>
<p>Shreds and tatters of chinchilla, courtesy clouds in the green moon’s heaven, were passing the green moon like precious Eastern stuffs paraded for the inspection of some Tartar Khan. It seemed to John that it was day, and that he was looking at some lads sailing above him in the air, showering down tracts and patent medicine circulars, with their messages of hope for despairing, rockbound hamlets. It seemed to him that he could see them look down out of the clouds and stare⁠—and stare at whatever there was to stare at in this place whither he was bound⁠—What then? Were they induced to land by some insidious device to be immured far from patent medicines and from tracts until the judgment day⁠—or, should they fail to fall into the trap, did a quick puff of smoke and the sharp round of a splitting shell bring them drooping to earth⁠—and “upset” Percy’s mother and sisters. John shook his head and the wraith of a hollow laugh issued silently from his parted lips. What desperate transaction lay hidden here? What a moral expedient of a bizarre Croesus? What terrible and golden mystery?⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>The chinchilla clouds had drifted past now and outside the Montana night was bright as day. The tapestry brick of the road was smooth to the tread of the great tyres as they rounded a still, moonlit lake; they passed into darkness for a moment, a pine grove, pungent and cool, then they came out into a broad avenue of lawn, and John’s exclamation of pleasure was simultaneous with Percy’s taciturn “We’re home.”</p>
<p>Full in the light of the stars, an exquisite château rose from the borders of the lake, climbed in marble radiance half the height of an adjoining mountain, then melted in grace, in perfect symmetry, in translucent feminine languor, into the massed darkness of a forest of pine. The many towers, the slender tracery of the sloping parapets, the chiselled wonder of a thousand yellow windows with their oblongs and hectagons and triangles of golden light, the shattered softness of the intersecting planes of star-shine and blue shade, all trembled on John’s spirit like a chord of music. On one of the towers, the tallest, the blackest at its base, an arrangement of exterior lights at the top made a sort of floating fairyland⁠—and as John gazed up in warm enchantment the faint acciaccare sound of violins drifted down in a rococo harmony that was like nothing he had ever heard before. Then in a moment the car stopped before wide, high marble steps around which the night air was fragrant with a host of flowers. At the top of the steps two great doors swung silently open and amber light flooded out upon the darkness, silhouetting the figure of an exquisite lady with black, high-piled hair, who held out her arms toward them.</p>
<p>“Mother,” Percy was saying, “this is my friend, John Unger, from Hades.”</p>
<p>Afterward John remembered that first night as a daze of many colours, of quick sensory impressions, of music soft as a voice in love, and of the beauty of things, lights and shadows, and motions and faces. There was a white-haired man who stood drinking a many-hued cordial from a crystal thimble set on a golden stem. There was a girl with a flowery face, dressed like Titania with braided sapphires in her hair. There was a room where the solid, soft gold of the walls yielded to the pressure of his hand, and a room that was like a platonic conception of the ultimate prison⁠—ceiling, floor, and all, it was lined with an unbroken mass of diamonds, diamonds of every size and shape, until, lit with tall violet lamps in the corners, it dazzled the eyes with a whiteness that could be compared only with itself, beyond human wish, or dream.</p>
<p>Through a maze of these rooms the two boys wandered. Sometimes the floor under their feet would flame in brilliant patterns from lighting below, patterns of barbaric clashing colours, of pastel delicacy, of sheer whiteness, or of subtle and intricate mosaic, surely from some mosque on the Adriatic Sea. Sometimes beneath layers of thick crystal he would see blue or green water swirling, inhabited by vivid fish and growths of rainbow foliage. Then they would be treading on furs of every texture and colour or along corridors of palest ivory, unbroken as though carved complete from the gigantic tusks of dinosaurs extinct before the age of man.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Then a hazily remembered transition, and they were at dinner⁠—where each plate was of two almost imperceptible layers of solid diamond between which was curiously worked a filigree of emerald design, a shaving sliced from green air. Music, plangent and unobtrusive, drifted down through far corridors⁠—his chair, feathered and curved insidiously to his back, seemed to engulf and overpower him as he drank his first glass of port. He tried drowsily to answer a question that had been asked him, but the honeyed luxury that clasped his body added to the illusion of sleep⁠—jewels, fabrics, wines, and metals blurred before his eyes into a sweet mist.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“Yes,” he replied with a polite effort, “it certainly is hot enough for me down there.”</p>
<p>He managed to add a ghostly laugh; then, without movement, without resistance, he seemed to float off and away, leaving an iced dessert that was pink as a dream.⁠ ⁠… He fell asleep.</p>
<p>When he awoke he knew that several hours had passed. He was in a great quiet room with ebony walls and a dull illumination that was too faint, too subtle, to be called a light. His young host was standing over him.</p>
<p>“You fell asleep at dinner,” Percy was saying. “I nearly did, too⁠—it was such a treat to be comfortable again after this year of school. Servants undressed and bathed you while you were sleeping.”</p>
<p>“Is this a bed or a cloud?” sighed John. “Percy, Percy⁠—before you go, I want to apologise.”</p>
<p>“For what?”</p>
<p>“For doubting you when you said you had a diamond as big as the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”</p>
<p>Percy smiled.</p>
<p>“I thought you didn’t believe me. It’s that mountain, you know.”</p>
<p>“What mountain?”</p>
<p>“The mountain the château rests on. It’s not very big, for a mountain. But except about fifty feet of sod and gravel on top it’s solid diamond. <em>One</em> diamond, one cubic mile without a flaw. Aren’t you listening? Say⁠—”</p>
<p>But John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger had again fallen asleep.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Morning. As he awoke he perceived drowsily that the room had at the same moment become dense with sunlight. The ebony panels of one wall had slid aside on a sort of track, leaving his chamber half open to the day. A large negro in a white uniform stood beside his bed.</p>
<p>“Good evening,” muttered John, summoning his brains from the wild places.</p>
<p>“Good morning, sir. Are you ready for your bath, sir? Oh, don’t get up⁠—I’ll put you in, if you’ll just unbutton your pyjamas⁠—there. Thank you, sir.”</p>
<p>John lay quietly as his pyjamas were removed⁠—he was amused and delighted; he expected to be lifted like a child by this black Gargantua who was tending him, but nothing of the sort happened; instead he felt the bed tilt up slowly on its side⁠—he began to roll, startled at first, in the direction of the wall, but when he reached the wall its drapery gave way, and sliding two yards farther down a fleecy incline he plumped gently into water the same temperature as his body.</p>
<p>He looked about him. The runway or rollway on which he had arrived had folded gently back into place. He had been projected into another chamber and was sitting in a sunken bath with his head just above the level of the floor. All about him, lining the walls of the room and the sides and bottom of the bath itself, was a blue aquarium, and gazing through the crystal surface on which he sat, he could see fish swimming among amber lights and even gliding without curiosity past his outstretched toes, which were separated from them only by the thickness of the crystal. From overhead, sunlight came down through sea-green glass.</p>
<p>“I suppose, sir, that you’d like hot rosewater and soapsuds this morning, sir⁠—and perhaps cold salt water to finish.”</p>
<p>The negro was standing beside him.</p>
<p>“Yes,” agreed John, smiling inanely, “as you please.” Any idea of ordering this bath according to his own meagre standards of living would have been priggish and not a little wicked.</p>
<p>The negro pressed a button and a warm rain began to fall, apparently from overhead, but really, so John discovered after a moment, from a fountain arrangement near by. The water turned to a pale rose colour and jets of liquid soap spurted into it from four miniature walrus heads at the corners of the bath. In a moment a dozen little paddle-wheels, fixed to the sides, had churned the mixture into a radiant rainbow of pink foam which enveloped him softly with its delicious lightness, and burst in shining, rosy bubbles here and there about him.</p>
<p>“Shall I turn on the moving-picture machine, sir?” suggested the negro deferentially. “There’s a good one-reel comedy in this machine today, or I can put in a serious piece in a moment, if you prefer it.”</p>
<p>“No, thanks,” answered John, politely but firmly. He was enjoying his bath too much to desire any distraction. But distraction came. In a moment he was listening intently to the sound of flutes from just outside, flutes dripping a melody that was like a waterfall, cool and green as the room itself, accompanying a frothy piccolo, in play more fragile than the lace of suds that covered and charmed him.</p>
<p>After a cold saltwater bracer and a cold fresh finish, he stepped out and into a fleecy robe, and upon a couch covered with the same material he was rubbed with oil, alcohol, and spice. Later he sat in a voluptuous chair while he was shaved and his hair was trimmed.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Percy is waiting in your sitting-room,” said the negro, when these operations were finished. “My name is Gygsum, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Unger, sir. I am to see to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Unger every morning.”</p>
<p>John walked out into the brisk sunshine of his living-room, where he found breakfast waiting for him and Percy, gorgeous in white kid knickerbockers, smoking in an easy chair.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>This is a story of the Washington family as Percy sketched it for John during breakfast.</p>
<p>The father of the present <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington had been a Virginian, a direct descendant of George Washington, and Lord Baltimore. At the close of the Civil War he was a twenty-five-year-old Colonel with a played-out plantation and about a thousand dollars in gold.</p>
<p>Fitz-Norman Culpepper Washington, for that was the young Colonel’s name, decided to present the Virginia estate to his younger brother and go West. He selected two dozen of the most faithful blacks, who, of course, worshipped him, and bought twenty-five tickets to the West, where he intended to take out land in their names and start a sheep and cattle ranch.</p>
<p>When he had been in Montana for less than a month and things were going very poorly indeed, he stumbled on his great discovery. He had lost his way when riding in the hills, and after a day without food he began to grow hungry. As he was without his rifle, he was forced to pursue a squirrel, and, in the course of the pursuit, he noticed that it was carrying something shiny in its mouth. Just before it vanished into its hole⁠—for Providence did not intend that this squirrel should alleviate his hunger⁠—it dropped its burden. Sitting down to consider the situation Fitz-Norman’s eye was caught by a gleam in the grass beside him. In ten seconds he had completely lost his appetite and gained one hundred thousand dollars. The squirrel, which had refused with annoying persistence to become food, had made him a present of a large and perfect diamond.</p>
<p>Late that night he found his way to camp and twelve hours later all the males among his darkies were back by the squirrel hole digging furiously at the side of the mountain. He told them he had discovered a rhinestone mine, and, as only one or two of them had ever seen even a small diamond before, they believed him, without question. When the magnitude of his discovery became apparent to him, he found himself in a quandary. The mountain was <em>a</em> diamond⁠—it was literally nothing else but solid diamond. He filled four saddle bags full of glittering samples and started on horseback for <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul. There he managed to dispose of half a dozen small stones⁠—when he tried a larger one a storekeeper fainted and Fitz-Norman was arrested as a public disturber. He escaped from jail and caught the train for New York, where he sold a few medium-sized diamonds and received in exchange about two hundred thousand dollars in gold. But he did not dare to produce any exceptional gems⁠—in fact, he left New York just in time. Tremendous excitement had been created in jewellery circles, not so much by the size of his diamonds as by their appearance in the city from mysterious sources. Wild rumours became current that a diamond mine had been discovered in the Catskills, on the Jersey coast, on Long Island, beneath Washington Square. Excursion trains, packed with men carrying picks and shovels, began to leave New York hourly, bound for various neighbouring El Dorados. But by that time young Fitz-Norman was on his way back to Montana.</p>
<p>By the end of a fortnight he had estimated that the diamond in the mountain was approximately equal in quantity to all the rest of the diamonds known to exist in the world. There was no valuing it by any regular computation, however, for it was <em>one solid diamond</em>⁠—and if it were offered for sale not only would the bottom fall out of the market, but also, if the value should vary with its size in the usual arithmetical progression, there would not be enough gold in the world to buy a tenth part of it. And what could anyone do with a diamond that size?</p>
<p>It was an amazing predicament. He was, in one sense, the richest man that ever lived⁠—and yet was he worth anything at all? If his secret should transpire there was no telling to what measures the Government might resort in order to prevent a panic, in gold as well as in jewels. They might take over the claim immediately and institute a monopoly.</p>
<p>There was no alternative⁠—he must market his mountain in secret. He sent South for his younger brother and put him in charge of his coloured following, darkies who had never realised that slavery was abolished. To make sure of this, he read them a proclamation that he had composed, which announced that General Forrest had reorganised the shattered Southern armies and defeated the North in one pitched battle. The negroes believed him implicitly. They passed a vote declaring it a good thing and held revival services immediately.</p>
<p>Fitz-Norman himself set out for foreign parts with one hundred thousand dollars and two trunks filled with rough diamonds of all sizes. He sailed for Russia in a Chinese junk, and six months after his departure from Montana he was in <abbr>St.</abbr> Petersburg. He took obscure lodgings and called immediately upon the court jeweller, announcing that he had a diamond for the Czar. He remained in <abbr>St.</abbr> Petersburg for two weeks, in constant danger of being murdered, living from lodging to lodging, and afraid to visit his trunks more than three or four times during the whole fortnight.</p>
<p>On his promise to return in a year with larger and finer stones, he was allowed to leave for India. Before he left, however, the Court Treasurers had deposited to his credit, in American banks, the sum of fifteen million dollars⁠—under four different aliases.</p>
<p>He returned to America in 1868, having been gone a little over two years. He had visited the capitals of twenty-two countries and talked with five emperors, eleven kings, three princes, a shah, a khan, and a sultan. At that time Fitz-Norman estimated his own wealth at one billion dollars. One fact worked consistently against the disclosure of his secret. No one of his larger diamonds remained in the public eye for a week before being invested with a history of enough fatalities, amours, revolutions, and wars to have occupied it from the days of the first Babylonian Empire.</p>
<p>From 1870 until his death in 1900, the history of Fitz-Norman Washington was a long epic in gold. There were side issues, of course⁠—he evaded the surveys, he married a Virginia lady, by whom he had a single son, and he was compelled, due to a series of unfortunate complications, to murder his brother, whose unfortunate habit of drinking himself into an indiscreet stupor had several times endangered their safety. But very few other murders stained these happy years of progress and expansion.</p>
<p>Just before he died he changed his policy, and with all but a few million dollars of his outside wealth bought up rare minerals in bulk, which he deposited in the safety vaults of banks all over the world, marked as bric-a-brac. His son, Braddock Tarleton Washington, followed this policy on an even more tensive scale. The minerals were converted into the rarest of all elements⁠—radium⁠—so that the equivalent of a billion dollars in gold could be placed in a receptacle no bigger than a cigar box.</p>
<p>When Fitz-Norman had been dead three years his son, Braddock, decided that the business had gone far enough. The amount of wealth that he and his father had taken out of the mountain was beyond all exact computation. He kept a notebook in cipher in which he set down the approximate quantity of radium in each of the thousand banks he patronised, and recorded the alias under which it was held. Then he did a very simple thing⁠—he sealed up the mine.</p>
<p>He sealed up the mine. What had been taken out of it would support all the Washingtons yet to be born in unparalleled luxury for generations. His one care must be the protection of his secret, lest in the possible panic attendant on its discovery he should be reduced with all the property-holders in the world to utter poverty.</p>
<p>This was the family among whom John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T.</abbr> Unger was staying. This was the story he heard in his silver-walled living-room the morning after his arrival.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>After breakfast, John found his way out the great marble entrance, and looked curiously at the scene before him. The whole valley, from the diamond mountain to the steep granite cliff five miles away, still gave off a breath of golden haze which hovered idly above the fine sweep of lawns and lakes and gardens. Here and there clusters of elms made delicate groves of shade, contrasting strangely with the tough masses of pine forest that held the hills in a grip of dark-blue green. Even as John looked he saw three fawns in single file patter out from one clump about a half-mile away and disappear with awkward gaiety into the black-ribbed half-light of another. John would not have been surprised to see a goat-foot piping his way among the trees or to catch a glimpse of pink nymph-skin and flying yellow hair between the greenest of the green leaves.</p>
<p>In some such cool hope he descended the marble steps, disturbing faintly the sleep of two silky Russian wolfhounds at the bottom, and set off along a walk of white and blue brick that seemed to lead in no particular direction.</p>
<p>He was enjoying himself as much as he was able. It is youth’s felicity as well as its insufficiency that it can never live in the present, but must always be measuring up the day against its own radiantly imagined future⁠—flowers and gold, girls and stars, they are only prefigurations and prophecies of that incomparable, unattainable young dream.</p>
<p>John rounded a soft corner where the massed rosebushes filled the air with heavy scent, and struck off across a park toward a patch of moss under some trees. He had never lain upon moss, and he wanted to see whether it was really soft enough to justify the use of its name as an adjective. Then he saw a girl coming toward him over the grass. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.</p>
<p>She was dressed in a white little gown that came just below her knees, and a wreath of mignonettes clasped with blue slices of sapphire bound up her hair. Her pink bare feet scattered the dew before them as she came. She was younger than John⁠—not more than sixteen.</p>
<p>“Hello,” she cried softly, “I’m Kismine.”</p>
<p>She was much more than that to John already. He advanced toward her, scarcely moving as he drew near lest he should tread on her bare toes.</p>
<p>“You haven’t met me,” said her soft voice. Her blue eyes added, “Oh, but you’ve missed a great deal!”⁠ ⁠… “You met my sister, Jasmine, last night. I was sick with lettuce poisoning,” went on her soft voice, and her eye continued, “and when I’m sick I’m sweet⁠—and when I’m well.”</p>
<p>“You have made an enormous impression on me,” said John’s eyes, “and I’m not so slow myself”⁠—“How do you do?” said his voice. “I hope you’re better this morning.”⁠—“You darling,” added his eyes tremulously.</p>
<p>John observed that they had been walking along the path. On her suggestion they sat down together upon the moss, the softness of which he failed to determine.</p>
<p>He was critical about women. A single defect⁠—a thick ankle, a hoarse voice, a glass eye⁠—was enough to make him utterly indifferent. And here for the first time in his life he was beside a girl who seemed to him the incarnation of physical perfection.</p>
<p>“Are you from the East?” asked Kismine with charming interest.</p>
<p>“No,” answered John simply. “I’m from Hades.”</p>
<p>Either she had never heard of Hades, or she could think of no pleasant comment to make upon it, for she did not discuss it further.</p>
<p>“I’m going East to school this fall,” she said. “D’you think I’ll like it? I’m going to New York to Miss Bulge’s. It’s very strict, but you see over the weekends I’m going to live at home with the family in our New York house, because father heard that the girls had to go walking two by two.”</p>
<p>“Your father wants you to be proud,” observed John.</p>
<p>“We are,” she answered, her eyes shining with dignity. “None of us has ever been punished. Father said we never should be. Once when my sister Jasmine was a little girl she pushed him downstairs and he just got up and limped away.</p>
<p>“Mother was⁠—well, a little startled,” continued Kismine, “when she heard that you were from⁠—from where you <em>are</em> from, you know. She said that when she was a young girl⁠—but then, you see, she’s a Spaniard and old-fashioned.”</p>
<p>“Do you spend much time out here?” asked John, to conceal the fact that he was somewhat hurt by this remark. It seemed an unkind allusion to his provincialism.</p>
<p>“Percy and Jasmine and I are here every summer, but next summer Jasmine is going to Newport. She’s coming out in London a year from this fall. She’ll be presented at court.”</p>
<p>“Do you know,” began John hesitantly, “you’re much more sophisticated than I thought you were when I first saw you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, I’m not,” she exclaimed hurriedly. “Oh, I wouldn’t think of being. I think that sophisticated young people are <em>terribly</em> common, don’t you? I’m not all, really. If you say I am, I’m going to cry.”</p>
<p>She was so distressed that her lip was trembling. John was impelled to protest:</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean that; I only said it to tease you.”</p>
<p>“Because I wouldn’t mind if I <em>were</em>,” she persisted, “but I’m not. I’m very innocent and girlish. I never smoke, or drink, or read anything except poetry. I know scarcely any mathematics or chemistry. I dress <em>very</em> simply⁠—in fact, I scarcely dress at all. I think sophisticated is the last thing you can say about me. I believe that girls ought to enjoy their youths in a wholesome way.”</p>
<p>“I do, too,” said John, heartily.</p>
<p>Kismine was cheerful again. She smiled at him, and a stillborn tear dripped from the corner of one blue eye.</p>
<p>“I like you,” she whispered intimately. “Are you going to spend all your time with Percy while you’re here, or will you be nice to me? Just think⁠—I’m absolutely fresh ground. I’ve never had a boy in love with me in all my life. I’ve never been allowed even to <em>see</em> boys alone⁠—except Percy. I came all the way out here into this grove hoping to run into you, where the family wouldn’t be around.”</p>
<p>Deeply flattered, John bowed from the hips as he had been taught at dancing school in Hades.</p>
<p>“We’d better go now,” said Kismine sweetly. “I have to be with mother at eleven. You haven’t asked me to kiss you once. I thought boys always did that nowadays.”</p>
<p>John drew himself up proudly.</p>
<p>“Some of them do,” he answered, “but not me. Girls don’t do that sort of thing⁠—in Hades.”</p>
<p>Side by side they walked back toward the house.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>John stood facing <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Braddock Washington in the full sunlight. The elder man was about forty, with a proud, vacuous face, intelligent eyes, and a robust figure. In the mornings he smelt of horses⁠—the best horses. He carried a plain walking-stick of gray birch with a single large opal for a grip. He and Percy were showing John around.</p>
<p>“The slaves’ quarters are there.” His walking-stick indicated a cloister of marble on their left that ran in graceful Gothic along the side of the mountain. “In my youth I was distracted for a while from the business of life by a period of absurd idealism. During that time they lived in luxury. For instance, I equipped every one of their rooms with a tile bath.”</p>
<p>“I suppose,” ventured John, with an ingratiating laugh, “that they used the bathtubs to keep coal in. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Schnlitzer-Murphy told me that once he⁠—”</p>
<p>“The opinions of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Schnlitzer-Murphy are of little importance, I should imagine,” interrupted Braddock Washington coldly. “My slaves did not keep coal in their bathtubs. They had orders to bathe every day, and they did. If they hadn’t I might have ordered a sulphuric acid shampoo. I discontinued the baths for quite another reason. Several of them caught cold and died. Water is not good for certain races⁠—except as a beverage.”</p>
<p>John laughed, and then decided to nod his head in sober agreement. Braddock Washington made him uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“All these negroes are descendants of the ones my father brought North with him. There are about two hundred and fifty now. You notice that they’ve lived so long apart from the world that their original dialect has become an almost indistinguishable patois. We bring a few of them up to speak English⁠—my secretary and two or three of the house servants.</p>
<p>“This is the golf course,” he continued, as they strolled along the velvet winter grass. “It’s all a green, you see⁠—no fairway, no rough, no hazards.”</p>
<p>He smiled pleasantly at John.</p>
<p>“Many men in the cage, father?” asked Percy suddenly.</p>
<p>Braddock Washington stumbled, and let forth an involuntary curse.</p>
<p>“One less than there should be,” he ejaculated darkly⁠—and then added after a moment, “We’ve had difficulties.”</p>
<p>“Mother was telling me,” exclaimed Percy, “that Italian teacher⁠—”</p>
<p>“A ghastly error,” said Braddock Washington angrily. “But of course there’s a good chance that we may have got him. Perhaps he fell somewhere in the woods or stumbled over a cliff. And then there’s always the probability that if he did get away his story wouldn’t be believed. Nevertheless, I’ve had two dozen men looking for him in different towns around here.”</p>
<p>“And no luck?”</p>
<p>“Some. Fourteen of them reported to my agent they’d each killed a man answering to that description, but of course it was probably only the reward they were after⁠—”</p>
<p>He broke off. They had come to a large cavity in the earth about the circumference of a merry-go-round, and covered by a strong iron grating. Braddock Washington beckoned to John, and pointed his cane down through the grating. John stepped to the edge and gazed. Immediately his ears were assailed by a wild clamor from below.</p>
<p>“Come on down to Hell!”</p>
<p>“Hello, kiddo, how’s the air up there?”</p>
<p>“Hey! Throw us a rope!”</p>
<p>“Got an old doughnut, Buddy, or a couple of secondhand sandwiches?”</p>
<p>“Say, fella, if you’ll push down that guy you’re with, we’ll show you a quick disappearance scene.”</p>
<p>“Paste him one for me, will you?”</p>
<p>It was too dark to see clearly into the pit below, but John could tell from the coarse optimism and rugged vitality of the remarks and voices that they proceeded from middle-class Americans of the more spirited type. Then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington put out his cane and touched a button in the grass, and the scene below sprang into light.</p>
<p>“These are some adventurous mariners who had the misfortune to discover El Dorado,” he remarked.</p>
<p>Below them there had appeared a large hollow in the earth shaped like the interior of a bowl. The sides were steep and apparently of polished glass, and on its slightly concave surface stood about two dozen men clad in the half costume, half uniform, of aviators. Their upturned faces, lit with wrath, with malice, with despair, with cynical humour, were covered by long growths of beard, but with the exception of a few who had pined perceptibly away, they seemed to be a well-fed, healthy lot.</p>
<p>Braddock Washington drew a garden chair to the edge of the pit and sat down.</p>
<p>“Well, how are you, boys?” he inquired genially.</p>
<p>A chorus of execration, in which all joined except a few too dispirited to cry out, rose up into the sunny air, but Braddock Washington heard it with unruffled composure. When its last echo had died away he spoke again.</p>
<p>“Have you thought up a way out of your difficulty?”</p>
<p>From here and there among them a remark floated up.</p>
<p>“We decided to stay here for love!”</p>
<p>“Bring us up there and we’ll find us a way!”</p>
<p>Braddock Washington waited until they were again quiet. Then he said:</p>
<p>“I’ve told you the situation. I don’t want you here, I wish to heaven I’d never seen you. Your own curiosity got you here, and any time that you can think of a way out which protects me and my interests I’ll be glad to consider it. But so long as you confine your efforts to digging tunnels⁠—yes, I know about the new one you’ve started⁠—you won’t get very far. This isn’t as hard on you as you make it out, with all your howling for the loved ones at home. If you were the type who worried much about the loved ones at home, you’d never have taken up aviation.”</p>
<p>A tall man moved apart from the others, and held up his hand to call his captor’s attention to what he was about to say.</p>
<p>“Let me ask you a few questions!” he cried. “You pretend to be a fair-minded man.”</p>
<p>“How absurd. How could a man of <em>my</em> position be fair-minded toward you? You might as well speak of a Spaniard being fair-minded toward a piece of steak.”</p>
<p>At this harsh observation the faces of the two dozen fell, but the tall man continued:</p>
<p>“All right!” he cried. “We’ve argued this out before. You’re not a humanitarian and you’re not fair-minded, but you’re human⁠—at least you say you are⁠—and you ought to be able to put yourself in our place for long enough to think how⁠—how⁠—how⁠—”</p>
<p>“How what?” demanded Washington, coldly.</p>
<p>“⁠—how unnecessary⁠—”</p>
<p>“Not to me.”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—how cruel⁠—”</p>
<p>“We’ve covered that. Cruelty doesn’t exist where self-preservation is involved. You’ve been soldiers; you know that. Try another.”</p>
<p>“Well, then, how stupid.”</p>
<p>“There,” admitted Washington, “I grant you that. But try to think of an alternative. I’ve offered to have all or any of you painlessly executed if you wish. I’ve offered to have your wives, sweethearts, children, and mothers kidnapped and brought out here. I’ll enlarge your place down there and feed and clothe you the rest of your lives. If there was some method of producing permanent amnesia I’d have all of you operated on and released immediately, somewhere outside of my preserves. But that’s as far as my ideas go.”</p>
<p>“How about trusting us not to peach on you?” cried someone.</p>
<p>“You don’t proffer that suggestion seriously,” said Washington, with an expression of scorn. “I did take out one man to teach my daughter Italian. Last week he got away.”</p>
<p>A wild yell of jubilation went up suddenly from two dozen throats and a pandemonium of joy ensued. The prisoners clog-danced and cheered and yodled and wrestled with one another in a sudden uprush of animal spirits. They even ran up the glass sides of the bowl as far as they could, and slid back to the bottom upon the natural cushions of their bodies. The tall man started a song in which they all joined⁠—</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Oh, we’ll hang the kaiser</span>
<br/>
<span>On a sour apple-tree⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Braddock Washington sat in inscrutable silence until the song was over.</p>
<p>“You see,” he remarked, when he could gain a modicum of attention. “I bear you no ill-will. I like to see you enjoying yourselves. That’s why I didn’t tell you the whole story at once. The man⁠—what was his name? Critchtichiello?⁠—was shot by some of my agents in fourteen different places.”</p>
<p>Not guessing that the places referred to were cities, the tumult of rejoicing subsided immediately.</p>
<p>“Nevertheless,” cried Washington with a touch of anger, “he tried to run away. Do you expect me to take chances with any of you after an experience like that?”</p>
<p>Again a series of ejaculations went up.</p>
<p>“Sure!”</p>
<p>“Would your daughter like to learn Chinese?”</p>
<p>“Hey, I can speak Italian! My mother was a wop.”</p>
<p>“Maybe she’d like t’learna speak N’Yawk!”</p>
<p>“If she’s the little one with the big blue eyes I can teach her a lot of things better than Italian.”</p>
<p>“I know some Irish songs⁠—and I could hammer brass once’t.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington reached forward suddenly with his cane and pushed the button in the grass so that the picture below went out instantly, and there remained only that great dark mouth covered dismally with the black teeth of the grating.</p>
<p>“Hey!” called a single voice from below, “you ain’t goin’ away without givin’ us your blessing?”</p>
<p>But <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington, followed by the two boys, was already strolling on toward the ninth hole of the golf course, as though the pit and its contents were no more than a hazard over which his facile iron had triumphed with ease.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h3>
<p>July under the lee of the diamond mountain was a month of blanket nights and of warm, glowing days. John and Kismine were in love. He did not know that the little gold football (inscribed with the legend <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pro deo et patria et <abbr>St.</abbr> Mida</i>) which he had given her rested on a platinum chain next to her bosom. But it did. And she for her part was not aware that a large sapphire which had dropped one day from her simple coiffure was stowed away tenderly in John’s jewel box.</p>
<p>Late one afternoon when the ruby and ermine music room was quiet, they spent an hour there together. He held her hand and she gave him such a look that he whispered her name aloud. She bent toward him⁠—then hesitated.</p>
<p>“Did you say ‘Kismine’?” she asked softly, “or⁠—”</p>
<p>She had wanted to be sure. She thought she might have misunderstood.</p>
<p>Neither of them had ever kissed before, but in the course of an hour it seemed to make little difference.</p>
<p>The afternoon drifted away. That night, when a last breath of music drifted down from the highest tower, they each lay awake, happily dreaming over the separate minutes of the day. They had decided to be married as soon as possible.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-8" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VIII</h3>
<p>Every day <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington and the two young men went hunting or fishing in the deep forests or played golf around the somnolent course⁠—games which John diplomatically allowed his host to win⁠—or swam in the mountain coolness of the lake. John found <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington a somewhat exacting personality⁠—utterly uninterested in any ideas or opinions except his own. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Washington was aloof and reserved at all times. She was apparently indifferent to her two daughters, and entirely absorbed in her son Percy, with whom she held interminable conversations in rapid Spanish at dinner.</p>
<p>Jasmine, the elder daughter, resembled Kismine in appearance⁠—except that she was somewhat bowlegged, and terminated in large hands and feet⁠—but was utterly unlike her in temperament. Her favourite books had to do with poor girls who kept house for widowed fathers. John learned from Kismine that Jasmine had never recovered from the shock and disappointment caused her by the termination of the World War, just as she was about to start for Europe as a canteen expert. She had even pined away for a time, and Braddock Washington had taken steps to promote a new war in the Balkans⁠—but she had seen a photograph of some wounded Serbian soldiers and lost interest in the whole proceedings. But Percy and Kismine seemed to have inherited the arrogant attitude in all its harsh magnificence from their father. A chaste and consistent selfishness ran like a pattern through their every idea.</p>
<p>John was enchanted by the wonders of the château and the valley. Braddock Washington, so Percy told him, had caused to be kidnapped a landscape gardener, an architect, a designer of state settings, and a French decadent poet left over from the last century. He had put his entire force of negroes at their disposal, guaranteed to supply them with any materials that the world could offer, and left them to work out some ideas of their own. But one by one they had shown their uselessness. The decadent poet had at once begun bewailing his separation from the boulevards in spring⁠—he made some vague remarks about spices, apes, and ivories, but said nothing that was of any practical value. The stage designer on his part wanted to make the whole valley a series of tricks and sensational effects⁠—a state of things that the Washingtons would soon have grown tired of. And as for the architect and the landscape gardener, they thought only in terms of convention. They must make this like this and that like that.</p>
<p>But they had, at least, solved the problem of what was to be done with them⁠—they all went mad early one morning after spending the night in a single room trying to agree upon the location of a fountain, and were now confined comfortably in an insane asylum at Westport, Connecticut.</p>
<p>“But,” inquired John curiously, “who did plan all your wonderful reception rooms and halls, and approaches and bathrooms⁠—?”</p>
<p>“Well,” answered Percy, “I blush to tell you, but it was a moving-picture fella. He was the only man we found who was used to playing with an unlimited amount of money, though he did tuck his napkin in his collar and couldn’t read or write.”</p>
<p>As August drew to a close John began to regret that he must soon go back to school. He and Kismine had decided to elope the following June.</p>
<p>“It would be nicer to be married here,” Kismine confessed, “but of course I could never get father’s permission to marry you at all. Next to that I’d rather elope. It’s terrible for wealthy people to be married in America at present⁠—they always have to send out bulletins to the press saying that they’re going to be married in remnants, when what they mean is just a peck of old secondhand pearls and some used lace worn once by the Empress Eugenie.”</p>
<p>“I know,” agreed John fervently. “When I was visiting the Schnlitzer-Murphys, the eldest daughter, Gwendolyn, married a man whose father owns half of West Virginia. She wrote home saying what a tough struggle she was carrying on on his salary as a bank clerk⁠—and then she ended up by saying that ‘Thank God, I have four good maids anyhow, and that helps a little.’ ”</p>
<p>“It’s absurd,” commented Kismine⁠—“Think of the millions and millions of people in the world, labourers and all, who get along with only two maids.”</p>
<p>One afternoon late in August a chance remark of Kismine’s changed the face of the entire situation, and threw John into a state of terror.</p>
<p>They were in their favourite grove, and between kisses John was indulging in some romantic forebodings which he fancied added poignancy to their relations.</p>
<p>“Sometimes I think we’ll never marry,” he said sadly. “You’re too wealthy, too magnificent. No one as rich as you are can be like other girls. I should marry the daughter of some well-to-do wholesale hardware man from Omaha or Sioux City, and be content with her half-million.”</p>
<p>“I knew the daughter of a wholesale hardware man once,” remarked Kismine. “I don’t think you’d have been contented with her. She was a friend of my sister’s. She visited here.”</p>
<p>“Oh, then you’ve had other guests?” exclaimed John in surprise.</p>
<p>Kismine seemed to regret her words.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly, “we’ve had a few.”</p>
<p>“But aren’t you⁠—wasn’t your father afraid they’d talk outside?”</p>
<p>“Oh, to some extent, to some extent,” she answered. “Let’s talk about something pleasanter.”</p>
<p>But John’s curiosity was aroused.</p>
<p>“Something pleasanter!” he demanded. “What’s unpleasant about that? Weren’t they nice girls?”</p>
<p>To his great surprise Kismine began to weep.</p>
<p>“Yes —th⁠—that’s the⁠—the whole t-trouble. I grew qu-quite attached to some of them. So did Jasmine, but she kept inv-viting them anyway. I couldn’t under<em>stand</em> it.”</p>
<p>A dark suspicion was born in John’s heart.</p>
<p>“Do you mean that they <em>told</em>, and your father had them⁠—removed?”</p>
<p>“Worse than that,” she muttered brokenly. “Father took no chances⁠—and Jasmine kept writing them to come, and they had <em>such</em> a good time!”</p>
<p>She was overcome by a paroxysm of grief.</p>
<p>Stunned with the horror of this revelation, John sat there open-mouthed, feeling the nerves of his body twitter like so many sparrows perched upon his spinal column.</p>
<p>“Now, I’ve told you, and I shouldn’t have,” she said, calming suddenly and drying her dark blue eyes.</p>
<p>“Do you mean to say that your father had them <em>murdered</em> before they left?”</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>“In August usually⁠—or early in September. It’s only natural for us to get all the pleasure out of them that we can first.”</p>
<p>“How abominable! How⁠—why, I must be going crazy! Did you really admit that⁠—”</p>
<p>“I did,” interrupted Kismine, shrugging her shoulders. “We can’t very well imprison them like those aviators, where they’d be a continual reproach to us every day. And it’s always been made easier for Jasmine and me, because father had it done sooner than we expected. In that way we avoided any farewell scene⁠—”</p>
<p>“So you murdered them! Uh!” cried John.</p>
<p>“It was done very nicely. They were drugged while they were asleep⁠—and their families were always told that they died of scarlet fever in Butte.”</p>
<p>“But⁠—I fail to understand why you kept on inviting them!”</p>
<p>“I didn’t,” burst out Kismine. “I never invited one. Jasmine did. And they always had a very good time. She’d give them the nicest presents toward the last. I shall probably have visitors too⁠—I’ll harden up to it. We can’t let such an inevitable thing as death stand in the way of enjoying life while we have it. Think of how lonesome it’d be out here if we never had <em>any</em> one. Why, father and mother have sacrificed some of their best friends just as we have.”</p>
<p>“And so,” cried John accusingly, “and so you were letting me make love to you and pretending to return it, and talking about marriage, all the time knowing perfectly well that I’d never get out of here alive⁠—”</p>
<p>“No,” she protested passionately. “Not any more. I did at first. You were here. I couldn’t help that, and I thought your last days might as well be pleasant for both of us. But then I fell in love with you, and⁠—and I’m honestly sorry you’re going to⁠—going to be put away⁠—though I’d rather you’d be put away than ever kiss another girl.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you would, would you?” cried John ferociously.</p>
<p>“Much rather. Besides, I’ve always heard that a girl can have more fun with a man whom she knows she can never marry. Oh, why did I tell you? I’ve probably spoiled your whole good time now, and we were really enjoying things when you didn’t know it. I knew it would make things sort of depressing for you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you did, did you?” John’s voice trembled with anger. “I’ve heard about enough of this. If you haven’t any more pride and decency than to have an affair with a fellow that you know isn’t much better than a corpse, I don’t want to have any more to with you!”</p>
<p>“You’re not a corpse!” she protested in horror. “You’re not a corpse! I won’t have you saying that I kissed a corpse!”</p>
<p>“I said nothing of the sort!”</p>
<p>“You did! You said I kissed a corpse!”</p>
<p>“I didn’t!”</p>
<p>Their voices had risen, but upon a sudden interruption they both subsided into immediate silence. Footsteps were coming along the path in their direction, and a moment later the rose bushes were parted displaying Braddock Washington, whose intelligent eyes set in his good-looking vacuous face were peering in at them.</p>
<p>“Who kissed a corpse?” he demanded in obvious disapproval.</p>
<p>“Nobody,” answered Kismine quickly. “We were just joking.”</p>
<p>“What are you two doing here, anyhow?” he demanded gruffly. “Kismine, you ought to be⁠—to be reading or playing golf with your sister. Go read! Go play golf! Don’t let me find you here when I come back!”</p>
<p>Then he bowed at John and went up the path.</p>
<p>“See?” said Kismine crossly, when he was out of hearing. “You’ve spoiled it all. We can never meet any more. He won’t let me meet you. He’d have you poisoned if he thought we were in love.”</p>
<p>“We’re not, any more!” cried John fiercely, “so he can set his mind at rest upon that. Moreover, don’t fool yourself that I’m going to stay around here. Inside of six hours I’ll be over those mountains, if I have to gnaw a passage through them, and on my way East.” They had both got to their feet, and at this remark Kismine came close and put her arm through his.</p>
<p>“I’m going, too.”</p>
<p>“You must be crazy⁠—”</p>
<p>“Of course I’m going,” she interrupted impatiently.</p>
<p>“You most certainly are not. You⁠—”</p>
<p>“Very well,” she said quietly, “we’ll catch up with father and talk it over with him.”</p>
<p>Defeated, John mustered a sickly smile.</p>
<p>“Very well, dearest,” he agreed, with pale and unconvincing affection, “we’ll go together.”</p>
<p>His love for her returned and settled placidly on his heart. She was his⁠—she would go with him to share his dangers. He put his arms about her and kissed her fervently. After all she loved him; she had saved him, in fact.</p>
<p>Discussing the matter, they walked slowly back toward the château. They decided that since Braddock Washington had seen them together they had best depart the next night. Nevertheless, John’s lips were unusually dry at dinner, and he nervously emptied a great spoonful of peacock soup into his left lung. He had to be carried into the turquoise and sable cardroom and pounded on the back by one of the under-butlers, which Percy considered a great joke.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-9" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IX</h3>
<p>Long after midnight John’s body gave a nervous jerk, and he sat suddenly upright, staring into the veils of somnolence that draped the room. Through the squares of blue darkness that were his open windows, he had heard a faint faraway sound that died upon a bed of wind before identifying itself on his memory, clouded with uneasy dreams. But the sharp noise that had succeeded it was nearer, was just outside the room⁠—the click of a turned knob, a footstep, a whisper, he could not tell; a hard lump gathered in the pit of his stomach, and his whole body ached in the moment that he strained agonisingly to hear. Then one of the veils seemed to dissolve, and he saw a vague figure standing by the door, a figure only faintly limned and blocked in upon the darkness, mingled so with the folds of the drapery as to seem distorted, like a reflection seen in a dirty pane of glass.</p>
<p>With a sudden movement of fright or resolution John pressed the button by his bedside, and the next moment he was sitting in the green sunken bath of the adjoining room, waked into alertness by the shock of the cold water which half filled it.</p>
<p>He sprang out, and, his wet pyjamas scattering a heavy trickle of water behind him, ran for the aquamarine door which he knew led out on to the ivory landing of the second floor. The door opened noiselessly. A single crimson lamp burning in a great dome above lit the magnificent sweep of the carved stairways with a poignant beauty. For a moment John hesitated, appalled by the silent splendour massed about him, seeming to envelop in its gigantic folds and contours the solitary drenched little figure shivering upon the ivory landing. Then simultaneously two things happened. The door of his own sitting-room swung open, precipitating three naked negroes into the hall⁠—and, as John swayed in wild terror toward the stairway, another door slid back in the wall on the other side of the corridor, and John saw Braddock Washington standing in the lighted lift, wearing a fur coat and a pair of riding boots which reached to his knees and displayed, above, the glow of his rose-colored pyjamas.</p>
<p>On the instant the three negroes⁠—John had never seen any of them before, and it flashed through his mind that they must be the professional executioners⁠—paused in their movement toward John, and turned expectantly to the man in the lift, who burst out with an imperious command:</p>
<p>“Get in here! All three of you! Quick as hell!”</p>
<p>Then, within the instant, the three negroes darted into the cage, the oblong of light was blotted out as the lift door slid shut, and John was again alone in the hall. He slumped weakly down against an ivory stair.</p>
<p>It was apparent that something portentous had occurred, something which, for the moment at least, had postponed his own petty disaster. What was it? Had the negroes risen in revolt? Had the aviators forced aside the iron bars of the grating? Or had the men of Fish stumbled blindly through the hills and gazed with bleak, joyless eyes upon the gaudy valley? John did not know. He heard a faint whir of air as the lift whizzed up again, and then, a moment later, as it descended. It was probable that Percy was hurrying to his father’s assistance, and it occurred to John that this was his opportunity to join Kismine and plan an immediate escape. He waited until the lift had been silent for several minutes; shivering a little with the night cool that whipped in through his wet pyjamas, he returned to his room and dressed himself quickly. Then he mounted a long flight of stairs and turned down the corridor carpeted with Russian sable which led to Kismine’s suite.</p>
<p>The door of her sitting-room was open and the lamps were lighted. Kismine, in an angora kimono, stood near the window of the room in a listening attitude, and as John entered noiselessly she turned toward him.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s you!” she whispered, crossing the room to him. “Did you hear them?”</p>
<p>“I heard your father’s slaves in my⁠—”</p>
<p>“No,” she interrupted excitedly. “Aeroplanes!”</p>
<p>“Aeroplanes? Perhaps that was the sound that woke me.”</p>
<p>“There’re at least a dozen. I saw one a few moments ago dead against the moon. The guard back by the cliff fired his rifle and that’s what roused father. We’re going to open on them right away.”</p>
<p>“Are they here on purpose?”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—it’s that Italian who got away⁠—”</p>
<p>Simultaneously with her last word, a succession of sharp cracks tumbled in through the open window. Kismine uttered a little cry, took a penny with fumbling fingers from a box on her dresser, and ran to one of the electric lights. In an instant the entire château was in darkness⁠—she had blown out the fuse.</p>
<p>“Come on!” she cried to him. “We’ll go up to the roof garden, and watch it from there!”</p>
<p>Drawing a cape about her, she took his hand, and they found their way out the door. It was only a step to the tower lift, and as she pressed the button that shot them upward he put his arms around her in the darkness and kissed her mouth. Romance had come to John Unger at last. A minute later they had stepped out upon the star-white platform. Above, under the misty moon, sliding in and out of the patches of cloud that eddied below it, floated a dozen dark-winged bodies in a constant circling course. From here and there in the valley flashes of fire leaped toward them, followed by sharp detonations. Kismine clapped her hands with pleasure, which, a moment later, turned to dismay as the aeroplanes, at some prearranged signal, began to release their bombs and the whole of the valley became a panorama of deep reverberate sound and lurid light.</p>
<p>Before long the aim of the attackers became concentrated upon the points where the antiaircraft guns were situated, and one of them was almost immediately reduced to a giant cinder to lie smouldering in a park of rose bushes.</p>
<p>“Kismine,” begged John, “you’ll be glad when I tell you that this attack came on the eve of my murder. If I hadn’t heard that guard shoot off his gun back by the pass I should now be stone dead⁠—”</p>
<p>“I can’t hear you!” cried Kismine, intent on the scene before her. “You’ll have to talk louder!”</p>
<p>“I simply said,” shouted John, “that we’d better get out before they begin to shell the château!”</p>
<p>Suddenly the whole portico of the negro quarters cracked asunder, a geyser of flame shot up from under the colonnades, and great fragments of jagged marble were hurled as far as the borders of the lake.</p>
<p>“There go fifty thousand dollars’ worth of slaves,” cried Kismine, “at prewar prices. So few Americans have any respect for property.”</p>
<p>John renewed his efforts to compel her to leave. The aim of the aeroplanes was becoming more precise minute by minute, and only two of the antiaircraft guns were still retaliating. It was obvious that the garrison, encircled with fire, could not hold out much longer.</p>
<p>“Come on!” cried John, pulling Kismine’s arm, “we’ve got to go. Do you realise that those aviators will kill you without question if they find you?”</p>
<p>She consented reluctantly.</p>
<p>“We’ll have to wake Jasmine!” she said, as they hurried toward the lift. Then she added in a sort of childish delight: “We’ll be poor, won’t we? Like people in books. And I’ll be an orphan and utterly free. Free and poor! What fun!” She stopped and raised her lips to him in a delighted kiss.</p>
<p>“It’s impossible to be both together,” said John grimly. “People have found that out. And I should choose to be free as preferable of the two. As an extra caution you’d better dump the contents of your jewel box into your pockets.”</p>
<p>Ten minutes later the two girls met John in the dark corridor and they descended to the main floor of the château. Passing for the last time through the magnificence of the splendid halls, they stood for a moment out on the terrace, watching the burning negro quarters and the flaming embers of two planes which had fallen on the other side of the lake. A solitary gun was still keeping up a sturdy popping, and the attackers seemed timorous about descending lower, but sent their thunderous fireworks in a circle around it, until any chance shot might annihilate its Ethiopian crew.</p>
<p>John and the two sisters passed down the marble steps, turned sharply to the left, and began to ascend a narrow path that wound like a garter about the diamond mountain. Kismine knew a heavily wooded spot halfway up where they could lie concealed and yet be able to observe the wild night in the valley⁠—finally to make an escape, when it should be necessary, along a secret path laid in a rocky gully.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-10" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h3>
<p>It was three o’clock when they attained their destination. The obliging and phlegmatic Jasmine fell off to sleep immediately, leaning against the trunk of a large tree, while John and Kismine sat, his arm around her, and watched the desperate ebb and flow of the dying battle among the ruins of a vista that had been a garden spot that morning. Shortly after four o’clock the last remaining gun gave out a clanging sound, and went out of action in a swift tongue of red smoke. Though the moon was down, they saw that the flying bodies were circling closer to the earth. When the planes had made certain that the beleaguered possessed no further resources they would land and the dark and glittering reign of the Washingtons would be over.</p>
<p>With the cessation of the firing the valley grew quiet. The embers of the two aeroplanes glowed like the eyes of some monster crouching in the grass. The château stood dark and silent, beautiful without light as it had been beautiful in the sun, while the woody rattles of Nemesis filled the air above with a growing and receding complaint. Then John perceived that Kismine, like her sister, had fallen sound asleep.</p>
<p>It was long after four when he became aware of footsteps along the path they had lately followed, and he waited in breathless silence until the persons to whom they belonged had passed the vantage-point he occupied. There was a faint stir in the air now that was not of human origin, and the dew was cold; he knew that the dawn would break soon. John waited until the steps had gone a safe distance up the mountain and were inaudible. Then he followed. About halfway to the steep summit the trees fell away and a hard saddle of rock spread itself over the diamond beneath. Just before he reached this point he slowed down his pace, warned by an animal sense that there was life just ahead of him. Coming to a high boulder, he lifted his head gradually above its edge. His curiosity was rewarded; this is what he saw:</p>
<p>Braddock Washington was standing there motionless, silhouetted against the gray sky without sound or sign of life. As the dawn came up out of the east, lending a gold green colour to the earth, it brought the solitary figure into insignificant contrast with the new day.</p>
<p>While John watched, his host remained for a few moments absorbed in some inscrutable contemplation; then he signalled to the two negroes who crouched at his feet to lift the burden which lay between them. As they struggled upright, the first yellow beam of the sun struck through the innumerable prisms of an immense and exquisitely chiselled diamond⁠—and a white radiance was kindled that glowed upon the air like a fragment of the morning star. The bearers staggered beneath its weight for a moment⁠—then their rippling muscles caught and hardened under the wet shine of the skins and the three figures were again motionless in their defiant impotency before the heavens.</p>
<p>After a while the white man lifted his head and slowly raised his arms in a gesture of attention, as one who would call a great crowd to hear⁠—but there was no crowd, only the vast silence of the mountain and the sky, broken by faint bird voices down among the trees. The figure on the saddle of rock began to speak ponderously and with an inextinguishable pride.</p>
<p>“You⁠—out there⁠—!” he cried in a trembling voice.</p>
<p>“You⁠—there⁠—!” He paused, his arms still uplifted, his head held attentively as though he were expecting an answer. John strained his eyes to see whether there might be men coming down the mountain, but the mountain was bare of human life. There was only sky and a mocking flute of wind along the treetops. Could Washington be praying? For a moment John wondered. Then the illusion passed⁠—there was something in the man’s whole attitude antithetical to prayer.</p>
<p>“Oh, you above there!”</p>
<p>The voice was become strong and confident. This was no forlorn supplication. If anything, there was in it a quality of monstrous condescension.</p>
<p>“You there⁠—” Words, too quickly uttered to be understood, flowing one into the other.⁠ ⁠… John listened breathlessly, catching a phrase here and there, while the voice broke off, resumed, broke off again⁠—now strong and argumentative, now coloured with a slow, puzzled impatience. Then a conviction commenced to dawn on the single listener, and as realisation crept over him a spray of quick blood rushed through his arteries. Braddock Washington was offering a bribe to God!</p>
<p>That was it⁠—there was no doubt. The diamond in the arms of his slaves was some advance sample, a promise of more to follow.</p>
<p>That, John perceived after a time, was the thread running through his sentences. Prometheus Enriched was calling to witness forgotten sacrifices, forgotten rituals, prayers obsolete before the birth of Christ. For a while his discourse took the form of reminding God of this gift or that which Divinity had deigned to accept from men⁠—great churches if he would rescue cities from the plague, gifts of myrrh and gold, of human lives and beautiful women and captive armies, of children and queens, of beasts of the forest and field, sheep and goats, harvests and cities, whole conquered lands that had been offered up in lust or blood for His appeasal, buying a meed’s worth of alleviation from the Divine wrath⁠—and now he, Braddock Washington, Emperor of Diamonds, king and priest of the age of gold, arbiter of splendour and luxury, would offer up a treasure such as princes before him had never dreamed of, offer it up not in suppliance, but in pride.</p>
<p>He would give to God, he continued, getting down to specifications, the greatest diamond in the world. This diamond would be cut with many more thousand facets than there were leaves on a tree, and yet the whole diamond would be shaped with the perfection of a stone no bigger than a fly. Many men would work upon it for many years. It would be set in a great dome of beaten gold, wonderfully carved and equipped with gates of opal and crusted sapphire. In the middle would be hollowed out a chapel presided over by an altar of iridescent, decomposing, ever-changing radium which would burn out the eyes of any worshipper who lifted up his head from prayer⁠—and on this altar there would be slain for the amusement of the Divine Benefactor any victim He should choose, even though it should be the greatest and most powerful man alive.</p>
<p>In return he asked only a simple thing, a thing that for God would be absurdly easy⁠—only that matters should be as they were yesterday at this hour and that they should so remain. So very simple! Let but the heavens open, swallowing these men and their aeroplanes⁠—and then close again. Let him have his slaves once more, restored to life and well.</p>
<p>There was no one else with whom he had ever needed to treat or bargain.</p>
<p>He doubted only whether he had made his bribe big enough. God had His price, of course. God was made in man’s image, so it had been said: He must have His price. And the price would be rare⁠—no cathedral whose building consumed many years, no pyramid constructed by ten thousand workmen, would be like this cathedral, this pyramid.</p>
<p>He paused here. That was his proposition. Everything would be up to specifications, and there was nothing vulgar in his assertion that it would be cheap at the price. He implied that Providence could take it or leave it.</p>
<p>As he approached the end his sentences became broken, became short and uncertain, and his body seemed tense, seemed strained to catch the slightest pressure or whisper of life in the spaces around him. His hair had turned gradually white as he talked, and now he lifted his head high to the heavens like a prophet of old⁠—magnificently mad.</p>
<p>Then, as John stared in giddy fascination, it seemed to him that a curious phenomenon took place somewhere around him. It was as though the sky had darkened for an instant, as though there had been a sudden murmur in a gust of wind, a sound of faraway trumpets, a sighing like the rustle of a great silken robe⁠—for a time the whole of nature round about partook of this darkness; the birds’ song ceased; the trees were still, and far over the mountain there was a mutter of dull, menacing thunder.</p>
<p>That was all. The wind died along the tall grasses of the valley. The dawn and the day resumed their place in a time, and the risen sun sent hot waves of yellow mist that made its path bright before it. The leaves laughed in the sun, and their laughter shook until each bough was like a girl’s school in fairyland. God had refused to accept the bribe.</p>
<p>For another moment John watched the triumph of the day. Then, turning, he saw a flutter of brown down by the lake, then another flutter, then another, like the dance of golden angels alighting from the clouds. The aeroplanes had come to earth.</p>
<p>John slid off the boulder and ran down the side of the mountain to the clump of trees, where the two girls were awake and waiting for him. Kismine sprang to her feet, the jewels in her pockets jingling, a question on her parted lips, but instinct told John that there was no time for words. They must get off the mountain without losing a moment. He seized a hand of each, and in silence they threaded the tree-trunks, washed with light now and with the rising mist. Behind them from the valley came no sound at all, except the complaint of the peacocks far away and the pleasant undertone of morning.</p>
<p>When they had gone about half a mile, they avoided the park land and entered a narrow path that led over the next rise of ground. At the highest point of this they paused and turned around. Their eyes rested upon the mountainside they had just left⁠—oppressed by some dark sense of tragic impendency.</p>
<p>Clear against the sky a broken, white-haired man was slowly descending the steep slope, followed by two gigantic and emotionless negroes, who carried a burden between them which still flashed and glittered in the sun. Halfway down two other figures joined them⁠—John could see that they were <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Washington and her son, upon whose arm she leaned. The aviators had clambered from their machines to the sweeping lawn in front of the château, and with rifles in hand were starting up the diamond mountain in skirmishing formation.</p>
<p>But the little group of five which had formed farther up and was engrossing all the watchers’ attention had stopped upon a ledge of rock. The negroes stooped and pulled up what appeared to be a trapdoor in the side of the mountain. Into this they all disappeared, the white-haired man first, then his wife and son, finally the two negroes, the glittering tips of whose jewelled headdresses caught the sun for a moment before the trapdoor descended and engulfed them all.</p>
<p>Kismine clutched John’s arm.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she cried wildly, “where are they going? What are they going to do?”</p>
<p>“It must be some underground way of escape⁠—”</p>
<p>A little scream from the two girls interrupted his sentence.</p>
<p>“Don’t you see?” sobbed Kismine hysterically. “The mountain is wired!”</p>
<p>Even as she spoke John put up his hands to shield his sight. Before their eyes the whole surface of the mountain had changed suddenly to a dazzling burning yellow, which showed up through the jacket of turf as light shows through a human hand. For a moment the intolerable glow continued, and then like an extinguished filament it disappeared, revealing a black waste from which blue smoke arose slowly, carrying off with it what remained of vegetation and of human flesh. Of the aviators there was left neither blood nor bone⁠—they were consumed as completely as the five souls who had gone inside.</p>
<p>Simultaneously, and with an immense concussion, the château literally threw itself into the air, bursting into flaming fragments as it rose, and then tumbling back upon itself in a smoking pile that lay projecting half into the water of the lake. There was no fire⁠—what smoke there was drifted off mingling with the sunshine, and for a few minutes longer a powdery dust of marble drifted from the great featureless pile that had once been the house of jewels. There was no more sound and the three people were alone in the valley.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-diamond-as-big-as-the-ritz-11" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h3>
<p>At sunset John and his two companions reached the huge cliff which had marked the boundaries of the Washingtons’ dominion, and looking back found the valley tranquil and lovely in the dusk. They sat down to finish the food which Jasmine had brought with her in a basket.</p>
<p>“There!” she said, as she spread the tablecloth and put the sandwiches in a neat pile upon it. “Don’t they look tempting? I always think that food tastes better outdoors.”</p>
<p>“With that remark,” remarked Kismine, “Jasmine enters the middle class.”</p>
<p>“Now,” said John eagerly, “turn out your pocket and let’s see what jewels you brought along. If you made a good selection we three ought to live comfortably all the rest of our lives.”</p>
<p>Obediently Kismine put her hand in her pocket and tossed two handfuls of glittering stones before him. “Not so bad,” cried John enthusiastically. “They aren’t very big, but⁠—Hello!” His expression changed as he held one of them up to the declining sun. “Why, these aren’t diamonds! There’s something the matter!”</p>
<p>“By golly!” exclaimed Kismine, with a startled look. “What an idiot I am!”</p>
<p>“Why, these are rhinestones!” cried John.</p>
<p>“I know.” She broke into a laugh. “I opened the wrong drawer. They belonged on the dress of a girl who visited Jasmine. I got her to give them to me in exchange for diamonds. I’d never seen anything but precious stones before.”</p>
<p>“And this is what you brought?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid so.” She fingered the brilliants wistfully. “I think I like these better. I’m a little tired of diamonds.”</p>
<p>“Very well,” said John gloomily. “We’ll have to live in Hades. And you will grow old telling incredulous women that you got the wrong drawer. Unfortunately, your father’s bankbooks were consumed with him.”</p>
<p>“Well, what’s the matter with Hades?”</p>
<p>“If I come home with a wife at my age my father is just as liable as not to cut me off with a hot coal, as they say down there.”</p>
<p>Jasmine spoke up.</p>
<p>“I love washing,” she said quietly. “I have always washed my own handkerchiefs. I’ll take in laundry and support you both.”</p>
<p>“Do they have washwomen in Hades?” asked Kismine innocently.</p>
<p>“Of course,” answered John. “It’s just like anywhere else.”</p>
<p>“I thought⁠—perhaps it was too hot to wear any clothes.”</p>
<p>John laughed.</p>
<p>“Just try it!” he suggested. “They’ll run you out before you’re half started.”</p>
<p>“Will father be there?” she asked.</p>
<p>John turned to her in astonishment.</p>
<p>“Your father is dead,” he replied sombrely. “Why should he go to Hades? You have it confused with another place that was abolished long ago.”</p>
<p>After supper they folded up the tablecloth and spread their blankets for the night.</p>
<p>“What a dream it was,” Kismine sighed, gazing up at the stars. “How strange it seems to be here with one dress and a penniless fiancée!</p>
<p>“Under the stars,” she repeated. “I never noticed the stars before. I always thought of them as great big diamonds that belonged to someone. Now they frighten me. They make me feel that it was all a dream, all my youth.”</p>
<p>“It <em>was</em> a dream,” said John quietly. “Everybody’s youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.”</p>
<p>“How pleasant then to be insane!”</p>
<p>“So I’m told,” said John gloomily. “I don’t know any longer. At any rate, let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That’s a form of divine drunkenness that we can all try. There are only diamonds in the whole world, diamonds and perhaps the shabby gift of disillusion. Well, I have that last and I will make the usual nothing of it.” He shivered. “Turn up your coat collar, little girl, the night’s full of chill and you’ll get pneumonia. His was a great sin who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.”</p>
<p>So wrapping himself in his blanket he fell off to sleep.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="winter-dreams" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Winter Dreams</h2>
<section id="winter-dreams-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Some of the caddies were poor as sin and lived in one-room houses with a neurasthenic cow in the front yard, but Dexter Green’s father owned the second best grocery-store in Black Bear⁠—the best one was “The Hub,” patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island⁠—and Dexter caddied only for pocket-money.</p>
<p>In the fall when the days became crisp and gray, and the long Minnesota winter shut down like the white lid of a box, Dexter’s skis moved over the snow that hid the fairways of the golf course. At these times the country gave him a feeling of profound melancholy⁠—it offended him that the links should lie in enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged sparrows for the long season. It was dreary, too, that on the tees where the gay colors fluttered in summer there were now only the desolate sandboxes knee-deep in crusted ice. When he crossed the hills the wind blew cold as misery, and if the sun was out he tramped with his eyes squinted up against the hard dimensionless glare.</p>
<p>In April the winter ceased abruptly. The snow ran down into Black Bear Lake scarcely tarrying for the early golfers to brave the season with red and black balls. Without elation, without an interval of moist glory, the cold was gone.</p>
<p>Dexter knew that there was something dismal about this Northern spring, just as he knew there was something gorgeous about the fall. Fall made him clinch his hands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to himself, and make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary audiences and armies. October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fleeting brilliant impressions of the summer at Sherry Island were ready grist to his mill. He became a golf champion and defeated <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. A.</abbr> Hedrick in a marvellous match played a hundred times over the fairways of his imagination, a match each detail of which he changed about untiringly⁠—sometimes he won with almost laughable ease, sometimes he came up magnificently from behind. Again, stepping from a Pierce-Arrow automobile, like <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mortimer Jones, he strolled frigidly into the lounge of the Sherry Island Golf Club⁠—or perhaps, surrounded by an admiring crowd, he gave an exhibition of fancy diving from the springboard of the club raft.⁠ ⁠… Among those who watched him in open-mouthed wonder was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mortimer Jones.</p>
<p>And one day it came to pass that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jones⁠—himself and not his ghost⁠—came up to Dexter with tears in his eyes and said that Dexter was the ⸻ best caddy in the club, and wouldn’t he decide not to quit if <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jones made it worth his while, because every other ⸻ caddy in the club lost one ball a hole for him⁠—regularly⁠—</p>
<p>“No, sir,” said Dexter decisively, “I don’t want to caddy any more.” Then, after a pause: “I’m too old.”</p>
<p>“You’re not more than fourteen. Why the devil did you decide just this morning that you wanted to quit? You promised that next week you’d go over to the State tournament with me.”</p>
<p>“I decided I was too old.”</p>
<p>Dexter handed in his “A Class” badge, collected what money was due him from the caddy master, and walked home to Black Bear Village.</p>
<p>“The best ⸻ caddy I ever saw,” shouted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mortimer Jones over a drink that afternoon. “Never lost a ball! Willing! Intelligent! Quiet! Honest! Grateful!”</p>
<p>The little girl who had done this was eleven⁠—beautifully ugly as little girls are apt to be who are destined after a few years to be inexpressibly lovely and bring no end of misery to a great number of men. The spark, however, was perceptible. There was a general ungodliness in the way her lips twisted down at the corners when she smiled, and in the⁠—Heaven help us!⁠—in the almost passionate quality of her eyes. Vitality is born early in such women. It was utterly in evidence now, shining through her thin frame in a sort of glow.</p>
<p>She had come eagerly out on to the course at nine o’clock with a white linen nurse and five small new golf-clubs in a white canvas bag which the nurse was carrying. When Dexter first saw her she was standing by the caddy house, rather ill at ease and trying to conceal the fact by engaging her nurse in an obviously unnatural conversation graced by startling and irrevelant grimaces from herself.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s certainly a nice day, Hilda,” Dexter heard her say. She drew down the corners of her mouth, smiled, and glanced furtively around, her eyes in transit falling for an instant on Dexter.</p>
<p>Then to the nurse:</p>
<p>“Well, I guess there aren’t very many people out here this morning, are there?”</p>
<p>The smile again⁠—radiant, blatantly artificial⁠—convincing.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now,” said the nurse, looking nowhere in particular.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll fix it up.”</p>
<p>Dexter stood perfectly still, his mouth slightly ajar. He knew that if he moved forward a step his stare would be in her line of vision⁠—if he moved backward he would lose his full view of her face. For a moment he had not realized how young she was. Now he remembered having seen her several times the year before⁠—in bloomers.</p>
<p>Suddenly, involuntarily, he laughed, a short abrupt laugh⁠—then, startled by himself, he turned and began to walk quickly away.</p>
<p>“Boy!”</p>
<p>Dexter stopped.</p>
<p>“Boy⁠—”</p>
<p>Beyond question he was addressed. Not only that, but he was treated to that absurd smile, that preposterous smile⁠—the memory of which at least a dozen men were to carry into middle age.</p>
<p>“Boy, do you know where the golf teacher is?”</p>
<p>“He’s giving a lesson.”</p>
<p>“Well, do you know where the caddy-master is?”</p>
<p>“He isn’t here yet this morning.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” For a moment this baffled her. She stood alternately on her right and left foot.</p>
<p>“We’d like to get a caddy,” said the nurse. “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Mortimer Jones sent us out to play golf, and we don’t know how without we get a caddy.”</p>
<p>Here she was stopped by an ominous glance from Miss Jones, followed immediately by the smile.</p>
<p>“There aren’t any caddies here except me,” said Dexter to the nurse, “and I got to stay here in charge until the caddy-master gets here.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>Miss Jones and her retinue now withdrew, and at a proper distance from Dexter became involved in a heated conversation, which was concluded by Miss Jones taking one of the clubs and hitting it on the ground with violence. For further emphasis she raised it again and was about to bring it down smartly upon the nurse’s bosom, when the nurse seized the club and twisted it from her hands.</p>
<p>“You damn little mean old <em>thing</em>!” cried Miss Jones wildly.</p>
<p>Another argument ensued. Realizing that the elements of the comedy were implied in the scene, Dexter several times began to laugh, but each time restrained the laugh before it reached audibility. He could not resist the monstrous conviction that the little girl was justified in beating the nurse.</p>
<p>The situation was resolved by the fortuitous appearance of the caddy-master, who was appealed to immediately by the nurse.</p>
<p>“Miss Jones is to have a little caddy, and this one says he can’t go.”</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> McKenna said I was to wait here till you came,” said Dexter quickly.</p>
<p>“Well, he’s here now.” Miss Jones smiled cheerfully at the caddy-master. Then she dropped her bag and set off at a haughty mince toward the first tee.</p>
<p>“Well?” The caddy-master turned to Dexter. “What you standing there like a dummy for? Go pick up the young lady’s clubs.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think I’ll go out today,” said Dexter.</p>
<p>“You don’t⁠—”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll quit.”</p>
<p>The enormity of his decision frightened him. He was a favorite caddy, and the thirty dollars a month he earned through the summer were not to be made elsewhere around the lake. But he had received a strong emotional shock, and his perturbation required a violent and immediate outlet.</p>
<p>It is not so simple as that, either. As so frequently would be the case in the future, Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.</p>
</section>
<section id="winter-dreams-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Now, of course, the quality and the seasonability of these winter dreams varied, but the stuff of them remained. They persuaded Dexter several years later to pass up a business course at the State university⁠—his father, prospering now, would have paid his way⁠—for the precarious advantage of attending an older and more famous university in the East, where he was bothered by his scanty funds. But do not get the impression, because his winter dreams happened to be concerned at first with musings on the rich, that there was anything merely snobbish in the boy. He wanted not association with glittering things and glittering people⁠—he wanted the glittering things themselves. Often he reached out for the best without knowing why he wanted it⁠—and sometimes he ran up against the mysterious denials and prohibitions in which life indulges. It is with one of those denials and not with his career as a whole that this story deals.</p>
<p>He made money. It was rather amazing. After college he went to the city from which Black Bear Lake draws its wealthy patrons. When he was only twenty-three and had been there not quite two years, there were already people who liked to say: “Now <em>there’s</em> a boy⁠—” All about him rich men’s sons were peddling bonds precariously, or investing patrimonies precariously, or plodding through the two dozen volumes of the “George Washington Commercial Course,” but Dexter borrowed a thousand dollars on his college degree and his confident mouth, and bought a partnership in a laundry.</p>
<p>It was a small laundry when he went into it but Dexter made a specialty of learning how the English washed fine woollen golf-stockings without shrinking them, and within a year he was catering to the trade that wore knickerbockers. Men were insisting that their Shetland hose and sweaters go to his laundry just as they had insisted on a caddy who could find golf-balls. A little later he was doing their wives’ lingerie as well⁠—and running five branches in different parts of the city. Before he was twenty-seven he owned the largest string of laundries in his section of the country. It was then that he sold out and went to New York. But the part of his story that concerns us goes back to the days when he was making his first big success.</p>
<p>When he was twenty-three <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart⁠—one of the gray-haired men who like to say “Now there’s a boy”⁠—gave him a guest card to the Sherry Island Golf Club for a weekend. So he signed his name one day on the register, and that afternoon played golf in a foursome with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Sandwood and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. A.</abbr> Hedrick. He did not consider it necessary to remark that he had once carried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart’s bag over this same links, and that he knew every trap and gully with his eyes shut⁠—but he found himself glancing at the four caddies who trailed them, trying to catch a gleam or gesture that would remind him of himself, that would lessen the gap which lay between his present and his past.</p>
<p>It was a curious day, slashed abruptly with fleeting, familiar impressions. One minute he had the sense of being a trespasser⁠—in the next he was impressed by the tremendous superiority he felt toward <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. A.</abbr> Hedrick, who was a bore and not even a good golfer any more.</p>
<p>Then, because of a ball <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart lost near the fifteenth green, an enormous thing happened. While they were searching the stiff grasses of the rough there was a clear call of “Fore!” from behind a hill in their rear. And as they all turned abruptly from their search a bright new ball sliced abruptly over the hill and caught <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. A.</abbr> Hedrick in the abdomen.</p>
<p>“By Gad!” cried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">T. A.</abbr> Hedrick, “they ought to put some of these crazy women off the course. It’s getting to be outrageous.”</p>
<p>A head and a voice came up together over the hill:</p>
<p>“Do you mind if we go through?”</p>
<p>“You hit me in the stomach!” declared <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hedrick wildly.</p>
<p>“Did I?” The girl approached the group of men. “I’m sorry. I yelled ‘Fore!’ ”</p>
<p>Her glance fell casually on each of the men⁠—then scanned the fairway for her ball.</p>
<p>“Did I bounce into the rough?”</p>
<p>It was impossible to determine whether this question was ingenuous or malicious. In a moment, however, she left no doubt, for as her partner came up over the hill she called cheerfully:</p>
<p>“Here I am! I’d have gone on the green except that I hit something.”</p>
<p>As she took her stance for a short mashie shot, Dexter looked at her closely. She wore a blue gingham dress, rimmed at throat and shoulders with a white edging that accentuated her tan. The quality of exaggeration, of thinness, which had made her passionate eyes and down-turning mouth absurd at eleven, was gone now. She was arrestingly beautiful. The color in her cheeks was centred like the color in a picture⁠—it was not a “high” color, but a sort of fluctuating and feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede and disappear. This color and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality⁠—balanced only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes.</p>
<p>She swung her mashie impatiently and without interest, pitching the ball into a sandpit on the other side of the green. With a quick, insincere smile and a careless “Thank you!” she went on after it.</p>
<p>“That Judy Jones!” remarked <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hedrick on the next tee, as they waited⁠—some moments⁠—for her to play on ahead. “All she needs is to be turned up and spanked for six months and then to be married off to an old-fashioned cavalry captain.”</p>
<p>“My God, she’s good-looking!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Sandwood, who was just over thirty.</p>
<p>“Good-looking!” cried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hedrick contemptuously, “she always looks as if she wanted to be kissed! Turning those big cow-eyes on every calf in town!”</p>
<p>It was doubtful if <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hedrick intended a reference to the maternal instinct.</p>
<p>“She’d play pretty good golf if she’d try,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Sandwood.</p>
<p>“She has no form,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hedrick solemnly.</p>
<p>“She has a nice figure,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Sandwood.</p>
<p>“Better thank the Lord she doesn’t drive a swifter ball,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hart, winking at Dexter.</p>
<p>Later in the afternoon the sun went down with a riotous swirl of gold and varying blues and scarlets, and left the dry, rustling night of Western summer. Dexter watched from the veranda of the Golf Club, watched the even overlap of the waters in the little wind, silver molasses under the harvest-moon. Then the moon held a finger to her lips and the lake became a clear pool, pale and quiet. Dexter put on his bathing-suit and swam out to the farthest raft, where he stretched dripping on the wet canvas of the springboard.</p>
<p>There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Over on a dark peninsula a piano was playing the songs of last summer and of summers before that⁠—songs from “Chin-Chin” and “The Count of Luxembourg” and “The Chocolate Soldier”⁠—and because the sound of a piano over a stretch of water had always seemed beautiful to Dexter he lay perfectly quiet and listened.</p>
<p>The tune the piano was playing at that moment had been gay and new five years before when Dexter was a sophomore at college. They had played it at a prom once when he could not afford the luxury of proms, and he had stood outside the gymnasium and listened. The sound of the tune precipitated in him a sort of ecstasy and it was with that ecstasy he viewed what happened to him now. It was a mood of intense appreciation, a sense that, for once, he was magnificently attune to life and that everything about him was radiating a brightness and a glamour he might never know again.</p>
<p>A low, pale oblong detached itself suddenly from the darkness of the Island, spitting forth the reverberate sound of a racing motorboat. Two white streamers of cleft water rolled themselves out behind it and almost immediately the boat was beside him, drowning out the hot tinkle of the piano in the drone of its spray. Dexter raising himself on his arms was aware of a figure standing at the wheel, of two dark eyes regarding him over the lengthening space of water⁠—then the boat had gone by and was sweeping in an immense and purposeless circle of spray round and round in the middle of the lake. With equal eccentricity one of the circles flattened out and headed back toward the raft.</p>
<p>“Who’s that?” she called, shutting off her motor. She was so near now that Dexter could see her bathing-suit, which consisted apparently of pink rompers.</p>
<p>The nose of the boat bumped the raft, and as the latter tilted rakishly he was precipitated toward her. With different degrees of interest they recognized each other.</p>
<p>“Aren’t you one of those men we played through this afternoon?” she demanded.</p>
<p>He was.</p>
<p>“Well, do you know how to drive a motorboat? Because if you do I wish you’d drive this one so I can ride on the surfboard behind. My name is Judy Jones”⁠—she favored him with an absurd smirk⁠—rather, what tried to be a smirk, for, twist her mouth as she might, it was not grotesque, it was merely beautiful⁠—“and I live in a house over there on the Island, and in that house there is a man waiting for me. When he drove up at the door I drove out of the dock because he says I’m his ideal.”</p>
<p>There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Dexter sat beside Judy Jones and she explained how her boat was driven. Then she was in the water, swimming to the floating surfboard with a sinuous crawl. Watching her was without effort to the eye, watching a branch waving or a seagull flying. Her arms, burned to butternut, moved sinuously among the dull platinum ripples, elbow appearing first, casting the forearm back with a cadence of falling water, then reaching out and down, stabbing a path ahead.</p>
<p>They moved out into the lake; turning, Dexter saw that she was kneeling on the low rear of the now uptilted surfboard.</p>
<p>“Go faster,” she called, “fast as it’ll go.”</p>
<p>Obediently he jammed the lever forward and the white spray mounted at the bow. When he looked around again the girl was standing up on the rushing board, her arms spread wide, her eyes lifted toward the moon.</p>
<p>“It’s awful cold,” she shouted. “What’s your name?”</p>
<p>He told her.</p>
<p>“Well, why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night?”</p>
<p>His heart turned over like the flywheel of the boat, and, for the second time, her casual whim gave a new direction to his life.</p>
</section>
<section id="winter-dreams-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Next evening while he waited for her to come downstairs, Dexter peopled the soft deep summer room and the sun-porch that opened from it with the men who had already loved Judy Jones. He knew the sort of men they were⁠—the men who when he first went to college had entered from the great prep schools with graceful clothes and the deep tan of healthy summers. He had seen that, in one sense, he was better than these men. He was newer and stronger. Yet in acknowledging to himself that he wished his children to be like them he was admitting that he was but the rough, strong stuff from which they eternally sprang.</p>
<p>When the time had come for him to wear good clothes, he had known who were the best tailors in America, and the best tailors in America had made him the suit he wore this evening. He had acquired that particular reserve peculiar to his university, that set it off from other universities. He recognized the value to him of such a mannerism and he had adopted it; he knew that to be careless in dress and manner required more confidence than to be careful. But carelessness was for his children. His mother’s name had been Krimslich. She was a Bohemian of the peasant class and she had talked broken English to the end of her days. Her son must keep to the set patterns.</p>
<p>At a little after seven Judy Jones came downstairs. She wore a blue silk afternoon dress, and he was disappointed at first that she had not put on something more elaborate. This feeling was accentuated when, after a brief greeting, she went to the door of a butler’s pantry and pushing it open called: “You can serve dinner, Martha.” He had rather expected that a butler would announce dinner, that there would be a cocktail. Then he put these thoughts behind him as they sat down side by side on a lounge and looked at each other.</p>
<p>“Father and mother won’t be here,” she said thoughtfully.</p>
<p>He remembered the last time he had seen her father, and he was glad the parents were not to be here tonight⁠—they might wonder who he was. He had been born in Keeble, a Minnesota village fifty miles farther north, and he always gave Keeble as his home instead of Black Bear Village. Country towns were well enough to come from if they weren’t inconveniently in sight and used as footstools by fashionable lakes.</p>
<p>They talked of his university, which she had visited frequently during the past two years, and of the nearby city which supplied Sherry Island with its patrons, and whither Dexter would return next day to his prospering laundries.</p>
<p>During dinner she slipped into a moody depression which gave Dexter a feeling of uneasiness. Whatever petulance she uttered in her throaty voice worried him. Whatever she smiled at⁠—at him, at a chicken liver, at nothing⁠—it disturbed him that her smile could have no root in mirth, or even in amusement. When the scarlet corners of her lips curved down, it was less a smile than an invitation to a kiss.</p>
<p>Then, after dinner, she led him out on the dark sun-porch and deliberately changed the atmosphere.</p>
<p>“Do you mind if I weep a little?” she said.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I’m boring you,” he responded quickly.</p>
<p>“You’re not. I like you. But I’ve just had a terrible afternoon. There was a man I cared about, and this afternoon he told me out of a clear sky that he was poor as a church-mouse. He’d never even hinted it before. Does this sound horribly mundane?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps he was afraid to tell you.”</p>
<p>“Suppose he was,” she answered. “He didn’t start right. You see, if I’d thought of him as poor⁠—well, I’ve been mad about loads of poor men, and fully intended to marry them all. But in this case, I hadn’t thought of him that way, and my interest in him wasn’t strong enough to survive the shock. As if a girl calmly informed her fiancé that she was a widow. He might not object to widows, but⁠—</p>
<p>“Let’s start right,” she interrupted herself suddenly. “Who are you, anyhow?”</p>
<p>For a moment Dexter hesitated. Then:</p>
<p>“I’m nobody,” he announced. “My career is largely a matter of futures.”</p>
<p>“Are you poor?”</p>
<p>“No,” he said frankly, “I’m probably making more money than any man my age in the Northwest. I know that’s an obnoxious remark, but you advised me to start right.”</p>
<p>There was a pause. Then she smiled and the corners of her mouth drooped and an almost imperceptible sway brought her closer to him, looking up into his eyes. A lump rose in Dexter’s throat, and he waited breathless for the experiment, facing the unpredictable compound that would form mysteriously from the elements of their lips. Then he saw⁠—she communicated her excitement to him, lavishly, deeply, with kisses that were not a promise but a fulfilment. They aroused in him not hunger demanding renewal but surfeit that would demand more surfeit⁠ ⁠… kisses that were like charity, creating want by holding back nothing at all.</p>
<p>It did not take him many hours to decide that he had wanted Judy Jones ever since he was a proud, desirous little boy.</p>
</section>
<section id="winter-dreams-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>It began like that⁠—and continued, with varying shades of intensity, on such a note right up to the dénouement. Dexter surrendered a part of himself to the most direct and unprincipled personality with which he had ever come in contact. Whatever Judy wanted, she went after with the full pressure of her charm. There was no divergence of method, no jockeying for position or premeditation of effects⁠—there was a very little mental side to any of her affairs. She simply made men conscious to the highest degree of her physical loveliness. Dexter had no desire to change her. Her deficiencies were knit up with a passionate energy that transcended and justified them.</p>
<p>When, as Judy’s head lay against his shoulder that first night, she whispered, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Last night I thought I was in love with a man and tonight I think I’m in love with you⁠—”⁠—it seemed to him a beautiful and romantic thing to say. It was the exquisite excitability that for the moment he controlled and owned. But a week later he was compelled to view this same quality in a different light. She took him in her roadster to a picnic supper, and after supper she disappeared, likewise in her roadster, with another man. Dexter became enormously upset and was scarcely able to be decently civil to the other people present. When she assured him that she had not kissed the other man, he knew she was lying⁠—yet he was glad that she had taken the trouble to lie to him.</p>
<p>He was, as he found before the summer ended, one of a varying dozen who circulated about her. Each of them had at one time been favored above all others⁠—about half of them still basked in the solace of occasional sentimental revivals. Whenever one showed signs of dropping out through long neglect, she granted him a brief honeyed hour, which encouraged him to tag along for a year or so longer. Judy made these forays upon the helpless and defeated without malice, indeed half unconscious that there was anything mischievous in what she did.</p>
<p>When a new man came to town everyone dropped out⁠—dates were automatically cancelled.</p>
<p>The helpless part of trying to do anything about it was that she did it all herself. She was not a girl who could be “won” in the kinetic sense⁠—she was proof against cleverness, she was proof against charm; if any of these assailed her too strongly she would immediately resolve the affair to a physical basis, and under the magic of her physical splendor the strong as well as the brilliant played her game and not their own. She was entertained only by the gratification of her desires and by the direct exercise of her own charm. Perhaps from so much youthful love, so many youthful lovers, she had come, in self-defense, to nourish herself wholly from within.</p>
<p>Succeeding Dexter’s first exhilaration came restlessness and dissatisfaction. The helpless ecstasy of losing himself in her was opiate rather than tonic. It was fortunate for his work during the winter that those moments of ecstasy came infrequently. Early in their acquaintance it had seemed for a while that there was a deep and spontaneous mutual attraction⁠—that first August, for example⁠—three days of long evenings on her dusky veranda, of strange wan kisses through the late afternoon, in shadowy alcoves or behind the protecting trellises of the garden arbors, of mornings when she was fresh as a dream and almost shy at meeting him in the clarity of the rising day. There was all the ecstasy of an engagement about it, sharpened by his realization that there was no engagement. It was during those three days that, for the first time, he had asked her to marry him. She said “maybe some day,” she said: “kiss me,” she said: “I’d like to marry you,” she said: “I love you”⁠—she said⁠—nothing.</p>
<p>The three days were interrupted by the arrival of a New York man who visited at her house for half September. To Dexter’s agony, rumor engaged them. The man was the son of the president of a great trust company. But at the end of a month it was reported that Judy was yawning. At a dance one night she sat all evening in a motorboat with a local beau, while the New Yorker searched the club for her frantically. She told the local beau that she was bored with her visitor, and two days later he left. She was seen with him at the station, and it was reported that he looked very mournful indeed.</p>
<p>On this note the summer ended. Dexter was twenty-four, and he found himself increasingly in a position to do as he wished. He joined two clubs in the city and lived at one of them. Though he was by no means an integral part of the stag-lines at these clubs, he managed to be on hand at dances where Judy Jones was likely to appear. He could have gone out socially as much as he liked⁠—he was an eligible young man, now, and popular with downtown fathers. His confessed devotion to Judy Jones had rather solidified his position. But he had no social aspirations and rather despised the dancing men who were always on tap for the Thursday or Saturday parties and who filled in at dinners with the younger married set. Already he was playing with the idea of going East to New York. He wanted to take Judy Jones with him. No disillusion as to the world in which she had grown up could cure his illusion as to her desirability.</p>
<p>Remember that⁠—for only in the light of it can what he did for her be understood.</p>
<p>Eighteen months after he first met Judy Jones he became engaged to another girl. Her name was Irene Scheerer, and her father was one of the men who had always believed in Dexter. Irene was light-haired and sweet and honorable, and a little stout, and she had two suitors whom she pleasantly relinquished when Dexter formally asked her to marry him.</p>
<p>Summer, fall, winter, spring, another summer, another fall⁠—so much he had given of his active life to the incorrigible lips of Judy Jones. She had treated him with interest, with encouragement, with malice, with indifference, with contempt. She had inflicted on him the innumerable little slights and indignities possible in such a case⁠—as if in revenge for having ever cared for him at all. She had beckoned him and yawned at him and beckoned him again and he had responded often with bitterness and narrowed eyes. She had brought him ecstatic happiness and intolerable agony of spirit. She had caused him untold inconvenience and not a little trouble. She had insulted him, and she had ridden over him, and she had played his interest in her against his interest in his work⁠—for fun. She had done everything to him except to criticise him⁠—this she had not done⁠—it seemed to him only because it might have sullied the utter indifference she manifested and sincerely felt toward him.</p>
<p>When autumn had come and gone again it occurred to him that he could not have Judy Jones. He had to beat this into his mind but he convinced himself at last. He lay awake at night for a while and argued it over. He told himself the trouble and the pain she had caused him, he enumerated her glaring deficiencies as a wife. Then he said to himself that he loved her, and after a while he fell asleep. For a week, lest he imagined her husky voice over the telephone or her eyes opposite him at lunch, he worked hard and late, and at night he went to his office and plotted out his years.</p>
<p>At the end of a week he went to a dance and cut in on her once. For almost the first time since they had met he did not ask her to sit out with him or tell her that she was lovely. It hurt him that she did not miss these things⁠—that was all. He was not jealous when he saw that there was a new man tonight. He had been hardened against jealousy long before.</p>
<p>He stayed late at the dance. He sat for an hour with Irene Scheerer and talked about books and about music. He knew very little about either. But he was beginning to be master of his own time now, and he had a rather priggish notion that he⁠—the young and already fabulously successful Dexter Green⁠—should know more about such things.</p>
<p>That was in October, when he was twenty-five. In January, Dexter and Irene became engaged. It was to be announced in June, and they were to be married three months later.</p>
<p>The Minnesota winter prolonged itself interminably, and it was almost May when the winds came soft and the snow ran down into Black Bear Lake at last. For the first time in over a year Dexter was enjoying a certain tranquillity of spirit. Judy Jones had been in Florida, and afterward in Hot Springs, and somewhere she had been engaged, and somewhere she had broken it off. At first, when Dexter had definitely given her up, it had made him sad that people still linked them together and asked for news of her, but when he began to be placed at dinner next to Irene Scheerer people didn’t ask him about her any more⁠—they told him about her. He ceased to be an authority on her.</p>
<p>May at last. Dexter walked the streets at night when the darkness was damp as rain, wondering that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him. May one year back had been marked by Judy’s poignant, unforgivable, yet forgiven turbulence⁠—it had been one of those rare times when he fancied she had grown to care for him. That old penny’s worth of happiness he had spent for this bushel of content. He knew that Irene would be no more than a curtain spread behind him, a hand moving among gleaming teacups, a voice calling to children⁠ ⁠… fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the varying hours and seasons⁠ ⁠… slender lips, down-turning, dropping to his lips and bearing him up into a heaven of eyes.⁠ ⁠… The thing was deep in him. He was too strong and alive for it to die lightly.</p>
<p>In the middle of May when the weather balanced for a few days on the thin bridge that led to deep summer he turned in one night at Irene’s house. Their engagement was to be announced in a week now⁠—no one would be surprised at it. And tonight they would sit together on the lounge at the University Club and look on for an hour at the dancers. It gave him a sense of solidity to go with her⁠—she was so sturdily popular, so intensely “great.”</p>
<p>He mounted the steps of the brownstone house and stepped inside.</p>
<p>“Irene,” he called.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Scheerer came out of the living-room to meet him.</p>
<p>“Dexter,” she said, “Irene’s gone upstairs with a splitting headache. She wanted to go with you but I made her go to bed.”</p>
<p>“Nothing serious, I⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, no. She’s going to play golf with you in the morning. You can spare her for just one night, can’t you, Dexter?”</p>
<p>Her smile was kind. She and Dexter liked each other. In the living-room he talked for a moment before he said good night.</p>
<p>Returning to the University Club, where he had rooms, he stood in the doorway for a moment and watched the dancers. He leaned against the doorpost, nodded at a man or two⁠—yawned.</p>
<p>“Hello, darling.”</p>
<p>The familiar voice at his elbow startled him. Judy Jones had left a man and crossed the room to him⁠—Judy Jones, a slender enamelled doll in cloth of gold: gold in a band at her head, gold in two slipper points at her dress’s hem. The fragile glow of her face seemed to blossom as she smiled at him. A breeze of warmth and light blew through the room. His hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket tightened spasmodically. He was filled with a sudden excitement.</p>
<p>“When did you get back?” he asked casually.</p>
<p>“Come here and I’ll tell you about it.”</p>
<p>She turned and he followed her. She had been away⁠—he could have wept at the wonder of her return. She had passed through enchanted streets, doing things that were like provocative music. All mysterious happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her, come back with her now.</p>
<p>She turned in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Have you a car here? If you haven’t, I have.”</p>
<p>“I have a coupé.”</p>
<p>In then, with a rustle of golden cloth. He slammed the door. Into so many cars she had stepped⁠—like this⁠—like that⁠—her back against the leather, so⁠—her elbow resting on the door⁠—waiting. She would have been soiled long since had there been anything to soil her⁠—except herself⁠—but this was her own self outpouring.</p>
<p>With an effort he forced himself to start the car and back into the street. This was nothing, he must remember. She had done this before, and he had put her behind him, as he would have crossed a bad account from his books.</p>
<p>He drove slowly downtown and, affecting abstraction, traversed the deserted streets of the business section, peopled here and there where a movie was giving out its crowd or where consumptive or pugilistic youth lounged in front of pool halls. The clink of glasses and the slap of hands on the bars issued from saloons, cloisters of glazed glass and dirty yellow light.</p>
<p>She was watching him closely and the silence was embarrassing; yet in this crisis he could find no casual word with which to profane the hour. At a convenient turning he began to zigzag back toward the University Club.</p>
<p>“Have you missed me?” she asked suddenly.</p>
<p>“Everybody missed you.”</p>
<p>He wondered if she knew of Irene Scheerer. She had been back only a day⁠—her absence had been almost contemporaneous with his engagement.</p>
<p>“What a remark!” Judy laughed sadly⁠—without sadness. She looked at him searchingly. He became absorbed in the dashboard.</p>
<p>“You’re handsomer than you used to be,” she said thoughtfully. “Dexter, you have the most rememberable eyes.”</p>
<p>He could have laughed at this, but he did not laugh. It was the sort of thing that was said to sophomores. Yet it stabbed at him.</p>
<p>“I’m awfully tired of everything, darling.” She called everyone darling, endowing the endearment with careless, individual comraderie. “I wish you’d marry me.”</p>
<p>The directness of this confused him. He should have told her now that he was going to marry another girl, but he could not tell her. He could as easily have sworn that he had never loved her.</p>
<p>“I think we’d get along,” she continued, on the same note, “unless probably you’ve forgotten me and fallen in love with another girl.”</p>
<p>Her confidence was obviously enormous. She had said, in effect, that she found such a thing impossible to believe, that if it were true he had merely committed a childish indiscretion⁠—and probably to show off. She would forgive him, because it was not a matter of any moment but rather something to be brushed aside lightly.</p>
<p>“Of course you could never love anybody but me,” she continued, “I like the way you love me. Oh, Dexter, have you forgotten last year?”</p>
<p>“No, I haven’t forgotten.”</p>
<p>“Neither have I!”</p>
<p>Was she sincerely moved⁠—or was she carried along by the wave of her own acting?</p>
<p>“I wish we could be like that again,” she said, and he forced himself to answer:</p>
<p>“I don’t think we can.”</p>
<p>“I suppose not.⁠ ⁠… I hear you’re giving Irene Scheerer a violent rush.”</p>
<p>There was not the faintest emphasis on the name, yet Dexter was suddenly ashamed.</p>
<p>“Oh, take me home,” cried Judy suddenly; “I don’t want to go back to that idiotic dance⁠—with those children.”</p>
<p>Then, as he turned up the street that led to the residence district, Judy began to cry quietly to herself. He had never seen her cry before.</p>
<p>The dark street lightened, the dwellings of the rich loomed up around them, he stopped his coupé in front of the great white bulk of the Mortimer Joneses house, somnolent, gorgeous, drenched with the splendor of the damp moonlight. Its solidity startled him. The strong walls, the steel of the girders, the breadth and beam and pomp of it were there only to bring out the contrast with the young beauty beside him. It was sturdy to accentuate her slightness⁠—as if to show what a breeze could be generated by a butterfly’s wing.</p>
<p>He sat perfectly quiet, his nerves in wild clamor, afraid that if he moved he would find her irresistibly in his arms. Two tears had rolled down her wet face and trembled on her upper lip.</p>
<p>“I’m more beautiful than anybody else,” she said brokenly, “why can’t I be happy?” Her moist eyes tore at his stability⁠—her mouth turned slowly downward with an exquisite sadness: “I’d like to marry you if you’ll have me, Dexter. I suppose you think I’m not worth having, but I’ll be so beautiful for you, Dexter.”</p>
<p>A million phrases of anger, pride, passion, hatred, tenderness fought on his lips. Then a perfect wave of emotion washed over him, carrying off with it a sediment of wisdom, of convention, of doubt, of honor. This was his girl who was speaking, his own, his beautiful, his pride.</p>
<p>“Won’t you come in?” He heard her draw in her breath sharply.</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>“All right,” his voice was trembling, “I’ll come in.”</p>
</section>
<section id="winter-dreams-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>It was strange that neither when it was over nor a long time afterward did he regret that night. Looking at it from the perspective of ten years, the fact that Judy’s flare for him endured just one month seemed of little importance. Nor did it matter that by his yielding he subjected himself to a deeper agony in the end and gave serious hurt to Irene Scheerer and to Irene’s parents, who had befriended him. There was nothing sufficiently pictorial about Irene’s grief to stamp itself on his mind.</p>
<p>Dexter was at bottom hard-minded. The attitude of the city on his action was of no importance to him, not because he was going to leave the city, but because any outside attitude on the situation seemed superficial. He was completely indifferent to popular opinion. Nor, when he had seen that it was no use, that he did not possess in himself the power to move fundamentally or to hold Judy Jones, did he bear any malice toward her. He loved her, and he would love her until the day he was too old for loving⁠—but he could not have her. So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.</p>
<p>Even the ultimate falsity of the grounds upon which Judy terminated the engagement that she did not want to “take him away” from Irene⁠—Judy, who had wanted nothing else⁠—did not revolt him. He was beyond any revulsion or any amusement.</p>
<p>He went East in February with the intention of selling out his laundries and settling in New York⁠—but the war came to America in March and changed his plans. He returned to the West, handed over the management of the business to his partner, and went into the first officers’ training-camp in late April. He was one of those young thousands who greeted the war with a certain amount of relief, welcoming the liberation from webs of tangled emotion.</p>
</section>
<section id="winter-dreams-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>This story is not his biography, remember, although things creep into it which have nothing to do with those dreams he had when he was young. We are almost done with them and with him now. There is only one more incident to be related here, and it happens seven years farther on.</p>
<p>It took place in New York, where he had done well⁠—so well that there were no barriers too high for him. He was thirty-two years old, and, except for one flying trip immediately after the war, he had not been West in seven years. A man named Devlin from Detroit came into his office to see him in a business way, and then and there this incident occurred, and closed out, so to speak, this particular side of his life.</p>
<p>“So you’re from the Middle West,” said the man Devlin with careless curiosity. “That’s funny⁠—I thought men like you were probably born and raised on Wall Street. You know⁠—wife of one of my best friends in Detroit came from your city. I was an usher at the wedding.”</p>
<p>Dexter waited with no apprehension of what was coming.</p>
<p>“Judy Simms,” said Devlin with no particular interest; “Judy Jones she was once.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I knew her.” A dull impatience spread over him. He had heard, of course, that she was married⁠—perhaps deliberately he had heard no more.</p>
<p>“Awfully nice girl,” brooded Devlin meaninglessly, “I’m sort of sorry for her.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Something in Dexter was alert, receptive, at once.</p>
<p>“Oh, Lud Simms has gone to pieces in a way. I don’t mean he ill-uses her, but he drinks and runs around⁠—”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t she run around?”</p>
<p>“No. Stays at home with her kids.”</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>“She’s a little too old for him,” said Devlin.</p>
<p>“Too old!” cried Dexter. “Why, man, she’s only twenty-seven.”</p>
<p>He was possessed with a wild notion of rushing out into the streets and taking a train to Detroit. He rose to his feet spasmodically.</p>
<p>“I guess you’re busy,” Devlin apologized quickly. “I didn’t realize⁠—”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not busy,” said Dexter, steadying his voice. “I’m not busy at all. Not busy at all. Did you say she was⁠—twenty-seven? No, I said she was twenty-seven.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you did,” agreed Devlin dryly.</p>
<p>“Go on, then. Go on.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“About Judy Jones.”</p>
<p>Devlin looked at him helplessly.</p>
<p>“Well, that’s⁠—I told you all there is to it. He treats her like the devil. Oh, they’re not going to get divorced or anything. When he’s particularly outrageous she forgives him. In fact, I’m inclined to think she loves him. She was a pretty girl when she first came to Detroit.”</p>
<p>A pretty girl! The phrase struck Dexter as ludicrous.</p>
<p>“Isn’t she⁠—a pretty girl, any more?”</p>
<p>“Oh, she’s all right.”</p>
<p>“Look here,” said Dexter, sitting down suddenly, “I don’t understand. You say she was a ‘pretty girl’ and now you say she’s ‘all right.’ I don’t understand what you mean⁠—Judy Jones wasn’t a pretty girl, at all. She was a great beauty. Why, I knew her, I knew her. She was⁠—”</p>
<p>Devlin laughed pleasantly.</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to start a row,” he said. “I think Judy’s a nice girl and I like her. I can’t understand how a man like Lud Simms could fall madly in love with her, but he did.” Then he added: “Most of the women like her.”</p>
<p>Dexter looked closely at Devlin, thinking wildly that there must be a reason for this, some insensitivity in the man or some private malice.</p>
<p>“Lots of women fade just like <em>that</em>” Devlin snapped his fingers. “You must have seen it happen. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how pretty she was at her wedding. I’ve seen her so much since then, you see. She has nice eyes.”</p>
<p>A sort of dullness settled down upon Dexter. For the first time in his life he felt like getting very drunk. He knew that he was laughing loudly at something Devlin had said, but he did not know what it was or why it was funny. When, in a few minutes, Devlin went he lay down on his lounge and looked out the window at the New York skyline into which the sun was sinking in dull lovely shades of pink and gold.</p>
<p>He had thought that having nothing else to lose he was invulnerable at last⁠—but he knew that he had just lost something more, as surely as if he had married Judy Jones and seen her fade away before his eyes.</p>
<p>The dream was gone. Something had been taken from him. In a sort of panic he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried to bring up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf-links and the dry sun and the gold color of her neck’s soft down. And her mouth damp to his kisses and her eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness like new fine linen in the morning. Why, these things were no longer in the world! They had existed and they existed no longer.</p>
<p>For the first time in years the tears were streaming down his face. But they were for himself now. He did not care about mouth and eyes and moving hands. He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never go back any more. The gates were closed, the sun was gone down, and there was no beauty but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.</p>
<p>“Long ago,” he said, “long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.”</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="hot-and-cold-blood" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Hot and Cold Blood</h2>
<section id="hot-and-cold-blood-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>One day when the young Mathers had been married for about a year, Jaqueline walked into the rooms of the hardware brokerage which her husband carried on with more than average success. At the open door of the inner office she stopped and said: “Oh, excuse me⁠—” She had interrupted an apparently trivial yet somehow intriguing scene. A young man named Bronson whom she knew slightly was standing with her husband; the latter had risen from his desk. Bronson seized her husband’s hand and shook it earnestly⁠—something more than earnestly. When they heard Jaqueline’s step in the doorway both men turned and Jaqueline saw that Bronson’s eyes were red.</p>
<p>A moment later he came out, passing her with a somewhat embarrassed “How do you do?” She walked into her husband’s office.</p>
<p>“What was Ed Bronson doing here?” she demanded curiously, and at once.</p>
<p>Jim Mather smiled at her, half shutting his gray eyes, and drew her quietly to a sitting position on his desk.</p>
<p>“He just dropped in for a minute,” he answered easily. “How’s everything at home?”</p>
<p>“All right.” She looked at him with curiosity. “What did he want?” she insisted.</p>
<p>“Oh, he just wanted to see me about something.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Oh, just something. Business.”</p>
<p>“Why were his eyes red?”</p>
<p>“Were they?” He looked at her innocently, and then suddenly they both began to laugh. Jaqueline rose and walked around the desk and plumped down into his swivel chair.</p>
<p>“You might as well tell me,” she announced cheerfully, “because I’m going to stay right here till you do.”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—” he hesitated, frowning. “He wanted me to do him a little favor.”</p>
<p>Then Jaqueline understood, or rather her mind leaped half accidentally to the truth.</p>
<p>“Oh.” Her voice tightened a little. “You’ve been lending him some money.”</p>
<p>“Only a little.”</p>
<p>“How much?”</p>
<p>“Only three hundred.”</p>
<p>“<em>Only</em> three hundred.” The voice was of the texture of Bessemer cooled. “How much do we spend a month, Jim?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—why, about five or six hundred, I guess.” He shifted uneasily. “Listen, Jack. Bronson’ll pay that back. He’s in a little trouble. He’s made a mistake about a girl out in Woodmere⁠—”</p>
<p>“And he knows you’re famous for being an easy mark, so he comes to you,” interrupted Jaqueline.</p>
<p>“No.” He denied this formally.</p>
<p>“Don’t you suppose I could use that three hundred dollars?” she demanded. “How about that trip to New York we couldn’t afford last November?”</p>
<p>The lingering smile faded from Mather’s face. He went over and shut the door to the outer office.</p>
<p>“Listen, Jack,” he began, “you don’t understand this. Bronson’s one of the men I eat lunch with almost every day. We used to play together when we were kids, we went to school together. Don’t you see that I’m just the person he’d be right to come to in trouble? And that’s just why I couldn’t refuse.”</p>
<p>Jaqueline gave her shoulders a twist as if to shake off this reasoning.</p>
<p>“Well,” she answered decidedly, “all I know is that he’s no good. He’s always lit and if he doesn’t choose to work he has no business living off the work you do.”</p>
<p>They were sitting now on either side of the desk, each having adopted the attitude of one talking to a child. They began their sentences with “Listen!” and their faces wore expressions of rather tried patience.</p>
<p>“If you can’t understand, I can’t tell you,” Mather concluded, at the end of fifteen minutes, on what was, for him, an irritated key. “Such obligations do happen to exist sometimes among men and they have to be met. It’s more complicated than just refusing to lend money, especially in a business like mine where so much depends on the goodwill of men downtown.”</p>
<p>Mather was putting on his coat as he said this. He was going home with her on the streetcar to lunch. They were between automobiles⁠—they had sold their old one and were going to get a new one in the spring.</p>
<p>Now the streetcar, on this particular day, was distinctly unfortunate. The argument in the office might have been forgotten under other circumstances, but what followed irritated the scratch until it became a serious temperamental infection.</p>
<p>They found a seat near the front of the car. It was late February and an eager, unpunctilious sun was turning the scrawny street snow into dirty, cheerful rivulets that echoed in the gutters. Because of this the car was less full than usual⁠—there was no one standing. The motorman had even opened his window and a yellow breeze was blowing the late breath of winter from the car.</p>
<p>It occurred pleasurably to Jaqueline that her husband sitting beside her was handsome and kind above other men. It was silly to try to change him. Perhaps Bronson might return the money after all, and anyhow three hundred dollars wasn’t a fortune. Of course he had no business doing it⁠—but then⁠—</p>
<p>Her musings were interrupted as an eddy of passengers pushed up the aisle. Jaqueline wished they’d put their hands over their mouths when they coughed, and she hoped that Jim would get a new machine pretty soon. You couldn’t tell what disease you’d run into in these trolleys.</p>
<p>She turned to Jim to discuss the subject⁠—but Jim had stood up and was offering his seat to a woman who had been standing beside him in the aisle. The woman, without so much as a grunt, sat down. Jaqueline frowned.</p>
<p>The woman was about fifty and enormous. When she first sat down she was content merely to fill the unoccupied part of the seat, but after a moment she began to expand and to spread her great rolls of fat over a larger and larger area until the process took on the aspect of violent trespassing. When the car rocked in Jaqueline’s direction the woman slid with it, but when it rocked back she managed by some exercise of ingenuity to dig in and hold the ground won.</p>
<p>Jaqueline caught her husband’s eye⁠—he was swaying on a strap⁠—and in an angry glance conveyed to him her entire disapproval of his action. He apologized mutely and became urgently engrossed in a row of car cards. The fat woman moved once more against Jaqueline⁠—she was now practically overlapping her. Then she turned puffy, disagreeable eyes full on <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> James Mather, and coughed rousingly in her face.</p>
<p>With a smothered exclamation Jaqueline got to her feet, squeezed with brisk violence past the fleshy knees, and made her way, pink with rage, toward the rear of the car. There she seized a strap, and there she was presently joined by her husband in a state of considerable alarm.</p>
<p>They exchanged no word, but stood silently side by side for ten minutes while a row of men sitting in front of them crackled their newspapers and kept their eyes fixed virtuously upon the day’s cartoons.</p>
<p>When they left the car at last Jaqueline exploded.</p>
<p>“You big <em>fool</em>!” she cried wildly. “Did you see that horrible woman you gave your seat to? Why don’t you consider <em>me</em> occasionally instead of every fat selfish washwoman you meet?”</p>
<p>“How should I know⁠—”</p>
<p>But Jaqueline was as angry at him as she had ever been⁠—it was unusual for anyone to get angry at him.</p>
<p>“You didn’t see any of those men getting up for <em>me</em>, did you? No wonder you were too tired to go out last Monday night. You’d probably given your seat to some⁠—to some horrible, Polish <em>wash</em>woman that’s strong as an ox and <em>likes</em> to stand up!”</p>
<p>They were walking along the slushy street stepping wildly into great pools of water. Confused and distressed, Mather could utter neither apology nor defense.</p>
<p>Jaqueline broke off and then turned to him with a curious light in her eyes. The words in which she couched her summary of the situation were probably the most disagreeable that had ever been addressed to him in his life.</p>
<p>“The trouble with you, Jim, the reason you’re such an easy mark, is that you’ve got the ideas of a college freshman⁠—you’re a professional nice fellow.”</p>
</section>
<section id="hot-and-cold-blood-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The incident and the unpleasantness were forgotten. Mather’s vast good nature had smoothed over the roughness within an hour. References to it fell with a dying cadence throughout several days⁠—then ceased and tumbled into the limbo of oblivion. I say “limbo,” for oblivion is, unfortunately, never quite oblivious. The subject was drowned out by the fact that Jaqueline with her customary spirit and coolness began the long, arduous, uphill business of bearing a child. Her natural traits and prejudices became intensified and she was less inclined to let things pass.</p>
<p>It was April now, and as yet they had not bought a car. Mather had discovered that he was saving practically nothing and that in another half-year he would have a family on his hands. It worried him. A wrinkle⁠—small, tentative, undisturbing⁠—appeared for the first time as a shadow around his honest, friendly eyes. He worked far into the spring twilight now, and frequently brought home with him the overflow from his office day. The new car would have to be postponed for a while.</p>
<p>April afternoon, and all the city shopping on Washington Street. Jaqueline walked slowly past the shops, brooding without fear or depression on the shape into which her life was now being arbitrarily forced. Dry summer dust was in the wind; the sun bounded cheerily from the plate-glass windows and made radiant gasoline rainbows where automobile drippings had formed pools on the street.</p>
<p>Jaqueline stopped. Not six feet from her a bright new sport roadster was parked at the curb. Beside it stood two men in conversation, and at the moment when she identified one of them as young Bronson she heard him say to the other in a casual tone:</p>
<p>“What do you think of it? Just got it this morning.”</p>
<p>Jaqueline turned abruptly and walked with quick tapping steps to her husband’s office. With her usual curt nod to the stenographer she strode by her to the inner room. Mather looked up from his desk in surprise at her brusque entry.</p>
<p>“Jim,” she began breathlessly, “did Bronson ever pay you that three hundred?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—no,” he answered hesitantly, “not yet. He was in here last week and he explained that he was a little bit hard up.”</p>
<p>Her eyes gleamed with angry triumph.</p>
<p>“Oh, he did?” she snapped. “Well, he’s just bought a new sport roadster that must have cost anyhow twenty-five hundred dollars.”</p>
<p>He shook his head, unbelieving.</p>
<p>“I saw it,” she insisted. “I heard him say he’d just bought it.”</p>
<p>“He <em>told</em> me he was hard up,” repeated Mather helplessly.</p>
<p>Jaqueline audibly gave up by heaving a profound noise, a sort of groanish sigh.</p>
<p>“He was <em>u</em>sing you! He knew you were easy and he was <em>u</em>sing you. Can’t you see? He wanted <em>you</em> to buy him the car and you <em>did</em>!” She laughed bitterly. “He’s probably roaring his sides out to think how easily he worked you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” protested Mather with a shocked expression, “you must have mistaken somebody for him⁠—”</p>
<p>“We walk⁠—and he rides on our money,” she interrupted excitedly. “Oh, it’s rich⁠—it’s rich. If it wasn’t so maddening, it’d be just absurd. Look here⁠—!” Her voice grew sharper, more restrained⁠—there was a touch of contempt in it now. “You spend half your time doing things for people who don’t give a damn about you or what becomes of you. You give up your seat on the streetcar to <em>hogs</em>, and come home too dead tired to even <em>move</em>. You’re on all sorts of committees that take at least an hour a day out of your business and you don’t get a cent out of them. You’re⁠—eternally⁠—being <em>used</em>! I won’t stand it! I thought I married a man⁠—not a professional Samaritan who’s going to fetch and carry for the world!”</p>
<p>As she finished her invective Jaqueline reeled suddenly and sank into a chair⁠—nervously exhausted.</p>
<p>“Just at this time,” she went on brokenly, “I need you. I need your strength and your health and your arms around me. And if you⁠—if you just give it to <em>every</em> one, it’s spread <em>so</em> thin when it reaches me⁠—”</p>
<p>He knelt by her side, moving her tired young head until it lay against his shoulder.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Jaqueline,” he said humbly, “I’ll be more careful. I didn’t realize what I was doing.”</p>
<p>“You’re the dearest person in the world,” murmured Jaqueline huskily, “but I want all of you and the best of you for me.”</p>
<p>He smoothed her hair over and over. For a few minutes they rested there silently, having attained a sort of Nirvana of peace and understanding. Then Jaqueline reluctantly raised her head as they were interrupted by the voice of Miss Clancy in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Oh, I beg your pardon.”</p>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“A boy’s here with some boxes. It’s <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:initialism">C.O.D.</abbr>”</p>
<p>Mather rose and followed Miss Clancy into the outer office.</p>
<p>“It’s fifty dollars.”</p>
<p>He searched his wallet⁠—he had omitted to go to the bank that morning.</p>
<p>“Just a minute,” he said abstractedly. His mind was on Jaqueline, Jaqueline who seemed forlorn in her trouble, waiting for him in the other room. He walked into the corridor, and opening the door of “Clayton and Drake, Brokers” across the way, swung wide a low gate and went up to a man seated at a desk.</p>
<p>“Morning, Fred,” said Mather.</p>
<p>Drake, a little man of thirty with pince-nez and bald head, rose and shook hands.</p>
<p>“Morning, Jim. What can I do for you?”</p>
<p>“Why, a boy’s in my office with some stuff <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">C.O.D.</abbr> and I haven’t a cent. Can you let me have fifty till this afternoon?”</p>
<p>Drake looked closely at Mather. Then, slowly and startlingly, he shook his head⁠—not up and down but from side to side.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Jim,” he answered stiffly, “I’ve made a rule never to make a personal loan to anybody on any conditions. I’ve seen it break up too many friendships.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>Mather had come out of his abstraction now, and the monosyllable held an undisguised quality of shock. Then his natural tact acted automatically, springing to his aid and dictating his words though his brain was suddenly numb. His immediate instinct was to put Drake at ease in his refusal.</p>
<p>“Oh, I see.” He nodded his head as if in full agreement, as if he himself had often considered adopting just such a rule. “Oh, I see how you feel. Well⁠—I just⁠—I wouldn’t have you break a rule like that for anything. It’s probably a good thing.”</p>
<p>They talked for a minute longer. Drake justified his position easily; he had evidently rehearsed the part a great deal. He treated Mather to an exquisitely frank smile.</p>
<p>Mather went politely back to his office leaving Drake under the impression that the latter was the most tactful man in the city. Mather knew how to leave people with that impression. But when he entered his own office and saw his wife staring dismally out the window into the sunshine he clinched his hands, and his mouth moved in an unfamiliar shape.</p>
<p>“All right, Jack,” he said slowly, “I guess you’re right about most things, and I’m wrong as hell.”</p>
</section>
<section id="hot-and-cold-blood-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>During the next three months Mather thought back through many years. He had had an unusually happy life. Those frictions between man and man, between man and society, which harden most of us into a rough and cynical quarrelling trim, had been conspicuous by their infrequency in his life. It had never occurred to him before that he had paid a price for this immunity, but now he perceived how here and there, and constantly, he had taken the rough side of the road to avoid enmity or argument, or even question.</p>
<p>There was, for instance, much money that he had lent privately, about thirteen hundred dollars in all, which he realized, in his new enlightenment, he would never see again. It had taken Jaqueline’s harder, feminine intelligence to know this. It was only now when he owed it to Jaqueline to have money in the bank that he missed these loans at all.</p>
<p>He realized too the truth of her assertions that he was continually doing favors⁠—a little something here, a little something there; the sum total, in time and energy expended, was appalling. It had pleased him to do the favors. He reacted warmly to being thought well of, but he wondered now if he had not been merely indulging a selfish vanity of his own. In suspecting this, he was, as usual, not quite fair to himself. The truth was that Mather was essentially and enormously romantic.</p>
<p>He decided that these expenditures of himself made him tired at night, less efficient in his work, and less of a prop to Jaqueline, who, as the months passed, grew more heavy and bored, and sat through the long summer afternoons on the screened veranda waiting for his step at the end of the walk.</p>
<p>Lest that step falter, Mather gave up many things⁠—among them the presidency of his college alumni association. He let slip other labors less prized. When he was put on a committee, men had a habit of electing him chairman and retiring into a dim background, where they were inconveniently hard to find. He was done with such things now. Also he avoided those who were prone to ask favors⁠—fleeing a certain eager look that would be turned on him from some group at his club.</p>
<p>The change in him came slowly. He was not exceptionally unworldly⁠—under other circumstances Drake’s refusal of money would not have surprised him. Had it come to him as a story he would scarcely have given it a thought. But it had broken in with harsh abruptness upon a situation existing in his own mind, and the shock had given it a powerful and literal significance.</p>
<p>It was mid-August now, and the last of a baking week. The curtains of his wide-open office windows had scarcely rippled all the day, but lay like sails becalmed in warm juxtaposition with the smothering screens. Mather was worried⁠—Jaqueline had overtired herself, and was paying for it by violent sick headaches, and business seemed to have come to an apathetic standstill. That morning he had been so irritable with Miss Clancy that she had looked at him in surprise. He had immediately apologized, wishing afterward that he hadn’t. He was working at high speed through this heat⁠—why shouldn’t she?</p>
<p>She came to his door now, and he looked up faintly frowning.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Edward Lacy.”</p>
<p>“All right,” he answered listlessly. Old man Lacy⁠—he knew him slightly. A melancholy figure⁠—a brilliant start back in the eighties, and now one of the city’s failures. He couldn’t imagine what Lacy wanted unless he were soliciting.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mather.”</p>
<p>A little, solemn, gray-haired man stood on the threshold. Mather rose and greeted him politely.</p>
<p>“Are you busy, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mather?”</p>
<p>“Well, not so <em>very</em>.” He stressed the qualifying word slightly.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy sat down, obviously ill at ease. He kept his hat in his hands, and clung to it tightly as he began to speak.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mather, if you’ve got five minutes to spare, I’m going to tell you something that⁠—that I find at present it’s necessary for me to tell you.”</p>
<p>Mather nodded. His instinct warned him that there was a favor to be asked, but he was tired, and with a sort of lassitude he let his chin sink into his hand, welcoming any distraction from his more immediate cares.</p>
<p>“You see,” went on <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy⁠—Mather noticed that the hands which fingered at the hat were trembling⁠—“back in eighty-four your father and I were very good friends. You’ve heard him speak of me no doubt.”</p>
<p>Mather nodded.</p>
<p>“I was asked to be one of the pallbearers. Once we were⁠—very close. It’s because of that that I come to you now. Never before in my life have I ever had to come to anyone as I’ve come to you now, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mather⁠—come to a stranger. But as you grow older your friends die or move away or some misunderstanding separates you. And your children die unless you’re fortunate enough to go first⁠—and pretty soon you get to be alone, so that you don’t have any friends at all. You’re isolated.” He smiled faintly. His hands were trembling violently now.</p>
<p>“Once upon a time almost forty years ago your father came to me and asked me for a thousand dollars. I was a few years older than he was, and though I knew him only slightly, I had a high opinion of him. That was a lot of money in those days, and he had no security⁠—he had nothing but a plan in his head⁠—but I liked the way he had of looking out of his eyes⁠—you’ll pardon me if I say you look not unlike him⁠—so I gave it to him without security.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy paused.</p>
<p>“Without security,” he repeated. “I could afford it then. I didn’t lose by it. He paid it back with interest at six percent before the year was up.”</p>
<p>Mather was looking down at his blotter, tapping out a series of triangles with his pencil. He knew what was coming now, and his muscles physically tightened as he mustered his forces for the refusal he would have to make.</p>
<p>“I’m now an old man, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mather,” the cracked voice went on. “I’ve made a failure⁠—I <em>am</em> a failure⁠—only we needn’t go into that now. I have a daughter, an unmarried daughter who lives with me. She does stenographic work and has been very kind to me. We live together, you know, on Selby Avenue⁠—we have an apartment, quite a nice apartment.”</p>
<p>The old man sighed quaveringly. He was trying⁠—and at the same time was afraid⁠—to get to his request. It was insurance, it seemed. He had a ten-thousand-dollar policy, he had borrowed on it up to the limit, and he stood to lose the whole amount unless he could raise four hundred and fifty dollars. He and his daughter had about seventy-five dollars between them. They had no friends⁠—he had explained that⁠—and they had found it impossible to raise the money.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Mather could stand the miserable story no longer. He could not spare the money, but he could at least relieve the old man of the blistered agony of asking for it.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy,” he interrupted as gently as possible, “but I can’t lend you that money.”</p>
<p>“No?” The old man looked at him with faded, blinking eyes that were beyond all shock, almost, it seemed, beyond any human emotion except ceaseless care. The only change in his expression was that his mouth dropped slowly ajar.</p>
<p>Mather fixed his eyes determinately upon his blotter.</p>
<p>“We’re going to have a baby in a few months, and I’ve been saving for that. It wouldn’t be fair to my wife to take anything from her⁠—or the child⁠—right now.”</p>
<p>His voice sank to a sort of mumble. He found himself saying platitudinously that business was bad⁠—saying it with revolting facility.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy made no argument. He rose without visible signs of disappointment. Only his hands were still trembling and they worried Mather. The old man was apologetic⁠—he was sorry to have bothered him at a time like this. Perhaps something would turn up. He had thought that if <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Mather did happen to have a good deal extra⁠—why, he might be the person to go to because he was the son of an old friend.</p>
<p>As he left the office he had trouble opening the outer door. Miss Clancy helped him. He went shabbily and unhappily down the corridor with his faded eyes blinking and his mouth still faintly ajar.</p>
<p>Jim Mather stood by his desk, and put his hand over his face and shivered suddenly as if he were cold. But the five-o’clock air outside was hot as a tropic noon.</p>
</section>
<section id="hot-and-cold-blood-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>The twilight was hotter still an hour later as he stood at the corner waiting for his car. The trolley-ride to his house was twenty-five minutes, and he bought a pink-jacketed newspaper to appetize his listless mind. Life had seemed less happy, less glamourous of late. Perhaps he had learned more of the world’s ways⁠—perhaps its glamour was evaporating little by little with the hurried years.</p>
<p>Nothing like this afternoon, for instance, had ever happened to him before. He could not dismiss the old man from his mind. He pictured him plodding home in the weary heat⁠—on foot, probably, to save carfare⁠—opening the door of a hot little flat, and confessing to his daughter that the son of his friend had not been able to help him out. All evening they would plan helplessly until they said good night to each other⁠—father and daughter, isolated by chance in this world⁠—and went to lie awake with a pathetic loneliness in their two beds.</p>
<p>Mather’s streetcar came along, and he found a seat near the front, next to an old lady who looked at him grudgingly as she moved over. At the next block a crowd of girls from the department-store district flowed up the aisle, and Mather unfolded his paper. Of late he had not indulged his habit of giving up his seat. Jaqueline was right⁠—the average young girl was able to stand as well as he was. Giving up his seat was silly, a mere gesture. Nowadays not one woman in a dozen even bothered to thank him.</p>
<p>It was stifling hot in the car, and he wiped the heavy damp from his forehead. The aisle was thickly packed now, and a woman standing beside his seat was thrown momentarily against his shoulder as the car turned a corner. Mather took a long breath of the hot foul air, which persistently refused to circulate, and tried to centre his mind on a cartoon at the top of the sporting page.</p>
<p>“Move for’ard ina car, please!” The conductor’s voice pierced the opaque column of humanity with raucous irritation. “Plen’y of room for’ard!”</p>
<p>The crowd made a feeble attempt to shove forward, but the unfortunate fact that there was no space into which to move precluded any marked success. The car turned another corner, and again the woman next to Mather swayed against his shoulder. Ordinarily he would have given up his seat if only to avoid this reminder that she was there. It made him feel unpleasantly cold-blooded. And the car was horrible⁠—horrible. They ought to put more of them on the line these sweltering days.</p>
<p>For the fifth time he looked at the pictures in the comic strip. There was a beggar in the second picture, and the wavering image of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy persistently inserted itself in the beggar’s place. God! Suppose the old man really did starve to death⁠—suppose he threw himself into the river.</p>
<p>“Once,” thought Mather, “he helped my father. Perhaps, if he hadn’t, my own life would have been different than it has been. But Lacy could afford it then⁠—and I can’t.”</p>
<p>To force out the picture of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy, Mather tried to think of Jaqueline. He said to himself over and over that he would have been sacrificing Jaqueline to a played-out man who had had his chance and failed. Jaqueline needed her chance now as never before.</p>
<p>Mather looked at his watch. He had been on the car ten minutes. Fifteen minutes still to ride, and the heat increasing with breathless intensity. The woman swayed against him once more, and looking out the window he saw that they were turning the last downtown corner.</p>
<p>It occurred to him that perhaps he ought, after all, to give the woman his seat⁠—her last sway toward him had been a particularly tired sway. If he were sure she was an older woman⁠—but the texture of her dress as it brushed his hand gave somehow the impression that she was a young girl. He did not dare look up to see. He was afraid of the appeal that might look out of her eyes if they were old eyes or the sharp contempt if they were young.</p>
<p>For the next five minutes his mind worked in a vague suffocated way on what now seemed to him the enormous problem of whether or not to give her the seat. He felt dimly that doing so would partially atone for his refusal to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy that afternoon. It would be rather terrible to have done those two cold-blooded things in succession⁠—and on such a day.</p>
<p>He tried the cartoon again, but in vain. He must concentrate on Jaqueline. He was dead tired now, and if he stood up he would be more tired. Jaqueline would be waiting for him, needing him. She would be depressed and she would want him to hold her quietly in his arms for an hour after dinner. When he was tired this was rather a strain. And afterward when they went to bed she would ask him from time to time to get her her medicine or a glass of ice-water. He hated to show any weariness in doing these things. She might notice and, needing something, refrain from asking for it.</p>
<p>The girl in the aisle swayed against him once more⁠—this time it was more like a sag. She was tired, too. Well, it was weary to work. The ends of many proverbs that had to do with toil and the long day floated fragmentarily through his mind. Everybody in the world was tired⁠—this woman, for instance, whose body was sagging so wearily, so strangely against his. But his home came first and his girl that he loved was waiting for him there. He must keep his strength for her, and he said to himself over and over that he would not give up his seat.</p>
<p>Then he heard a long sigh, followed by a sudden exclamation, and he realized that the girl was no longer leaning against him. The exclamation multiplied into a clatter of voices⁠—then came a pause⁠—then a renewed clatter that travelled down the car in calls and little staccato cries to the conductor. The bell clanged violently, and the hot car jolted to a sudden stop.</p>
<p>“Girl fainted up here!”</p>
<p>“Too hot for her!”</p>
<p>“Just keeled right over!”</p>
<p>“Get back there! Gangway, you!”</p>
<p>The crowd eddied apart. The passengers in front squeezed back and those on the rear platform temporarily disembarked. Curiosity and pity bubbled out of suddenly conversing groups. People tried to help, got in the way. Then the bell rang and voices rose stridently again.</p>
<p>“Get her out all right?”</p>
<p>“Say, did you see that?”</p>
<p>“This damn company ought to⁠—”</p>
<p>“Did you see the man that carried her out? He was pale as a ghost, too.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but did you hear⁠—?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“That fella. That pale fella that carried her out. He was sittin’ beside her⁠—he says she’s his wife!”</p>
<hr/>
<p>The house was quiet. A breeze pressed back the dark vine leaves of the veranda, letting in thin yellow rods of moonlight on the wicker chairs. Jaqueline rested placidly on the long settee with her head in his arms. After a while she stirred lazily; her hand reaching up patted his cheek.</p>
<p>“I think I’ll go to bed now. I’m so tired. Will you help me up?”</p>
<p>He lifted her and then laid her back among the pillows.</p>
<p>“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said gently. “Can you wait for just a minute?”</p>
<p>He passed into the lighted living-room, and she heard him thumbing the pages of a telephone directory; then she listened as he called a number.</p>
<p>“Hello, is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy there? Why⁠—yes, it <em>is</em> pretty important⁠—if he hasn’t gone to sleep.”</p>
<p>A pause. Jaqueline could hear restless sparrows splattering through the leaves of the magnolia over the way. Then her husband at the telephone:</p>
<p>“Is this <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Lacy? Oh, this is Mather. Why⁠—why, in regard to that matter we talked about this afternoon, I think I’ll be able to fix that up after all.” He raised his voice a little as though someone at the other end found it difficult to hear. “James Mather’s son, I said⁠—About that little matter this afternoon⁠—”</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="gretchens-forty-winks" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Gretchen’s Forty Winks</h2>
<section id="gretchens-forty-winks-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The sidewalks were scratched with brittle leaves, and the bad little boy next door froze his tongue to the iron mailbox. Snow before night, sure. Autumn was over. This, of course, raised the coal question and the Christmas question; but Roger Halsey, standing on his own front porch, assured the dead suburban sky that he hadn’t time for worrying about the weather. Then he let himself hurriedly into the house, and shut the subject out into the cold twilight.</p>
<p>The hall was dark, but from above he heard the voices of his wife and the nursemaid and the baby in one of their interminable conversations, which consisted chiefly of “Don’t!” and “Look out, Maxy!” and “Oh, there he <em>goes</em>!” punctuated by wild threats and vague bumpings and the recurrent sound of small, venturing feet.</p>
<p>Roger turned on the hall-light and walked into the living-room and turned on the red silk lamp. He put his bulging portfolio on the table, and sitting down rested his intense young face in his hand for a few minutes, shading his eyes carefully from the light. Then he lit a cigarette, squashed it out, and going to the foot of the stairs called for his wife.</p>
<p>“Gretchen!”</p>
<p>“Hello, dear.” Her voice was full of laughter. “Come see baby.”</p>
<p>He swore softly.</p>
<p>“I can’t see baby now,” he said aloud. “How long ’fore you’ll be down?”</p>
<p>There was a mysterious pause, and then a succession of “Don’ts” and “Look outs, Maxy” evidently meant to avert some threatened catastrophe.</p>
<p>“How long ’fore you’ll be down?” repeated Roger, slightly irritated.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll be right down.”</p>
<p>“How soon?” he shouted.</p>
<p>He had trouble every day at this hour in adapting his voice from the urgent key of the city to the proper casualness for a model home. But tonight he was deliberately impatient. It almost disappointed him when Gretchen came running down the stairs, three at a time, crying “What is it?” in a rather surprised voice.</p>
<p>They kissed⁠—lingered over it some moments. They had been married three years, and they were much more in love than that implies. It was seldom that they hated each other with that violent hate of which only young couples are capable, for Roger was still actively sensitive to her beauty.</p>
<p>“Come in here,” he said abruptly. “I want to talk to you.”</p>
<p>His wife, a bright-colored, Titian-haired girl, vivid as a French rag doll, followed him into the living-room.</p>
<p>“Listen, Gretchen”⁠—he sat down at the end of the sofa⁠—“beginning with tonight I’m going to⁠—What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. I’m just looking for a cigarette. Go on.”</p>
<p>She tiptoed breathlessly back to the sofa and settled at the other end.</p>
<p>“Gretchen⁠—” Again he broke off. Her hand, palm upward, was extended toward him. “Well, what is it?” he asked wildly.</p>
<p>“Matches.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>In his impatience it seemed incredible that she should ask for matches, but he fumbled automatically in his pocket.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on.”</p>
<p>“Gretch⁠—”</p>
<p>Scratch! The match flared. They exchanged a tense look.</p>
<p>Her fawn’s eyes apologized mutely this time, and he laughed. After all, she had done no more than light a cigarette; but when he was in this mood her slightest positive action irritated him beyond measure.</p>
<p>“When you’ve got time to listen,” he said crossly, “you might be interested in discussing the poorhouse question with me.”</p>
<p>“What poorhouse?” Her eyes were wide, startled; she sat quiet as a mouse.</p>
<p>“That was just to get your attention. But, beginning tonight, I start on what’ll probably be the most important six weeks of my life⁠—the six weeks that’ll decide whether we’re going on forever in this rotten little house in this rotten little suburban town.”</p>
<p>Boredom replaced alarm in Gretchen’s black eyes. She was a Southern girl, and any question that had to do with getting ahead in the world always tended to give her a headache.</p>
<p>“Six months ago I left the New York Lithographic Company,” announced Roger, “and went in the advertising business for myself.”</p>
<p>“I know,” interrupted Gretchen resentfully; “and now instead of getting six hundred a month sure, we’re living on a risky five hundred.”</p>
<p>“Gretchen,” said Roger sharply, “if you’ll just believe in me as hard as you can for six weeks more we’ll be rich. I’ve got a chance now to get some of the biggest accounts in the country.” He hesitated. “And for these six weeks we won’t go out at all, and we won’t have anyone here. I’m going to bring home work every night, and we’ll pull down all the blinds and if anyone rings the doorbell we won’t answer.”</p>
<p>He smiled airily as if it were a new game they were going to play. Then, as Gretchen was silent, his smile faded, and he looked at her uncertainly.</p>
<p>“Well, what’s the matter?” she broke out finally. “Do you expect me to jump up and sing? You do enough work as it is. If you try to do any more you’ll end up with a nervous breakdown. I read about a⁠—”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about me,” he interrupted; “I’m all right. But you’re going to be bored to death sitting here every evening.”</p>
<p>“No, I won’t,” she said without conviction⁠—“except tonight.”</p>
<p>“What about tonight?”</p>
<p>“George Tompkins asked us to dinner.”</p>
<p>“Did you accept?”</p>
<p>“Of course I did,” she said impatiently. “Why not? You’re always talking about what a terrible neighborhood this is, and I thought maybe you’d like to go to a nicer one for a change.”</p>
<p>“When I go to a nicer neighborhood I want to go for good,” he said grimly.</p>
<p>“Well, can we go?”</p>
<p>“I suppose we’ll have to if you’ve accepted.”</p>
<p>Somewhat to his annoyance the conversation abruptly ended. Gretchen jumped up and kissed him sketchily and rushed into the kitchen to light the hot water for a bath. With a sigh he carefully deposited his portfolio behind the bookcase⁠—it contained only sketches and layouts for display advertising, but it seemed to him the first thing a burglar would look for. Then he went abstractedly upstairs, dropped into the baby’s room for a casual moist kiss, and began dressing for dinner.</p>
<p>They had no automobile, so George Tompkins called for them at 6:30. Tompkins was a successful interior decorator, a broad, rosy man with a handsome mustache and a strong odor of jasmine. He and Roger had once roomed side by side in a boardinghouse in New York, but they had met only intermittently in the past five years.</p>
<p>“We ought to see each other more,” he told Roger tonight. “You ought to go out more often, old boy. Cocktail?”</p>
<p>“No, thanks.”</p>
<p>“No? Well, your fair wife will⁠—won’t you, Gretchen?”</p>
<p>“I love this house,” she exclaimed, taking the glass and looking admiringly at ship models, Colonial whiskey bottles, and other fashionable debris of 1925.</p>
<p>“I like it,” said Tompkins with satisfaction. “I did it to please myself, and I succeeded.”</p>
<p>Roger stared moodily around the stiff, plain room, wondering if they could have blundered into the kitchen by mistake.</p>
<p>“You look like the devil, Roger,” said his host. “Have a cocktail and cheer up.”</p>
<p>“Have one,” urged Gretchen.</p>
<p>“What?” Roger turned around absently. “Oh, no, thanks. I’ve got to work after I get home.”</p>
<p>“Work!” Tompkins smiled. “Listen, Roger, you’ll kill yourself with work. Why don’t you bring a little balance into your life⁠—work a little, then play a little?”</p>
<p>“That’s what I tell him,” said Gretchen.</p>
<p>“Do you know an average business man’s day?” demanded Tompkins as they went in to dinner. “Coffee in the morning, eight hours’ work interrupted by a bolted luncheon, and then home again with dyspepsia and a bad temper to give the wife a pleasant evening.”</p>
<p>Roger laughed shortly.</p>
<p>“You’ve been going to the movies too much,” he said dryly.</p>
<p>“What?” Tompkins looked at him with some irritation. “Movies? I’ve hardly ever been to the movies in my life. I think the movies are atrocious. My opinions on life are drawn from my own observations. I believe in a balanced life.”</p>
<p>“What’s that?” demanded Roger.</p>
<p>“Well”⁠—he hesitated⁠—“probably the best way to tell you would be to describe my own day. Would that seem horribly egotistic?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no!” Gretchen looked at him with interest. “I’d love to hear about it.”</p>
<p>“Well, in the morning I get up and go through a series of exercises. I’ve got one room fitted up as a little gymnasium, and I punch the bag and do shadowboxing and weight-pulling for an hour. Then after a cold bath⁠—There’s a thing now! Do you take a daily cold bath?”</p>
<p>“No,” admitted Roger, “I take a hot bath in the evening three or four times a week.”</p>
<p>A horrified silence fell. Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance as if something obscene had been said.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” broke out Roger, glancing from one to the other in some irritation. “You know I don’t take a bath every day⁠—I haven’t got the time.”</p>
<p>Tompkins gave a prolonged sigh.</p>
<p>“After my bath,” he continued, drawing a merciful veil of silence over the matter, “I have breakfast and drive to my office in New York, where I work until four. Then I lay off, and if it’s summer I hurry out here for nine holes of golf, or if it’s winter I play squash for an hour at my club. Then a good snappy game of bridge until dinner. Dinner is liable to have something to do with business, but in a pleasant way. Perhaps I’ve just finished a house for some customer, and he wants me to be on hand for his first party to see that the lighting is soft enough and all that sort of thing. Or maybe I sit down with a good book of poetry and spend the evening alone. At any rate, I do something every night to get me out of myself.”</p>
<p>“It must be wonderful,” said Gretchen enthusiastically. “I wish we lived like that.”</p>
<p>Tompkins bent forward earnestly over the table.</p>
<p>“You can,” he said impressively. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Look here, if Roger’ll play nine holes of golf every day it’ll do wonders for him. He won’t know himself. He’ll do his work better, never get that tired, nervous feeling⁠—What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>He broke off. Roger had perceptibly yawned.</p>
<p>“Roger,” cried Gretchen sharply, “there’s no need to be so rude. If you did what George said, you’d be a lot better off.” She turned indignantly to their host. “The latest is that he’s going to work at night for the next six weeks. He says he’s going to pull down the blinds and shut us up like hermits in a cave. He’s been doing it every Sunday for the last year; now he’s going to do it every night for six weeks.”</p>
<p>Tompkins shook his head sadly.</p>
<p>“At the end of six weeks,” he remarked, “he’ll be starting for the sanitarium. Let me tell you, every private hospital in New York is full of cases like yours. You just strain the human nervous system a little too far, and bang!⁠—you’ve broken something. And in order to save sixty hours you’re laid up sixty weeks for repairs.” He broke off, changed his tone, and turned to Gretchen with a smile. “Not to mention what happens to you. It seems to me it’s the wife rather than the husband who bears the brunt of these insane periods of overwork.”</p>
<p>“I don’t mind,” protested Gretchen loyally.</p>
<p>“Yes, she does,” said Roger grimly; “she minds like the devil. She’s a shortsighted little egg, and she thinks it’s going to be forever until I get started and she can have some new clothes. But it can’t be helped. The saddest thing about women is that, after all, their best trick is to sit down and fold their hands.”</p>
<p>“Your ideas on women are about twenty years out of date,” said Tompkins pityingly. “Women won’t sit down and wait any more.”</p>
<p>“Then they’d better marry men of forty,” insisted Roger stubbornly. “If a girl marries a young man for love she ought to be willing to make any sacrifice within reason, so long as her husband keeps going ahead.”</p>
<p>“Let’s not talk about it,” said Gretchen impatiently. “Please, Roger, let’s have a good time just this once.”</p>
<p>When Tompkins dropped them in front of their house at eleven Roger and Gretchen stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking at the winter moon. There was a fine, damp, dusty snow in the air, and Roger drew a long breath of it and put his arm around Gretchen exultantly.</p>
<p>“I can make more money than he can,” he said tensely. “And I’ll be doing it in just forty days.”</p>
<p>“Forty days,” she sighed. “It seems such a long time⁠—when everybody else is always having fun. If I could only sleep for forty days.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you, honey? Just take forty winks, and when you wake up everything’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>She was silent for a moment.</p>
<p>“Roger,” she asked thoughtfully, “do you think George meant what he said about taking me horseback riding on Sunday?”</p>
<p>Roger frowned.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Probably not⁠—I hope to Heaven he didn’t.” He hesitated. “As a matter of fact, he made me sort of sore tonight⁠—all that junk about his cold bath.”</p>
<p>With their arms about each other, they started up the walk to the house.</p>
<p>“I’ll bet he doesn’t take a cold bath every morning,” continued Roger ruminatively; “or three times a week, either.” He fumbled in his pocket for the key and inserted it in the lock with savage precision. Then he turned around defiantly. “I’ll bet he hasn’t had a bath for a month.”</p>
</section>
<section id="gretchens-forty-winks-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>After a fortnight of intensive work, Roger Halsey’s days blurred into each other and passed by in blocks of twos and threes and fours. From eight until 5:30 he was in his office. Then a half-hour on the commuting train, where he scrawled notes on the backs of envelopes under the dull yellow light. By 7:30 his crayons, shears, and sheets of white cardboard were spread over the living-room table, and he labored there with much grunting and sighing until midnight, while Gretchen lay on the sofa with a book, and the doorbell tinkled occasionally behind the drawn blinds. At twelve there was always an argument as to whether he would come to bed. He would agree to come after he had cleared up everything; but as he was invariably sidetracked by half a dozen new ideas, he usually found Gretchen sound asleep when he tiptoed upstairs.</p>
<p>Sometimes it was three o’clock before Roger squashed his last cigarette into the overloaded ashtray, and he would undress in the darkness, disembodied with fatigue, but with a sense of triumph that he had lasted out another day.</p>
<p>Christmas came and went and he scarcely noticed that it was gone. He remembered it afterward as the day he completed the window-cards for Garrod’s shoes. This was one of the eight large accounts for which he was pointing in January⁠—if he got half of them he was assured a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of business during the year.</p>
<p>But the world outside his business became a chaotic dream. He was aware that on two cool December Sundays George Tompkins had taken Gretchen horseback riding, and that another time she had gone out with him in his automobile to spend the afternoon skiing on the country-club hill. A picture of Tompkins, in an expensive frame, had appeared one morning on their bedroom wall. And one night he was shocked into a startled protest when Gretchen went to the theatre with Tompkins in town.</p>
<p>But his work was almost done. Daily now his layouts arrived from the printers until seven of them were piled and docketed in his office safe. He knew how good they were. Money alone couldn’t buy such work; more than he realized himself, it had been a labor of love.</p>
<p>December tumbled like a dead leaf from the calendar. There was an agonizing week when he had to give up coffee because it made his heart pound so. If he could hold on now for four days⁠—three days⁠—</p>
<p>On Thursday afternoon <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. G.</abbr> Garrod was to arrive in New York. On Wednesday evening Roger came home at seven to find Gretchen poring over the December bills with a strange expression in her eyes.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>She nodded at the bills. He ran through them, his brow wrinkling in a frown.</p>
<p>“Gosh!”</p>
<p>“I can’t help it,” she burst out suddenly. “They’re terrible.”</p>
<p>“Well, I didn’t marry you because you were a wonderful housekeeper. I’ll manage about the bills some way. Don’t worry your little head over it.”</p>
<p>She regarded him coldly.</p>
<p>“You talk as if I were a child.”</p>
<p>“I have to,” he said with sudden irritation.</p>
<p>“Well, at least I’m not a piece of bric-a-brac that you can just put somewhere and forget.”</p>
<p>He knelt down by her quickly, and took her arms in his hands.</p>
<p>“Gretchen, listen!” he said breathlessly. “For God’s sake, don’t go to pieces now! We’re both all stored up with malice and reproach, and if we had a quarrel it’d be terrible. I love you, Gretchen. Say you love me⁠—quick!”</p>
<p>“You know I love you.”</p>
<p>The quarrel was averted, but there was an unnatural tenseness all through dinner. It came to a climax afterward when he began to spread his working materials on the table.</p>
<p>“Oh, Roger,” she protested, “I thought you didn’t have to work tonight.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t think I’d have to, but something came up.”</p>
<p>“I’ve invited George Tompkins over.”</p>
<p>“Oh, gosh!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m sorry, honey, but you’ll have to phone him not to come.”</p>
<p>“He’s left,” she said. “He’s coming straight from town. He’ll be here any minute now.”</p>
<p>Roger groaned. It occurred to him to send them both to the movies, but somehow the suggestion stuck on his lips. He did not want her at the movies; he wanted her here, where he could look up and know she was by his side.</p>
<p>George Tompkins arrived breezily at eight o’clock.</p>
<p>“Aha!” he cried reprovingly, coming into the room. “Still at it.”</p>
<p>Roger agreed coolly that he was.</p>
<p>“Better quit⁠—better quit before you have to.”</p>
<p>He sat down with a long sigh of physical comfort and lit a cigarette. “Take it from a fellow who’s looked into the question scientifically. We can stand so much, and then⁠—bang!”</p>
<p>“If you’ll excuse me”⁠—Roger made his voice as polite as possible⁠—“I’m going upstairs and finish this work.”</p>
<p>“Just as you like, Roger.” George waved his hand carelessly. “It isn’t that I mind. I’m the friend of the family and I’d just as soon see the missus as the mister.” He smiled playfully. “But if I were you, old boy, I’d put away my work and get a good night’s sleep.”</p>
<p>When Roger had spread out his materials on the bed upstairs he found that he could still hear the rumble and murmur of their voices through the thin floor. He began wondering what they found to talk about. As he plunged deeper into his work his mind had a tendency to revert sharply to his question, and several times he arose and paced nervously up and down the room.</p>
<p>The bed was ill adapted to his work. Several times the paper slipped from the board on which it rested, and the pencil punched through. Everything was wrong tonight. Letters and figures blurred before his eyes, and as an accompaniment to the beating of his temples came those persistent murmuring voices.</p>
<p>At ten he realized that he had done nothing for more than an hour, and with a sudden exclamation he gathered together his papers, replaced them in his portfolio, and went downstairs. They were sitting together on the sofa when he came in.</p>
<p>“Oh, hello!” cried Gretchen, rather unnecessarily, he thought. “We were just discussing you.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he answered ironically. “What particular part of my anatomy was under the scalpel?”</p>
<p>“Your health,” said Tompkins jovially.</p>
<p>“My health’s all right,” answered Roger shortly.</p>
<p>“But you look at it so selfishly, old fella,” cried Tompkins. “You only consider yourself in the matter. Don’t you think Gretchen has any rights? If you were working on a wonderful sonnet or a⁠—a portrait of some madonna or something”⁠—he glanced at Gretchen’s Titian hair⁠—“why, then I’d say go ahead. But you’re not. It’s just some silly advertisement about how to sell Nobald’s hair tonic, and if all the hair tonic ever made was dumped into the ocean tomorrow the world wouldn’t be one bit the worse for it.”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute,” said Roger angrily; “that’s not quite fair. I’m not kidding myself about the importance of my work⁠—it’s just as useless as the stuff you do. But to Gretchen and me it’s just about the most important thing in the world.”</p>
<p>“Are you implying that my work is useless?” demanded Tompkins incredulously.</p>
<p>“No; not if it brings happiness to some poor sucker of a pants manufacturer who doesn’t know how to spend his money.”</p>
<p>Tompkins and Gretchen exchanged a glance.</p>
<p>“<em>Oh‑h‑h!</em>” exclaimed Tompkins ironically. “I didn’t realize that all these years I’ve just been wasting my time.”</p>
<p>“You’re a loafer,” said Roger rudely.</p>
<p>“Me?” cried Tompkins angrily. “You call me a loafer because I have a little balance in my life and find time to do interesting things? Because I play hard as well as work hard and don’t let myself get to be a dull, tiresome drudge?”</p>
<p>Both men were angry now, and their voices had risen, though on Tompkins’s face there still remained the semblance of a smile.</p>
<p>“What I object to,” said Roger steadily, “is that for the last six weeks you seem to have done all your playing around here.”</p>
<p>“Roger!” cried Gretchen. “What do you mean by talking like that?”</p>
<p>“Just what I said.”</p>
<p>“You’ve just lost your temper.” Tompkins lit a cigarette with ostentatious coolness. “You’re so nervous from overwork you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re on the verge of a nervous break⁠—”</p>
<p>“You get out of here!” cried Roger fiercely. “You get out of here right now⁠—before I throw you out!”</p>
<p>Tompkins got angrily to his feet.</p>
<p>“You⁠—you throw me out?” he cried incredulously.</p>
<p>They were actually moving toward each other when Gretchen stepped between them, and grabbing Tompkins’s arm urged him toward the door.</p>
<p>“He’s acting like a fool, George, but you better get out,” she cried, groping in the hall for his hat.</p>
<p>“He insulted me!” shouted Tompkins. “He threatened to throw me out!”</p>
<p>“Never mind, George,” pleaded Gretchen. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Please go! I’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow.”</p>
<p>She opened the door.</p>
<p>“You won’t see him at ten o’clock tomorrow,” said Roger steadily. “He’s not coming to this house any more.”</p>
<p>Tompkins turned to Gretchen.</p>
<p>“It’s his house,” he suggested. “Perhaps we’d better meet at mine.”</p>
<p>Then he was gone, and Gretchen had shut the door behind him. Her eyes were full of angry tears.</p>
<p>“See what you’ve done!” she sobbed. “The only friend I had, the only person in the world who liked me enough to treat me decently, is insulted by my husband in my own house.”</p>
<p>She threw herself on the sofa and began to cry passionately into the pillows.</p>
<p>“He brought it on himself,” said Roger stubbornly. “I’ve stood as much as my self-respect will allow. I don’t want you going out with him any more.”</p>
<p>“I will go out with him!” cried Gretchen wildly. “I’ll go out with him all I want! Do you think it’s any fun living here with you?”</p>
<p>“Gretchen,” he said coldly, “get up and put on your hat and coat and go out that door and never come back!”</p>
<p>Her mouth fell slightly ajar.</p>
<p>“But I don’t want to get out,” she said dazedly.</p>
<p>“Well, then, behave yourself.” And he added in a gentler voice: “I thought you were going to sleep for this forty days.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” she cried bitterly, “easy enough to say! But I’m tired of sleeping.” She got up, faced him defiantly. “And what’s more, I’m going riding with George Tompkins tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“You won’t go out with him if I have to take you to New York and sit you down in my office until I get through.”</p>
<p>She looked at him with rage in her eyes.</p>
<p>“I hate you,” she said slowly. “And I’d like to take all the work you’ve done and tear it up and throw it in the fire. And just to give you something to worry about tomorrow, I probably won’t be here when you get back.”</p>
<p>She got up from the sofa, and very deliberately looked at her flushed, tear-stained face in the mirror. Then she ran upstairs and slammed herself into the bedroom.</p>
<p>Automatically Roger spread out his work on the living-room table. The bright colors of the designs, the vivid ladies⁠—Gretchen had posed for one of them⁠—holding orange ginger ale or glistening silk hosiery, dazzled his mind into a sort of coma. His restless crayon moved here and there over the pictures, shifting a block of letters half an inch to the right, trying a dozen blues for a cool blue, and eliminating the word that made a phrase anemic and pale. Half an hour passed⁠—he was deep in the work now; there was no sound in the room but the velvety scratch of the crayon over the glossy board.</p>
<p>After a long while he looked at his watch⁠—it was after three. The wind had come up outside and was rushing by the house corners in loud, alarming swoops, like a heavy body falling through space. He stopped his work and listened. He was not tired now, but his head felt as if it was covered with bulging veins like those pictures that hang in doctors’ offices showing a body stripped of decent skin. He put his hands to his head and felt it all over. It seemed to him that on his temple the veins were knotty and brittle around an old scar.</p>
<p>Suddenly he began to be afraid. A hundred warnings he had heard swept into his mind. People did wreck themselves with overwork, and his body and brain were of the same vulnerable and perishable stuff. For the first time he found himself envying George Tompkins’s calm nerves and healthy routine. He arose and began pacing the room in a panic.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to sleep,” he whispered to himself tensely. “Otherwise I’m going crazy.”</p>
<p>He rubbed his hand over his eyes, and returned to the table to put up his work, but his fingers were shaking so that he could scarcely grasp the board. The sway of a bare branch against the window made him start and cry out. He sat down on the sofa and tried to think.</p>
<p>“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the clock said. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”</p>
<p>“I can’t stop,” he answered aloud. “I can’t afford to stop.”</p>
<p>Listen! Why, there was the wolf at the door now! He could hear its sharp claws scrape along the varnished woodwork. He jumped up, and running to the front door flung it open; then started back with a ghastly cry. An enormous wolf was standing on the porch, glaring at him with red, malignant eyes. As he watched it the hair bristled on its neck; it gave a low growl and disappeared in the darkness. Then Roger realized with a silent, mirthless laugh that it was the police dog from over the way.</p>
<p>Dragging his limbs wearily into the kitchen, he brought the alarm-clock into the living-room and set it for seven. Then he wrapped himself in his overcoat, lay down on the sofa and fell immediately into a heavy, dreamless sleep.</p>
<p>When he awoke the light was still shining feebly, but the room was the gray color of a winter morning. He got up, and looking anxiously at his hands found to his relief that they no longer trembled. He felt much better. Then he began to remember in detail the events of the night before, and his brow drew up again in three shallow wrinkles. There was work ahead of him, twenty-four hours of work; and Gretchen, whether she wanted to or not, must sleep for one more day.</p>
<p>Roger’s mind glowed suddenly as if he had just thought of a new advertising idea. A few minutes later he was hurrying through the sharp morning air to Kingsley’s drugstore.</p>
<p>“Is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Kingsley down yet?”</p>
<p>The druggist’s head appeared around the corner of the prescription-room.</p>
<p>“I wonder if I can talk to you alone.”</p>
<p>At 7:30, back home again, Roger walked into his own kitchen. The general housework girl had just arrived and was taking off her hat.</p>
<p>“Bebé”⁠—he was not on familiar terms with her; this was her name⁠—“I want you to cook <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Halsey’s breakfast right away. I’ll take it up myself.”</p>
<p>It struck Bebé that this was an unusual service for so busy a man to render his wife, but if she had seen his conduct when he had carried the tray from the kitchen she would have been even more surprised. For he set it down on the dining-room table and put into the coffee half a teaspoonful of a white substance that was not powdered sugar. Then he mounted the stairs and opened the door of the bedroom.</p>
<p>Gretchen woke up with a start, glanced at the twin bed which had not been slept in, and bent on Roger a glance of astonishment, which changed to contempt when she saw the breakfast in his hand. She thought he was bringing it as a capitulation.</p>
<p>“I don’t want any breakfast,” she said coldly, and his heart sank, “except some coffee.”</p>
<p>“No breakfast?” Roger’s voice expressed disappointment.</p>
<p>“I said I’d take some coffee.”</p>
<p>Roger discreetly deposited the tray on a table beside the bed and returned quickly to the kitchen.</p>
<p>“We’re going away until tomorrow afternoon,” he told Bebé, “and I want to close up the house right now. So you just put on your hat and go home.”</p>
<p>He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight, and he wanted to catch the 8:10 train. He waited five minutes and then tiptoed softly upstairs and into Gretchen’s room. She was sound asleep. The coffee cup was empty save for black dregs and a film of thin brown paste on the bottom. He looked at her rather anxiously, but her breathing was regular and clear.</p>
<p>From the closet he took a suitcase and very quickly began filling it with her shoes⁠—street shoes, evening slippers, rubber-soled oxfords⁠—he had not realized that she owned so many pairs. When he closed the suitcase it was bulging.</p>
<p>He hesitated a minute, took a pair of sewing scissors from a box, and following the telephone-wire until it went out of sight behind the dresser, severed it in one neat clip. He jumped as there was a soft knock at the door. It was the nursemaid. He had forgotten her existence.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Halsey and I are going up to the city till tomorrow,” he said glibly. “Take Maxy to the beach and have lunch there. Stay all day.”</p>
<p>Back in the room, a wave of pity passed over him. Gretchen seemed suddenly lovely and helpless, sleeping there. It was somehow terrible to rob her young life of a day. He touched her hair with his fingers, and as she murmured something in her dream he leaned over and kissed her bright cheek. Then he picked up the suitcase full of shoes, locked the door, and ran briskly down the stairs.</p>
</section>
<section id="gretchens-forty-winks-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>By five o’clock that afternoon the last package of cards for Garrod’s shoes had been sent by messenger to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. G.</abbr> Garrod at the Biltmore Hotel. He was to give a decision next morning. At 5:30 Roger’s stenographer tapped him on the shoulder.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden, the superintendent of the building, to see you.”</p>
<p>Roger turned around dazedly.</p>
<p>“Oh, how do?”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden came directly to the point. If <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Halsey intended to keep the office any longer, the little oversight about the rent had better be remedied right away.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden,” said Roger wearily, “everything’ll be all right tomorrow. If you worry me now maybe you’ll never get your money. After tomorrow nothing’ll matter.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden looked at the tenant uneasily. Young men sometimes did away with themselves when business went wrong. Then his eye fell unpleasantly on the initialled suitcase beside the desk.</p>
<p>“Going on a trip?” he asked pointedly.</p>
<p>“What? Oh, no. That’s just some clothes.”</p>
<p>“Clothes, eh? Well, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Halsey, just to prove that you mean what you say, suppose you let me keep that suitcase until tomorrow noon.”</p>
<p>“Help yourself.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden picked it up with a deprecatory gesture.</p>
<p>“Just a matter of form,” he remarked.</p>
<p>“I understand,” said Roger, swinging around to his desk. “Good afternoon.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden seemed to feel that the conversation should close on a softer key.</p>
<p>“And don’t work too hard, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Halsey. You don’t want to have a nervous break⁠—”</p>
<p>“No,” shouted Roger, “I don’t. But I will if you don’t leave me alone.”</p>
<p>As the door closed behind <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Golden, Roger’s stenographer turned sympathetically around.</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t have let him get away with that,” she said. “What’s in there? Clothes?”</p>
<p>“No,” answered Roger absently. “Just all my wife’s shoes.”</p>
<p>He slept in the office that night on a sofa beside his desk. At dawn he awoke with a nervous start, rushed out into the street for coffee, and returned in ten minutes in a panic⁠—afraid that he might have missed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Garrod’s telephone call. It was then 6:30.</p>
<p>By eight o’clock his whole body seemed to be on fire. When his two artists arrived he was stretched on the couch in almost physical pain. The phone rang imperatively at 9:30, and he picked up the receiver with trembling hands.</p>
<p>“Hello.”</p>
<p>“Is this the Halsey agency?”</p>
<p>“Yes, this is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Halsey speaking.”</p>
<p>“This is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. G.</abbr> Garrod.”</p>
<p>Roger’s heart stopped beating.</p>
<p>“I called up, young fellow, to say that this is wonderful work you’ve given us here. We want all of it and as much more as your office can do.”</p>
<p>“Oh, God!” cried Roger into the transmitter.</p>
<p>“What?” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. G.</abbr> Garrod was considerably startled. “Say, wait a minute there!”</p>
<p>But he was talking to nobody. The phone had clattered to the floor, and Roger, stretched full length on the couch, was sobbing as if his heart would break.</p>
</section>
<section id="gretchens-forty-winks-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Three hours later, his face somewhat pale, but his eyes calm as a child’s, Roger opened the door of his wife’s bedroom with the morning paper under his arm. At the sound of his footsteps she started awake.</p>
<p>“What time is it?” she demanded.</p>
<p>He looked at his watch.</p>
<p>“Twelve o’clock.”</p>
<p>Suddenly she began to cry.</p>
<p>“Roger,” she said brokenly, “I’m sorry I was so bad last night.”</p>
<p>He nodded coolly.</p>
<p>“Everything’s all right now,” he answered. Then, after a pause: “I’ve got the account⁠—the biggest one.”</p>
<p>She turned toward him quickly.</p>
<p>“You have?” Then, after a minute’s silence: “Can I get a new dress?”</p>
<p>“Dress?” He laughed shortly. “You can get a dozen. This account alone will bring us in forty thousand a year. It’s one of the biggest in the West.”</p>
<p>She looked at him, startled.</p>
<p>“Forty thousand a year!”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Gosh”⁠—and then faintly⁠—“I didn’t know it’d really be anything like that.” Again she thought a minute. “We can have a house like George Tompkins’.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want an interior-decoration shop.”</p>
<p>“Forty thousand a year!” she repeated again, and then added softly: “Oh, Roger⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“I’m not going out with George Tompkins.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t let you, even if you wanted to,” he said shortly.</p>
<p>She made a show of indignation.</p>
<p>“Why, I’ve had a date with him for this Thursday for weeks.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t Thursday.”</p>
<p>“It is.”</p>
<p>“It’s Friday.”</p>
<p>“Why, Roger, you must be crazy! Don’t you think I know what day it is?”</p>
<p>“It isn’t Thursday,” he said stubbornly. “Look!” And he held out the morning paper.</p>
<p>“Friday!” she exclaimed. “Why, this is a mistake! This must be last week’s paper. Today’s Thursday.”</p>
<p>She closed her eyes and thought for a moment.</p>
<p>“Yesterday was Wednesday,” she said decisively. “The laundress came yesterday. I guess I know.”</p>
<p>“Well,” he said smugly, “look at the paper. There isn’t any question about it.”</p>
<p>With a bewildered look on her face she got out of bed and began searching for her clothes. Roger went into the bathroom to shave. A minute later he heard the springs creak again. Gretchen was getting back into bed.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” he inquired, putting his head around the corner of the bathroom.</p>
<p>“I’m scared,” she said in a trembling voice. “I think my nerves are giving away. I can’t find any of my shoes.”</p>
<p>“Your shoes? Why, the closet’s full of them.”</p>
<p>“I know, but I can’t see one.” Her face was pale with fear. “Oh, Roger!”</p>
<p>Roger came to her bedside and put his arm around her.</p>
<p>“Oh, Roger,” she cried, “what’s the matter with me? First that newspaper, and now all my shoes. Take care of me, Roger.”</p>
<p>“I’ll get the doctor,” he said.</p>
<p>He walked remorselessly to the telephone and took up the receiver.</p>
<p>“Phone seems to be out of order,” he remarked after a minute; “I’ll send Bebé.”</p>
<p>The doctor arrived in ten minutes.</p>
<p>“I think I’m on the verge of a collapse,” Gretchen told him in a strained voice.</p>
<p>Doctor Gregory sat down on the edge of the bed and took her wrist in his hand.</p>
<p>“It seems to be in the air this morning.”</p>
<p>“I got up,” said Gretchen in an awed voice, “and I found that I’d lost a whole day. I had an engagement to go riding with George Tompkins⁠—”</p>
<p>“What?” exclaimed the doctor in surprise. Then he laughed.</p>
<p>“George Tompkins won’t go riding with anyone for many days to come.”</p>
<p>“Has he gone away?” asked Gretchen curiously.</p>
<p>“He’s going West.”</p>
<p>“Why?” demanded Roger. “Is he running away with somebody’s wife?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Doctor Gregory. “He’s had a nervous breakdown.”</p>
<p>“What?” they exclaimed in unison.</p>
<p>“He just collapsed like an opera-hat in his cold shower.”</p>
<p>“But he was always talking about his⁠—his balanced life,” gasped Gretchen. “He had it on his mind.”</p>
<p>“I know,” said the doctor. “He’s been babbling about it all morning. I think it’s driven him a little mad. He worked pretty hard at it, you know.”</p>
<p>“At what?” demanded Roger in bewilderment.</p>
<p>“At keeping his life balanced.” He turned to Gretchen. “Now all I’ll prescribe for this lady here is a good rest. If she’ll just stay around the house for a few days and take forty winks of sleep she’ll be as fit as ever. She’s been under some strain.”</p>
<p>“Doctor,” exclaimed Roger hoarsely, “don’t you think I’d better have a rest or something? I’ve been working pretty hard lately.”</p>
<p>“You!” Doctor Gregory laughed, slapped him violently on the back. “My boy, I never saw you looking better in your life.”</p>
<p>Roger turned away quickly to conceal his smile⁠—winked forty times, or almost forty times, at the autographed picture of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> George Tompkins, which hung slightly askew on the bedroom wall.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="absolution" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Absolution</h2>
<section id="absolution-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>There was once a priest with cold, watery eyes, who, in the still of the night, wept cold tears. He wept because the afternoons were warm and long, and he was unable to attain a complete mystical union with our Lord. Sometimes, near four o’clock, there was a rustle of Swede girls along the path by his window, and in their shrill laughter he found a terrible dissonance that made him pray aloud for the twilight to come. At twilight the laughter and the voices were quieter, but several times he had walked past Romberg’s Drug Store when it was dusk and the yellow lights shone inside and the nickel taps of the soda-fountain were gleaming, and he had found the scent of cheap toilet soap desperately sweet upon the air. He passed that way when he returned from hearing confessions on Saturday nights, and he grew careful to walk on the other side of the street so that the smell of the soap would float upward before it reached his nostrils as it drifted, rather like incense, toward the summer moon.</p>
<p>But there was no escape from the hot madness of four o’clock. From his window, as far as he could see, the Dakota wheat thronged the valley of the Red River. The wheat was terrible to look upon and the carpet pattern to which in agony he bent his eyes sent his thought brooding through grotesque labyrinths, open always to the unavoidable sun.</p>
<p>One afternoon when he had reached the point where the mind runs down like an old clock, his housekeeper brought into his study a beautiful, intense little boy of eleven named Rudolph Miller. The little boy sat down in a patch of sunshine, and the priest, at his walnut desk, pretended to be very busy. This was to conceal his relief that someone had come into his haunted room.</p>
<p>Presently he turned around and found himself staring into two enormous, staccato eyes, lit with gleaming points of cobalt light. For a moment their expression startled him⁠—then he saw that his visitor was in a state of abject fear.</p>
<p>“Your mouth is trembling,” said Father Schwartz, in a haggard voice.</p>
<p>The little boy covered his quivering mouth with his hand.</p>
<p>“Are you in trouble?” asked Father Schwartz, sharply. “Take your hand away from your mouth and tell me what’s the matter.”</p>
<p>The boy⁠—Father Schwartz recognized him now as the son of a parishioner, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Miller, the freight-agent⁠—moved his hand reluctantly off his mouth and became articulate in a despairing whisper.</p>
<p>“Father Schwartz⁠—I’ve committed a terrible sin.”</p>
<p>“A sin against purity?”</p>
<p>“No, Father⁠ ⁠… worse.”</p>
<p>Father Schwartz’s body jerked sharply.</p>
<p>“Have you killed somebody?”</p>
<p>“No⁠—but I’m afraid⁠—” the voice rose to a shrill whimper.</p>
<p>“Do you want to go to confession?”</p>
<p>The little boy shook his head miserably. Father Schwartz cleared his throat so that he could make his voice soft and say some quiet, kind thing. In this moment he should forget his own agony, and try to act like God. He repeated to himself a devotional phrase, hoping that in return God would help him to act correctly.</p>
<p>“Tell me what you’ve done,” said his new soft voice.</p>
<p>The little boy looked at him through his tears, and was reassured by the impression of moral resiliency which the distraught priest had created. Abandoning as much of himself as he was able to this man, Rudolph Miller began to tell his story.</p>
<p>“On Saturday, three days ago, my father he said I had to go to confession, because I hadn’t been for a month, and the family they go every week, and I hadn’t been. So I just as leave go, I didn’t care. So I put it off till after supper because I was playing with a bunch of kids and father asked me if I went, and I said ‘no,’ and he took me by the neck and he said ‘You go now,’ so I said ‘All right,’ so I went over to church. And he yelled after me: ‘Don’t come back till you go.’⁠ ⁠…”</p>
</section>
<section id="absolution-2" epub:type="chapter">
<hgroup>
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p epub:type="title">“On Saturday, Three Days Ago.”</p>
</hgroup>
<p>The plush curtain of the confessional rearranged its dismal creases, leaving exposed only the bottom of an old man’s old shoe. Behind the curtain an immortal soul was alone with God and the Reverend Adolphus Schwartz, priest of the parish. Sound began, a labored whispering, sibilant and discreet, broken at intervals by the voice of the priest in audible question.</p>
<p>Rudolph Miller knelt in the pew beside the confessional and waited, straining nervously to hear, and yet not to hear what was being said within. The fact that the priest was audible alarmed him. His own turn came next, and the three or four others who waited might listen unscrupulously while he admitted his violations of the Sixth and Ninth Commandments.</p>
<p>Rudolph had never committed adultery, nor even coveted his neighbor’s wife⁠—but it was the confession of the associate sins that was particularly hard to contemplate. In comparison he relished the less shameful fallings away⁠—they formed a grayish background which relieved the ebony mark of sexual offenses upon his soul.</p>
<p>He had been covering his ears with his hands, hoping that his refusal to hear would be noticed, and a like courtesy rendered to him in turn, when a sharp movement of the penitent in the confessional made him sink his face precipitately into the crook of his elbow. Fear assumed solid form, and pressed out a lodging between his heart and his lungs. He must try now with all his might to be sorry for his sins⁠—not because he was afraid, but because he had offended God. He must convince God that he was sorry and to do so he must first convince himself. After a tense emotional struggle he achieved a tremulous self-pity, and decided that he was now ready. If, by allowing no other thought to enter his head, he could preserve this state of emotion unimpaired until he went into that large coffin set on end, he would have survived another crisis in his religious life.</p>
<p>For some time, however, a demoniac notion had partially possessed him. He could go home now, before his turn came, and tell his mother that he had arrived too late, and found the priest gone. This, unfortunately, involved the risk of being caught in a lie. As an alternative he could say that he <em>had</em> gone to confession, but this meant that he must avoid communion next day, for communion taken upon an uncleansed soul would turn to poison in his mouth, and he would crumple limp and damned from the altar-rail.</p>
<p>Again Father Schwartz’s voice became audible.</p>
<p>“And for your⁠—”</p>
<p>The words blurred to a husky mumble, and Rudolph got excitedly to his feet. He felt that it was impossible for him to go to confession this afternoon. He hesitated tensely. Then from the confessional came a tap, a creak, and a sustained rustle. The slide had fallen and the plush curtain trembled. Temptation had come to him too late.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.⁠ ⁠… I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned.⁠ ⁠… Since my last confession it has been one month and three days.⁠ ⁠… I accuse myself of⁠—taking the Name of the Lord in vain.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>This was an easy sin. His curses had been but bravado⁠—telling of them was little less than a brag.</p>
<p>“… of being mean to an old lady.”</p>
<p>The wan shadow moved a little on the latticed slat.</p>
<p>“How, my child?”</p>
<p>“Old lady Swenson,” Rudolph’s murmur soared jubilantly. “She got our baseball that we knocked in her window, and she wouldn’t give it back, so we yelled ‘Twenty-three, Skidoo,’ at her all afternoon. Then about five o’clock she had a fit, and they had to have the doctor.”</p>
<p>“Go on, my child.”</p>
<p>“Of⁠—of not believing I was the son of my parents.”</p>
<p>“What?” The interrogation was distinctly startled.</p>
<p>“Of not believing that I was the son of my parents.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Oh, just pride,” answered the penitent airily.</p>
<p>“You mean you thought you were too good to be the son of your parents?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Father.” On a less jubilant note.</p>
<p>“Go on.”</p>
<p>“Of being disobedient and calling my mother names. Of slandering people behind my back. Of smoking⁠—”</p>
<p>Rudolph had now exhausted the minor offenses, and was approaching the sins it was agony to tell. He held his fingers against his face like bars as if to press out between them the shame in his heart.</p>
<p>“Of dirty words and immodest thoughts and desires,” he whispered very low.</p>
<p>“How often?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Once a week? Twice a week?”</p>
<p>“Twice a week.”</p>
<p>“Did you yield to these desires?”</p>
<p>“No, Father.”</p>
<p>“Were you alone when you had them?”</p>
<p>“No, Father. I was with two boys and a girl.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you know, my child, that you should avoid the occasions of sin as well as the sin itself? Evil companionship leads to evil desires and evil desires to evil actions. Where were you when this happened?”</p>
<p>“In a barn in back of⁠—”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to hear any names,” interrupted the priest sharply.</p>
<p>“Well, it was up in the loft of this barn and this girl and⁠—a fella, they were saying things⁠—saying immodest things, and I stayed.”</p>
<p>“You should have gone⁠—you should have told the girl to go.”</p>
<p>He should have gone! He could not tell Father Schwartz how his pulse had bumped in his wrist, how a strange, romantic excitement had possessed him when those curious things had been said. Perhaps in the houses of delinquency among the dull and hard-eyed incorrigible girls can be found those for whom has burned the whitest fire.</p>
<p>“Have you anything else to tell me?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so, Father.”</p>
<p>Rudolph felt a great relief. Perspiration had broken out under his tight-pressed fingers.</p>
<p>“Have you told any lies?”</p>
<p>The question startled him. Like all those who habitually and instinctively lie, he had an enormous respect and awe for the truth. Something almost exterior to himself dictated a quick, hurt answer.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, Father, I never tell lies.”</p>
<p>For a moment, like the commoner in the king’s chair, he tasted the pride of the situation. Then as the priest began to murmur conventional admonitions he realized that in heroically denying he had told lies, he had committed a terrible sin⁠—he had told a lie in confession.</p>
<p>In automatic response to Father Schwartz’s “Make an act of contrition,” he began to repeat aloud meaninglessly:</p>
<p>“Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>He must fix this now⁠—it was a bad mistake⁠—but as his teeth shut on the last words of his prayer there was a sharp sound, and the slat was closed.</p>
<p>A minute later when he emerged into the twilight the relief in coming from the muggy church into an open world of wheat and sky postponed the full realization of what he had done. Instead of worrying he took a deep breath of the crisp air and began to say over and over to himself the words “Blatchford Sarnemington, Blatchford Sarnemington!”</p>
<p>Blatchford Sarnemington was himself, and these words were in effect a lyric. When he became Blatchford Sarnemington a suave nobility flowed from him. Blatchford Sarnemington lived in great sweeping triumphs. When Rudolph half closed his eyes it meant that Blatchford had established dominance over him and, as he went by, there were envious mutters in the air: “Blatchford Sarnemington! There goes Blatchford Sarnemington.”</p>
<p>He was Blatchford now for a while as he strutted homeward along the staggering road, but when the road braced itself in macadam in order to become the main street of Ludwig, Rudolph’s exhilaration faded out and his mind cooled, and he felt the horror of his lie. God, of course, already knew of it⁠—but Rudolph reserved a corner of his mind where he was safe from God, where he prepared the subterfuges with which he often tricked God. Hiding now in this corner he considered how he could best avoid the consequences of his misstatement.</p>
<p>At all costs he must avoid communion next day. The risk of angering God to such an extent was too great. He would have to drink water “by accident” in the morning, and thus, in accordance with a church law, render himself unfit to receive communion that day. In spite of its flimsiness this subterfuge was the most feasible that occurred to him. He accepted its risks and was concentrating on how best to put it into effect, as he turned the corner by Romberg’s Drug Store and came in sight of his father’s house.</p>
</section>
<section id="absolution-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Rudolph’s father, the local freight-agent, had floated with the second wave of German and Irish stock to the Minnesota-Dakota country. Theoretically, great opportunities lay ahead of a young man of energy in that day and place, but Carl Miller had been incapable of establishing either with his superiors or his subordinates the reputation for approximate immutability which is essential to success in a hierarchic industry. Somewhat gross, he was, nevertheless, insufficiently hardheaded and unable to take fundamental relationships for granted, and this inability made him suspicious, unrestful, and continually dismayed.</p>
<p>His two bonds with the colorful life were his faith in the Roman Catholic Church and his mystical worship of the Empire Builder, James <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Hill. Hill was the apotheosis of that quality in which Miller himself was deficient⁠—the sense of things, the feel of things, the hint of rain in the wind on the cheek. Miller’s mind worked late on the old decisions of other men, and he had never in his life felt the balance of any single thing in his hands. His weary, sprightly, undersized body was growing old in Hill’s gigantic shadow. For twenty years he had lived alone with Hill’s name and God.</p>
<p>On Sunday morning Carl Miller awoke in the dustless quiet of six o’clock. Kneeling by the side of the bed he bent his yellow-gray hair and the full dapple bangs of his mustache into the pillow, and prayed for several minutes. Then he drew off his nightshirt⁠—like the rest of his generation he had never been able to endure pajamas⁠—and clothed his thin, white, hairless body in woollen underwear.</p>
<p>He shaved. Silence in the other bedroom where his wife lay nervously asleep. Silence from the screened-off corner of the hall where his son’s cot stood, and his son slept among his Alger books, his collection of cigar-bands, his mothy pennants⁠—“Cornell,” “Hamlin,” and “Greetings from Pueblo, New Mexico”⁠—and the other possessions of his private life. From outside Miller could hear the shrill birds and the whirring movement of the poultry, and, as an undertone, the low, swelling click-a-tick of the six-fifteen through-train for Montana and the green coast beyond. Then as the cold water dripped from the washrag in his hand he raised his head suddenly⁠—he had heard a furtive sound from the kitchen below.</p>
<p>He dried his razor hastily, slipped his dangling suspenders to his shoulder, and listened. Someone was walking in the kitchen, and he knew by the light footfall that it was not his wife. With his mouth faintly ajar he ran quickly down the stairs and opened the kitchen door.</p>
<p>Standing by the sink, with one hand on the still dripping faucet and the other clutching a full glass of water, stood his son. The boy’s eyes, still heavy with sleep, met his father’s with a frightened, reproachful beauty. He was barefooted, and his pajamas were rolled up at the knees and sleeves.</p>
<p>For a moment they both remained motionless⁠—Carl Miller’s brow went down and his son’s went up, as though they were striking a balance between the extremes of emotion which filled them. Then the bangs of the parent’s moustache descended portentously until they obscured his mouth, and he gave a short glance around to see if anything had been disturbed.</p>
<p>The kitchen was garnished with sunlight which beat on the pans and made the smooth boards of the floor and table yellow and clean as wheat. It was the centre of the house where the fire burned and the tins fitted into tins like toys, and the steam whistled all day on a thin pastel note. Nothing was moved, nothing touched⁠—except the faucet where beads of water still formed and dripped with a white flash into the sink below.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“I got awful thirsty, so I thought I’d just come down and get⁠—”</p>
<p>“I thought you were going to communion.”</p>
<p>A look of vehement astonishment spread over his son’s face.</p>
<p>“I forgot all about it.”</p>
<p>“Have you drunk any water?”</p>
<p>“No⁠—”</p>
<p>As the word left his mouth Rudolph knew it was the wrong answer, but the faded indignant eyes facing him had signalled up the truth before the boy’s will could act. He realized, too, that he should never have come downstairs; some vague necessity for verisimilitude had made him want to leave a wet glass as evidence by the sink; the honesty of his imagination had betrayed him.</p>
<p>“Pour it out,” commanded his father, “that water!”</p>
<p>Rudolph despairingly inverted the tumbler.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you, anyways?” demanded Miller angrily.</p>
<p>“Nothing.”</p>
<p>“Did you go to confession yesterday?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Then why were you going to drink water?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know⁠—I forgot.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you care more about being a little bit thirsty than you do about your religion.”</p>
<p>“I forgot.” Rudolph could feel the tears straining in his eyes.</p>
<p>“That’s no answer.”</p>
<p>“Well, I did.”</p>
<p>“You better look out!” His father held to a high, persistent, inquisitory note: “If you’re so forgetful that you can’t remember your religion something better be done about it.”</p>
<p>Rudolph filled a sharp pause with:</p>
<p>“I can remember it all right.”</p>
<p>“First you begin to neglect your religion,” cried his father, fanning his own fierceness, “the next thing you’ll begin to lie and steal, and the <em>next</em> thing is the <em>reform</em> school!”</p>
<p>Not even this familiar threat could deepen the abyss that Rudolph saw before him. He must either tell all now, offering his body for what he knew would be a ferocious beating, or else tempt the thunderbolts by receiving the Body and Blood of Christ with sacrilege upon his soul. And of the two the former seemed more terrible⁠—it was not so much the beating he dreaded as the savage ferocity, outlet of the ineffectual man, which would lie behind it.</p>
<p>“Put down that glass and go upstairs and dress!” his father ordered, “and when we get to church, before you go to communion, you better kneel down and ask God to forgive you for your carelessness.”</p>
<p>Some accidental emphasis in the phrasing of this command acted like a catalytic agent on the confusion and terror of Rudolph’s mind. A wild, proud anger rose in him, and he dashed the tumbler passionately into the sink.</p>
<p>His father uttered a strained, husky sound, and sprang for him. Rudolph dodged to the side, tipped over a chair, and tried to get beyond the kitchen table. He cried out sharply when a hand grasped his pajama shoulder, then he felt the dull impact of a fist against the side of his head, and glancing blows on the upper part of his body. As he slipped here and there in his father’s grasp, dragged or lifted when he clung instinctively to an arm, aware of sharp smarts and strains, he made no sound except that he laughed hysterically several times. Then in less than a minute the blows abruptly ceased. After a lull during which Rudolph was tightly held, and during which they both trembled violently and uttered strange, truncated words, Carl Miller half dragged, half threatened his son upstairs.</p>
<p>“Put on your clothes!”</p>
<p>Rudolph was now both hysterical and cold. His head hurt him, and there was a long, shallow scratch on his neck from his father’s fingernail, and he sobbed and trembled as he dressed. He was aware of his mother standing at the doorway in a wrapper, her wrinkled face compressing and squeezing and opening out into new series of wrinkles which floated and eddied from neck to brow. Despising her nervous ineffectuality and avoiding her rudely when she tried to touch his neck with witch-hazel, he made a hasty, choking toilet. Then he followed his father out of the house and along the road toward the Catholic church.</p>
</section>
<section id="absolution-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>They walked without speaking except when Carl Miller acknowledged automatically the existence of passersby. Rudolph’s uneven breathing alone ruffled the hot Sunday silence.</p>
<p>His father stopped decisively at the door of the church.</p>
<p>“I’ve decided you’d better go to confession again. Go in and tell Father Schwartz what you did and ask God’s pardon.”</p>
<p>“You lost your temper, too!” said Rudolph quickly.</p>
<p>Carl Miller took a step toward his son, who moved cautiously backward.</p>
<p>“All right, I’ll go.”</p>
<p>“Are you going to do what I say?” cried his father in a hoarse whisper.</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>Rudolph walked into the church, and for the second time in two days entered the confessional and knelt down. The slat went up almost at once.</p>
<p>“I accuse myself of missing my morning prayers.”</p>
<p>“Is that all?”</p>
<p>“That’s all.”</p>
<p>A maudlin exultation filled him. Not easily ever again would he be able to put an abstraction before the necessities of his ease and pride. An invisible line had been crossed, and he had become aware of his isolation⁠—aware that it applied not only to those moments when he was Blatchford Sarnemington but that it applied to all his inner life. Hitherto such phenomena as “crazy” ambitions and petty shames and fears had been but private reservations, unacknowledged before the throne of his official soul. Now he realized unconsciously that his private reservations were himself⁠—and all the rest a garnished front and a conventional flag. The pressure of his environment had driven him into the lonely secret road of adolescence.</p>
<p>He knelt in the pew beside his father. Mass began. Rudolph knelt up⁠—when he was alone he slumped his posterior back against the seat⁠—and tasted the consciousness of a sharp, subtle revenge. Beside him his father prayed that God would forgive Rudolph, and asked also that his own outbreak of temper would be pardoned. He glanced sidewise at this son, and was relieved to see that the strained, wild look had gone from his face and that he had ceased sobbing. The Grace of God, inherent in the Sacrament, would do the rest, and perhaps after Mass everything would be better. He was proud of Rudolph in his heart, and beginning to be truly as well as formally sorry for what he had done.</p>
<p>Usually, the passing of the collection box was a significant point for Rudolph in the services. If, as was often the case, he had no money to drop in he would be furiously ashamed and bow his head and pretend not to see the box, lest Jeanne Brady in the pew behind should take notice and suspect an acute family poverty. But today he glanced coldly into it as it skimmed under his eyes, noting with casual interest the large number of pennies it contained.</p>
<p>When the bell rang for communion, however, he quivered. There was no reason why God should not stop his heart. During the past twelve hours he had committed a series of mortal sins increasing in gravity, and he was now to crown them all with a blasphemous sacrilege.</p>
<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Domini, non sum dignus; ut interes sub tectum meum; sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea.⁠ ⁠…</i>”</p>
<p>There was a rustle in the pews, and the communicants worked their ways into the aisle with downcast eyes and joined hands. Those of larger piety pressed together their fingertips to form steeples. Among these latter was Carl Miller. Rudolph followed him toward the altar-rail and knelt down, automatically taking up the napkin under his chin. The bell rang sharply, and the priest turned from the altar with the white Host held above the chalice:</p>
<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam aeternam.</i>”</p>
<p>A cold sweat broke out on Rudolph’s forehead as the communion began. Along the line Father Schwartz moved, and with gathering nausea Rudolph felt his heart-valves weakening at the will of God. It seemed to him that the church was darker and that a great quiet had fallen, broken only by the inarticulate mumble which announced the approach of the Creator of Heaven and Earth. He dropped his head down between his shoulders and waited for the blow.</p>
<p>Then he felt a sharp nudge in his side. His father was poking him to sit up, not to slump against the rail; the priest was only two places away.</p>
<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam meam in vitam aeternam.</i>”</p>
<p>Rudolph opened his mouth. He felt the sticky wax taste of the wafer on his tongue. He remained motionless for what seemed an interminable period of time, his head still raised, the wafer undissolved in his mouth. Then again he started at the pressure of his father’s elbow, and saw that the people were falling away from the altar like leaves and turning with blind downcast eyes to their pews, alone with God.</p>
<p>Rudolph was alone with himself, drenched with perspiration and deep in mortal sin. As he walked back to his pew the sharp taps of his cloven hoofs were loud upon the floor, and he knew that it was a dark poison he carried in his heart.</p>
</section>
<section id="absolution-5" epub:type="chapter">
<hgroup>
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p epub:type="title">“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Sagitta Volante in Dei</i>”</p>
</hgroup>
<p>The beautiful little boy with eyes like blue stones, and lashes that sprayed open from them like flower-petals had finished telling his sin to Father Schwartz⁠—and the square of sunshine in which he sat had moved forward half an hour into the room. Rudolph had become less frightened now; once eased of the story a reaction had set in. He knew that as long as he was in the room with this priest God would not stop his heart, so he sighed and sat quietly, waiting for the priest to speak.</p>
<p>Father Schwartz’s cold watery eyes were fixed upon the carpet pattern on which the sun had brought out the swastikas and the flat bloomless vines and the pale echoes of flowers. The hall-clock ticked insistently toward sunset, and from the ugly room and from the afternoon outside the window arose a stiff monotony, shattered now and then by the reverberate clapping of a faraway hammer on the dry air. The priest’s nerves were strung thin and the beads of his rosary were crawling and squirming like snakes upon the green felt of his table top. He could not remember now what it was he should say.</p>
<p>Of all the things in this lost Swede town he was most aware of this little boy’s eyes⁠—the beautiful eyes, with lashes that left them reluctantly and curved back as though to meet them once more.</p>
<p>For a moment longer the silence persisted while Rudolph waited, and the priest struggled to remember something that was slipping farther and farther away from him, and the clock ticked in the broken house. Then Father Schwartz stared hard at the little boy and remarked in a peculiar voice:</p>
<p>“When a lot of people get together in the best places things go glimmering.”</p>
<p>Rudolph started and looked quickly at Father Schwartz’s face.</p>
<p>“I said⁠—” began the priest, and paused, listening. “Do you hear the hammer and the clock ticking and the bees? Well, that’s no good. The thing is to have a lot of people in the centre of the world, wherever that happens to be. Then”⁠—his watery eyes widened knowingly⁠—“things go glimmering.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Father,” agreed Rudolph, feeling a little frightened.</p>
<p>“What are you going to be when you grow up?”</p>
<p>“Well, I was going to be a baseball-player for a while,” answered Rudolph nervously, “but I don’t think that’s a very good ambition, so I think I’ll be an actor or a Navy officer.”</p>
<p>Again the priest stared at him.</p>
<p>“I see <em>exactly</em> what you mean,” he said, with a fierce air.</p>
<p>Rudolph had not meant anything in particular, and at the implication that he had, he became more uneasy.</p>
<p>“This man is crazy,” he thought, “and I’m scared of him. He wants me to help him out some way, and I don’t want to.”</p>
<p>“You look as if things went glimmering,” cried Father Schwartz wildly. “Did you ever go to a party?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Father.”</p>
<p>“And did you notice that everybody was properly dressed? That’s what I mean. Just as you went into the party there was a moment when everybody was properly dressed. Maybe two little girls were standing by the door and some boys were leaning over the banisters, and there were bowls around full of flowers.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been to a lot of parties,” said Rudolph, rather relieved that the conversation had taken this turn.</p>
<p>“Of course,” continued Father Schwartz triumphantly, “I knew you’d agree with me. But my theory is that when a whole lot of people get together in the best places things go glimmering all the time.”</p>
<p>Rudolph found himself thinking of Blatchford Sarnemington.</p>
<p>“Please listen to me!” commanded the priest impatiently. “Stop worrying about last Saturday. Apostasy implies an absolute damnation only on the supposition of a previous perfect faith. Does that fix it?”</p>
<p>Rudolph had not the faintest idea what Father Schwartz was talking about, but he nodded and the priest nodded back at him and returned to his mysterious preoccupation.</p>
<p>“Why,” he cried, “they have lights now as big as stars⁠—do you realize that? I heard of one light they had in Paris or somewhere that was as big as a star. A lot of people had it⁠—a lot of gay people. They have all sorts of things now that you never dreamed of.”</p>
<p>“Look here⁠—” He came nearer to Rudolph, but the boy drew away, so Father Schwartz went back and sat down in his chair, his eyes dried out and hot. “Did you ever see an amusement park?”</p>
<p>“No, Father.”</p>
<p>“Well, go and see an amusement park.” The priest waved his hand vaguely. “It’s a thing like a fair, only much more glittering. Go to one at night and stand a little way off from it in a dark place⁠—under dark trees. You’ll see a big wheel made of lights turning in the air, and a long slide shooting boats down into the water. A band playing somewhere, and a smell of peanuts⁠—and everything will twinkle. But it won’t remind you of anything, you see. It will all just hang out there in the night like a colored balloon⁠—like a big yellow lantern on a pole.”</p>
<p>Father Schwartz frowned as he suddenly thought of something.</p>
<p>“But don’t get up close,” he warned Rudolph, “because if you do you’ll only feel the heat and the sweat and the life.”</p>
<p>All this talking seemed particularly strange and awful to Rudolph, because this man was a priest. He sat there, half terrified, his beautiful eyes open wide and staring at Father Schwartz. But underneath his terror he felt that his own inner convictions were confirmed. There was something ineffably gorgeous somewhere that had nothing to do with God. He no longer thought that God was angry at him about the original lie, because He must have understood that Rudolph had done it to make things finer in the confessional, brightening up the dinginess of his admissions by saying a thing radiant and proud. At the moment when he had affirmed immaculate honor a silver pennon had flapped out into the breeze somewhere and there had been the crunch of leather and the shine of silver spurs and a troop of horsemen waiting for dawn on a low green hill. The sun had made stars of light on their breastplates like the picture at home of the German cuirassiers at Sedan.</p>
<p>But now the priest was muttering inarticulate and heartbroken words, and the boy became wildly afraid. Horror entered suddenly in at the open window, and the atmosphere of the room changed. Father Schwartz collapsed precipitously down on his knees, and let his body settle back against a chair.</p>
<p>“Oh, my God!” he cried out, in a strange voice, and wilted to the floor.</p>
<p>Then a human oppression rose from the priest’s worn clothes, and mingled with the faint smell of old food in the corners. Rudolph gave a sharp cry and ran in a panic from the house⁠—while the collapsed man lay there quite still, filling his room, filling it with voices and faces until it was crowded with echolalia, and rang loud with a steady, shrill note of laughter.</p>
<p>Outside the window the blue sirocco trembled over the wheat, and girls with yellow hair walked sensuously along roads that bounded the fields, calling innocent, exciting things to the young men who were working in the lines between the grain. Legs were shaped under starchless gingham, and rims of the necks of dresses were warm and damp. For five hours now hot fertile life had burned in the afternoon. It would be night in three hours, and all along the land there would be these blonde Northern girls and the tall young men from the farms lying out beside the wheat, under the moon.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-sensible-thing" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">“The Sensible Thing”</h2>
<section id="the-sensible-thing-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>At the Great American Lunch Hour young George O’Kelly straightened his desk deliberately and with an assumed air of interest. No one in the office must know that he was in a hurry, for success is a matter of atmosphere, and it is not well to advertise the fact that your mind is separated from your work by a distance of seven hundred miles.</p>
<p>But once out of the building he set his teeth and began to run, glancing now and then at the gay noon of early spring which filled Times Square and loitered less than twenty feet over the heads of the crowd. The crowd all looked slightly upward and took deep March breaths, and the sun dazzled their eyes so that scarcely anyone saw anyone else but only their own reflection on the sky.</p>
<p>George O’Kelly, whose mind was over seven hundred miles away, thought that all outdoors was horrible. He rushed into the subway, and for ninety-five blocks bent a frenzied glance on a car-card which showed vividly how he had only one chance in five of keeping his teeth for ten years. At 137th Street he broke off his study of commercial art, left the subway, and began to run again, a tireless, anxious run that brought him this time to his home⁠—one room in a high, horrible apartment-house in the middle of nowhere.</p>
<p>There it was on the bureau, the letter⁠—in sacred ink, on blessed paper⁠—all over the city, people, if they listened, could hear the beating of George O’Kelly’s heart. He read the commas, the blots, and the thumb-smudge on the margin⁠—then he threw himself hopelessly upon his bed.</p>
<p>He was in a mess, one of those terrific messes which are ordinary incidents in the life of the poor, which follow poverty like birds of prey. The poor go under or go up or go wrong or even go on, somehow, in a way the poor have⁠—but George O’Kelly was so new to poverty that had anyone denied the uniqueness of his case he would have been astounded.</p>
<p>Less than two years ago he had been graduated with honors from The Massachusetts Institute of Technology and had taken a position with a firm of construction engineers in southern Tennessee. All his life he had thought in terms of tunnels and skyscrapers and great squat dams and tall, three-towered bridges, that were like dancers holding hands in a row, with heads as tall as cities and skirts of cable strand. It had seemed romantic to George O’Kelly to change the sweep of rivers and the shape of mountains so that life could flourish in the old bad lands of the world where it had never taken root before. He loved steel, and there was always steel near him in his dreams, liquid steel, steel in bars, and blocks and beams and formless plastic masses, waiting for him, as paint and canvas to his hand. Steel inexhaustible, to be made lovely and austere in his imaginative fire⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>At present he was an insurance clerk at forty dollars a week with his dream slipping fast behind him. The dark little girl who had made this mess, this terrible and intolerable mess, was waiting to be sent for in a town in Tennessee.</p>
<p>In fifteen minutes the woman from whom he sublet his room knocked and asked him with maddening kindness if, since he was home, he would have some lunch. He shook his head, but the interruption aroused him, and getting up from the bed he wrote a telegram.</p>
<p>“Letter depressed me have you lost your nerve you are foolish and just upset to think of breaking off why not marry me immediately sure we can make it all right⁠—”</p>
<p>He hesitated for a wild minute, and then added in a hand that could scarcely be recognized as his own: “In any case I will arrive tomorrow at six o’clock.”</p>
<p>When he finished he ran out of the apartment and down to the telegraph office near the subway stop. He possessed in this world not quite one hundred dollars, but the letter showed that she was “nervous” and this left him no choice. He knew what “nervous” meant⁠—that she was emotionally depressed, that the prospect of marrying into a life of poverty and struggle was putting too much strain upon her love.</p>
<p>George O’Kelly reached the insurance company at his usual run, the run that had become almost second nature to him, that seemed best to express the tension under which he lived. He went straight to the manager’s office.</p>
<p>“I want to see you, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chambers,” he announced breathlessly.</p>
<p>“Well?” Two eyes, eyes like winter windows, glared at him with ruthless impersonality.</p>
<p>“I want to get four days’ vacation.”</p>
<p>“Why, you had a vacation just two weeks ago!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chambers in surprise.</p>
<p>“That’s true,” admitted the distraught young man, “but now I’ve got to have another.”</p>
<p>“Where’d you go last time? To your home?”</p>
<p>“No, I went to⁠—a place in Tennessee.”</p>
<p>“Well, where do you want to go this time?”</p>
<p>“Well, this time I want to go to⁠—a place in Tennessee.”</p>
<p>“You’re consistent, anyhow,” said the manager dryly. “But I didn’t realize you were employed here as a travelling salesman.”</p>
<p>“I’m not,” cried George desperately, “but I’ve got to go.”</p>
<p>“All right,” agreed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chambers, “but you don’t have to come back. So don’t!”</p>
<p>“I won’t.” And to his own astonishment as well as <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chambers’ George’s face grew pink with pleasure. He felt happy, exultant⁠—for the first time in six months he was absolutely free. Tears of gratitude stood in his eyes, and he seized <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chambers warmly by the hand.</p>
<p>“I want to thank you,” he said with a rush of emotion, “I don’t want to come back. I think I’d have gone crazy if you’d said that I could come back. Only I couldn’t quit myself, you see, and I want to thank you for⁠—for quitting for me.”</p>
<p>He waved his hand magnanimously, shouted aloud, “You owe me three days’ salary but you can keep it!” and rushed from the office. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chambers rang for his stenographer to ask if O’Kelly had seemed queer lately. He had fired many men in the course of his career, and they had taken it in many different ways, but none of them had thanked him⁠—ever before.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-sensible-thing-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Jonquil Cary was her name, and to George O’Kelly nothing had ever looked so fresh and pale as her face when she saw him and fled to him eagerly along the station platform. Her arms were raised to him, her mouth was half parted for his kiss, when she held him off suddenly and lightly and, with a touch of embarrassment, looked around. Two boys, somewhat younger than George, were standing in the background.</p>
<p>“This is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Craddock and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Holt,” she announced cheerfully. “You met them when you were here before.”</p>
<p>Disturbed by the transition of a kiss into an introduction and suspecting some hidden significance, George was more confused when he found that the automobile which was to carry them to Jonquil’s house belonged to one of the two young men. It seemed to put him at a disadvantage. On the way Jonquil chattered between the front and back seats, and when he tried to slip his arm around her under cover of the twilight she compelled him with a quick movement to take her hand instead.</p>
<p>“Is this street on the way to your house?” he whispered. “I don’t recognize it.”</p>
<p>“It’s the new boulevard. Jerry just got this car today, and he wants to show it to me before he takes us home.”</p>
<p>When, after twenty minutes, they were deposited at Jonquil’s house, George felt that the first happiness of the meeting, the joy he had recognized so surely in her eyes back in the station, had been dissipated by the intrusion of the ride. Something that he had looked forward to had been rather casually lost, and he was brooding on this as he said good night stiffly to the two young men. Then his ill-humor faded as Jonquil drew him into a familiar embrace under the dim light of the front hall and told him in a dozen ways, of which the best was without words, how she had missed him. Her emotion reassured him, promised his anxious heart that everything would be all right.</p>
<p>They sat together on the sofa, overcome by each other’s presence, beyond all except fragmentary endearments. At the supper hour Jonquil’s father and mother appeared and were glad to see George. They liked him, and had been interested in his engineering career when he had first come to Tennessee over a year before. They had been sorry when he had given it up and gone to New York to look for something more immediately profitable, but while they deplored the curtailment of his career they sympathized with him and were ready to recognize the engagement. During dinner they asked about his progress in New York.</p>
<p>“Everything’s going fine,” he told them with enthusiasm. “I’ve been promoted⁠—better salary.”</p>
<p>He was miserable as he said this⁠—but they were all <em>so</em> glad.</p>
<p>“They must like you,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary, “that’s certain⁠—or they wouldn’t let you off twice in three weeks to come down here.”</p>
<p>“I told them they had to,” explained George hastily; “I told them if they didn’t I wouldn’t work for them any more.”</p>
<p>“But you ought to save your money,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary reproached him gently. “Not spend it all on this expensive trip.”</p>
<p>Dinner was over⁠—he and Jonquil were alone and she came back into his arms.</p>
<p>“So glad you’re here,” she sighed. “Wish you never were going away again, darling.”</p>
<p>“Do you miss me?”</p>
<p>“Oh, so much, so much.”</p>
<p>“Do you⁠—do other men come to see you often? Like those two kids?”</p>
<p>The question surprised her. The dark velvet eyes stared at him.</p>
<p>“Why, of course they do. All the time. Why⁠—I’ve told you in letters that they did, dearest.”</p>
<p>This was true⁠—when he had first come to the city there had been already a dozen boys around her, responding to her picturesque fragility with adolescent worship, and a few of them perceiving that her beautiful eyes were also sane and kind.</p>
<p>“Do you expect me never to go anywhere”⁠—Jonquil demanded, leaning back against the sofa-pillows until she seemed to look at him from many miles away⁠—“and just fold my hands and sit still⁠—forever?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” he blurted out in a panic. “Do you mean you think I’ll never have enough money to marry you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t jump at conclusions so, George.”</p>
<p>“I’m not jumping at conclusions. That’s what you said.”</p>
<p>George decided suddenly that he was on dangerous grounds. He had not intended to let anything spoil this night. He tried to take her again in his arms, but she resisted unexpectedly, saying:</p>
<p>“It’s hot. I’m going to get the electric fan.”</p>
<p>When the fan was adjusted they sat down again, but he was in a supersensitive mood and involuntarily he plunged into the specific world he had intended to avoid.</p>
<p>“When will you marry me?”</p>
<p>“Are you ready for me to marry you?”</p>
<p>All at once his nerves gave way, and he sprang to his feet.</p>
<p>“Let’s shut off that damned fan,” he cried, “it drives me wild. It’s like a clock ticking away all the time I’ll be with you. I came here to be happy and forget everything about New York and time⁠—”</p>
<p>He sank down on the sofa as suddenly as he had risen. Jonquil turned off the fan, and drawing his head down into her lap began stroking his hair.</p>
<p>“Let’s sit like this,” she said softly, “just sit quiet like this, and I’ll put you to sleep. You’re all tired and nervous, and your sweetheart’ll take care of you.”</p>
<p>“But I don’t want to sit like this,” he complained, jerking up suddenly, “I don’t want to sit like this at all. I want you to kiss me. That’s the only thing that makes me rest. And anyways I’m not nervous⁠—it’s you that’s nervous. I’m not nervous at all.”</p>
<p>To prove that he wasn’t nervous he left the couch and plumped himself into a rocking-chair across the room.</p>
<p>“Just when I’m ready to marry you you write me the most nervous letters, as if you’re going to back out, and I have to come rushing down here⁠—”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”</p>
<p>“But I <em>do</em> want to!” insisted George.</p>
<p>It seemed to him that he was being very cool and logical and that she was putting him deliberately in the wrong. With every word they were drawing farther and farther apart⁠—and he was unable to stop himself or to keep worry and pain out of his voice.</p>
<p>But in a minute Jonquil began to cry sorrowfully and he came back to the sofa and put his arm around her. He was the comforter now, drawing her head close to his shoulder, murmuring old familiar things until she grew calmer and only trembled a little, spasmodically, in his arms. For over an hour they sat there, while the evening pianos thumped their last cadences into the street outside. George did not move, or think, or hope, lulled into numbness by the premonition of disaster. The clock would tick on, past eleven, past twelve, and then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary would call down gently over the banister⁠—beyond that he saw only tomorrow and despair.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-sensible-thing-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>In the heat of the next day the breaking-point came. They had each guessed the truth about the other, but of the two she was the more ready to admit the situation.</p>
<p>“There’s no use going on,” she said miserably, “you know you hate the insurance business, and you’ll never do well in it.”</p>
<p>“That’s not it,” he insisted stubbornly; “I hate going on alone. If you’ll marry me and come with me and take a chance with me, I can make good at anything, but not while I’m worrying about you down here.”</p>
<p>She was silent a long time before she answered, not thinking⁠—for she had seen the end⁠—but only waiting, because she knew that every word would seem more cruel than the last. Finally she spoke:</p>
<p>“George, I love you with all my heart, and I don’t see how I can ever love anyone else but you. If you’d been ready for me two months ago I’d have married you⁠—now I can’t because it doesn’t seem to be the sensible thing.”</p>
<p>He made wild accusations⁠—there was someone else⁠—she was keeping something from him!</p>
<p>“No, there’s no one else.”</p>
<p>This was true. But reacting from the strain of this affair she had found relief in the company of young boys like Jerry Holt, who had the merit of meaning absolutely nothing in her life.</p>
<p>George didn’t take the situation well, at all. He seized her in his arms and tried literally to kiss her into marrying him at once. When this failed, he broke into a long monologue of self-pity, and ceased only when he saw that he was making himself despicable in her sight. He threatened to leave when he had no intention of leaving, and refused to go when she told him that, after all, it was best that he should.</p>
<p>For a while she was sorry, then for another while she was merely kind.</p>
<p>“You’d better go now,” she cried at last, so loud that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary came downstairs in alarm.</p>
<p>“Is something the matter?”</p>
<p>“I’m going away, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary,” said George brokenly. Jonquil had left the room.</p>
<p>“Don’t feel so badly, George.” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary blinked at him in helpless sympathy⁠—sorry and, in the same breath, glad that the little tragedy was almost done. “If I were you I’d go home to your mother for a week or so. Perhaps after all this is the sensible thing⁠—”</p>
<p>“Please don’t talk,” he cried. “Please don’t say anything to me now!”</p>
<p>Jonquil came into the room again, her sorrow and her nervousness alike tucked under powder and rouge and hat.</p>
<p>“I’ve ordered a taxicab,” she said impersonally. “We can drive around until your train leaves.”</p>
<p>She walked out on the front porch. George put on his coat and hat and stood for a minute exhausted in the hall⁠—he had eaten scarcely a bite since he had left New York. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary came over, drew his head down and kissed him on the cheek, and he felt very ridiculous and weak in his knowledge that the scene had been ridiculous and weak at the end. If he had only gone the night before⁠—left her for the last time with a decent pride.</p>
<p>The taxi had come, and for an hour these two that had been lovers rode along the less-frequented streets. He held her hand and grew calmer in the sunshine, seeing too late that there had been nothing all along to do or say.</p>
<p>“I’ll come back,” he told her.</p>
<p>“I know you will,” she answered, trying to put a cheery faith into her voice. “And we’ll write each other⁠—sometimes.”</p>
<p>“No,” he said, “we won’t write. I couldn’t stand that. Some day I’ll come back.”</p>
<p>“I’ll never forget you, George.”</p>
<p>They reached the station, and she went with him while he bought his ticket.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“Why, George O’Kelly and Jonquil Cary!”</p>
<p>It was a man and a girl whom George had known when he had worked in town, and Jonquil seemed to greet their presence with relief. For an interminable five minutes they all stood there talking; then the train roared into the station, and with ill-concealed agony in his face George held out his arms toward Jonquil. She took an uncertain step toward him, faltered, and then pressed his hand quickly as if she were taking leave of a chance friend.</p>
<p>“Goodbye, George,” she was saying, “I hope you have a pleasant trip.”</p>
<p>“Goodbye, George. Come back and see us all again.”</p>
<p>Dumb, almost blind with pain, he seized his suitcase, and in some dazed way got himself aboard the train.</p>
<p>Past clanging street-crossings, gathering speed through wide suburban spaces toward the sunset. Perhaps she too would see the sunset and pause for a moment, turning, remembering, before he faded with her sleep into the past. This night’s dusk would cover up forever the sun and the trees and the flowers and laughter of his young world.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-sensible-thing-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>On a damp afternoon in September of the following year a young man with his face burned to a deep copper glow got off a train at a city in Tennessee. He looked around anxiously, and seemed relieved when he found that there was no one in the station to meet him. He taxied to the best hotel in the city where he registered with some satisfaction as George O’Kelly, Cuzco, Peru.</p>
<p>Up in his room he sat for a few minutes at the window looking down into the familiar street below. Then with his hand trembling faintly he took off the telephone receiver and called a number.</p>
<p>“Is Miss Jonquil in?”</p>
<p>“This is she.”</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—” His voice after overcoming a faint tendency to waver went on with friendly formality.</p>
<p>“This is George Rollins. Did you get my letter?”</p>
<p>“Yes. I thought you’d be in today.”</p>
<p>Her voice, cool and unmoved, disturbed him, but not as he had expected. This was the voice of a stranger, unexcited, pleasantly glad to see him⁠—that was all. He wanted to put down the telephone and catch his breath.</p>
<p>“I haven’t seen you for⁠—a long time.” He succeeded in making this sound offhand. “Over a year.”</p>
<p>He knew how long it had been⁠—to the day.</p>
<p>“It’ll be awfully nice to talk to you again.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be there in about an hour.”</p>
<p>He hung up. For four long seasons every minute of his leisure had been crowded with anticipation of this hour, and now this hour was here. He had thought of finding her married, engaged, in love⁠—he had not thought she would be unstirred at his return.</p>
<p>There would never again in his life, he felt, be another ten months like these he had just gone through. He had made an admittedly remarkable showing for a young engineer⁠—stumbled into two unusual opportunities, one in Peru, whence he had just returned, and another, consequent upon it, in New York, whither he was bound. In this short time he had risen from poverty into a position of unlimited opportunity.</p>
<p>He looked at himself in the dressing-table mirror. He was almost black with tan, but it was a romantic black, and in the last week, since he had had time to think about it, it had given him considerable pleasure. The hardiness of his frame, too, he appraised with a sort of fascination. He had lost part of an eyebrow somewhere, and he still wore an elastic bandage on his knee, but he was too young not to realize that on the steamer many women had looked at him with unusual tributary interest.</p>
<p>His clothes, of course, were frightful. They had been made for him by a Greek tailor in Lima⁠—in two days. He was young enough, too, to have explained this sartorial deficiency to Jonquil in his otherwise laconic note. The only further detail it contained was a request that he should <em>not</em> be met at the station.</p>
<p>George O’Kelly, of Cuzco, Peru, waited an hour and a half in the hotel, until, to be exact, the sun had reached a midway position in the sky. Then, freshly shaven and talcum-powdered toward a somewhat more Caucasian hue, for vanity at the last minute had overcome romance, he engaged a taxicab and set out for the house he knew so well.</p>
<p>He was breathing hard⁠—he noticed this but he told himself that it was excitement, not emotion. He was here; she was not married⁠—that was enough. He was not even sure what he had to say to her. But this was the moment of his life that he felt he could least easily have dispensed with. There was no triumph, after all, without a girl concerned, and if he did not lay his spoils at her feet he could at least hold them for a passing moment before her eyes.</p>
<p>The house loomed up suddenly beside him, and his first thought was that it had assumed a strange unreality. There was nothing changed⁠—only everything was changed. It was smaller and it seemed shabbier than before⁠—there was no cloud of magic hovering over its roof and issuing from the windows of the upper floor. He rang the doorbell and an unfamiliar colored maid appeared. Miss Jonquil would be down in a moment. He wet his lips nervously and walked into the sitting-room⁠—and the feeling of unreality increased. After all, he saw, this was only a room, and not the enchanted chamber where he had passed those poignant hours. He sat in a chair, amazed to find it a chair, realizing that his imagination had distorted and colored all these simple familiar things.</p>
<p>Then the door opened and Jonquil came into the room⁠—and it was as though everything in it suddenly blurred before his eyes. He had not remembered how beautiful she was, and he felt his face grow pale and his voice diminish to a poor sigh in his throat.</p>
<p>She was dressed in pale green, and a gold ribbon bound back her dark, straight hair like a crown. The familiar velvet eyes caught his as she came through the door, and a spasm of fright went through him at her beauty’s power of inflicting pain.</p>
<p>He said “Hello,” and they each took a few steps forward and shook hands. Then they sat in chairs quite far apart and gazed at each other across the room.</p>
<p>“You’ve come back,” she said, and he answered just as tritely: “I wanted to stop in and see you as I came through.”</p>
<p>He tried to neutralize the tremor in his voice by looking anywhere but at her face. The obligation to speak was on him, but, unless he immediately began to boast, it seemed that there was nothing to say. There had never been anything casual in their previous relations⁠—it didn’t seem possible that people in this position would talk about the weather.</p>
<p>“This is ridiculous,” he broke out in sudden embarrassment. “I don’t know exactly what to do. Does my being here bother you?”</p>
<p>“No.” The answer was both reticent and impersonally sad. It depressed him.</p>
<p>“Are you engaged?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Are you in love with someone?”</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair. Another subject seemed exhausted⁠—the interview was not taking the course he had intended.</p>
<p>“Jonquil,” he began, this time on a softer key, “after all that’s happened between us, I wanted to come back and see you. Whatever I do in the future I’ll never love another girl as I’ve loved you.”</p>
<p>This was one of the speeches he had rehearsed. On the steamer it had seemed to have just the right note⁠—a reference to the tenderness he would always feel for her combined with a noncommittal attitude toward his present state of mind. Here with the past around him, beside him, growing minute by minute more heavy on the air, it seemed theatrical and stale.</p>
<p>She made no comment, sat without moving, her eyes fixed on him with an expression that might have meant everything or nothing.</p>
<p>“You don’t love me any more, do you?” he asked her in a level voice.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>When <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary came in a minute later, and spoke to him about his success⁠—there had been a half-column about him in the local paper⁠—he was a mixture of emotions. He knew now that he still wanted this girl, and he knew that the past sometimes comes back⁠—that was all. For the rest he must be strong and watchful and he would see.</p>
<p>“And now,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Cary was saying, “I want you two to go and see the lady who has the chrysanthemums. She particularly told me she wanted to see you because she’d read about you in the paper.”</p>
<p>They went to see the lady with the chrysanthemums. They walked along the street, and he recognized with a sort of excitement just how her shorter footsteps always fell in between his own. The lady turned out to be nice, and the chrysanthemums were enormous and extraordinarily beautiful. The lady’s gardens were full of them, white and pink and yellow, so that to be among them was a trip back into the heart of summer. There were two gardens full, and a gate between them; when they strolled toward the second garden the lady went first through the gate.</p>
<p>And then a curious thing happened. George stepped aside to let Jonquil pass, but instead of going through she stood still and stared at him for a minute. It was not so much the look, which was not a smile, as it was the moment of silence. They saw each other’s eyes, and both took a short, faintly accelerated breath, and then they went on into the second garden. That was all.</p>
<p>The afternoon waned. They thanked the lady and walked home slowly, thoughtfully, side by side. Through dinner too they were silent. George told <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Cary something of what had happened in South America, and managed to let it be known that everything would be plain sailing for him in the future.</p>
<p>Then dinner was over, and he and Jonquil were alone in the room which had seen the beginning of their love affair and the end. It seemed to him long ago and inexpressibly sad. On that sofa he had felt agony and grief such as he would never feel again. He would never be so weak or so tired and miserable and poor. Yet he knew that that boy of fifteen months before had had something, a trust, a warmth that was gone forever. The sensible thing⁠—they had done the sensible thing. He had traded his first youth for strength and carved success out of despair. But with his youth, life had carried away the freshness of his love.</p>
<p>“You won’t marry me, will you?” he said quietly.</p>
<p>Jonquil shook her dark head.</p>
<p>“I’m never going to marry,” she answered.</p>
<p>He nodded.</p>
<p>“I’m going on to Washington in the morning,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—”</p>
<p>“I have to go. I’ve got to be in New York by the first, and meanwhile I want to stop off in Washington.”</p>
<p>“Business!”</p>
<p>“No-o,” he said as if reluctantly. “There’s someone there I must see who was very kind to me when I was so⁠—down and out.”</p>
<p>This was invented. There was no one in Washington for him to see⁠—but he was watching Jonquil narrowly, and he was sure that she winced a little, that her eyes closed and then opened wide again.</p>
<p>“But before I go I want to tell you the things that happened to me since I saw you, and, as maybe we won’t meet again, I wonder if⁠—if just this once you’d sit in my lap like you used to. I wouldn’t ask except since there’s no one else⁠—yet⁠—perhaps it doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>She nodded, and in a moment was sitting in his lap as she had sat so often in that vanished spring. The feel of her head against his shoulder, of her familiar body, sent a shock of emotion over him. His arms holding her had a tendency to tighten around her, so he leaned back and began to talk thoughtfully into the air.</p>
<p>He told her of a despairing two weeks in New York which had terminated with an attractive if not very profitable job in a construction plant in Jersey City. When the Peru business had first presented itself it had not seemed an extraordinary opportunity. He was to be third assistant engineer on the expedition, but only ten of the American party, including eight rodmen and surveyors, had ever reached Cuzco. Ten days later the chief of the expedition was dead of yellow fever. That had been his chance, a chance for anybody but a fool, a marvellous chance⁠—</p>
<p>“A chance for anybody but a fool?” she interrupted innocently.</p>
<p>“Even for a fool,” he continued. “It was wonderful. Well, I wired New York⁠—”</p>
<p>“And so,” she interrupted again, “they wired that you ought to take a chance?”</p>
<p>“Ought to!” he exclaimed, still leaning back. “That I <em>had</em> to. There was no time to lose⁠—”</p>
<p>“Not a minute?”</p>
<p>“Not a minute.”</p>
<p>“Not even time for⁠—” she paused.</p>
<p>“For what?”</p>
<p>“Look.”</p>
<p>He bent his head forward suddenly, and she drew herself to him in the same moment, her lips half open like a flower.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he whispered into her lips. “There’s all the time in the world.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>All the time in the world⁠—his life and hers. But for an instant as he kissed her he knew that though he search through eternity he could never recapture those lost April hours. He might press her close now till the muscles knotted on his arms⁠—she was something desirable and rare that he had fought for and made his own⁠—but never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-baby-party" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Baby Party</h2>
<p>When John Andros felt old he found solace in the thought of life continuing through his child. The dark trumpets of oblivion were less loud at the patter of his child’s feet or at the sound of his child’s voice babbling mad non sequiturs to him over the telephone. The latter incident occurred every afternoon at three when his wife called the office from the country, and he came to look forward to it as one of the vivid minutes of his day.</p>
<p>He was not physically old, but his life had been a series of struggles up a series of rugged hills, and here at thirty-eight having won his battles against ill-health and poverty he cherished less than the usual number of illusions. Even his feeling about his little girl was qualified. She had interrupted his rather intense love-affair with his wife, and she was the reason for their living in a suburban town, where they paid for country air with endless servant troubles and the weary merry-go-round of the commuting train.</p>
<p>It was little Ede as a definite piece of youth that chiefly interested him. He liked to take her on his lap and examine minutely her fragrant, downy scalp and her eyes with their irises of morning blue. Having paid this homage John was content that the nurse should take her away. After ten minutes the very vitality of the child irritated him; he was inclined to lose his temper when things were broken, and one Sunday afternoon when she had disrupted a bridge game by permanently hiding up the ace of spades, he had made a scene that had reduced his wife to tears.</p>
<p>This was absurd and John was ashamed of himself. It was inevitable that such things would happen, and it was impossible that little Ede should spend all her indoor hours in the nursery upstairs when she was becoming, as her mother said, more nearly a “real person” every day.</p>
<p>She was two and a half, and this afternoon, for instance, she was going to a baby party. Grownup Edith, her mother, had telephoned the information to the office, and little Ede had confirmed the business by shouting “I yam going to a <em>pantry</em>!” into John’s unsuspecting left ear.</p>
<p>“Drop in at the Markeys’ when you get home, won’t you, dear?” resumed her mother. “It’ll be funny. Ede’s going to be all dressed up in her new pink dress⁠—”</p>
<p>The conversation terminated abruptly with a squawk which indicated that the telephone had been pulled violently to the floor. John laughed and decided to get an early train out; the prospect of a baby party in someone else’s house amused him.</p>
<p>“What a peach of a mess!” he thought humorously. “A dozen mothers, and each one looking at nothing but her own child. All the babies breaking things and grabbing at the cake, and each mama going home thinking about the subtle superiority of her own child to every other child there.”</p>
<p>He was in a good humor today⁠—all the things in his life were going better than they had ever gone before. When he got off the train at his station he shook his head at an importunate taxi man, and began to walk up the long hill toward his house through the crisp December twilight. It was only six o’clock but the moon was out, shining with proud brilliance on the thin sugary snow that lay over the lawns.</p>
<p>As he walked along drawing his lungs full of cold air his happiness increased, and the idea of a baby party appealed to him more and more. He began to wonder how Ede compared to other children of her own age, and if the pink dress she was to wear was something radical and mature. Increasing his gait he came in sight of his own house, where the lights of a defunct Christmas-tree still blossomed in the window, but he continued on past the walk. The party was at the Markeys’ next door.</p>
<p>As he mounted the brick step and rang the bell he became aware of voices inside, and he was glad he was not too late. Then he raised his head and listened⁠—the voices were not children’s voices, but they were loud and pitched high with anger; there were at least three of them and one, which rose as he listened to a hysterical sob, he recognized immediately as his wife’s.</p>
<p>“There’s been some trouble,” he thought quickly.</p>
<p>Trying the door, he found it unlocked and pushed it open.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The baby party began at half past four, but Edith Andros, calculating shrewdly that the new dress would stand out more sensationally against vestments already rumpled, planned the arrival of herself and little Ede for five. When they appeared it was already a flourishing affair. Four baby girls and nine baby boys, each one curled and washed and dressed with all the care of a proud and jealous heart, were dancing to the music of a phonograph. Never more than two or three were dancing at once, but as all were continually in motion running to and from their mothers for encouragement, the general effect was the same.</p>
<p>As Edith and her daughter entered, the music was temporarily drowned out by a sustained chorus, consisting largely of the word <em>cute</em> and directed toward little Ede, who stood looking timidly about and fingering the edges of her pink dress. She was not kissed⁠—this is the sanitary age⁠—but she was passed along a row of mamas each one of whom said “cu‑u‑ute” to her and held her pink little hand before passing her on to the next. After some encouragement and a few mild pushes she was absorbed into the dance, and became an active member of the party.</p>
<p>Edith stood near the door talking to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey, and keeping one eye on the tiny figure in the pink dress. She did not care for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey; she considered her both snippy and common, but John and Joe Markey were congenial and went in together on the commuting train every morning, so the two women kept up an elaborate pretense of warm amity. They were always reproaching each other for “not coming to see me,” and they were always planning the kind of parties that began with “You’ll have to come to dinner with us soon, and we’ll go in to the theatre,” but never matured further.</p>
<p>“Little Ede looks perfectly darling,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey, smiling and moistening her lips in a way that Edith found particularly repulsive. “So <em>grown-up</em>⁠—I can’t <em>believe</em> it!”</p>
<p>Edith wondered if “little Ede” referred to the fact that Billy Markey, though several months younger, weighed almost five pounds more. Accepting a cup of tea she took a seat with two other ladies on a divan and launched into the real business of the afternoon, which of course lay in relating the recent accomplishments and insouciances of her child.</p>
<p>An hour passed. Dancing palled and the babies took to sterner sport. They ran into the dining-room, rounded the big table, and essayed the kitchen door, from which they were rescued by an expeditionary force of mothers. Having been rounded up they immediately broke loose, and rushing back to the dining-room tried the familiar swinging door again. The word “overheated” began to be used, and small white brows were dried with small white handkerchiefs. A general attempt to make the babies sit down began, but the babies squirmed off laps with peremptory cries of “Down! Down!” and the rush into the fascinating dining-room began anew.</p>
<p>This phase of the party came to an end with the arrival of refreshments, a large cake with two candles, and saucers of vanilla ice-cream. Billy Markey, a stout laughing baby with red hair and legs somewhat bowed, blew out the candles, and placed an experimental thumb on the white frosting. The refreshments were distributed, and the children ate, greedily but without confusion⁠—they had behaved remarkably well all afternoon. They were modern babies who ate and slept at regular hours, so their dispositions were good, and their faces healthy and pink⁠—such a peaceful party would not have been possible thirty years ago.</p>
<p>After the refreshments a gradual exodus began. Edith glanced anxiously at her watch⁠—it was almost six, and John had not arrived. She wanted him to see Ede with the other children⁠—to see how dignified and polite and intelligent she was, and how the only ice-cream spot on her dress was some that had dropped from her chin when she was joggled from behind.</p>
<p>“You’re a darling,” she whispered to her child, drawing her suddenly against her knee. “Do you know you’re a darling? Do you <em>know</em> you’re a darling?”</p>
<p>Ede laughed. “Bow-wow,” she said suddenly.</p>
<p>“Bow-wow?” Edith looked around. “There isn’t any bow-wow.”</p>
<p>“Bow-wow,” repeated Ede. “I want a bow-wow.”</p>
<p>Edith followed the small pointing finger.</p>
<p>“That isn’t a bow-wow, dearest, that’s a teddy-bear.”</p>
<p>“Bear?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s a teddy-bear, and it belongs to Billy Markey. You don’t want Billy Markey’s teddy-bear, do you?”</p>
<p>Ede did want it.</p>
<p>She broke away from her mother and approached Billy Markey, who held the toy closely in his arms. Ede stood regarding him with inscrutable eyes, and Billy laughed.</p>
<p>Grownup Edith looked at her watch again, this time impatiently.</p>
<p>The party had dwindled until, besides Ede and Billy, there were only two babies remaining⁠—and one of the two remained only by virtue of having hidden himself under the dining-room table. It was selfish of John not to come. It showed so little pride in the child. Other fathers had come, half a dozen of them, to call for their wives, and they had stayed for a while and looked on.</p>
<p>There was a sudden wail. Ede had obtained Billy’s teddy-bear by pulling it forcibly from his arms, and on Billy’s attempt to recover it, she had pushed him casually to the floor.</p>
<p>“Why, Ede!” cried her mother, repressing an inclination to laugh.</p>
<p>Joe Markey, a handsome, broad-shouldered man of thirty-five, picked up his son and set him on his feet. “You’re a fine fellow,” he said jovially. “Let a girl knock you over! You’re a fine fellow.”</p>
<p>“Did he bump his head?” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey returned anxiously from bowing the next to last remaining mother out the door.</p>
<p>“No-o-o-o,” exclaimed Markey. “He bumped something else, didn’t you, Billy? He bumped something else.”</p>
<p>Billy had so far forgotten the bump that he was already making an attempt to recover his property. He seized a leg of the bear which projected from Ede’s enveloping arms and tugged at it but without success.</p>
<p>“No,” said Ede emphatically.</p>
<p>Suddenly, encouraged by the success of her former half-accidental maneuver, Ede dropped the teddy-bear, placed her hands on Billy’s shoulders and pushed him backward off his feet.</p>
<p>This time he landed less harmlessly; his head hit the bare floor just off the rug with a dull hollow sound, whereupon he drew in his breath and delivered an agonized yell.</p>
<p>Immediately the room was in confusion. With an exclamation Markey hurried to his son, but his wife was first to reach the injured baby and catch him up into her arms.</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>Billy</em>,” she cried, “what a terrible bump! She ought to be spanked.”</p>
<p>Edith, who had rushed immediately to her daughter, heard this remark, and her lips came sharply together.</p>
<p>“Why, Ede,” she whispered perfunctorily, “you bad girl!”</p>
<p>Ede put back her little head suddenly and laughed. It was a loud laugh, a triumphant laugh with victory in it and challenge and contempt. Unfortunately it was also an infectious laugh. Before her mother realized the delicacy of the situation, she too had laughed, an audible, distinct laugh not unlike the baby’s, and partaking of the same overtones.</p>
<p>Then, as suddenly, she stopped.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey’s face had grown red with anger, and Markey, who had been feeling the back of the baby’s head with one finger, looked at her, frowning.</p>
<p>“It’s swollen already,” he said with a note of reproof in his voice. “I’ll get some witch-hazel.”</p>
<p>But <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey had lost her temper. “I don’t see anything funny about a child being hurt!” she said in a trembling voice.</p>
<p>Little Ede meanwhile had been looking at her mother curiously. She noted that her own laugh had produced her mother’s, and she wondered if the same cause would always produce the same effect. So she chose this moment to throw back her head and laugh again.</p>
<p>To her mother the additional mirth added the final touch of hysteria to the situation. Pressing her handkerchief to her mouth she giggled irrepressibly. It was more than nervousness⁠—she felt that in a peculiar way she was laughing with her child⁠—they were laughing together.</p>
<p>It was in a way a defiance⁠—those two against the world.</p>
<p>While Markey rushed upstairs to the bathroom for ointment, his wife was walking up and down rocking the yelling boy in her arms.</p>
<p>“Please go home!” she broke out suddenly. “The child’s badly hurt, and if you haven’t the decency to be quiet, you’d better go home.”</p>
<p>“Very well,” said Edith, her own temper rising. “I’ve never seen anyone make such a mountain out of⁠—”</p>
<p>“Get out!” cried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey frantically. “There’s the door, get out⁠—I never want to see you in our house again. You or your brat either!”</p>
<p>Edith had taken her daughter’s hand and was moving quickly toward the door, but at this remark she stopped and turned around, her face contracting with indignation.</p>
<p>“Don’t you dare call her that!”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey did not answer but continued walking up and down, muttering to herself and to Billy in an inaudible voice.</p>
<p>Edith began to cry.</p>
<p>“I will get out!” she sobbed, “I’ve never heard anybody so rude and c-common in my life. I’m glad your baby did get pushed down⁠—he’s nothing but a f-fat little fool anyhow.”</p>
<p>Joe Markey reached the foot of the stairs just in time to hear this remark.</p>
<p>“Why, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Andros,” he said sharply, “can’t you see the child’s hurt? You really ought to control yourself.”</p>
<p>“Control m-myself!” exclaimed Edith brokenly. “You better ask her to c-control herself. I’ve never heard anybody so c-common in my life.”</p>
<p>“She’s insulting me!” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey was now livid with rage. “Did you hear what she said, Joe? I wish you’d put her out. If she won’t go, just take her by the shoulders and put her out!”</p>
<p>“Don’t you dare touch me!” cried Edith. “I’m going just as quick as I can find my c-coat!”</p>
<p>Blind with tears she took a step toward the hall. It was just at this moment that the door opened and John Andros walked anxiously in.</p>
<p>“John!” cried Edith, and fled to him wildly.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter? Why, what’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“They’re⁠—they’re putting me out!” she wailed, collapsing against him. “He’d just started to take me by the shoulders and put me out. I want my coat!”</p>
<p>“That’s not true,” objected Markey hurriedly. “Nobody’s going to put you out.” He turned to John. “Nobody’s going to put her out,” he repeated. “She’s⁠—”</p>
<p>“What do you mean ‘put her out’?” demanded John abruptly. “What’s all this talk, anyhow?”</p>
<p>“Oh, let’s go!” cried Edith. “I want to go. They’re so <em>common</em>, John!”</p>
<p>“Look here!” Markey’s face darkened. “You’ve said that about enough. You’re acting sort of crazy.”</p>
<p>“They called Ede a brat!”</p>
<p>For the second time that afternoon little Ede expressed emotion at an inopportune moment. Confused and frightened at the shouting voices, she began to cry, and her tears had the effect of conveying that she felt the insult in her heart.</p>
<p>“What’s the idea of this?” broke out John. “Do you insult your guests in your own house?”</p>
<p>“It seems to me it’s your wife that’s done the insulting!” answered Markey crisply. “In fact, your baby there started all the trouble.”</p>
<p>John gave a contemptuous snort. “Are you calling names at a little baby?” he inquired. “That’s a fine manly business!”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk to him, John,” insisted Edith. “Find my coat!”</p>
<p>“You must be in a bad way,” went on John angrily, “if you have to take out your temper on a helpless little baby.”</p>
<p>“I never heard anything so damn twisted in my life,” shouted Markey. “If that wife of yours would shut her mouth for a minute⁠—”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute! You’re not talking to a woman and child now⁠—”</p>
<p>There was an incidental interruption. Edith had been fumbling on a chair for her coat, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Markey had been watching her with hot, angry eyes. Suddenly she laid Billy down on the sofa, where he immediately stopped crying and pulled himself upright, and coming into the hall she quickly found Edith’s coat and handed it to her without a word. Then she went back to the sofa, picked up Billy, and rocking him in her arms looked again at Edith with hot, angry eyes. The interruption had taken less than half a minute.</p>
<p>“Your wife comes in here and begins shouting around about how common we are!” burst out Markey violently. “Well, if we’re so damn common, you’d better stay away! And, what’s more, you’d better get out now!”</p>
<p>Again John gave a short, contemptuous laugh.</p>
<p>“You’re not only common,” he returned, “you’re evidently an awful bully⁠—when there’s any helpless women and children around.” He felt for the knob and swung the door open. “Come on, Edith.”</p>
<p>Taking up her daughter in her arms, his wife stepped outside and John, still looking contemptuously at Markey, started to follow.</p>
<p>“Wait a minute!” Markey took a step forward; he was trembling slightly, and two large veins on his temple were suddenly full of blood. “You don’t think you can get away with that, do you? With me?”</p>
<p>Without a word John walked out the door, leaving it open.</p>
<p>Edith, still weeping, had started for home. After following her with his eyes until she reached her own walk, John turned back toward the lighted doorway where Markey was slowly coming down the slippery steps. He took off his overcoat and hat, tossed them off the path onto the snow. Then, sliding a little on the iced walk, he took a step forward.</p>
<p>At the first blow, they both slipped and fell heavily to the sidewalk, half rising then, and again pulling each other to the ground. They found a better foothold in the thin snow to the side of the walk and rushed at each other, both swinging wildly and pressing out the snow into a pasty mud underfoot.</p>
<p>The street was deserted, and except for their short tired gasps and the padded sound as one or the other slipped down into the slushy mud, they fought in silence, clearly defined to each other by the full moonlight as well as by the amber glow that shone out of the open door. Several times they both slipped down together, and then for a while the conflict threshed about wildly on the lawn.</p>
<p>For ten, fifteen, twenty minutes they fought there senselessly in the moonlight. They had both taken off coats and vests at some silently agreed upon interval and now their shirts dripped from their backs in wet pulpy shreds. Both were torn and bleeding and so exhausted that they could stand only when by their position they mutually supported each other⁠—the impact, the mere effort of a blow, would send them both to their hands and knees.</p>
<p>But it was not weariness that ended the business, and the very meaninglessness of the fight was a reason for not stopping. They stopped because once when they were straining at each other on the ground, they heard a man’s footsteps coming along the sidewalk. They had rolled somehow into the shadow, and when they heard these footsteps they stopped fighting, stopped moving, stopped breathing, lay huddled together like two boys playing Indian until the footsteps had passed. Then, staggering to their feet, they looked at each other like two drunken men.</p>
<p>“I’ll be damned if I’m going on with this thing any more,” cried Markey thickly.</p>
<p>“I’m not going on any more either,” said John Andros. “I’ve had enough of this thing.”</p>
<p>Again they looked at each other, sulkily this time, as if each suspected the other of urging him to a renewal of the fight. Markey spat out a mouthful of blood from a cut lip; then he cursed softly, and picking up his coat and vest, shook off the snow from them in a surprised way, as if their comparative dampness was his only worry in the world.</p>
<p>“Want to come in and wash up?” he asked suddenly.</p>
<p>“No, thanks,” said John. “I ought to be going home⁠—my wife’ll be worried.”</p>
<p>He too picked up his coat and vest and then his overcoat and hat. Soaking wet and dripping with perspiration, it seemed absurd that less than half an hour ago he had been wearing all these clothes.</p>
<p>“Well⁠—good night,” he said hesitantly.</p>
<p>Suddenly they both walked toward each other and shook hands. It was no perfunctory handshake: John Andros’s arm went around Markey’s shoulder, and he patted him softly on the back for a little while.</p>
<p>“No harm done,” he said brokenly.</p>
<p>“No⁠—you?”</p>
<p>“No, no harm done.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said John Andros after a minute, “I guess I’ll say good night.”</p>
<p>“Good night.”</p>
<p>Limping slightly and with his clothes over his arm, John Andros turned away. The moonlight was still bright as he left the dark patch of trampled ground and walked over the intervening lawn. Down at the station, half a mile away, he could hear the rumble of the seven o’clock train.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“But you must have been crazy,” cried Edith brokenly. “I thought you were going to fix it all up there and shake hands. That’s why I went away.”</p>
<p>“Did you want us to fix it up?”</p>
<p>“Of course not, I never want to see them again. But I thought of course that was what you were going to do.” She was touching the bruises on his neck and back with iodine as he sat placidly in a hot bath. “I’m going to get the doctor,” she said insistently. “You may be hurt internally.”</p>
<p>He shook his head. “Not a chance,” he answered. “I don’t want this to get all over town.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand yet how it all happened.”</p>
<p>“Neither do I.” He smiled grimly. “I guess these baby parties are pretty rough affairs.”</p>
<p>“Well, one thing⁠—” suggested Edith hopefully, “I’m certainly glad we have beefsteak in the house for tomorrow’s dinner.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“For your eye, of course. Do you know I came within an ace of ordering veal? Wasn’t that the luckiest thing?”</p>
<p>Half an hour later, dressed except that his neck would accommodate no collar, John moved his limbs experimentally before the glass. “I believe I’ll get myself in better shape,” he said thoughtfully. “I must be getting old.”</p>
<p>“You mean so that next time you can beat him?”</p>
<p>“I did beat him,” he announced. “At least, I beat him as much as he beat me. And there isn’t going to be any next time. Don’t you go calling people common any more. If you get in any trouble, you just take your coat and go home. Understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes, dear,” she said meekly. “I was very foolish and now I understand.”</p>
<p>Out in the hall, he paused abruptly by the baby’s door.</p>
<p>“Is she asleep?”</p>
<p>“Sound asleep. But you can go in and peek at her⁠—just to say good night.”</p>
<p>They tiptoed in and bent together over the bed. Little Ede, her cheeks flushed with health, her pink hands clasped tight together, was sleeping soundly in the cool, dark room. John reached over the railing of the bed and passed his hand lightly over the silken hair.</p>
<p>“She’s asleep,” he murmured in a puzzled way.</p>
<p>“Naturally, after such an afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Miz Andros,” the colored maid’s stage whisper floated in from the hall, “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and Miz Markey downstairs an’ want to see you. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Markey he’s all cut up in pieces, mam’n. His face look like a roast beef. An’ Miz Markey she ’pear mighty mad.”</p>
<p>“Why, what incomparable nerve!” exclaimed Edith. “Just tell them we’re not home. I wouldn’t go down for anything in the world.”</p>
<p>“You most certainly will.” John’s voice was hard and set.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“You’ll go down right now, and, what’s more, whatever that other woman does, you’ll apologize for what you said this afternoon. After that you don’t ever have to see her again.”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—John, I can’t.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got to. And just remember that she probably hated to come over here just twice as much as you hate to go downstairs.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you coming? Do I have to go alone?”</p>
<p>“I’ll be down⁠—in just a minute.”</p>
<p>John Andros waited until she had closed the door behind her; then he reached over into the bed, and picking up his daughter, blankets and all, sat down in the rocking-chair holding her tightly in his arms. She moved a little, and he held his breath, but she was sleeping soundly, and in a moment she was resting quietly in the hollow of his elbow. Slowly he bent his head until his cheek was against her bright hair. “Dear little girl,” he whispered. “Dear little girl, dear little girl.”</p>
<p>John Andros knew at length what it was he had fought for so savagely that evening. He had it now, he possessed it forever, and for some time he sat there rocking very slowly to and fro in the darkness.</p>
</article>
<article id="dice-brassknuckles-guitar" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Dice, Brassknuckles &amp; Guitar</h2>
<p>Parts of New Jersey, as you know, are under water, and other parts are under continual surveillance by the authorities. But here and there lie patches of garden country dotted with old-fashioned frame mansions, which have wide shady porches and a red swing on the lawn. And perhaps, on the widest and shadiest of the porches there is even a hammock left over from the hammock days, stirring gently in a mid-Victorian wind.</p>
<p>When tourists come to such last-century landmarks they stop their cars and gaze for a while and then mutter: “Well, thank God this age is joined on to something” or else they say: “Well, of course, that house is mostly halls and has a thousand rats and one bathroom, but there’s an atmosphere about it⁠—”</p>
<p>The tourist doesn’t stay long. He drives on to his Elizabethan villa of pressed cardboard or his early Norman meat-market or his medieval Italian pigeon-coop⁠—because this is the twentieth century and Victorian houses are as unfashionable as the works of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Humphry Ward.</p>
<p>He can’t see the hammock from the road⁠—but sometimes there’s a girl in the hammock. There was this afternoon. She was asleep in it and apparently unaware of the esthetic horrors which surrounded her, the stone statue of Diana, for instance, which grinned idiotically under the sunlight on the lawn.</p>
<p>There was something enormously yellow about the whole scene⁠—there was this sunlight, for instance, that was yellow, and the hammock was of the particularly hideous yellow peculiar to hammocks, and the girl’s yellow hair was spread out upon the hammock in a sort of invidious comparison.</p>
<p>She slept with her lips closed and her hands clasped behind her head, as it is proper for young girls to sleep. Her breast rose and fell slightly with no more emphasis than the sway of the hammock’s fringe.</p>
<p>Her name, Amanthis, was as old-fashioned as the house she lived in. I regret to say that her mid-Victorian connections ceased abruptly at this point.</p>
<p>Now if this were a moving picture (as, of course, I hope it will some day be) I would take as many thousand feet of her as I was allowed⁠—then I would move the camera up close and show the yellow down on the back of her neck where her hair stopped and the warm color of her cheeks and arms, because I like to think of her sleeping there, as you yourself might have slept, back in your young days. Then I would hire a man named Israel Glucose to write some idiotic line of transition, and switch thereby to another scene that was taking place at no particular spot far down the road.</p>
<p>In a moving automobile sat a southern gentleman accompanied by his body-servant. He was on his way, after a fashion, to New York but he was somewhat hampered by the fact that the upper and lower portions of his automobile were no longer in exact juxtaposition. In fact from time to time the two riders would dismount, shove the body on to the chassis, corner to corner, and then continue onward, vibrating slightly in involuntary unison with the motor.</p>
<p>Except that it had no door in back the car might have been built early in the mechanical age. It was covered with the mud of eight states and adorned in front by an enormous but defunct motometer and behind by a mangy pennant bearing the legend “Tarleton, <abbr>Ga.</abbr>” In the dim past someone had begun to paint the hood yellow but unfortunately had been called away when but half through the task.</p>
<p>As the gentleman and his body-servant were passing the house where Amanthis lay beautifully asleep in the hammock, something happened⁠—the body fell off the car. My only apology for stating this so suddenly is that it happened very suddenly indeed. When the noise had died down and the dust had drifted away master and man arose and inspected the two halves.</p>
<p>“Look-a-there,” said the gentleman in disgust, “the doggone thing got all separated that time.”</p>
<p>“She bust in two,” agreed the body-servant.</p>
<p>“Hugo,” said the gentleman, after some consideration, “we got to get a hammer an’ nails an’ <em>tack</em> it on.”</p>
<p>They glanced up at the Victorian house. On all sides faintly irregular fields stretched away to a faintly irregular unpopulated horizon. There was no choice, so the black Hugo opened the gate and followed his master up a gravel walk, casting only the blasé glances of a confirmed traveler at the red swing and the stone statue of Diana which turned on them a storm-crazed stare.</p>
<p>At the exact moment when they reached the porch Amanthis awoke, sat up suddenly and looked them over.</p>
<p>The gentleman was young, perhaps twenty-four, and his name was Jim Powell. He was dressed in a tight and dusty readymade suit which was evidently expected to take flight at a moment’s notice, for it was secured to his body by a line of six preposterous buttons.</p>
<p>There were supernumerary buttons upon the coat-sleeves also and Amanthis could not resist a glance to determine whether or not more buttons ran up the side of his trouser leg. But the trouser bottoms were distinguished only by their shape, which was that of a bell. His vest was cut low, barely restraining an amazing necktie from fluttering in the wind.</p>
<p>He bowed formally, dusting his knees with a thatched straw hat. Simultaneously he smiled, half shutting his faded blue eyes and displaying white and beautifully symmetrical teeth.</p>
<p>“Good evenin’,” he said in abandoned Georgian. “My automobile has met with an accident out yonder by your gate. I wondered if it wouldn’t be too much to ask you if I could have the use of a hammer and some tacks⁠—nails, for a little while.”</p>
<p>Amanthis laughed. For a moment she laughed uncontrollably. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jim Powell laughed, politely and appreciatively, with her. His body-servant, deep in the throes of colored adolescence, alone preserved a dignified gravity.</p>
<p>“I better introduce who I am, maybe,” said the visitor. “My name’s Powell. I’m a resident of Tarleton, Georgia. This here nigger’s my boy Hugo.”</p>
<p>“Your <em>son</em>!” The girl stared from one to the other in wild fascination.</p>
<p>“No, he’s my body-servant, I guess you’d call it. We call a nigger a boy down yonder.”</p>
<p>At this reference to the finer customs of his native soil the boy Hugo put his hands behind his back and looked darkly and superciliously down the lawn.</p>
<p>“Yas’m,” he muttered, “I’m a body-servant.”</p>
<p>“Where you going in your automobile,” demanded Amanthis.</p>
<p>“Goin’ north for the summer.”</p>
<p>“Where to?”</p>
<p>The tourist waved his hand with a careless gesture as if to indicate the Adirondacks, the Thousand Islands, Newport⁠—but he said:</p>
<p>“We’re tryin’ New York.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever been there before?”</p>
<p>“Never have. But I been to Atlanta lots of times. An’ we passed through all kinds of cities this trip. Man!”</p>
<p>He whistled to express the enormous spectacularity of his recent travels.</p>
<p>“Listen,” said Amanthis intently, “you better have something to eat. Tell your⁠—your body-servant to go ’round in back and ask the cook to send us out some sandwiches and lemonade. Or maybe you don’t drink lemonade⁠—very few people do any more.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell by a circular motion of his finger sped Hugo on the designated mission. Then he seated himself gingerly in a rocking-chair and began revolving his thatched straw hat rapidly in his hands.</p>
<p>“You cer’nly are mighty kind,” he told her. “An’ if I wanted anything stronger than lemonade I got a bottle of good old corn out in the car. I brought it along because I thought maybe I wouldn’t be able to drink the whisky they got up here.”</p>
<p>“Listen,” she said, “my name’s Powell too. Amanthis Powell.”</p>
<p>“Say, is that right?” He laughed ecstatically. “Maybe we’re kin to each other. I come from mighty good people,” he went on. “Pore though. I got some money because my aunt she was using it to keep her in a sanitarium and she died.” He paused, presumably out of respect to his late aunt. Then he concluded with brisk nonchalance, “I ain’t touched the principal but I got a lot of the income all at once so I thought I’d come north for the summer.”</p>
<p>At this point Hugo reappeared on the veranda steps and became audible.</p>
<p>“White lady back there she asked me don’t I want eat some too. What I tell her?”</p>
<p>“You tell her yes mamm if she be so kind,” directed his master. And as Hugo retired he confided to Amanthis: “That boy’s got no sense at all. He don’t want to do nothing without I tell him he can. I brought him up,” he added, not without pride.</p>
<p>When the sandwiches arrived <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell stood up. He was unaccustomed to white servants and obviously expected an introduction.</p>
<p>“Are you a married lady?” he inquired of Amanthis, when the servant was gone.</p>
<p>“No,” she answered, and added from the security of eighteen, “I’m an old maid.”</p>
<p>Again he laughed politely.</p>
<p>“You mean you’re a society girl.”</p>
<p>She shook her head. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell noted with embarrassed enthusiasm the particular yellowness of her yellow hair.</p>
<p>“Does this old place look like it?” she said cheerfully. “No, you perceive in me a daughter of the countryside. Color⁠—one hundred percent spontaneous⁠—in the daytime anyhow. Suitors⁠—promising young barbers from the neighboring village with somebody’s late hair still clinging to their coat-sleeves.”</p>
<p>“Your daddy oughtn’t to let you go with a country barber,” said the tourist disapprovingly. He considered⁠—“You ought to be a New York society girl.”</p>
<p>“No.” Amanthis shook her head sadly. “I’m too good-looking. To be a New York society girl you have to have a long nose and projecting teeth and dress like the actresses did three years ago.”</p>
<p>Jim began to tap his foot rhythmically on the porch and in a moment Amanthis discovered that she was unconsciously doing the same thing.</p>
<p>“Stop!” she commanded, “Don’t make me do that.”</p>
<p>He looked down at his foot.</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” he said humbly. “I don’t know⁠—it’s just something I do.”</p>
<p>This intense discussion was now interrupted by Hugo who appeared on the steps bearing a hammer and a handful of nails.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell arose unwillingly and looked at his watch.</p>
<p>“We got to go, daggone it,” he said, frowning heavily. “See here. Wouldn’t you <em>like</em> to be a New York society girl and go to those dances an’ all, like you read about, where they throw gold pieces away?”</p>
<p>She looked at him with a curious expression.</p>
<p>“Don’t your folks know some society people?” he went on.</p>
<p>“All I’ve got’s my daddy⁠—and, you see, he’s a judge.”</p>
<p>“That’s too bad,” he agreed.</p>
<p>She got herself by some means from the hammock and they went down toward the road, side by side.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open for you and let you know,” he persisted. “A pretty girl like you ought to go around in society. We may be kin to each other, you see, and us Powells ought to stick together.”</p>
<p>“What are you going to do in New York?”</p>
<p>They were now almost at the gate and the tourist pointed to the two depressing sectors of his automobile.</p>
<p>“I’m goin’ to drive a taxi. This one right here. Only it’s got so it busts in two all the time.”</p>
<p>“You’re going to drive <em>that</em> in New York?”</p>
<p>Jim looked at her uncertainly. Such a pretty girl should certainly control the habit of shaking all over upon no provocation at all.</p>
<p>“Yes mamm,” he said with dignity.</p>
<p>Amanthis watched while they placed the upper half of the car upon the lower half and nailed it severely into place. Then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell took the wheel and his body-servant climbed in beside him.</p>
<p>“I’m cer’nly very much obliged to you indeed for your hospitality. Convey my respects to your father.”</p>
<p>“I will,” she assured him. “Come back and see me, if you don’t mind barbers in the room.”</p>
<p>He dismissed this unpleasant thought with a gesture.</p>
<p>“Your company would always be charming.” He put the car into gear as though to drown out the temerity of his parting speech. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen up north⁠—by far.”</p>
<p>Then with a groan and a rattle <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell of southern Georgia with his own car and his own body-servant and his own ambitions and his own private cloud of dust continued on north for the summer.</p>
<p>She thought she would never see him again. She lay in her hammock, slim and beautiful, opened her left eye slightly to see June come in and then closed it and retired contentedly back into her dreams.</p>
<p>But one day when the midsummer vines had climbed the precarious sides of the red swing in the lawn, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jim Powell of Tarleton, Georgia, came vibrating back into her life. They sat on the wide porch as before.</p>
<p>“I’ve got a great scheme,” he told her.</p>
<p>“Did you drive your taxi like you said?”</p>
<p>“Yes mamm, but the business was right bad. I waited around in front of all those hotels and theaters an’ nobody ever got in.”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>body?”</p>
<p>“Well, one night there was some drunk fellas they got in, only just as I was gettin’ started my automobile came apart. And another night it was rainin’ and there wasn’t no other taxis and a lady got in because she said she had to go a long ways. But before we got there she made me stop and she got out. She seemed kinda mad and she went walkin’ off in the rain. Mighty proud lot of people they got up in New York.”</p>
<p>“And so you’re going home?” asked Amanthis sympathetically.</p>
<p>“No <em>mamm</em>. I got an idea.” His blue eyes grew narrow. “Has that barber been around here⁠—with hair on his sleeves?”</p>
<p>“No. He’s⁠—he’s gone away.”</p>
<p>“Well, then, first thing is I want to leave this car of mine here with you, if that’s all right. It ain’t the right color for a taxi. To pay for its keep I’d like to have you drive it just as much as you want. ‘Long as you got a hammer an’ nails with you there ain’t much bad that can happen⁠—”</p>
<p>“I’ll take care of it,” interrupted Amanthis, “but where are <em>you</em> going?”</p>
<p>“Southampton. It’s about the most aristocratic watering trough⁠—watering-place there is around here, so that’s where I’m going.”</p>
<p>She sat up in amazement.</p>
<p>“What are you going to do there?”</p>
<p>“Listen.” He leaned toward her confidentially. “Were you serious about wanting to be a New York society girl?”</p>
<p>“Deadly serious.”</p>
<p>“That’s all I wanted to know,” he said inscrutably. “You just wait here on this porch a couple of weeks and⁠—and sleep. And if any barbers come to see you with hair on their sleeves you tell ’em you’re too sleepy to see ’em.”</p>
<p>“What then?”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll hear from me. Just tell your old daddy he can do all the judging he wants but you’re goin’ to do some <em>dancin’.</em> Mamm,” he continued decisively, “you talk about society! Before one month I’m goin’ to have you in more society than you ever saw.”</p>
<p>Further than this he would say nothing. His manner conveyed that she was going to be suspended over a perfect pool of gaiety and violently immersed, to an accompaniment of: “Is it gay enough for you, mamm? Shall I let in a little more excitement, mamm?”</p>
<p>“Well,” answered Amanthis, lazily considering, “there are few things for which I’d forego the luxury of sleeping through July and August⁠—but if you’ll write me a letter I’ll⁠—I’ll run up to Southampton.”</p>
<p>Jim snapped his fingers ecstatically.</p>
<p>“More society,” he assured her with all the confidence at his command, “than anybody ever saw.”</p>
<p>Three days later a young man wearing a straw hat that might have been cut from the thatched roof of an English cottage rang the doorbell of the enormous and astounding Madison Harlan house at Southampton. He asked the butler if there were any people in the house between the ages of sixteen and twenty. He was informed that Miss Genevieve Harlan and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Ronald Harlan answered that description and thereupon he handed in a most peculiar card and requested in fetching Georgian that it be brought to their attention.</p>
<p>As a result he was closeted for almost an hour with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Ronald Harlan (who was a student at the Hillkiss School) and Miss Genevieve Harlan (who was not uncelebrated at Southampton dances). When he left he bore a short note in Miss Harlan’s handwriting which he presented together with his peculiar card at the next large estate. It happened to be that of the Clifton Garneaus. Here, as if by magic, the same audience was granted him.</p>
<p>He went on⁠—it was a hot day, and men who could not afford to do so were carrying their coats on the public highway, but Jim, a native of southernmost Georgia, was as fresh and cool at the last house as at the first. He visited ten houses that day. Anyone following him in his course might have taken him to be some curiously gifted book-agent with a much sought-after volume as his stock in trade.</p>
<p>There was something in his unexpected demand for the adolescent members of the family which made hardened butlers lose their critical acumen. As he left each house a close observer might have seen that fascinated eyes followed him to the door and excited voices whispered something which hinted at a future meeting.</p>
<p>The second day he visited twelve houses. Southampton has grown enormously⁠—he might have kept on his round for a week and never seen the same butler twice⁠—but it was only the palatial, the amazing houses which intrigued him.</p>
<p>On the third day he did a thing that many people have been told to do and few have done⁠—he hired a hall. Perhaps the sixteen-to-twenty-year-old people in the enormous houses had told him to. The hall he hired had once been “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Snorkey’s Private Gymnasium for Gentlemen.” It was situated over a garage on the south edge of Southampton and in the days of its prosperity had been, I regret to say, a place where gentlemen could, under <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Snorkey’s direction, work off the effects of the night before. It was now abandoned⁠—<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Snorkey had given up and gone away and died.</p>
<p>We will now skip three weeks during which time we may assume that the project which had to do with hiring a hall and visiting the two dozen largest houses in Southampton got under way.</p>
<p>The day to which we will skip was the July day on which <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> James Powell sent a wire to Miss Amanthis Powell saying that if she still aspired to the gaiety of the highest society she should set out for Southampton by the earliest possible train. He himself would meet her at the station.</p>
<p>Jim was no longer a man of leisure, so when she failed to arrive at the time her wire had promised he grew restless. He supposed she was coming on a later train, turned to go back to his⁠—his project⁠—and met her entering the station from the street side.</p>
<p>“Why, how did you⁠—”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Amanthis, “I arrived this morning instead, and I didn’t want to bother you so I found a respectable, not to say dull, boardinghouse on the Ocean Road.”</p>
<p>She was quite different from the indolent Amanthis of the porch hammock, he thought. She wore a suit of robins’ egg blue and a rakish young hat with a curling feather⁠—she was attired not unlike those young ladies between sixteen and twenty who of late were absorbing his attention. Yes, she would do very well.</p>
<p>He bowed her profoundly into a taxicab and got in beside her.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it about time you told me your scheme?” she suggested.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s about these society girls up here.” He waved his hand airily. “I know ’em all.”</p>
<p>“Where are they?”</p>
<p>“Right now they’re with Hugo. You remember⁠—that’s my body-servant.”</p>
<p>“With Hugo!” Her eyes widened. “Why? What’s it all about?”</p>
<p>“Well, I got⁠—I got sort of a school, I guess you’d call it.”</p>
<p>“A school?”</p>
<p>“It’s a sort of Academy. And I’m the head of it. I invented it.”</p>
<p>He flipped a card from his case as though he were shaking down a thermometer.</p>
<p>“Look.”</p>
<p>She took the card. In large lettering it bore the legend</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
<b>James Powell; <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">J.M.</abbr></b>
</p>
<p>“Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>She stared in amazement.</p>
<p>“Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar?” she repeated in awe.</p>
<p>“Yes mamm.”</p>
<p>“What does it mean? What⁠—do you <em>sell</em> ’em?”</p>
<p>“No mamm, I teach ’em. It’s a profession.”</p>
<p>“Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar? What’s the <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">J.M.</abbr>?”</p>
<p>“That stands for Jazz Master.”</p>
<p>“But what is it? What’s it about?”</p>
<p>“Well, you see, it’s like this. One night when I was in New York I got talkin’ to a young fella who was drunk. He was one of my fares. And he’d taken some society girl somewhere and lost her.”</p>
<p>“<em>Lost</em> her?”</p>
<p>“Yes mamm. He forgot her, I guess. And he was right worried. Well, I got to thinkin’ that these girls nowadays⁠—these society girls⁠—they lead a sort of dangerous life and my course of study offers a means of protection against these dangers.”</p>
<p>“You teach ’em to use brassknuckles?”</p>
<p>“Yes mamm, if necessary. Look here, you take a girl and she goes into some café where she’s got no business to go. Well then, her escort he gets a little too much to drink an’ he goes to sleep an’ then some other fella comes up and says ‘Hello, sweet mamma’ or whatever one of those mashers says up here. What does she do? She can’t scream, on account of no real lady’ll scream nowadays⁠—no⁠—She just reaches down in her pocket and slips her fingers into a pair of Powell’s defensive brassknuckles, debutante’s size, executes what I call the Society Hook, and <em>Wham!</em> that big fella’s on his way to the cellar.”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—what⁠—what’s the guitar for?” whispered the awed Amanthis. “Do they have to knock somebody over with the guitar?”</p>
<p>“No, <em>mamm</em>!” exclaimed Jim in horror. “No mamm. In my course no lady would be taught to raise a guitar against anybody. I teach ’em to play. Shucks! you ought to hear ’em. Why, when I’ve given ’em two lessons you’d think some of ’em was colored.”</p>
<p>“And the dice?”</p>
<p>“Dice? I’m related to a dice. My grandfather was a dice. I teach ’em how to make those dice perform. I protect pocketbook as well as person.”</p>
<p>“Did you⁠—Have you got any pupils?”</p>
<p>“Mamm I got all the really nice, rich people in the place. What I told you ain’t all. I teach lots of things. I teach ’em the jellyroll⁠—and the Mississippi Sunrise. Why, there was one girl she came to me and said she wanted to learn to snap her fingers. I mean <em>really</em> snap ’em⁠—like they do. She said she never could snap her fingers since she was little. I gave her two lessons and now <em>Wham!</em> Her daddy says he’s goin’ to leave home.”</p>
<p>“When do you have it?” demanded the weak and shaken Amanthis.</p>
<p>“Three times a week. We’re goin’ there right now.”</p>
<p>“And where do I fit in?”</p>
<p>“Well, you’ll just be one of the pupils. I got it fixed up that you come from very high-tone people down in New Jersey. I didn’t tell ’em your daddy was a judge⁠—I told ’em he was the man that had the patent on lump sugar.”</p>
<p>She gasped.</p>
<p>“So all you got to do,” he went on, “is to pretend you never saw no barber.”</p>
<p>They were now at the south end of the village and Amanthis saw a row of cars parked in front of a two-story building. The cars were all low, long, rakish and of a brilliant hue. They were the sort of car that is manufactured to solve the millionaire’s problem on his son’s eighteenth birthday.</p>
<p>Then Amanthis was ascending a narrow stairs to the second story. Here, painted on a door from which came the sounds of music and laughter were the words:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
<b>James Powell; <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">J.M.</abbr></b>
</p>
<p>“Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar”</p>
<p><abbr>Mon.</abbr>⁠—<abbr>Wed.</abbr>⁠—<abbr>Fri.</abbr><br/>
Hours 3⁠–⁠5 <abbr class="eoc">p.m.</abbr></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Now if you’ll just step this way⁠—” said the Principal, pushing open the door.</p>
<p>Amanthis found herself in a long, bright room, populated with girls and men of about her own age. The scene presented itself to her at first as a sort of animated afternoon tea but after a moment she began to see, here and there, a motive and a pattern to the proceedings.</p>
<p>The students were scattered into groups, sitting, kneeling, standing, but all rapaciously intent on the subjects which engrossed them. From six young ladies gathered in a ring around some indistinguishable objects came a medley of cries and exclamations⁠—plaintive, pleading, supplicating, exhorting, imploring and lamenting⁠—their voices serving as tenor to an undertone of mysterious clatters.</p>
<p>Next to this group, four young men were surrounding an adolescent black, who proved to be none other than <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell’s late body-servant. The young men were roaring at Hugo apparently unrelated phrases, expressing a wide gamut of emotion. Now their voices rose to a sort of clamor, now they spoke softly and gently, with mellow implication. Every little while Hugo would answer them with words of approbation, correction or disapproval.</p>
<p>“What are they doing?” whispered Amanthis to Jim.</p>
<p>“That there’s a course in southern accent. Lot of young men up here want to learn southern accent⁠—so we teach it⁠—Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Eastern Shore, Ole Virginian. Some of ’em even want straight nigger⁠—for song purposes.”</p>
<p>They walked around among the groups. Some girls with metal knuckles were furiously insulting two punching bags on each of which was painted the leering, winking face of a “masher.” A mixed group, led by a banjo tom-tom, were rolling harmonic syllables from their guitars. There were couples dancing flat-footed in the corner to a phonograph record made by Rastus Muldoon’s Savannah Band; there were couples stalking a slow Chicago with a Memphis Sideswoop solemnly around the room.</p>
<p>“Are there any rules?” asked Amanthis.</p>
<p>Jim considered.</p>
<p>“Well,” he answered finally, “they can’t smoke unless they’re over sixteen, and the boys have got to shoot square dice and I don’t let ’em bring liquor into the Academy.”</p>
<p>“I see.”</p>
<p>“And now, Miss Powell, if you’re ready I’ll ask you to take off your hat and go over and join Miss Genevieve Harlan at that punching bag in the corner.” He raised his voice. “Hugo,” he called, “there’s a new student here. Equip her with a pair of Powell’s Defensive Brassknuckles⁠—debutante size.”</p>
<p>I regret to say that I never saw Jim Powell’s famous Jazz School in action nor followed his personally conducted tours into the mysteries of Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar. So I can give you only such details as were later reported to me by one of his admiring pupils. During all the discussion of it afterwards no one ever denied that it was an enormous success, and no pupil ever regretted having received its degree⁠—Bachelor of Jazz.</p>
<p>The parents innocently assumed that it was a sort of musical and dancing academy, but its real curriculum was transmitted from Santa Barbara to Biddeford Pool by that underground associated press which links up the so-called younger generation. Invitations to visit Southampton were at a premium⁠—and Southampton generally is almost as dull for young people as Newport.</p>
<p>The Academy branched out with a small but well-groomed Jazz Orchestra.</p>
<p>“If I could keep it dark,” Jim confided to Amanthis, “I’d have up Rastus Muldoon’s Band from Savannah. That’s the band I’ve always wanted to lead.”</p>
<p>He was making money. His charges were not exorbitant⁠—as a rule his pupils were not particularly flush⁠—but he moved from his boardinghouse to the Casino Hotel where he took a suite and had Hugo serve him his breakfast in bed.</p>
<p>The establishing of Amanthis as a member of Southampton’s younger set was easier than he had expected. Within a week she was known to everyone in the school by her first name. Miss Genevieve Harlan took such a fancy to her that she was invited to a sub-deb dance at the Harlan house⁠—and evidently acquitted herself with tact, for thereafter she was invited to almost every such entertainment in Southampton.</p>
<p>Jim saw less of her than he would have liked. Not that her manner toward him changed⁠—she walked with him often in the mornings, she was always willing to listen to his plans⁠—but after she was taken up by the fashionable her evenings seemed to be monopolized. Several times Jim arrived at her boardinghouse to find her out of breath, as if she had just come in at a run, presumably from some festivity in which he had no share.</p>
<p>So as the summer waned he found that one thing was lacking to complete the triumph of his enterprise. Despite the hospitality shown to Amanthis, the doors of Southampton were closed to him. Polite to, or rather, fascinated by him as his pupils were from three to five, after that hour they moved in another world.</p>
<p>His was the position of a golf professional who, though he may fraternize, and even command, on the links, loses his privileges with the sundown. He may look in the club window but he cannot dance. And, likewise, it was not given to Jim to see his teachings put into effect. He could hear the gossip of the morning after⁠—that was all.</p>
<p>But while the golf professional, being English, holds himself proudly below his patrons, Jim Powell, who “came from a right good family down there⁠—pore though,” lay awake many nights in his hotel bed and heard the music drifting into his window from the Katzbys’ house or the Beach Club, and turned over restlessly and wondered what was the matter. In the early days of his success he had bought himself a dress-suit, thinking that he would soon have a chance to wear it⁠—but it still lay untouched in the box in which it had come from the tailor’s.</p>
<p>Perhaps, he thought, there was some real gap which separated him from the rest. It worried him. One boy in particular, Martin Van Vleck, son of Van Vleck the ashcan King, made him conscious of the gap. Van Vleck was twenty-one, a tutoring-school product who still hoped to enter Yale. Several times Jim had heard him make remarks not intended for Jim’s ear⁠—once in regard to the suit with multiple buttons, again in reference to Jim’s long, pointed shoes. Jim had passed these over.</p>
<p>He knew that Van Vleck was attending the school chiefly to monopolize the time of little Martha Katzby, who was just sixteen and too young to have attention of a boy of twenty-one⁠—especially the attention of Van Vleck, who was so spiritually exhausted by his educational failures that he drew on the rather exhaustible innocence of sixteen.</p>
<p>It was late in September, two days before the Harlan dance which was to be the last and biggest of the season for this younger crowd. Jim, as usual, was not invited. He had hoped that he would be. The two young Harlans, Ronald and Genevieve, had been his first patrons when he arrived at Southampton⁠—and it was Genevieve who had taken such a fancy to Amanthis. To have been at their dance⁠—the most magnificent dance of all⁠—would have crowned and justified the success of the waning summer.</p>
<p>His class, gathering for the afternoon, was loudly anticipating the next day’s revel with no more thought of him than if he had been the family butler. Hugo, standing beside Jim, chuckled suddenly and remarked:</p>
<p>“Look yonder that man Van Vleck. He paralyzed. He been havin’ powerful lotta corn this evenin’.”</p>
<p>Jim turned and stared at Van Vleck, who had linked arms with little Martha Katzby and was saying something to her in a low voice. Jim saw her try to draw away.</p>
<p>He put his whistle to his mouth and blew it.</p>
<p>“All right,” he cried, “Le’s go! Group one tossin’ the drumstick, high an’ zigzag, group two, test your mouth organs for the Riverfront Shuffle. Promise ’em sugar! Flatfoots this way! Orchestra⁠—let’s have the Florida Drag-Out played as a dirge.”</p>
<p>There was an unaccustomed sharpness in his voice and the exercises began with a mutter of facetious protest.</p>
<p>With his smoldering grievance directing itself toward Van Vleck, Jim was walking here and there among the groups when Hugo tapped him suddenly on the arm. He looked around. Two participants had withdrawn from the mouth organ institute⁠—one of them was Van Vleck and he was giving a drink out of his flask to fifteen-year-old Ronald Harlan.</p>
<p>Jim strode across the room. Van Vleck turned defiantly as he came up.</p>
<p>“All right,” said Jim, trembling with anger, “you know the rules. You get out!”</p>
<p>The music died slowly away and there was a sudden drifting over in the direction of the trouble. Somebody snickered. An atmosphere of anticipation formed instantly. Despite the fact that they all liked Jim their sympathies were divided⁠—Van Vleck was one of them.</p>
<p>“Get out!” repeated Jim, more quietly.</p>
<p>“Are you talking to me?” inquired Van Vleck coldly.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Then you better say ‘sir.’ ”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t say ‘sir’ to anybody that’d give a little boy whisky! You get out!”</p>
<p>“Look here!” said Van Vleck furiously. “You’ve butted in once too much. I’ve known Ronald since he was two years old. Ask <em>him</em> if he wants <em>you</em> to tell him what he can do!”</p>
<p>Ronald Harlan, his dignity offended, grew several years older and looked haughtily at Jim.</p>
<p>“Mind your own business!” he said defiantly, albeit a little guiltily.</p>
<p>“Hear that?” demanded Van Vleck. “My God, can’t you see you’re just a servant? Ronald here’d no more think of asking you to his party than he would his bootlegger.”</p>
<p>“Youbettergetout!” cried Jim incoherently.</p>
<p>Van Vleck did not move. Reaching out suddenly, Jim caught his wrist and jerking it behind his back forced his arm upward until Van Vleck bent forward in agony. Jim leaned and picked the flask from the floor with his free hand. Then he signed Hugo to open the hall-door, uttered an abrupt “You <em>step</em>!” and marched his helpless captive out into the hall where he literally <em>threw</em> him downstairs, head over heels bumping from wall to banister, and hurled his flask after him.</p>
<p>Then he reentered his academy, closed the door behind him and stood with his back against it.</p>
<p>“It⁠—it happens to be a rule that nobody drinks while in this Academy.” He paused, looking from face to face, finding there sympathy, awe, disapproval, conflicting emotions. They stirred uneasily. He caught Amanthis’s eye, fancied he saw a faint nod of encouragement and, with almost an effort, went on:</p>
<p>“I just <em>had</em> to throw that fella out an’ you-all know it.” Then he concluded with a transparent affectation of dismissing an unimportant matter⁠—“All right, let’s go! Orchestra⁠—!”</p>
<p>But no one felt exactly like going on. The spontaneity of the proceedings had been violently disturbed. Someone made a run or two on the sliding guitar and several of the girls began whamming at the leer on the punching bags, but Ronald Harlan, followed by two other boys, got their hats and went silently out the door.</p>
<p>Jim and Hugo moved among the groups as usual until a certain measure of routine activity was restored but the enthusiasm was unrecapturable and Jim, shaken and discouraged, considered discontinuing school for the day. But he dared not. If they went home in this mood they might not come back. The whole thing depended on a mood. He must recreate it, he thought frantically⁠—now, at once!</p>
<p>But try as he might, there was little response. He himself was not happy⁠—he could communicate no gaiety to them. They watched his efforts listlessly and, he thought, a little contemptuously.</p>
<p>Then the tension snapped when the door burst suddenly open, precipitating a brace of middle-aged and excited women into the room. No person over twenty-one had ever entered the Academy before⁠—but Van Vleck had gone direct to headquarters. The women were <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Clifton Garneau and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Poindexter Katzby, two of the most fashionable and, at present, two of the most flurried women in Southampton. They were in search of their daughters as, in these days, so many women continually are.</p>
<p>The business was over in about three minutes.</p>
<p>“And as for you!” cried <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Clifton Garneau in an awful voice, “your idea is to run a bar and⁠—and <em>opium</em> den for children! You ghastly, horrible, unspeakable man! I can smell morphin fumes! Don’t tell me I can’t smell morphin fumes. I can smell morphin fumes!”</p>
<p>“And,” bellowed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Poindexter Katzby, “you have colored men around! You have colored girls hidden! I’m going to the police!”</p>
<p>Not content with herding their own daughters from the room, they insisted on the exodus of their friends’ daughters. Jim was not a little touched when several of them⁠—including even little Martha Katzby, before she was snatched fiercely away by her mother⁠—came up and shook hands with him. But they were all going, haughtily, regretfully or with shamefaced mutters of apology.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he told them wistfully. “In the morning I’ll send you the money that’s due you.”</p>
<p>And, after all, they were not sorry to go. Outside, the sound of their starting motors, the triumphant put-put of their cutouts cutting the warm September air, was a jubilant sound⁠—a sound of youth and hopes high as the sun. Down to the ocean, to roll in the waves and forget⁠—forget him and their discomfort at his humiliation.</p>
<p>They were gone⁠—he was alone with Hugo in the room. He sat down suddenly with his face in his hands.</p>
<p>“Hugo,” he said huskily. “They don’t want us up here.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you care,” said a voice.</p>
<p>He looked up to see Amanthis standing beside him.</p>
<p>“You better go with them,” he told her. “You better not be seen here with me.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because you’re in society now and I’m no better to those people than a servant. You’re in society⁠—I fixed that up. You better go or they won’t invite you to any of their dances.”</p>
<p>“They won’t anyhow, Jim,” she said gently. “They didn’t invite me to the one tomorrow night.”</p>
<p>He looked up indignantly.</p>
<p>“They <em>did</em>n’t?”</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>“I’ll <em>make</em> ’em!” he said wildly. “I’ll tell ’em they got to. I’ll⁠—I’ll⁠—”</p>
<p>She came close to him with shining eyes.</p>
<p>“Don’t you mind, Jim,” she soothed him. “Don’t you mind. They don’t matter. We’ll have a party of our own tomorrow⁠—just you and I.”</p>
<p>“I come from right good folks,” he said, defiantly. “Pore though.”</p>
<p>She laid her hand softly on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“I understand. You’re better than all of them put together, Jim.”</p>
<p>He got up and went to the window and stared out mournfully into the late afternoon.</p>
<p>“I reckon I should have let you sleep in that hammock.”</p>
<p>She laughed.</p>
<p>“I’m awfully glad you didn’t.”</p>
<p>He turned and faced the room, and his face was dark.</p>
<p>“Sweep up and lock up, Hugo,” he said, his voice trembling. “The summer’s over and we’re going down home.”</p>
<p>Autumn had come early. Jim Powell woke next morning to find his room cool, and the phenomenon of frosted breath in September absorbed him for a moment to the exclusion of the day before. Then the lines of his face drooped with unhappiness as he remembered the humiliation which had washed the cheery glitter from the summer. There was nothing left for him except to go back where he was known, where under no provocation were such things said to white people as had been said to him here.</p>
<p>After breakfast a measure of his customary lightheartedness returned. He was a child of the South⁠—brooding was alien to his nature. He could conjure up an injury only a certain number of times before it faded into the great vacancy of the past.</p>
<p>But when, from force of habit, he strolled over to his defunct establishment, already as obsolete as Snorkey’s late sanitarium, melancholy again dwelt in his heart. Hugo was there, a specter of despair, deep in the lugubrious blues amidst his master’s broken hopes.</p>
<p>Usually a few words from Jim were enough to raise him to an inarticulate ecstasy, but this morning there were no words to utter. For two months Hugo had lived on a pinnacle of which he had never dreamed. He had enjoyed his work simply and passionately, arriving before school hours and lingering long after <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell’s pupils had gone.</p>
<p>The day dragged toward a not-too-promising night. Amanthis did not appear and Jim wondered forlornly if she had not changed her mind about dining with him that night. Perhaps it would be better if she were not seen with them. But then, he reflected dismally, no one would see them anyhow⁠—everybody was going to the big dance at the Harlans’ house.</p>
<p>When twilight threw unbearable shadows into the school hall he locked it up for the last time, took down the sign “James Powell; <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">J.M.</abbr>, Dice, Brassknuckles and Guitar,” and went back to his hotel. Looking over his scrawled accounts he saw that there was another month’s rent to pay on his school and some bills for windows broken and new equipment that had hardly been used. Jim had lived in state, and he realized that financially he would have nothing to show for the summer after all.</p>
<p>When he had finished he took his new dress-suit out of its box and inspected it, running his hand over the satin of the lapels and lining. This, at least, he owned and perhaps in Tarleton somebody would ask him to a party where he could wear it.</p>
<p>“Shucks!” he said scoffingly. “It was just a no account old academy, anyhow. Some of those boys round the garage down home could of beat it all hollow.”</p>
<p>Whistling “Jeanne of Jelly-bean Town” to a not-dispirited rhythm Jim encased himself in his first dress-suit and walked downtown.</p>
<p>“Orchids,” he said to the clerk. He surveyed his purchase with some pride. He knew that no girl at the Harlan dance would wear anything lovelier than these exotic blossoms that leaned languorously backward against green ferns.</p>
<p>In a taxicab, carefully selected to look like a private car, he drove to Amanthis’s boardinghouse. She came down wearing a rose-colored evening dress into which the orchids melted like colors into a sunset.</p>
<p>“I reckon we’ll go to the Casino Hotel,” he suggested, “unless you got some other place⁠—”</p>
<p>At their table, looking out over the dark ocean, his mood became a contended sadness. The windows were shut against the cool but the orchestra played “Kalula” and “South Sea Moon” and for awhile, with her young loveliness opposite him, he felt himself to be a romantic participant in the life around him. They did not dance, and he was glad⁠—it would have reminded him of that other brighter and more radiant dance to which they could not go.</p>
<p>After dinner they took a taxi and followed the sandy roads for an hour, glimpsing the now starry ocean through the casual trees.</p>
<p>“I want to thank you,” she said, “for all you’ve done for me, Jim.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right⁠—we Powells ought to stick together.”</p>
<p>“What are you going to do?”</p>
<p>“I’m going to Tarleton tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Are you going to drive down?”</p>
<p>“I got to. I got to get the car south because I couldn’t get what she was worth by sellin’ it. You don’t suppose anybody’s stole my car out of your barn?” he asked in sudden alarm.</p>
<p>She repressed a smile.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about this⁠—about you,” he went on huskily, “and⁠—and I would like to have gone to just one of their dances. You shouldn’t of stayed with me yesterday. Maybe it kept ’em from asking you.”</p>
<p>“Jim,” she suggested eagerly, “let’s go and stand outside and listen to their old music. We don’t care.”</p>
<p>“They’ll be coming out,” he objected.</p>
<p>“No, it’s too cold. Besides there’s nothing they could do to you any more than they <em>have</em> done.”</p>
<p>She gave the chauffeur a direction and a few minutes later they stopped in front of the heavy Georgian beauty of the Madison Harlan house whence the windows cast their gaiety in bright patches on the lawn. There was laughter inside and the plaintive wind of fashionable horns, and now and again the slow, mysterious shuffle of dancing feet.</p>
<p>“Let’s go up close,” whispered Amanthis in an ecstatic trance, “I want to hear.”</p>
<p>They walked toward the house, keeping in the shadow of the great trees. Jim proceeded with awe⁠—suddenly he stopped and seized Amanthis’s arm.</p>
<p>“Man!” he cried in an excited whisper. “Do you know what that is?”</p>
<p>“A night watchman?” Amanthis cast a startled look around.</p>
<p>“It’s Rastus Muldoon’s Band from Savannah! I heard ’em once, and I <em>know</em>. It’s Rastus Muldoon’s Band!”</p>
<p>They moved closer till they could see first pompadours, then slicked male heads, and high coiffures and finally even bobbed hair pressed under black ties. They could distinguish chatter below the ceaseless laughter. Two figures appeared on the porch, gulped something quickly from flasks and returned inside. But the music had bewitched Jim Powell. His eyes were fixed and he moved his feet like a blind man.</p>
<p>Pressed in close behind some dark bushes they listened. The number ended. A breeze from the ocean blew over them and Jim shivered slightly. Then, in a wistful whisper:</p>
<p>“I’ve always wanted to lead that band. Just once.” His voice grew listless. “Come on. Let’s go. I reckon I don’t belong around here.”</p>
<p>He held out his arm to her but instead of taking it she stepped suddenly out of the bushes and into a bright patch of light.</p>
<p>“Come on, Jim,” she said startlingly. “Let’s go inside.”</p>
<p>“What⁠—?”</p>
<p>She seized his arm and though he drew back in a sort of stupefied horror at her boldness she urged him persistently toward the great front door.</p>
<p>“Watch out!” he gasped. “Somebody’s coming out of that house and see us.”</p>
<p>“No, Jim,” she said firmly. “Nobody’s coming out of that house⁠—but two people are going in.”</p>
<p>“Why?” he demanded wildly, standing in full glare of the porte-cochère lamps. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Why?” she mocked him. “Why, just because this dance happens to be given for me.”</p>
<p>He thought she was mad.</p>
<p>“Come home before they see us,” he begged her.</p>
<p>The great doors swung open and a gentleman stepped out on the porch. In horror Jim recognized <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Madison Harlan. He made a movement as though to break away and run. But the man walked down the steps holding out both hands to Amanthis.</p>
<p>“Hello at last,” he cried. “Where on earth have you two been? Cousin Amanthis⁠—” He kissed her, and turned cordially to Jim. “And for you, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Powell,” he went on, “to make up for being late you’ve got to promise that for just one number you’re going to lead that band.”</p>
<p>New Jersey was warm, all except the part that was under water, and that mattered only to the fishes. All the tourists who rode through the long green miles stopped their cars in front of a spreading old-fashioned country house and looked at the red swing on the lawn and the wide, shady porch, and sighed and drove on⁠—swerving a little to avoid a jet-black body-servant in the road. The body-servant was applying a hammer and nails to a decayed flivver which flaunted from its rear the legend, “Tarleton, <abbr class="eoc">Ga.</abbr>”</p>
<p>A girl with yellow hair and a warm color to her face was lying in the hammock looking as though she could fall asleep any moment. Near her sat a gentleman in an extraordinarily tight suit. They had come down together the day before from the fashionable resort at Southampton.</p>
<p>“When you first appeared,” she was explaining, “I never thought I’d see you again so I made that up about the barber and all. As a matter of fact, I’ve been around quite a bit⁠—with or without brassknuckles. I’m coming out this autumn.”</p>
<p>“I reckon I had a lot to learn,” said Jim.</p>
<p>“And you see,” went on Amanthis, looking at him rather anxiously, “I’d been invited up to Southampton to visit my cousins⁠—and when you said you were going, I wanted to see what you’d do. I always slept at the Harlans’ but I kept a room at the boardinghouse so you wouldn’t know. The reason I didn’t get there on the right train was because I had to come early and warn a lot of people to pretend not to know me.”</p>
<p>Jim got up, nodding his head in comprehension.</p>
<p>“I reckon I and Hugo had better be movin’ along. We got to make Baltimore by night.”</p>
<p>“That’s a long way.”</p>
<p>“I want to sleep south tonight,” he said simply.</p>
<p>Together they walked down the path and past the idiotic statue of Diana on the lawn.</p>
<p>“You see,” added Amanthis gently, “you don’t have to be rich up here in order to⁠—to go around, any more than you do in Georgia⁠—” She broke off abruptly, “Won’t you come back next year and start another Academy?”</p>
<p>“No mamm, not me. That <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Harlan told me I could go on with the one I had but I told him no.”</p>
<p>“Haven’t you⁠—didn’t you make money?”</p>
<p>“No mamm,” he answered. “I got enough of my own income to just get me home. I didn’t have my principal along. One time I was way ahead but I was livin’ high and there was my rent an’ apparatus and those musicians. Besides, there at the end I had to pay what they’d advanced me for their lessons.”</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t have done that!” cried Amanthis indignantly.</p>
<p>“They didn’t want me to, but I told ’em they’d have to take it.”</p>
<p>He didn’t consider it necessary to mention that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Harlan had tried to present him with a check.</p>
<p>They reached the automobile just as Hugo drove in his last nail. Jim opened a pocket of the door and took from it an unlabeled bottle containing a whitish-yellow liquid.</p>
<p>“I intended to get you a present,” he told her awkwardly, “but my money got away before I could, so I thought I’d send you something from Georgia. This here’s just a personal remembrance. It won’t do for you to drink but maybe after you come out into society you might want to show some of those young fellas what good old corn tastes like.”</p>
<p>She took the bottle.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Jim.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right.” He turned to Hugo. “I reckon we’ll go along now. Give the lady the hammer.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you can have the hammer,” said Amanthis tearfully. “Oh, won’t you promise to come back?”</p>
<p>“Someday⁠—maybe.”</p>
<p>He looked for a moment at her yellow hair and her blue eyes misty with sleep and tears. Then he got into his car and as his foot found the clutch his whole manner underwent a change.</p>
<p>“I’ll say goodbye mamm,” he announced with impressive dignity, “we’re goin’ south for the winter.”</p>
<p>The gesture of his straw hat indicated Palm Beach, <abbr>St.</abbr> Augustine, Miami. His body-servant spun the crank, gained his seat and became part of the intense vibration into which the automobile was thrown.</p>
<p>“South for the winter,” repeated Jim, and then he added softly, “You’re the prettiest girl I ever knew. You go back up there and lie down in that hammock, and sleep⁠—sle‑eep⁠—”</p>
<p>It was almost a lullaby, as he said it. He bowed to her, magnificently, profoundly, including the whole North in the splendor of his obeisance⁠—</p>
<p>Then they were gone down the road in quite a preposterous cloud of dust. Just before they reached the first bend Amanthis saw them come to a full stop, dismount and shove the top part of the car on to the bottom pan. They took their seats again without looking around. Then the bend⁠—and they were out of sight, leaving only a faint brown mist to show that they had passed.</p>
</article>
<article id="love-in-the-night" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Love in the Night</h2>
<section id="love-in-the-night-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The words thrilled Val. They had come into his mind sometime during the fresh gold April afternoon and he kept repeating them to himself over and over: “Love in the night; love in the night.” He tried them in three languages⁠—Russian, French and English⁠—and decided that they were best in English. In each language they meant a different sort of love and a different sort of night⁠—the English night seemed the warmest and softest with a thinnest and most crystalline sprinkling of stars. The English love seemed the most fragile and romantic⁠—a white dress and a dim face above it and eyes that were pools of light. And when I add that it was a French night he was thinking about, after all, I see I must go back and begin over.</p>
<p>Val was half Russian and half American. His mother was the daughter of that Morris Hasylton who helped finance the Chicago World’s Fair in 1892, and his father was⁠—see the Almanach de Gotha, issue of 1910⁠—Prince Paul Serge Boris Rostoff, son of Prince Vladimir Rostoff, grandson of a grand duke⁠—“Jimber-jawed Serge”⁠—and third-cousin-once-removed to the czar. It was all very impressive, you see, on that side⁠—house in <abbr>St.</abbr> Petersburg, shooting lodge near Riga, and swollen villa, more like a palace, overlooking the Mediterranean. It was at this villa in Cannes that the Rostoffs passed the winter⁠—and it wasn’t at all the thing to remind Princess Rostoff that this Riviera villa, from the marble fountain⁠—after Bernini⁠—to the gold cordial glasses⁠—after dinner⁠—was paid for with American gold.</p>
<p>The Russians, of course, were gay people on the Continent in the gala days before the war. Of the three races that used Southern France for a pleasure ground they were easily the most adept at the grand manner. The English were too practical, and the Americans, though they spent freely, had no tradition of romantic conduct. But the Russians⁠—there was a people as gallant as the Latins, and rich besides! When the Rostoffs arrived at Cannes late in January the restaurateurs telegraphed north for the Prince’s favorite labels to paste on their champagne, and the jewelers put incredibly gorgeous articles aside to show to him⁠—but not to the princess⁠—and the Russian Church was swept and garnished for the season that the Prince might beg orthodox forgiveness for his sins. Even the Mediterranean turned obligingly to a deep wine color in the spring evenings, and fishing boats with robin-breasted sails loitered exquisitely offshore.</p>
<p>In a vague way young Val realized that this was all for the benefit of him and his family. It was a privileged paradise, this white little city on the water, in which he was free to do what he liked because he was rich and young and the blood of Peter the Great ran indigo in his veins. He was only seventeen in 1914, when this history begins, but he had already fought a duel with a young man four years his senior, and he had a small hairless scar to show for it on top of his handsome head.</p>
<p>But the question of love in the night was the thing nearest his heart. It was a vague pleasant dream he had, something that was going to happen to him some day that would be unique and incomparable. He could have told no more about it than that there was a lovely unknown girl concerned in it, and that it ought to take place beneath the Riviera moon.</p>
<p>The odd thing about all this was not that he had this excited and yet almost spiritual hope of romance, for all boys of any imagination have just such hopes, but that it actually came true. And when it happened, it happened so unexpectedly; it was such a jumble of impressions and emotions, of curious phrases that sprang to his lips, of sights and sounds and moments that were here, were lost, were past, that he scarcely understood it at all. Perhaps its very vagueness preserved it in his heart and made him forever unable to forget.</p>
<p>There was an atmosphere of love all about him that spring⁠—his father’s loves, for instance, which were many and indiscreet, and which Val became aware of gradually from overhearing the gossip of servants, and definitely from coming on his American mother unexpectedly one afternoon, to find her storming hysterically at his father’s picture on the salon wall. In the picture his father wore a white uniform with a furred dolman and looked back impassively at his wife as if to say “Were you under the impression, my dear, that you were marrying into a family of clergymen?”</p>
<p>Val tiptoed away, surprised, confused⁠—and excited. It didn’t shock him as it would have shocked an American boy of his age. He had known for years what life was among the Continental rich, and he condemned his father only for making his mother cry.</p>
<p>Love went on around him⁠—reproachless love and illicit love alike. As he strolled along the seaside promenade at nine o’clock, when the stars were bright enough to compete with the bright lamps, he was aware of love on every side. From the open-air cafés, vivid with dresses just down from Paris, came a sweet pungent odor of flowers and chartreuse and fresh black coffee and cigarettes⁠—and mingled with them all he caught another scent, the mysterious thrilling scent of love. Hands touched jewel-sparkling hands upon the white tables. Gay dresses and white shirt fronts swayed together, and matches were held, trembling a little, for slow-lighting cigarettes. On the other side of the boulevard lovers less fashionable, young Frenchmen who worked in the stores of Cannes, sauntered with their fiancées under the dim trees, but Val’s young eyes seldom turned that way. The luxury of music and bright colors and low voices⁠—they were all part of his dream. They were the essential trappings of Love in the night.</p>
<p>But assume as he might the rather fierce expression that was expected from a young Russian gentleman who walked the streets alone, Val was beginning to be unhappy. April twilight had succeeded March twilight, the season was almost over, and he had found no use to make of the warm spring evenings. The girls of sixteen and seventeen whom he knew, were chaperoned with care between dusk and bedtime⁠—this, remember, was before the war⁠—and the others who might gladly have walked beside him were an affront to his romantic desire. So April passed by⁠—one week, two weeks, three weeks⁠—</p>
<p>He had played tennis until seven and loitered at the courts for another hour, so it was half-past eight when a tired cab horse accomplished the hill on which gleamed the façade of the Rostoff villa. The lights of his mother’s limousine were yellow in the drive, and the princess, buttoning her gloves, was just coming out the glowing door. Val tossed two francs to the cabman and went to kiss her on the cheek.</p>
<p>“Don’t touch me,” she said quickly. “You’ve been handling money.”</p>
<p>“But not in my mouth, mother,” he protested humorously.</p>
<p>The princess looked at him impatiently.</p>
<p>“I’m angry,” she said. “Why must you be so late tonight? We’re dining on a yacht and you were to have come along too.”</p>
<p>“What yacht?”</p>
<p>“Americans.” There was always a faint irony in her voice when she mentioned the land of her nativity. Her America was the Chicago of the nineties which she still thought of as the vast upstairs to a butcher shop. Even the irregularities of Prince Paul were not too high a price to have paid for her escape.</p>
<p>“Two yachts,” she continued; “in fact we don’t know which one. The note was very indefinite. Very careless indeed.”</p>
<p>Americans. Val’s mother had taught him to look down on Americans, but she hadn’t succeeded in making him dislike them. American men noticed you, even if you were seventeen. He liked Americans. Although he was thoroughly Russian he wasn’t immaculately so⁠—the exact proportion, like that of a celebrated soap, was about ninety-nine and three-quarters percent.</p>
<p>“I want to come,” he said, “I’ll hurry up, mother. I’ll⁠—”</p>
<p>“We’re late now.” The princess turned as her husband appeared in the door. “Now Val says he wants to come.”</p>
<p>“He can’t,” said Prince Paul shortly. “He’s too outrageously late.”</p>
<p>Val nodded. Russian aristocrats, however indulgent about themselves, were always admirably Spartan with their children. There were no arguments.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he said.</p>
<p>Prince Paul grunted. The footman, in red and silver livery, opened the limousine door. But the grunt decided the matter for Val, because Princess Rostoff at that day and hour had certain grievances against her husband which gave her command of the domestic situation.</p>
<p>“On second thought you’d better come, Val,” she announced coolly. “It’s too late now, but come after dinner. The yacht is either the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Minnehaha</i> or the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Privateer</i>.” She got into the limousine. “The one to come to will be the gayer one, I suppose⁠—the Jacksons’ yacht⁠—”</p>
<p>“Find got sense,” muttered the Prince cryptically, conveying that Val would find it if he had any sense. “Have my man take a look at you ’fore you start. Wear tie of mine ’stead of that outrageous string you affected in Vienna. Grow up. High time.”</p>
<p>As the limousine crawled crackling down the pebbled drive Val’s face was burning.</p>
</section>
<section id="love-in-the-night-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>It was dark in Cannes harbor, rather it seemed dark after the brightness of the promenade that Val had just left behind. Three frail dock lights glittered dimly upon innumerable fishing boats heaped like shells along the beach. Farther out in the water there were other lights where a fleet of slender yachts rode the tide with slow dignity, and farther still a full ripe moon made the water bosom into a polished dancing floor. Occasionally there was a <i>swish!</i> <i>creak!</i> <i>drip!</i> as a rowboat moved about in the shallows, and its blurred shape threaded the labyrinth of hobbled fishing skiffs and launches. Val, descending the velvet slope of sand, stumbled over a sleeping boatman and caught the rank savor of garlic and plain wine. Taking the man by the shoulders he shook open his startled eyes.</p>
<p>“Do you know where the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Minnehaha</i> is anchored, and the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Privateer</i>?”</p>
<p>As they slid out into the bay he lay back in the stern and stared with vague discontent at the Riviera moon. That was the right moon, all right. Frequently, five nights out of seven, there was the right moon. And here was the soft air, aching with enchantment, and here was the music, many strains of music from many orchestras, drifting out from the shore. Eastward lay the dark Cape of Antibes, and then Nice, and beyond that Monte Carlo, where the night rang chinking full of gold. Some day he would enjoy all that, too, know its every pleasure and success⁠—when he was too old and wise to care.</p>
<p>But tonight⁠—tonight, that stream of silver that waved like a wide strand of curly hair toward the moon; those soft romantic lights of Cannes behind him, the irresistible ineffable love in this air⁠—that was to be wasted forever.</p>
<p>“Which one?” asked the boatman suddenly.</p>
<p>“Which what?” demanded Val, sitting up.</p>
<p>“Which boat?”</p>
<p>He pointed. Val turned; above hovered the gray, sword-like prow of a yacht. During the sustained longing of his wish they had covered half a mile.</p>
<p>He read the brass letters over his head. It was the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Privateer</i>, but there were only dim lights on board, and no music and no voices, only a murmurous k-plash at intervals as the small waves leaped at the sides.</p>
<p>“The other one,” said Val; “the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Minnehaha</i>.”</p>
<p>“Don’t go yet.”</p>
<p>Val started. The voice, low and soft, had dropped down from the darkness overhead.</p>
<p>“What’s the hurry?” said the soft voice. “Thought maybe somebody was coming to see me, and have suffered terrible disappointment.”</p>
<p>The boatman lifted his oars and looked hesitatingly at Val. But Val was silent, so the man let the blades fall into the water and swept the boat out into the moonlight.</p>
<p>“Wait a minute!” cried Val sharply.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” said the voice. “Come again when you can stay longer.”</p>
<p>“But I am going to stay now,” he answered breathlessly.</p>
<p>He gave the necessary order and the rowboat swung back to the foot of the small companionway. Someone young, someone in a misty white dress, someone with a lovely low voice, had actually called to him out of the velvet dark. “If she has eyes!” Val murmured to himself. He liked the romantic sound of it and repeated it under his breath⁠—“If she has eyes.”</p>
<p>“What are you?” She was directly above him now; she was looking down and he was looking up as he climbed the ladder, and as their eyes met they both began to laugh.</p>
<p>She was very young, slim, almost frail, with a dress that accentuated her youth by its blanched simplicity. Two wan dark spots on her cheeks marked where the color was by day.</p>
<p>“What are you?” she repeated, moving back and laughing again as his head appeared on the level of the deck. “I’m frightened now and I want to know.”</p>
<p>“I am a gentleman,” said Val, bowing.</p>
<p>“What sort of a gentleman? There are all sorts of gentlemen. There was a⁠—there was a colored gentleman at the table next to ours in Paris, and so⁠—” She broke off. “You’re not American, are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m Russian,” he said, as he might have announced himself to be an archangel. He thought quickly and then added, “And I am the most fortunate of Russians. All this day, all this spring I have dreamed of falling in love on such a night, and now I see that heaven has sent me to you.”</p>
<p>“Just one moment!” she said, with a little gasp. “I’m sure now that this visit is a mistake. I don’t go in for anything like that. Please!”</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon.” He looked at her in bewilderment, unaware that he had taken too much for granted. Then he drew himself up formally.</p>
<p>“I have made an error. If you will excuse me I will say good night.”</p>
<p>He turned away. His hand was on the rail.</p>
<p>“Don’t go,” she said, pushing a strand of indefinite hair out of her eyes. “On second thoughts you can talk any nonsense you like if you’ll only not go. I’m miserable and I don’t want to be left alone.”</p>
<p>Val hesitated; there was some element in this that he failed to understand. He had taken it for granted that a girl who called to a strange man at night, even from the deck of a yacht, was certainly in a mood for romance. And he wanted intensely to stay. Then he remembered that this was one of the two yachts he had been seeking.</p>
<p>“I imagine that the dinner’s on the other boat,” he said.</p>
<p>“The dinner? Oh, yes, it’s on the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Minnehaha</i>. Were you going there?”</p>
<p>“I was going there⁠—a long time ago.”</p>
<p>“What’s your name?”</p>
<p>He was on the point of telling her when something made him ask a question instead.</p>
<p>“And you? Why are you not at the party?”</p>
<p>“Because I preferred to stay here. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Jackson said there would be some Russians there⁠—I suppose that’s you.” She looked at him with interest. “You’re a very young man, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“I am much older than I look,” said Val stiffly. “People always comment on it. It’s considered rather a remarkable thing.”</p>
<p>“How old are you?”</p>
<p>“Twenty-one,” he lied.</p>
<p>She laughed.</p>
<p>“What nonsense! You’re not more than nineteen.”</p>
<p>His annoyance was so perceptible that she hastened to reassure him. “Cheer up! I’m only seventeen myself. I might have gone to the party if I’d thought there’d be anyone under fifty there.”</p>
<p>He welcomed the change of subject.</p>
<p>“You preferred to sit and dream here beneath the moon.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been thinking of mistakes.” They sat down side by side in two canvas deck chairs. “It’s a most engrossing subject⁠—the subject of mistakes. Women very seldom brood about mistakes⁠—they’re much more willing to forget than men are. But when they do brood⁠—”</p>
<p>“You have made a mistake?” inquired Val.</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>“Is it something that cannot be repaired?”</p>
<p>“I think so,” she answered. “I can’t be sure. That’s what I was considering when you came along.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps I can help in some way,” said Val. “Perhaps your mistake is not irreparable, after all.”</p>
<p>“You can’t,” she said unhappily. “So let’s not think about it. I’m very tired of my mistake and I’d much rather you’d tell me about all the gay, cheerful things that are going on in Cannes tonight.”</p>
<p>They glanced shoreward at the line of mysterious and alluring lights, the big toy banks with candles inside that were really the great fashionable hotels, the lighted clock in the old town, the blurred glow of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Café de Paris</i>, the pricked-out points of villa windows rising on slow hills toward the dark sky.</p>
<p>“What is everyone doing there?” she whispered. “It looks as though something gorgeous was going on, but what it is I can’t quite tell.”</p>
<p>“Everyone there is making love,” said Val quietly.</p>
<p>“Is that it?” She looked for a long time, with a strange expression in her eyes. “Then I want to go home to America,” she said. “There is too much love here. I want to go home tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“You are afraid of being in love then?”</p>
<p>She shook her head.</p>
<p>“It isn’t that. It’s just because⁠—there is no love here for me.”</p>
<p>“Or for me either,” added Val quietly. “It is sad that we two should be at such a lovely place on such a lovely night and have⁠—nothing.”</p>
<p>He was leaning toward her intently, with a sort of inspired and chaste romance in his eyes⁠—and she drew back.</p>
<p>“Tell me more about yourself,” she inquired quickly. “If you are Russian where did you learn to speak such excellent English?”</p>
<p>“My mother was American,” he admitted. “My grandfather was American also, so she had no choice in the matter.”</p>
<p>“Then you’re American too!”</p>
<p>“I am Russian,” said Val with dignity.</p>
<p>She looked at him closely, smiled and decided not to argue. “Well then,” she said diplomatically, “I suppose you must have a Russian name.”</p>
<p>But he had no intention now of telling her his name. A name, even the Rostoff name, would be a desecration of the night. They were their own low voices, their two white faces⁠—and that was enough. He was sure, without any reason for being sure but with a sort of instinct that sang triumphantly through his mind, that in a little while, a minute or an hour, he was going to undergo an initiation into the life of romance. His name had no reality beside what was stirring in his heart.</p>
<p>“You are beautiful,” he said suddenly.</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“Because for women moonlight is the hardest light of all.”</p>
<p>“Am I nice in the moonlight?”</p>
<p>“You are the loveliest thing that I have ever known.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” She thought this over. “Of course I had no business to let you come on board. I might have known what we’d talk about⁠—in this moon. But I can’t sit here and look at the shore⁠—forever. I’m too young for that. Don’t you think I’m too young for that?”</p>
<p>“Much too young,” he agreed solemnly.</p>
<p>Suddenly they both became aware of new music that was close at hand, music that seemed to come out of the water not a hundred yards away.</p>
<p>“Listen!” she cried. “It’s from the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Minnehaha</i>. They’ve finished dinner.”</p>
<p>For a moment they listened in silence.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” said Val suddenly.</p>
<p>“For what?”</p>
<p>He hardly knew he had spoken. He was thanking the deep low horns for singing in the breeze, the sea for its warm murmurous complaint against the bow, the milk of the stars for washing over them until he felt buoyed up in a substance more taut than air.</p>
<p>“So lovely,” she whispered.</p>
<p>“What are we going to do about it?”</p>
<p>“Do we have to do something about it? I thought we could just sit and enjoy⁠—”</p>
<p>“You didn’t think that,” he interrupted quietly. “You know that we must do something about it. I am going to make love to you⁠—and you are going to be glad.”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” she said very low. She wanted to laugh now, to make some light cool remark that would bring the situation back into the safe waters of a casual flirtation. But it was too late now. Val knew that the music had completed what the moon had begun.</p>
<p>“I will tell you the truth,” he said. “You are my first love. I am seventeen⁠—the same age as you, no more.”</p>
<p>There was something utterly disarming about the fact that they were the same age. It made her helpless before the fate that had thrown them together. The deck chairs creaked and he was conscious of a faint illusive perfume as they swayed suddenly and childishly together.</p>
</section>
<section id="love-in-the-night-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Whether he kissed her once or several times he could not afterward remember, though it must have been an hour that they sat there close together and he held her hand. What surprised him most about making love was that it seemed to have no element of wild passion⁠—regret, desire, despair⁠—but a delirious promise of such happiness in the world, in living, as he had never known. First love⁠—this was only first love! What must love itself in its fullness, its perfection be. He did not know that what he was experiencing then, that unreal, undesirous medley of ecstasy and peace, would be unrecapturable forever.</p>
<p>The music had ceased for some time when presently the murmurous silence was broken by the sound of a rowboat disturbing the quiet waves. She sprang suddenly to her feet and her eyes strained out over the bay.</p>
<p>“Listen!” she said quickly. “I want you to tell me your name.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Please,” she begged him. “I’m going away tomorrow.”</p>
<p>He didn’t answer.</p>
<p>“I don’t want you to forget me,” she said. “My name is⁠—”</p>
<p>“I won’t forget you. I will promise to remember you always. Whoever I may love I will always compare her to you, my first love. So long as I live you will always have that much freshness in my heart.”</p>
<p>“I want you to remember,” she murmured brokenly. “Oh, this has meant more to me than it has to you⁠—much more.”</p>
<p>She was standing so close to him that he felt her warm young breath on his face. Once again they swayed together. He pressed her hands and wrists between his as it seemed right to do, and kissed her lips. It was the right kiss, he thought, the romantic kiss⁠—not too little or too much. Yet there was a sort of promise in it of other kisses he might have had, and it was with a slight sinking of his heart that he heard the rowboat close to the yacht and realized that her family had returned. The evening was over.</p>
<p>“And this is only the beginning,” he told himself. “All my life will be like this night.”</p>
<p>She was saying something in a low quick voice and he was listening tensely.</p>
<p>“You must know one thing⁠—I am married. Three months ago. That was the mistake that I was thinking about when the moon brought you out here. In a moment you will understand.”</p>
<p>She broke off as the boat swung against the companionway and a man’s voice floated up out of the darkness.</p>
<p>“Is that you, my dear?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“What is this other rowboat waiting?”</p>
<p>“One of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Jackson’s guests came here by mistake and I made him stay and amuse me for an hour.”</p>
<p>A moment later the thin white hair and weary face of a man of sixty appeared above the level of the deck. And then Val saw and realized too late how much he cared.</p>
</section>
<section id="love-in-the-night-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>When the Riviera season ended in May the Rostoffs and all the other Russians closed their villas and went north for the summer. The Russian Orthodox Church was locked up and so were the bins of rarer wine, and the fashionable spring moonlight was put away, so to speak, to wait for their return.</p>
<p>“We’ll be back next season,” they said as a matter of course.</p>
<p>But this was premature, for they were never coming back any more. Those few who straggled south again after five tragic years were glad to get work as chambermaids or <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">valets de chambre</i> in the great hotels where they had once dined. Many of them, of course, were killed in the war or in the revolution; many of them faded out as spongers and small cheats in the big capitals, and not a few ended their lives in a sort of stupefied despair.</p>
<p>When the Kerensky government collapsed in 1917, Val was a lieutenant on the eastern front, trying desperately to enforce authority in his company long after any vestige of it remained. He was still trying when Prince Paul Rostoff and his wife gave up their lives one rainy morning to atone for the blunders of the Romanovs⁠—and the enviable career of Morris Hasylton’s daughter ended in a city that bore even more resemblance to a butcher shop than had Chicago in 1892.</p>
<p>After that Val fought with Denikin’s army for a while until he realized that he was participating in a hollow farce and the glory of Imperial Russia was over. Then he went to France and was suddenly confronted with the astounding problem of keeping his body and soul together.</p>
<p>It was, of course, natural that he should think of going to America. Two vague aunts with whom his mother had quarreled many years ago still lived there in comparative affluence. But the idea was repugnant to the prejudices his mother had implanted in him, and besides he hadn’t sufficient money left to pay for his passage over. Until a possible counterrevolution should restore to him the Rostoff properties in Russia he must somehow keep alive in France.</p>
<p>So he went to the little city he knew best of all. He went to Cannes. His last two hundred francs bought him a third-class ticket and when he arrived he gave his dress suit to an obliging party who dealt in such things and received in return money for food and bed. He was sorry afterward that he had sold the dress suit, because it might have helped him to a position as a waiter. But he obtained work as a taxi driver instead and was quite as happy, or rather quite as miserable, at that.</p>
<p>Sometimes he carried Americans to look at villas for rent, and when the front glass of the automobile was up, curious fragments of conversation drifted out to him from within.</p>
<p>“⁠—heard this fellow was a Russian prince.”⁠ ⁠… “Sh!”⁠ ⁠… “No, this one right here.”⁠ ⁠… “Be quiet, Esther!”⁠—followed by subdued laughter.</p>
<p>When the car stopped, his passengers would edge around to have a look at him. At first he was desperately unhappy when girls did this; after a while he didn’t mind any more. Once a cheerfully intoxicated American asked him if it were true and invited him to lunch, and another time an elderly woman seized his hand as she got out of the taxi, shook it violently and then pressed a hundred-franc note into his hand.</p>
<p>“Well, Florence, now I can tell ’em back home I shook hands with a Russian prince.”</p>
<p>The inebriated American who had invited him to lunch thought at first that Val was a son of the czar, and it had to be explained to him that a prince in Russia was simply the equivalent of a British courtesy lord. But he was puzzled that a man of Val’s personality didn’t go out and make some real money.</p>
<p>“This is Europe,” said Val gravely. “Here money is not made. It is inherited or else it is slowly saved over a period of many years and maybe in three generations a family moves up into a higher class.”</p>
<p>“Think of something people want⁠—like we do.”</p>
<p>“That is because there is more money to want with in America. Everything that people want here has been thought of long ago.”</p>
<p>But after a year and with the help of a young Englishman he had played tennis with before the war, Val managed to get into the Cannes branch of an English bank. He forwarded mail and bought railroad tickets and arranged tours for impatient sightseers. Sometimes a familiar face came to his window; if Val was recognized he shook hands; if not he kept silence. After two years he was no longer pointed out as a former prince, for the Russians were an old story now⁠—the splendor of the Rostoffs and their friends was forgotten.</p>
<p>He mixed with people very little. In the evenings he walked for a while on the promenade, took a slow glass of beer in a café, and went early to bed. He was seldom invited anywhere because people thought that his sad, intent face was depressing⁠—and he never accepted anyhow. He wore cheap French clothes now instead of the rich tweeds and flannels that had been ordered with his father’s from England. As for women, he knew none at all. Of the many things he had been certain about at seventeen, he had been most certain about this⁠—that his life would be full of romance. Now after eight years he knew that it was not to be. Somehow he had never had time for love⁠—the war, the revolution and now his poverty had conspired against his expectant heart. The springs of his emotion which had first poured forth one April night had dried up immediately and only a faint trickle remained.</p>
<p>His happy youth had ended almost before it began. He saw himself growing older and more shabby, and living always more and more in the memories of his gorgeous boyhood. Eventually he would become absurd, pulling out an old heirloom of a watch and showing it to amused young fellow clerks who would listen with winks to his tales of the Rostoff name.</p>
<p>He was thinking these gloomy thoughts one April evening in 1922 as he walked beside the sea and watched the never-changing magic of the awakening lights. It was no longer for his benefit, that magic, but it went on, and he was somehow glad. Tomorrow he was going away on his vacation, to a cheap hotel farther down the shore where he could bathe and rest and read; then he would come back and work some more. Every year for three years he had taken his vacation during the last two weeks in April, perhaps because it was then that he felt the most need for remembering. It was in April that what was destined to be the best part of his life had come to a culmination under a romantic moonlight. It was sacred to him⁠—for what he had thought of as an initiation and a beginning had turned out to be the end.</p>
<p>He paused now in front of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Café des Étrangers</i> and after a moment crossed the street on impulse and sauntered down to the shore. A dozen yachts, already turned to a beautiful silver color, rode at anchor in the bay. He had seen them that afternoon, and read the names painted on their bows⁠—but only from habit. He had done it for three years now, and it was almost a natural function of his eye.</p>
<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Un beau soir</i>,” remarked a French voice at his elbow. It was a boatman who had often seen Val here before. “Monsieur finds the sea beautiful?”</p>
<p>“Very beautiful.”</p>
<p>“I too. But a bad living except in the season. Next week, though, I earn something special. I am paid well for simply waiting here and doing nothing more from eight o’clock until midnight.”</p>
<p>“That’s very nice,” said Val politely.</p>
<p>“A widowed lady, very beautiful, from America, whose yacht always anchors in the harbor for the last two weeks in April. If the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Privateer</i> comes tomorrow it will make three years.”</p>
</section>
<section id="love-in-the-night-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>All night Val didn’t sleep⁠—not because there was any question in his mind as to what he should do, but because his long stupefied emotions were suddenly awake and alive. Of course he must not see her⁠—not he, a poor failure with a name that was now only a shadow⁠—but it would make him a little happier always to know that she remembered. It gave his own memory another dimension, raised it like those stereopticon glasses that bring out a picture from the flat paper. It made him sure that he had not deceived himself⁠—he had been charming once upon a time to a lovely woman, and she did not forget.</p>
<p>An hour before train time next day he was at the railway station with his grip, so as to avoid any chance encounter in the street. He found himself a place in a third-class carriage of the waiting train.</p>
<p>Somehow as he sat there he felt differently about life⁠—a sort of hope, faint and illusory, that he hadn’t felt twenty-four hours before. Perhaps there was some way in those next few years in which he could make it possible to meet her once again⁠—if he worked hard, threw himself passionately into whatever was at hand. He knew of at least two Russians in Cannes who had started over again with nothing except good manners and ingenuity and were now doing surprisingly well. The blood of Morris Hasylton began to throb a little in Val’s temples and made him remember something he had never before cared to remember⁠—that Morris Hasylton, who had built his daughter a palace in <abbr>St.</abbr> Petersburg, had also started from nothing at all.</p>
<p>Simultaneously another emotion possessed him, less strange, less dynamic but equally American⁠—the emotion of curiosity. In case he did⁠—well, in case life should ever make it possible for him to seek her out, he should at least know her name.</p>
<p>He jumped to his feet, fumbled excitedly at the carriage handle and jumped from the train. Tossing his valise into the check room he started at a run for the American consulate.</p>
<p>“A yacht came in this morning,” he said hurriedly to a clerk, “an American yacht⁠—the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Privateer</i>. I want to know who owns it.”</p>
<p>“Just a minute,” said the clerk, looking at him oddly. “I’ll try to find out.”</p>
<p>After what seemed to Val an interminable time he returned.</p>
<p>“Why, just a minute,” he repeated hesitantly. “We’re⁠—it seems we’re finding out.”</p>
<p>“Did the yacht come?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes⁠—it’s here all right. At least I think so. If you’ll just wait in that chair.”</p>
<p>After another ten minutes Val looked impatiently at his watch. If they didn’t hurry he’d probably miss his train. He made a nervous movement as if to get up from his chair.</p>
<p>“Please sit still,” said the clerk, glancing at him quickly from his desk. “I ask you. Just sit down in that chair.”</p>
<p>Val stared at him. How could it possibly matter to the clerk whether or not he waited?</p>
<p>“I’ll miss my train,” he said impatiently. “I’m sorry to have given you all this bother⁠—”</p>
<p>“Please sit still! We’re glad to get it off our hands. You see, we’ve been waiting for your inquiry for⁠—ah⁠—three years.”</p>
<p>Val jumped to his feet and jammed his hat on his head.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he demanded angrily.</p>
<p>“Because we had to get word to our⁠—our client. Please don’t go! It’s⁠—ah, it’s too late.”</p>
<p>Val turned. Someone slim and radiant with dark frightened eyes was standing behind him, framed against the sunshine of the doorway.</p>
<p>“Why⁠—”</p>
<p>Val’s lips parted, but no words came through. She took a step toward him.</p>
<p>“I⁠—” She looked at him helplessly, her eyes filling with tears. “I just wanted to say hello,” she murmured. “I’ve come back for three years just because I wanted to say hello.”</p>
<p>Still Val was silent.</p>
<p>“You might answer,” she said impatiently. “You might answer when I’d⁠—when I’d just about begun to think you’d been killed in the war.” She turned to the clerk. “Please introduce us!” she cried. “You see, I can’t say hello to him when we don’t even know each other’s names.”</p>
<p>It’s the thing to distrust these international marriages, of course. It’s an American tradition that they always turn out badly, and we are accustomed to such headlines as: “Would Trade Coronet for True American Love, Says Duchess,” and “Claims Count Mendicant Tortured Toledo Wife.” The other sort of headlines are never printed, for who would want to read: “Castle is Love Nest, Asserts Former Georgia Belle,” or “Duke and Packer’s Daughter Celebrate Golden Honeymoon.”</p>
<p>So far there have been no headlines at all about the young Rostoffs. Prince Val is much too absorbed in that string of moonlight-blue taxicabs which he manipulates with such unusual efficiency, to give out interviews. He and his wife only leave New York once a year⁠—but there is still a boatman who rejoices when the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Privateer</i> steams into Cannes harbor on a mid-April night.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-adjuster" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Adjuster</h2>
<section id="the-adjuster-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>At five o’clock the sombre egg-shaped room at the Ritz ripens to a subtle melody⁠—the light <em>clat-clat</em> of one lump, two lumps, into the cup, and the <em>ding</em> of the shining teapots and cream-pots as they kiss elegantly in transit upon a silver tray. There are those who cherish that amber hour above all other hours, for now the pale, pleasant toil of the lilies who inhabit the Ritz is over⁠—the singing decorative part of the day remains.</p>
<p>Moving your eyes around the slightly raised horseshoe balcony you might, one spring afternoon, have seen young <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Alphonse Karr and young <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Charles Hemple at a table for two. The one in the dress was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple⁠—when I say “the dress” I refer to that black immaculate affair with the big buttons and the red ghost of a cape at the shoulders, a gown suggesting with faint and fashionable irreverence the garb of a French cardinal, as it was meant to do when it was invented in the Rue de la Paix. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Karr and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple were twenty-three years old, and their enemies said that they had done very well for themselves. Either might have had her limousine waiting at the hotel door, but both of them much preferred to walk home (up Park Avenue) through the April twilight.</p>
<p>Luella Hemple was tall, with the sort of flaxen hair that English country girls should have, but seldom do. Her skin was radiant, and there was no need of putting anything on it at all, but in deference to an antiquated fashion⁠—this was the year 1920⁠—she had powdered out its high roses and drawn on it a new mouth and new eyebrows⁠—which were no more successful than such meddling deserves. This, of course, is said from the vantage-point of 1925. In those days the effect she gave was exactly right.</p>
<p>“I’ve been married three years,” she was saying as she squashed out a cigarette in an exhausted lemon. “The baby will be two years old tomorrow. I must remember to get⁠—”</p>
<p>She took a gold pencil from her case and wrote “Candles” and “Things you pull, with paper caps,” on an ivory date-pad. Then, raising her eyes, she looked at <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Karr and hesitated.</p>
<p>“Shall I tell you something outrageous?”</p>
<p>“Try,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Karr cheerfully.</p>
<p>“Even my baby bores me. That sounds unnatural, Ede, but it’s true. He doesn’t <em>begin</em> to fill my life. I love him with all my heart, but when I have him to take care of for an afternoon, I get so nervous that I want to scream. After two hours I begin praying for the moment the nurse’ll walk in the door.”</p>
<p>When she had made this confession, Luella breathed quickly and looked closely at her friend. She didn’t really feel unnatural at all. This was the truth. There couldn’t be anything vicious in the truth.</p>
<p>“It may be because you don’t love Charles,” ventured <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Karr, unmoved.</p>
<p>“But I do! I hope I haven’t given you that impression with all this talk.” She decided that Ede Karr was stupid. “It’s the very fact that I do love Charles that complicates matters. I cried myself to sleep last night because I know we’re drifting slowly but surely toward a divorce. It’s the baby that keeps us together.”</p>
<p>Ede Karr, who had been married five years, looked at her critically to see if this was a pose, but Luella’s lovely eyes were grave and sad.</p>
<p>“And what is the trouble?” Ede inquired.</p>
<p>“It’s plural,” said Luella, frowning. “First, there’s food. I’m a vile housekeeper, and I have no intention of turning into a good one. I hate to order groceries, and I hate to go into the kitchen and poke around to see if the icebox is clean, and I hate to pretend to the servants that I’m interested in their work, when really I never want to hear about food until it comes on the table. You see, I never learned to cook, and consequently a kitchen is about as interesting to me as a⁠—as a boiler-room. It’s simply a machine that I don’t understand. It’s easy to say, ‘Go to cooking school,’ the way people do in books⁠—but, Ede, in real life does anybody ever change into a model Hausfrau unless they have to?”</p>
<p>“Go on,” said Ede noncommittally. “Tell me more.”</p>
<p>“Well, as a result, the house is always in a riot. The servants leave every week. If they’re young and incompetent, I can’t train them, so we have to let them go. If they’re experienced, they hate a house where a woman doesn’t take an intense interest in the price of asparagus. So they leave⁠—and half the time we eat at restaurants and hotels.”</p>
<p>“I don’t suppose Charles likes that.”</p>
<p>“Hates it. In fact, he hates about everything that I like. He’s lukewarm about the theatre, hates the opera, hates dancing, hates cocktail parties⁠—sometimes I think he hates everything pleasant in the world. I sat home for a year or so. While Chuck was on the way, and while I was nursing him, I didn’t mind. But this year I told Charles frankly that I was still young enough to want some fun. And since then we’ve been going out whether he wants to or not.” She paused, brooding. “I’m so sorry for him I don’t know what to do, Ede⁠—but if we sat home, I’d just be sorry for myself. And to tell you another true thing, I’d rather that he’d be unhappy than me.”</p>
<p>Luella was not so much stating a case as thinking aloud. She considered that she was being very fair. Before her marriage men had always told her that she was “a good sport,” and she had tried to carry this fairness into her married life. So she always saw Charley’s point of view as clearly as she saw her own.</p>
<p>If she had been a pioneer wife, she would probably have fought the fight side by side with her husband. But here in New York there wasn’t any fight. They weren’t struggling together to obtain a far-off peace and leisure⁠—she had more of either than she could use. Luella, like several thousand other young wives in New York, honestly wanted something to do. If she had had a little more money and a little less love, she could have gone in for horses or for vagarious amour. Or if they had had a little less money, her surplus energy would have been absorbed by hope and even by effort. But the Charles Hemples were in between. They were of that enormous American class who wander over Europe every summer, sneering rather pathetically and wistfully at the customs and traditions and pastimes of other countries, because they have no customs or traditions or pastimes of their own. It is a class sprung yesterday from fathers and mothers who might just as well have lived two hundred years ago.</p>
<p>The tea-hour had turned abruptly into the before-dinner hour. Most of the tables had emptied until the room was dotted rather than crowded with shrill isolated voices and remote, surprising laughter⁠—in one corner the waiters were already covering the tables with white for dinner.</p>
<p>“Charles and I are on each other’s nerves.” In the new silence Luella’s voice rang out with startling clearness, and she lowered it precipitately. “Little things. He keeps rubbing his face with his hand⁠—all the time, at table, at the theatre⁠—even when he’s in bed. It drives me wild, and when things like that begin to irritate you, it’s nearly over.” She broke off and, reaching backward, drew up a light fur around her neck. “I hope I haven’t bored you, Ede. It’s on my mind, because tonight tells the story. I made an engagement for tonight⁠—an interesting engagement, a supper after the theatre to meet some Russians, singers or dancers or something, and Charles says he won’t go. If he doesn’t⁠—then I’m going alone. And that’s the end.”</p>
<p>She put her elbows on the table suddenly and, bending her eyes down into her smooth gloves, began to cry, stubbornly and quietly. There was no one near to see, but Ede Karr wished that she had taken her gloves off. She would have reached out consolingly and touched her bare hand. But the gloves were a symbol of the difficulty of sympathizing with a woman to whom life had given so much. Ede wanted to say that it would “come out all right,” that it wasn’t “so bad as it seemed,” but she said nothing. Her only reaction was impatience and distaste.</p>
<p>A waiter stepped near and laid a folded paper on the table, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Karr reached for it.</p>
<p>“No, you mustn’t,” murmured Luella brokenly. “No, I invited <em>you</em>! I’ve got the money right here.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-adjuster-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The Hemples’ apartment⁠—they owned it⁠—was in one of those impersonal white palaces that are known by number instead of name. They had furnished it on their honeymoon, gone to England for the big pieces, to Florence for the bric-a-brac, and to Venice for the lace and sheer linen of the curtains and for the glass of many colors which littered the table when they entertained. Luella enjoyed choosing things on her honeymoon. It gave a purposeful air to the trip, and saved it from ever turning into the rather dismal wandering among big hotels and desolate ruins which European honeymoons are apt to be.</p>
<p>They returned, and life began. On the grand scale. Luella found herself a lady of substance. It amazed her sometimes that the specially created apartment and the specially created limousine were hers, just as indisputably as the mortgaged suburban bungalow out of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Ladies’ Home Journal</i> and the last year’s car that fate might have given her instead. She was even more amazed when it all began to bore her. But it did.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>The evening was at seven when she turned out of the April dusk, let herself into the hall, and saw her husband waiting in the living-room before an open fire. She came in without a sound, closed the door noiselessly behind her, and stood watching him for a moment through the pleasant effective vista of the small salon which intervened. Charles Hemple was in the middle thirties, with a young serious face and distinguished iron-gray hair which would be white in ten years more. That and his deep-set, dark-gray eyes were his most noticeable features⁠—women always thought his hair was romantic; most of the time Luella thought so too.</p>
<p>At this moment she found herself hating him a little, for she saw that he had raised his hand to his face and was rubbing it nervously over his chin and mouth. It gave him an air of unflattering abstraction, and sometimes even obscured his words, so that she was continually saying “What?” She had spoken about it several times, and he had apologized in a surprised way. But obviously he didn’t realize how noticeable and how irritating it was, for he continued to do it. Things had now reached such a precarious state that Luella dreaded speaking of such matters any more⁠—a certain sort of word might precipitate the imminent scene.</p>
<p>Luella tossed her gloves and purse abruptly on the table. Hearing the faint sound, her husband looked out toward the hall.</p>
<p>“Is that you, dear?”</p>
<p>“Yes, dear.”</p>
<p>She went into the living-room, and walked into his arms and kissed him tensely. Charles Hemple responded with unusual formality, and then turned her slowly around so that she faced across the room.</p>
<p>“I’ve brought someone home to dinner.”</p>
<p>She saw then that they were not alone, and her first feeling was of strong relief; the rigid expression on her face softened into a shy, charming smile as she held out her hand.</p>
<p>“This is Doctor Moon⁠—this is my wife.”</p>
<p>A man a little older than her husband, with a round, pale, slightly lined face, came forward to meet her.</p>
<p>“Good evening, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple,” he said. “I hope I’m not interfering with any arrangement of yours.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” Luella cried quickly. “I’m delighted that you’re coming to dinner. We’re quite alone.”</p>
<p>Simultaneously she thought of her engagement tonight, and wondered if this could be a clumsy trap of Charles’ to keep her at home. If it were, he had chosen his bait badly. This man⁠—a tired placidity radiated from him, from his face, from his heavy, leisurely voice, even from the three-year-old shine of his clothes.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, she excused herself and went into the kitchen to see what was planned for dinner. As usual they were trying a new pair of servants, the luncheon had been ill-cooked and ill-served⁠—she would let them go tomorrow. She hoped Charles would talk to them⁠—she hated to get rid of servants. Sometimes they wept, and sometimes they were insolent, but Charles had a way with him. And they were always afraid of a man.</p>
<p>The cooking on the stove, however, had a soothing savor. Luella gave instructions about “which china,” and unlocked a bottle of precious Chianti from the buffet. Then she went in to kiss young Chuck good night.</p>
<p>“Has he been good?” she demanded as he crawled enthusiastically into her arms.</p>
<p>“Very good,” said the governess. “We went for a long walk over by Central Park.”</p>
<p>“Well, aren’t you a smart boy!” She kissed him ecstatically.</p>
<p>“And he put his foot into the fountain, so we had to come home in a taxi right away and change his little shoe and stocking.”</p>
<p>“That’s right. Here, wait a minute, <em>Chuck</em>!” Luella unclasped the great yellow beads from around her neck and handed them to him. “You mustn’t break mama’s beads.” She turned to the nurse. “Put them on my dresser, will you, after he’s asleep?”</p>
<p>She felt a certain compassion for her son as she went away⁠—the small enclosed life he led, that all children led, except in big families. He was a dear little rose, except on the days when she took care of him. His face was the same shape as hers; she was thrilled sometimes, and formed new resolves about life when his heart beat against her own.</p>
<p>In her own pink and lovely bedroom, she confined her attentions to her face, which she washed and restored. Doctor Moon didn’t deserve a change of dress, and Luella found herself oddly tired, though she had done very little all day. She returned to the living-room, and they went in to dinner.</p>
<p>“Such a nice house, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple,” said Doctor Moon impersonally; “and let me congratulate you on your fine little boy.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. Coming from a doctor, that’s a nice compliment.” She hesitated. “Do you specialize in children?”</p>
<p>“I’m not a specialist at all,” he said. “I’m about the last of my kind⁠—a general practitioner.”</p>
<p>“The last in New York, anyhow,” remarked Charles. He had begun rubbing his face nervously, and Luella fixed her eyes on Doctor Moon so that she wouldn’t see. But at Charles’s next words she looked back at him sharply.</p>
<p>“In fact,” he said unexpectedly, “I’ve invited Doctor Moon here because I wanted you to have a talk with him tonight.”</p>
<p>Luella sat up straight in her chair.</p>
<p>“A talk with <em>me</em>?”</p>
<p>“Doctor Moon’s an old friend of mine, and I think he can tell you a few things, Luella, that you ought to know.”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—” She tried to laugh, but she was surprised and annoyed. “I don’t see, exactly, what you mean. There’s nothing the matter with me. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt better in my life.”</p>
<p>Doctor Moon looked at Charles, asking permission to speak. Charles nodded, and his hand went up automatically to his face.</p>
<p>“Your husband has told me a great deal about your unsatisfactory life together,” said Doctor Moon, still impersonally. “He wonders if I can be of any help in smoothing things out.”</p>
<p>Luella’s face was burning.</p>
<p>“I have no particular faith in psychoanalysis,” she said coldly, “and I scarcely consider myself a subject for it.”</p>
<p>“Neither have I,” answered Doctor Moon, apparently unconscious of the snub; “I have no particular faith in anything but myself. I told you I am not a specialist, nor, I may add, a faddist of any sort. I promise nothing.”</p>
<p>For a moment Luella considered leaving the room. But the effrontery of the suggestion aroused her curiosity too.</p>
<p>“I can’t imagine what Charles has told you,” she said, controlling herself with difficulty, “much less why. But I assure you that our affairs are a matter entirely between my husband and me. If you have no objections, Doctor Moon, I’d much prefer to discuss something⁠—less personal.”</p>
<p>Doctor Moon nodded heavily and politely. He made no further attempt to open the subject, and dinner proceeded in what was little more than a defeated silence. Luella determined that, whatever happened, she would adhere to her plans for tonight. An hour ago her independence had demanded it, but now some gesture of defiance had become necessary to her self-respect. She would stay in the living-room for a short moment after dinner; then, when the coffee came, she would excuse herself and dress to go out.</p>
<p>But when they did leave the dining-room, it was Charles who, in a quick, unarguable way, vanished.</p>
<p>“I have a letter to write,” he said; “I’ll be back in a moment.” Before Luella could make a diplomatic objection, he went quickly down the corridor to his room, and she heard him shut his door.</p>
<p>Angry and confused, Luella poured the coffee and sank into a corner of the couch, looking intently at the fire.</p>
<p>“Don’t be afraid, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple,” said Doctor Moon suddenly. “This was forced upon me. I do not act as a free agent⁠—”</p>
<p>“I’m not afraid of you,” she interrupted. But she knew that she was lying. She was a little afraid of him, if only for his dull insensitiveness to her distaste.</p>
<p>“Tell me about your trouble,” he said very naturally, as though she were not a free agent either. He wasn’t even looking at her, and except that they were alone in the room, he scarcely seemed to be addressing her at all.</p>
<p>The words that were in Luella’s mind, her will, on her lips, were: “I’ll do no such thing.” What she actually said amazed her. It came out of her spontaneously, with apparently no cooperation of her own.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you see him rubbing his face at dinner?” she said despairingly. “Are you blind? He’s become so irritating to me that I think I’ll go mad.”</p>
<p>“I see.” Doctor Moon’s round face nodded.</p>
<p>“Don’t you see I’ve had enough of home?” Her breasts seemed to struggle for air under her dress. “Don’t you see how bored I am with keeping house, with the baby⁠—everything seems as if it’s going on forever and ever? I want excitement; and I don’t care what form it takes or what I pay for it, so long as it makes my heart beat.”</p>
<p>“I see.”</p>
<p>It infuriated Luella that he claimed to understand. Her feeling of defiance had reached such a pitch that she preferred that no one should understand. She was content to be justified by the impassioned sincerity of her desires.</p>
<p>“I’ve tried to be good, and I’m not going to try any more. If I’m one of those women who wreck their lives for nothing, then I’ll do it now. You can call me selfish, or silly, and be quite right; but in five minutes I’m going out of this house and begin to be alive.”</p>
<p>This time Doctor Moon didn’t answer, but he raised his head as if he were listening to something that was taking place a little distance away.</p>
<p>“You’re not going out,” he said after a moment; “I’m quite sure you’re not going out.”</p>
<p>Luella laughed.</p>
<p>“I <em>am</em> going out.”</p>
<p>He disregarded this.</p>
<p>“You see, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple, your husband isn’t well. He’s been trying to live your kind of life, and the strain of it has been too much for him. When he rubs his mouth⁠—”</p>
<p>Light steps came down the corridor, and the maid, with a frightened expression on her face, tiptoed into the room.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple⁠—”</p>
<p>Startled at the interruption, Luella turned quickly.</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Can I speak to⁠—?” Her fear broke precipitately through her slight training. “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hemple, he’s sick! He came into the kitchen a while ago and began throwing all the food out of the icebox, and now he’s in his room, crying and singing⁠—”</p>
<p>Suddenly Luella heard his voice.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-adjuster-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Charles Hemple had had a nervous collapse. There were twenty years of almost uninterrupted toil upon his shoulders, and the recent pressure at home had been too much for him to bear. His attitude toward his wife was the weak point in what had otherwise been a strong-minded and well-organized career⁠—he was aware of her intense selfishness, but it is one of the many flaws in the scheme of human relationships that selfishness in women has an irresistible appeal to many men. Luella’s selfishness existed side by side with a childish beauty, and, in consequence, Charles Hemple had begun to take the blame upon himself for situations which she had obviously brought about. It was an unhealthy attitude, and his mind had sickened, at length, with his attempts to put himself in the wrong.</p>
<p>After the first shock and the momentary flush of pity that followed it, Luella looked at the situation with impatience. She was “a good sport”⁠—she couldn’t take advantage of Charles when he was sick. The question of her liberties had to be postponed until he was on his feet. Just when she had determined to be a wife no longer, Luella was compelled to be a nurse as well. She sat beside his bed while he talked about her in his delirium⁠—about the days of their engagement, and how some friend had told him then that he was making a mistake, and about his happiness in the early months of their marriage, and his growing disquiet as the gap appeared. Evidently he had been more aware of it than she had thought⁠—more than he ever said.</p>
<p>“Luella!” He would lurch up in bed. “Luella! Where <em>are</em> you?”</p>
<p>“I’m right here, Charles, beside you.” She tried to make her voice cheerful and warm.</p>
<p>“If you want to go, Luella, you’d better go. I don’t seem to be enough for you any more.”</p>
<p>She denied this soothingly.</p>
<p>“I’ve thought it over, Luella, and I can’t ruin my health on account of you⁠—” Then quickly, and passionately: “Don’t go, Luella, for God’s sake, don’t go away and leave me! Promise me you won’t! I’ll do anything you say if you won’t go.”</p>
<p>His humility annoyed her most; he was a reserved man, and she had never guessed at the extent of his devotion before.</p>
<p>“I’m only going for a minute. It’s Doctor Moon, your friend, Charles. He came today to see how you were, don’t you remember? And he wants to talk to me before he goes.”</p>
<p>“You’ll come back?” he persisted.</p>
<p>“In just a little while. There⁠—lie quiet.”</p>
<p>She raised his head and plumped his pillow into freshness. A new trained nurse would arrive tomorrow.</p>
<p>In the living-room Doctor Moon was waiting⁠—his suit more worn and shabby in the afternoon light. She disliked him inordinately, with an illogical conviction that he was in some way to blame for her misfortune, but he was so deeply interested that she couldn’t refuse to see him. She hadn’t asked him to consult with the specialists, though⁠—a doctor who was so down at the heel.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple.” He came forward, holding out his hand, and Luella touched it, lightly and uneasily.</p>
<p>“You seem well,” he said.</p>
<p>“I am well, thank you.”</p>
<p>“I congratulate you on the way you’ve taken hold of things.”</p>
<p>“But I haven’t taken hold of things at all,” she said coldly. “I do what I have to⁠—”</p>
<p>“That’s just it.”</p>
<p>Her impatience mounted rapidly.</p>
<p>“I do what I have to, and nothing more,” she continued; “and with no particular goodwill.”</p>
<p>Suddenly she opened up to him again, as she had the night of the catastrophe⁠—realizing that she was putting herself on a footing of intimacy with him, yet unable to restrain her words.</p>
<p>“The house isn’t going,” she broke out bitterly. “I had to discharge the servants, and now I’ve got a woman in by the day. And the baby has a cold, and I’ve found out that his nurse doesn’t know her business, and everything’s just as messy and terrible as it can be!”</p>
<p>“Would you mind telling me how you found out the nurse didn’t know her business?”</p>
<p>“You find out various unpleasant things when you’re forced to stay around the house.”</p>
<p>He nodded, his weary face turning here and there about the room.</p>
<p>“I feel somewhat encouraged,” he said slowly. “As I told you, I promise nothing; I only do the best I can.”</p>
<p>Luella looked up at him, startled.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” she protested. “You’ve done nothing for me⁠—nothing at all!”</p>
<p>“Nothing much⁠—yet,” he said heavily. “It takes time, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple.”</p>
<p>The words were said in a dry monotone that was somehow without offense, but Luella felt that he had gone too far. She got to her feet.</p>
<p>“I’ve met your type before,” she said coldly. “For some reason you seem to think that you have a standing here as ‘the old friend of the family.’ But I don’t make friends quickly, and I haven’t given you the privilege of being so”⁠—she wanted to say “insolent,” but the word eluded her⁠—“so personal with me.”</p>
<p>When the front door had closed behind him, Luella went into the kitchen to see if the woman understood about the three different dinners⁠—one for Charles, one for the baby, and one for herself. It was hard to do with only a single servant when things were so complicated. She must try another employment agency⁠—this one had begun to sound bored.</p>
<p>To her surprise, she found the cook with hat and coat on, reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. “Why”⁠—Luella tried to think of the name⁠—“why, what’s the matter, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr>⁠—”</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Danski is my name.”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Danski. “You see, I’m only a plain cook, and I’m not used to preparing invalid’s food.”</p>
<p>“But I’ve counted on you.”</p>
<p>“I’m very sorry.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I’ve got my own health to think of. I’m sure they didn’t tell me what kind of a job it was when I came. And when you asked me to clean out your husband’s room, I knew it was way beyond my powers.”</p>
<p>“I won’t ask you to clean anything,” said Luella desperately. “If you’ll just stay until tomorrow. I can’t possibly get anybody else tonight.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Danski smiled politely.</p>
<p>“I got my own children to think of, just like you.” It was on Luella’s tongue to offer her more money, but suddenly her temper gave way.</p>
<p>“I’ve never heard of anything so selfish in my life!” she broke out. “To leave me at a time like this! You’re an old fool!”</p>
<p>“If you’d pay me for my time, I’d go,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Danski calmly.</p>
<p>“I won’t pay you a cent unless you’ll stay!”</p>
<p>She was immediately sorry she had said this, but she was too proud to withdraw the threat.</p>
<p>“You will so pay me!”</p>
<p>“You go out that door!”</p>
<p>“I’ll go when I get my money,” asserted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Danski indignantly. “I got my children to think of.”</p>
<p>Luella drew in her breath sharply, and took a step forward. Intimidated by her intensity, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Danski turned and flounced, muttering, out of the door.</p>
<p>Luella went to the phone and, calling up the agency, explained that the woman had left.</p>
<p>“Can you send me someone right away? My husband is sick and the baby’s sick⁠—”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple; there’s no one in the office now. It’s after four o’clock.”</p>
<p>Luella argued for a while. Finally she obtained a promise that they would telephone to an emergency woman they knew. That was the best they could do until tomorrow.</p>
<p>She called several other agencies, but the servant industry had apparently ceased to function for the day. After giving Charles his medicine, she tiptoed softly into the nursery.</p>
<p>“How’s baby?” she asked abstractedly.</p>
<p>“Ninety-nine one,” whispered the nurse, holding the thermometer to the light. “I just took it.”</p>
<p>“Is that much?” asked Luella, frowning.</p>
<p>“It’s just three-fifths of a degree. That isn’t so much for the afternoon. They often run up a little with a cold.”</p>
<p>Luella went over to the cot and laid her hand on her son’s flushed cheek, thinking, in the midst of her anxiety, how much he resembled the incredible cherub of the “Lux” advertisement in the bus.</p>
<p>She turned to the nurse.</p>
<p>“Do you know how to cook?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—I’m not a good cook.”</p>
<p>“Well, can you do the baby’s food tonight? That old fool has left, and I can’t get anyone, and I don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I can do the baby’s food.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right, then. I’ll try to fix something for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hemple. Please have your door open so you can hear the bell when the doctor comes. And let me know.”</p>
<p>So many doctors! There had scarcely been an hour all day when there wasn’t a doctor in the house. The specialist and their family physician every morning, then the baby doctor⁠—and this afternoon there had been Doctor Moon, placid, persistent, unwelcome, in the parlor. Luella went into the kitchen. She could cook bacon and eggs for herself⁠—she had often done that after the theatre. But the vegetables for Charles were a different matter⁠—they must be left to boil or stew or something, and the stove had so many doors and ovens that she couldn’t decide which to use. She chose a blue pan that looked new, sliced carrots into it, and covered them with a little water. As she put it on the stove and tried to remember what to do next, the phone rang. It was the agency.</p>
<p>“Yes, this is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple speaking.”</p>
<p>“Why, the woman we sent to you has returned here with the claim that you refused to pay her for her time.”</p>
<p>“I explained to you that she refused to stay,” said Luella hotly. “She didn’t keep her agreement, and I didn’t feel I was under any obligation⁠—”</p>
<p>“We have to see that our people are paid,” the agency informed her; “otherwise we wouldn’t be helping them at all, would we? I’m sorry, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple, but we won’t be able to furnish you with anyone else until this little matter is arranged.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll pay, I’ll pay!” she cried.</p>
<p>“Of course we like to keep on good terms with our clients⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes⁠—yes!”</p>
<p>“So if you’ll send her money around tomorrow? It’s seventy-five cents an hour.”</p>
<p>“But how about tonight?” she exclaimed. “I’ve got to have some one tonight.”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—it’s pretty late now. I was just going home myself.”</p>
<p>“But I’m <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Charles Hemple! Don’t you understand? I’m perfectly good for what I say I’ll do. I’m the wife of Charles Hemple, of 14 Broadway⁠—”</p>
<p>Simultaneously she realized that Charles Hemple of 14 Broadway was a helpless invalid⁠—he was neither a reference nor a refuge any more. In despair at the sudden callousness of the world, she hung up the receiver.</p>
<p>After another ten minutes of frantic muddling in the kitchen, she went to the baby’s nurse, whom she disliked, and confessed that she was unable to cook her husband’s dinner. The nurse announced that she had a splitting headache, and that with a sick child her hands were full already, but she consented, without enthusiasm, to show Luella what to do.</p>
<p>Swallowing her humiliation, Luella obeyed orders while the nurse experimented, grumbling, with the unfamiliar stove. Dinner was started after a fashion. Then it was time for the nurse to bathe Chuck, and Luella sat down alone at the kitchen table, and listened to the bubbling perfume that escaped from the pans.</p>
<p>“And women do this every day,” she thought. “Thousands of women. Cook and take care of sick people⁠—and go out to work too.”</p>
<p>But she didn’t think of those women as being like her, except in the superficial aspect of having two feet and two hands. She said it as she might have said “South Sea Islanders wear nose-rings.” She was merely slumming today in her own home, and she wasn’t enjoying it. For her, it was merely a ridiculous exception.</p>
<p>Suddenly she became aware of slow approaching steps in the dining-room and then in the butler’s pantry. Half afraid that it was Doctor Moon coming to pay another call, she looked up⁠—and saw the nurse coming through the pantry door. It flashed through Luella’s mind that the nurse was going to be sick too. And she was right⁠—the nurse had hardly reached the kitchen door when she lurched and clutched at the handle as a winged bird clings to a branch. Then she receded wordlessly to the floor. Simultaneously the doorbell rang; and Luella, getting to her feet, gasped with relief that the baby doctor had come.</p>
<p>“Fainted, that’s all,” he said, taking the girl’s head into his lap. The eyes fluttered. “Yep, she fainted, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Everybody’s sick!” cried Luella with a sort of despairing humor. “Everybody’s sick but me, doctor.”</p>
<p>“This one’s not sick,” he said after a moment. “Her heart is normal already. She just fainted.”</p>
<p>When she had helped the doctor raise the quickening body to a chair, Luella hurried into the nursery and bent over the baby’s bed. She let down one of the iron sides quietly. The fever seemed to be gone now⁠—the flush had faded away. She bent over to touch the small cheek.</p>
<p>Suddenly Luella began to scream.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-adjuster-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Even after her baby’s funeral, Luella still couldn’t believe that she had lost him. She came back to the apartment and walked around the nursery in a circle, saying his name. Then, frightened by grief, she sat down and stared at his white rocker with the red chicken painted on the side.</p>
<p>“What will become of me now?” she whispered to herself. “Something awful is going to happen to me when I realize that I’ll never see Chuck any more!”</p>
<p>She wasn’t sure yet. If she waited here till twilight, the nurse might still bring him in from his walk. She remembered a tragic confusion in the midst of which someone had told her that Chuck was dead, but if that was so, then why was his room waiting, with his small brush and comb still on the bureau, and why was she here at all?</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple.”</p>
<p>She looked up. The weary, shabby figure of Doctor Moon stood in the door.</p>
<p>“You go away,” Luella said dully.</p>
<p>“Your husband needs you.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care.”</p>
<p>Doctor Moon came a little way into the room.</p>
<p>“I don’t think you understand, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple. He’s been calling for you. You haven’t anyone now except him.”</p>
<p>“I hate you,” she said suddenly.</p>
<p>“If you like. I promised nothing, you know. I do the best I can. You’ll be better when you realize that your baby is gone, that you’re not going to see him any more.”</p>
<p>Luella sprang to her feet.</p>
<p>“My baby isn’t dead!” she cried. “You lie! You always lie!” Her flashing eyes looked into his and caught something there, at once brutal and kind, that awed her and made her impotent and acquiescent. She lowered her own eyes in tired despair.</p>
<p>“All right,” she said wearily. “My baby is gone. What shall I do now?”</p>
<p>“Your husband is much better. All he needs is rest and kindness. But you must go to him and tell him what’s happened.”</p>
<p>“I suppose you think you made him better,” said Luella bitterly.</p>
<p>“Perhaps. He’s nearly well.”</p>
<p>Nearly well⁠—then the last link that held her to her home was broken. This part of her life was over⁠—she could cut it off here, with its grief and oppression, and be off now, free as the wind.</p>
<p>“I’ll go to him in a minute,” Luella said in a faraway voice. “Please leave me alone.”</p>
<p>Doctor Moon’s unwelcome shadow melted into the darkness of the hall.</p>
<p>“I can go away,” Luella whispered to herself. “Life has given me back freedom, in place of what it took away from me.”</p>
<p>But she mustn’t linger even a minute, or Life would bind her again and make her suffer once more. She called the apartment porter and asked that her trunk be brought up from the storeroom. Then she began taking things from the bureau and wardrobe, trying to approximate as nearly as possible the possessions that she had brought to her married life. She even found two old dresses that had formed part of her trousseau⁠—out of style now, and a little tight in the hips⁠—which she threw in with the rest. A new life. Charles was well again; and her baby, whom she had worshipped, and who had bored her a little, was dead.</p>
<p>When she had packed her trunk, she went into the kitchen automatically, to see about the preparations for dinner. She spoke to the cook about the special things for Charles and said that she herself was dining out. The sight of one of the small pans that had been used to cook Chuck’s food caught her attention for a moment⁠—but she stared at it unmoved. She looked into the icebox and saw it was clean and fresh inside. Then she went into Charles’s room. He was sitting up in bed, and the nurse was reading to him. His hair was almost white now, silvery white, and underneath it his eyes were huge and dark in his thin young face.</p>
<p>“The baby is sick?” he asked in his own natural voice.</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>He hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he asked:</p>
<p>“The baby is dead?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>For a long time he didn’t speak. The nurse came over and put her hand on his forehead. Two large, strange tears welled from his eyes.</p>
<p>“I knew the baby was dead.”</p>
<p>After another long wait, the nurse spoke:</p>
<p>“The doctor said he could be taken out for a drive today while there was still sunshine. He needs a little change.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I thought”⁠—the nurse hesitated⁠—“I thought perhaps it would do you both good, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hemple, if you took him instead of me.”</p>
<p>Luella shook her head hastily.</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t feel able to, today.”</p>
<p>The nurse looked at her oddly. With a sudden feeling of pity for Charles, Luella bent down gently and kissed his cheek. Then, without a word, she went to her own room, put on her hat and coat, and with her suitcase started for the front door.</p>
<p>Immediately she saw that there was a shadow in the hall. If she could get past that shadow, she was free. If she could go to the right or left of it, or order it out of her way! But, stubbornly, it refused to move, and with a little cry she sank down into a hall chair.</p>
<p>“I thought you’d gone,” she wailed. “I told you to go away.”</p>
<p>“I’m going soon,” said Doctor Moon, “but I don’t want you to make an old mistake.”</p>
<p>“I’m not making a mistake⁠—I’m leaving my mistakes behind.”</p>
<p>“You’re trying to leave yourself behind, but you can’t. The more you try to run away from yourself, the more you’ll have yourself with you.”</p>
<p>“But I’ve got to go away,” she insisted wildly. “Out of this house of death and failure!”</p>
<p>“You haven’t failed yet. You’ve only begun.” She stood up.</p>
<p>“Let me pass.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>Abruptly she gave way, as she always did when he talked to her. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.</p>
<p>“Go back into that room and tell the nurse you’ll take your husband for a drive,” he suggested.</p>
<p>“I can’t.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes.”</p>
<p>Once more Luella looked at him, and knew that she would obey. With the conviction that her spirit was broken at last, she took up her suitcase and walked back through the hall.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-adjuster-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>The nature of the curious influence that Doctor Moon exerted upon her, Luella could not guess. But as the days passed, she found herself doing many things that had been repugnant to her before. She stayed at home with Charles; and when he grew better, she went out with him sometimes to dinner, or the theatre, but only when he expressed a wish. She visited the kitchen every day, and kept an unwilling eye on the house, at first with a horror that it would go wrong again, then from habit. And she felt that it was all somehow mixed up with Doctor Moon⁠—it was something he kept telling her about life, or almost telling her, and yet concealing from her, as though he were afraid to have her know.</p>
<p>With the resumption of their normal life, she found that Charles was less nervous. His habit of rubbing his face had left him, and if the world seemed less gay and happy to her than it had before, she experienced a certain peace, sometimes, that she had never known.</p>
<p>Then, one afternoon, Doctor Moon told her suddenly that he was going away.</p>
<p>“Do you mean for good?” she demanded with a touch of panic.</p>
<p>“For good.”</p>
<p>For a strange moment she wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry.</p>
<p>“You don’t need me any more,” he said quietly. “You don’t realize it, but you’ve grown up.”</p>
<p>He came over and, sitting on the couch beside her, took her hand.</p>
<p>Luella sat silent and tense⁠—listening.</p>
<p>“We make an agreement with children that they can sit in the audience without helping to make the play,” he said, “but if they still sit in the audience after they’re grown, somebody’s got to work double time for them, so that they can enjoy the light and glitter of the world.”</p>
<p>“But I want the light and glitter,” she protested. “That’s all there is in life. There can’t be anything wrong in wanting to have things warm.”</p>
<p>“Things will still be warm.”</p>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>“Things will warm themselves from you.”</p>
<p>Luella looked at him, startled.</p>
<p>“It’s your turn to be the centre, to give others what was given to you for so long. You’ve got to give security to young people and peace to your husband, and a sort of charity to the old. You’ve got to let the people who work for you depend on you. You’ve got to cover up a few more troubles than you show, and be a little more patient than the average person, and do a little more instead of a little less than your share. The light and glitter of the world is in your hands.”</p>
<p>He broke off suddenly.</p>
<p>“Get up,” he said, “and go to that mirror and tell me what you see.”</p>
<p>Obediently Luella got up and went close to a purchase of her honeymoon, a Venetian pier-glass on the wall.</p>
<p>“I see new lines in my face here,” she said, raising her finger and placing it between her eyes, “and a few shadows at the sides that might be⁠—that are little wrinkles.”</p>
<p>“Do you care?”</p>
<p>She turned quickly. “No,” she said.</p>
<p>“Do you realize that Chuck is gone? That you’ll never see him any more?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” She passed her hands slowly over her eyes. “But that all seems so vague and far away.”</p>
<p>“Vague and far away,” he repeated; and then: “And are you afraid of me now?”</p>
<p>“Not any longer,” she said, and she added frankly, “now that you’re going away.”</p>
<p>He moved toward the door. He seemed particularly weary tonight, as though he could hardly move about at all.</p>
<p>“The household here is in your keeping,” he said in a tired whisper. “If there is any light and warmth in it, it will be your light and warmth; if it is happy, it will be because you’ve made it so. Happy things may come to you in life, but you must never go seeking them any more. It is your turn to make the fire.”</p>
<p>“Won’t you sit down a moment longer?” Luella ventured.</p>
<p>“There isn’t time.” His voice was so low now that she could scarcely hear the words. “But remember that whatever suffering comes to you, I can always help you⁠—if it is something that can be helped. I promise nothing.”</p>
<p>He opened the door. She must find out now what she most wanted to know, before it was too late.</p>
<p>“What have you done to me?” she cried. “Why have I no sorrow left for Chuck⁠—for anything at all? Tell me; I almost see, yet I can’t see. Before you go⁠—tell me who you are!”</p>
<p>“Who am I?⁠—” His worn suit paused in the doorway. His round, pale face seemed to dissolve into two faces, a dozen faces, a score, each one different yet the same⁠—sad, happy, tragic, indifferent, resigned⁠—until threescore Doctor Moons were ranged like an infinite series of reflections, like months stretching into the vista of the past.</p>
<p>“Who am I?” he repeated; “I am five years.” The door closed.</p>
<hr/>
<p>At six o’clock Charles Hemple came home, and as usual Luella met him in the hall. Except that now his hair was dead white, his long illness of two years had left no mark upon him. Luella herself was more noticeably changed⁠—she was a little stouter, and there were those lines around her eyes that had come when Chuck died one evening back in 1921. But she was still lovely, and there was a mature kindness about her face at twenty-eight, as if suffering had touched her only reluctantly and then hurried away.</p>
<p>“Ede and her husband are coming to dinner,” she said. “I’ve got theatre tickets, but if you’re tired, I don’t care whether we go or not.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to go.”</p>
<p>She looked at him.</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“I really would.”</p>
<p>“We’ll see how you feel after dinner.”</p>
<p>He put his arm around her waist. Together they walked into the nursery where the two children were waiting up to say good night.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-rich-boy" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Rich Boy</h2>
<section id="the-rich-boy-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have created⁠—nothing. That is because we are all queer fish, queerer behind our faces and voices than we want anyone to know or than we know ourselves. When I hear a man proclaiming himself an “average, honest, open fellow,” I feel pretty sure that he has some definite and perhaps terrible abnormality which he has agreed to conceal⁠—and his protestation of being average and honest and open is his way of reminding himself of his misprision.</p>
<p>There are no types, no plurals. There is a rich boy, and this is his and not his brothers’ story. All my life I have lived among his brothers but this one has been my friend. Besides, if I wrote about his brothers I should have to begin by attacking all the lies that the poor have told about the rich and the rich have told about themselves⁠—such a wild structure they have erected that when we pick up a book about the rich, some instinct prepares us for unreality. Even the intelligent and impassioned reporters of life have made the country of the rich as unreal as fairyland.</p>
<p>Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different. The only way I can describe young Anson Hunter is to approach him as if he were a foreigner and cling stubbornly to my point of view. If I accept his for a moment I am lost⁠—I have nothing to show but a preposterous movie.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Anson was the eldest of six children who would some day divide a fortune of fifteen million dollars, and he reached the age of reason⁠—is it seven?⁠—at the beginning of the century when daring young women were already gliding along Fifth Avenue in electric “mobiles.” In those days he and his brother had an English governess who spoke the language very clearly and crisply and well, so that the two boys grew to speak as she did⁠—their words and sentences were all crisp and clear and not run together as ours are. They didn’t talk exactly like English children but acquired an accent that is peculiar to fashionable people in the city of New York.</p>
<p>In the summer the six children were moved from the house on 71st Street to a big estate in northern Connecticut. It was not a fashionable locality⁠—Anson’s father wanted to delay as long as possible his children’s knowledge of that side of life. He was a man somewhat superior to his class, which composed New York society, and to his period, which was the snobbish and formalized vulgarity of the Gilded Age, and he wanted his sons to learn habits of concentration and have sound constitutions and grow up into right-living and successful men. He and his wife kept an eye on them as well as they were able until the two older boys went away to school, but in huge establishments this is difficult⁠—it was much simpler in the series of small and medium-sized houses in which my own youth was spent⁠—I was never far out of the reach of my mother’s voice, of the sense of her presence, her approval or disapproval.</p>
<p>Anson’s first sense of his superiority came to him when he realized the half-grudging American deference that was paid to him in the Connecticut village. The parents of the boys he played with always inquired after his father and mother, and were vaguely excited when their own children were asked to the Hunters’ house. He accepted this as the natural state of things, and a sort of impatience with all groups of which he was not the centre⁠—in money, in position, in authority⁠—remained with him for the rest of his life. He disdained to struggle with other boys for precedence⁠—he expected it to be given him freely, and when it wasn’t he withdrew into his family. His family was sufficient, for in the East money is still a I somewhat feudal thing, a clan-forming thing. In the snobbish West, money separates families to form “sets.”</p>
<p>At eighteen, when he went to New Haven, Anson was tall and thickset, with a clear complexion and a healthy color from the ordered life he had led in school. His hair was yellow and grew in a funny way on his head, his nose was beaked⁠—these two things kept him from being handsome⁠—but he had a confident charm and a certain brusque style, and the upperclass men who passed him on the street knew without being told that he was a rich boy and had gone to one of the best schools. Nevertheless, his very superiority kept him from being a success in college⁠—the independence was mistaken for egotism, and the refusal to accept Yale standards with the proper awe seemed to belittle all those who had. So, long before he graduated, he began to shift the centre of his life to New York.</p>
<p>He was at home in New York⁠—there was his own house with “the kind of servants you can’t get any more”⁠—and his own family, of which, because of his good humor and a certain ability to make things go, he was rapidly becoming the centre, and the debutante parties, and the correct manly world of the men’s clubs, and the occasional wild spree with the gallant girls whom New Haven only knew from the fifth row. His aspirations were conventional enough⁠—they included even the irreproachable shadow he would some day marry, but they differed from the aspirations of the majority of young men in that there was no mist over them, none of that quality which is variously known as “idealism” or “illusion.” Anson accepted without reservation the world of high finance and high extravagance, of divorce and dissipation, of snobbery and of privilege. Most of our lives end as a compromise⁠—it was as a compromise that his life began.</p>
<p>He and I first met in the late summer of 1917 when he was just out of Yale, and, like the rest of us, was swept up into the systematized hysteria of the war. In the blue-green uniform of the naval aviation he came down to Pensacola, where the hotel orchestras played “I’m sorry, dear,” and we young officers danced with the girls. Everyone liked him, and though he ran with the drinkers and wasn’t an especially good pilot, even the instructors treated him with a certain respect. He was always having long talks with them in his confident, logical voice⁠—talks which ended by his getting himself, or, more frequently, another officer, out of some impending trouble. He was convivial, bawdy, robustly avid for pleasure, and we were all surprised when he fell in love with a conservative and rather proper girl.</p>
<p>Her name was Paula Legendre, a dark, serious beauty from somewhere in California. Her family kept a winter residence just outside of town, and in spite of her primness she was enormously popular; there is a large class of men whose egotism can’t endure humor in a woman. But Anson wasn’t that sort, and I couldn’t understand the attraction of her “sincerity”⁠—that was the thing to say about her⁠—for his keen and somewhat sardonic mind.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, they fell in love⁠—and on her terms. He no longer joined the twilight gathering at the De Sota bar, and whenever they were seen together they were engaged in a long, serious dialogue, which must have gone on several weeks. Long afterward he told me that it was not about anything in particular but was composed on both sides of immature and even meaningless statements⁠—the emotional content that gradually came to fill it grew up not out of the words but out of its enormous seriousness. It was a sort of hypnosis. Often it was interrupted, giving way to that emasculated humor we call fun; when they were alone it was resumed again, solemn, low-keyed, and pitched so as to give each other a sense of unity in feeling and thought. They came to resent any interruptions of it, to be unresponsive to facetiousness about life, even to the mild cynicism of their contemporaries. They were only happy when the dialogue was going on, and its seriousness bathed them like the amber glow of an open fire. Toward the end there came an interruption they did not resent⁠—it began to be interrupted by passion.</p>
<p>Oddly enough, Anson was as engrossed in the dialogue as she was and as profoundly affected by it, yet at the same time aware that on his side much was insincere, and on hers much was merely simple. At first, too, he despised her emotional simplicity as well, but with his love her nature deepened and blossomed, and he could despise it no longer. He felt that if he could enter into Paula’s warm safe life he would be happy. The long preparation of the dialogue removed any constraint⁠—he taught her some of what he had learned from more adventurous women, and she responded with a rapt holy intensity. One evening after a dance they agreed to marry, and he wrote a long letter about her to his mother. The next day Paula told him that she was rich, that she had a personal fortune of nearly a million dollars.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>It was exactly as if they could say “Neither of us has anything: we shall be poor together”⁠—just as delightful that they should be rich instead. It gave them the same communion of adventure. Yet when Anson got leave in April, and Paula and her mother accompanied him North, she was impressed with the standing of his family in New York and with the scale on which they lived. Alone with Anson for the first time in the rooms where he had played as a boy, she was filled with a comfortable emotion, as though she were preeminently safe and taken care of. The pictures of Anson in a skull cap at his first school, of Anson on horseback with the sweetheart of a mysterious forgotten summer, of Anson in a gay group of ushers and bridesmaid at a wedding, made her jealous of his life apart from her in the past, and so completely did his authoritative person seem to sum up and typify these possessions of his that she was inspired with the idea of being married immediately and returning to Pensacola as his wife.</p>
<p>But an immediate marriage wasn’t discussed⁠—even the engagement was to be secret until after the war. When she realized that only two days of his leave remained, her dissatisfaction crystallized in the intention of making him as unwilling to wait as she was. They were driving to the country for dinner, and she determined to force the issue that night.</p>
<p>Now a cousin of Paula’s was staying with them at the Ritz, a severe, bitter girl who loved Paula but was somewhat jealous of her impressive engagement, and as Paula was late in dressing, the cousin, who wasn’t going to the party, received Anson in the parlor of the suite.</p>
<p>Anson had met friends at five o’clock and drunk freely and indiscreetly with them for an hour. He left the Yale Club at a proper time, and his mother’s chauffeur drove him to the Ritz, but his usual capacity was not in evidence, and the impact of the steam-heated sitting-room made him suddenly dizzy. He knew it, and he was both amused and sorry.</p>
<p>Paula’s cousin was twenty-five, but she was exceptionally naive; and at first failed to realize what was up. She had never met Anson before, and she was surprised when he mumbled strange information and nearly fell off his chair, but until Paula appeared it didn’t occur to her that what she had taken for the odor of a dry-cleaned uniform was really whiskey. But Paula understood as soon as she appeared; her only thought was to get Anson away before her mother saw him, and at the look in her eyes the cousin understood too.</p>
<p>When Paula and Anson descended to the limousine they found two men inside, both asleep; they were the men with whom he had been drinking at the Yale Club, and they were also going to the party. He had entirely forgotten their presence in the car. On the way to Hempstead they awoke and sang. Some of the songs were rough, and though Paula tried to reconcile herself to the fact that Anson had few verbal inhibitions, her lips tightened with shame and distaste.</p>
<p>Back at the hotel the cousin, confused and agitated, considered the incident, and then walked into <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Legendre’s bedroom, saying: “Isn’t he funny?”</p>
<p>“Who is funny?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hunter. He seemed so funny.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Legendre looked at her sharply.</p>
<p>“How is he funny?”</p>
<p>“Why, he said he was French. I didn’t know he was French.”</p>
<p>“That’s absurd. You must have misunderstood.” She smiled: “It was a joke.”</p>
<p>The cousin shook her head stubbornly.</p>
<p>“No. He said he was brought up in France. He said he couldn’t speak any English, and that’s why he couldn’t talk to me. And he couldn’t!”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Legendre looked away with impatience just as the cousin added thoughtfully, “Perhaps it was because he was so drunk,” and walked out of the room.</p>
<p>This curious report was true. Anson, finding his voice thick and uncontrollable, had taken the unusual refuge of announcing that he spoke no English. Years afterward he used to tell that part of the story; and he invariably communicated the uproarious laughter which the memory aroused in him.</p>
<p>Five times in the next hour <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Legendre tried to get Hempstead on the phone. When she succeeded, there was a ten-minute delay before she heard Paula’s voice on the wire.</p>
<p>“Cousin Jo told me Anson was intoxicated.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. Cousin Jo says he was intoxicated. He told her he was French, and fell off his chair and behaved as if he was very intoxicated. I don’t want you to come home with him.”</p>
<p>“Mother, he’s all right! Please don’t worry about⁠—”</p>
<p>“But I do worry. I think it’s dreadful. I want you to promise me not to come home with him.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take care of it, mother.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>“I don’t want you to come home with him.”</p>
<p>“All right, mother. Goodbye.”</p>
<p>“Be sure now, Paula. Ask someone to bring you.”</p>
<p>Deliberately Paula took the receiver from her ear and hung it up. Her face was flushed with helpless annoyance. Anson was stretched asleep out in a bedroom upstairs, while the dinner-party below was proceeding lamely toward conclusion.</p>
<p>The hour’s drive had sobered him somewhat⁠—his arrival was merely hilarious⁠—and Paula hoped that the evening was not spoiled, after all, but two imprudent cocktails before dinner completed the disaster. He talked boisterously and somewhat offensively to the party at large for fifteen minutes, and then slid silently under the table; like a man in an old print⁠—but, unlike an old print, it was rather horrible without being at all quaint. None of the young girls present remarked upon the incident⁠—it seemed to merit only silence. His uncle and two other men carried him upstairs, and it was just after this that Paula was called to the phone.</p>
<p>An hour later Anson awoke in a fog of nervous agony, through which he perceived after a moment the figure of his uncle Robert standing by the door.</p>
<p>“… I said are you better?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Do you feel better, old man?”</p>
<p>“Terrible,” said Anson.</p>
<p>“I’m going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can hold it down, it’ll do you good to sleep.”</p>
<p>With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood up.</p>
<p>“I’m all right,” he said dully.</p>
<p>“Take it easy.”</p>
<p>“I thin’ if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go downstairs.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s the only thin’. I’m all right now.⁠ ⁠… I suppose I’m in Dutch dow’ there.”</p>
<p>“They know you’re a little under the weather,” said his uncle deprecatingly. “But don’t worry about it. Schuyler didn’t even get here. He passed away in the locker-room over at the Links.”</p>
<p>Indifferent to any opinion, except Paula’s, Anson was nevertheless determined to save the debris of the evening, but when after a cold bath he made his appearance most of the party had already left. Paula got up immediately to go home.</p>
<p>In the limousine the old serious dialogue began. She had known that he drank, she admitted, but she had never expected anything like this⁠—it seemed to her that perhaps they were not suited to each other, after all. Their ideas about life were too different, and so forth. When she finished speaking, Anson spoke in turn, very soberly. Then Paula said she’d have to think it over; she wouldn’t decide tonight; she was not angry but she was terribly sorry. Nor would she let him come into the hotel with her, but just before she got out of the car she leaned and kissed him unhappily on the cheek.</p>
<p>The next afternoon Anson had a long talk with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Legendre while Paula sat listening in silence. It was agreed that Paula was to brood over the incident for a proper period and then, if mother and daughter thought it best, they would follow Anson to Pensacola. On his part he apologized with sincerity and dignity⁠—that was all; with every card in her hand <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Legendre was unable to establish any advantage over him. He made no promises, showed no humility, only delivered a few serious comments on life which brought him off with rather a moral superiority at the end. When they came South three weeks later, neither Anson in his satisfaction nor Paula in her relief at the reunion realized that the psychological moment had passed forever.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>He dominated and attracted her, and at the same time filled her with anxiety. Confused by his mixture of solidity and self-indulgence, of sentiment and cynicism⁠—incongruities which her gentle mind was unable to resolve⁠—Paula grew to think of him as two alternating personalities. When she saw him alone, or at a formal party, or with his casual inferiors, she felt a tremendous pride in his strong, attractive presence, the paternal, understanding stature of his mind. In other company she became uneasy when what had been a fine imperviousness to mere gentility showed its other face. The other face was gross, humorous, reckless of everything but pleasure. It startled her mind temporarily away from him, even led her into a short covert experiment with an old beau, but it was no use⁠—after four months of Anson’s enveloping vitality there was an anemic pallor in all other men.</p>
<p>In July he was ordered abroad, and their tenderness and desire reached a crescendo. Paula considered a last-minute marriage⁠—decided against it only because there were always cocktails on his breath now, but the parting itself made her physically ill with grief. After his departure she wrote him long letters of regret for the days of love they had missed by waiting. In August Anson’s plane slipped down into the North Sea. He was pulled onto a destroyer after a night in the water and sent to hospital with pneumonia; the armistice was signed before he was finally sent home.</p>
<p>Then, with every opportunity given back to them, with no material obstacle to overcome, the secret weavings of their temperaments came between them, drying up their kisses and their tears, making their voices less loud to one another, muffling the intimate chatter of their hearts until the old communication was only possible by letters, from far away. One afternoon a society reporter waited for two hours in the Hunters’ house for a confirmation of their engagement. Anson denied it; nevertheless an early issue carried the report as a leading paragraph⁠—they were “constantly seen together at Southampton, Hot Springs, and Tuxedo Park.” But the serious dialogue had turned a corner into a long-sustained quarrel, and the affair was almost played out. Anson got drunk flagrantly and missed an engagement with her, whereupon Paula made certain behavioristic demands. His despair was helpless before his pride and his knowledge of himself: the engagement was definitely broken.</p>
<p>“Dearest,” said their letters now, “Dearest, Dearest, when I wake up in the middle of the night and realize that after all it was not to be, I feel that I want to die. I can’t go on living any more. Perhaps when we meet this summer we may talk things over and decide differently⁠—we were so excited and sad that day, and I don’t feel that I can live all my life without you. You speak of other people. Don’t you know there are no other people for me, but only you.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>But as Paula drifted here and there around the East she would sometimes mention her gaieties to make him wonder. Anson was too acute to wonder. When he saw a man’s name in her letters he felt more sure of her and a little disdainful⁠—he was always superior to such things. But he still hoped that they would some day marry.</p>
<p>Meanwhile he plunged vigorously into all the movement and glitter of post-bellum New York, entering a brokerage house, joining half a dozen clubs, dancing late, and moving in three worlds⁠—his own world, the world of young Yale graduates, and that section of the half-world which rests one end on Broadway. But there was always a thorough and infractible eight hours devoted to his work in Wall Street, where the combination of his influential family connection, his sharp intelligence, and his abundance of sheer physical energy brought him almost immediately forward. He had one of those invaluable minds with partitions in it; sometimes he appeared at his office refreshed by less than an hour’s sleep, but such occurrences were rare. So early as 1920 his income in salary and commissions exceeded twelve thousand dollars.</p>
<p>As the Yale tradition slipped into the past he became more and more of a popular figure among his classmates in New York, more popular than he had ever been in college. He lived in a great house, and had the means of introducing young men into other great houses. Moreover, his life already seemed secure, while theirs, for the most part, had arrived again at precarious beginnings. They commenced to turn to him for amusement and escape, and Anson responded readily, taking pleasure in helping people and arranging their affairs.</p>
<p>There were no men in Paula’s letters now, but a note of tenderness ran through them that had not been there before. From several sources he heard that she had “a heavy beau,” Lowell Thayer, a Bostonian of wealth and position, and though he was sure she still loved him, it made him uneasy to think that he might lose her, after all. Save for one unsatisfactory day she had not been in New York for almost five months, and as the rumors multiplied he became increasingly anxious to see her. In February he took his vacation and went down to Florida.</p>
<p>Palm Beach sprawled plump and opulent between the sparkling sapphire of Lake Worth, flawed here and there by houseboats at anchor, and the great turquoise bar of the Atlantic Ocean. The huge bulks of the Breakers and the Royal Poinciana rose as twin paunches from the bright level of the sand, and around them clustered the Dancing Glade, Bradley’s House of Chance, and a dozen modistes and milliners with goods at triple prices from New York. Upon the trellissed veranda of the Breakers two hundred women stepped right, stepped left, wheeled, and slid in that then celebrated calisthenic known as the double-shuffle, while in halftime to the music two thousand bracelets clicked up and down on two hundred arms.</p>
<p>At the Everglades Club after dark Paula and Lowell Thayer and Anson and a casual fourth played bridge with hot cards. It seemed to Anson that her kind, serious face was wan and tired⁠—she had been around now for four, five, years. He had known her for three.</p>
<p>“Two spades.”</p>
<p>“Cigarette?⁠ ⁠… Oh, I beg your pardon. By me.”</p>
<p>“By.”</p>
<p>“I’ll double three spades.”</p>
<p>There were a dozen tables of bridge in the room, which was filling up with smoke. Anson’s eyes met Paula’s, held them persistently even when Thayer’s glance fell between them.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>“What was bid?” he asked abstractedly.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Rose of Washington Square.”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="continued">sang the young people in the corners:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“I’m withering there</span>
<br/>
<span>In basement air⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The smoke banked like fog, and the opening of a door filled the room with blown swirls of ectoplasm. Little Bright Eyes streaked past the tables seeking <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Conan Doyle among the Englishmen who were posing as Englishmen about the lobby.</p>
<p>“You could cut it with a knife.”</p>
<p>“… cut it with a knife.”</p>
<p>“… a knife.”</p>
<p>At the end of the rubber Paula suddenly got up and spoke to Anson in a tense, low voice. With scarcely a glance at Lowell Thayer, they walked out the door and descended a long flight of stone steps⁠—in a moment they were walking hand in hand along the moonlit beach.</p>
<p>“Darling, darling.⁠ ⁠…” They embraced recklessly, passionately, in a shadow.⁠ ⁠… Then Paula drew back her face to let his lips say what she wanted to hear⁠—she could feel the words forming as they kissed again.⁠ ⁠… Again she broke away, listening, but as he pulled her close once more she realized that he had said nothing⁠—only “<em>Darling! Darling!</em>” in that deep, sad whisper that always made her cry. Humbly, obediently, her emotions yielded to him and the tears streamed down her face, but her heart kept on crying: “Ask me⁠—oh, Anson, dearest, ask me!”</p>
<p>“Paula.⁠ ⁠… <em>Paula</em>!”</p>
<p>The words wrung her heart like hands, and Anson, feeling her tremble, knew that emotion was enough. He need say no more, commit their destinies to no practical enigma. Why should he, when he might hold her so, biding his own time, for another year⁠—forever? He was considering them both, her more than himself. For a moment, when she said suddenly that she must go back to her hotel, he hesitated, thinking, first, “This is the moment, after all,” and then: “No, let it wait⁠—she is mine.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>He had forgotten that Paula too was worn away inside with the strain of three years. Her mood passed forever in the night.</p>
<p>He went back to New York next morning filled with a certain restless dissatisfaction. Late in April, without warning, he received a telegram from Bar Harbor in which Paula told him that she was engaged to Lowell Thayer, and that they would be married immediately in Boston. What he never really believed could happen had happened at last.</p>
<p>Anson filled himself with whiskey that morning, and going to the office, carried on his work without a break⁠—rather with a fear of what would happen if he stopped. In the evening he went out as usual, saying nothing of what had occurred; he was cordial, humorous, unabstracted. But one thing he could not help⁠—for three days, in any place, in any company, he would suddenly bend his head into his hands and cry like a child.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>In 1922 when Anson went abroad with the junior partner to investigate some London loans, the journey intimated that he was to be taken into the firm. He was twenty-seven now, a little heavy without being definitely stout, and with a manner older than his years. Old people and young people liked him and trusted him, and mothers felt safe when their daughters were in his charge, for he had a way, when he came into a room, of putting himself on a footing with the oldest and most conservative people there. “You and I,” he seemed to say, “we’re solid. We understand.”</p>
<p>He had an instinctive and rather charitable knowledge of the weaknesses of men and women, and, like a priest, it made him the more concerned for the maintenance of outward forms. It was typical of him that every Sunday morning he taught in a fashionable Episcopal Sunday-school⁠—even though a cold shower and a quick change into a cutaway coat were all that separated him from the wild night before.</p>
<p>After his father’s death he was the practical head of his family, and, in effect, guided the destinies of the younger children. Through a complication his authority did not extend to his father’s estate, which was administrated by his Uncle Robert, who was the horsey member of the family, a good-natured, hard-drinking member of that set which centres about Wheatley Hills.</p>
<p>Uncle Robert and his wife, Edna, had been great friends of Anson’s youth, and the former was disappointed when his nephew’s superiority failed to take a horsey form. He backed him for a city club which was the most difficult in America to enter⁠—one could only join if one’s family had “helped to build up New York” (or, in other words, were rich before 1880)⁠—and when Anson, after his election, neglected it for the Yale Club, Uncle Robert gave him a little talk on the subject. But when on top of that Anson declined to enter Robert Hunter’s own conservative and somewhat neglected brokerage house, his manner grew cooler. Like a primary teacher who has taught all he knew, he slipped out of Anson’s life.</p>
<p>There were so many friends in Anson’s life⁠—scarcely one for whom he had not done some unusual kindness and scarcely one whom he did not occasionally embarrass by his bursts of rough conversation or his habit of getting drunk whenever and however he liked. It annoyed him when anyone else blundered in that regard⁠—about his own lapses he was always humorous. Odd things happened to him and he told them with infectious laughter.</p>
<p>I was working in New York that spring, and I used to lunch with him at the Yale Club, which my university was sharing until the completion of our own. I had read of Paula’s marriage, and one afternoon, when I asked him about her, something moved him to tell me the story. After that he frequently invited me to family dinners at his house and behaved as though there was a special relation between us, as though with his confidence a little of that consuming memory had passed into me.</p>
<p>I found that despite the trusting mothers, his attitude toward girls was not indiscriminately protective. It was up to the girl⁠—if she showed an inclination toward looseness, she must take care of herself, even with him.</p>
<p>“Life,” he would explain sometimes, “has made a cynic of me.”</p>
<p>By life he meant Paula. Sometimes, especially when he was drinking, it became a little twisted in his mind, and he thought that she had callously thrown him over.</p>
<p>This “cynicism,” or rather his realization that naturally fast girls were not worth sparing, led to his affair with Dolly Karger. It wasn’t his only affair in those years, but it came nearest to touching him deeply, and it had a profound effect upon his attitude toward life.</p>
<p>Dolly was the daughter of a notorious “publicist” who had married into society. She herself grew up into the Junior League, came out at the Plaza, and went to the Assembly; and only a few old families like the Hunters could question whether or not she “belonged,” for her picture was often in the papers, and she had more enviable attention than many girls who undoubtedly did. She was dark-haired, with carmine lips and a high, lovely color, which she concealed under pinkish-gray powder all through the first year out, because high color was unfashionable⁠—Victorian-pale was the thing to be. She wore black, severe suits and stood with her hands in her pockets leaning a little forward, with a humorous restraint on her face. She danced exquisitely⁠—better than anything she liked to dance⁠—better than anything except making love. Since she was ten she had always been in love, and, usually, with some boy who didn’t respond to her. Those who did⁠—and there were many⁠—bored her after a brief encounter, but for her failures she reserved the warmest spot in her heart. When she met them she would always try once more⁠—sometimes she succeeded, more often she failed.</p>
<p>It never occurred to this gypsy of the unattainable that there was a certain resemblance in those who refused to love her⁠—they shared a hard intuition that saw through to her weakness, not a weakness of emotion but a weakness of rudder. Anson perceived this when he first met her, less than a month after Paula’s marriage. He was drinking rather heavily, and he pretended for a week that he was falling in love with her. Then he dropped her abruptly and forgot⁠—immediately he took up the commanding position in her heart.</p>
<p>Like so many girls of that day Dolly was slackly and indiscreetly wild. The unconventionality of a slightly older generation had been simply one facet of a postwar movement to discredit obsolete manners⁠—Dolly’s was both older and shabbier, and she saw in Anson the two extremes which the emotionally shiftless woman seeks, an abandon to indulgence alternating with a protective strength. In his character she felt both the sybarite and the solid rock, and these two satisfied every need of her nature.</p>
<p>She felt that it was going to be difficult, but she mistook the reason⁠—she thought that Anson and his family expected a more spectacular marriage, but she guessed immediately that her advantage lay in his tendency to drink.</p>
<p>They met at the large debutante dances, but as her infatuation increased they managed to be more and more together. Like most mothers, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Karger believed that Anson was exceptionally reliable, so she allowed Dolly to go with him to distant country clubs and suburban houses without inquiring closely into their activities or questioning her explanations when they came in late. At first these explanations might have been accurate, but Dolly’s worldly ideas of capturing Anson were soon engulfed in the rising sweep of her emotion. Kisses in the back of taxis and motorcars were no longer enough; they did a curious thing:</p>
<p>They dropped out of their world for a while and made another world just beneath it where Anson’s tippling and Dolly’s irregular hours would be less noticed and commented on. It was composed, this world, of varying elements⁠—several of Anson’s Yale friends and their wives, two or three young brokers and bond salesmen and a handful of unattached men, fresh from college, with money and a propensity to dissipation. What this world lacked in spaciousness and scale it made up for by allowing them a liberty that it scarcely permitted itself. Moreover, it centred around them and permitted Dolly the pleasure of a faint condescension⁠—a pleasure which Anson, whose whole life was a condescension from the certitudes of his childhood, was unable to share.</p>
<p>He was not in love with her, and in the long feverish winter of their affair he frequently told her so. In the spring he was weary⁠—he wanted to renew his life at some other source⁠—moreover, he saw that either he must break with her now or accept the responsibility of a definite seduction. Her family’s encouraging attitude precipitated his decision⁠—one evening when <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Karger knocked discreetly at the library door to announce that he had left a bottle of old brandy in the dining-room, Anson felt that life was hemming him in. That night he wrote her a short letter in which he told her that he was going on his vacation, and that in view of all the circumstances they had better meet no more.</p>
<p>It was June. His family had closed up the house and gone to the country, so he was living temporarily at the Yale Club. I had heard about his affair with Dolly as it developed⁠—accounts salted with humor, for he despised unstable women, and granted them no place in the social edifice in which he believed⁠—and when he told me that night that he was definitely breaking with her I was glad. I had seen Dolly here and there, and each time with a feeling of pity at the hopelessness of her struggle, and of shame at knowing so much about her that I had no right to know. She was what is known as “a pretty little thing,” but there was a certain recklessness which rather fascinated me. Her dedication to the goddess of waste would have been less obvious had she been less spirited⁠—she would most certainly throw herself away, but I was glad when I heard that the sacrifice would not be consummated in my sight.</p>
<p>Anson was going to leave the letter of farewell at her house next morning. It was one of the few houses left open in the Fifth Avenue district, and he knew that the Kargers, acting upon erroneous information from Dolly, had foregone a trip abroad to give their daughter her chance. As he stepped out the door of the Yale Club into Madison Avenue the postman passed him, and he followed back inside. The first letter that caught his eye was in Dolly’s hand.</p>
<p>He knew what it would be⁠—a lonely and tragic monologue, full of the reproaches he knew, the invoked memories, the “I wonder if’s”⁠—all the immemorial intimacies that he had communicated to Paula Legendre in what seemed another age. Thumbing over some bills, he brought it on top again and opened it. To his surprise it was a short, somewhat formal note, which said that Dolly would be unable to go to the country with him for the weekend, because Perry Hull from Chicago had unexpectedly come to town. It added that Anson had brought this on himself: “⁠—if I felt that you loved me as I love you I would go with you at any time, any place, but Perry is <em>so</em> nice, and he so much wants me to marry him⁠—”</p>
<p>Anson smiled contemptuously⁠—he had had experience with such decoy epistles. Moreover, he knew how Dolly had labored over this plan, probably sent for the faithful Perry and calculated the time of his arrival⁠—even labored over the note so that it would make him jealous without driving him away. Like most compromises, it had neither force nor vitality but only a timorous despair.</p>
<p>Suddenly he was angry. He sat down in the lobby and read it again. Then he went to the phone, called Dolly and told her in his clear, compelling voice that he had received her note and would call for her at five o’clock as they had previously planned. Scarcely waiting for the pretended uncertainty of her “Perhaps I can see you for an hour,” he hung up the receiver and went down to his office. On the way he tore his own letter into bits and dropped it in the street.</p>
<p>He was not jealous⁠—she meant nothing to him⁠—but at her pathetic ruse everything stubborn and self-indulgent in him came to the surface. It was a presumption from a mental inferior and it could not be overlooked. If she wanted to know to whom she belonged she would see.</p>
<p>He was on the doorstep at quarter past five. Dolly was dressed for the street, and he listened in silence to the paragraph of “I can only see you for an hour,” which she had begun on the phone.</p>
<p>“Put on your hat, Dolly,” he said, “we’ll take a walk.”</p>
<p>They strolled up Madison Avenue and over to Fifth while Anson’s shirt dampened upon his portly body in the deep heat. He talked little, scolding her, making no love to her, but before they had walked six blocks she was his again, apologizing for the note, offering not to see Perry at all as an atonement, offering anything. She thought that he had come because he was beginning to love her.</p>
<p>“I’m hot,” he said when they reached 71st Street. “This is a winter suit. If I stop by the house and change, would you mind waiting for me downstairs? I’ll only be a minute.”</p>
<p>She was happy; the intimacy of his being hot, of any physical fact about him, thrilled her. When they came to the iron-grated door and Anson took out his key she experienced a sort of delight.</p>
<p>Downstairs it was dark, and after he ascended in the lift Dolly raised a curtain and looked out through opaque lace at the houses over the way. She heard the lift machinery stop, and with the notion of teasing him pressed the button that brought it down. Then on what was more than an impulse she got into it and sent it up to what she guessed was his floor.</p>
<p>“Anson,” she called, laughing a little.</p>
<p>“Just a minute,” he answered from his bedroom⁠ ⁠… then after a brief delay: “Now you can come in.”</p>
<p>He had changed and was buttoning his vest. “This is my room,” he said lightly. “How do you like it?”</p>
<p>She caught sight of Paula’s picture on the wall and stared at it in fascination, just as Paula had stared at the pictures of Anson’s childish sweethearts five years before. She knew something about Paula⁠—sometimes she tortured herself with fragments of the story.</p>
<p>Suddenly she came close to Anson, raising her arms. They embraced. Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight already hovered, though the sun was still bright on a back roof across the way. In half an hour the room would be quite dark. The uncalculated opportunity overwhelmed them, made them both breathless, and they clung more closely. It was eminent, inevitable. Still holding one another, they raised their heads⁠—their eyes fell together upon Paula’s picture, staring down at them from the wall.</p>
<p>Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk tried the drawer with a bunch of keys.</p>
<p>“Like a drink?” he asked in a gruff voice.</p>
<p>“No, Anson.”</p>
<p>He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and then opened the door into the hall.</p>
<p>“Come on,” he said.</p>
<p>Dolly hesitated.</p>
<p>“Anson⁠—I’m going to the country with you tonight, after all. You understand that, don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” he answered brusquely.</p>
<p>In Dolly’s car they rode on to Long Island, closer in their emotions than they had ever been before. They knew what would happen⁠—not with Paula’s face to remind them that something was lacking, but when they were alone in the still, hot Long Island night they did not care.</p>
<p>The estate in Port Washington where they were to spend the weekend belonged to a cousin of Anson’s who had married a Montana copper operator. An interminable drive began at the lodge and twisted under imported poplar saplings toward a huge, pink, Spanish house. Anson had often visited there before.</p>
<p>After dinner they danced at the Linx Club. About midnight Anson assured himself that his cousins would not leave before two⁠—then he explained that Dolly was tired; he would take her home and return to the dance later. Trembling a little with excitement, they got into a borrowed car together and drove to Port Washington. As they reached the lodge he stopped and spoke to the night-watchman.</p>
<p>“When are you making a round, Carl?”</p>
<p>“Right away.”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll be here till everybody’s in?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“All right. Listen: if any automobile, no matter whose it is, turns in at this gate, I want you to phone the house immediately.” He put a five-dollar bill into Carl’s hand. “Is that clear?”</p>
<p>“Yes, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Anson.” Being of the Old World, he neither winked nor smiled. Yet Dolly sat with her face turned slightly away.</p>
<p>Anson had a key. Once inside he poured a drink for both of them⁠—Dolly left hers untouched⁠—then he ascertained definitely the location of the phone, and found that it was within easy hearing distance of their rooms, both of which were on the first floor.</p>
<p>Five minutes later he knocked at the door of Dolly’s room.</p>
<p>“Anson?” He went in, closing the door behind him. She was in bed, leaning up anxiously with elbows on the pillow; sitting beside her he took her in his arms.</p>
<p>“Anson, darling.”</p>
<p>He didn’t answer.</p>
<p>“Anson.⁠ ⁠… Anson! I love you.⁠ ⁠… Say you love me. Say it now⁠—can’t you say it now? Even if you don’t mean it?”</p>
<p>He did not listen. Over her head he perceived that the picture of Paula was hanging here upon this wall.</p>
<p>He got up and went close to it. The frame gleamed faintly with thrice-reflected moonlight⁠—within was a blurred shadow of a face that he saw he did not know. Almost sobbing, he turned around and stared with abomination at the little figure on the bed.</p>
<p>“This is all foolishness,” he said thickly. “I don’t know what I was thinking about. I don’t love you and you’d better wait for somebody that loves you. I don’t love you a bit, can’t you understand?”</p>
<p>His voice broke, and he went hurriedly out. Back in the salon he was pouring himself a drink with uneasy fingers, when the front door opened suddenly, and his cousin came in.</p>
<p>“Why, Anson, I hear Dolly’s sick,” she began solicitously. “I hear she’s sick.⁠ ⁠…”</p>
<p>“It was nothing,” he interrupted, raising his voice so that it would carry into Dolly’s room. “She was a little tired. She went to bed.”</p>
<p>For a long time afterward Anson believed that a protective God sometimes interfered in human affairs. But Dolly Karger, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, never again believed in anything at all.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>When Dolly married during the following autumn, Anson was in London on business. Like Paula’s marriage, it was sudden, but it affected him in a different way. At first he felt that it was funny, and had an inclination to laugh when he thought of it. Later it depressed him⁠—it made him feel old.</p>
<p>There was something repetitive about it⁠—why, Paula and Dolly had belonged to different generations. He had a foretaste of the sensation of a man of forty who hears that the daughter of an old flame has married. He wired congratulations and, as was not the case with Paula, they were sincere⁠—he had never really hoped that Paula would be happy.</p>
<p>When he returned to New York, he was made a partner in the firm, and, as his responsibilities increased, he had less time on his hands. The refusal of a life-insurance company to issue him a policy made such an impression on him that he stopped drinking for a year, and claimed that he felt better physically, though I think he missed the convivial recounting of those Celliniesque adventures which, in his early twenties, had played such a part of his life. But he never abandoned the Yale Club. He was a figure there, a personality, and the tendency of his class, who were now seven years out of college, to drift away to more sober haunts was checked by his presence.</p>
<p>His day was never too full nor his mind too weary to give any sort of aid to anyone who asked it. What had been done at first through pride and superiority had become a habit and a passion. And there was always something⁠—a younger brother in trouble at New Haven, a quarrel to be patched up between a friend and his wife, a position to be found for this man, an investment for that. But his specialty was the solving of problems for young married people. Young married people fascinated him and their apartments were almost sacred to him⁠—he knew the story of their love-affair, advised them where to live and how, and remembered their babies’ names. Toward young wives his attitude was circumspect: he never abused the trust which their husbands⁠—strangely enough in view of his unconcealed irregularities⁠—invariably reposed in him.</p>
<p>He came to take a vicarious pleasure in happy marriages, and to be inspired to an almost equally pleasant melancholy by those that went astray. Not a season passed that he did not witness the collapse of an affair that perhaps he himself had fathered. When Paula was divorced and almost immediately remarried to another Bostonian, he talked about her to me all one afternoon. He would never love anyone as he had loved Paula, but he insisted that he no longer cared.</p>
<p>“I’ll never marry,” he came to say; “I’ve seen too much of it, and I know a happy marriage is a very rare thing. Besides, I’m too old.”</p>
<p>But he did believe in marriage. Like all men who spring from a happy and successful marriage, he believed in it passionately⁠—nothing he had seen would change his belief, his cynicism dissolved upon it like air. But he did really believe he was too old. At twenty-eight he began to accept with equanimity the prospect of marrying without romantic love; he resolutely chose a New York girl of his own class, pretty, intelligent, congenial, above reproach⁠—and set about falling in love with her. The things he had said to Paula with sincerity, to other girls with grace, he could no longer say at all without smiling, or with the force necessary to convince.</p>
<p>“When I’m forty,” he told his friends, “I’ll be ripe. I’ll fall for some chorus girl like the rest.”</p>
<p>Nevertheless, he persisted in his attempt. His mother wanted to see him married, and he could now well afford it⁠—he had a seat on the Stock Exchange, and his earned income came to twenty-five thousand a year. The idea was agreeable: when his friends⁠—he spent most of his time with the set he and Dolly had evolved⁠—closed themselves in behind domestic doors at night, he no longer rejoiced in his freedom. He even wondered if he should have married Dolly. Not even Paula had loved him more, and he was learning the rarity, in a single life, of encountering true emotion.</p>
<p>Just as this mood began to creep over him a disquieting story reached his ear. His aunt Edna, a woman just this side of forty, was carrying on an open intrigue with a dissolute, hard-drinking young man named Cary Sloane. Everyone knew of it except Anson’s Uncle Robert, who for fifteen years had talked long in clubs and taken his wife for granted.</p>
<p>Anson heard the story again and again with increasing annoyance. Something of his old feeling for his uncle came back to him, a feeling that was more than personal, a reversion toward that family solidarity on which he had based his pride. His intuition singled out the essential point of the affair, which was that his uncle shouldn’t be hurt. It was his first experiment in unsolicited meddling, but with his knowledge of Edna’s character he felt that he could handle the matter better than a district judge or his uncle.</p>
<p>His uncle was in Hot Springs. Anson traced down the sources of the scandal so that there should be no possibility of mistake and then he called Edna and asked her to lunch with him at the Plaza next day. Something in his tone must have frightened her, for she was reluctant, but he insisted, putting off the date until she had no excuse for refusing.</p>
<p>She met him at the appointed time in the Plaza lobby, a lovely, faded, gray-eyed blonde in a coat of Russian sable. Five great rings, cold with diamonds and emeralds, sparkled on her slender hands. It occurred to Anson that it was his father’s intelligence and not his uncle’s that had earned the fur and the stones, the rich brilliance that buoyed up her passing beauty.</p>
<p>Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the directness of his approach.</p>
<p>“Edna, I’m astonished at the way you’ve been acting,” he said in a strong, frank voice. “At first I couldn’t believe it.”</p>
<p>“Believe what?” she demanded sharply.</p>
<p>“You needn’t pretend with me, Edna. I’m talking about Cary Sloane. Aside from any other consideration, I didn’t think you could treat Uncle Robert⁠—”</p>
<p>“Now look here, Anson⁠—” she began angrily, but his peremptory voice broke through hers:</p>
<p>“⁠—and your children in such a way. You’ve been married eighteen years, and you’re old enough to know better.”</p>
<p>“You can’t talk to me like that! You⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes, I can. Uncle Robert has always been my best friend.” He was tremendously moved. He felt a real distress about his uncle, about his three young cousins.</p>
<p>Edna stood up, leaving her crab-flake cocktail untasted.</p>
<p>“This is the silliest thing⁠—”</p>
<p>“Very well, if you won’t listen to me I’ll go to Uncle Robert and tell him the whole story⁠—he’s bound to hear it sooner or later. And afterward I’ll go to old Moses Sloane.”</p>
<p>Edna faltered back into her chair.</p>
<p>“Don’t talk so loud,” she begged him. Her eyes blurred with tears. “You have no idea how your voice carries. You might have chosen a less public place to make all these crazy accusations.”</p>
<p>He didn’t answer.</p>
<p>“Oh, you never liked me, I know,” she went on. “You’re just taking advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the only interesting friendship I’ve ever had. What did I ever do to make you hate me so?”</p>
<p>Still Anson waited. There would be the appeal to his chivalry, then to his pity, finally to his superior sophistication⁠—when he had shouldered his way through all these there would be admissions, and he could come to grips with her. By being silent, by being impervious, by returning constantly to his main weapon, which was his own true emotion, he bullied her into frantic despair as the luncheon hour slipped away. At two o’clock she took out a mirror and a handkerchief, shined away the marks of her tears and powdered the slight hollows where they had lain. She had agreed to meet him at her own house at five.</p>
<p>When he arrived she was stretched on a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chaise-longue</i> which was covered with cretonne for the summer, and the tears he had called up at luncheon seemed still to be standing in her eyes. Then he was aware of Cary Sloane’s dark anxious presence upon the cold hearth.</p>
<p>“What’s this idea of yours?” broke out Sloane immediately. “I understand you invited Edna to lunch and then threatened her on the basis of some cheap scandal.”</p>
<p>Anson sat down.</p>
<p>“I have no reason to think it’s only scandal.”</p>
<p>“I hear you’re going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my father.”</p>
<p>Anson nodded.</p>
<p>“Either you break it off⁠—or I will,” he said.</p>
<p>“What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter?”</p>
<p>“Don’t lose your temper, Cary,” said Edna nervously. “It’s only a question of showing him how absurd⁠—”</p>
<p>“For one thing, it’s my name that’s being handed around,” interrupted Anson. “That’s all that concerns you, Cary.”</p>
<p>“Edna isn’t a member of your family.”</p>
<p>“She most certainly is!” His anger mounted. “Why⁠—she owes this house and the rings on her fingers to my father’s brains. When Uncle Robert married her she didn’t have a penny.”</p>
<p>They all looked at the rings as if they had a significant bearing on the situation. Edna made a gesture to take them from her hand.</p>
<p>“I guess they’re not the only rings in the world,” said Sloane.</p>
<p>“Oh, this is absurd,” cried Edna. “Anson, will you listen to me? I’ve found out how the silly story started. It was a maid I discharged who went right to the Chilicheffs⁠—all these Russians pump things out of their servants and then put a false meaning on them.” She brought down her fist angrily on the table: “And after Tom lent them the limousine for a whole month when we were South last winter⁠—”</p>
<p>“Do you see?” demanded Sloane eagerly. “This maid got hold of the wrong end of the thing. She knew that Edna and I were friends, and she carried it to the Chilicheffs. In Russia they assume that if a man and a woman⁠—”</p>
<p>He enlarged the theme to a disquisition upon social relations in the Caucasus.</p>
<p>“If that’s the case it better be explained to Uncle Robert,” said Anson dryly, “so that when the rumors do reach him he’ll know they’re not true.”</p>
<p>Adopting the method he had followed with Edna at luncheon he let them explain it all away. He knew that they were guilty and that presently they would cross the line from explanation into justification and convict themselves more definitely than he could ever do. By seven they had taken the desperate step of telling him the truth⁠—Robert Hunter’s neglect, Edna’s empty life, the casual dalliance that had flamed up into passion⁠—but like so many true stories it had the misfortune of being old, and its enfeebled body beat helplessly against the armor of Anson’s will. The threat to go to Sloane’s father sealed their helplessness, for the latter, a retired cotton broker out of Alabama, was a notorious fundamentalist who controlled his son by a rigid allowance and the promise that at his next vagary the allowance would stop forever.</p>
<p>They dined at a small French restaurant, and the discussion continued⁠—at one time Sloane resorted to physical threats, a little later they were both imploring him to give them time. But Anson was obdurate. He saw that Edna was breaking up, and that her spirit must not be refreshed by any renewal of their passion.</p>
<p>At two o’clock in a small nightclub on 53rd Street, Edna’s nerves suddenly collapsed, and she cried to go home. Sloane had been drinking heavily all evening, and he was faintly maudlin, leaning on the table and weeping a little with his face in his hands. Quickly Anson gave them his terms. Sloane was to leave town for six months, and he must be gone within forty-eight hours. When he returned there was to be no resumption of the affair, but at the end of a year Edna might, if she wished, tell Robert Hunter that she wanted a divorce and go about it in the usual way.</p>
<p>He paused, gaining confidence from their faces for his final word.</p>
<p>“Or there’s another thing you can do,” he said slowly, “if Edna wants to leave her children, there’s nothing I can do to prevent your running off together.”</p>
<p>“I want to go home!” cried Edna again. “Oh, haven’t you done enough to us for one day?”</p>
<p>Outside it was dark, save for a blurred glow from Sixth Avenue down the street. In that light those two who had been lovers looked for the last time into each other’s tragic faces, realizing that between them there was not enough youth and strength to avert their eternal parting. Sloane walked suddenly off down the street and Anson tapped a dozing taxi-driver on the arm.</p>
<p>It was almost four; there was a patient flow of cleaning water along the ghostly pavement of Fifth Avenue, and the shadows of two night women flitted over the dark façade of <abbr>St.</abbr> Thomas’s church. Then the desolate shrubbery of Central Park where Anson had often played as a child, and the mounting numbers, significant as names, of the marching streets. This was his city, he thought, where his name had flourished through five generations. No change could alter the permanence of its place here, for change itself was the essential substratum by which he and those of his name identified themselves with the spirit of New York. Resourcefulness and a powerful will⁠—for his threats in weaker hands would have been less than nothing⁠—had beaten the gathering dust from his uncle’s name, from the name of his family, from even this shivering figure that sat beside him in the car.</p>
<p>Cary Sloane’s body was found next morning on the lower shelf of a pillar of Queensboro Bridge. In the darkness and in his excitement he had thought that it was the water flowing black beneath him, but in less than a second it made no possible difference⁠—unless he had planned to think one last thought of Edna, and call out her name as he struggled feebly in the water.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-7" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VII</h3>
<p>Anson never blamed himself for his part in this affair⁠—the situation which brought it about had not been of his making. But the just suffer with the unjust, and he found that his oldest and somehow his most precious friendship was over. He never knew what distorted story Edna told, but he was welcome in his uncle’s house no longer.</p>
<p>Just before Christmas <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hunter retired to a select Episcopal heaven, and Anson became the responsible head of his family. An unmarried aunt who had lived with them for years ran the house, and attempted with helpless inefficiency to chaperone the younger girls. All the children were less self-reliant than Anson, more conventional both in their virtues and in their shortcomings. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Hunter’s death had postponed the début of one daughter and the wedding of another. Also it had taken something deeply material from all of them, for with her passing the quiet, expensive superiority of the Hunters came to an end.</p>
<p>For one thing, the estate, considerably diminished by two inheritance taxes and soon to be divided among six children, was not a notable fortune any more. Anson saw a tendency in his youngest sisters to speak rather respectfully of families that hadn’t “existed” twenty years ago. His own feeling of precedence was not echoed in them⁠—sometimes they were conventionally snobbish, that was all. For another thing, this was the last summer they would spend on the Connecticut estate; the clamor against it was too loud: “Who wants to waste the best months of the year shut up in that dead old town?” Reluctantly he yielded⁠—the house would go into the market in the fall, and next summer they would rent a smaller place in Westchester County. It was a step down from the expensive simplicity of his father’s idea, and, while he sympathized with the revolt, it also annoyed him; during his mother’s lifetime he had gone up there at least every other weekend⁠—even in the gayest summers.</p>
<p>Yet he himself was part of this change, and his strong instinct for life had turned him in his twenties from the hollow obsequies of that abortive leisure class. He did not see this clearly⁠—he still felt that there was a norm, a standard of society. But there was no norm, it was doubtful if there had ever been a true norm in New York. The few who still paid and fought to enter a particular set succeeded only to find that as a society it scarcely functioned⁠—or, what was more alarming, that the Bohemia from which they fled sat above them at table.</p>
<p>At twenty-nine Anson’s chief concern was his own growing loneliness. He was sure now that he would never marry. The number of weddings at which he had officiated as best man or usher was past all counting⁠—there was a drawer at home that bulged with the official neckties of this or that wedding-party, neckties standing for romances that had not endured a year, for couples who had passed completely from his life. Scarf-pins, gold pencils, cuff-buttons, presents from a generation of grooms had passed through his jewel-box and been lost⁠—and with every ceremony he was less and less able to imagine himself in the groom’s place. Under his hearty goodwill toward all those marriages there was despair about his own.</p>
<p>And as he neared thirty he became not a little depressed at the inroads that marriage, especially lately, had made upon his friendships. Groups of people had a disconcerting tendency to dissolve and disappear. The men from his own college⁠—and it was upon them he had expended the most time and affection⁠—were the most elusive of all. Most of them were drawn deep into domesticity, two were dead, one lived abroad, one was in Hollywood writing continuities for pictures that Anson went faithfully to see.</p>
<p>Most of them, however, were permanent commuters with an intricate family life centring around some suburban country club, and it was from these that he felt his estrangement most keenly.</p>
<p>In the early days of their married life they had all needed him; he gave them advice about their slim finances, he exorcised their doubts about the advisability of bringing a baby into two rooms and a bath, especially he stood for the great world outside. But now their financial troubles were in the past and the fearfully expected child had evolved into an absorbing family. They were always glad to see old Anson, but they dressed up for him and tried to impress him with their present importance, and kept their troubles to themselves. They needed him no longer.</p>
<p>A few weeks before his thirtieth birthday the last of his early and intimate friends was married. Anson acted in his usual role of best man, gave his usual silver tea-service, and went down to the usual <em>Homeric</em> to say goodbye. It was a hot Friday afternoon in May, and as he walked from the pier he realized that Saturday closing had begun and he was free until Monday morning.</p>
<p>“Go where?” he asked himself.</p>
<p>The Yale Club, of course; bridge until dinner, then four or five raw cocktails in somebody’s room and a pleasant confused evening. He regretted that this afternoon’s groom wouldn’t be along⁠—they had always been able to cram so much into such nights: they knew how to attach women and how to get rid of them, how much consideration any girl deserved from their intelligent hedonism. A party was an adjusted thing⁠—you took certain girls to certain places and spent just so much on their amusement; you drank a little, not much, more than you ought to drink, and at a certain time in the morning you stood up and said you were going home. You avoided college boys, sponges, future engagements, fights, sentiment, and indiscretions. That was the way it was done. All the rest was dissipation.</p>
<p>In the morning you were never violently sorry⁠—you made no resolutions, but if you had overdone it and your heart was slightly out of order, you went on the wagon for a few days without saying anything about it, and waited until an accumulation of nervous boredom projected you into another party.</p>
<p>The lobby of the Yale Club was unpopulated. In the bar three very young alumni looked up at him, momentarily and without curiosity.</p>
<p>“Hello there, Oscar,” he said to the bartender. “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Cahill been around this afternoon?”</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Cahill’s gone to New Haven.”</p>
<p>“Oh⁠ ⁠… that so?”</p>
<p>“Gone to the ball game. Lot of men gone up.”</p>
<p>Anson looked once again into the lobby, considered for a moment, and then walked out and over to Fifth Avenue. From the broad window of one of his clubs⁠—one that he had scarcely visited in five years⁠—a gray man with watery eyes stared down at him. Anson looked quickly away⁠—that figure sitting in vacant resignation, in supercilious solitude, depressed him. He stopped and, retracing his steps, started over 47th Street toward Teak Warden’s apartment. Teak and his wife had once been his most familiar friends⁠—it was a household where he and Dolly Karger had been used to go in the days of their affair. But Teak had taken to drink, and his wife had remarked publicly that Anson was a bad influence on him. The remark reached Anson in an exaggerated form⁠—when it was finally cleared up, the delicate spell of intimacy was broken, never to be renewed.</p>
<p>“Is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Warden at home?” he inquired.</p>
<p>“They’ve gone to the country.”</p>
<p>The fact unexpectedly cut at him. They were gone to the country and he hadn’t known. Two years before he would have known the date, the hour, come up at the last moment for a final drink, and planned his first visit to them. Now they had gone without a word.</p>
<p>Anson looked at his watch and considered a weekend with his family, but the only train was a local that would jolt through the aggressive heat for three hours. And tomorrow in the country, and Sunday⁠—he was in no mood for porch-bridge with polite undergraduates, and dancing after dinner at a rural roadhouse, a diminutive of gaiety which his father had estimated too well.</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” he said to himself.⁠ ⁠… “No.”</p>
<p>He was a dignified, impressive young man, rather stout now, but otherwise unmarked by dissipation. He could have been cast for a pillar of something⁠—at times you were sure it was not society, at others nothing else⁠—for the law, for the church. He stood for a few minutes motionless on the sidewalk in front of a 47th Street apartment-house; for almost the first time in his life he had nothing whatever to do.</p>
<p>Then he began to walk briskly up Fifth Avenue, as if he had just been reminded of an important engagement there. The necessity of dissimulation is one of the few characteristics that we share with dogs, and I think of Anson on that day as some well-bred specimen who had been disappointed at a familiar back door. He was going to see Nick, once a fashionable bartender in demand at all private dances, and now employed in cooling nonalcoholic champagne among the labyrinthine cellars of the Plaza Hotel.</p>
<p>“Nick,” he said, “what’s happened to everything?”</p>
<p>“Dead,” Nick said.</p>
<p>“Make me a whiskey sour.” Anson handed a pint bottle over the counter. “Nick, the girls are different; I had a little girl in Brooklyn and she got married last week without letting me know.”</p>
<p>“That a fact? <em>Ha‑ha‑ha</em>,” responded Nick diplomatically. “Slipped it over on you.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely,” said Anson. “And I was out with her the night before.”</p>
<p>“<em>Ha‑ha‑ha</em>,” said Nick, “ha-ha-ha!”</p>
<p>“Do you remember the wedding, Nick, in Hot Springs where I had the waiters and the musicians singing ‘God save the King’?”</p>
<p>“Now where was that, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hunter?” Nick concentrated doubtfully. “Seems to me that was⁠—”</p>
<p>“Next time they were back for more, and I began to wonder how much I’d paid them,” continued Anson.</p>
<p>“⁠—seems to me that was at <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Trenholm’s wedding.”</p>
<p>“Don’t know him,” said Anson decisively. He was offended that a strange name should intrude upon his reminiscences; Nick perceived this.</p>
<p>“Naw⁠—aw⁠—” he admitted, “I ought to know that. It was one of <em>your</em> crowd⁠—Brakins.⁠ ⁠… Baker⁠—”</p>
<p>“Bicker Baker,” said Anson responsively. “They put me in a hearse after it was over and covered me up with flowers and drove me away.”</p>
<p>“<em>Ha‑ha‑ha</em>,” said Nick. “<em>Ha‑ha‑ha.</em>”</p>
<p>Nick’s simulation of the old family servant paled presently and Anson went upstairs to the lobby. He looked around⁠—his eyes met the glance of an unfamiliar clerk at the desk, then fell upon a flower from the morning’s marriage hesitating in the mouth of a brass cuspidor. He went out and walked slowly toward the bloodred sun over Columbus Circle. Suddenly he turned around and, retracing his steps to the Plaza, immured himself in a telephone-booth.</p>
<p>Later he said that he tried to get me three times that afternoon, that he tried everyone who might be in New York⁠—men and girls he had not seen for years, an artist’s model of his college days whose faded number was still in his address book⁠—Central told him that even the exchange existed no longer. At length his quest roved into the country, and he held brief disappointing conversations with emphatic butlers and maids. So-and-so was out, riding, swimming, playing golf, sailed to Europe last week. Who shall I say phoned?</p>
<p>It was intolerable that he should pass the evening alone⁠—the private reckonings which one plans for a moment of leisure lose every charm when the solitude is enforced. There were always women of a sort, but the ones he knew had temporarily vanished, and to pass a New York evening in the hired company of a stranger never occurred to him⁠—he would have considered that that was something shameful and secret, the diversion of a travelling salesman in a strange town.</p>
<p>Anson paid the telephone bill⁠—the girl tried unsuccessfully to joke with him about its size⁠—and for the second time that afternoon started to leave the Plaza and go he knew not where. Near the revolving door the figure of a woman, obviously with child, stood sideways to the light⁠—a sheer beige cape fluttered at her shoulders when the door turned and, each time, she looked impatiently toward it as if she were weary of waiting. At the first sight of her a strong nervous thrill of familiarity went over him, but not until he was within five feet of her did he realize that it was Paula.</p>
<p>“Why, Anson Hunter!”</p>
<p>His heart turned over.</p>
<p>“Why, Paula⁠—”</p>
<p>“Why, this is wonderful. I can’t believe it, <em>Anson</em>!”</p>
<p>She took both his hands, and he saw in the freedom of the gesture that the memory of him had lost poignancy to her. But not to him⁠—he felt that old mood that she evoked in him stealing over his brain, that gentleness with which he had always met her optimism as if afraid to mar its surface.</p>
<p>“We’re at Rye for the summer. Pete had to come East on business⁠—you know of course I’m <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Peter Hagerty now⁠—so we brought the children and took a house. You’ve got to come out and see us.”</p>
<p>“Can I?” he asked directly. “When?”</p>
<p>“When you like. Here’s Pete.” The revolving door functioned, giving up a fine tall man of thirty with a tanned face and a trim mustache. His immaculate fitness made a sharp contrast with Anson’s increasing bulk, which was obvious under the faintly tight cutaway coat.</p>
<p>“You oughtn’t to be standing,” said Hagerty to his wife. “Let’s sit down here.” He indicated lobby chairs, but Paula hesitated.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to go right home,” she said. “Anson, why don’t you⁠—why don’t you come out and have dinner with us tonight? We’re just getting settled, but if you can stand that⁠—”</p>
<p>Hagerty confirmed the invitation cordially.</p>
<p>“Come out for the night.”</p>
<p>Their car waited in front of the hotel, and Paula with a tired gesture sank back against silk cushions in the corner.</p>
<p>“There’s so much I want to talk to you about,” she said, “it seems hopeless.”</p>
<p>“I want to hear about you.”</p>
<p>“Well”⁠—she smiled at Hagerty⁠—“that would take a long time too. I have three children⁠—by my first marriage. The oldest is five, then four, then three.” She smiled again. “I didn’t waste much time having them, did I?”</p>
<p>“Boys?”</p>
<p>“A boy and two girls. Then⁠—oh, a lot of things happened, and I got a divorce in Paris a year ago and married Pete. That’s all⁠—except that I’m awfully happy.”</p>
<p>In Rye they drove up to a large house near the Beach Club, from which there issued presently three dark, slim children who broke from an English governess and approached them with an esoteric cry. Abstractedly and with difficulty Paula took each one into her arms, a caress which they accepted stiffly, as they had evidently been told not to bump into Mummy. Even against their fresh faces Paula’s skin showed scarcely any weariness⁠—for all her physical languor she seemed younger than when he had last seen her at Palm Beach seven years ago.</p>
<p>At dinner she was preoccupied, and afterward, during the homage to the radio, she lay with closed eyes on the sofa, until Anson wondered if his presence at this time were not an intrusion. But at nine o’clock, when Hagerty rose and said pleasantly that he was going to leave them by themselves for a while, she began to talk slowly about herself and the past.</p>
<p>“My first baby,” she said⁠—“the one we call Darling, the biggest little girl⁠—I wanted to die when I knew I was going to have her, because Lowell was like a stranger to me. It didn’t seem as though she could be my own. I wrote you a letter and tore it up. Oh, you were <em>so</em> bad to me, Anson.”</p>
<p>It was the dialogue again, rising and falling. Anson felt a sudden quickening of memory.</p>
<p>“Weren’t you engaged once?” she asked⁠—“a girl named Dolly something?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t ever engaged. I tried to be engaged, but I never loved anybody but you, Paula.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she said. Then after a moment: “This baby is the first one I ever really wanted. You see, I’m in love now⁠—at last.”</p>
<p>He didn’t answer, shocked at the treachery of her remembrance. She must have seen that the “at last” bruised him, for she continued:</p>
<p>“I was infatuated with you, Anson⁠—you could make me do anything you liked. But we wouldn’t have been happy. I’m not smart enough for you. I don’t like things to be complicated like you do.” She paused. “You’ll never settle down,” she said.</p>
<p>The phrase struck at him from behind⁠—it was an accusation that of all accusations he had never merited.</p>
<p>“I could settle down if women were different,” he said. “If I didn’t understand so much about them, if women didn’t spoil you for other women, if they had only a little pride. If I could go to sleep for a while and wake up into a home that was really mine⁠—why, that’s what I’m made for, Paula, that’s what women have seen in me and liked in me. It’s only that I can’t get through the preliminaries any more.”</p>
<p>Hagerty came in a little before eleven; after a whiskey Paula stood up and announced that she was going to bed. She went over and stood by her husband.</p>
<p>“Where did you go, dearest?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“I had a drink with Ed Saunders.”</p>
<p>“I was worried. I thought maybe you’d run away.”</p>
<p>She rested her head against his coat.</p>
<p>“He’s sweet, isn’t he, Anson?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“Absolutely,” said Anson, laughing.</p>
<p>She raised her face to her husband.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m ready,” she said. She turned to Anson: “Do you want to see our family gymnastic stunt?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said in an interested voice.</p>
<p>“All right. Here we go!”</p>
<p>Hagerty picked her up easily in his arms.</p>
<p>“This is called the family acrobatic stunt,” said Paula. “He carries me upstairs. Isn’t it sweet of him?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Anson.</p>
<p>Hagerty bent his head slightly until his face touched Paula’s.</p>
<p>“And I love him,” she said. “I’ve just been telling you, haven’t I, Anson?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said.</p>
<p>“He’s the dearest thing that ever lived in this world; aren’t you, darling?⁠ ⁠… Well, good night. Here we go. Isn’t he strong?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Anson said.</p>
<p>“You’ll find a pair of Pete’s pajamas laid out for you. Sweet dreams⁠—see you at breakfast.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Anson said.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-rich-boy-8" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VIII</h3>
<p>The older members of the firm insisted that Anson should go abroad for the summer. He had scarcely had a vacation in seven years, they said. He was stale and needed a change. Anson resisted.</p>
<p>“If I go,” he declared, “I won’t come back any more.”</p>
<p>“That’s absurd, old man. You’ll be back in three months with all this depression gone. Fit as ever.”</p>
<p>“No.” He shook his head stubbornly. “If I stop, I won’t go back to work. If I stop, that means I’ve given up⁠—I’m through.”</p>
<p>“We’ll take a chance on that. Stay six months if you like⁠—we’re not afraid you’ll leave us. Why, you’d be miserable if you didn’t work.”</p>
<p>They arranged his passage for him. They liked Anson⁠—everyone liked Anson⁠—and the change that had been coming over him cast a sort of pall over the office. The enthusiasm that had invariably signalled up business, the consideration toward his equals and his inferiors, the lift of his vital presence⁠—within the past four months his intense nervousness had melted down these qualities into the fussy pessimism of a man of forty. On every transaction in which he was involved he acted as a drag and a strain.</p>
<p>“If I go I’ll never come back,” he said.</p>
<p>Three days before he sailed Paula Legendre Hagerty died in childbirth. I was with him a great deal then, for we were crossing together, but for the first time in our friendship he told me not a word of how he felt, nor did I see the slightest sign of emotion. His chief preoccupation was with the fact that he was thirty years old⁠—he would turn the conversation to the point where he could remind you of it and then fall silent, as if he assumed that the statement would start a chain of thought sufficient to itself. Like his partners, I was amazed at the change in him, and I was glad when the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Paris</i> moved off into the wet space between the worlds, leaving his principality behind.</p>
<p>“How about a drink?” he suggested.</p>
<p>We walked into the bar with that defiant feeling that characterizes the day of departure and ordered four Martinis. After one cocktail a change came over him⁠—he suddenly reached across and slapped my knee with the first joviality I had seen him exhibit for months.</p>
<p>“Did you see that girl in the red tam?” he demanded, “the one with the high color who had the two police dogs down to bid her goodbye.”</p>
<p>“She’s pretty,” I agreed.</p>
<p>“I looked her up in the purser’s office and found out that she’s alone. I’m going down to see the steward in a few minutes. We’ll have dinner with her tonight.”</p>
<p>After a while he left me, and within an hour he was walking up and down the deck with her, talking to her in his strong, clear voice. Her red tam was a bright spot of color against the steel-green sea, and from time to time she looked up with a flashing bob of her head, and smiled with amusement and interest, and anticipation. At dinner we had champagne, and were very joyous⁠—afterward Anson ran the pool with infectious gusto, and several people who had seen me with him asked me his name. He and the girl were talking and laughing together on a lounge in the bar when I went to bed.</p>
<p>I saw less of him on the trip than I had hoped. He wanted to arrange a foursome, but there was no one available, so I saw him only at meals. Sometimes, though, he would have a cocktail in the bar, and he told me about the girl in the red tam, and his adventures with her, making them all bizarre and amusing, as he had a way of doing, and I was glad that he was himself again, or at least the self that I knew, and with which I felt at home. I don’t think he was ever happy unless someone was in love with him, responding to him like filings to a magnet, helping him to explain himself, promising him something. What it was I do not know. Perhaps they promised that there would always be women in the world who would spend their brightest, freshest, rarest hours to nurse and protect that superiority he cherished in his heart.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr‑nce of W‑les</h2>
<section id="rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Majestic</i> came gliding into New York harbor on an April morning. She sniffed at the tugboats and turtle-gaited ferries, winked at a gaudy young yacht, and ordered a cattle-boat out of her way with a snarling whistle of steam. Then she parked at her private dock with all the fuss of a stout lady sitting down, and announced complacently that she had just come from Cherbourg and Southampton with a cargo of the very best people in the world.</p>
<p>The very best people in the world stood on the deck and waved idiotically to their poor relations who were waiting on the dock for gloves from Paris. Before long a great toboggan had connected the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Majestic</i> with the North American continent, and the ship began to disgorge these very best people in the world⁠—who turned out to be Gloria Swanson, two buyers from Lord &amp; Taylor, the financial minister from Graustark with a proposal for funding the debt, and an African king who had been trying to land somewhere all winter and was feeling violently seasick.</p>
<p>The photographers worked passionately as the stream of passengers flowed on to the dock. There was a burst of cheering at the appearance of a pair of stretchers laden with two Middle-Westerners who had drunk themselves delirious on the last night out.</p>
<p>The deck gradually emptied, but when the last bottle of Benedictine had reached shore the photographers still remained at their posts. And the officer in charge of debarkation still stood at the foot of the gangway, glancing first at his watch and then at the deck as if some important part of the cargo was still on board. At last from the watchers on the pier there arose a long-drawn “<em>Ah‑h‑h!</em>” as a final entourage began to stream down from deck B.</p>
<p>First came two French maids, carrying small, purple dogs, and followed by a squad of porters, blind and invisible under innumerable bunches and bouquets of fresh flowers. Another maid followed, leading a sad-eyed orphan child of a French flavor, and close upon its heels walked the second officer pulling along three neurasthenic wolfhounds, much to their reluctance and his own.</p>
<p>A pause. Then the captain, Sir Howard George Witchcraft, appeared at the rail, with something that might have been a pile of gorgeous silver-fox fur standing by his side.</p>
<p>Rags Martin-Jones, after five years in the capitals of Europe, was returning to her native land!</p>
<p>Rags Martin-Jones was not a dog. She was half a girl and half a flower, and as she shook hands with Captain Sir Howard George Witchcraft she smiled as if someone had told her the newest, freshest joke in the world. All the people who had not already left the pier felt that smile trembling on the April air and turned around to see.</p>
<p>She came slowly down the gangway. Her hat, an expensive, inscrutable experiment, was crushed under her arm, so that her scant boy’s hair, convict’s hair, tried unsuccessfully to toss and flop a little in the harbor wind. Her face was like seven o’clock on a wedding morning save where she had slipped a preposterous monocle into an eye of clear childish blue. At every few steps her long lashes would tilt out the monocle, and she would laugh, a bored, happy laugh, and replace the supercilious spectacle in the other eye.</p>
<p><i>Tap!</i> Her one hundred and five pounds reached the pier and it seemed to sway and bend from the shock of her beauty. A few porters fainted. A large, sentimental shark which had followed the ship across made a despairing leap to see her once more, and then dove, brokenhearted, back into the deep sea. Rags Martin-Jones had come home.</p>
<p>There was no member of her family there to meet her, for the simple reason that she was the only member of her family left alive. In 1913 her parents had gone down on the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.ship">Titanic</i> together rather than be separated in this world, and so the Martin-Jones fortune of seventy-five millions had been inherited by a very little girl on her tenth birthday. It was what the consumer always refers to as a “shame.”</p>
<p>Rags Martin-Jones (everybody had forgotten her real name long ago) was now photographed from all sides. The monocle persistently fell out, and she kept laughing and yawning and replacing it, so no very clear picture of her was taken⁠—except by the motion-picture camera. All the photographs, however, included a flustered, handsome young man, with an almost ferocious love-light burning in his eyes, who had met her on the dock. His name was John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Chestnut, he had already written the story of his success for the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">American Magazine</i>, and he had been hopelessly in love with Rags ever since the time when she, like the tides, had come under the influence of the summer moon.</p>
<p>When Rags became really aware of his presence they were walking down the pier, and she looked at him blankly as though she had never seen him before in this world.</p>
<p>“Rags,” he began, “Rags⁠—”</p>
<p>“John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Chestnut?” she inquired, inspecting him with great interest.</p>
<p>“Of course!” he exclaimed angrily. “Are you trying to pretend you don’t know me? That you didn’t write me to meet you here?”</p>
<p>She laughed. A chauffeur appeared at her elbow, and she twisted out of her coat, revealing a dress made in great splashy checks of sea-blue and gray. She shook herself like a wet bird.</p>
<p>“I’ve got a lot of junk to declare,” she remarked absently.</p>
<p>“So have I,” said Chestnut anxiously, “and the first thing I want to declare is that I’ve loved you, Rags, every minute since you’ve been away.”</p>
<p>She stopped him with a groan.</p>
<p>“Please! There were some young Americans on the boat. The subject has become a bore.”</p>
<p>“My God!” cried Chestnut, “do you mean to say that you class <em>my</em> love with what was said to you on a <em>boat</em>?”</p>
<p>His voice had risen, and several people in the vicinity turned to hear.</p>
<p>“Sh!” she warned him, “I’m not giving a circus. If you want me to even see you while I’m here, you’ll have to be less violent.”</p>
<p>But John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Chestnut seemed unable to control his voice.</p>
<p>“Do you mean to say”⁠—it trembled to a carrying pitch⁠—“that you’ve forgotten what you said on this very pier five years ago last Thursday?”</p>
<p>Half the passengers from the ship were now watching the scene on the dock, and another little eddy drifted out of the customs-house to see.</p>
<p>“John”⁠—her displeasure was increasing⁠—“if you raise your voice again I’ll arrange it so you’ll have plenty of chance to cool off. I’m going to the Ritz. Come and see me there this afternoon.”</p>
<p>“But, Rags!” he protested hoarsely. “Listen to me. Five years ago⁠—”</p>
<p>Then the watchers on the dock were treated to a curious sight. A beautiful lady in a checkered dress of sea-blue and gray took a brisk step forward so that her hands came into contact with an excited young man by her side. The young man retreating instinctively reached back with his foot, but, finding nothing, relapsed gently off the thirty-foot dock and plopped, after a not ungraceful revolution, into the Hudson River.</p>
<p>A shout of alarm went up, and there was a rush to the edge just as his head appeared above water. He was swimming easily, and, perceiving this, the young lady who had apparently been the cause of the accident leaned over the pier and made a megaphone of her hands.</p>
<p>“I’ll be in at half past four,” she cried.</p>
<p>And with a cheerful wave of her hand, which the engulfed gentleman was unable to return, she adjusted her monocle, threw one haughty glance at the gathered crowd, and walked leisurely from the scene.</p>
</section>
<section id="rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>The five dogs, the three maids, and the French orphan were installed in the largest suite at the Ritz, and Rags tumbled lazily into a steaming bath, fragrant with herbs, where she dozed for the greater part of an hour. At the end of that time she received business calls from a masseuse, a manicure, and finally a Parisian hairdresser, who restored her haircut to criminal’s length. When John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Chestnut arrived at four he found half a dozen lawyers and bankers, the administrators of the Martin-Jones trust fund, waiting in the hall. They had been there since half past one, and were now in a state of considerable agitation.</p>
<p>After one of the maids had subjected him to a severe scrutiny, possibly to be sure that he was thoroughly dry, John was conducted immediately into the presence of m’selle. M’selle was in her bedroom reclining on the chaise-longue among two dozen silk pillows that had accompanied her from the other side. John came into the room somewhat stiffly and greeted her with a formal bow.</p>
<p>“You look better,” she said, raising herself from her pillows and staring at him appraisingly. “It gave you a color.”</p>
<p>He thanked her coldly for the compliment.</p>
<p>“You ought to go in every morning.” And then she added irrelevantly: “I’m going back to Paris tomorrow.”</p>
<p>John Chestnut gasped.</p>
<p>“I wrote you that I didn’t intend to stay more than a week anyhow,” she added.</p>
<p>“But, Rags⁠—”</p>
<p>“Why should I? There isn’t an amusing man in New York.”</p>
<p>“But listen, Rags, won’t you give me a chance? Won’t you stay for, say, ten days and get to know me a little?”</p>
<p>“Know you!” Her tone implied that he was already a far too open book. “I want a man who’s capable of a gallant gesture.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean you want me to express myself entirely in pantomime?”</p>
<p>Rags uttered a disgusted sigh.</p>
<p>“I mean you haven’t any imagination,” she explained patiently. “No Americans have any imagination. Paris is the only large city where a civilized woman can breathe.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you care for me at all any more?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t have crossed the Atlantic to see you if I didn’t. But as soon as I looked over the Americans on the boat, I knew I couldn’t marry one. I’d just hate you, John, and the only fun I’d have out of it would be the fun of breaking your heart.”</p>
<p>She began to twist herself down among the cushions until she almost disappeared from view.</p>
<p>“I’ve lost my monocle,” she explained.</p>
<p>After an unsuccessful search in the silken depths she discovered the illusive glass hanging down the back of her neck.</p>
<p>“I’d love to be in love,” she went on, replacing the monocle in her childish eye. “Last spring in Sorrento I almost eloped with an Indian rajah, but he was half a shade too dark, and I took an intense dislike to one of his other wives.”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk that rubbish!” cried John, sinking his face into his hands.</p>
<p>“Well, I didn’t marry him,” she protested. “But in one way he had a lot to offer. He was the third richest subject of the British Empire. That’s another thing⁠—are you rich?”</p>
<p>“Not as rich as you.”</p>
<p>“There you are. What have you to offer me?”</p>
<p>“Love.”</p>
<p>“Love!” She disappeared again among the cushions. “Listen, John. Life to me is a series of glistening bazaars with a merchant in front of each one rubbing his hands together and saying ‘Patronize this place here. Best bazaar in the world.’ So I go in with my purse full of beauty and money and youth, all prepared to buy. ‘What have you got for sale?’ I ask him, and he rubs his hands together and says: ‘Well, Mademoiselle, today we have some perfectly be‑<em>oo</em>‑tiful love.’ Sometimes he hasn’t even got that in stock, but he sends out for it when he finds I have so much money to spend. Oh, he always gives me love before I go⁠—and for nothing. That’s the one revenge I have.”</p>
<p>John Chestnut rose despairingly to his feet and took a step toward the window.</p>
<p>“Don’t throw yourself out,” Rags exclaimed quickly.</p>
<p>“All right.” He tossed his cigarette down into Madison Avenue.</p>
<p>“It isn’t just you,” she said in a softer voice. “Dull and uninspired as you are, I care for you more than I can say. But life’s so endless here. Nothing ever comes off.”</p>
<p>“Loads of things come off,” he insisted. “Why, today there was an intellectual murder in Hoboken and a suicide by proxy in Maine. A bill to sterilize agnostics is before Congress⁠—”</p>
<p>“I have no interest in humor,” she objected, “but I have an almost archaic predilection for romance. Why, John, last month I sat at a dinner-table while two men flipped a coin for the kingdom of Schwartzberg-Rhineminster. In Paris I knew a man named Blutchdak who really started the war, and has a new one planned for year after next.”</p>
<p>“Well, just for a rest you come out with me tonight,” he said doggedly.</p>
<p>“Where to?” demanded Rags with scorn. “Do you think I still thrill at a nightclub and a bottle of sugary mousseaux? I prefer my own gaudy dreams.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take you to the most highly-strung place in the city.”</p>
<p>“What’ll happen? You’ve got to tell me what’ll happen.”</p>
<p>John Chestnut suddenly drew a long breath and looked cautiously around as if he were afraid of being overheard.</p>
<p>“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said in a low, worried tone, “if everything was known, something pretty awful would be liable to happen to <em>me</em>.”</p>
<p>She sat upright and the pillows tumbled about her like leaves.</p>
<p>“Do you mean to imply that there’s anything shady in your life?” she cried, with laughter in her voice. “Do you expect me to believe that? No, John, you’ll have your fun by plugging ahead on the beaten path⁠—just plugging ahead.”</p>
<p>Her mouth, a small insolent rose, dropped the words on him like thorns. John took his hat and coat from the chair and picked up his cane.</p>
<p>“For the last time⁠—will you come along with me tonight and see what you will see?”</p>
<p>“See what? See who? Is there anything in this country worth seeing?”</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “for one thing you’ll see the Prince of Wales.”</p>
<p>“What?” She left the chaise-longue at a bound. “Is he back in New York?”</p>
<p>“He will be tonight. Would you care to see him?”</p>
<p>“Would I? I’ve never seen him. I’ve missed him everywhere. I’d give a year of my life to see him for an hour.” Her voice trembled with excitement.</p>
<p>“He’s been in Canada. He’s down here incognito for the big prizefight this afternoon. And I happen to know where he’s going to be tonight.”</p>
<p>Rags gave a sharp ecstatic cry:</p>
<p>“Dominic! Louise! Germaine!”</p>
<p>The three maids came running. The room filled suddenly with vibrations of wild, startled light.</p>
<p>“Dominic, the car!” cried Rags in French. “<abbr>St.</abbr> Raphael, my gold dress and the slippers with the real gold heels. The big pearls too⁠—all the pearls, and the egg-diamond and the stockings with the sapphire clocks. Germaine⁠—send for a beauty-parlor on the run. My bath again⁠—ice cold and half full of almond cream. Dominic⁠—Tiffany’s, like lightning, before they close. Find me a brooch, a pendant, a tiara, anything⁠—it doesn’t matter⁠—with the arms of the house of Windsor.”</p>
<p>She was fumbling at the buttons of her dress⁠—and as John turned quickly to go, it was already sliding from her shoulders.</p>
<p>“Orchids!” she called after him, “orchids, for the love of heaven! Four dozen, so I can choose four.”</p>
<p>And then maids flew here and there about the room like frightened birds. “Perfume, <abbr>St.</abbr> Raphael, open the perfume trunk, and my rose-colored sables, and my diamond garters, and the sweet-oil for my hands! Here, take these things! This too⁠—and this⁠—ouch!⁠—and this!”</p>
<p>With becoming modesty John Chestnut closed the outside door. The six trustees in various postures of fatigue, of ennui, of resignation, of despair, were still cluttering up the outer hall.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” announced John Chestnut, “I fear that Miss Martin-Jones is much too weary from her trip to talk to you this afternoon.”</p>
</section>
<section id="rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>“This place, for no particular reason, is called the Hole in the Sky.”</p>
<p>Rags looked around her. They were on a roof-garden wide open to the April night. Overhead the true stars winked cold, and there was a lunar sliver of ice in the dark west. But where they stood it was warm as June, and the couples dining or dancing on the opaque glass floor were unconcerned with the forbidding sky.</p>
<p>“What makes it so warm?” she whispered as they moved toward a table.</p>
<p>“It’s some new invention that keeps the warm air from rising. I don’t know the principle of the thing, but I know that they can keep it open like this even in the middle of winter⁠—”</p>
<p>“Where’s the Prince of Wales?” she demanded tensely.</p>
<p>John looked around.</p>
<p>“He hasn’t arrived yet. He won’t be here for about half an hour.”</p>
<p>She sighed profoundly.</p>
<p>“It’s the first time I’ve been excited in four years.”</p>
<p>Four years⁠—one year less than he had loved her. He wondered if when she was sixteen, a wild lovely child, sitting up all night in restaurants with officers who were to leave for Brest next day, losing the glamour of life too soon in the old, sad, poignant days of the war, she had ever been so lovely as under these amber lights and this dark sky. From her excited eyes to her tiny slipper heels, which were striped with layers of real silver and gold, she was like one of those amazing ships that are carved complete in a bottle. She was finished with that delicacy, with that care; as though the long lifetime of some worker in fragility had been used to make her so. John Chestnut wanted to take her up in his hands, turn her this way and that, examine the tip of a slipper or the tip of an ear or squint closely at the fairy stuff from which her lashes were made.</p>
<p>“Who’s that?” She pointed suddenly to a handsome Latin at a table over the way.</p>
<p>“That’s Roderigo Minerlino, the movie and face-cream star. Perhaps he’ll dance after a while.”</p>
<p>Rags became suddenly aware of the sound of violins and drums, but the music seemed to come from far away, seemed to float over the crisp night and on to the floor with the added remoteness of a dream.</p>
<p>“The orchestra’s on another roof,” explained John. “It’s a new idea⁠—Look, the entertainment’s beginning.”</p>
<p>A negro girl, thin as a reed, emerged suddenly from a masked entrance into a circle of harsh barbaric light, startled the music to a wild minor, and commenced to sing a rhythmic, tragic song. The pipe of her body broke abruptly and she began a slow incessant step, without progress and without hope, like the failure of a savage insufficient dream. She had lost Papa Jack, she cried over and over with a hysterical monotony at once despairing and unreconciled. One by one the loud horns tried to force her from the steady beat of madness but she listened only to the mutter of the drums which were isolating her in some lost place in time, among many thousand forgotten years. After the failure of the piccolo, she made herself again into a thin brown line, wailed once with sharp and terrible intensity, then vanished into sudden darkness.</p>
<p>“If you lived in New York you wouldn’t need to be told who she is,” said John when the amber light flashed on. “The next fella is Sheik <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Smith, a comedian of the fatuous, garrulous sort⁠—”</p>
<p>He broke off. Just as the lights went down for the second number Rags had given a long sigh, and leaned forward tensely in her chair. Her eyes were rigid like the eyes of a pointer dog, and John saw that they were fixed on a party that had come through a side entrance, and were arranging themselves around a table in the half-darkness.</p>
<p>The table was shielded with palms, and Rags at first made out only three dim forms. Then she distinguished a fourth who seemed to be placed well behind the other three⁠—a pale oval of a face topped with a glimmer of dark-yellow hair.</p>
<p>“Hello!” ejaculated John. “There’s his majesty now.”</p>
<p>Her breath seemed to die murmurously in her throat. She was dimly aware that the comedian was now standing in a glow of white light on the dancing floor, that he had been talking for some moments, and that there was a constant ripple of laughter in the air. But her eyes remained motionless, enchanted. She saw one of the party bend and whisper to another, and after the low glitter of a match the bright button of a cigarette end gleamed in the background. How long it was before she moved she did not know. Then something seemed to happen to her eyes, something white, something terribly urgent, and she wrenched about sharply to find herself full in the centre of a baby spotlight from above. She became aware that words were being said to her from somewhere, and that a quick trail of laughter was circling the roof, but the light blinded her, and instinctively she made a half-movement from her chair.</p>
<p>“Sit still!” John was whispering across the table. “He picks somebody out for this every night.”</p>
<p>Then she realized⁠—it was the comedian, Sheik <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">B.</abbr> Smith. He was talking to her, arguing with her⁠—about something that seemed incredibly funny to everyone else, but came to her ears only as a blur of muddled sound. Instinctively she had composed her face at the first shock of the light and now she smiled. It was a gesture of rare self-possession. Into this smile she insinuated a vast impersonality, as if she were unconscious of the light, unconscious of his attempt to play upon her loveliness⁠—but amused at an infinitely removed <em>him</em>, whose darts might have been thrown just as successfully at the moon. She was no longer a “lady”⁠—a lady would have been harsh or pitiful or absurd; Rags stripped her attitude to a sheer consciousness of her own impervious beauty, sat there glittering until the comedian began to feel alone as he had never felt alone before. At a signal from him the spotlight was switched suddenly out. The moment was over.</p>
<p>The moment was over, the comedian left the floor, and the faraway music began. John leaned toward her.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry. There really wasn’t anything to do. You were wonderful.”</p>
<p>She dismissed the incident with a casual laugh⁠—then she started, there were now only two men sitting at the table across the floor.</p>
<p>“He’s gone!” she exclaimed in quick distress.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry⁠—he’ll be back. He’s got to be awfully careful, you see, so he’s probably waiting outside with one of his aides until it gets dark again.”</p>
<p>“Why has he got to be careful?”</p>
<p>“Because he’s not supposed to be in New York. He’s even under one of his second-string names.”</p>
<p>The lights dimmed again, and almost immediately a tall man appeared out of the darkness and approached their table.</p>
<p>“May I introduce myself?” he said rapidly to John in a supercilious British voice. “Lord Charles Este, of Baron Marchbanks’ party.” He glanced at John closely as if to be sure that he appreciated the significance of the name.</p>
<p>John nodded.</p>
<p>“That is between ourselves, you understand.”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>Rags groped on the table for her untouched champagne, and tipped the glassful down her throat.</p>
<p>“Baron Marchbanks requests that your companion will join his party during this number.”</p>
<p>Both men looked at Rags. There was a moment’s pause.</p>
<p>“Very well,” she said, and glanced back again interrogatively at John. Again he nodded. She rose and with her heart beating wildly threaded the tables, making the half-circuit of the room; then melted, a slim figure in shimmering gold, into the table set in half-darkness.</p>
</section>
<section id="rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>The number drew to a close, and John Chestnut sat alone at his table, stirring auxiliary bubbles in his glass of champagne. Just before the lights went on, there was a soft rasp of gold cloth, and Rags, flushed and breathing quickly, sank into her chair. Her eyes were shining with tears.</p>
<p>John looked at her moodily.</p>
<p>“Well, what did he say?”</p>
<p>“He was very quiet.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t he say a word?”</p>
<p>Her hand trembled as she took up her glass of champagne.</p>
<p>“He just looked at me while it was dark. And he said a few conventional things. He was like his pictures, only he looks very bored and tired. He didn’t even ask my name.”</p>
<p>“Is he leaving New York tonight?”</p>
<p>“In half an hour. He and his aides have a car outside, and they expect to be over the border before dawn.”</p>
<p>“Did you find him⁠—fascinating?”</p>
<p>She hesitated and then slowly nodded her head.</p>
<p>“That’s what everybody says,” admitted John glumly. “Do they expect you back there?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.” She looked uncertainly across the floor but the celebrated personage had again withdrawn from his table to some retreat outside. As she turned back an utterly strange young man who had been standing for a moment in the main entrance came toward them hurriedly. He was a deathly pale person in a dishevelled and inappropriate business suit, and he had laid a trembling hand on John Chestnut’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Monte!” exclaimed John, starting up so suddenly that he upset his champagne. “What is it? What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“They’ve picked up the trail!” said the young man in a shaken whisper. He looked around. “I’ve got to speak to you alone.”</p>
<p>John Chestnut jumped to his feet, and Rags noticed that his face too had become white as the napkin in his hand. He excused himself and they retreated to an unoccupied table a few feet away. Rags watched them curiously for a moment, then she resumed her scrutiny of the table across the floor. Would she be asked to come back? The prince had simply risen and bowed and gone outside. Perhaps she should have waited until he returned, but though she was still tense with excitement she had, to some extent, become Rags Martin-Jones again. Her curiosity was satisfied⁠—any new urge must come from him. She wondered if she had really felt an intrinsic charm⁠—she wondered especially if he had in any marked way responded to her beauty.</p>
<p>The pale person called Monte disappeared and John returned to the table. Rags was startled to find that a tremendous change had come over him. He lurched into his chair like a drunken man.</p>
<p>“John! What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>Instead of answering, he reached for the champagne bottle, but his fingers were trembling so that the splattered wine made a wet yellow ring around his glass.</p>
<p>“Are you sick?”</p>
<p>“Rags,” he said unsteadily, “I’m all through.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“I’m all through, I tell you.” He managed a sickly smile. “There’s been a warrant out for me for over an hour.”</p>
<p>“What have you done?” she demanded in a frightened voice. “What’s the warrant for?”</p>
<p>The lights went out for the next number, and he collapsed suddenly over the table.</p>
<p>“What is it?” she insisted, with rising apprehension. She leaned forward⁠—his answer was barely audible.</p>
<p>“Murder?” She could feel her body grow cold as ice.</p>
<p>He nodded. She took hold of both arms and tried to shake him upright, as one shakes a coat into place. His eyes were rolling in his head.</p>
<p>“Is it true? Have they got proof?”</p>
<p>Again he nodded drunkenly.</p>
<p>“Then you’ve got to get out of the country now! Do you understand, John? You’ve got to get out <em>now</em>, before they come looking for you here!”</p>
<p>He loosed a wild glance of terror toward the entrance.</p>
<p>“Oh, God!” cried Rags, “why don’t you do something?” Her eyes strayed here and there in desperation, became suddenly fixed. She drew in her breath sharply, hesitated, and then whispered fiercely into his ear.</p>
<p>“If I arrange it, will you go to Canada tonight?”</p>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>“I’ll arrange it⁠—if you’ll pull yourself together a little. This is Rags talking to you, don’t you understand, John? I want you to sit here and not move until I come back!”</p>
<p>A minute later she had crossed the room under cover of the darkness.</p>
<p>“Baron Marchbanks,” she whispered softly, standing just behind his chair.</p>
<p>He motioned her to sit down.</p>
<p>“Have you room in your car for two more passengers tonight?”</p>
<p>One of the aides turned around abruptly.</p>
<p>“His lordship’s car is full,” he said shortly.</p>
<p>“It’s terribly urgent.” Her voice was trembling.</p>
<p>“Well,” said the prince hesitantly, “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>Lord Charles Este looked at the prince and shook his head.</p>
<p>“I don’t think it’s advisable. This is a ticklish business anyhow with contrary orders from home. You know we agreed there’d be no complications.”</p>
<p>The prince frowned.</p>
<p>“This isn’t a complication,” he objected.</p>
<p>Este turned frankly to Rags.</p>
<p>“Why is it urgent?”</p>
<p>Rags hesitated.</p>
<p>“Why”⁠—she flushed suddenly⁠—“it’s a runaway marriage.”</p>
<p>The prince laughed.</p>
<p>“Good!” he exclaimed. “That settles it. Este is just being official. Bring him over right away. We’re leaving shortly, what?”</p>
<p>Este looked at his watch.</p>
<p>“Right now!”</p>
<p>Rags rushed away. She wanted to move the whole party from the roof while the lights were still down.</p>
<p>“Hurry!” she cried in John’s ear. “We’re going over the border⁠—with the Prince of Wales. You’ll be safe by morning.”</p>
<p>He looked up at her with dazed eyes. She hurriedly paid the check, and seizing his arm piloted him as inconspicuously as possible to the other table, where she introduced him with a word. The prince acknowledged his presence by shaking hands⁠—the aides nodded, only faintly concealing their displeasure.</p>
<p>“We’d better start,” said Este, looking impatiently at his watch.</p>
<p>They were on their feet when suddenly an exclamation broke from all of them⁠—two policemen and a red-haired man in plain clothes had come in at the main door.</p>
<p>“Out we go,” breathed Este, impelling the party toward the side entrance. “There’s going to be some kind of riot here.” He swore⁠—two more bluecoats barred the exit there. They paused uncertainly. The plainclothes man was beginning a careful inspection of the people at the tables.</p>
<p>Este looked sharply at Rags and then at John, who shrank back behind the palms.</p>
<p>“Is that one of your revenue fellas out there?” demanded Este.</p>
<p>“No,” whispered Rags. “There’s going to be trouble. Can’t we get out this entrance?”</p>
<p>The prince with rising impatience sat down again in his chair.</p>
<p>“Let me know when you chaps are ready to go.” He smiled at Rags. “Now just suppose we all get in trouble just for that jolly face of yours.”</p>
<p>Then suddenly the lights went up. The plainclothes man whirled around quickly and sprang to the middle of the cabaret floor.</p>
<p>“Nobody try to leave this room!” he shouted. “Sit down, that party behind the palms! Is John <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">M.</abbr> Chestnut in this room?”</p>
<p>Rags gave a short involuntary cry.</p>
<p>“Here!” cried the detective to the policeman behind him. “Take a look at that funny bunch across over there. Hands up, you men!”</p>
<p>“My God!” whispered Este, “we’ve got to get out of here!” He turned to the prince. “This won’t do, Ted. You can’t be seen here. I’ll stall them off while you get down to the car.”</p>
<p>He took a step toward the side entrance.</p>
<p>“Hands up, there!” shouted the plainclothes man. “And when I say hands up I mean it! Which one of you’s Chestnut?”</p>
<p>“You’re mad!” cried Este. “We’re British subjects. We’re not involved in this affair in any way!”</p>
<p>A woman screamed somewhere, and there was a general movement toward the elevator, a movement which stopped short before the muzzles of two automatic pistols. A girl next to Rags collapsed in a dead faint to the floor, and at the same moment the music on the other roof began to play.</p>
<p>“Stop that music!” bellowed the plainclothes man. “And get some earrings on that whole bunch⁠—quick!”</p>
<p>Two policemen advanced toward the party, and simultaneously Este and the other aides drew their revolvers, and, shielding the prince as they best could, began to edge toward the side. A shot rang out and then another, followed by a crash of silver and china as half a dozen diners overturned their tables and dropped quickly behind.</p>
<p>The panic became general. There were three shots in quick succession, and then a fusillade. Rags saw Este firing coolly at the eight amber lights above, and a thick fume of gray smoke began to fill the air. As a strange undertone to the shouting and screaming came the incessant clamor of the distant jazz band.</p>
<p>Then in a moment it was all over. A shrill whistle rang out over the roof, and through the smoke Rags saw John Chestnut advancing toward the plainclothes man, his hands held out in a gesture of surrender. There was a last nervous cry, a chill clatter as someone inadvertently stepped into a pile of dishes, and then a heavy silence fell on the roof⁠—even the band seemed to have died away.</p>
<p>“It’s all over!” John Chestnut’s voice rang out wildly on the night air. “The party’s over. Everybody who wants to can go home!”</p>
<p>Still there was silence⁠—Rags knew it was the silence of awe⁠—the strain of guilt had driven John Chestnut insane.</p>
<p>“It was a great performance,” he was shouting. “I want to thank you one and all. If you can find any tables still standing, champagne will be served as long as you care to stay.”</p>
<p>It seemed to Rags that the roof and the high stars suddenly began to swim round and round. She saw John take the detective’s hand and shake it heartily, and she watched the detective grin and pocket his gun. The music had recommenced, and the girl who had fainted was suddenly dancing with Lord Charles Este in the corner. John was running here and there patting people on the back, and laughing and shaking hands. Then he was coming toward her, fresh and innocent as a child.</p>
<p>“Wasn’t it wonderful?” he cried.</p>
<p>Rags felt a faintness stealing over her. She groped backward with her hand toward a chair.</p>
<p>“What was it?” she cried dazedly. “Am I dreaming?”</p>
<p>“Of course not! You’re wide awake. I made it up, Rags, don’t you see? I made up the whole thing for you. I had it invented! The only thing real about it was my name!”</p>
<p>She collapsed suddenly against his coat, clung to his lapels, and would have wilted to the floor if he had not caught her quickly in his arms.</p>
<p>“Some champagne⁠—quick!” he called, and then he shouted at the Prince of Wales, who stood near by. “Order my car quick, you! Miss Martin-Jones has fainted from excitement.”</p>
</section>
<section id="rags-martin-jones-and-the-pr-nce-of-w-les-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>The skyscraper rose bulkily through thirty tiers of windows before it attenuated itself to a graceful sugar-loaf of shining white. Then it darted up again another hundred feet, thinned to a mere oblong tower in its last fragile aspiration toward the sky. At the highest of its high windows Rags Martin-Jones stood full in the stiff breeze, gazing down at the city.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Chestnut wants to know if you’ll come right in to his private office.”</p>
<p>Obediently her slim feet moved along the carpet into a high, cool chamber overlooking the harbor and the wide sea.</p>
<p>John Chestnut sat at his desk, waiting, and Rags walked to him and put her arms around his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Are you sure <em>you’re</em> real?” she asked anxiously. “Are you absolutely <em>sure</em>?”</p>
<p>“You only wrote me a week before you came,” he protested modestly, “or I could have arranged a revolution.”</p>
<p>“Was the whole thing just <em>mine</em>?” she demanded. “Was it a perfectly useless, gorgeous thing, just for me?”</p>
<p>“Useless?” He considered. “Well, it started out to be. At the last minute I invited a big restaurant man to be there, and while you were at the other table I sold him the whole idea of the nightclub.”</p>
<p>He looked at his watch.</p>
<p>“I’ve got one more thing to do⁠—and then we’ve got just time to be married before lunch.” He picked up his telephone. “Jackson?⁠ ⁠… Send a triplicated cable to Paris, Berlin, and Budapest and have those two bogus dukes who tossed up for Schwartzberg-Rhineminster chased over the Polish border. If the Dutchy won’t act, lower the rate of exchange to point triple zero naught two. Also, that idiot Blutchdak is in the Balkans again, trying to start a new war. Put him on the first boat for New York or else throw him in a Greek jail.”</p>
<p>He rang off, turned to the startled cosmopolite with a laugh.</p>
<p>“The next stop is the City Hall. Then, if you like, we’ll run over to Paris.”</p>
<p>“John,” she asked him intently, “who was the Prince of Wales?”</p>
<p>He waited till they were in the elevator, dropping twenty floors at a swoop. Then he leaned forward and tapped the lift-boy on the shoulder.</p>
<p>“Not so fast, Cedric. This lady isn’t used to falls from high places.”</p>
<p>The elevator-boy turned around, smiled. His face was pale, oval, framed in yellow hair. Rags blushed like fire.</p>
<p>“Cedric’s from Wessex,” explained John. “The resemblance is, to say the least, amazing. Princes are not particularly discreet, and I suspect Cedric of being a Guelph in some left-handed way.”</p>
<p>Rags took the monocle from around her neck and threw the ribbon over Cedric’s head.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she said simply, “for the second greatest thrill of my life.”</p>
<p>John Chestnut began rubbing his hands together in a commercial gesture.</p>
<p>“Patronize this place, lady,” he besought her. “Best bazaar in the city!”</p>
<p>“What have you got for sale?”</p>
<p>“Well, m’selle, today we have some perfectly bee‑<em>oo</em>‑tiful love.”</p>
<p>“Wrap it up, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Merchant,” cried Rags Martin-Jones. “It looks like a bargain to me.”</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="jacobs-ladder" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Jacob’s Ladder</h2>
<section id="jacobs-ladder-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>It was a particularly sordid and degraded murder trial, and Jacob Booth, writhing quietly on a spectators’ bench, felt that he had childishly gobbled something without being hungry, simply because it was there. The newspapers had humanized the case, made a cheap, neat problem play out of an affair of the jungle, so passes that actually admitted one to the court room were hard to get. Such a pass had been tendered him the evening before.</p>
<p>Jacob looked around at the doors, where a hundred people, inhaling and exhaling with difficulty, generated excitement by their eagerness, their breathless escape from their own private lives. The day was hot and there was sweat upon the crowd⁠—obvious sweat in large dewy beads that would shake off on Jacob if he fought his way through to the doors. Someone behind him guessed that the jury wouldn’t be out half an hour.</p>
<p>With the inevitability of a compass needle, his head swung toward the prisoner’s table and he stared once more at the murderess’ huge blank face garnished with red button eyes. She was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski, née Delehanty, and fate had ordained that she should one day seize a meat ax and divide her sailor lover. The puffy hands that had swung the weapon turned an ink bottle about endlessly; several times she glanced at the crowd with a nervous smile.</p>
<p>Jacob frowned and looked around quickly; he had found a pretty face and lost it again. The face had edged sideways into his consciousness when he was absorbed in a mental picture of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski in action; now it was faded back into the anonymity of the crowd. It was the face of a dark saint with tender, luminous eyes and a skin pale and fair. Twice he searched the room, then he forgot and sat stiffly and uncomfortably, waiting.</p>
<p>The jury brought in a verdict of murder in the first degree; <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski squeaked, “Oh, my God!” The sentence was postponed until next day. With a slow rhythmic roll, the crowd pushed out into the August afternoon.</p>
<p>Jacob saw the face again, realizing why he hadn’t seen it before. It belonged to a young girl beside the prisoner’s table and it had been hidden by the full moon of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski’s head. Now the clear, luminous eyes were bright with tears, and an impatient young man with a squashed nose was trying to attract the attention of the shoulder.</p>
<p>“Oh, get out!” said the girl, shaking the hand off impatiently. “Le’ me alone, will you? Le’ me alone. Geeze!”</p>
<p>The man sighed profoundly and stepped back. The girl embraced the dazed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski and another lingerer remarked to Jacob that they were sisters. Then <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski was taken off the scene⁠—her expression absurdly implied an important appointment⁠—and the girl sat down at the desk and began to powder her face. Jacob waited; so did the young man with the squashed nose. The sergeant came up brusquely and Jacob gave him five dollars.</p>
<p>“Geeze!” cried the girl to the young man. “Can’t you le’ me alone?” She stood up. Her presence, the obscure vibrations of her impatience, filled the court room. “Every day itsa same!”</p>
<p>Jacob moved nearer. The other man spoke to her rapidly:</p>
<p>“Miss Delehanty, we’ve been more than liberal with you and your sister and I’m only asking you to carry out your share of the contract. Our paper goes to press at⁠—”</p>
<p>Miss Delehanty turned despairingly to Jacob. “Can you beat it?” she demanded. “Now he wants a pitcher of my sister when she was a baby, and it’s got my mother in it too.”</p>
<p>“We’ll take your mother out.”</p>
<p>“I want my mother though. It’s the only one I got of her.”</p>
<p>“I’ll promise to give you the picture back tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sicka the whole thing.” Again she was speaking to Jacob, but without seeing him except as some element of the vague, omnipresent public. “It gives me a pain in the eye.” She made a clicking sound in her teeth that comprised the essence of all human scorn.</p>
<p>“I have a car outside, Miss Delehanty,” said Jacob suddenly. “Don’t you want me to run you home?”</p>
<p>“All right,” she answered indifferently.</p>
<p>The newspaper man assumed a previous acquaintance between them; he began to argue in a low voice as the three moved toward the door.</p>
<p>“Every day it’s like this,” said Miss Delehanty bitterly. “These newspaper guys!” Outside, Jacob signaled for his car and as it drove up, large, open and bright, and the chauffeur jumped out and opened the door, the reporter, on the verge of tears, saw the picture slipping away and launched into a peroration of pleading.</p>
<p>“Go jump in the river!” said Miss Delehanty, sitting in Jacob’s car. “Go⁠—jump⁠—in⁠—the⁠—river!”</p>
<p>The extraordinary force of her advice was such that Jacob regretted the limitations of her vocabulary. Not only did it evoke an image of the unhappy journalist hurling himself into the Hudson but it convinced Jacob that it was the only fitting and adequate way of disposing of the man. Leaving him to face his watery destiny, the car moved off down the street.</p>
<p>“You dealt with him pretty well,” Jacob said.</p>
<p>“Sure,” she admitted. “I get sore after a while and then I can deal with anybody no matter who. How old would you think I was?”</p>
<p>“How old are you?”</p>
<p>“Sixteen.”</p>
<p>She looked at him gravely, inviting him to wonder. Her face, the face of a saint, an intense little Madonna, was lifted fragilely out of the mortal dust of the afternoon. On the pure parting of her lips no breath hovered; he had never seen a texture pale and immaculate as her skin, lustrous and garish as her eyes. His own well-ordered person seemed for the first time in his life gross and well worn to him as he knelt suddenly at the heart of freshness.</p>
<p>“Where do you live?” he asked. The Bronx, perhaps Yonkers, Albany⁠—Baffin’s Bay. They could curve over the top of the world, drive on forever.</p>
<p>Then she spoke, and as the toad words vibrated with life in her voice, the moment passed: “Eas’ Hun’erd thuyty-thuyd. Stayin’ with a girl friend there.”</p>
<p>They were waiting for a traffic light to change and she exchanged a haughty glance with a flushed man peering from a flanking taxi. The man took off his hat hilariously. “Somebody’s stenog,” he cried. “And oh, what a stenog!”</p>
<p>An arm and hand appeared in the taxi window and pulled him back into the darkness of the cab.</p>
<p>Miss Delehanty turned to Jacob, a frown, the shadow of a hair in breadth, appearing between her eyes. “A lot of ’em know me,” she said. “We got a lot of publicity and pictures in the paper.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry it turned out badly.”</p>
<p>She remembered the event of the afternoon, apparently for the first time in half an hour. “She had it comin’ to her, mister. She never had a chance. But they’ll never send no woman to the chair in New York State.”</p>
<p>“No; that’s sure.”</p>
<p>“She’ll get life.” Surely it was not she who had spoken. The tranquillity of her face made her words separate themselves from her as soon as they were uttered and take on a corporate existence of their own.</p>
<p>“Did you use to live with her?”</p>
<p>“Me? Say, read the papers! I didn’t even know she was my sister till they come and told me. I hadn’t seen her since I was a baby.” She pointed suddenly at one of the world’s largest department stores. “There’s where I work. Back to the old pick and shovel day after tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“It’s going to be a hot night,” said Jacob. “Why don’t we ride out into the country and have dinner?”</p>
<p>She looked at him. His eyes were polite and kind. “All right,” she said.</p>
<p>Jacob was thirty-three. Once he had possessed a tenor voice with destiny in it, but laryngitis had despoiled him of it in one feverish week ten years before. In despair that concealed not a little relief, he bought a plantation in Florida and spent five years turning it into a golf course. When the land boom came in 1924 he sold his real estate for eight hundred thousand dollars.</p>
<p>Like so many Americans, he valued things rather than cared about them. His apathy was neither fear of life nor was it an affectation; it was the racial violence grown tired. It was a humorous apathy. With no need for money, he had tried⁠—tried hard⁠—for a year and a half to marry one of the richest women in America. If he had loved her, or pretended to, he could have had her; but he had never been able to work himself up to more than the formal lie.</p>
<p>In person, he was short, trim and handsome. Except when he was overcome by a desperate attack of apathy, he was unusually charming; he went with a crowd of men who were sure that they were the best of New York and had by far the best time. During a desperate attack of apathy he was like a gruff white bird, ruffled and annoyed, and disliking mankind with all his heart.</p>
<p>He liked mankind that night under the summer moonshine of the Borghese Gardens. The moon was a radiant egg, smooth and bright as Jenny Delehanty’s face across the table; a salt wind blew in over the big estates collecting flower scents from their gardens and bearing them to the roadhouse lawn. The waiters hopped here and there like pixies through the hot night, their black backs disappearing into the gloom, their white shirt fronts gleaming startlingly out of an unfamiliar patch of darkness.</p>
<p>They drank a bottle of champagne and he told Jenny Delehanty a story. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said, “but as it happens you are not my type and I have no designs on you at all. Nevertheless, you can’t go back to that store. Tomorrow I’m going to arrange a meeting between you and Billy Farrelly, who’s directing a picture on Long Island. Whether he’ll see how beautiful you are I don’t know, because I’ve never introduced anybody to him before.”</p>
<p>There was no shadow, no ripple of a change in her expression, but there was irony in her eyes. Things like that had been said to her before, but the movie director was never available next day. Or else she had been tactful enough not to remind men of what they had promised last night.</p>
<p>“Not only are you beautiful,” continued Jacob, “but you are somehow on the grand scale. Everything you do⁠—yes, like reaching for that glass, or pretending to be self-conscious, or pretending to despair of me⁠—gets across. If somebody’s smart enough to see it, you might be something of an actress.”</p>
<p>“I like Norma Shearer the best. Do you?”</p>
<p>Driving homeward through the soft night, she put up her face quietly to be kissed. Holding her in the hollow of his arm, Jacob rubbed his cheek against her cheek’s softness and then looked down at her for a long moment.</p>
<p>“Such a lovely child,” he said gravely.</p>
<p>She smiled back at him; her hands played conventionally with the lapels of his coat. “I had a wonderful time,” she whispered. “Geeze! I hope I never have to go to court again.”</p>
<p>“I hope you don’t.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”</p>
<p>“This is Great Neck,” he said, “that we’re passing through. A lot of moving-picture stars live here.”</p>
<p>“You’re a card, handsome.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>She shook her head from side to side and smiled. “You’re a card.”</p>
<p>She saw then that he was a type with which she was not acquainted. He was surprised, not flattered, that she thought him droll. She saw that whatever his eventual purpose he wanted nothing of her now. Jenny Delehanty learned quickly; she let herself become grave and sweet and quiet as the night, and as they rolled over Queensboro Bridge into the city she was half asleep against his shoulder.</p>
</section>
<section id="jacobs-ladder-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>He called up Billy Farrelly next day. “I want to see you,” he said. “I found a girl I wish you’d take a look at.”</p>
<p>“My gosh!” said Farrelly. “You’re the third today.”</p>
<p>“Not the third of this kind.”</p>
<p>“All right. If she’s white, she can have the lead in a picture I’m starting Friday.”</p>
<p>“Joking aside, will you give her a test?”</p>
<p>“I’m not joking. She can have the lead, I tell you. I’m sick of these lousy actresses. I’m going out to the Coast next month. I’d rather be Constance Talmadge’s water boy than own most of these young⁠—” His voice was bitter with Irish disgust. “Sure, bring her over, Jake. I’ll take a look at her.”</p>
<p>Four days later, when <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski, accompanied by two deputy sheriffs, had gone to Auburn to pass the remainder of her life, Jacob drove Jenny over the bridge to Astoria, Long Island.</p>
<p>“You’ve got to have a new name,” he said; “and remember you never had a sister.”</p>
<p>“I thought of that,” she answered. “I thought of a name too⁠—Tootsie Defoe.”</p>
<p>“That’s rotten,” he laughed; “just rotten.”</p>
<p>“Well, you think of one if you’re so smart.”</p>
<p>“How about Jenny⁠—Jenny⁠—oh, anything⁠—Jenny Prince?”</p>
<p>“All right, handsome.”</p>
<p>Jenny Prince walked up the steps of the motion-picture studio, and Billy Farrelly, in a bitter Irish humor, in contempt for himself and his profession, engaged her for one of the three leads in his picture.</p>
<p>“They’re all the same,” he said to Jacob. “Shucks! Pick ’em up out of the gutter today and they want gold plates tomorrow. I’d rather be Constance Talmadge’s water boy than own a harem full of them.”</p>
<p>“Do you like this girl?”</p>
<p>“She’s all right. She’s got a good side face. But they’re all the same.”</p>
<p>Jacob bought Jenny Prince an evening dress for a hundred and eighty dollars and took her to the Lido that night. He was pleased with himself, and excited. They both laughed a lot and were happy.</p>
<p>“Can you believe you’re in the movies?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“They’ll probably kick me out tomorrow. It was too easy.”</p>
<p>“No, it wasn’t. It was very good⁠—psychologically. Billy Farrelly was in just the one mood⁠—”</p>
<p>“I liked him.”</p>
<p>“He’s fine,” agreed Jacob. But he was reminded that already another man was helping to open doors for her success. “He’s a wild Irishman, look out for him.”</p>
<p>“I know. You can tell when a guy wants to make you.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I don’t mean he wanted to make me, handsome. But he’s got that look about him, if you know what I mean.” She distorted her lovely face with a wise smile. “He likes ’em; you could tell that this afternoon.”</p>
<p>They drank a bottle of charged and very alcoholic grape juice.</p>
<p>Presently the head waiter came over to their table.</p>
<p>“This is Miss Jenny Prince,” said Jacob. “You’ll see a lot of her, Lorenzo, because she’s just signed a big contract with the pictures. Always treat her with the greatest possible respect.”</p>
<p>When Lorenzo had withdrawn, Jenny said, “You got the nicest eyes I ever seen.” It was her effort, the best she could do. Her face was serious and sad. “Honest,” she repeated herself, “the nicest eyes I ever seen. Any girl would be glad to have eyes like yours.”</p>
<p>He laughed, but he was touched. His hand covered her arm lightly. “Be good,” he said. “Work hard and I’ll be so proud of you⁠—and we’ll have some good times together.”</p>
<p>“I always have a good time with you.” Her eyes were full on his, in his, held there like hands. Her voice was clear and dry. “Honest, I’m not kidding about your eyes. You always think I’m kidding. I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t done anything, you lunatic. I saw your face and I was⁠—I was beholden to it⁠—everybody ought to be beholden to it.”</p>
<p>Entertainers appeared and her eyes wandered hungrily away from him.</p>
<p>She was so young⁠—Jacob had never been so conscious of youth before. He had always considered himself on the young side until tonight.</p>
<p>Afterward, in the dark cave of the taxicab, fragrant with the perfume he had bought for her that day, Jenny came close to him, clung to him. He kissed her, without enjoying it. There was no shadow of passion in her eyes or on her mouth; there was a faint spray of champagne on her breath. She clung nearer, desperately. He took her hands and put them in her lap.</p>
<p>She leaned away from him resentfully.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter? Don’t you like me?”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t have let you have so much champagne.”</p>
<p>“Why not? I’ve had a drink before. I was tight once.”</p>
<p>“Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. And if I hear of your taking any more drinks, you’ll hear from me.”</p>
<p>“You sure have got your nerve, haven’t you?”</p>
<p>“What do you do? Let all the corner soda jerkers maul you around whenever they want?”</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up!”</p>
<p>For a moment they rode in silence. Then her hand crept across to his. “I like you better than any guy I ever met, and I can’t help that, can I?”</p>
<p>“Dear little Jenny.” He put his arm around her again.</p>
<p>Hesitating tentatively, he kissed her and again he was chilled by the innocence of her kiss, the eyes that at the moment of contact looked beyond him out into the darkness of the night, the darkness of the world. She did not know yet that splendor was something in the heart; at the moment when she should realize that and melt into the passion of the universe he could take her without question or regret.</p>
<p>“I like you enormously,” he said; “better than almost anyone I know. I mean that about drinking though. You mustn’t drink.”</p>
<p>“I’ll do anything you want,” she said; and she repeated, looking at him directly, “Anything.”</p>
<p>The car drew up in front of her flat and he kissed her good night.</p>
<p>He rode away in a mood of exultation, living more deeply in her youth and future than he had lived in himself for years. Thus, leaning forward a little on his cane, rich, young and happy, he was borne along dark streets and light toward a future of his own which he could not foretell.</p>
</section>
<section id="jacobs-ladder-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>A month later, climbing into a taxicab with Farrelly one night, he gave the latter’s address to the driver. “So you’re in love with this baby,” said Farrelly pleasantly. “Very well, I’ll get out of your way.”</p>
<p>Jacob experienced a vast displeasure. “I’m not in love with her,” he said slowly. “Billy, I want you to leave her alone.”</p>
<p>“Sure! I’ll leave her alone,” agreed Farrelly readily. “I didn’t know you were interested⁠—she told me she couldn’t make you.”</p>
<p>“The point is you’re not interested either,” said Jacob. “If I thought that you two really cared about each other, do you think I’d be fool enough to try to stand in the way? But you don’t give a darn about her, and she’s impressed and a little fascinated.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” agreed Farrelly, bored. “I wouldn’t touch her for anything.”</p>
<p>Jacob laughed. “Yes, you would. Just for something to do. That’s what I object to⁠—anything⁠—anything casual happening to her.”</p>
<p>“I see what you mean. I’ll let her alone.”</p>
<p>Jacob was forced to be content with that. He had no faith in Billy Farrelly, but he guessed that Farrelly liked him and wouldn’t offend him unless stronger feelings were involved. But the holding hands under the table tonight had annoyed him. Jenny lied about it when he reproached her; she offered to let him take her home immediately, offered not to speak to Farrelly again all evening. Then he had seemed silly and pointless to himself. It would have been easier, when Farrelly said “So you’re in love with this baby,” to have been able to answer simply, “I am.”</p>
<p>But he wasn’t. He valued her now more than he had ever thought possible. He watched in her the awakening of a sharply individual temperament. She liked quiet and simple things. She was developing the capacity to discriminate and shut the trivial and the unessential out of her life. He tried giving her books; then wisely he gave up that and brought her into contact with a variety of men. He made situations and then explained them to her, and he was pleased, as appreciation and politeness began to blossom before his eyes. He valued, too, her utter trust in him and the fact that she used him as a standard for judgments on other men.</p>
<p>Before the Farrelly picture was released, she was offered a two-year contract on the strength of her work in it⁠—four hundred a week for six months and an increase on a sliding scale. But she would have to go to the Coast.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t you rather have me wait?” she said, as they drove in from the country one afternoon. “Wouldn’t you rather have me stay here in New York⁠—near you?”</p>
<p>“You’ve got to go where your work takes you. You ought to be able to look out for yourself. You’re seventeen.”</p>
<p>Seventeen⁠—she was as old as he; she was ageless. Her dark eyes under a yellow straw hat were as full of destiny as though she had not just offered to toss destiny away.</p>
<p>“I wonder if you hadn’t come along, someone else would of,” she said⁠—“to make me do things, I mean.”</p>
<p>“You’d have done them yourself. Get it out of your head that you’re dependent on me.”</p>
<p>“I am. Everything is, thanks to you.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t, though,” he said emphatically, but he brought no reasons; he liked her to think that.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what I’ll do without you. You’re my only friend”⁠—and she added⁠—“that I care about. You see? You understand what I mean?”</p>
<p>He laughed at her, enjoying the birth of her egotism implied in her right to be understood. She was lovelier that afternoon than he had ever seen her, delicate, resonant and, for him, undesirable. But sometimes he wondered if that sexlessness wasn’t for him alone, wasn’t a side that, perhaps purposely, she turned toward him. She was happiest of all with younger men, though she pretended to despise them. Billy Farrelly, obligingly and somewhat to her mild chagrin, had left her alone.</p>
<p>“When will you come out to Hollywood?”</p>
<p>“Soon,” he promised. “And you’ll be coming back to New York.”</p>
<p>She began to cry. “Oh, I’ll miss you so much! I’ll miss you so much!” Large tears of distress ran down her warm ivory cheeks. “Oh, geeze!” she cried softly. “You been good to me! Where’s your hand? Where’s your hand? You been the best friend anybody ever had. Where am I ever going to find a friend like you?”</p>
<p>She was acting now, but a lump arose in his throat and for a moment a wild idea ran back and forth in his mind, like a blind man, knocking over its solid furniture⁠—to marry her. He had only to make the suggestion, he knew, and she would become close to him and know no one else, because he would understand her forever.</p>
<p>Next day, in the station, she was pleased with her flowers, her compartment, with the prospect of a longer trip than she had ever taken before. When she kissed him goodbye her deep eyes came close to his again and she pressed against him as if in protest against the separation. Again she cried, but he knew that behind her tears lay the happiness of adventure in new fields. As he walked out of the station, New York was curiously empty. Through her eyes he had seen old colors once more; now they had faded back into the gray tapestry of the past. The next day he went to an office high in a building on Park Avenue and talked to a famous specialist he had not visited for a decade.</p>
<p>“I want you to examine the larynx again,” he said. “There’s not much hope, but something might have changed the situation.”</p>
<p>He swallowed a complicated system of mirrors. He breathed in and out, made high and low sounds, coughed at a word of command. The specialist fussed and touched. Then he sat back and took out his eyeglass. “There’s no change,” he said. “The cords are not diseased⁠—they’re simply worn out. It isn’t anything that can be treated.”</p>
<p>“I thought so,” said Jacob, humbly, as if he had been guilty of an impertinence. “That’s practically what you told me before. I wasn’t sure how permanent it was.”</p>
<p>He had lost something when he came out of the building on Park Avenue⁠—a half hope, the love child of a wish, that some day⁠—</p>
<p>“New York desolate,” he wired her. “The night clubs all closed. Black wreaths on the Statue of Civic Virtue. Please work hard and be remarkably happy.”</p>
<p>“Dear Jacob,” she wired back, “miss you so. You are the nicest man that ever lived and I mean it, dear. Please don’t forget me. Love from Jenny.”</p>
<p>Winter came. The picture Jenny had made in the East was released, together with preliminary interviews and articles in the fan magazines. Jacob sat in his apartment, playing the Kreutzer Sonata over and over on his new phonograph, and read her meager and stilted but affectionate letters and the articles which said she was a discovery of Billy Farrelly’s. In February he became engaged to an old friend, now a widow.</p>
<p>They went to Florida and were suddenly snarling at each other in hotel corridors and over bridge games, so they decided not to go through with it after all. In the spring he took a stateroom on the Paris, but three days before sailing he disposed of it and went to California.</p>
</section>
<section id="jacobs-ladder-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Jenny met him at the station, kissed him and clung to his arm in the car all the way to the Ambassador Hotel. “Well, the man came,” she cried. “I never thought I’d get him to come. I never did.”</p>
<p>Her accent betrayed an effort at control. The emphatic “Geeze!” with all the wonder, horror, disgust or admiration she could put in it was gone, but there was no mild substitute, no “swell” or “grand.” If her mood required expletives outside her repertoire, she kept silent.</p>
<p>But at seventeen, months are years and Jacob perceived a change in her; in no sense was she a child any longer. There were fixed things in her mind⁠—not distractions, for she was instinctively too polite for that, but simply things there. No longer was the studio a lark and a wonder and a divine accident; no longer “for a nickel I wouldn’t turn up tomorrow.” It was part of her life. Circumstances were stiffening into a career which went on independently of her casual hours.</p>
<p>“If this picture is as good as the other⁠—I mean if I make a personal hit again, Hecksher’ll break the contract. Everybody that’s seen the rushes says it’s the first one I’ve had sex appeal in.”</p>
<p>“What are the rushes?”</p>
<p>“When they run off what they took the day before. They say it’s the first time I’ve had sex appeal.”</p>
<p>“I don’t notice it,” he teased her.</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t. But I have.”</p>
<p>“I know you have,” he said, and, moved by an ill-considered impulse, he took her hand.</p>
<p>She glanced quickly at him. He smiled⁠—half a second too late. Then she smiled and her glowing warmth veiled his mistake.</p>
<p>“Jake,” she cried, “I could bawl, I’m so glad you’re here! I got you a room at the Ambassador. They were full, but they kicked out somebody because I said I had to have a room. I’ll send my car back for you in half an hour. It’s good you came on Sunday, because I got all day free.”</p>
<p>They had luncheon in the furnished apartment she had leased for the winter. It was 1920 Moorish, taken over complete from a favorite of yesterday. Someone had told her it was horrible, for she joked about it; but when he pursued the matter he found that she didn’t know why.</p>
<p>“I wish they had more nice men out here,” she said once during luncheon. “Of course there’s a lot of nice ones, but I mean⁠—Oh, you know, like in New York⁠—men that know even more than a girl does, like you.”</p>
<p>After luncheon he learned that they were going to tea. “Not today,” he objected. “I want to see you alone.”</p>
<p>“All right,” she agreed doubtfully. “I suppose I could telephone. I thought⁠—It’s a lady that writes for a lot of newspapers and I’ve never been asked there before. Still, if you don’t want to⁠—”</p>
<p>Her face had fallen a little and Jacob assured her that he couldn’t be more willing. Gradually he found that they were going not to one party but to three.</p>
<p>“In my position, it’s sort of the thing to do,” she explained. “Otherwise you don’t see anybody except the people on your own lot, and that’s narrow.” He smiled. “Well, anyhow,” she finished⁠—“anyhow, you smart Aleck, that’s what everybody does on Sunday afternoon.”</p>
<p>At the first tea, Jacob noticed that there was an enormous preponderance of women over men, and of supernumeraries⁠—lady journalists, cameramen’s daughters, cutters’ wives⁠—over people of importance. A young Latin named Raffino appeared for a brief moment, spoke to Jenny and departed; several stars passed through, asking about children’s health with a domesticity that was somewhat overpowering. Another group of celebrities posed immobile, statue-like, in a corner. There was a somewhat inebriated and very much excited author apparently trying to make engagements with one girl after another. As the afternoon waned, more people were suddenly a little tight; the communal voice was higher in pitch and greater in volume as Jacob and Jenny went out the door.</p>
<p>At the second tea, young Raffino⁠—he was an actor, one of innumerable hopeful Valentinos⁠—appeared again for a minute, talked to Jenny a little longer, a little more attentively this time, and went out. Jacob gathered that this party was not considered to have quite the swagger of the other. There was a bigger crowd around the cocktail table. There was more sitting down.</p>
<p>Jenny, he saw, drank only lemonade. He was surprised and pleased at her distinction and good manners. She talked to one person, never to everyone within hearing; then she listened, without finding it necessary to shift her eyes about. Deliberate or not on her part, he noticed that at both teas she was sooner or later talking to the guest of most consequence. Her seriousness, her air of saying “This is my opportunity of learning something,” beckoned their egotism imperatively near.</p>
<p>When they left to drive to the last party, a buffet supper, it was dark and the electric legends of hopeful real-estate brokers were gleaming to some vague purpose on Beverly Hills. Outside Grauman’s Theater a crowd was already gathered in the thin, warm rain.</p>
<p>“Look! Look!” she cried. It was the picture she had finished a month before.</p>
<p>They slid out of the thin Rialto of Hollywood Boulevard and into the deep gloom of a side street; he put his arm about her and kissed her.</p>
<p>“Dear Jake.” She smiled up at him.</p>
<p>“Jenny, you’re so lovely; I didn’t know you were so lovely.”</p>
<p>She looked straight ahead, her face mild and quiet. A wave of annoyance passed over him and he pulled her toward him urgently, just as the car stopped at a lighted door.</p>
<p>They went into a bungalow crowded with people and smoke. The impetus of the formality which had begun the afternoon was long exhausted; everything had become at once vague and strident.</p>
<p>“This is Hollywood,” explained an alert talkative lady who had been in his vicinity all day. “No airs on Sunday afternoon.” She indicated the hostess. “Just a plain, simple, sweet girl.” She raised her voice: “Isn’t that so, darling⁠—just a plain, simple, sweet girl?”</p>
<p>The hostess said, “Yeah. Who is?” And Jacob’s informant lowered her voice again: “But that little girl of yours is the wisest one of the lot.”</p>
<p>The totality of the cocktails Jacob had swallowed was affecting him pleasantly, but try as he might, the plot of the party⁠—the key on which he could find ease and tranquillity⁠—eluded him. There was something tense in the air⁠—something competitive and insecure. Conversations with the men had a way of becoming empty and overjovial or else melting off into a sort of suspicion. The women were nicer. At eleven o’clock, in the pantry, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Jenny for an hour. Returning to the living room, he saw her come in, evidently from outside, for she tossed a raincoat from her shoulders. She was with Raffino. When she came up, Jacob saw that she was out of breath and her eyes were very bright. Raffino smiled at Jacob pleasantly and negligently; a few moments later, as he turned to go, he bent and whispered in Jenny’s ear and she looked at him without smiling as she said good night.</p>
<p>“I got to be on the lot at eight o’clock,” she told Jacob presently. “I’ll look like an old umbrella unless I go home. Do you mind, dear?”</p>
<p>“Heavens, no!”</p>
<p>Their car drove over one of the interminable distances of the thin, stretched city.</p>
<p>“Jenny,” he said, “you’ve never looked like you were tonight. Put your head on my shoulder.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to. I’m tired.”</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you how radiant you’ve got to be.”</p>
<p>“I’m just the same.”</p>
<p>“No, you’re not.” His voice suddenly became a whisper, trembling with emotion. “Jenny, I’m in love with you.”</p>
<p>“Jacob, don’t be silly.”</p>
<p>“I’m in love with you. Isn’t it strange, Jenny? It happened just like that.”</p>
<p>“You’re not in love with me.”</p>
<p>“You mean the fact doesn’t interest you.” He was conscious of a faint twinge of fear.</p>
<p>She sat up out of the circle of his arm. “Of course it interests me; you know I care more about you than anything in the world.”</p>
<p>“More than about <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Raffino?”</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—my⁠—gosh!” she protested scornfully. “Raffino’s nothing but a baby.”</p>
<p>“I love you, Jenny.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t.”</p>
<p>He tightened his arm. Was it his imagination or was there a small instinctive resistance in her body? But she came close to him and he kissed her.</p>
<p>“You know that’s crazy about Raffino.”</p>
<p>“I suppose I’m jealous.” Feeling insistent and unattractive, he released her. But the twinge of fear had become an ache. Though he knew that she was tired and that she felt strange at this new mood in him, he was unable to let the matter alone. “I didn’t realize how much a part of my life you were. I didn’t know what it was I missed⁠—but I know now. I wanted you near.”</p>
<p>“Well, here I am.”</p>
<p>He took her words as an invitation, but this time she relaxed wearily in his arms. He held her thus for the rest of the way, her eyes closed, her short hair falling straight back, like a girl drowned.</p>
<p>“The car’ll take you to the hotel,” she said when they reached the apartment. “Remember, you’re having lunch with me at the studio tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Suddenly they were in a discussion that was almost an argument, as to whether it was too late for him to come in. Neither could yet appreciate the change that his declaration had made in the other. Abruptly they had become like different people, as Jacob tried desperately to turn back the clock to that night in New York six months before, and Jenny watched this mood, which was more than jealousy and less than love, snow under, one by one, the qualities of consideration and understanding which she knew in him and with which she felt at home.</p>
<p>“But I don’t love you like that,” she cried. “How can you come to me all at once and ask me to love you like that?”</p>
<p>“You love Raffino like that!”</p>
<p>“I swear I don’t! I never even kissed him⁠—not really!”</p>
<p>“H’m!” He was a gruff white bird now. He could scarcely credit his own unpleasantness, but something illogical as love itself urged him on. “An actor!”</p>
<p>“Oh, Jake,” she cried, “please lemme go. I never felt so terrible and mixed up in my life.”</p>
<p>“I’ll go,” he said suddenly. “I don’t know what’s the matter, except that I’m so mad about you that I don’t know what I’m saying. I love you and you don’t love me. Once you did, or thought you did, but that’s evidently over.”</p>
<p>“But I do love you.” She thought for a moment; the red-and-green glow of a filling station on the corner lit up the struggle in her face. “If you love me that much, I’ll marry you tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Marry me!” he exclaimed. She was so absorbed in what she had just said that she did not notice.</p>
<p>“I’ll marry you tomorrow,” she repeated. “I like you better than anybody in the world and I guess I’ll get to love you the way you want me to.” She uttered a single half-broken sob. “But⁠—I didn’t know this was going to happen. Please let me alone tonight.”</p>
<p>Jacob didn’t sleep. There was music from the Ambassador grill till late and a fringe of working girls hung about the carriage entrance waiting for their favorites to come out. Then a long-protracted quarrel between a man and a woman began in the hall outside, moved into the next room and continued as a low two-toned mumble through the intervening door. He went to the window sometime toward three o’clock and stared out into the clear splendor of the California night. Her beauty rested outside on the grass, on the damp, gleaming roofs of the bungalows, all around him, borne up like music on the night. It was in the room, on the white pillow, it rustled ghostlike in the curtains. His desire recreated her until she lost all vestiges of the old Jenny, even of the girl who had met him at the train that morning. Silently, as the night hours went by, he molded her over into an image of love⁠—an image that would endure as long as love itself, or even longer⁠—not to perish till he could say, “I never really loved her.” Slowly he created it with this and that illusion from his youth, this and that sad old yearning, until she stood before him identical with her old self only by name.</p>
<p>Later, when he drifted off into a few hours’ sleep, the image he had made stood near him, lingering in the room, joined in mystic marriage to his heart.</p>
</section>
<section id="jacobs-ladder-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>“I won’t marry you unless you love me,” he said, driving back from the studio. She waited, her hands folded tranquilly in her lap. “Do you think I’d want you if you were unhappy and unresponsive, Jenny⁠—knowing all the time you didn’t love me?”</p>
<p>“I do love you. But not that way.”</p>
<p>“What’s ‘that way’?”</p>
<p>She hesitated, her eyes were far off. “You don’t⁠—thrill me, Jake. I don’t know⁠—there have been some men that sort of thrilled me when they touched me, dancing or anything. I know it’s crazy, but⁠—”</p>
<p>“Does Raffino thrill you?”</p>
<p>“Sort of, but not so much.”</p>
<p>“And I don’t at all?”</p>
<p>“I just feel comfortable and happy with you.”</p>
<p>He should have urged her that that was best, but he couldn’t say it, whether it was an old truth or an old lie.</p>
<p>“Anyhow, I told you I’ll marry you; perhaps you might thrill me later.”</p>
<p>He laughed, stopped suddenly. “If I didn’t thrill you, as you call it, why did you seem to care so much last summer?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I guess I was young. You never know how you once felt, do you?”</p>
<p>She had become elusive to him, with that elusiveness that gives a hidden significance to the least significant remarks. And with the clumsy tools of jealousy and desire, he was trying to create the spell that is ethereal and delicate as the dust on a moth’s wing.</p>
<p>“Listen, Jake,” she said suddenly. “That lawyer my sister had⁠—that Scharnhorst⁠—called up the studio this afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Your sister’s all right,” he said absently, and he added: “So a lot of men thrill you.”</p>
<p>“Well, if I’ve felt it with a lot of men, it couldn’t have anything to do with real love, could it?” she said hopefully.</p>
<p>“But your theory is that love couldn’t come without it.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t got any theories or anything. I just told you how I felt. You know more than me.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know anything at all.”</p>
<p>There was a man waiting in the lower hall of the apartment house. Jenny went up and spoke to him; then, turning back to Jake, said in a low voice: “It’s Scharnhorst. Would you mind waiting downstairs while he talks to me? He says it won’t take half an hour.”</p>
<p>He waited, smoking innumerable cigarettes. Ten minutes passed. Then the telephone operator beckoned him.</p>
<p>“Quick!” she said. “Miss Prince wants you on the telephone.”</p>
<p>Jenny’s voice was tense and frightened. “Don’t let Scharnhorst get out,” she said. “He’s on the stairs, maybe in the elevator. Make him come back here.”</p>
<p>Jacob put down the receiver just as the elevator clicked. He stood in front of the elevator door, barring the man inside. “<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Scharnhorst?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” The face was keen and suspicious.</p>
<p>“Will you come up to Miss Prince’s apartment again? There’s something she forgot to say.”</p>
<p>“I can see her later.” He attempted to push past Jacob. Seizing him by the shoulders, Jacob shoved him back into the cage, slammed the door and pressed the button for the eighth floor.</p>
<p>“I’ll have you arrested for this!” Scharnhorst remarked. “Put into jail for assault!”</p>
<p>Jacob held him firmly by the arms. Upstairs, Jenny, with panic in her eyes, was holding open her door. After a slight struggle, the lawyer went inside.</p>
<p>“What is it?” demanded Jacob.</p>
<p>“Tell him, you,” she said. “Oh, Jake, he wants twenty thousand dollars!”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“To get my sister a new trial.”</p>
<p>“But she hasn’t a chance!” exclaimed Jacob. He turned to Scharnhorst. “You ought to know she hasn’t a chance.”</p>
<p>“There are some technicalities,” said the lawyer uneasily⁠—“things that nobody but an attorney would understand. She’s very unhappy there, and her sister so rich and successful. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Choynski thought she ought to get another chance.”</p>
<p>“You’ve been up there working on her, heh?”</p>
<p>“She sent for me.”</p>
<p>“But the blackmail idea was your own. I suppose if Miss Prince doesn’t feel like supplying twenty thousand to retain your firm, it’ll come out that she’s the sister of the notorious murderess.”</p>
<p>Jenny nodded. “That’s what he said.”</p>
<p>“Just a minute!” Jacob walked to the phone. “Western Union, please. Western Union? Please take a telegram.” He gave the name and address of a man high in the political world of New York. “Here’s the message:</p>
<blockquote class="telegram" epub:type="z3998:letter">
<p>The convict Choynski threatening her sister, who is a picture actress, with exposure of relationship stop Can you arrange it with warden that she be cut off from visitors until I can get East and explain the situation stop Also wire me if two witnesses to an attempted blackmailing scene are enough to disbar a lawyer in New York if charges proceed from such a quarter as Read, Van Tyne, Biggs &amp; Company, or my uncle the surrogate stop Answer Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles.</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:signature">Jacob <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">C. K.</abbr> Booth”</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>He waited until the clerk had repeated the message. “Now, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Scharnhorst,” he said, “the pursuit of art should not be interrupted by such alarms and excursions. Miss Prince, as you see, is considerably upset. It will show in her work tomorrow and a million people will be just a little disappointed. So we won’t ask her for any decisions. In fact you and I will leave Los Angeles on the same train tonight.”</p>
</section>
<section id="jacobs-ladder-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>The summer passed. Jacob went about his useless life, sustained by the knowledge that Jenny was coming East in the fall. By fall there would have been many Raffinos, he supposed, and she would find that the thrill of their hands and eyes⁠—and lips⁠—was much the same. They were the equivalent, in a different world, of the affairs at a college house party, the undergraduates of a casual summer. And if it was still true that her feeling for him was less than romantic, then he would take her anyway, letting romance come after marriage as⁠—so he had always heard⁠—it had come to many wives before.</p>
<p>Her letters fascinated and baffled him. Through the ineptitude of expression he caught gleams of emotion⁠—an ever-present gratitude, a longing to talk to him, and a quick, almost frightened reaction toward him, from⁠—he could only imagine⁠—some other man. In August she went on location; there were only post cards from some lost desert in Arizona, then for a while nothing at all. He was glad of the break. He had thought over all the things that might have repelled her⁠—of his portentousness, his jealousy, his manifest misery. This time it would be different. He would keep control of the situation. She would at least admire him again, see in him the incomparably dignified and well adjusted life.</p>
<p>Two nights before her arrival Jacob went to see her latest picture in a huge nightbound vault on Broadway. It was a college story. She walked into it with her hair knotted on the crown of her head⁠—a familiar symbol for dowdiness⁠—inspired the hero to a feat of athletic success and faded out of it, always subsidiary to him, in the shadow of the cheering stands. But there was something new in her performance; for the first time the arresting quality he had noticed in her voice a year before had begun to get over on the screen. Every move she made, every gesture, was poignant and important. Others in the audience saw it too. He fancied he could tell this by some change in the quality of their breathing, by a reflection of her clear, precise expression in their casual and indifferent faces. Reviewers, too, were aware of it, though most of them were incapable of any precise definition of a personality.</p>
<p>But his first real consciousness of her public existence came from the attitude of her fellow passengers disembarking from the train. Busy as they were with friends or baggage, they found time to stare at her, to call their friends’ attention, to repeat her name.</p>
<p>She was radiant. A communicative joy flowed from her and around her, as though her perfumer had managed to imprison ecstasy in a bottle. Once again there was a mystical transfusion, and blood began to course again through the hard veins of New York⁠—there was the pleasure of Jacob’s chauffeur when she remembered him, the respectful frisking of the bell boys at the Plaza, the nervous collapse of the head waiter at the restaurant where they dined. As for Jacob, he had control of himself now. He was gentle, considerate and polite, as it was natural for him to be⁠—but as, in this case, he had found it necessary to plan. His manner promised and outlined an ability to take care of her, a will to be leaned on.</p>
<p>After dinner, their corner of the restaurant cleared gradually of the theater crowd and the sense of being alone settled over them. Their faces became grave, their voices very quiet.</p>
<p>“It’s been five months since I saw you.” He looked down at his hands thoughtfully. “Nothing has changed with me, Jenny. I love you with all my heart. I love your face and your faults and your mind and everything about you. The one thing I want in this world is to make you happy.”</p>
<p>“I know,” she whispered. “Gosh, I know!”</p>
<p>“Whether there’s still only affection in your feeling toward me, I don’t know. If you’ll marry me, I think you’ll find that the other things will come, will be there before you know it⁠—and what you called a thrill will seem a joke to you, because life isn’t for boys and girls, Jenny, but for men and women.”</p>
<p>“Jacob,” she whispered, “you don’t have to tell me. I know.”</p>
<p>He raised his eyes for the first time. “What do you mean⁠—you know?”</p>
<p>“I get what you mean. Oh, this is terrible! Jacob, listen! I want to tell you. Listen, dear, don’t say anything. Don’t look at me. Listen, Jacob, I fell in love with a man.”</p>
<p>“What?” he asked blankly.</p>
<p>“I fell in love with somebody. That’s what I mean about understanding about a silly thrill.”</p>
<p>“You mean you’re in love with me?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>The appalling monosyllable floated between them, danced and vibrated over the table: “No⁠—no⁠—no⁠—no⁠—no!”</p>
<p>“Oh, this is awful!” she cried. “I fell in love with a man I met on location this summer. I didn’t mean to⁠—I tried not to, but first thing I knew there I was in love and all the wishing in the world couldn’t help it. I wrote you and asked you to come, but I didn’t send the letter, and there I was, crazy about this man and not daring to speak to him, and bawling myself to sleep every night.”</p>
<p>“An actor?” he heard himself saying in a dead voice. “Raffino?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, no, no! Wait a minute, let me tell you. It went on for three weeks and I honestly wanted to kill myself, Jake. Life wasn’t worth while unless I could have him. And one night we got in a car by accident alone and he just caught me and made me tell him I loved him. He knew⁠—he couldn’t help knowing.”</p>
<p>“It just⁠—swept over you,” said Jacob steadily. “I see.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I knew you’d understand, Jake! You understand everything. You’re the best person in the world, Jake, and don’t I know it?”</p>
<p>“You’re going to marry him?”</p>
<p>Slowly she nodded her head. “I said I’d have to come East first and see you.” As her fear lessened, the extent of his grief became more apparent to her and her eyes filled with tears. “It only comes once, Jake, like that. That’s what kept in my mind all those weeks I didn’t hardly speak to him⁠—if you lose it once, it’ll never come like that again and then what do you want to live for? He was directing the picture⁠—he was the same about me.”</p>
<p>“I see.”</p>
<p>As once before, her eyes held his like hands. “Oh, Ja‑a‑ake!” In that sudden croon of compassion, all-comprehending and deep as a song, the first force of the shock passed off. Jacob’s teeth came together again and he struggled to conceal his misery. Mustering his features into an expression of irony, he called for the check. It seemed an hour later they were in a taxi going toward the Plaza Hotel.</p>
<p>She clung to him. “Oh, Jake, say it’s all right! Say you understand! Darling Jake, my best friend, my only friend, say you understand!”</p>
<p>“Of course I do, Jenny.” His hand patted her back automatically.</p>
<p>“<em>Oh‑h‑h</em>, Jake, you feel just awful, don’t you?”</p>
<p>“I’ll survive.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh‑h‑h</em>, Jake!”</p>
<p>They reached the hotel. Before they got out Jenny glanced at her face in her vanity mirror and turned up the collar of her fur cape. In the lobby, Jacob ran into several people and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” in a strained, unconvincing voice. The elevator waited. Jenny, her face distraught and tearful, stepped in and held out her hand toward him with the fist clenched helplessly.</p>
<p>“Jake,” she said once more.</p>
<p>“Good night, Jenny.”</p>
<p>She turned her face to the wire wall of the cage. The gate clanged.</p>
<p>“Hold on!” he almost said. “Do you realize what you’re doing, starting that car like that?”</p>
<p>He turned and went out the door blindly. “I’ve lost her,” he whispered to himself, awed and frightened. “I’ve lost her!”</p>
<p>He walked over Fifty-ninth Street to Columbus Circle and then down Broadway. There were no cigarettes in his pocket⁠—he had left them at the restaurant⁠—so he went into a tobacco store. There was some confusion about the change and someone in the store laughed.</p>
<p>When he came out he stood for a moment puzzled. Then the heavy tide of realization swept over him and beyond him, leaving him stunned and exhausted. It swept back upon him and over him again. As one rereads a tragic story with the defiant hope that it will end differently, so he went back to the morning, to the beginning, to the previous year. But the tide came thundering back with the certainty that she was cut off from him forever in a high room at the Plaza Hotel.</p>
<p>He walked down Broadway. In great block letters over the porte-cochère of the Capitol Theater five words glittered out into the night: “Carl Barbour and Jenny Prince.”</p>
<p>The name startled him, as if a passerby had spoken it. He stopped and stared. Other eyes rose to that sign, people hurried by him and turned in.</p>
<p>Jenny Prince.</p>
<p>Now that she no longer belonged to him, the name assumed a significance entirely its own.</p>
<p>It hung there, cool and impervious, in the night, a challenge, a defiance.</p>
<p>Jenny Prince.</p>
<p>“Come and rest upon my loveliness,” it said. “Fulfill your secret dreams in wedding me for an hour.”</p>
<p>Jenny Prince.</p>
<p>It was untrue⁠—she was back at the Plaza Hotel, in love with somebody. But the name, with its bright insistence, rode high upon the night.</p>
<p>“I love my dear public. They are all so sweet to me.”</p>
<p>The wave appeared far off, sent up whitecaps, rolled toward him with the might of pain, washed over him. “Never any more. Never any more.” The wave beat upon him, drove him down, pounding with hammers of agony on his ears. Proud and impervious, the name on high challenged the night.</p>
<p>Jenny Prince.</p>
<p>She was there! All of her, the best of her⁠—the effort, the power, the triumph, the beauty.</p>
<p>Jacob moved forward with a group and bought a ticket at the window.</p>
<p>Confused, he stared around the great lobby. Then he saw an entrance and walking in, found himself a place in the fast-throbbing darkness.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="a-short-trip-home" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">A Short Trip Home</h2>
<section id="a-short-trip-home-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>I was near her, for I had lingered behind in order to get the short walk with her from the living room to the front door. That was a lot, for she had flowered suddenly and I, being a man and only a year older, hadn’t flowered at all, had scarcely dared to come near her in the week we’d been home. Nor was I going to say anything in that walk of ten feet, or touch her; but I had a vague hope she’d do something, give a gay little performance of some sort, personal only in so far as we were alone together.</p>
<p>She had bewitchment suddenly in the twinkle of short hairs on her neck, in the sure, clear confidence that at about eighteen begins to deepen and sing in attractive American girls. The lamp light shopped in the yellow strands of her hair.</p>
<p>Already she was sliding into another world⁠—the world of Joe Jelke and Jim Cathcart waiting for us now in the car. In another year she would pass beyond me forever.</p>
<p>As I waited, feeling the others outside in the snowy night, feeling the excitement of Christmas week and the excitement of Ellen here, blooming away, filling the room with “sex appeal”⁠—a wretched phrase to express a quality that isn’t like that at all⁠—a maid came in from the dining room, spoke to Ellen quietly and handed her a note. Ellen read it and her eyes faded down, as when the current grows weak on rural circuits, and smouldered off into space. Then she gave me an odd look⁠—in which I probably didn’t show⁠—and without a word, followed the maid into the dining room and beyond. I sat turning over the pages of a magazine for a quarter of an hour.</p>
<p>Joe Jelke came in, red-faced from the cold, his white silk muffler gleaming at the neck of his fur coat. He was a senior at New Haven, I was a sophomore. He was prominent, a member of Scroll and Keys, and, in my eyes, very distinguished and handsome.</p>
<p>“Isn’t Ellen coming?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” I answered discreetly. “She was all ready.”</p>
<p>“Ellen!” he called. “Ellen!”</p>
<p>He had left the front door open behind him and a great cloud of frosty air rolled in from outside. He went halfway up the stairs⁠—he was a familiar in the house⁠—and called again, till <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Baker came to the banister and said that Ellen was below. Then the maid, a little excited, appeared in the dining-room door.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jelke,” she called in a low voice.</p>
<p>Joe’s face fell as he turned toward her, sensing bad news.</p>
<p>“Miss Ellen says for you to go on to the party. She’ll come later.”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“She can’t come now. She’ll come later.”</p>
<p>He hesitated, confused. It was the last big dance of vacation, and he was mad about Ellen. He had tried to give her a ring for Christmas, and failing that, got her to accept a gold mesh bag that must have cost two hundred dollars. He wasn’t the only one⁠—there were three or four in the same wild condition, and all in the ten days she’d been home⁠—but his chance came first, for he was rich and gracious and at that moment the “desirable” boy of <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul. To me it seemed impossible that she could prefer another, but the rumor was she’d described Joe as much too perfect. I suppose he lacked mystery for her, and when a man is up against that with a young girl who isn’t thinking of the practical side of marriage yet⁠—well⁠—.</p>
<p>“She’s in the kitchen,” Joe said angrily.</p>
<p>“No, she’s not.” The maid was defiant and a little scared.</p>
<p>“She is.”</p>
<p>“She went out the back way, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Jelke.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to see.”</p>
<p>I followed him. The Swedish servants washing dishes looked up sideways at our approach and an interested crashing of pans marked our passage through. The storm door, unbolted, was flapping in the wind and as we walked out into the snowy yard we saw the tail light of a car turn the corner at the end of the back alley.</p>
<p>“I’m going after her,” Joe said slowly. “I don’t understand this at all.”</p>
<p>I was too awed by the calamity to argue. We hurried to his car and drove in a fruitless, despairing zigzag all over the residence section, peering into every machine on the streets. It was half an hour before the futility of the affair began to dawn upon him⁠—<abbr>St.</abbr> Paul is a city of almost three hundred thousand people⁠—and Jim Cathcart reminded him that we had another girl to stop for. Like a wounded animal he sank into a melancholy mass of fur in the corner, from which position he jerked upright every few minutes and waved himself backward and forward a little in protest and despair.</p>
<p>Jim’s girl was ready and impatient, but after what had happened her impatience didn’t seem important. She looked lovely though. That’s one thing about Christmas vacation⁠—the excitement of growth and change and adventure in foreign parts transforming the people you’ve known all your life. Joe Jelke was polite to her in a daze⁠—he indulged in one burst of short, loud, harsh laughter by way of conversation⁠—and we drove to the hotel.</p>
<p>The chauffeur approached it on the wrong side⁠—the side on which the line of cars was not putting forth guests⁠—and because of that we came suddenly upon Ellen Baker just getting out of a small coupé. Even before we came to a stop, Joe Jelke had jumped excitedly from the car.</p>
<p>Ellen turned toward us, a faintly distracted look⁠—perhaps of surprise, but certainly not of alarm⁠—in her face; in fact, she didn’t seem very aware of us. Joe approached her with a stern, dignified, injured and, I thought, just exactly correct reproof in his expression. I followed.</p>
<p>Seated in the coupé⁠—he had not dismounted to help Ellen out⁠—was a hard thin-faced man of about thirty-five with an air of being scarred, and a slight sinister smile. His eyes were a sort of taunt to the whole human family⁠—they were the eyes of an animal, sleepy and quiescent in the presence of another species. They were helpless yet brutal, unhopeful yet confident. It was as if they felt themselves powerless to originate activity, but infinitely capable of profiting by a single gesture of weakness in another.</p>
<p>Vaguely I placed him as one of the sort of men whom I had been conscious of from my earliest youth as “hanging around”⁠—leaning with one elbow on the counters of tobacco stores, watching, through heaven knows what small chink of the mind, the people who hurried in and out. Intimate to garages, where he had vague business conducted in undertones, to barber shops and to the lobbies of theatres⁠—in such places, anyhow, I placed the type, if type it was, that he reminded me of. Sometimes his face bobbed up in one of Tad’s more savage cartoons, and I had always from earliest boyhood thrown a nervous glance toward the dim borderland where he stood, and seen him watching me and despising me. Once, in a dream, he had taken a few steps toward me, jerking his head back and muttering: “Say, kid” in what was intended to be a reassuring voice, and I had broken for the door in terror. This was that sort of man.</p>
<p>Joe and Ellen faced each other silently; she seemed, as I have said, to be in a daze. It was cold, but she didn’t notice that her coat had blown open; Joe reached out and pulled it together, and automatically she clutched it with her hand.</p>
<p>Suddenly the man in the coupé, who had been watching them silently, laughed. It was a bare laugh, done with the breath⁠—just a noisy jerk of the head⁠—but it was an insult if I had ever heard one; definite and not to be passed over. I wasn’t surprised when Joe, who was quick tempered, turned to him angrily and said:</p>
<p>“What’s your trouble?”</p>
<p>The man waited a moment, his eyes shifting and yet staring, and always seeing. Then he laughed again in the same way. Ellen stirred uneasily.</p>
<p>“Who is this⁠—this⁠—” Joe’s voice trembled with annoyance.</p>
<p>“Look out now,” said the man slowly.</p>
<p>Joe turned to me.</p>
<p>“Eddie, take Ellen and Catherine in, will you?” he said quickly.⁠ ⁠… “Ellen, go with Eddie.”</p>
<p>“Look out now,” the man repeated.</p>
<p>Ellen made a little sound with her tongue and teeth, but she didn’t resist when I took her arm and moved her toward the side door of the hotel. It struck me as odd that she should be so helpless, even to the point of acquiescing by her silence in this imminent trouble.</p>
<p>“Let it go, Joe!” I called back over my shoulder. “Come inside!”</p>
<p>Ellen, pulling against my arm, hurried us on. As we were caught up into the swinging doors I had the impression that the man was getting out of his coupé.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later, as I waited for the girls outside the women’s dressing-room, Joe Jelke and Jim Cathcart stepped out of the elevator. Joe was very white, his eyes were heavy and glazed, there was a trickle of dark blood on his forehead and on his white muffler. Jim had both their hats in his hand.</p>
<p>“He hit Joe with brass knuckles,” Jim said in a low voice. “Joe was out cold for a minute or so. I wish you’d send a bell boy for some witch-hazel and court-plaster.”</p>
<p>It was late and the hall was deserted; brassy fragments of the dance below reached us as if heavy curtains were being blown aside and dropping back into place. When Ellen came out I took her directly downstairs. We avoided the receiving line and went into a dim room set with scraggly hotel palms where couples sometimes sat out during the dance; there I told her what had happened.</p>
<p>“It was Joe’s own fault,” she said, surprisingly. “I told him not to interfere.”</p>
<p>This wasn’t true. She had said nothing, only uttered one curious little click of impatience.</p>
<p>“You ran out the back door and disappeared for almost an hour,” I protested. “Then you turned up with a hard-looking customer who laughed in Joe’s face.”</p>
<p>“A hard-looking customer,” she repeated, as if tasting the sound of the words.</p>
<p>“Well, wasn’t he? Where on earth did you get hold of him, Ellen?”</p>
<p>“On the train,” she answered. Immediately she seemed to regret this admission. “You’d better stay out of things that aren’t your business, Eddie. You see what happened to Joe.”</p>
<p>Literally I gasped. To watch her, seated beside me, immaculately glowing, her body giving off wave after wave of freshness and delicacy⁠—and to hear her talk like that.</p>
<p>“But that man’s a thug!” I cried. “No girl could be safe with him. He used brass knuckles on Joe⁠—brass knuckles!”</p>
<p>“Is that pretty bad?”</p>
<p>She asked this as she might have asked such a question a few years ago. She looked at me at last and really wanted an answer; for a moment it was as if she were trying to recapture an attitude that had almost departed; then she hardened again. I say “hardened,” for I began to notice that when she was concerned with this man her eyelids fell a little, shutting other things⁠—everything else⁠—out of view.</p>
<p>That was a moment I might have said something, I suppose, but in spite of everything, I couldn’t light into her. I was too much under the spell of her beauty and its success. I even began to find excuses for her⁠—perhaps that man wasn’t what he appeared to be; or perhaps⁠—more romantically⁠—she was involved with him against her will to shield someone else. At this point people began to drift into the room and come up to speak to us. We couldn’t talk any more, so we went in and bowed to the chaperones. Then I gave her up to the bright restless sea of the dance, where she moved in an eddy of her own among the pleasant islands of colored favors set out on tables and the south winds from the brasses moaning across the hall. After a while I saw Joe Jelke sitting in a corner with a strip of court-plaster on his forehead watching Ellen as if she herself had struck him down, but I didn’t go up to him. I felt queer myself⁠—like I feel when I wake up after sleeping through an afternoon, strange and portentous, as if something had gone on in the interval that changed the values of everything and that I didn’t see.</p>
<p>The night slipped on through successive phases of cardboard horns, amateur tableaux and flashlights for the morning papers. Then was the grand march and supper, and about two o’clock some of the committee dressed up as revenue agents pinched the party, and a facetious newspaper was distributed, burlesquing the events of the evening. And all the time out of the corner of my eye I watched the shining orchid on Ellen’s shoulder as it moved like Stuart’s plume about the room. I watched it with a definite foreboding until the last sleepy groups had crowded into the elevators, and then, bundled to the eyes in great shapeless fur coats, drifted out into the clear dry Minnesota night.</p>
</section>
<section id="a-short-trip-home-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>There is a sloping midsection of our city which lies between the residence quarter on the hill and the business district on the level of the river. It is a vague part of town, broken by its climb into triangles and odd shapes⁠—there are names like Seven Corners⁠—and I don’t believe a dozen people could draw an accurate map of it, though everyone traversed it by trolley, auto or shoe leather twice a day. And though it was a busy section, it would be hard for me to name the business that comprised its activity. There were always long lines of trolley cars waiting to start somewhere; there was a big movie theatre and many small ones with posters of Hoot Gibson and Wonder Dogs and Wonder Horses outside; there were small stores with “Old King Brady” and “The Liberty Boys of ’76” in the windows, and marbles, cigarettes and candy inside; and⁠—one definite place at least⁠—a fancy costumer whom we all visited at least once a year. Some time during boyhood I became aware that one side of a certain obscure street there were bawdy houses, and all through the district were pawnshops, cheap jewellers, small athletic clubs and gymnasiums and somewhat too blatantly rundown saloons.</p>
<p>The morning after the Cotillion Club party, I woke up late and lazy, with the happy feeling that for a day or two more there was no chapel, no classes⁠—nothing to do but wait for another party tonight. It was crisp and bright⁠—one of those days when you forget how cold it is until your cheek freezes⁠—and the events of the evening before seemed dim and far away. After luncheon I started downtown on foot through a light, pleasant snow of small flakes that would probably fall all afternoon, and I was about half through that halfway section of town⁠—so far as I know, there’s no inclusive name for it⁠—when suddenly whatever idle thought was in my head blew away like a hat and I began thinking hard of Ellen Baker. I began worrying about her as I’d never worried about anything outside myself before. I began to loiter, with an instinct to go up on the hill again and find her and talk to her; then I remembered that she was at a tea, and I went on again, but still thinking of her, and harder than ever. Right then the affair opened up again.</p>
<p>It was snowing, I said, and it was four o’clock on a December afternoon, when there is a promise of darkness in the air and the street lamps are just going on. I passed a combination pool parlor and restaurant, with a stove loaded with hotdogs in the window, and a few loungers hanging around the door. The lights were on inside⁠—not bright lights but just a few pale yellow high up on the ceiling⁠—and the glow they threw out into the frosty dusk wasn’t bright enough to tempt you to stare inside. As I went past, thinking hard of Ellen all this time, I took in the quartet of loafers out of the corner of my eye. I hadn’t gone half a dozen steps down the street when one of them called to me, not by name but in a way clearly intended for my ear. I thought it was a tribute to my raccoon coat and paid no attention, but a moment later whoever it was called to me again in a peremptory voice. I was annoyed and turned around. There, standing in the group not ten feet away and looking at me with the half-sneer on his face with which he’d looked at Joe Jelke, was the scarred, thin-faced man of the night before.</p>
<p>He had on a black fancy-cut coat, buttoned up to his neck as if he were cold. His hands were deep in his pockets and he wore a derby and high button shoes. I was startled, and for a moment I hesitated, but I was most of all angry, and knowing that I was quicker with my hands than Joe Jelke, I took a tentative step back toward him. The other men weren’t looking at me⁠—I don’t think they saw me at all⁠—but I knew that this one recognized me; there was nothing casual about his look, no mistake.</p>
<p>“Here I am. What are you going to do about it?” his eyes seemed to say.</p>
<p>I took another step toward him and he laughed soundlessly, but with active contempt, and drew back into the group. I followed. I was going to speak to him⁠—I wasn’t sure what I was going to say⁠—but when I came up he had either changed his mind and backed off, or else he wanted me to follow him inside, for he had slipped off and the three men watched my intent approach without curiosity. They were the same kind⁠—sporty, but, unlike him, smooth rather than truculent; I didn’t find any personal malice in their collective glance.</p>
<p>“Did he go inside?” I asked.</p>
<p>They looked at one another in that cagy way; a wink passed between them, and after a perceptible pause, one said:</p>
<p>“Who go inside?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know his name.”</p>
<p>There was another wink. Annoyed and determined, I walked past them and into the pool room. There were a few people at a lunch counter along one side and a few more playing billiards, but he was not among them.</p>
<p>Again I hesitated. If his idea was to lead me into any blind part of the establishment⁠—there were some half-open doors farther back⁠—I wanted more support. I went up to the man at the desk.</p>
<p>“What became of the fellow who just walked in here?”</p>
<p>Was he on his guard immediately, or was that my imagination?</p>
<p>“What fellow?”</p>
<p>“Thin face⁠—derby hat.”</p>
<p>“How long ago?”</p>
<p>“Oh⁠—a minute.”</p>
<p>He shook his head again. “Didn’t see him,” he said.</p>
<p>I waited. The three men from outside had come in and were lined up beside me at the counter. I felt that all of them were looking at me in a peculiar way. Feeling helpless and increasingly uneasy, I turned suddenly and went out. A little way down the street I turned again and took a good look at the place, so I’d know it and could find it again. On the next corner I broke impulsively into a run, found a taxicab in front of the hotel and drove back up the hill.</p>
<p>Ellen wasn’t home. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Baker came downstairs and talked to me. She seemed entirely cheerful and proud of Ellen’s beauty, and ignorant of anything being amiss or of anything unusual having taken place the night before. She was glad that vacation was almost over⁠—it was a strain and Ellen wasn’t very strong. Then she said something that relieved my mind enormously. She was glad that I had come in, for of course Ellen would want to see me, and the time was so short. She was going back at half-past eight tonight.</p>
<p>“Tonight!” I exclaimed. “I thought it was the day after tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“She’s going to visit the Brokaws in Chicago,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Baker said. “They want her for some party. We just decided it today. She’s leaving with the Ingersoll girls tonight.”</p>
<p>I was so glad I could barely restrain myself from shaking her hand. Ellen was safe. It had been nothing all along but a moment of the most casual adventure. I felt like an idiot, but I realized how much I cared about Ellen and how little I could endure anything terrible happening to her.</p>
<p>“She’ll be in soon?”</p>
<p>“Any minute now. She just phoned from the University Club.”</p>
<p>I said I’d be over later⁠—I lived almost next door and I wanted to be alone. Outside I remembered I didn’t have a key, so I started up the Bakers’ driveway to take the old cut we used in childhood through the intervening yard. It was still snowing, but the flakes were bigger now against the darkness, and trying to locate the buried walk I noticed that the Bakers’ back door was ajar.</p>
<p>I scarcely know why I turned and walked into that kitchen. There was a time when I would have known the Bakers’ servants by name. That wasn’t true now, but they knew me, and I was aware of a sudden suspension as I came in⁠—not only a suspension of talk but of some mood or expectation that had filled them. They began to go to work too quickly; they made unnecessary movements and clamor⁠—those three. The parlor maid looked at me in a frightened way and I suddenly guessed she was waiting to deliver another message. I beckoned her into the pantry.</p>
<p>“I know all about this,” I said. “It’s a very serious business. Shall I go to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Baker now, or will you shut and lock that back door?”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Baker, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Stinson!”</p>
<p>“Then I don’t want Miss Ellen disturbed. If she is⁠—and if she is I’ll know of it⁠—” I delivered some outrageous threat about going to all the employment agencies and seeing she never got another job in the city. She was thoroughly intimidated when I went out; it wasn’t a minute before the back door was locked and bolted behind me.</p>
<p>Simultaneously I heard a big car drive up in front, chains crunching on the soft snow; it was bringing Ellen home, and I went in to say goodbye.</p>
<p>Joe Jelke and two other boys were along, and none of the three could manage to take their eyes off her, even to say hello to me. She had one of those exquisite rose skins frequent in our part of the country, and beautiful until the little veins begin to break at about forty; now, flushed with the cold, it was a riot of lovely delicate pinks like many carnations. She and Joe had reached some sort of reconciliation, or at least he was too far gone in love to remember last night; but I saw that though she laughed a lot she wasn’t really paying any attention to him or any of them. She wanted them to go, so that there’d be a message from the kitchen, but I knew that the message wasn’t coming⁠—that she was safe. There was talk of the Pump and Slipper dance at New Haven and of the Princeton Prom, and then, in various moods, we four left and separated quickly outside. I walked home with a certain depression of spirit and lay for an hour in a hot bath thinking that vacation was all over for me now that she was gone; feeling, even more deeply than I had yesterday, that she was out of my life.</p>
<p>And something eluded me, some one more thing to do, something that I had lost amid the events of the afternoon, promising myself to go back and pick it up, only to find that it had escaped me. I associated it vaguely with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Baker, and now I seemed to recall that it had poked up its head somewhere in the stream of conversation with her. In my relief about Ellen I had forgotten to ask her a question regarding something she had said.</p>
<p>The Brokaws⁠—that was it⁠—where Ellen was to visit. I knew Bill Brokaw well; he was in my class at Yale. Then I remembered and sat bolt upright in the tub⁠—the Brokaws weren’t in Chicago this Christmas; they were at Palm Beach!</p>
<p>Dripping I sprang out of the tub, threw an insufficient union suit around my shoulders and sprang for the phone in my room. I got the connection quick, but Miss Ellen had already started for the train.</p>
<p>Luckily our car was in, and while I squirmed, still damp, into my clothes, the chauffeur brought it around to the door. The night was cold and dry, and we made good time to the station through the hard, crusty snow. I felt queer and insecure starting out this way, but somehow more confident as the station loomed up bright and new against the dark, cold air. For fifty years my family had owned the land on which it was built and that made my temerity seem all right somehow. There was always a possibility that I was rushing in where angels feared to tread, but that sense of having a solid foothold in the past made me willing to make a fool of myself. This business was all wrong⁠—terribly wrong. Any idea I had entertained that it was harmless dropped away now; between Ellen and some vague overwhelming catastrophe there stood me, or else the police and a scandal. I’m no moralist⁠—there was another element here, dark and frightening, and I didn’t want Ellen to go through it alone.</p>
<p>There are three competing trains from <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul to Chicago that all leave within a few minutes of half-past eight. Hers was the Burlington, and as I ran across the station I saw the grating being pulled over and the light above it go out. I knew, though, that she had a drawing-room with the Ingersoll girls, because her mother had mentioned buying the ticket, so she was, literally speaking, tucked in until tomorrow.</p>
<p>The <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">C.</abbr>, <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">M.</abbr> &amp; <abbr>St.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">P.</abbr> gate was down at the other end and I raced for it and made it. I had forgotten one thing, though, and that was enough to keep me awake and worried half the night. This train got into Chicago ten minutes after the other. Ellen had that much time to disappear into one of the largest cities in the world.</p>
<p>I gave the porter a wire to my family to send from Milwaukee, and at eight o’clock next morning I pushed violently by a whole line of passengers, clamoring over their bags parked in the vestibule, and shot out of the door with a sort of scramble over the porter’s back. For a moment the confusion of a great station, the voluminous sounds and echoes and crosscurrents of bells and smoke struck me helpless. Then I dashed for the exit and toward the only chance I knew of finding her.</p>
<p>I had guessed right. She was standing at the telegraph counter, sending off heaven knows what black lie to her mother, and her expression when she saw me had a sort of terror mixed up with its surprise. There was cunning in it too. She was thinking quickly⁠—she would have liked to walk away from me as if I weren’t there, and go about her own business, but she couldn’t. I was too matter-of-fact a thing in her life. So we stood silently watching each other and each thinking hard.</p>
<p>“The Brokaws are in Florida,” I said after a minute.</p>
<p>“It was nice of you to take such a long trip to tell me that.”</p>
<p>“Since you’ve found it out, don’t you think you’d better go on to school?”</p>
<p>“Please let me alone, Eddie,” she said.</p>
<p>“I’ll go as far as New York with you. I’ve decided to go back early myself.”</p>
<p>“You’d better let me alone.” Her lovely eyes narrowed and her face took on a look of dumb-animal-like resistance. She made a visible effort, the cunning flickered back into it, then both were gone, and in their stead was a cheerful reassuring smile that all but convinced me.</p>
<p>“Eddie, you silly child, don’t you think I’m old enough to take care of myself?” I didn’t answer. “I’m going to meet a man, you understand. I just want to see him today. I’ve got my ticket East on the five o’clock train. If you don’t believe it, here it is in my bag.”</p>
<p>“I believe you.”</p>
<p>“The man isn’t anybody that you know and⁠—frankly, I think you’re being awfully fresh and impossible.”</p>
<p>“I know who the man is.”</p>
<p>Again she lost control of her face. That terrible expression came back into it and she spoke with almost a snarl:</p>
<p>“You’d better let me alone.”</p>
<p>I took the blank out of her hand and wrote out an explanatory telegram to her mother. Then I turned to Ellen and said a little roughly:</p>
<p>“We’ll take the five o’clock train East together. Meanwhile you’re going to spend the day with me.”</p>
<p>The mere sound of my own voice saying this so emphatically encouraged me, and I think it impressed her too; at any rate, she submitted⁠—at least temporarily⁠—and came along without protest while I bought my ticket.</p>
<p>When I start to piece together the fragments of that day a sort of confusion begins, as if my memory didn’t want to yield up any of it, or my consciousness let any of it pass through. There was a bright, fierce morning during which we rode about in a taxicab and went to a department store where Ellen said she wanted to buy something and then tried to slip away from me by a back way. I had the feeling, for an hour, that someone was following us along Lake Shore Drive in a taxicab, and I would try to catch them by turning quickly or looking suddenly into the chauffeur’s mirror; but I could find no one, and when I turned back I could see that Ellen’s face was contorted with mirthless, unnatural laughter.</p>
<p>All morning there was a raw, bleak wind off the lake, but when we went to the Blackstone for lunch a light snow came down past the windows and we talked almost naturally about our friends, and about casual things. Suddenly her tone changed; she grew serious and looked me in the eye, straight and sincere.</p>
<p>“Eddie, you’re the oldest friend I have,” she said, “and you oughtn’t to find it too hard to trust me. If I promise you faithfully on my word of honor to catch that five o’clock train, will you let me alone a few hours this afternoon?”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Well”⁠—she hesitated and hung her head a little⁠—“I guess everybody has a right to say⁠—goodbye.”</p>
<p>“You want to say goodbye to that⁠—”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” she said hastily; “just a few hours, Eddie, and I promise faithfully that I’ll be on that train.”</p>
<p>“Well, I suppose no great harm could be done in two hours. If you really want to say goodbye⁠—”</p>
<p>I looked up suddenly, and surprised a look of such tense cunning in her face that I winced before it. Her lip was curled up and her eyes were slits again; there wasn’t the faintest touch of fairness and sincerity in her whole face.</p>
<p>We argued. The argument was vague on her part and somewhat hard and reticent on mine. I wasn’t going to be cajoled again into any weakness or be infected with any⁠—and there was a contagion of evil in the air. She kept trying to imply, without any convincing evidence to bring forward, that everything was all right. Yet she was too full of the thing itself⁠—whatever it was⁠—to build up a real story, and she wanted to catch at any credulous and acquiescent train of thought that might start in my head, and work that for all it was worth. After every reassuring suggestion she threw out, she stared at me eagerly, as if she hoped I’d launch into a comfortable moral lecture with the customary sweet at the end⁠—which in this case would be her liberty. But I was wearing her away a little. Two or three times it needed just a touch of pressure to bring her to the point of tears⁠—which, of course, was what I wanted⁠—but I couldn’t seem to manage it. Almost I had her⁠—almost possessed her interior attention⁠—then she would slip away.</p>
<p>I bullied her remorselessly into a taxi about four o’clock and started for the station. The wind was raw again, with a sting of snow in it, and the people in the streets, waiting for busses and street cars too small to take them all in, looked cold and disturbed and unhappy. I tried to think how lucky we were to be comfortably off and taken care of, but all the warm, respectable world I had been part of yesterday had dropped away from me. There was something we carried with us now that was the enemy and the opposite of all that; it was in the cabs beside us, the streets we passed through. With a touch of panic, I wondered if I wasn’t slipping almost imperceptibly into Ellen’s attitude of mind. The column of passengers waiting to go aboard the train were as remote from me as people from another world, but it was I that was drifting away and leaving them behind.</p>
<p>My lower was in the same car with her compartment. It was an old-fashioned car, its lights somewhat dim, its carpets and upholstery full of the dust of another generation. There were half a dozen other travellers, but they made no special impression on me, except that they shared the unreality that I was beginning to feel everywhere around me. We went into Ellen’s compartment, shut the door and sat down.</p>
<p>Suddenly I put my arms around her and drew her over to me, just as tenderly as I knew how⁠—as if she were a little girl⁠—as she was. She resisted a little, but after a moment she submitted and lay tense and rigid in my arms.</p>
<p>“Ellen,” I said helplessly, “you asked me to trust you. You have much more reason to trust me. Wouldn’t it help to get rid of all this, if you told me a little?”</p>
<p>“I can’t,” she said, very low⁠—“I mean, there’s nothing to tell.”</p>
<p>“You met this man on the train coming home and you fell in love with him, isn’t that true?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Tell me, Ellen. You fell in love with him?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Please let me alone.”</p>
<p>“Call it anything you want,” I went on, “he has some sort of hold over you. He’s trying to use you; he’s trying to get something from you. He’s not in love with you.”</p>
<p>“What does that matter?” she said in a weak voice.</p>
<p>“It does matter. Instead of trying to fight this⁠—this thing⁠—you’re trying to fight me. And I love you, Ellen. Do you hear? I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me. I love you.”</p>
<p>She looked at me with a sneer on her gentle face; it was an expression I had seen on men who were tight and didn’t want to be taken home. But it was human. I was reaching her, faintly and from far away, but more than before.</p>
<p>“Ellen, I want you to answer me one question. Is he going to be on this train?”</p>
<p>She hesitated; then, an instant too late, she shook her head.</p>
<p>“Be careful, Ellen. Now I’m going to ask you one thing more, and I wish you’d try very hard to answer. Coming West, when did this man get on the train?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she said with an effort.</p>
<p>Just at that moment I became aware, with the unquestionable knowledge reserved for facts, that he was just outside the door. She knew it, too; the blood left her face and that expression of low-animal perspicacity came creeping back. I lowered my face into my hands and tried to think.</p>
<p>We must have sat there, with scarcely a word, for well over an hour. I was conscious that the lights of Chicago, then of Englewood and of endless suburbs, were moving by, and then there were no more lights and we were out on the dark flatness of Illinois. The train seemed to draw in upon itself; it took on an air of being alone. The porter knocked at the door and asked if he could make up the berth, but I said no and he went away.</p>
<p>After a while I convinced myself that the struggle inevitably coming wasn’t beyond what remained of my sanity, my faith in the essential all-rightness of things and people. That this person’s purpose was what we call “criminal,” I took for granted, but there was no need of ascribing to him an intelligence that belonged to a higher plane of human, or inhuman, endeavor. It was still as a man that I considered him, and tried to get at his essence, his self-interest⁠—what took the place in him of a comprehensible heart⁠—but I suppose I more than half knew what I would find when I opened the door.</p>
<p>When I stood up Ellen didn’t seem to see me at all. She was hunched into the corner staring straight ahead with a sort of film over her eyes, as if she were in a state of suspended animation of body and mind. I lifted her and put two pillows under her head and threw my fur coat over her knees. Then I knelt beside her and kissed her two hands, opened the door and went out into the hall.</p>
<p>I closed the door behind me and stood with my back against it for a minute. The car was dark save for the corridor lights at each end. There was no sound except the groaning of the couplers, the even click-a-click of the rails and someone’s loud sleeping breath farther down the car. I became aware after a moment that the figure of a man was standing by the water cooler just outside the men’s smoking room, his derby hat on his head, his coat collar turned up around his neck as if he were cold, his hands in his coat pockets. When I saw him, he turned and went into the smoking room, and I followed. He was sitting in the far corner of the long leather bench; I took the single armchair beside the door.</p>
<p>As I went in I nodded to him and he acknowledged my presence with one of those terrible soundless laughs of his. But this time it was prolonged, it seemed to go on forever, and mostly to cut it short, I asked: “Where are you from?” in a voice I tried to make casual.</p>
<p>He stopped laughing and looked at me narrowly, wondering what my game was. When he decided to answer, his voice was muffled as though he were speaking through a silk scarf, and it seemed to come from a long way off.</p>
<p>“I’m from <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul, Jack.”</p>
<p>“Been making a trip home?”</p>
<p>He nodded. Then he took a long breath and spoke in a hard, menacing voice:</p>
<p>“You better get off at Fort Wayne, Jack.”</p>
<p>He was dead. He was dead as hell⁠—he had been dead all along, but what force had flowed through him, like blood in his veins, out to <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul and back, was leaving him now. A new outline⁠—the outline of him dead⁠—was coming through the palpable figure that had knocked down Joe Jelke.</p>
<p>He spoke again, with a sort of jerking effort:</p>
<p>“You get off at Fort Wayne, Jack, or I’m going to wipe you out.” He moved his hand in his coat pocket and showed me the outline of a revolver.</p>
<p>I shook my head. “You can’t touch me,” I answered. “You see, I know.” His terrible eyes shifted over me quickly, trying to determine whether or not I did know. Then he gave a snarl and made as though he were going to jump to his feet.</p>
<p>“You climb off here or else I’m going to get you, Jack!” he cried hoarsely. The train was slowing up for Fort Wayne and his voice rang loud in the comparative quiet, but he didn’t move from his chair⁠—he was too weak, I think⁠—and we sat staring at each other while workmen passed up and down outside the window banging the brakes and wheels, and the engine gave out loud mournful pants up ahead. No one got into our car. After a while the porter closed the vestibule door and passed back along the corridor, and we slid out of the murky yellow station light and into the long darkness.</p>
<p>What I remember next must have extended over a space of five or six hours, though it comes back to me as something without any existence in time⁠—something that might have taken five minutes or a year. There began a slow, calculated assault on me, wordless and terrible. I felt what I can only call a strangeness stealing over me⁠—akin to the strangeness I had felt all afternoon, but deeper and more intensified. It was like nothing so much as the sensation of drifting away, and I gripped the arms of the chair convulsively, as if to hang onto a piece in the living world. Sometimes I felt myself going out with a rush. There would be almost a warm relief about it, a sense of not caring; then, with a violent wrench of the will, I’d pull myself back into the room.</p>
<p>Suddenly I realized that from a while back I had stopped hating him, stopped feeling violently alien to him, and with the realization, I went cold and sweat broke out all over my head. He was getting around my abhorrence, as he had got around Ellen coming West on the train; and it was just that strength he drew from preying on people that had brought him up to the point of concrete violence in <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul, and that, fading and flickering out, still kept him fighting now.</p>
<p>He must have seen that faltering in my heart, for he spoke at once, in a low, even, almost gentle voice: “You better go now.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m not going,” I forced myself to say.</p>
<p>“Suit yourself, Jack.”</p>
<p>He was my friend, he implied. He knew how it was with me and he wanted to help. He pitied me. I’d better go away before it was too late. The rhythm of his attack was soothing as a song: I’d better go away⁠—<em>and let him get at Ellen.</em> With a little cry I sat bolt upright.</p>
<p>“What do you want of this girl?” I said, my voice shaking. “To make a sort of walking hell of her.”</p>
<p>His glance held a quality of dumb surprise, as if I were punishing an animal for a fault of which he was not conscious. For an instant I faltered; then I went on blindly:</p>
<p>“You’ve lost her; she’s put her trust in me.”</p>
<p>His countenance went suddenly black with evil, and he cried: “You’re a liar!” in a voice that was like cold hands.</p>
<p>“She trusts me,” I said. “You can’t touch her. She’s safe!”</p>
<p>He controlled himself. His face grew bland, and I felt that curious weakness and indifference begin again inside me. What was the use of all this? What was the use?</p>
<p>“You haven’t got much time left,” I forced myself to say, and then, in a flash of intuition, I jumped at the truth. “You died, or you were killed, not far from here!”⁠—Then I saw what I had not seen before⁠—that his forehead was drilled with a small round hole like a larger picture nail leaves when it’s pulled from a plaster wall. “And now you’re sinking. You’ve only got a few hours. The trip home is over!”</p>
<p>His face contorted, lost all semblance of humanity, living or dead. Simultaneously the room was full of cold air and with a noise that was something between a paroxysm of coughing and a burst of horrible laughter, he was on his feet, reeking of shame and blasphemy.</p>
<p>“Come and look!” he cried. “I’ll show you⁠—”</p>
<p>He took a step toward me, then another and it was exactly as if a door stood open behind him, a door yawning out to an inconceivable abyss of darkness and corruption. There was a scream of mortal agony, from him or from somewhere behind, and abruptly the strength went out of him in a long husky sigh and he wilted to the floor.⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>How long I sat there, dazed with terror and exhaustion, I don’t know. The next thing I remember is the sleepy porter shining shoes across the room from me, and outside the window the steel fires of Pittsburgh breaking the flat perspective also⁠—something too faint for a man, too heavy for a shadow, of the night. There was something extended on the bench. Even as I perceived it it faded off and away.</p>
<p>Some minutes later I opened the door of Ellen’s compartment. She was asleep where I had left her. Her lovely cheeks were white and wan, but she lay naturally⁠—her hands relaxed and her breathing regular and clear. What had possessed her had gone out of her, leaving her exhausted but her own dear self again.</p>
<p>I made her a little more comfortable, tucked a blanket around her, extinguished the light and went out.</p>
</section>
<section id="a-short-trip-home-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>When I came home for Easter vacation, almost my first act was to go down to the billiard parlor near Seven Corners. The man at the cash register quite naturally didn’t remember my hurried visit of three months before.</p>
<p>“I’m trying to locate a certain party who, I think, came here a lot some time ago.”</p>
<p>I described the man rather accurately, and when I had finished, the cashier called to a little jockeylike fellow who was sitting near with an air of having something very important to do that he couldn’t quite remember.</p>
<p>“Hey, Shorty, talk to this guy, will you? I think he’s looking for Joe Varland.”</p>
<p>The little man gave me a tribal look of suspicion. I went and sat near him.</p>
<p>“Joe Varland’s dead, fella,” he said grudgingly. “He died last winter.”</p>
<p>I described him again⁠—his overcoat, his laugh, the habitual expression of his eyes.</p>
<p>“That’s Joe Varland you’re looking for all right, but he’s dead.”</p>
<p>“I want to find out something about him.”</p>
<p>“What you want to find out?”</p>
<p>“What did he do, for instance?”</p>
<p>“How should I know?”</p>
<p>“Look here! I’m not a policeman. I just want some kind of information about his habits. He’s dead now and it can’t hurt him. And it won’t go beyond me.”</p>
<p>“Well”⁠—he hesitated, looking me over⁠—“he was a great one for travelling. He got in a row in the station in Pittsburgh and a dick got him.”</p>
<p>I nodded. Broken pieces of the puzzle began to assemble in my head.</p>
<p>“Why was he a lot on trains?”</p>
<p>“How should I know, fella?”</p>
<p>“If you can use ten dollars, I’d like to know anything you may have heard on the subject.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Shorty reluctantly, “all I know is they used to say he worked the trains.”</p>
<p>“Worked the trains?”</p>
<p>“He had some racket of his own he’d never loosen up about. He used to work the girls travelling alone on the trains. Nobody ever knew much about it⁠—he was a pretty smooth guy⁠—but sometimes he’d turn up here with a lot of dough and he let ’em know it was the janes he got it off of.”</p>
<p>I thanked him and gave him the ten dollars and went out, very thoughtful, without mentioning that part of Joe Varland had made a last trip home.</p>
<p>Ellen wasn’t West for Easter, and even if she had been I wouldn’t have gone to her with the information, either⁠—at least I’ve seen her almost every day this summer and we’ve managed to talk about everything else. Sometimes, though, she gets silent about nothing and wants to be very close to me, and I know what’s in her mind.</p>
<p>Of course she’s coming out this fall, and I have two more years at New Haven; still, things don’t look so impossible as they did a few months ago. She belongs to me in a way⁠—even if I lose her she belongs to me. Who knows? Anyhow, I’ll always be there.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-bowl" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Bowl</h2>
<section id="the-bowl-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>There was a man in my class at Princeton who never went to football games. He spent his Saturday afternoons delving for minutiae about Greek athletics and the somewhat fixed battles between Christians and wild beasts under the Antonines. Lately⁠—several years out of college⁠—he has discovered football players and is making etchings of them in the manner of the late George Bellows. But he was once unresponsive to the very spectacle at his door, and I suspect the originality of his judgments on what is beautiful, what is remarkable and what is fun.</p>
<p>I reveled in football, as audience, amateur statistician and foiled participant⁠—for I had played in prep school, and once there was a headline in the school newspaper: “Deering and Mullins Star Against Taft in Stiff Game Saturday.” When I came in to lunch after the battle the school stood up and clapped and the visiting coach shook hands with me and prophesied⁠—incorrectly⁠—that I was going to be heard from. The episode is laid away in the most pleasant lavender of my past. That year I grew very tall and thin, and when at Princeton the following fall I looked anxiously over the freshman candidates and saw the polite disregard with which they looked back at me, I realized that that particular dream was over. Keene said he might make me into a very fair pole vaulter⁠—and he did⁠—but it was a poor substitute; and my terrible disappointment that I wasn’t going to be a great football player was probably the foundation of my friendship with Dolly Harlan. I want to begin this story about Dolly with a little rehashing of the Yale game up at New Haven, sophomore year.</p>
<p>Dolly was started at halfback; this was his first big game. I roomed with him and I had scented something peculiar about his state of mind, so I didn’t let him out of the corner of my eye during the whole first half. With field glasses I could see the expression on his face; it was strained and incredulous, as it had been the day of his father’s death, and it remained so, long after any nervousness had had time to wear off. I thought he was sick and wondered why Keene didn’t see and take him out; it wasn’t until later that I learned what was the matter.</p>
<p>It was the Yale Bowl. The size of it or the enclosed shape of it or the height of the sides had begun to get on Dolly’s nerves when the team practiced there the day before. In that practice he dropped one or two punts, for almost the first time in his life, and he began thinking it was because of the Bowl.</p>
<p>There is a new disease called agoraphobia⁠—afraid of crowds⁠—and another called siderodromophobia⁠—afraid of railroad traveling⁠—and my friend Doctor Glock, the psychoanalyst, would probably account easily for Dolly’s state of mind. But here’s what Dolly told me afterward:</p>
<p>“Yale would punt and I’d look up. The minute I looked up, the sides of that damn pan would seem to go shooting up too. Then when the ball started to come down, the sides began leaning forward and bending over me until I could see all the people on the top seats screaming at me and shaking their fists. At the last minute I couldn’t see the ball at all, but only the Bowl; every time it was just luck that I was under it and every time I juggled it in my hands.”</p>
<p>To go back to the game. I was in the cheering section with a good seat on the forty-yard line⁠—good, that is, except when a very vague graduate, who had lost his friends and his hat, stood up in front of me at intervals and faltered, “Stob Ted Coy!” under the impression that we were watching a game played a dozen years before. When he realized finally that he was funny he began performing for the gallery and aroused a chorus of whistles and boos until he was dragged unwillingly under the stand.</p>
<p>It was a good game⁠—what is known in college publications as a historic game. A picture of the team that played it now hangs in every barber shop in Princeton, with Captain Gottlieb in the middle wearing a white sweater, to show that they won a championship. Yale had had a poor season, but they had the breaks in the first quarter, which ended 3 to 0 in their favor.</p>
<p>Between quarters I watched Dolly. He walked around panting and sucking a water bottle and still wearing that strained stunned expression. Afterward he told me he was saying over and over to himself: “I’ll speak to Roper. I’ll tell him between halves. I’ll tell him I can’t go through this any more.” Several times already he had felt an almost irresistible impulse to shrug his shoulders and trot off the field, for it was not only this unexpected complex about the Bowl; the truth was that Dolly fiercely and bitterly hated the game.</p>
<p>He hated the long, dull period of training, the element of personal conflict, the demand on his time, the monotony of the routine and the nervous apprehension of disaster just before the end. Sometimes he imagined that all the others detested it as much as he did, and fought down their aversion as he did and carried it around inside them like a cancer that they were afraid to recognize. Sometimes he imagined that a man here and there was about to tear off the mask and say, “Dolly, do you hate this lousy business as much as I do?”</p>
<p>His feeling had begun back at <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis’ School and he had come up to Princeton with the idea that he was through with football forever. But upper classmen from <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis kept stopping him on the campus and asking him how much he weighed, and he was nominated for vice president of our class on the strength of his athletic reputation⁠—and it was autumn, with achievement in the air. He wandered down to freshman practice one afternoon, feeling oddly lost and dissatisfied, and smelled the turf and smelled the thrilling season. In half an hour he was lacing on a pair of borrowed shoes and two weeks later he was captain of the freshman team.</p>
<p>Once committed, he saw that he had made a mistake; he even considered leaving college. For, with his decision to play, Dolly assumed a moral responsibility, personal to him, besides. To lose or to let down, or to be let down, was simply intolerable to him. It offended his Scotch sense of waste. Why sweat blood for an hour with only defeat at the end?</p>
<p>Perhaps the worst of it was that he wasn’t really a star player. No team in the country could have spared using him, but he could do no spectacular thing superlatively well, neither run, pass nor kick. He was five-feet-eleven and weighed a little more than a hundred and sixty; he was a first-rate defensive man, sure in interference, a fair line plunger and a fair punter. He never fumbled and he was never inadequate; his presence, his constant cold sure aggression, had a strong effect on other men. Morally, he captained any team he played on and that was why Roper had spent so much time trying to get length in his kicks all season⁠—he wanted him in the game.</p>
<p>In the second quarter Yale began to crack. It was a mediocre team composed of flashy material, but uncoordinated because of injuries and impending changes in the Yale coaching system. The quarterback, Josh Logan, had been a wonder at Exeter⁠—I could testify to that⁠—where games can be won by the sheer confidence and spirit of a single man. But college teams are too highly organized to respond so simply and boyishly, and they recover less easily from fumbles and errors of judgment behind the line.</p>
<p>So, with nothing to spare, with much grunting and straining, Princeton moved steadily down the field. On the Yale twenty-yard line things suddenly happened. A Princeton pass was intercepted; the Yale man, excited by his own opportunity, dropped the ball and it bobbed leisurely in the general direction of the Yale goal. Jack Devlin and Dolly Harlan of Princeton and somebody⁠—I forget who⁠—from Yale were all about the same distance from it. What Dolly did in that split second was all instinct; it presented no problem to him. He was a natural athlete and in a crisis his nervous system thought for him. He might have raced the two others for the ball; instead, he took out the Yale man with savage precision while Devlin scooped up the ball and ran ten yards for a touchdown.</p>
<p>This was when the sports writers still saw games through the eyes of Ralph Henry Barbour. The press box was right behind me, and as Princeton lined up to kick goal I heard the radio man ask:</p>
<p>“Who’s Number 22?”</p>
<p>“Harlan.”</p>
<p>“Harlan is going to kick goal. Devlin, who made the touchdown, comes from Lawrenceville School. He is twenty years old. The ball went true between the bars.”</p>
<p>Between the halves, as Dolly sat shaking with fatigue in the locker room, Little, the backfield coach, came and sat beside him.</p>
<p>“When the ends are right on you, don’t be afraid to make a fair catch,” Little said. “That big Havemeyer is liable to jar the ball right out of your hands.”</p>
<p>Now was the time to say it: “I wish you’d tell Bill⁠—” But the words twisted themselves into a trivial question about the wind. His feeling would have to be explained, gone into, and there wasn’t time. His own self seemed less important in this room, redolent with the tired breath, the ultimate effort, the exhaustion of ten other men. He was shamed by a harsh sudden quarrel that broke out between an end and tackle; he resented the former players in the room⁠—especially the graduate captain of two years before, who was a little tight and over-vehement about the referee’s favoritism. It seemed terrible to add one more jot to all this strain and annoyance. But he might have come out with it all the same if Little hadn’t kept saying in a low voice: “What a takeout, Dolly! What a beautiful takeout!” and if Little’s hand hadn’t rested there, patting his shoulder.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-bowl-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>In the third quarter Joe Dougherty kicked an easy field goal from the twenty-yard line and we felt safe, until toward twilight a series of desperate forward passes brought Yale close to a score. But Josh Logan had exhausted his personality in sheer bravado and he was outguessed by the defense at the last. As the substitutes came running in, Princeton began a last march down the field. Then abruptly it was over and the crowd poured from the stands, and Gottlieb, grabbing the ball, leaped up in the air. For a while everything was confused and crazy and happy; I saw some freshmen try to carry Dolly, but they were shy and he got away.</p>
<p>We all felt a great personal elation. We hadn’t beaten Yale for three years and now everything was going to be all right. It meant a good winter at college, something pleasant and slick to think back upon in the damp cold days after Christmas, when a bleak futility settles over a university town. Down on the field, an improvised and uproarious team ran through plays with a derby, until the snake dance rolled over them and blotted them out. Outside the Bowl, I saw two abysmally gloomy and disgusted Yale men get into a waiting taxi and in a tone of final abnegation tell the driver “New York.” You couldn’t find Yale men; in the manner of the vanquished, they had absolutely melted away.</p>
<p>I begin Dolly’s story with my memories of this game because that evening the girl walked into it. She was a friend of Josephine Pickman’s and the four of us were going to drive up to the Midnight Frolic in New York. When I suggested to him that he’d be too tired he laughed dryly⁠—he’d have gone anywhere that night to get the feel and rhythm of football out of his head. He walked into the hall of Josephine’s house at half-past six, looking as if he’d spent the day in the barber shop save for a small and fetching strip of court plaster over one eye. He was one of the handsomest men I ever knew, anyhow; he appeared tall and slender in street clothes, his hair was dark, his eyes big and sensitive and dark, his nose aquiline and, like all his features, somehow romantic. It didn’t occur to me then, but I suppose he was pretty vain⁠—not conceited, but vain⁠—for he always dressed in brown or soft light gray, with black ties, and people don’t match themselves so successfully by accident.</p>
<p>He was smiling a little to himself as he came in. He shook my hand buoyantly and said, “Why, what a surprise to meet you here, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Deering,” in a kidding way. Then he saw the two girls through the long hall, one dark and shining, like himself, and one with gold hair that was foaming and frothing in the firelight, and said in the happiest voice I’ve ever heard, “Which one is mine?”</p>
<p>“Either you want, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Seriously, which is Pickman?”</p>
<p>“She’s light.”</p>
<p>“Then the other one belongs to me. Isn’t that the idea?”</p>
<p>“I think I’d better warn them about the state you’re in.”</p>
<p>Miss Thorne, small, flushed and lovely, stood beside the fire. Dolly went right up to her.</p>
<p>“You’re mine,” he said; “you belong to me.”</p>
<p>She looked at him coolly, making up her mind; suddenly she liked him and smiled. But Dolly wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to do something incredibly silly or startling to express his untold jubilation that he was free.</p>
<p>“I love you,” he said. He took her hand, his brown velvet eyes regarding her tenderly, unseeingly, convincingly. “I love you.”</p>
<p>For a moment the corners of her lips fell as if in dismay that she had met someone stronger, more confident, more challenging than herself. Then, as she drew herself together visibly, he dropped her hand and the little scene in which he had expended the tension of the afternoon was over.</p>
<p>It was a bright cold November night and the rush of air past the open car brought a vague excitement, a sense that we were hurrying at top speed toward a brilliant destiny. The roads were packed with cars that came to long inexplicable halts while police, blinded by the lights, walked up and down the line giving obscure commands. Before we had been gone an hour New York began to be a distant hazy glow against the sky.</p>
<p>Miss Thorne, Josephine told me, was from Washington, and had just come down from a visit in Boston.</p>
<p>“For the game?” I said.</p>
<p>“No; she didn’t go to the game.”</p>
<p>“That’s too bad. If you’d let me know I could have picked up a seat⁠—”</p>
<p>“She wouldn’t have gone. Vienna never goes to games.”</p>
<p>I remembered now that she hadn’t even murmured the conventional congratulations to Dolly.</p>
<p>“She hates football. Her brother was killed in a prep-school game last year. I wouldn’t have brought her tonight, but when we got home from the game I saw she’d been sitting there holding a book open at the same page all afternoon. You see, he was this wonderful kid and her family saw it happen and naturally never got over it.”</p>
<p>“But does she mind being with Dolly?”</p>
<p>“Of course not. She just ignores football. If anyone mentions it she simply changes the subject.”</p>
<p>I was glad that it was Dolly and not, say, Jack Devlin who was sitting back there with her. And I felt rather sorry for Dolly. However strongly he felt about the game, he must have waited for some acknowledgment that his effort had existed.</p>
<p>He was probably giving her credit for a subtle consideration, yet, as the images of the afternoon flashed into his mind he might have welcomed a compliment to which he could respond “What nonsense!” Neglected entirely, the images would become insistent and obtrusive.</p>
<p>I turned around and was somewhat startled to find that Miss Thorne was in Dolly’s arms; I turned quickly back and decided to let them take care of themselves.</p>
<p>As we waited for a traffic light on upper Broadway, I saw a sporting extra headlined with the score of the game. The green sheet was more real than the afternoon itself⁠—succinct, condensed and clear:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
<b>Princeton Conquers Yale 10⁠–⁠3</b>
</p>
<p>
<b>Seventy Thousand Watch Tiger Trim Bulldog</b>
</p>
<p>
<b>Devlin Scores on Yale Fumble</b>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There it was⁠—not like the afternoon, muddled, uncertain, patchy and scrappy to the end, but nicely mounted now in the setting of the past:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>
<b>Princeton, 10; Yale, 3</b>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Achievement was a curious thing, I thought. Dolly was largely responsible for that. I wondered if all things that screamed in the headlines were simply arbitrary accents. As if people should ask, “What does it look like?”</p>
<p>“It looks most like a cat.”</p>
<p>“Well, then, let’s call it a cat.”</p>
<p>My mind, brightened by the lights and the cheerful tumult, suddenly grasped the fact that all achievement was a placing of emphasis⁠—a molding of the confusion of life into form.</p>
<p>Josephine stopped in front of the New Amsterdam Theater, where her chauffeur met us and took the car. We were early, but a small buzz of excitement went up from the undergraduates waiting in the lobby⁠—“There’s Dolly Harlan”⁠—and as we moved toward the elevator several acquaintances came up to shake his hand. Apparently oblivious to these ceremonies, Miss Thorne caught my eye and smiled. I looked at her with curiosity; Josephine had imparted the rather surprising information that she was just sixteen years old. I suppose my return smile was rather patronizing, but instantly I realized that the fact could not be imposed on. In spite of all the warmth and delicacy of her face, the figure that somehow reminded me of an exquisite, romanticized little ballerina, there was a quality in her that was as hard as steel. She had been brought up in Rome, Vienna and Madrid, with flashes of Washington; her father was one of those charming American diplomats who, with fine obstinacy, try to recreate the Old World in their children by making their education rather more royal than that of princes. Miss Thorne was sophisticated. In spite of all the abandon of American young people, sophistication is still a Continental monopoly.</p>
<p>We walked in upon a number in which a dozen chorus girls in orange and black were racing wooden horses against another dozen dressed in Yale blue. When the lights went on, Dolly was recognized and some Princeton students set up a clatter of approval with the little wooden hammers given out for applause; he moved his chair unostentatiously into a shadow.</p>
<p>Almost immediately a flushed and very miserable young man appeared beside our table. In better form he would have been extremely prepossessing; indeed, he flashed a charming and dazzling smile at Dolly, as if requesting his permission to speak to Miss Thorne.</p>
<p>Then he said, “I thought you weren’t coming to New York tonight.”</p>
<p>“Hello, Carl.” She looked up at him coolly.</p>
<p>“Hello, Vienna. That’s just it; ‘Hello Vienna⁠—Hello Carl.’ But why? I thought you weren’t coming to New York tonight.”</p>
<p>Miss Thorne made no move to introduce the man, but we were conscious of his somewhat raised voice.</p>
<p>“I thought you promised me you weren’t coming.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t expect to, child. I just left Boston this morning.”</p>
<p>“And who did you meet in Boston⁠—the fascinating Tunti?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“I didn’t meet anyone, child.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, you did! You met the fascinating Tunti and you discussed living on the Riviera.” She didn’t answer. “Why are you so dishonest, Vienna?” he went on. “Why did you tell me on the phone⁠—”</p>
<p>“I am not going to be lectured,” she said, her tone changing suddenly. “I told you if you took another drink I was through with you. I’m a person of my word and I’d be enormously happy if you went away.”</p>
<p>“Vienna!” he cried in a sinking, trembling voice.</p>
<p>At this point I got up and danced with Josephine. When we came back there were people at the table⁠—the men to whom we were to hand over Josephine and Miss Thorne, for I had allowed for Dolly being tired, and several others. One of them was Al Ratoni, the composer, who, it appeared, had been entertained at the embassy in Madrid. Dolly Harlan had drawn his chair aside and was watching the dancers. Just as the lights went down for a new number a man came up out of the darkness and leaning over Miss Thorne whispered in her ear. She started and made a motion to rise, but he put his hand on her shoulder and forced her down. They began to talk together in low excited voices.</p>
<p>The tables were packed close at the old Frolic. There was a man rejoining the party next to us and I couldn’t help hearing what he said:</p>
<p>“A young fellow just tried to kill himself down in the wash room. He shot himself through the shoulder, but they got the pistol away before⁠—”</p>
<p>A minute later his voice again: “Carl Sanderson, they said.”</p>
<p>When the number was over I looked around. Vienna Thorne was staring very rigidly at Miss Lillian Lorraine, who was rising toward the ceiling as an enormous telephone doll. The man who had leaned over Vienna was gone and the others were obliviously unaware that anything had happened. I turned to Dolly and suggested that he and I had better go, and after a glance at Vienna in which reluctance, weariness and then resignation were mingled, he consented. On the way to the hotel I told Dolly what had happened.</p>
<p>“Just some souse,” he remarked after a moment’s fatigued consideration. “He probably tried to miss himself and get a little sympathy. I suppose those are the sort of things a really attractive girl is up against all the time.”</p>
<p>This wasn’t my attitude. I could see that mussed white shirt front with very young blood pumping over it, but I didn’t argue, and after a while Dolly said, “I suppose that sounds brutal, but it seems a little soft and weak, doesn’t it? Perhaps that’s just the way I feel tonight.”</p>
<p>When Dolly undressed I saw that he was a mass of bruises, but he assured me that none of them would keep him awake. Then I told him why Miss Thorne hadn’t mentioned the game and he woke up suddenly; the familiar glitter came back into his eyes.</p>
<p>“So that was it! I wondered. I thought maybe you’d told her not to say anything about it.”</p>
<p>Later, when the lights had been out half an hour, he suddenly said “I see” in a loud clear voice. I don’t know whether he was awake or asleep.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-bowl-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>I’ve put down as well as I can everything I can remember about the first meeting between Dolly and Miss Vienna Thorne. Reading it over, it sounds casual and insignificant, but the evening lay in the shadow of the game and all that happened seemed like that. Vienna went back to Europe almost immediately and for fifteen months passed out of Dolly’s life.</p>
<p>It was a good year⁠—it still rings true in my memory as a good year. Sophomore year is the most dramatic at Princeton, just as junior year is at Yale. It’s not only the elections to the upperclass clubs but also everyone’s destiny begins to work itself out. You can tell pretty well who’s going to come through, not only by their immediate success but by the way they survive failure. Life was very full for me. I made the board of the Princetonian, and our house burned down out in Dayton, and I had a silly half-hour fist fight in the gymnasium with a man who later became one of my closest friends, and in March Dolly and I joined the upperclass club we’d always wanted to be in. I fell in love, too, but it would be an irrelevancy to tell about that here.</p>
<p>April came and the first real Princeton weather, the lazy green-and-gold afternoons and the bright thrilling nights haunted with the hour of senior singing. I was happy, and Dolly would have been happy except for the approach of another football season. He was playing baseball, which excused him from spring practice, but the bands were beginning to play faintly in the distance. They rose to concert pitch during the summer, when he had to answer the question, “Are you going back early for football?” a dozen times a day. On the fifteenth of September he was down in the dust and heat of late-summer Princeton, crawling over the ground on all fours, trotting through the old routine and turning himself into just the sort of specimen that I’d have given ten years of my life to be.</p>
<p>From first to last, he hated it, and never let down for a minute. He went into the Yale game that fall weighing a hundred and fifty-three pounds, though that wasn’t the weight printed in the paper, and he and Joe McDonald were the only men who played all through that disastrous game. He could have been captain by lifting his finger⁠—but that involves some stuff that I know confidentially and can’t tell. His only horror was that by some chance he’d have to accept it. Two seasons! He didn’t even talk about it now. He left the room or the club when the conversation veered around to football. He stopped announcing to me that he “wasn’t going through that business any more.” This time it took the Christmas holidays to drive that unhappy look from his eyes.</p>
<p>Then at the New Year Miss Vienna Thorne came home from Madrid and in February a man named Case brought her down to the Senior Prom.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-bowl-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>She was even prettier than she had been before, softer, externally at least, and a tremendous success. People passing her on the street jerked their heads quickly to look at her⁠—a frightened look, as if they realized that they had almost missed something. She was temporarily tired of European men, she told me, letting me gather that there had been some sort of unfortunate love affair. She was coming out in Washington next fall.</p>
<p>Vienna and Dolly. She disappeared with him for two hours the night of the club dances, and Harold Case was in despair. When they walked in again at midnight I thought they were the handsomest pair I saw. They were both shining with that peculiar luminosity that dark people sometimes have. Harold Case took one look at them and went proudly home.</p>
<p>Vienna came back a week later, solely to see Dolly. Late that evening I had occasion to go up to the deserted club for a book and they called me from the rear terrace, which opens out to the ghostly stadium and to an unpeopled sweep of night. It was an hour of thaw, with spring voices in the warm wind, and wherever there was light enough you could see drops glistening and falling. You could feel the cold melting out of the stars and the bare trees and shrubbery toward Stony Brook turning lush in the darkness.</p>
<p>They were sitting together on a wicker bench, full of themselves and romantic and happy.</p>
<p>“We had to tell someone about it,” they said.</p>
<p>“Now can I go?”</p>
<p>“No, Jeff,” they insisted; “stay here and envy us. We’re in the stage where we want someone to envy us. Do you think we’re a good match?”</p>
<p>What could I say?</p>
<p>“Dolly’s going to finish at Princeton next year,” Vienna went on, “but we’re going to announce it after the season in Washington in the autumn.”</p>
<p>I was vaguely relieved to find that it was going to be a long engagement.</p>
<p>“I approve of you, Jeff,” Vienna said.</p>
<p>“I want Dolly to have more friends like you. You’re stimulating for him⁠—you have ideas. I told Dolly he could probably find others like you if he looked around his class.”</p>
<p>Dolly and I both felt a little uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“She doesn’t want me to be a Babbitt,” he said lightly.</p>
<p>“Dolly’s perfect,” asserted Vienna. “He’s the most beautiful thing that ever lived, and you’ll find I’m very good for him, Jeff. Already I’ve helped him make up his mind about one important thing.” I guessed what was coming. “He’s going to speak a little piece if they bother him about playing football next autumn, aren’t you, child?”</p>
<p>“Oh, they won’t bother me,” said Dolly uncomfortably. “It isn’t like that⁠—”</p>
<p>“Well, they’ll try to bully you into it, morally.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” he objected. “It isn’t like that. Don’t let’s talk about it now, Vienna. It’s such a swell night.”</p>
<p>Such a swell night! When I think of my own love passages at Princeton, I always summon up that night of Dolly’s, as if it had been I and not he who sat there with youth and hope and beauty in his arms.</p>
<p>Dolly’s mother took a place on Ram’s Point, Long Island, for the summer, and late in August I went East to visit him. Vienna had been there a week when I arrived, and my impressions were: first, that he was very much in love; and, second, that it was Vienna’s party. All sorts of curious people used to drop in to see Vienna. I wouldn’t mind them now⁠—I’m more sophisticated⁠—but then they seemed rather a blot on the summer. They were all slightly famous in one way or another, and it was up to you to find out how. There was a lot of talk, and especially there was much discussion of Vienna’s personality. Whenever I was alone with any of the other guests we discussed Vienna’s sparkling personality. They thought I was dull, and most of them thought Dolly was dull. He was better in his line than any of them were in theirs, but his was the only specialty that wasn’t mentioned. Still, I felt vaguely that I was being improved and I boasted about knowing most of those people in the ensuing year, and was annoyed when people failed to recognize their names.</p>
<p>The day before I left, Dolly turned his ankle playing tennis, and afterward he joked about it to me rather somberly.</p>
<p>“If I’d only broken it things would be so much easier. Just a quarter of an inch more bend and one of the bones would have snapped. By the way, look here.”</p>
<p>He tossed me a letter. It was a request that he report at Princeton for practice on September fifteenth and that meanwhile he begin getting himself in good condition.</p>
<p>“You’re not going to play this fall?”</p>
<p>He shook his head.</p>
<p>“No. I’m not a child any more. I’ve played for two years and I want this year free. If I went through it again it’d be a piece of moral cowardice.”</p>
<p>“I’m not arguing, but⁠—would you have taken this stand if it hadn’t been for Vienna?”</p>
<p>“Of course I would. If I let myself be bullied into it I’d never be able to look myself in the face again.”</p>
<p>Two weeks later I got the following letter:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
<header role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:salutation"><b>Dear Jeff</b>:</p>
</header>
<p>When you read this you’ll be somewhat surprised. I have, actually, this time, broken my ankle playing tennis. I can’t even walk with crutches at present; it’s on a chair in front of me swollen up and wrapped up as big as a house as I write. No one, not even Vienna, knows about our conversation on the same subject last summer and so let us both absolutely forget it. One thing, though⁠—an ankle is a darn hard thing to break, though I never knew it before.</p>
<p>I feel happier than I have for years⁠—no early-season practice, no sweat and suffer, a little discomfort and inconvenience, but free. I feel as if I’ve outwitted a whole lot of people, and it’s nobody’s business but that of your</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender">Machiavellian (sic) friend, <b>Dolly</b>.</p>
<p epub:type="z3998:postscript"><abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">P.S.</abbr> You might as well tear up this letter.</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>It didn’t sound like Dolly at all.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-bowl-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>Once down at Princeton I asked Frank Kane⁠—who sells sporting goods on Nassau Street and can tell you offhand the name of the scrub quarterback in 1901⁠—what was the matter with Bob Tatnall’s team senior year.</p>
<p>“Injuries and tough luck,” he said. “They wouldn’t sweat after the hard games. Take Joe McDonald, for instance, All-American tackle the year before; he was slow and stale, and he knew it and didn’t care. It’s a wonder Bill got that outfit through the season at all.”</p>
<p>I sat in the stands with Dolly and watched them beat Lehigh 3⁠–⁠0 and tie Bucknell by a fluke. The next week we were trimmed 14⁠–⁠0 by Notre Dame. On the day of the Notre Dame game Dolly was in Washington with Vienna, but he was awfully curious about it when he came back next day. He had all the sporting pages of all the papers and he sat reading them and shaking his head. Then he stuffed them suddenly into the wastepaper basket.</p>
<p>“This college is football crazy,” he announced. “Do you know that English teams don’t even train for sports?”</p>
<p>I didn’t enjoy Dolly so much in those days. It was curious to see him with nothing to do. For the first time in his life he hung around⁠—around the room, around the club, around casual groups⁠—he who had always been going somewhere with dynamic indolence. His passage along a walk had once created groups⁠—groups of classmates who wanted to walk with him, of underclassmen who followed with their eyes a moving shrine. He became democratic, he mixed around, and it was somehow not appropriate. He explained that he wanted to know more men in his class.</p>
<p>But people want their idols a little above them, and Dolly had been a sort of private and special idol. He began to hate to be alone, and that, of course, was most apparent to me. If I got up to go out and he didn’t happen to be writing a letter to Vienna, he’d ask “Where are you going?” in a rather alarmed way and make an excuse to limp along with me.</p>
<p>“Are you glad you did it, Dolly?” I asked him suddenly one day.</p>
<p>He looked at me with reproach behind the defiance in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Of course I’m glad.”</p>
<p>“I wish you were in that back field, all the same.”</p>
<p>“It wouldn’t matter a bit. This year’s game’s in the Bowl. I’d probably be dropping kicks for them.”</p>
<p>The week of the Navy game he suddenly began going to all the practices. He worried; that terrible sense of responsibility was at work. Once he had hated the mention of football; now he thought and talked of nothing else. The night before the Navy game I woke up several times to find the lights burning brightly in his room.</p>
<p>We lost 7 to 3 on Navy’s last-minute forward pass over Devlin’s head. After the first half Dolly left the stands and sat down with the players on the field. When he joined me afterward his face was smudgy and dirty as if he had been crying.</p>
<p>The game was in Baltimore that year. Dolly and I were going to spend the night in Washington with Vienna, who was giving a dance. We rode over there in an atmosphere of sullen gloom and it was all I could do to keep him from snapping out at two naval officers who were holding an exultant post mortem in the seat behind.</p>
<p>The dance was what Vienna called her second coming-out party. She was having only the people she liked this time, and these turned out to be chiefly importations from New York. The musicians, the playwrights, the vague supernumeraries of the arts, who had dropped in at Dolly’s house on Ram’s Point, were here in force. But Dolly, relieved of his obligations as host, made no clumsy attempt to talk their language that night. He stood moodily against the wall with some of that old air of superiority that had first made me want to know him. Afterward, on my way to bed, I passed Vienna’s sitting room and she called me to come in. She and Dolly, both a little white, were sitting across the room from each other and there was tensity in the air.</p>
<p>“Sit down, Jeff,” said Vienna wearily. “I want you to witness the collapse of a man into a schoolboy.” I sat down reluctantly. “Dolly’s changed his mind,” she said. “He prefers football to me.”</p>
<p>“That’s not it,” said Dolly stubbornly.</p>
<p>“I don’t see the point,” I objected. “Dolly can’t possibly play.”</p>
<p>“But he thinks he can. Jeff, just in case you imagine I’m being pigheaded about it, I want to tell you a story. Three years ago, when we first came back to the United States, father put my young brother in school. One afternoon we all went out to see him play football. Just after the game started he was hurt, but father said, ‘It’s all right. He’ll be up in a minute. It happens all the time.’ But, Jeff, he never got up. He lay there, and finally they carried him off the field and put a blanket over him. Just as we got to him he died.”</p>
<p>She looked from one to the other of us and began to sob convulsively. Dolly went over, frowning, and put his arm around her shoulder.</p>
<p>“Oh, Dolly,” she cried, “won’t you do this for me⁠—just this one little thing for me?”</p>
<p>He shook his head miserably. “I tried, but I can’t,” he said.</p>
<p>“It’s my stuff, don’t you understand, Vienna? People have got to do their stuff.”</p>
<p>Vienna had risen and was powdering her tears at a mirror; now she flashed around angrily.</p>
<p>“Then I’ve been laboring under a misapprehension when I supposed you felt about it much as I did.”</p>
<p>“Let’s not go over all that. I’m tired of talking, Vienna; I’m tired of my own voice. It seems to me that no one I know does anything but talk any more.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. I suppose that’s meant for me.”</p>
<p>“It seems to me your friends talk a great deal. I’ve never heard so much jabber as I’ve listened to tonight. Is the idea of actually doing anything repulsive to you, Vienna?”</p>
<p>“It depends upon whether it’s worth doing.”</p>
<p>“Well, this is worth doing⁠—to me.”</p>
<p>“I know your trouble, Dolly,” she said bitterly. “You’re weak and you want to be admired. This year you haven’t had a lot of little boys following you around as if you were Jack Dempsey, and it almost breaks your heart. You want to get out in front of them all and make a show of yourself and hear the applause.”</p>
<p>He laughed shortly. “If that’s your idea of how a football player feels⁠—”</p>
<p>“Have you made up your mind to play?” she interrupted.</p>
<p>“If I’m any use to them⁠—yes.”</p>
<p>“Then I think we’re both wasting our time.”</p>
<p>Her expression was ruthless, but Dolly refused to see that she was in earnest. When I got away he was still trying to make her “be rational,” and next day on the train he said that Vienna had been “a little nervous.” He was deeply in love with her, and he didn’t dare think of losing her; but he was still in the grip of the sudden emotion that had decided him to play, and his confusion and exhaustion of mind made him believe vainly that everything was going to be all right. But I had seen that look on Vienna’s face the night she talked with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Carl Sanderson at the Frolic two years before.</p>
<p>Dolly didn’t get off the train at Princeton Junction, but continued on to New York. He went to two orthopedic specialists and one of them arranged a bandage braced with a whole little fence of whalebones that he was to wear day and night. The probabilities were that it would snap at the first brisk encounter, but he could run on it and stand on it when he kicked. He was out on University Field in uniform the following afternoon.</p>
<p>His appearance was a small sensation. I was sitting in the stands watching practice with Harold Case and young Daisy Cary. She was just beginning to be famous then, and I don’t know whether she or Dolly attracted the most attention. In those times it was still rather daring to bring down a moving-picture actress; if that same young lady went to Princeton today she would probably be met at the station with a band.</p>
<p>Dolly limped around and everyone said, “He’s limping!” He got under a punt and everyone said, “He did that pretty well!” The first team were laid off after the hard Navy game and everyone watched Dolly all afternoon. After practice I caught his eye and he came over and shook hands. Daisy asked him if he’d like to be in a football picture she was going to make. It was only conversation, but he looked at me with a dry smile.</p>
<p>When he came back to the room his ankle was swollen up as big as a stove pipe, and next day he and Keene fixed up an arrangement by which the bandage would be loosened and tightened to fit its varying size. We called it the balloon. The bone was nearly healed, but the little bruised sinews were stretched out of place again every day. He watched the Swarthmore game from the sidelines and the following Monday he was in scrimmage with the second team against the scrubs.</p>
<p>In the afternoons sometimes he wrote to Vienna. His theory was that they were still engaged, but he tried not to worry about it, and I think the very pain that kept him awake at night was good for that. When the season was over he would go and see.</p>
<p>We played Harvard and lost 7 to 3. Jack Devlin’s collar bone was broken and he was out for the season, which made it almost sure that Dolly would play. Amid the rumors and fears of mid-November the news aroused a spark of hope in an otherwise morbid undergraduate body⁠—hope all out of proportion to Dolly’s condition. He came back to the room the Thursday before the game with his face drawn and tired.</p>
<p>“They’re going to start me,” he said, “and I’m going to be back for punts. If they only knew⁠—”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t you tell Bill how you feel about that?”</p>
<p>He shook his head and I had a sudden suspicion that he was punishing himself for his “accident” last August. He lay silently on the couch while I packed his suitcase for the team train.</p>
<p>The actual day of the game was, as usual, like a dream⁠—unreal with its crowds of friends and relatives and the inessential trappings of a gigantic show. The eleven little men who ran out on the field at last were like bewitched figures in another world, strange and infinitely romantic, blurred by a throbbing mist of people and sound. One aches with them intolerably, trembles with their excitement, but they have no traffic with us now, they are beyond help, consecrated and unreachable⁠—vaguely holy.</p>
<p>The field is rich and green, the preliminaries are over and the teams trickle out into position. Head guards are put on; each man claps his hands and breaks into a lonely little dance. People are still talking around you, arranging themselves, but you have fallen silent and your eye wanders from man to man. There’s Jack Whitehead, a senior, at end; Joe McDonald, large and reassuring, at tackle; Toole, a sophomore, at guard; Red Hopman, center; someone you can’t identify at the other guard⁠—Bunker probably⁠—he turns and you see his number⁠—Bunker; Bean Gile, looking unnaturally dignified and significant at the other tackle; Poore, another sophomore at end. Back of them is Wash Sampson at quarter⁠—imagine how he feels! But he runs here and there on light feet, speaking to this man and that, trying to communicate his alertness and his confidence of success. Dolly Harlan stands motionless, his hands on his hips, watching the Yale kicker tee up the ball; near him is Captain Bob Tatnall⁠—</p>
<p>There’s the whistle! The line of the Yale team sways ponderously forward from its balance and a split second afterward comes the sound of the ball. The field streams with running figures and the whole Bowl strains forward as if thrown by the current of an electric chair.</p>
<p>Suppose we fumbled right away.</p>
<p>Tatnall catches it, goes back ten yards, is surrounded and blotted out of sight. Spears goes through center for three. A short pass, Sampson to Tatnall, is completed, but for no gain. Harlan punts to Devereaux, who is downed in his tracks on the Yale forty-yard line.</p>
<p>Now we’ll see what they’ve got.</p>
<p>It developed immediately that they had a great deal. Using an effective crisscross and a short pass over center, they carried the ball fifty-four yards to the Princeton six-yard line, where they lost it on a fumble, recovered by Red Hopman. After a trade of punts, they began another push, this time to the fifteen-yard line, where, after four hair-raising forward passes, two of them batted down by Dolly, we got the ball on downs. But Yale was still fresh and strong, and with a third onslaught the weaker Princeton line began to give way. Just after the second quarter began Devereaux took the ball over for a touchdown and the half ended with Yale in possession of the ball on our ten-yard line. Score, Yale, 7; Princeton, 0.</p>
<p>We hadn’t a chance. The team was playing above itself, better than it had played all year, but it wasn’t enough. Save that it was the Yale game, when anything could happen, anything <em>had</em> happened, the atmosphere of gloom would have been deeper than it was, and in the cheering section you could cut it with a knife.</p>
<p>Early in the game Dolly Harlan had fumbled Devereaux’s high punt, but recovered without gain; toward the end of the half another kick slipped through his fingers, but he scooped it up, and slipping past the end, went back twelve yards. Between halves he told Roper he couldn’t seem to get under the ball, but they kept him there. His own kicks were carrying well and he was essential in the only backfield combination that could hope to score.</p>
<p>After the first play of the game he limped slightly, moving around as little as possible to conceal the fact. But I knew enough about football to see that he was in every play, starting at that rather slow pace of his and finishing with a quick side lunge that almost always took out his man. Not a single Yale forward pass was finished in his territory, but toward the end of the third quarter he dropped another kick⁠—backed around in a confused little circle under it, lost it and recovered on the five-yard line just in time to avert a certain score. That made the third time, and I saw Ed Kimball throw off his blanket and begin to warm up on the sidelines.</p>
<p>Just at that point our luck began to change. From a kick formation, with Dolly set to punt from behind our goal, Howard Bement, who had gone in for Wash Sampson at quarter, took the ball through the center of the line, got by the secondary defense and ran twenty-six yards before he was pulled down. Captain Tasker, of Yale, had gone out with a twisted knee, and Princeton began to pile plays through his substitute, between Bean Gile and Hopman, with George Spears and sometimes Bob Tatnall carrying the ball. We went up to the Yale forty-yard line, lost the ball on a fumble and recovered it on another as the third quarter ended. A wild ripple of enthusiasm ran through the Princeton stands. For the first time we had the ball in their territory with first down and the possibility of tying the score. You could hear the tenseness growing all around you in the intermission; it was reflected in the excited movements of the cheer leaders and the uncontrollable patches of sound that leaped out of the crowd, catching up voices here and there and swelling to an undisciplined roar.</p>
<p>I saw Kimball dash out on the field and report to the referee and I thought Dolly was through at last, and was glad, but it was Bob Tatnall who came out, sobbing, and brought the Princeton side cheering to its feet.</p>
<p>With the first play pandemonium broke loose and continued to the end of the game. At intervals it would swoon away to a plaintive humming; then it would rise to the intensity of wind and rain and thunder, and beat across the twilight from one side of the Bowl to the other like the agony of lost souls swinging across a gap in space.</p>
<p>The teams lined up on Yale’s forty-one yard line and Spears immediately dashed off tackle for six yards. Again he carried the ball⁠—he was a wild unpopular Southerner with inspired moments⁠—going through the same hole for five more and a first down. Dolly made two on a cross buck and Spears was held at center. It was third down, with the ball on Yale’s twenty-nine-yard line and eight to go.</p>
<p>There was some confusion immediately behind me, some pushing and some voices; a man was sick or had fainted⁠—I never discovered which. Then my view was blocked out for a minute by rising bodies and then everything went definitely crazy. Substitutes were jumping around down on the field, waving their blankets, the air was full of hats, cushions, coats and a deafening roar. Dolly Harlan, who had scarcely carried the ball a dozen times in his Princeton career, had picked a long pass from Kimball out of the air and, dragging a tackler, struggled five yards to the Yale goal.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-bowl-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>Some time later the game was over. There was a bad moment when Yale began another attack, but there was no scoring and Bob Tatnall’s eleven had redeemed a mediocre season by tying a better Yale team. For us there was the feel of victory about it, the exaltation if not the jubilance, and the Yale faces issuing from out the Bowl wore the look of defeat. It would be a good year, after all⁠—a good fight at the last, a tradition for next year’s team. Our class⁠—those of us who cared⁠—would go out from Princeton without the taste of final defeat. The symbol stood⁠—such as it was; the banners blew proudly in the wind. All that is childish? Find us something to fill the niche of victory.</p>
<p>I waited for Dolly outside the dressing rooms until almost everyone had come out; then, as he still lingered, I went in. Someone had given him a little brandy, and since he never drank much, it was swimming in his head.</p>
<p>“Have a chair, Jeff.” He smiled, broadly and happily. “Rubber! Tony! Get the distinguished guest a chair. He’s an intellectual and he wants to interview one of the boneheaded athletes. Tony, this is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Deering. They’ve got everything in this funny Bowl but armchairs. I love this Bowl. I’m going to build here.”</p>
<p>He fell silent, thinking about all things happily. He was content. I persuaded him to dress⁠—there were people waiting for us. Then he insisted on walking out upon the field, dark now, and feeling the crumbled turf with his shoe.</p>
<p>He picked up a divot from a cleat and let it drop, laughed, looked distracted for a minute, and turned away.</p>
<p>With Tad Davis, Daisy Cary and another girl, we drove to New York. He sat beside Daisy and was silly, charming and attractive. For the first time since I’d known him he talked about the game naturally, even with a touch of vanity.</p>
<p>“For two years I was pretty good and I was always mentioned at the bottom of the column as being among those who played. This year I dropped three punts and slowed up every play till Bob Tatnall kept yelling at me, ‘I don’t see why they won’t take you out!’ But a pass not even aimed at me fell in my arms and I’ll be in the headlines tomorrow.”</p>
<p>He laughed. Somebody touched his foot; he winced and turned white.</p>
<p>“How did you hurt it?” Daisy asked. “In football?”</p>
<p>“I hurt it last summer,” he said shortly.</p>
<p>“It must have been terrible to play on it.”</p>
<p>“It was.”</p>
<p>“I suppose you had to.”</p>
<p>“That’s the way sometimes.”</p>
<p>They understood each other. They were both workers; sick or well, there were things that Daisy also had to do. She spoke of how, with a vile cold, she had had to fall into an open-air lagoon out in Hollywood the winter before.</p>
<p>“Six times⁠—with a fever of a hundred and two. But the production was costing ten thousand dollars a day.”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t they use a double?”</p>
<p>“They did whenever they could⁠—I only fell in when it had to be done.”</p>
<p>She was eighteen and I compared her background of courage and independence and achievement, of politeness based upon the realities of cooperation, with that of most society girls I had known. There was no way in which she wasn’t inestimably their superior⁠—if she had looked for a moment my way⁠—but it was Dolly’s shining velvet eyes that signaled to her own.</p>
<p>“Can’t you go out with me tonight?” I heard her ask him.</p>
<p>He was sorry, but he had to refuse. Vienna was in New York; she was going to see him. I didn’t know, and Dolly didn’t know, whether there was to be a reconciliation or a goodbye.</p>
<p>When she dropped Dolly and me at the Ritz there was real regret, that lingering form of it, in both their eyes.</p>
<p>“There’s a marvelous girl,” Dolly said. I agreed. “I’m going up to see Vienna. Will you get a room for us at the Madison?”</p>
<p>So I left him. What happened between him and Vienna I don’t know; he has never spoken about it to this day. But what happened later in the evening was brought to my attention by several surprised and even indignant witnesses to the event.</p>
<p>Dolly walked into the Ambassador Hotel about ten o’clock and went to the desk to ask for Miss Cary’s room. There was a crowd around the desk, among them some Yale or Princeton undergraduates from the game. Several of them had been celebrating and evidently one of them knew Daisy and had tried to get her room by phone. Dolly was abstracted and he must have made his way through them in a somewhat brusque way and asked to be connected with Miss Cary.</p>
<p>One young man stepped back, looked at him unpleasantly and said, “You seem to be in an awful hurry. Just who are you?”</p>
<p>There was one of those slight silent pauses and the people near the desk all turned to look. Something happened inside Dolly; he felt as if life had arranged his role to make possible this particular question⁠—a question that now he had no choice but to answer. Still, there was silence. The small crowd waited.</p>
<p>“Why, I’m Dolly Harlan,” he said deliberately. “What do you think of that?”</p>
<p>It was quite outrageous. There was a pause and then a sudden little flurry and chorus: “Dolly Harlan! What? What did he say?”</p>
<p>The clerk had heard the name; he gave it as the phone was answered from Miss Cary’s room.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Harlan’s to go right up, please.”</p>
<p>Dolly turned away, alone with his achievement, taking it for once to his breast. He found suddenly that he would not have it long so intimately; the memory would outlive the triumph and even the triumph would outlive the glow in his heart that was best of all. Tall and straight, an image of victory and pride, he moved across the lobby, oblivious alike to the fate ahead of him or the small chatter behind.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="magnetism" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">Magnetism</h2>
<section id="magnetism-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>The pleasant, ostentatious boulevard was lined at prosperous intervals with New England Colonial houses⁠—without ship models in the hall. When the inhabitants moved out here the ship models had at last been given to the children. The next street was a complete exhibit of the Spanish-bungalow phase of West Coast architecture; while two streets over, the cylindrical windows and round towers of 1897⁠—melancholy antiques which sheltered swamis, yogis, fortune tellers, dressmakers, dancing teachers, art academies and chiropractors⁠—looked down now upon brisk buses and trolley cars. A little walk around the block could, if you were feeling old that day, be a discouraging affair.</p>
<p>On the green flanks of the modern boulevard children, with their knees marked by the red stains of the mercurochrome era, played with toys with a purpose⁠—beams that taught engineering, soldiers that taught manliness, and dolls that taught motherhood. When the dolls were so banged up that they stopped looking like real babies and began to look like dolls, the children developed affection for them. Everything in the vicinity⁠—even the March sunlight⁠—was new, fresh, hopeful and thin, as you would expect in a city that had tripled its population in fifteen years.</p>
<p>Among the very few domestics in sight that morning was a handsome young maid sweeping the steps of the biggest house on the street. She was a large, simple Mexican girl with the large, simple ambitions of the time and the locality, and she was already conscious of being a luxury⁠—she received one hundred dollars a month in return for her personal liberty. Sweeping, Dolores kept an eye on the stairs inside, for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hannaford’s car was waiting and he would soon be coming down to breakfast. The problem came first this morning, however⁠—the problem as to whether it was a duty or a favour when she helped the English nurse down the steps with the perambulator. The English nurse always said “Please,” and “Thanks very much,” but Dolores hated her and would have liked, without any special excitement, to beat her insensible. Like most Latins under the stimulus of American life, she had irresistible impulses towards violence.</p>
<p>The nurse escaped, however. Her blue cape faded haughtily into the distance just as <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hannaford, who had come quietly downstairs, stepped into the space of the front door.</p>
<p>“Good morning.” He smiled at Dolores; he was young and extraordinarily handsome. Dolores tripped on the broom and fell off the stoop. George Hannaford hurried down the steps, reached her as she was getting to her feet cursing volubly in Mexican, just touched her arm with a helpful gesture and said, “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no.”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid it was my fault; I’m afraid I startled you, coming out like that.”</p>
<p>His voice had real regret in it; his brow was knit with solicitude.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re all right?”</p>
<p>“Aw, sure.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t turn your ankle?”</p>
<p>“Aw, no.”</p>
<p>“I’m terribly sorry about it.”</p>
<p>“Aw, it wasn’t your fault.”</p>
<p>He was still frowning as she went inside, and Dolores, who was not hurt and thought quickly, suddenly contemplated having a love affair with him. She looked at herself several times in the pantry mirror and stood close to him as she poured his coffee, but he read the paper and she saw that that was all for the morning.</p>
<p>Hannaford entered his car and drove to Jules Rennard’s house. Jules was a French Canadian by birth, and George Hannaford’s best friend; they were fond of each other and spent much time together. Both of them were simple and dignified in their tastes and in their way of thinking, instinctively gentle, and in a world of the volatile and the bizarre found in each other a certain quiet solidity.</p>
<p>He found Jules at breakfast.</p>
<p>“I want to fish for barracuda,” said George abruptly. “When will you be free? I want to take the boat and go down to Lower California.”</p>
<p>Jules had dark circles under his eyes. Yesterday he had closed out the greatest problem of his life by settling with his ex-wife for two hundred thousand dollars. He had married too young, and the former slavey from the Quebec slums had taken to drugs upon her failure to rise with him. Yesterday, in the presence of lawyers, her final gesture had been to smash his finger with the base of a telephone. He was tired of women for a while and welcomed the suggestion of a fishing trip.</p>
<p>“How’s the baby?” he asked.</p>
<p>“The baby’s fine.”</p>
<p>“And Kay?”</p>
<p>“Kay’s not herself, but I don’t pay any attention. What did you do to your hand?”</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you another time. What’s the matter with Kay, George?”</p>
<p>“Jealous.”</p>
<p>“Of who?”</p>
<p>“Helen Avery. It’s nothing. She’s not herself, that’s all.” He got up. “I’m late,” he said. “Let me know as soon as you’re free. Any time after Monday will suit me.”</p>
<p>George left and drove out by an interminable boulevard which narrowed into a long, winding concrete road and rose into the hilly country behind. Somewhere in the vast emptiness a group of buildings appeared, a barnlike structure, a row of offices, a large but quick restaurant and half a dozen small bungalows. The chauffeur dropped Hannaford at the main entrance. He went in and passed through various enclosures, each marked off by swinging gates and inhabited by a stenographer.</p>
<p>“Is anybody with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Schroeder?” he asked, in front of a door lettered with that name.</p>
<p>“No, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hannaford.”</p>
<p>Simultaneously his eye fell on a young lady who was writing at a desk aside, and he lingered a moment.</p>
<p>“Hello, Margaret,” he said. “How are you, darling?”</p>
<p>A delicate, pale beauty looked up, frowning a little, still abstracted in her work. It was Miss Donovan, the script girl, a friend of many years.</p>
<p>“Hello. Oh, George, I didn’t see you come in. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Douglas wants to work on the book sequence this afternoon.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>“These are the changes we decided on Thursday night.” She smiled up at him and George wondered for the thousandth time why she had never gone into pictures.</p>
<p>“All right,” he said. “Will initials do?”</p>
<p>“Your initials look like George Harris’s.”</p>
<p>“Very well, darling.”</p>
<p>As he finished, Pete Schroeder opened his door and beckoned him. “George, come here!” he said with an air of excitement. “I want you to listen to someone on the phone.”</p>
<p>Hannaford went in.</p>
<p>“Pick up the phone and say ‘Hello,’ ” directed Schroeder. “Don’t say who you are.”</p>
<p>“Hello,” said Hannaford obediently.</p>
<p>“Who is this?” asked a girl’s voice.</p>
<p>Hannaford put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What am I supposed to do?”</p>
<p>Schroeder snickered and Hannaford hesitated, smiling and suspicious.</p>
<p>“Who do you want to speak to?” he temporized into the phone.</p>
<p>“To George Hannaford, I want to speak to. Is this him?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Oh, George; it’s me.”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“Me⁠—Gwen. I had an awful time finding you. They told me⁠—”</p>
<p>“Gwen who?”</p>
<p>“Gwen⁠—can’t you hear? From San Francisco⁠—last Thursday night.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” objected George. “Must be some mistake.”</p>
<p>“Is this George Hannaford?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>The voice grew slightly tart: “Well, this is Gwen Becker you spent last Thursday evening with in San Francisco. There’s no use pretending you don’t know who I am, because you do.”</p>
<p>Schroeder took the apparatus from George and hung up the receiver.</p>
<p>“Somebody has been doubling for me up in Frisco,” said Hannaford.</p>
<p>“So that’s where you were Thursday night!”</p>
<p>“Those things aren’t funny to me⁠—not since that crazy Zeller girl. You can never convince them they’ve been sold because the man always looks something like you. What’s new, Pete?”</p>
<p>“Let’s go over to the stage and see.”</p>
<p>Together they walked out a back entrance, along a muddy walk, and opening a little door in the big blank wall of the studio building entered into its half darkness.</p>
<p>Here and there figures spotted the dim twilight, figures that turned up white faces to George Hannaford, like souls in purgatory watching the passage of a half-god through. Here and there were whispers and soft voices and, apparently from afar, the gentle tremolo of a small organ. Turning the corner made by some flats, they came upon the white crackling glow of a stage with two people motionless upon it.</p>
<p>An actor in evening clothes, his shirt front, collar and cuffs tinted a brilliant pink, made as though to get chairs for them, but they shook their heads and stood watching. For a long while nothing happened on the stage⁠—no one moved. A row of lights went off with a savage hiss, went on again. The plaintive tap of a hammer begged admission to nowhere in the distance; a blue face appeared among the blinding lights above and called something unintelligible into the upper blackness. Then the silence was broken by a low clear voice from the stage:</p>
<p>“If you want to know why I haven’t got stockings on, look in my dressing-room. I spoiled four pairs yesterday and two already this morning⁠ ⁠… This dress weighs six pounds.”</p>
<p>A man stepped out of the group of observers and regarded the girl’s brown legs; their lack of covering was scarcely distinguishable, but, in any event, her expression implied that she would do nothing about it. The lady was annoyed, and so intense was her personality that it had taken only a fractional flexing of her eyes to indicate the fact. She was a dark, pretty girl with a figure that would be full-blown sooner than she wished. She was just eighteen.</p>
<p>Had this been the week before, George Hannaford’s heart would have stood still. Their relationship had been in just that stage. He hadn’t said a word to Helen Avery that Kay could have objected to, but something had begun between them on the second day of this picture that Kay had felt in the air. Perhaps it had begun even earlier, for he had determined, when he saw Helen Avery’s first release, that she should play opposite him. Helen Avery’s voice and the dropping of her eyes when she finished speaking, like a sort of exercise in control, fascinated him. He had felt that they both tolerated something, that each knew half of some secret about people and life, and that if they rushed towards each other there would be a romantic communion of almost unbelievable intensity. It was this element of promise and possibility that had haunted him for a fortnight and was now dying away.</p>
<p>Hannaford was thirty, and he was a moving-picture actor only through a series of accidents. After a year in a small technical college he had taken a summer job with an electric company, and his first appearance in a studio was in the role of repairing a bank of Klieg lights. In an emergency he played a small part and made good, but for fully a year after that he thought of it as a purely transitory episode in his life. At first much of it had offended him⁠—the almost hysterical egotism and excitability hidden under an extremely thin veil of elaborate good-fellowship. It was only recently, with the advent of such men as Jules Rennard into pictures, that he began to see the possibilities of a decent and secure private life, much as his would have been as a successful engineer. At last his success felt solid beneath his feet.</p>
<p>He met Kay Tomkins at the old Griffith Studios at Mamaroneck and their marriage was a fresh, personal affair, removed from most stage marriages. Afterwards they had possessed each other completely, had been pointed to: “Look, there’s one couple in pictures who manage to stay together.” It would have taken something out of many people’s lives⁠—people who enjoyed a vicarious security in the contemplation of their marriage⁠—if they hadn’t stayed together, and their love was fortified by a certain effort to live up to that.</p>
<p>He held women off by a polite simplicity that underneath was hard and watchful; when he felt a certain current being turned on he became emotionally stupid. Kay expected and took much more from men, but she, too, had a careful thermometer against her heart. Until the other night, when she reproached him for being interested in Helen Avery, there had been an absolute minimum of jealousy between them.</p>
<p>George Hannaford was still absorbed in the thought of Helen Avery as he left the studio and walked towards his bungalow over the way. There was in his mind, first, a horror that anyone should come between him and Kay, and second, a regret that he no longer carried that possibility in the forefront of his mind. It had given him a tremendous pleasure, like the things that had happened to him during his first big success, before he was so “made” that there was scarcely anything better ahead; it was something to take out and look at⁠—a new and still mysterious joy. It hadn’t been love, for he was critical of Helen Avery as he had never been critical of Kay. But his feeling of last week had been sharply significant and memorable, and he was restless, now that it had passed.</p>
<p>Working that afternoon, they were seldom together, but he was conscious of her and he knew that she was conscious of him.</p>
<p>She stood a long time with her back to him at one point, and when she turned at length, their eyes swept past each other’s, brushing like bird wings. Simultaneously he saw they had gone far, in their way; it was well that he had drawn back. He was glad that someone came for her when the work was almost over.</p>
<p>Dressed, he returned to the office wing, stopping in for a moment to see Schroeder. No one answered his knock, and, turning the knob, he went in. Helen Avery was there alone.</p>
<p>Hannaford shut the door and they stared at each other. Her face was young, frightened. In a moment in which neither of them spoke, it was decided that they would have some of this out now. Almost thankfully he felt the warm sap of emotion flow out of his heart and course through his body.</p>
<p>“Helen!”</p>
<p>She murmured “What?” in an awed voice.</p>
<p>“I feel terribly about this.” His voice was shaking.</p>
<p>Suddenly she began to cry; painful, audible sobs shook her. “Have you got a handkerchief?” she said.</p>
<p>He gave her a handkerchief. At that moment there were steps outside. George opened the door halfway just in time to keep Schroeder from entering on the spectacle of her tears.</p>
<p>“Nobody’s in,” he said facetiously. For a moment longer he kept his shoulder against the door. Then he let it open slowly.</p>
<p>Outside in his limousine, he wondered how soon Jules would be ready to go fishing.</p>
</section>
<section id="magnetism-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>From the age of twelve Kay Tompkins had worn men like rings on every finger. Her face was round, young, pretty and strong; a strength accentuated by the responsive play of brows and lashes around her clear, glossy, hazel eyes. She was the daughter of a senator from a Western state and she hunted unsuccessfully for glamour through a small Western city until she was seventeen, when she ran away from home and went on the stage. She was one of those people who are famous far beyond their actual achievement.</p>
<p>There was that excitement about her that seemed to reflect the excitement of the world. While she was playing small parts in Ziegfeld shows she attended proms at Yale, and during a temporary venture into pictures she met George Hannaford, already a star of the new “natural” type then just coming into vogue. In him she found what she had been seeking.</p>
<p>She was at present in what is known as a dangerous state. For six months she had been helpless and dependent entirely upon George, and now that her son was the property of a strict and possessive English nurse, Kay, free again, suddenly felt the need of proving herself attractive. She wanted things to be as they had been before the baby was thought of. Also she felt that lately George had taken her too much for granted; she had a strong instinct that he was interested in Helen Avery.</p>
<p>When George Hannaford came home that night he had minimized to himself their quarrel of the previous evening and was honestly surprised at her perfunctory greeting.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter, Kay?” he asked after a minute. “Is this going to be another night like last night?”</p>
<p>“Do you know we’re going out tonight?” she said, avoiding an answer.</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“To Katherine Davis’. I didn’t know whether you’d want to go⁠—”</p>
<p>“I’d like to go.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know whether you’d want to go. Arthur Busch said he’d stop for me.”</p>
<p>They dined in silence. Without any secret thoughts to dip into like a child into a jam jar, George felt restless, and at the same time was aware that the atmosphere was full of jealousy, suspicion and anger. Until recently they had preserved between them something precious that made their house one of the pleasantest in Hollywood to enter. Now suddenly it might be any house; he felt common and he felt unstable. He had come near to making something bright and precious into something cheap and unkind. With a sudden surge of emotion, he crossed the room and was about to put his arm around her when the doorbell rang. A moment later Dolores announced <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Arthur Busch.</p>
<p>Busch was an ugly, popular little man, a continuity writer and lately a director. A few years ago they had been hero and heroine to him, and even now, when he was a person of some consequence in the picture world, he accepted with equanimity Kay’s use of him for such purposes as tonight’s. He had been in love with her for years, but, because his love seemed hopeless, it had never caused him much distress.</p>
<p>They went on to the party. It was a housewarming, with Hawaiian musicians in attendance, and the guests were largely of the old crowd. People who had been in the early Griffith pictures, even though they were scarcely thirty, were considered to be of the old crowd; they were different from those coming along now, and they were conscious of it. They had a dignity and straightforwardness about them from the fact that they had worked in pictures before pictures were bathed in a golden haze of success. They were still rather humble before their amazing triumph, and thus, unlike the new generation, who took it all for granted, they were constantly in touch with reality. Half a dozen or so of the women were especially aware of being unique. No one had come along to fill their places; here and there a pretty face had caught the public imagination for a year, but those of the old crowd were already legends, ageless and disembodied. With all this, they were still young enough to believe that they would go forever.</p>
<p>George and Kay were greeted affectionately: people moved over and made place for them. The Hawaiians performed and the Duncan sisters sang at the piano. From the moment George saw who was here he guessed that Helen Avery would be here, too, and the fact annoyed him. It was not appropriate that she should be part of this gathering through which he and Kay had moved familiarly and tranquilly for years.</p>
<p>He saw her first when someone opened the swinging door to the kitchen, and when, a little later, she came out and their eyes met, he knew absolutely that he didn’t love her. He went up to speak to her, and at her first words he saw something had happened to her, too, that had dissipated the mood of the afternoon. She had got a big part.</p>
<p>“And I’m in a daze!” she cried happily. “I didn’t think there was a chance and I’ve thought of nothing else since I read the book a year ago.”</p>
<p>“It’s wonderful. I’m awfully glad.”</p>
<p>He had the feeling, though, that he should look at her with a certain regret; one couldn’t jump from such a scene as this afternoon to a plane of casual friendly interest. Suddenly she began to laugh.</p>
<p>“Oh, we’re such actors, George⁠—you and I.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“You know what I mean.”</p>
<p>“I don’t.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, you do. You did this afternoon. It was a pity we didn’t have a camera.”</p>
<p>Short of declaring then and there that he loved her, there was absolutely nothing more to say. He grinned acquiescently. A group formed around them and absorbed them, and George, feeling that the evening had settled something, began to think about going home. An excited and sentimental elderly lady⁠—someone’s mother⁠—came up and began telling him how much she believed in him, and he was polite and charming to her, as only he could be, for half an hour. Then he went to Kay, who had been sitting with Arthur Busch all evening, and suggested that they go.</p>
<p>She looked up unwillingly. She had had several highballs and the fact was mildly apparent. She did not want to go, but she got up after a mild argument and George went upstairs for his coat. When he came down Katherine Davis told him that Kay had already gone out to the car.</p>
<p>The crowd had increased; to avoid a general good night he went out through the sun-parlour door to the lawn; less than twenty feet away from him he saw the figures of Kay and Arthur Busch against a bright street lamp; they were standing close together and staring into each other’s eyes. He saw that they were holding hands.</p>
<p>After the first start of surprise George instinctively turned about, retraced his steps, hurried through the room he had just left, and came noisily out the front door. But Kay and Arthur Busch were still standing close together, and it was lingeringly and with abstracted eyes that they turned around finally and saw him. Then both of them seemed to make an effort; they drew apart as if it was a physical ordeal. George said goodbye to Arthur Busch with special cordiality, and in a moment he and Kay were driving homeward through the clear California night.</p>
<p>He said nothing, Kay said nothing. He was incredulous. He suspected that Kay had kissed a man here and there, but he had never seen it happen or given it any thought. This was different; there had been an element of tenderness in it and there was something veiled and remote in Kay’s eyes that he had never seen there before.</p>
<p>Without having spoken, they entered the house; Kay stopped by the library door and looked in.</p>
<p>“There’s someone there,” she said, and she added without interest: “I’m going upstairs. Good night.”</p>
<p>As she ran up the stairs the person in the library stepped out into the hall.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hannaford⁠—”</p>
<p>He was a pale and hard young man; his face was vaguely familiar, but George didn’t remember where he had seen it before.</p>
<p>“<abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hannaford?” said the young man. “I recognize you from your pictures.” He looked at George, obviously a little awed.</p>
<p>“What can I do for you?”</p>
<p>“Well, will you come in here?”</p>
<p>“What is it? I don’t know who you are.”</p>
<p>“My name is Donovan. I’m Margaret Donovan’s brother.” His face toughened a little.</p>
<p>“Is anything the matter?”</p>
<p>Donovan made a motion towards the door. “Come in here.” His voice was confident now, almost threatening.</p>
<p>George hesitated, then he walked into the library. Donovan followed and stood across the table from him, his legs apart, his hands in his pockets.</p>
<p>“Hannaford,” he said, in the tone of a man trying to whip himself up to anger, “Margaret wants fifty thousand dollars.”</p>
<p>“What the devil are you talking about?” exclaimed George incredulously.</p>
<p>“Margaret wants fifty thousand dollars,” repeated Donovan.</p>
<p>“You’re Margaret Donovan’s brother?”</p>
<p>“I am.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe it.” But he saw the resemblance now. “Does Margaret know you’re here?”</p>
<p>“She sent me here. She’ll hand over those two letters for fifty thousand, and no questions asked.”</p>
<p>“What letters?” George chuckled irresistibly. “This is some joke of Schroeder’s, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“This ain’t a joke, Hannaford. I mean the letters you signed your name to this afternoon.”</p>
</section>
<section id="magnetism-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>An hour later George went upstairs in a daze. The clumsiness of the affair was at once outrageous and astounding. That a friend of seven years should suddenly request his signature on papers that were not what they were purported to be made all his surroundings seem diaphanous and insecure. Even now the design engrossed him more than a defence against it, and he tried to recreate the steps by which Margaret had arrived at this act of recklessness or despair.</p>
<p>She had served as a script girl in various studios and for various directors for ten years; earning first twenty, now a hundred dollars a week. She was lovely-looking and she was intelligent; at any moment in those years she might have asked for a screen test, but some quality of initiative or ambition had been lacking. Not a few times had her opinion made or broken incipient careers. Still she waited at directors’ elbows, increasingly aware that the years were slipping away.</p>
<p>That she had picked George as a victim amazed him most of all. Once, during the year before his marriage, there had been a momentary warmth; he had taken her to a Mayfair ball, and he remembered that he had kissed her going home that night in the car. The flirtation trailed along hesitatingly for a week. Before it could develop into anything serious he had gone East and met Kay.</p>
<p>Young Donovan had shown him a carbon of the letters he had signed.</p>
<p>They were written on the typewriter that he kept in his bungalow at the studio, and they were carefully and convincingly worded. They purported to be love letters, asserting that he was Margaret Donovan’s lover, that he wanted to marry her, and that for that reason he was about to arrange a divorce. It was incredible. Someone must have seen him sign them that morning; someone must have heard her say: “Your initials are like <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Harris’s.”</p>
<p>George was tired. He was training for a screen football game to be played next week, with the Southern California varsity as extras, and he was used to regular hours. In the middle of a confused and despairing sequence of thought about Margaret Donovan and Kay, he suddenly yawned. Mechanically he went upstairs, undressed and got into bed.</p>
<p>Just before dawn Kay came to him in the garden. There was a river that flowed past it now, and boats faintly lit with green and yellow lights moved slowly, remotely by. A gentle starlight fell like rain upon the dark, sleeping face of the world, upon the black mysterious bosoms of the trees, the tranquil gleaming water and the farther shore.</p>
<p>The grass was damp, and Kay came to him on hurried feet; her thin slippers were drenched with dew. She stood upon his shoes, nestling close to him, and held up her face as one shows a book open at a page.</p>
<p>“Think how you love me,” she whispered. “I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember.”</p>
<p>“You’ll always be like this to me.”</p>
<p>“Oh no; but promise me you’ll remember.” Her tears were falling. “I’ll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.”</p>
<p>The scene dissolved slowly but George struggled into consciousness. He sat up in bed; it was morning. In the yard outside he heard the nurse instructing his son in the niceties of behaviour for two-month-old babies. From the yard next door a small boy shouted mysteriously: “Who let that barrier through on me?”</p>
<p>Still in his pyjamas, George went to the phone and called his lawyers. Then he rang for his man, and while he was being shaved a certain order evolved from the chaos of the night before. First, he must deal with Margaret Donovan; second, he must keep the matter from Kay, who in her present state might believe anything; and third, he must fix things up with Kay. The last seemed the most important of all.</p>
<p>As he finished dressing he heard the phone ring downstairs and, with an instinct of danger, picked up the receiver.</p>
<p>“Hello⁠ ⁠… Oh, yes.” Looking up, he saw that both his doors were closed. “Good morning, Helen⁠ ⁠… It’s all right, Dolores. I’m taking it up here.” He waited till he heard the receiver click downstairs.</p>
<p>“How are you this morning, Helen?”</p>
<p>“George, I called up about last night. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”</p>
<p>“Sorry? Why are you sorry?”</p>
<p>“For treating you like that. I don’t know what was in me, George. I didn’t sleep all night thinking how terrible I’d been.”</p>
<p>A new disorder established itself in George’s already littered mind.</p>
<p>“Don’t be silly,” he said. To his despair he heard his own voice run on: “For a minute I didn’t understand, Helen. Then I thought it was better so.”</p>
<p>“Oh, George,” came her voice after a moment, very low.</p>
<p>Another silence. He began to put in a cuff button.</p>
<p>“I had to call up,” she said after a moment. “I couldn’t leave things like that.”</p>
<p>The cuff button dropped to the floor; he stooped to pick it up, and then said “Helen!” urgently into the mouthpiece to cover the fact that he had momentarily been away.</p>
<p>“What, George?”</p>
<p>At this moment the hall door opened and Kay, radiating a faint distaste, came into the room. She hesitated.</p>
<p>“Are you busy?”</p>
<p>“It’s all right.” He stared into the mouthpiece for a moment.</p>
<p>“Well, goodbye,” he muttered abruptly and hung up the receiver. He turned to Kay: “Good morning.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said distantly.</p>
<p>“You didn’t disturb me.” He hesitated. “That was Helen Avery.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t concern me who it was. I came to ask you if we’re going to the Coconut Grove tonight.”</p>
<p>“Sit down, Kay.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to talk.”</p>
<p>“Sit down a minute,” he said impatiently. She sat down. “How long are you going to keep this up?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“I’m not keeping up anything. We’re simply through, George, and you know it as well as I do.”</p>
<p>“That’s absurd,” he said. “Why, a week ago⁠—”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter. We’ve been getting nearer to this for months, and now it’s over.”</p>
<p>“You mean you don’t love me?” He was not particularly alarmed. They had been through scenes like this before.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll always love you in a way.” Suddenly she began to sob. “Oh, it’s all so sad. He’s cared for me so long.”</p>
<p>George stared at her. Face to face with what was apparently a real emotion, he had no words of any kind. She was not angry, not threatening or pretending, not thinking about him at all, but concerned entirely with her emotions towards another man.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he cried. “Are you trying to tell me you’re in love with this man?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she said helplessly.</p>
<p>He took a step towards her, then went to the bed and lay down on it, staring in misery at the ceiling. After a while a maid knocked to say that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Busch and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Castle, George’s lawyer, were below. The fact carried no meaning to him. Kay went into her room and he got up and followed her.</p>
<p>“Let’s send word we’re out,” he said. “We can go away somewhere and talk this over.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to go away.”</p>
<p>She was already away, growing more mysterious and remote with every minute. The things on her dressing-table were the property of a stranger.</p>
<p>He began to speak in a dry, hurried voice. “If you’re still thinking about Helen Avery, it’s nonsense. I’ve never given a damn for anybody but you.”</p>
<p>They went downstairs and into the living-room. It was nearly noon⁠—another bright emotionless California day. George saw that Arthur Busch’s ugly face in the sunshine was wan and white; he took a step towards George and then stopped, as if he were waiting for something⁠—a challenge, a reproach, a blow.</p>
<p>In a flash the scene that would presently take place ran itself off in George’s mind. He saw himself moving through the scene, saw his part, an infinite choice of parts, but in every one of them Kay would be against him and with Arthur Busch. And suddenly he rejected them all.</p>
<p>“I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said quickly to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Castle. “I called you up because a script girl named Margaret Donovan wants fifty thousand dollars for some letters she claims I wrote her. Of course the whole thing is⁠—” He broke off. It didn’t matter. “I’ll come to see you tomorrow.” He walked up to Kay and Arthur, so that only they could hear.</p>
<p>“I don’t know about you two⁠—what you want to do. But leave me out of it; you haven’t any right to inflict any of it on me, for after all it’s not my fault. I’m not going to be mixed up in your emotions.”</p>
<p>He turned and went out. His car was before the door and he said “Go to Santa Monica” because it was the first name that popped into his head. The car drove off into the everlasting hazeless sunlight.</p>
<p>He rode for three hours, past Santa Monica and then along towards Long Beach by another road. As if it were something he saw out of the corner of his eye and with but a fragment of his attention, he imagined Kay and Arthur Busch progressing through the afternoon. Kay would cry a great deal and the situation would seem harsh and unexpected to them at first, but the tender closing of the day would draw them together. They would turn inevitably towards each other and he would slip more and more into the position of the enemy outside.</p>
<p>Kay had wanted him to get down in the dirt and dust of a scene and scramble for her. Not he; he hated scenes. Once he stooped to compete with Arthur Busch in pulling at Kay’s heart, he would never be the same to himself. He would always be a little like Arthur Busch; they would always have that in common, like a shameful secret. There was little of the theatre about George; the millions before whose eyes the moods and changes of his face had flickered during ten years had not been deceived about that. From the moment when, as a boy of twenty, his handsome eyes had gazed off into the imaginary distance of a Griffith Western, his audience had been really watching the progress of a straightforward, slow-thinking, romantic man through an accidentally glamorous life.</p>
<p>His fault was that he had felt safe too soon. He realized suddenly that the two Fairbankses, in sitting side by side at table, were not keeping up a pose. They were giving hostages to fate. This was perhaps the most bizarre community in the rich, wild, bored empire, and for a marriage to succeed here, you must expect nothing or you must be always together. For a moment his glance had wavered from Kay and he stumbled blindly into disaster.</p>
<p>As he was thinking this and wondering where he would go and what he should do, he passed an apartment house that jolted his memory. It was on the outskirts of town, a pink horror built to represent something, somewhere, so cheaply and sketchily that whatever it copied the architect must have long since forgotten. And suddenly George remembered that he had once called for Margaret Donovan here the night of a Mayfair dance.</p>
<p>“Stop at this apartment!” he called through the speaking-tube.</p>
<p>He went in. The negro elevator boy stared open-mouthed at him as they rose in the cage. Margaret Donovan herself opened the door.</p>
<p>When she saw him she shrank away with a little cry. As he entered and closed the door she retreated before him into the front room. George followed.</p>
<p>It was twilight outside and the apartment was dusky and sad. The last light fell softly on the standardized furniture and the great gallery of signed photographs of moving-picture people that covered one wall. Her face was white, and as she stared at him she began nervously wringing her hands.</p>
<p>“What’s this nonsense, Margaret?” George said, trying to keep any reproach out of his voice. “Do you need money that bad?”</p>
<p>She shook her head vaguely. Her eyes were still fixed on him with a sort ofterror; George looked at the floor.</p>
<p>“I suppose this was your brother’s idea. At least I can’t believe you’d be so stupid.” He looked up, trying to preserve the brusque masterly attitude of one talking to a naughty child, but at the sight of her face every emotion except pity left him. “I’m a little tired. Do you mind if I sit down?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“I’m a little confused today,” said George after a minute. “People seem to have it in for me today.”</p>
<p>“Why, I thought”⁠—her voice became ironic in midsentence⁠—“I thought everybody loved you, George.”</p>
<p>“They don’t.”</p>
<p>“Only me?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said abstractedly.</p>
<p>“I wish it had been only me. But then, of course, you wouldn’t have been you.”</p>
<p>Suddenly he realized that she meant what she was saying.</p>
<p>“That’s just nonsense.”</p>
<p>“At least you’re here,” Margaret went on. “I suppose I ought to be glad of that. And I am. I most decidedly am. I’ve often thought of you sitting in that chair, just at this time when it was almost dark. I used to make up little one-act plays about what would happen then. Would you like to hear one of them? I’ll have to begin by coming over and sitting on the floor at your feet.”</p>
<p>Annoyed and yet spellbound, George kept trying desperately to seize upon a word or mood that would turn the subject.</p>
<p>“I’ve seen you sitting there so often that you don’t look a bit more real than your ghost. Except that your hat has squashed your beautiful hair down on one side and you’ve got dark circles or dirt under your eyes. You look white, too, George. Probably you were on a party last night.”</p>
<p>“I was. And I found your brother waiting for me when I got home.”</p>
<p>“He’s a good waiter, George. He’s just out of San Quentin prison, where he’s been waiting the last six years.”</p>
<p>“Then it was his idea?”</p>
<p>“We cooked it up together. I was going to China on my share.”</p>
<p>“Why was I the victim?”</p>
<p>“That seemed to make it realer. Once I thought you were going to fall in love with me five years ago.”</p>
<p>The bravado suddenly melted out of her voice and it was still light enough to see that her mouth was quivering.</p>
<p>“I’ve loved you for years,” she said⁠—“since the first day you came West and walked into the old Realart Studio. You were so brave about people, George. Whoever it was, you walked right up to them and tore something aside as if it was in your way and began to know them. I tried to make love to you, just like the rest, but it was difficult. You drew people right up close to you and held them there, not able to move either way.”</p>
<p>“This is all entirely imaginary,” said George, frowning uncomfortably, “and I can’t control⁠—”</p>
<p>“No, I know. You can’t control charm. It’s simply got to be used. You’ve got to keep your hand in if you have it, and go through life attaching people to you that you don’t want. I don’t blame you. If you only hadn’t kissed me the night of the Mayfair dance. I suppose it was the champagne.”</p>
<p>George felt as if a band which had been playing for a long time in the distance had suddenly moved up and taken a station beneath his window. He had always been conscious that things like this were going on around him. Now that he thought of it, he had always been conscious that Margaret loved him, but the faint music of these emotions in his ear had seemed to bear no relation to actual life. They were phantoms that he had conjured up out of nothing; he had never imagined their actual incarnations. At his wish they should die inconsequently away.</p>
<p>“You can’t imagine what it’s been like,” Margaret continued after a minute. “Things you’ve just said and forgotten, I’ve put myself asleep night after night remembering⁠—trying to squeeze something more out of them. After that night you took me to the Mayfair other men didn’t exist for me any more. And there were others, you know⁠—lots of them. But I’d see you walking along somewhere about the lot, looking at the ground and smiling a little, as if something very amusing had just happened to you, the way you do. And I’d pass you and you’d look up and really smile: ‘Hello, darling!’ ‘Hello, darling’ and my heart would turn over. That would happen four times a day.”</p>
<p>George stood up and she, too, jumped up quickly.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ve bored you,” she cried softly. “I might have known I’d bore you. You want to go home. Let’s see⁠—is there anything else? Oh, yes; you might as well have those letters.”</p>
<p>Taking them out of a desk, she took them to a window and identified them by a rift of lamplight.</p>
<p>“They’re really beautiful letters. They’d do you credit. I suppose it was pretty stupid, as you say, but it ought to teach you a lesson about⁠—about signing things, or something.” She tore the letters small and threw them in the wastebasket: “Now go on,” she said.</p>
<p>“Why must I go now?”</p>
<p>For the third time in twenty-four hours sad and uncontrollable tears confronted him.</p>
<p>“Please go!” she cried angrily⁠—“or stay if you like. I’m yours for the asking. You know it. You can have any woman you want in the world by just raising your hand. Would I amuse you?”</p>
<p>“Margaret⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, go on then.” She sat down and turned her face away. “After all you’ll begin to look silly in a minute. You wouldn’t like that, would you? So get out.”</p>
<p>George stood there helpless, trying to put himself in her place and say something that wouldn’t be priggish, but nothing came.</p>
<p>He tried to force down his personal distress, his discomfort, his vague feeling of scorn, ignorant of the fact that she was watching him and understanding it all and loving the struggle in his face. Suddenly his own nerves gave way under the strain of the past twenty-four hours and he felt his eyes grow dim and his throat tighten. He shook his head helplessly. Then he turned away⁠—still not knowing that she was watching him and loving him until she thought her heart would burst with it⁠—and went out to the door.</p>
</section>
<section id="magnetism-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>The car stopped before his house, dark save for small lights in the nursery and the lower hall. He heard the telephone ringing but when he answered it, inside, there was no one on the line. For a few minutes he wandered about in the darkness, moving from chair to chair and going to the window to stare out into the opposite emptiness of the night.</p>
<p>It was strange to be alone, to feel alone. In his overwrought condition the fact was not unpleasant. As the trouble of last night had made Helen Avery infinitely remote, so his talk with Margaret had acted as a catharsis to his own personal misery. It would swing back upon him presently, he knew, but for a moment his mind was too tired to remember, to imagine or to care.</p>
<p>Half an hour passed. He saw Dolores issue from the kitchen, take the paper from the front steps and carry it back to the kitchen for a preliminary inspection. With a vague idea of packing his grip, he went upstairs. He opened the door of Kay’s room and found her lying down.</p>
<p>For a moment he didn’t speak, but moved around the bathroom between. Then he went into her room and switched on the lights.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” he asked casually. “Aren’t you feeling well?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been trying to get some sleep,” she said. “George, do you think that girl’s gone crazy?”</p>
<p>“What girl?”</p>
<p>“Margaret Donovan. I’ve never heard of anything so terrible in my life.”</p>
<p>For a moment he thought that there had been some new development.</p>
<p>“Fifty thousand dollars!” she cried indignantly. “Why, I wouldn’t give it to her even if it were true. She ought to be sent to jail.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s not so terrible as that,” he said. “She has a brother who’s a pretty bad egg and it was his idea.”</p>
<p>“She’s capable of anything,” Kay said solemnly. “And you’re just a fool if you don’t see it. I’ve never liked her. She has dirty hair.”</p>
<p>“Well, what of it?” he demanded impatiently, and added: “Where’s Arthur Busch?”</p>
<p>“He went home right after lunch. Or rather I sent him home.”</p>
<p>“You decided you were not in love with him?”</p>
<p>She looked up almost in surprise. “In love with him? Oh, you mean this morning. I was just mad at you; you ought to have known that. I was a little sorry for him last night, but I guess it was the highballs.”</p>
<p>“Well, what did you mean when you⁠—” He broke off. Wherever he turned he found a muddle, and he resolutely determined not to think.</p>
<p>“My heavens!” exclaimed Kay. “Fifty thousand dollars!”</p>
<p>“Oh, drop it. She tore up the letters⁠—she wrote them herself⁠—and everything’s all right.”</p>
<p>“George.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Of course Douglas will fire her right away.”</p>
<p>“Of course he won’t. He won’t know anything about it.”</p>
<p>“You mean to say you’re not going to let her go? After this?”</p>
<p>He jumped up. “Do you suppose she thought that?” he cried.</p>
<p>“Thought what?”</p>
<p>“That I’d have them let her go?”</p>
<p>“You certainly ought to.”</p>
<p>He looked hastily through the phone book for her name.</p>
<p>“Oxford⁠—” he called.</p>
<p>After an unusually long time the switchboard operator answered: “Bourbon Apartments.”</p>
<p>“Miss Margaret Donovan, please.”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—” The operator’s voice broke off. “If you’ll just wait a minute, please.” He held the line; the minute passed, then another. Then the operator’s voice: “I couldn’t talk to you then. Miss Donovan has had an accident. She’s shot herself. When you called they were taking her through the lobby to <abbr>St.</abbr> Catherine’s Hospital.”</p>
<p>“Is she⁠—is it serious?” George demanded frantically.</p>
<p>“They thought so at first, but now they think she’ll be all right. They’re going to probe for the bullet.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>He got up and turned to Kay.</p>
<p>“She’s tried to kill herself,” he said in a strained voice. “I’ll have to go around to the hospital. I was pretty clumsy this afternoon and I think I’m partly responsible for this.”</p>
<p>“George,” said Kay suddenly.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Don’t you think it’s sort of unwise to get mixed up in this? People might say⁠—”</p>
<p>“I don’t give a damn what they say,” he answered roughly.</p>
<p>He went to his room and automatically began to prepare for going out. Catching sight of his face in the mirror, he closed his eyes with a sudden exclamation of distaste, and abandoned the intention of brushing his hair.</p>
<p>“George,” Kay called from the next room, “I love you.”</p>
<p>“I love you too.”</p>
<p>“Jules Rennard called up. Something about barracuda fishing. Don’t you think it would be fun to get up a party? Men and girls both?”</p>
<p>“Somehow the idea doesn’t appeal to me. The whole idea of barracuda fishing⁠—”</p>
<p>The phone rang below and he started. Dolores was answering it.</p>
<p>It was a lady who had already called twice today.</p>
<p>“Is <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Hannaford in?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Dolores promptly. She stuck out her tongue and hung up the phone just as George Hannaford came downstairs. She helped him into his coat, standing as close as she could to him, opened the door and followed a little way out on the porch.</p>
<p>“Meester Hannaford,” she said suddenly, “that Miss Avery she call up five-six times today. I tell her you out and say nothing to missus.”</p>
<p>“What?” He stared at her, wondering how much she knew about his affairs.</p>
<p>“She call up just now and I say you out.”</p>
<p>“All right,” he said absently.</p>
<p>“Meester Hannaford.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Dolores.”</p>
<p>“I deedn’t hurt myself thees morning when I fell off the porch.”</p>
<p>“That’s fine. Good night, Dolores.”</p>
<p>“Good night, Meester Hannaford.”</p>
<p>George smiled at her, faintly, fleetingly, tearing a veil from between them, unconsciously promising her a possible admission to the thousand delights and wonders that only he knew and could command. Then he went to his waiting car and Dolores, sitting down on the stoop, rubbed her hands together in a gesture that might have expressed either ecstasy or strangulation, and watched the rising of the thin, pale California moon.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-scandal-detectives" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Scandal Detectives</h2>
<section id="the-scandal-detectives-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>It was a hot afternoon in May and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Buckner thought that a pitcher of fruit lemonade might prevent the boys from filling up on ice cream at the drug store. She belonged to that generation, since retired, upon whom the great revolution in American family life was to be visited; but at that time she believed that her children’s relation to her was as much as hers had been to her parents, for this was more than twenty years ago.</p>
<p>Some generations are close to those that succeed them; between others the gap is infinite and unbridgeable. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Buckner⁠—a woman of character, a member of Society in a large Middle-Western city⁠—carrying a pitcher of fruit lemonade through her own spacious back yard, was progressing across a hundred years. Her own thoughts would have been comprehensible to her great-grandmother; what was happening in a room above the stable would have been entirely unintelligible to them both. In what had once served as the coachman’s sleeping apartment, her son and a friend were not behaving in a normal manner, but were, so to speak, experimenting in a void. They were making the first tentative combinations of the ideas and materials they found ready at their hand⁠—ideas destined to become, in future years, first articulate, then startling and finally commonplace. At the moment when she called up to them they were sitting with disarming quiet upon the still unhatched eggs of the mid-twentieth century.</p>
<p>Riply Buckner descended the ladder and took the lemonade. Basil Duke Lee looked abstractedly down at the transaction and said, “Thank you very much, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Buckner.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure it isn’t too hot up there?”</p>
<p>“No, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Buckner. It’s fine.”</p>
<p>It was stifling; but they were scarcely conscious of the heat, and they drank two tall glasses each of the lemonade without knowing that they were thirsty. Concealed beneath a sawed-out trapdoor from which they presently took it was a composition book bound in imitation red leather which currently absorbed much of their attention. On its first page was inscribed, if you penetrated the secret of the lemon-juice ink: “The Book of Scandal, written by Riply Buckner, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, and Basil <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Lee, Scandal Detectives.”</p>
<p>In this book they had set down such deviations from rectitude on the part of their fellow citizens as had reached their ears. Some of these false steps were those of grizzled men, stories that had become traditions in the city and were embalmed in the composition book by virtue of indiscreet exhumations at family dinner tables. Others were the more exciting sins, confirmed or merely rumored, of boys and girls their own age. Some of the entries would have been read by adults with bewilderment, others might have inspired wrath, and there were three or four contemporary reports that would have prostrated the parents of the involved children with horror and despair.</p>
<p>One of the mildest items, a matter they had hesitated about setting down, though it had shocked them only last year, was: “Elwood Leaming has been to the Burlesque Show three or four times at the Star.”</p>
<p>Another, and perhaps their favorite, because of its uniqueness, set forth that “<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> Cramner committed some theft in the East he could be imprisoned for and had to come here”⁠—<abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> Cramner being now one of the oldest and “most substantial” citizens of the city.</p>
<p>The single defect in the book was that it could only be enjoyed with the aid of the imagination, for the invisible ink must keep its secrets until that day when, the pages being held close to the fire, the items would appear. Close inspection was necessary to determine which pages had been used⁠—already a rather grave charge against a certain couple had been superimposed upon the dismal facts that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R. B.</abbr> Cary had consumption and that her son, Walter Cary, had been expelled from Pawling School. The purpose of the work as a whole was not blackmail. It was treasured against the time when its protagonists should “do something” to Basil and Riply. Its possession gave them a sense of power. Basil, for instance, had never seen <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> Cramner make a single threatening gesture in Basil’s direction but let him even hint that he was going to do something to Basil, and there preserved against him was the record of his past.</p>
<p>It is only fair to say that at this point the book passes entirely out of this story. Years later a janitor discovered it beneath the trapdoor, and finding it apparently blank, gave it to his little girl; so the misdeeds of Elwood Leaming and <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. P.</abbr> Cramner were definitely entombed at last beneath a fair copy of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.</p>
<p>The book was Basil’s idea. He was more the imaginative and in most ways the stronger of the two. He was a shining-eyed, brown-haired boy of fourteen, rather small as yet, and bright and lazy at school. His favorite character in fiction was Arsène Lupin, the gentleman burglar, a romantic phenomenon lately imported from Europe and much admired in the first bored decades of the century.</p>
<p>Riply Buckner, also in short pants, contributed to the partnership a breathless practicality. His mind waited upon Basil’s imagination like a hair trigger and no scheme was too fantastic for his immediate “Let’s do it!” Since the school’s third baseball team, on which they had been pitcher and catcher, decomposed after an unfortunate April season, they had spent their afternoons struggling to evolve a way of life which should measure up to the mysterious energies fermenting inside them. In the cache beneath the trapdoor were some “slouch” hats and bandana handkerchiefs, some loaded dice, half of a pair of handcuffs, a rope ladder of a tenuous crochet persuasion for rear-window escapes into the alley, and a makeup box containing two old theatrical wigs and crêpe hair of various colors⁠—all to be used when they decided what illegal enterprises to undertake.</p>
<p>Their lemonades finished, they lit Home Runs and held a desultory conversation which touched on crime, professional baseball, sex and the local stock company. This broke off at the sound of footsteps and familiar voices in the adjoining alley.</p>
<p>From the window, they investigated. The voices belonged to Margaret Torrence, Imogene Bissel and Connie Davies, who were cutting through the alley from Imogene’s back yard to Connie’s at the end of the block. The young ladies were thirteen, twelve and thirteen years old respectively, and they considered themselves alone, for in time to their march they were rendering a mildly daring parody in a sort of whispering giggle and coming out strongly on the finale: “Oh, my <em>dar</em>‑ling <em>Clemon</em>-tine.”</p>
<p>Basil and Riply leaned together from the window, then remembering their undershirts sank down behind the sill.</p>
<p>“We heard you!” they cried together.</p>
<p>The girls stopped and laughed. Margaret Torrence chewed exaggeratedly to indicate gum, and gum with a purpose. Basil immediately understood.</p>
<p>“Whereabouts?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“Over at Imogene’s house.”</p>
<p>They had been at <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel’s cigarettes. The implied recklessness of their mood interested and excited the two boys and they prolonged the conversation. Connie Davies had been Riply’s girl during dancing-school term; Margaret Torrence had played a part in Basil’s recent past; Imogene Bissel was just back from a year in Europe. During the last month neither Basil nor Riply had thought about girls, and, thus refreshed, they become conscious that the centre of the world had shifted suddenly from the secret room to the little group outside.</p>
<p>“Come on up,” they suggested.</p>
<p>“Come on out. Come on down to the Whartons’ yard.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>Barely remembering to put away the Scandal Book and the box of disguises, the two boys hurried out, mounted their bicycles and rode up the alley.</p>
<p>The Whartons’ own children had long grown up, but their yard was still one of those predestined places where young people gather in the afternoon. It had many advantages. It was large, open to other yards on both sides, and it could be entered upon skates or bicycles from the street. It contained an old seesaw, a swing and a pair of flying rings; but it had been a rendezvous before these were put up, for it had a child’s quality⁠—the thing that makes young people huddle inextricably on uncomfortable steps and desert the houses of their friends to herd on the obscure premises of “people nobody knows.” The Whartons’ yard had long been a happy compromise; there were deep shadows there all day long and ever something vague in bloom, and patient dogs around, and brown spots worn bare by countless circling wheels and dragging feet. In sordid poverty, below the bluff two hundred feet away, lived the “micks”⁠—they had merely inherited the name, for they were now largely of Scandinavian descent⁠—and when other amusements palled, a few cries were enough to bring a gang of them swarming up the hill, to be faced if numbers promised well, to be fled from into convenient houses if things went the other way.</p>
<p>It was five o’clock and there was a small crowd gathered there for that soft and romantic time before supper⁠—a time surpassed only by the interim of summer dusk thereafter. Basil and Riply rode their bicycles around abstractedly, in and out of trees, resting now and then with a hand on someone’s shoulder, shading their eyes from the glow of the late sun that, like youth itself, is too strong to face directly, but must be kept down to an undertone until it dies away.</p>
<p>Basil rode over to Imogene Bissel and balanced idly on his wheel before her. Something in his face then must have attracted her, for she looked up at him, looked at him really, and slowly smiled. She was to be a beauty and belle of many proms in a few years. Now her large brown eyes and large beautifully shaped mouth and the high flush over her thin cheek bones made her face gnome-like and offended those who wanted a child to look like a child. For a moment Basil was granted an insight into the future, and the spell of her vitality crept over him suddenly. For the first time in his life he realized a girl completely as something opposite and complementary to him, and he was subject to a warm chill of mingled pleasure and pain. It was a definite experience and he was immediately conscious of it. The summer afternoon became lost in her suddenly⁠—the soft air, the shadowy hedges and banks of flowers, the orange sunlight, the laughter and voices, the tinkle of a piano over the way⁠—the odor left all these things and went into Imogene’s face as she sat there looking up at him with a smile.</p>
<p>For a moment it was too much for him. He let it go, incapable of exploiting it until he had digested it alone. He rode around fast in a circle on his bicycle, passing near Imogene without looking at her. When he came back after a while and asked if he could walk home with her, she had forgotten the moment, if it had ever existed for her, and was almost surprised. With Basil wheeling his bicycle beside her, they started down the street.</p>
<p>“Can you come out tonight?” he asked eagerly. “There’ll probably be a bunch in the Whartons’ yard.”</p>
<p>“I’ll ask mother.”</p>
<p>“I’ll telephone you. I don’t want to go unless you’ll be there.”</p>
<p>“Why?” She smiled at him again, encouraging him.</p>
<p>“Because I don’t want to.”</p>
<p>“But why don’t you want to?”</p>
<p>“Listen,” he said quickly, “what boys do you like better than me?”</p>
<p>“Nobody. I like you and Hubert Blair best.”</p>
<p>Basil felt no jealousy at the coupling of this name with his. There was nothing to do about Hubert Blair but accept him philosophically, as other boys did when dissecting the hearts of other girls.</p>
<p>“I like you better than anybody,” he said deliriously.</p>
<p>The weight of the pink dappled sky above him was not endurable. He was plunging along through air of ineffable loveliness while warm freshets sprang up in his blood and he turned them, and with them his whole life, like a stream toward this girl.</p>
<p>They reached the carriage door at the side of her house.</p>
<p>“Can’t you come in, Basil?”</p>
<p>“No.” He saw immediately that that was a mistake, but it was said now. The intangible present had eluded him. Still he lingered. “Do you want my school ring?”</p>
<p>“Yes, if you want to give it to me.”</p>
<p>“I’ll give it to you tonight.” His voice shook slightly as he added, “That is, I’ll trade.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“Something.”</p>
<p>“What?” Her color spread; she knew.</p>
<p>“You know. Will you trade?”</p>
<p>Imogene looked around uneasily. In the honey-sweet silence that had gathered around the porch, Basil held his breath. “You’re awful,” she whispered. “Maybe.⁠ ⁠… Goodbye.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-scandal-detectives-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>It was the best hour of the day now and Basil was terribly happy. This summer he and his mother and sister were going to the lakes and next fall he was starting away to school. Then he would go to Yale and be a great athlete, and after that⁠—if his two dreams had fitted onto each other chronologically instead of existing independently side by side⁠—he was due to become a gentleman burglar. Everything was fine. He had so many alluring things to think about that it was hard to fall asleep at night.</p>
<p>That he was now crazy about Imogene Bissel was not a distraction, but another good thing. It had as yet no poignancy, only a brilliant and dynamic excitement that was bearing him along toward the Whartons’ yard through the May twilight.</p>
<p>He wore his favorite clothes⁠—white duck knickerbockers, pepper-and-salt Norfolk jacket, a Belmont collar and a gray knitted tie. With his black hair wet and shining, he made a handsome little figure as he turned in upon the familiar but now re-enchanted lawn and joined the voices in the gathering darkness. Three or four girls who lived in neighboring houses were present, and almost twice as many boys; and a slightly older group adorning the side veranda made a warm, remote nucleus against the lamps of the house and contributed occasional mysterious ripples of laughter to the already overburdened night.</p>
<p>Moving from shadowy group to group, Basil ascertained that Imogene was not yet here. Finding Margaret Torrence, he spoke to her aside, lightly.</p>
<p>“Have you still got that old ring of mine?”</p>
<p>Margaret had been his girl all year at dancing school, signified by the fact that he had taken her to the cotillion which closed the season. The affair had languished toward the end; none the less, his question was undiplomatic.</p>
<p>“I’ve got it somewhere,” Margaret replied carelessly. “Why? Do you want it back?”</p>
<p>“Sort of.”</p>
<p>“All right. I never did want it. It was you that made me take it, Basil. I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“You couldn’t give it to me tonight, could you?” His heart leaped as he saw a small figure come in at the rear gate. “I sort of want to get it tonight.”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right, Basil.”</p>
<p>She ran across the street to her house and Basil followed. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Torrence were on the porch, and while Margaret went upstairs for the ring he overcame his excitement and impatience and answered those questions as to the health of his parents which are so meaningless to the young. Then a sudden stiffening came over him, his voice faded off and his glazed eyes fixed upon a scene that was materializing over the way.</p>
<p>From the shadows far up the street, a swift, almost flying figure emerged and floated into the patch of lamplight in front of the Whartons’ house. The figure wove here and there in a series of geometric patterns, now off with a flash of sparks at the impact of skates and pavement, now gliding miraculously backward, describing a fantastic curve, with one foot lifted gracefully in the air, until the young people moved forward in groups out of the darkness and crowded to the pavement to watch. Basil gave a quiet little groan as he realized that of all possible nights, Hubert Blair had chosen this one to arrive.</p>
<p>“You say you’re going to the lakes this summer, Basil. Have you taken a cottage?”</p>
<p>Basil became aware after a moment that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Torrence was making this remark for the third time.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, sir,” he answered⁠—“I mean, no. We’re staying at the club.”</p>
<p>“Won’t that be lovely?” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Torrence.</p>
<p>Across the street, he saw Imogene standing under the lamppost and in front of her Hubert Blair, his jaunty cap on the side of his head, maneuvering in a small circle. Basil winced as he heard his chuckling laugh. He did not perceive Margaret until she was beside him, pressing his ring into his hand like a bad penny. He muttered a strained hollow goodbye to her parents, and weak with apprehension, followed her back across the street.</p>
<p>Hanging back in a shadow, he fixed his eyes not on Imogene but on Hubert Blair. There was undoubtedly something rare about Hubert. In the eyes of children less than fifteen, the shape of the nose is the distinguishing mark of beauty. Parents may call attention to lovely eyes, shining hair or gorgeous coloring, but the nose and its juxtaposition on the face is what the adolescent sees. Upon the lithe, stylish, athletic torso of Hubert Blair was set a conventional chubby face, and upon this face was chiseled the piquant, retroussé nose of a Harrison Fisher girl.</p>
<p>He was confident; he had personality, uninhibited by doubts or moods. He did not go to dancing school⁠—his parents had moved to the city only a year ago⁠—but already he was a legend. Though most of the boys disliked him, they did homage to his virtuosic athletic ability, and for the girls his every movement, his pleasantries, his very indifference, had a simply immeasurable fascination. Upon several previous occasions Basil had discovered this; now the discouraging comedy began to unfold once more.</p>
<p>Hubert took off his skates, rolled one down his arm and caught it by the strap before it reached the pavement; he snatched the ribbon from Imogene’s hair and made off with it, dodging from under her arms as she pursued him, laughing and fascinated, around the yard. He cocked one foot behind the other and pretended to lean an elbow against a tree, missed the tree on purpose and gracefully saved himself from falling. The boys watched him noncommittally at first. Then they, too, broke out into activity, doing stunts and tricks as fast as they could think of them until those on the porch craned their necks at the sudden surge of activity in the garden. But Hubert coolly turned his back on his own success. He took Imogene’s hat and began setting it in various quaint ways upon his head. Imogene and the other girls were filled with delight.</p>
<p>Unable any longer to endure the nauseous spectacle, Basil went up to the group and said, “Why, hello, Hube,” in as negligent a tone as he could command.</p>
<p>Hubert answered: “Why, hello, old⁠—old Basil the Boozle,” and set the hat a different way on his head, until Basil himself couldn’t resist an unwilling chortle of laughter.</p>
<p>“Basil the Boozle! Hello, Basil the Boozle!” The cry circled the garden. Reproachfully he distinguished Riply’s voice among the others.</p>
<p>“Hube the Boob!” Basil countered quickly; but his ill humor detracted from the effect, though several boys repeated it appreciatively.</p>
<p>Gloom settled upon Basil, and through the heavy dusk the figure of Imogene began to take on a new, unattainable charm. He was a romantic boy and already he had endowed her heavily from his fancy. Now he hated her for her indifference, but he must perversely linger near in the vain hope of recovering the penny of ecstasy so wantonly expended this afternoon.</p>
<p>He tried to talk to Margaret with decoy animation, but Margaret was not responsive. Already a voice had gone up in the darkness calling in a child. Panic seized upon him; the blessed hour of summer evening was almost over. At a spreading of the group to let pedestrians through, he maneuvered Imogene unwillingly aside.</p>
<p>“I’ve got it,” he whispered. “Here it is. Can I take you home?”</p>
<p>She looked at him distractedly. Her hand closed automatically on the ring.</p>
<p>“What? Oh, I promised Hubert he could take me home.” At the sight of his face she pulled herself from her trance and forced a note of indignation. “I saw you going off with Margaret Torrence just as soon as I came into the yard.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t. I just went to get the ring.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you did! I saw you!”</p>
<p>Her eyes moved back to Hubert Blair. He had replaced his roller skates and was making little rhythmic jumps and twirls on his toes, like a witch doctor throwing a slow hypnosis over an African tribe. Basil’s voice, explaining and arguing, went on, but Imogene moved away. Helplessly he followed. There were other voices calling in the darkness now and unwilling responses on all sides.</p>
<p>“All right, mother!”</p>
<p>“I’ll be there in a second, mother.”</p>
<p>“Mother, can’t I please stay out five minutes more?”</p>
<p>“I’ve got to go,” Imogene cried. “It’s almost nine.”</p>
<p>Waving her hand and smiling absently at Basil, she started off down the street. Hubert pranced and stunted at her side, circled around her and made entrancing little figures ahead.</p>
<p>Only after a minute did Basil realize that another young lady was addressing him.</p>
<p>“What?” he demanded absently.</p>
<p>“Hubert Blair is the nicest boy in town and you’re the most conceited,” repeated Margaret Torrence with deep conviction.</p>
<p>He stared at her in pained surprise. Margaret wrinkled her nose at him and yielded up her person to the now-insistent demands coming from across the street. As Basil gazed stupidly after her and then watched the forms of Imogene and Hubert disappear around the corner, there was a low mutter of thunder along the sultry sky and a moment later a solitary drop plunged through the lamplit leaves overhead and splattered on the sidewalk at his feet. The day was to close in rain.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-scandal-detectives-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>It came quickly and he was drenched and running before he reached his house eight blocks away. But the change of weather had swept over his heart and he leaped up every few steps, swallowing the rain and crying “<em>Yo‑o‑o!</em>” aloud, as if he himself were a part of the fresh, violent disturbance of the night. Imogene was gone, washed out like the day’s dust on the sidewalk. Her beauty would come back into his mind in brighter weather, but here in the storm he was alone with himself. A sense of extraordinary power welled up in him, until to leave the ground permanently with one of his wild leaps would not have surprised him. He was a lone wolf, secret and untamed; a night prowler, demoniac and free. Only when he reached his own house did his emotion begin to turn, speculatively and almost without passion, against Hubert Blair.</p>
<p>He changed his clothes, and putting on pajamas and dressing-gown descended to the kitchen, where he happened upon a new chocolate cake. He ate a fourth of it and most of a bottle of milk. His elation somewhat diminished, he called up Riply Buckner on the phone.</p>
<p>“I’ve got a scheme,” he said.</p>
<p>“What about?”</p>
<p>“How to do something to <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">H. B.</abbr> with the S. D.”</p>
<p>Riply understood immediately what he meant. Hubert had been so indiscreet as to fascinate other girls besides Miss Bissel that evening.</p>
<p>“We’ll have to take in Bill Kampf,” Basil said.</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>“See you at recess tomorrow.⁠ ⁠… Good night!”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-scandal-detectives-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Four days later, when <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Blair were finishing dinner, Hubert was called to the telephone. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Blair took advantage of his absence to speak to her husband of what had been on her mind all day.</p>
<p>“George, those boys, or whatever they are, came again last night.”</p>
<p>He frowned.</p>
<p>“Did you see them?”</p>
<p>“Hilda did. She almost caught one of them. You see, I told her about the note they left last Tuesday, the one that said, ‘First warning, S. D.,’ so she was ready for them. They rang the backdoor bell this time and she answered it straight from the dishes. If her hands hadn’t been soapy she could have caught one, because she grabbed him when he handed her a note, but her hands were soapy so he slipped away.”</p>
<p>“What did he look like?”</p>
<p>“She said he might have been a very little man, but she thought he was a boy in a false face. He dodged like a boy, she said, and she thought he had short pants on. The note was like the other. It said ‘Second warning, S. D.’ ”</p>
<p>“If you’ve got it, I’d like to see it after dinner.”</p>
<p>Hubert came back from the phone. “It was Imogene Bissel,” he said. “She wants me to come over to her house. A bunch are going over there tonight.”</p>
<p>“Hubert,” asked his father, “do you know any boy with the initials <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name">S. D.</abbr>?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“Have you thought?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I thought. I knew a boy named Sam Davis, but I haven’t seen him for a year.”</p>
<p>“Who was he?”</p>
<p>“Oh, a sort of tough. He was at Number 44 School when I went there.”</p>
<p>“Did he have it in for you?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so.”</p>
<p>“Who do you think could be doing this? Has anybody got it in for you that you know about?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, papa; I don’t think so.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like the looks of this thing,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair thoughtfully. “Of course it may be only some boys, but it may be⁠—”</p>
<p>He was silent. Later, he studied the note. It was in red ink and there was a skull and crossbones in the corner, but being printed, it told him nothing at all.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Hubert kissed his mother, set his cap jauntily on the side of his head, and passing through the kitchen stepped out on the back stoop, intending to take the usual shortcut along the alley. It was a bright moonlit night and he paused for a moment on the stoop to tie his shoe. If he had but known that the telephone call just received had been a decoy, that it had not come from Imogene Bissel’s house, had not indeed been a girl’s voice at all, and that shadowy and grotesque forms were skulking in the alley just outside the gate, he would not have sprung so gracefully and lithely down the steps with his hands in his pockets or whistled the first bar of the Grizzly Bear into the apparently friendly night.</p>
<p>His whistle aroused varying emotions in the alley. Basil had given his daring and successful falsetto imitation over the telephone a little too soon, and though the Scandal Detectives had hurried, their preparations were not quite in order. They had become separated. Basil, got up like a Southern planter of the old persuasion, was just outside the Blairs’ gate; Bill Kampf, with a long Balkan mustache attached by a wire to the lower cartilage of his nose, was approaching in the shadow of the fence; but Riply Buckner, in a full rabbinical beard, was impeded by a length of rope he was trying to coil and was still a hundred feet away. The rope was an essential part of their plan; for, after much cogitation, they had decided what they were going to do to Hubert Blair. They were going to tie him up, gag him and put him in his own garbage can.</p>
<p>The idea at first horrified them⁠—it would ruin his suit, it was awfully dirty and he might smother. In fact the garbage can, symbol of all that was repulsive, won the day only because it made every other idea seem tame. They disposed of the objections⁠—his suit could be cleaned, it was where he ought to be anyhow, and if they left the lid off he couldn’t smother. To be sure of this they had paid a visit of inspection to the Buckners’ garbage can and stared into it, fascinated, envisaging Hubert among the rinds and eggshells. Then two of them, at last, resolutely put that part out of their minds and concentrated upon the luring of him into the alley and the overwhelming of him there.</p>
<p>Hubert’s cheerful whistle caught them off guard and each of the three stood stock-still, unable to communicate with the others. It flashed through Basil’s mind that if he grabbed Hubert without Riply at hand to apply the gag as had been arranged, Hubert’s cries might alarm the gigantic cook in the kitchen who had almost taken him the night before. The thought threw him into a state of indecision. At that precise moment Hubert opened the gate and came out into the alley.</p>
<p>The two stood five feet apart, staring at each other, and all at once Basil made a startling discovery. He discovered he liked Hubert Blair⁠—liked him well as any boy he knew. He had absolutely no wish to lay hands on Hubert Blair and stuff him into a garbage can, jaunty cap and all. He would have fought to prevent that contingency. As his mind, unstrung by his situation, gave pasture to this inconvenient thought, he turned and dashed out of the alley and up the street.</p>
<p>For a moment the apparition had startled Hubert, but when it turned and made off he was heartened and gave chase. Outdistanced, he decided after fifty yards to let well enough alone; and returning to the alley, started rather precipitously down toward the other end⁠—and came face to face with another small and hairy stranger.</p>
<p>Bill Kampf, being more simply organized than Basil, had no scruples of any kind. It had been decided to put Hubert into a garbage can, and though he had nothing at all against Hubert, the idea had made a pattern on his brain which he intended to follow. He was a natural man⁠—that is to say, a hunter⁠—and once a creature took on the aspect of a quarry, he would pursue it without qualms until it stopped struggling.</p>
<p>But he had been witness to Basil’s inexplicable flight, and supposing that Hubert’s father had appeared and was now directly behind him, he, too, faced about and made off down the alley. Presently he met Riply Buckner, who, without waiting to inquire the cause of his flight, enthusiastically joined him. Again Hubert was surprised into pursuing a little way. Then, deciding once and for all to let well enough alone, he returned on a dead run to his house.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Basil had discovered that he was not pursued, and keeping in the shadows, made his way back to the alley. He was not frightened⁠—he had simply been incapable of action. The alley was empty; neither Bill nor Riply was in sight. He saw <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair come to the back gate, open it, look up and down and go back into the house. He came closer. There was a great chatter in the kitchen⁠—Hubert’s voice, loud and boastful, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Blair’s, frightened, and the two Swedish domestics contributing bursts of hilarious laughter. Then through an open window he heard <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair’s voice at the telephone:</p>
<p>“I want to speak to the chief of police.⁠ ⁠… Chief, this is George <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">P.</abbr> Blair.⁠ ⁠… Chief, there’s a gang of toughs around here who⁠—”</p>
<p>Basil was off like a flash, tearing at his Confederate whiskers as he ran.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-scandal-detectives-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>Imogene Bissel, having just turned thirteen, was not accustomed to having callers at night. She was spending a bored and solitary evening inspecting the month’s bills which were scattered over her mother’s desk, when she heard Hubert Blair and his father admitted into the front hall.</p>
<p>“I just thought I’d bring him over myself,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair was saying to her mother. “There seems to be a gang of toughs hanging around our alley tonight.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel had not called upon <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Blair and she was considerably taken aback by this unexpected visit. She even entertained the uncharitable thought that this was a crude overture, undertaken by <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair on behalf of his wife.</p>
<p>“Really!” she exclaimed. “Imogene will be delighted to see Hubert, I’m sure.⁠ ⁠… Imogene!”</p>
<p>“These toughs were evidently lying in wait for Hubert,” continued <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair. “But he’s a pretty spunky boy and he managed to drive them away. However, I didn’t want him to come down here alone.”</p>
<p>“Of course not,” she agreed. But she was unable to imagine why Hubert should have come at all. He was a nice enough boy, but surely Imogene had seen enough of him the last three afternoons. In fact, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel was annoyed, and there was a minimum of warmth in her voice when she asked <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair to come in.</p>
<p>They were still in the hall, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair was just beginning to perceive that all was not as it should be, when there was another ring at the bell. Upon the door being opened, Basil Lee, red-faced and breathless, stood on the threshold.</p>
<p>“How do you do, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel? Hello, Imogene!” he cried in an unnecessarily hearty voice. “Where’s the party?”</p>
<p>The salutation might have sounded to a dispassionate observer somewhat harsh and unnatural, but it fell upon the ears of an already disconcerted group.</p>
<p>“There isn’t any party,” said Imogene wonderingly.</p>
<p>“What?” Basil’s mouth dropped open in exaggerated horror, his voice trembled slightly. “You mean to say you didn’t call me up and tell me to come over here to a party?”</p>
<p>“Why, of course not, Basil!”</p>
<p>Imogene was excited by Hubert’s unexpected arrival and it occurred to her that Basil had invented this excuse to spoil it. Alone of those present, she was close to the truth; but she underestimated the urgency of Basil’s motive, which was not jealousy but mortal fear.</p>
<p>“You called <em>me</em> up, didn’t you, Imogene?” demanded Hubert confidently.</p>
<p>“Why, no, Hubert! I didn’t call up anybody.”</p>
<p>Amid a chorus of bewildered protestations, there was another ring at the doorbell and the pregnant night yielded up Riply Buckner, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, and William <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">S.</abbr> Kampf. Like Basil, they were somewhat rumpled and breathless, and they no less rudely and peremptorily demanded the whereabouts of the party, insisting with curious vehemence that Imogene had just now invited them over the phone.</p>
<p>Hubert laughed, the others began to laugh and the tensity relaxed. Imogene, because she believed Hubert, now began to believe them all. Unable to restrain himself any longer in the presence of this unhoped-for audience, Hubert burst out with his amazing adventure.</p>
<p>“I guess there’s a gang laying for us all!” he exclaimed. “There were some guys laying for me in our alley when I went out. There was a big fellow with gray whiskers, but when he saw me he ran away. Then I went along the alley and there was a bunch more, sort of foreigners or something, and I started after’m and they ran. I tried to catchem, but I guess they were good and scared, because they ran too fast for <em>me</em>.”</p>
<p>So interested were Hubert and his father in the story that they failed to perceive that three of his listeners were growing purple in the face or to mark the uproarious laughter that greeted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bissel’s polite proposal that they have a party, after all.</p>
<p>“Tell about the warnings, Hubert,” prompted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair. “You see, Hubert had received these warnings. Did you boys get any warnings?”</p>
<p>“I did,” said Basil suddenly. “I got a sort of warning on a piece of paper about a week ago.”</p>
<p>For a moment, as <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair’s worried eye fell upon Basil, a strong sense not precisely of suspicion but rather of obscure misgiving passed over him. Possibly that odd aspect of Basil’s eyebrows, where wisps of crêpe hair still lingered, connected itself in his subconscious mind with what was bizarre in the events of the evening. He shook his head somewhat puzzled. Then his thoughts glided back restfully to Hubert’s courage and presence of mind.</p>
<p>Hubert, meanwhile, having exhausted his facts, was making tentative leaps into the realms of imagination.</p>
<p>“I said, ‘So you’re the guy that’s been sending these warnings,’ and he swung his left at me, and I dodged and swung my right back at him. I guess I must have landed, because he gave a yell and ran. Gosh, he could run! You’d ought to of seen him, Bill⁠—he could run as fast as you.”</p>
<p>“Was he big?” asked Basil, blowing his nose noisily.</p>
<p>“Sure! About as big as father.”</p>
<p>“Were the other ones big too?”</p>
<p>“Sure! They were pretty big. I didn’t wait to see, I just yelled, ‘You get out of here, you bunch of toughs, or I’ll show you!’ They started a sort of fight, but I swung my right at one of them and they didn’t wait for any more.”</p>
<p>“Hubert says he thinks they were Italians,” interrupted <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair. “Didn’t you, Hubert?”</p>
<p>“They were sort of funny-looking,” Hubert said. “One fellow looked like an Italian.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel led the way to the dining room, where she had caused a cake and grape juice supper to be spread. Imogene took a chair by Hubert’s side.</p>
<p>“Now tell me all about it, Hubert,” she said, attentively folding her hands.</p>
<p>Hubert ran over the adventure once more. A knife now made its appearance in the belt of one conspirator; Hubert’s parleys with them lengthened and grew in volume and virulence. He had told them just what they might expect if they fooled with him. They had started to draw knives, but had thought better of it and taken to flight.</p>
<p>In the middle of this recital there was a curious snorting sound from across the table, but when Imogene looked over, Basil was spreading jelly on a piece of coffee cake and his eyes were brightly innocent. A minute later, however, the sound was repeated, and this time she intercepted a specifically malicious expression upon his face.</p>
<p>“I wonder what you’d have done, Basil,” she said cuttingly. “I’ll bet you’d be running yet!”</p>
<p>Basil put the piece of coffee cake in his mouth and immediately choked on it⁠—an accident which Bill Kampf and Riply Buckner found hilariously amusing. Their amusement at various casual incidents at table seemed to increase as Hubert’s story continued. The alley now swarmed with malefactors, and as Hubert struggled on against overwhelming odds, Imogene found herself growing restless⁠—without in the least realizing that the tale was boring her. On the contrary, each time Hubert recollected new incidents and began again, she looked spitefully over at Basil, and her dislike for him grew.</p>
<p>When they moved into the library, Imogene went to the piano, where she sat alone while the boys gathered around Hubert on the couch. To her chagrin, they seemed quite content to listen indefinitely. Odd little noises squeaked out of them from time to time, but whenever the narrative slackened they would beg for more.</p>
<p>“Go on, Hubert. Which one did you say could run as fast as Bill Kampf?”</p>
<p>She was glad when, after half an hour, they all got up to go.</p>
<p>“It’s a strange affair from beginning to end,” <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair was saying. “I don’t like it. I’m going to have a detective look into the matter tomorrow. What did they want of Hubert? What were they going to do to him?”</p>
<p>No one offered a suggestion. Even Hubert was silent, contemplating his possible fate with certain respectful awe. During breaks in his narration the talk had turned to such collateral matters as murders and ghosts, and all the boys had talked themselves into a state of considerable panic. In fact each had come to believe, in varying degrees, that a band of kidnappers infested the vicinity.</p>
<p>“I don’t like it,” repeated <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair. “In fact I’m going to see all of you boys to your own homes.”</p>
<p>Basil greeted this offer with relief. The evening had been a mad success, but furies once aroused sometimes get out of hand. He did not feel like walking the streets alone tonight.</p>
<p>In the hall, Imogene, taking advantage of her mother’s somewhat fatigued farewell to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Blair, beckoned Hubert back into the library. Instantly attuned to adversity, Basil listened. There was a whisper and a short scuffle, followed by an indiscreet but unmistakable sound. With the corners of his mouth falling, Basil went out the door. He had stacked the cards dexterously, but Life had played a trump from its sleeve at the last.</p>
<p>A moment later they all started off, clinging together in a group, turning corners with cautious glances behind and ahead. What Basil and Riply and Bill expected to see as they peered warily into the sinister mouths of alleys and around great dark trees and behind concealing fences they did not know⁠—in all probability the same hairy and grotesque desperadoes who had lain in wait for Hubert Blair that night.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-scandal-detectives-6" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
<p>A week later Basil and Riply heard that Hubert and his mother had gone to the seashore for the summer. Basil was sorry. He had wanted to learn from Hubert some of the graceful mannerisms that his contemporaries found so dazzling and that might come in so handy next fall when he went away to school. In tribute to Hubert’s passing, he practised leaning against a tree and missing it and rolling a skate down his arm, and he wore his cap in Hubert’s manner, set jauntily on the side of his head.</p>
<p>This was only for a while. He perceived eventually that though boys and girls would always listen to him while he talked, their mouths literally moving in response to his, they would never look at him as they had looked at Hubert. So he abandoned the loud chuckle that so annoyed his mother and set his cap straight upon his head once more.</p>
<p>But the change in him went deeper than that. He was no longer sure that he wanted to be a gentleman burglar, though he still read of their exploits with breathless admiration. Outside of Hubert’s gate, he had for a moment felt morally alone; and he realized that whatever combinations he might make of the materials of life would have to be safely within the law. And after another week he found that he no longer grieved over losing Imogene. Meeting her, he saw only the familiar little girl he had always known. The ecstatic moment of that afternoon had been a premature birth, an emotion left over from an already fleeting spring.</p>
<p>He did not know that he had frightened <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Blair out of town and that because of him a special policeman walked a placid beat for many a night. All he knew was that the vague and restless yearnings of three long spring months were somehow satisfied. They reached combustion in that last week⁠—flared up, exploded and burned out. His face was turned without regret toward the boundless possibilities of summer.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="a-night-at-the-fair" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">A Night at the Fair</h2>
<p>The two cities were separated only by a thin well-bridged river; their tails curling over the banks met and mingled, and at the juncture, under the jealous eye of each, lay, every fall, the State Fair. Because of this advantageous position, and because of the agricultural eminence of the state, the fair was one of the most magnificent in America. There were immense exhibits of grain, livestock and farming machinery; there were horse races and automobile races and, lately, aeroplanes that really left the ground; there was a tumultuous Midway with Coney Island thrillers to whirl you through space, and a whining, tinkling hoochie-coochie show. As a compromise between the serious and the trivial, a grand exhibition of fireworks, culminating in a representation of the Battle of Gettysburg, took place in the Grand Concourse every night.</p>
<p>At the late afternoon of a hot September day two boys of fifteen, somewhat replete with food and pop, and fatigued by eight hours of constant motion, issued from the Penny Arcade. The one with dark, handsome, eager eyes was, according to the cosmic inscription in his last year’s Ancient History, “Basil Duke Lee, Holly Avenue, <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul, Minnesota, United States, North America, Western Hemisphere, the World, the Universe.” Though slightly shorter than his companion, he appeared taller, for he projected, so to speak, from short trousers, while Riply Buckner, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, had graduated into long ones the week before. This event, so simple and natural, was having a disrupting influence on the intimate friendship between them that had endured for several years.</p>
<p>During that time Basil, the imaginative member of the firm, had been the dominating partner, and the displacement effected by two feet of blue serge filled him with puzzled dismay⁠—in fact, Riply Buckner had become noticeably indifferent to the pleasure of Basil’s company in public. His own assumption of long trousers had seemed to promise a liberation from the restraints and inferiorities of boyhood, and the companionship of one who was, in token of his short pants, still a boy was an unwelcome reminder of how recent was his own metamorphosis. He scarcely admitted this to himself, but a certain shortness of temper with Basil, a certain tendency to belittle him with superior laughter, had been in evidence all afternoon. Basil felt the new difference keenly. In August a family conference had decided that even though he was going East to school, he was too small for long trousers. He had countered by growing an inch and a half in a fortnight, which added to his reputation for unreliability, but led him to hope that his mother might be persuaded, after all.</p>
<p>Coming out of the stuffy tent into the glow of sunset, the two boys hesitated, glancing up and down the crowded highway with expressions compounded of a certain ennui and a certain inarticulate yearning. They were unwilling to go home before it became necessary, yet they knew they had temporarily glutted their appetite for sights; they wanted a change in the tone, the motif, of the day. Near them was the parking space, as yet a modest yard; and as they lingered indecisively, their eyes were caught and held by a small car, red in color and slung at that proximity to the ground which indicated both speed of motion and speed of life. It was a Blatz Wildcat, and for the next five years it represented the ambition of several million American boys. Occupying it, in the posture of aloof exhaustion exacted by the sloping seat, was a blonde, gay, baby-faced girl.</p>
<p>The two boys stared. She bent upon them a single cool glance and then returned to her avocation of reclining in a Blatz Wildcat and looking haughtily at the sky. The two boys exchanged a glance, but made no move to go. They watched the girl⁠—when they felt that their stares were noticeable they dropped their eyes and gazed at the car.</p>
<p>After several minutes a young man with a very pink face and pink hair, wearing a yellow suit and hat and drawing on yellow gloves, appeared and got into the car. There was a series of frightful explosions; then, with a measured <i>tup-tup-tup</i> from the open cutout, insolent, percussive and thrilling as a drum, the car and the girl and the young man whom they had recognized as Speed Paxton slid smoothly away.</p>
<p>Basil and Riply turned and strolled back thoughtfully toward the Midway. They knew that Speed Paxton was dimly terrible⁠—the wild and pampered son of a local brewer⁠—but they envied him⁠—to ride off into the sunset in such a chariot, into the very hush and mystery of night, beside him the mystery of that baby-faced girl. It was probably this envy that made them begin to shout when they perceived a tall youth of their own age issuing from a shooting gallery.</p>
<p>“Oh, El! Hey, El! Wait a minute!”</p>
<p>Elwood Leaming turned around and waited. He was the dissipated one among the nice boys of the town⁠—he had drunk beer, he had learned from chauffeurs, he was already thin from too many cigarettes. As they greeted him eagerly, the hard, wise expression of a man of the world met them in his half-closed eyes.</p>
<p>“Hello, Rip. Put it there, Rip. Hello, Basil, old boy. Put it there.”</p>
<p>“What you doing, El?” Riply asked.</p>
<p>“Nothing. What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Nothing.”</p>
<p>Elwood Leaming narrowed his eyes still further, seemed to give thought, and then made a decisive clicking sound with his teeth.</p>
<p>“Well, what do you say we pick something up?” he suggested. “I saw some pretty good stuff around here this afternoon.”</p>
<p>Riply and Basil drew tense, secret breaths. A year before they had been shocked because Elwood went to the burlesque shows at the Star⁠—now here he was holding the door open to his own speedy life.</p>
<p>The responsibility of his new maturity impelled Riply to appear most eager. “All right with me,” he said heartily.</p>
<p>He looked at Basil.</p>
<p>“All right with me,” mumbled Basil.</p>
<p>Riply laughed, more from nervousness than from derision. “Maybe you better grow up first, Basil.” He looked at Elwood, seeking approval. “You better stick around till you get to be a man.”</p>
<p>“Oh, dry up!” retorted Basil. “How long have you had yours? Just a week!”</p>
<p>But he realized that there was a gap separating him from these two, and it was with a sense of tagging them that he walked along beside.</p>
<p>Glancing from right to left with the expression of a keen and experienced frontiersman, Elwood Leaming led the way. Several pairs of strolling girls met his mature glance and smiled encouragingly, but he found them unsatisfactory⁠—too fat, too plain or too hard. All at once their eyes fell upon two who sauntered along a little ahead of them, and they increased their pace, Elwood with confidence, Riply with its nervous counterfeit and Basil suddenly in the grip of wild excitement.</p>
<p>They were abreast of them. Basil’s heart was in his throat. He looked away as he heard Elwood’s voice.</p>
<p>“Hello, girls! How are you this evening?”</p>
<p>Would they call for the police? Would his mother and Riply’s suddenly turn the corner?</p>
<p>“Hello, yourself, kiddo!”</p>
<p>“Where you going, girls?”</p>
<p>“Nowhere.”</p>
<p>“Well, let’s all go together.”</p>
<p>Then all of them were standing in a group and Basil was relieved to find that they were only girls his own age, after all. They were pretty, with clear skins and red lips and maturely piled up hair. One he immediately liked better than the other⁠—her voice was quieter and she was shy. Basil was glad when Elwood walked on with the bolder one, leaving him and Riply to follow with the other, behind.</p>
<p>The first lights of the evening were springing into pale existence; the afternoon crowd had thinned a little, and the lanes, empty of people, were heavy with the rich various smells of pop corn and peanuts, molasses and dust and cooking Wienerwurst and a not-unpleasant overtone of animals and hay. The Ferris wheel, pricked out now in lights, revolved leisurely through the dusk; a few empty cars of the roller coaster rattled overhead. The heat had blown off and there was the crisp stimulating excitement of Northern autumn in the air.</p>
<p>They walked. Basil felt that there was some way of talking to this girl, but he could manage nothing in the key of Elwood Leaming’s intense and confidential manner to the girl ahead⁠—as if he had inadvertently discovered a kinship of tastes and of hearts. So to save the progression from absolute silence⁠—for Riply’s contribution amounted only to an occasional burst of silly laughter⁠—Basil pretended an interest in the sights they passed and kept up a sort of comment thereon.</p>
<p>“There’s the six-legged calf. Have you seen it?”</p>
<p>“No, I haven’t.”</p>
<p>“There’s where the man rides the motorcycle around. Did you go there?”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t.”</p>
<p>“Look! They’re beginning to fill the balloon. I wonder what time they start the fireworks.”</p>
<p>“Have you been to the fireworks?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m going tomorrow night. Have you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I been every night. My brother works there. He’s one of them that helps set them off.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>He wondered if her brother cared that she had been picked up by strangers. He wondered even more if she felt as silly as he. It must be getting late, and he had promised to be home by half-past seven on pain of not being allowed out tomorrow night. He walked up beside Elwood.</p>
<p>“Hey, El,” he asked, “where we going?”</p>
<p>Elwood turned to him and winked. “We’re going around the Old Mill.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>Basil dropped back again⁠—became aware that in his temporary absence Riply and the girl had linked arms. A twinge of jealousy went through him and he inspected the girl again and with more appreciation, finding her prettier than he had thought. Her eyes, dark and intimate, seemed to have wakened at the growing brilliance of the illumination overhead; there was the promise of excitement in them now, like the promise of the cooling night.</p>
<p>He considered taking her other arm, but it was too late; she and Riply were laughing together at something⁠—rather, at nothing. She had asked him what he laughed at all the time and he had laughed again for an answer. Then they both laughed hilariously and sporadically together.</p>
<p>Basil looked disgustedly at Riply. “I never heard such a silly laugh in my life,” he said indignantly.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you?” chuckled Riply Buckner. “Didn’t you, little boy?”</p>
<p>He bent double with laughter and the girl joined in. The words “little boy” had fallen on Basil like a jet of cold water. In his excitement he had forgotten something, as a cripple might forget his limp only to discover it when he began to run.</p>
<p>“You think you’re so big!” he exclaimed. “Where’d you get the pants? Where’d you get the pants?” He tried to work this up with gusto and was about to add: “They’re your father’s pants,” when he remembered that Riply’s father, like his own, was dead.</p>
<p>The couple ahead reached the entrance to the Old Mill and waited for them. It was an off hour, and half a dozen scows bumped in the wooden offing, swayed by the mild tide of the artificial river. Elwood and his girl got into the front seat and he promptly put his arm around her. Basil helped the other girl into the rear seat, but, dispirited, he offered no resistance when Riply wedged in and sat down between.</p>
<p>They floated off, immediately entering upon a long echoing darkness. Somewhere far ahead a group in another boat were singing, their voices now remote and romantic, now nearer and yet more mysterious, as the canal doubled back and the boats passed close to each other with an invisible veil between.</p>
<p>The three boys yelled and called, Basil attempting by his vociferousness and variety to outdo Riply in the girl’s eyes, but after a few moments there was no sound except his own voice and the continual <i>bump-bump</i> of the boat against the wooden sides, and he knew without looking that Riply had put his arm about the girl’s shoulder.</p>
<p>They slid into a red glow⁠—a stage set of hell, with grinning demons and lurid paper fires⁠—he made out that Elwood and his girl sat cheek to cheek⁠—then again into the darkness, with the gently lapping water and the passing of the singing boat now near, now far away. For a while Basil pretended that he was interested in this other boat, calling to them, commenting on their proximity. Then he discovered that the scow could be rocked and took to this poor amusement until Elwood Leaming turned around indignantly and cried:</p>
<p>“Hey! What are you trying to do?”</p>
<p>They came out finally to the entrance and the two couples broke apart. Basil jumped miserably ashore.</p>
<p>“Give us some more tickets,” Riply cried. “We want to go around again.”</p>
<p>“Not me,” said Basil with elaborate indifference. “I have to go home.”</p>
<p>Riply began to laugh in derision and triumph. The girl laughed too.</p>
<p>“Well, so long, little boy,” Riply cried hilariously.</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up! So long, Elwood.”</p>
<p>“So long, Basil.”</p>
<p>The boat was already starting off; arms settled again about the girls’ shoulders.</p>
<p>“So long, little boy!”</p>
<p>“So long, you big cow!” Basil cried. “Where’d you get the pants? Where’d you get the pants?”</p>
<p>But the boat had already disappeared into the dark mouth of the tunnel, leaving the echo of Riply’s taunting laughter behind.</p>
<p>It is an ancient tradition that all boys are obsessed with the idea of being grown. This is because they occasionally give voice to their impatience with the restraints of youth, while those great stretches of time when they are more than content to be boys find expression in action and not in words. Sometimes Basil wanted to be just a little bit older, but no more. The question of long pants had not seemed vital to him⁠—he wanted them, but as a costume they had no such romantic significance as, for example, a football suit or an officer’s uniform, or even the silk hat and opera cape in which gentlemen burglars were wont to prowl the streets of New York by night.</p>
<p>But when he awoke next morning they were the most important necessity in his life. Without them he was cut off from his contemporaries, laughed at by a boy whom he had hitherto led. The actual fact that last night some chickens had preferred Riply to himself was of no importance in itself, but he was fiercely competitive and he resented being required to fight with one hand tied behind his back. He felt that parallel situations would occur at school, and that was unbearable. He approached his mother at breakfast in a state of wild excitement.</p>
<p>“Why, Basil,” she protested in surprise, “I thought when we talked it over you didn’t especially care.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got to have them,” he declared. “I’d rather be dead than go away to school without them.”</p>
<p>“Well, there’s no need of being silly.”</p>
<p>“It’s true⁠—I’d rather be dead. If I can’t have long trousers I don’t see any use in my going away to school.”</p>
<p>His emotion was such that the vision of his demise began actually to disturb his mother.</p>
<p>“Now stop that silly talk and come and eat your breakfast. You can go down and buy some at Barton Leigh’s this morning.”</p>
<p>Mollified, but still torn by the urgency of his desire, Basil strode up and down the room.</p>
<p>“A boy is simply helpless without them,” he declared vehemently. The phrase pleased him and he amplified it. “A boy is simply and utterly helpless without them. I’d rather be dead than go away to school⁠—”</p>
<p>“Basil, stop talking like that. Somebody has been teasing you about it.”</p>
<p>“Nobody’s been teasing me,” he denied indignantly⁠—“nobody at all.”</p>
<p>After breakfast, the maid called him to the phone.</p>
<p>“This is Riply,” said a tentative voice. Basil acknowledged the fact coldly. “You’re not sore about last night, are you?” Riply asked.</p>
<p>“Me? No. Who said I was sore?”</p>
<p>“Nobody. Well, listen, you know about us going to the fireworks together tonight.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Basil’s voice was still cold.</p>
<p>“Well, one of those girls⁠—the one Elwood had⁠—has got a sister that’s even nicer than she is, and she can come out tonight and you could have her. And we thought we could meet about eight, because the fireworks don’t start till nine.”</p>
<p>“What do?”</p>
<p>“Well, we could go on the Old Mill again. We went around three times more last night.”</p>
<p>There was a moment’s silence. Basil looked to see if his mother’s door was closed.</p>
<p>“Did you kiss yours?” he demanded into the transmitter.</p>
<p>“Sure I did!” Over the wire came the ghost of a silly laugh. “Listen, El thinks he can get his auto. We could call for you at seven.”</p>
<p>“All right,” agreed Basil gruffly, and he added, “I’m going down and get some long pants this morning.”</p>
<p>“Are you?” Again Basil detected ghostly laughter. “Well, you be ready at seven tonight.”</p>
<p>Basil’s uncle met him at Barton Leigh’s clothing store at ten, and Basil felt a touch of guilt at having put his family to all this trouble and expense. On his uncle’s advice, he decided finally on two suits⁠—a heavy chocolate brown for every day and a dark blue for formal wear. There were certain alterations to be made but it was agreed that one of the suits was to be delivered without fail that afternoon.</p>
<p>His momentary contriteness at having been so expensive made him save carfare by walking home from downtown. Passing along Crest Avenue, he paused speculatively to vault the high hydrant in front of the Van Schellinger house, wondering if one did such things in long trousers and if he would ever do it again. He was impelled to leap it two or three times as a sort of ceremonial farewell, and was so engaged when the Van Schellinger limousine turned into the drive and stopped at the front door.</p>
<p>“Oh, Basil,” a voice called.</p>
<p>A fresh delicate face, half buried under a mass of almost white curls, was turned toward him from the granite portico of the city’s second largest mansion.</p>
<p>“Hello, Gladys.”</p>
<p>“Come here a minute, Basil.”</p>
<p>He obeyed. Gladys Van Schellinger was a year younger than Basil⁠—a tranquil, carefully nurtured girl who, so local tradition had it, was being brought up to marry in the East. She had a governess and always played with a certain few girls at her house or theirs, and was not allowed the casual freedom of children in a Midwestern city. She was never present at such rendezvous as the Whartons’ yard, where the others played games in the afternoons.</p>
<p>“Basil, I wanted to ask you something⁠—are you going to the State Fair tonight?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, I am.”</p>
<p>“Well, wouldn’t you like to come and sit in our box and watch the fireworks?”</p>
<p>Momentarily he considered the matter. He wanted to accept, but he was mysteriously impelled to refuse⁠—to forgo a pleasure in order to pursue a quest that in cold logic did not interest him at all.</p>
<p>“I can’t. I’m awfully sorry.”</p>
<p>A shadow of discontent crossed Gladys’ face. “Oh? Well, come and see me sometime soon, Basil. In a few weeks I’m going East to school.”</p>
<p>He walked on up the street in a state of dissatisfaction. Gladys Van Schellinger had never been his girl, nor indeed anyone’s girl, but the fact that they were starting away to school at the same time gave him a feeling of kinship for her⁠—as if they had been selected for the glamorous adventure of the East, chosen together for a high destiny that transcended the fact that she was rich and he was only comfortable. He was sorry that he could not sit with her in her box tonight.</p>
<p>By three o’clock, Basil, reading the Crimson Sweater up in his room, began giving attentive ear to every ring at the bell. He would go to the head of the stairs, lean over and call, “Hilda, was that a package for me?” And at four, dissatisfied with her indifference, her lack of feeling for important things, her slowness in going to and returning from the door, he moved downstairs and began attending to it himself. But nothing came. He phoned Barton Leigh’s and was told by a busy clerk: “You’ll get that suit. I’ll guarantee that you’ll get that suit.” But he did not believe in the clerk’s honor and he moved out on the porch and watched for Barton Leigh’s delivery wagon.</p>
<p>His mother came home at five. “There were probably more alterations than they thought,” she suggested helpfully. “You’ll probably get it tomorrow morning.”</p>
<p>“Tomorrow morning!” he exclaimed incredulously. “I’ve got to have that suit tonight.”</p>
<p>“Well, I wouldn’t be too disappointed if I were you, Basil. The stores all close at half-past five.”</p>
<p>Basil took one agitated look up and down Holly Avenue. Then he got his cap and started on a run for the street car at the corner. A moment later a cautious afterthought caused him to retrace his steps with equal rapidity.</p>
<p>“If they get here, keep them for me,” he instructed his mother⁠—a man who thought of everything.</p>
<p>“All right,” she promised dryly, “I will.”</p>
<p>It was later than he thought. He had to wait for a trolley, and when he reached Barton Leigh’s he saw with horror that the doors were locked and the blinds drawn. He intercepted a last clerk coming out and explained vehemently that he had to have his suit tonight. The clerk knew nothing about the matter.⁠ ⁠… Was Basil <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Schwartze?</p>
<p>No, Basil was not <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Schwartze. After a vague argument wherein he tried to convince the clerk that whoever promised him the suit should be fired, Basil went dispiritedly home.</p>
<p>He would not go to the fair without his suit⁠—he would not go at all. He would sit at home and luckier boys would go adventuring along its Great White Way. Mysterious girls, young and reckless, would glide with them through the enchanted darkness of the Old Mill, but because of the stupidity, selfishness and dishonesty of a clerk in a clothing store he would not be there. In a day or so the fair would be over⁠—forever⁠—those girls, of all living girls the most intangible, the most desirable, that sister, said to be nicest of all⁠—would be lost out of his life. They would ride off in Blatz Wildcats into the moonlight without Basil having kissed them. No, all his life⁠—though he would lose the clerk his position: “You see now what your act did to me”⁠—he would look back with infinite regret upon that irretrievable hour. Like most of us, he was unable to perceive that he would have any desires in the future equivalent to those that possessed him now.</p>
<p>He reached home; the package had not arrived. He moped dismally about the house, consenting at half-past six to sit silently at dinner with his mother, his elbows on the table.</p>
<p>“Haven’t you any appetite, Basil?”</p>
<p>“No, thanks,” he said absently, under the impression he had been offered something.</p>
<p>“You’re not going away to school for two more weeks. Why should it matter⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, that isn’t the reason I can’t eat. I had a sort of headache all afternoon.”</p>
<p>Toward the end of the meal his eye focused abstractedly on some slices of angel cake; with the air of a somnambulist, he ate three.</p>
<p>At seven he heard the sounds that should have ushered in a night of romantic excitement.</p>
<p>The Leaming car stopped outside, and a moment later Riply Buckner rang the bell. Basil rose gloomily.</p>
<p>“I’ll go,” he said to Hilda. And then to his mother, with vague impersonal reproach, “Excuse me a minute. I just want to tell them I can’t go to the fair tonight.”</p>
<p>“But of course you can go, Basil. Don’t be silly. Just because⁠—”</p>
<p>He scarcely heard her. Opening the door, he faced Riply on the steps. Beyond was the Leaming limousine, an old high car, quivering in silhouette against the harvest moon.</p>
<p><i>Clop-clop-clop!</i> Up the street came the Barton Leigh delivery wagon. <i>Clop-clop!</i> A man jumped out, dumped an iron anchor to the pavement, hurried along the street, turned away, turned back again, came toward them with a long square box in his hand.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to wait a minute,” Basil was calling wildly. “It can’t make any difference. I’ll dress in the library. Look here, if you’re a friend of mine, you’ll wait a minute.” He stepped out on the porch. “Hey, El, I’ve just got my⁠—got to change my clothes. You can wait a minute, can’t you?”</p>
<p>The spark of a cigarette flushed in the darkness as El spoke to the chauffeur; the quivering car came to rest with a sigh and the skies filled suddenly with stars.</p>
<p>Once again the fair⁠—but differing from the fair of the afternoon as a girl in the daytime differs from her radiant presentation of herself at night. The substance of the cardboard booths and plaster palaces was gone, the forms remained. Outlined in lights, these forms suggested things more mysterious and entrancing than themselves, and the people strolling along the network of little Broadways shared this quality, as their pale faces singly and in clusters broke the half darkness.</p>
<p>The boys hurried to their rendezvous, finding the girls in the deep shadow of the Temple of Wheat. Their forms had scarcely merged into a group when Basil became aware that something was wrong. In growing apprehension, he glanced from face to face and, as the introductions were made, he realized the appalling truth⁠—the younger sister was, in point of fact, a fright, squat and dingy, with a bad complexion brooding behind a mask of cheap pink powder and a shapeless mouth that tried ceaselessly to torture itself into the mold of charm.</p>
<p>In a daze he heard Riply’s girl say, “I don’t know whether I ought to go with you. I had a sort of date with another fellow I met this afternoon.”</p>
<p>Fidgeting, she looked up and down the street, while Riply, in astonishment and dismay, tried to take her arm.</p>
<p>“Come on,” he urged. “Didn’t I have a date with you first?”</p>
<p>“But I didn’t know whether you’d come or not,” she said perversely.</p>
<p>Elwood and the two sisters added their entreaties.</p>
<p>“Maybe I could go on the Ferris wheel,” she said grudgingly, “but not the Old Mill. This fellow would be sore.”</p>
<p>Riply’s confidence reeled with the blow; his mouth fell ajar, his hand desperately pawed her arm. Basil stood glancing now with agonized politeness at his own girl, now at the others, with an expression of infinite reproach. Elwood alone was successful and content.</p>
<p>“Let’s go on the Ferris wheel,” he said impatiently. “We can’t stand here all night.”</p>
<p>At the ticket booth the recalcitrant Olive hesitated once more, frowning and glancing about as if she still hoped Riply’s rival would appear.</p>
<p>But when the swooping cars came to rest she let herself be persuaded in, and the three couples, with their troubles, were hoisted slowly into the air.</p>
<p>As the car rose, following the imagined curve of the sky, it occurred to Basil how much he would have enjoyed it in other company, or even alone, the fair twinkling beneath him with new variety, the velvet quality of the darkness that is on the edge of light and is barely permeated by its last attenuations. But he was unable to hurt anyone whom he thought of as an inferior. After a minute he turned to the girl beside him.</p>
<p>“Do you live in <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul or Minneapolis?” he inquired formally.</p>
<p>“<abbr>St.</abbr> Paul. I go to Number 7 School.” Suddenly she moved closer. “I bet you’re not so slow,” she encouraged him.</p>
<p>He put his arm around her shoulder and found it warm. Again they reached the top of the wheel and the sky stretched out overhead, again they lapsed down through gusts of music from remote calliopes. Keeping his eyes turned carefully away, Basil pressed her to him, and as they rose again into darkness, leaned and kissed her cheek.</p>
<p>The significance of the contact stirred him, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her face⁠—he was thankful when a gong struck below and the machine settled slowly to rest.</p>
<p>The three couples were scarcely reunited outside when Olive uttered a yelp of excitement.</p>
<p>“There he is!” she cried. “That Bill Jones I met this afternoon⁠—that I had the date with.”</p>
<p>A youth of their own age was approaching, stepping like a circus pony and twirling, with the deftness of a drum major, a small rattan cane. Under the cautious alias, the three boys recognized a friend and contemporary⁠—none other than the fascinating Hubert Blair.</p>
<p>He came nearer. He greeted them all with a friendly chuckle. He took off his cap, spun it, dropped it, caught it, set it jauntily on the side of his head.</p>
<p>“You’re a nice one,” he said to Olive. “I waited here fifteen minutes this evening.”</p>
<p>He pretended to belabor her with the cane; she giggled with delight. Hubert Blair possessed the exact tone that all girls of fourteen, and a somewhat cruder type of grown women, find irresistible. He was a gymnastic virtuoso and his figure was in constant graceful motion; he had a jaunty piquant nose, a disarming laugh and a shrewd talent for flattery. When he took a piece of toffee from his pocket, placed it on his forehead, shook it off and caught it in his mouth, it was obvious to any disinterested observer that Riply was destined to see no more of Olive that night.</p>
<p>So fascinated were the group that they failed to see Basil’s eyes brighten with a ray of hope, his feet take four quick steps backward with all the guile of a gentleman burglar, his torso writhe through the parting of a tent wall into the deserted premises of the Harvester and Tractor Show. Once safe, Basil’s tensity relaxed, and as he considered Riply’s unconsciousness of the responsibilities presently to devolve upon him, he bent double with hilarious laughter in the darkness.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later, in a remote part of the fairgrounds, a youth made his way briskly and cautiously toward the fireworks exhibit, swinging as he walked a recently purchased rattan cane. Several girls eyed him with interest, but he passed them haughtily; he was weary of people for a brief moment⁠—a moment which he had almost mislaid in the bustle of life⁠—he was enjoying his long pants.</p>
<p>He bought a bleacher seat and followed the crowd around the race track, seeking his section. A few Union troops were moving cannon about in preparation for the Battle of Gettysburg, and, stopping to watch them, he was hailed by Gladys Van Schellinger from the box behind.</p>
<p>“Oh, Basil, don’t you want to come and sit with us?”</p>
<p>He turned about and was absorbed. Basil exchanged courtesies with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Van Schellinger and he was affably introduced to several other people as “Alice Riley’s boy,” and a chair was placed for him beside Gladys in front.</p>
<p>“Oh, Basil,” she whispered, glowing at him, “isn’t this fun?”</p>
<p>Distinctly, it was. He felt a vast wave of virtue surge through him. How anyone could have preferred the society of those common girls was at this moment incomprehensible.</p>
<p>“Basil, won’t it be fun to go East? Maybe we’ll be on the same train.”</p>
<p>“I can hardly wait,” he agreed gravely. “I’ve got on long pants. I had to have them to go away to school.”</p>
<p>One of the ladies in the box leaned toward him. “I know your mother very well,” she said. “And I know another friend of yours. I’m Riply Buckner’s aunt.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes!”</p>
<p>“Riply’s such a nice boy,” beamed <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Van Schillinger.</p>
<p>And then, as if the mention of his name had evoked him, Riply Buckner came suddenly into sight. Along the now empty and brightly illuminated race track came a short but monstrous procession, a sort of Lilliputian burlesque of the wild gay life. At its head marched Hubert Blair and Olive, Hubert prancing and twirling his cane like a drum major to the accompaniment of her appreciative screams of laughter. Next followed Elwood Leaming and his young lady, leaning so close together that they walked with difficulty, apparently wrapped in each other’s arms. And bringing up the rear without glory were Riply Buckner and Basil’s late companion, rivaling Olive in exhibitionist sound.</p>
<p>Fascinated, Basil stared at Riply, the expression of whose face was curiously mixed. At moments he would join in the general tone of the parade with silly guffaw, at others a pained expression would flit across his face, as if he doubted that, after all, the evening was a success.</p>
<p>The procession was attracting considerable notice⁠—so much that not even Riply was aware of the particular attention focused upon him from this box, though he passed by it four feet away. He was out of hearing when a curious rustling sigh passed over its inhabitants and a series of discreet whispers began.</p>
<p>“What funny girls,” Gladys said. “Was that first boy Hubert Blair?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Basil was listening to a fragment of conversation behind:</p>
<p>“His mother will certainly hear of this in the morning.”</p>
<p>As long as Riply had been in sight, Basil had been in an agony of shame for him, but now a new wave of virtue, even stronger than the first, swept over him. His memory of the incident would have reached actual happiness, save for the fact that Riply’s mother might not let him go away to school. And a few minutes later, even that seemed endurable. Yet Basil was not a mean boy. The natural cruelty of his species toward the doomed was not yet disguised by hypocrisy⁠—that was all.</p>
<p>In a burst of glory, to the alternate strains of Dixie and The Star-Spangled Banner, the Battle of Gettysburg ended. Outside by the waiting cars, Basil, on a sudden impulse, went up to Riply’s aunt.</p>
<p>“I think it would be sort of a⁠—a mistake to tell Riply’s mother. He didn’t do any harm. He⁠—”</p>
<p>Annoyed by the event of the evening, she turned on him cool, patronizing eyes.</p>
<p>“I shall do as I think best,” she said briefly.</p>
<p>He frowned. Then he turned and got into the Van Schellinger limousine.</p>
<p>Sitting beside Gladys in the little seats, he loved her suddenly. His hand swung gently against hers from time to time and he felt the warm bond that they were both going away to school tightened around them and pulling them together.</p>
<p>“Can’t you come and see me tomorrow?” she urged him. “Mother’s going to be away and she says I can have anybody I like.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>As the car slowed up for Basil’s house, she leaned toward him swiftly. “Basil⁠—”</p>
<p>He waited. Her breath was warm on his cheek. He wanted her to hurry, or, when the engine stopped, her parents, dozing in back, might hear what she said. She seemed beautiful to him then; that vague unexciting quality about her was more than compensated for by her exquisite delicacy, the fine luxury of her life.</p>
<p>“Basil⁠—Basil, when you come tomorrow, will you bring that Hubert Blair?”</p>
<p>The chauffeur opened the door and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Van Schellinger woke up with a start. When the car had driven off, Basil stood looking after it thoughtfully until it turned the corner of the street.</p>
</article>
<article id="the-freshest-boy" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Freshest Boy</h2>
<section id="the-freshest-boy-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>It was a hidden Broadway restaurant in the dead of the night, and a brilliant and mysterious group of society people, diplomats and members of the underworld were there. A few minutes ago the sparkling wine had been flowing and a girl had been dancing gaily upon a table, but now the whole crowd were hushed and breathless. All eyes were fixed upon the masked but well-groomed man in the dress suit and opera hat who stood nonchalantly in the door.</p>
<p>“Don’t move, please,” he said, in a well-bred, cultivated voice that had, nevertheless, a ring of steel in it. “This thing in my hand might⁠—go off.”</p>
<p>His glance roved from table to table⁠—fell upon the malignant man higher up with his pale saturnine face, upon Heatherly, the suave secret agent from a foreign power, then rested a little longer, a little more softly perhaps, upon the table where the girl with dark hair and dark tragic eyes sat alone.</p>
<p>“Now that my purpose is accomplished, it might interest you to know who I am.” There was a gleam of expectation in every eye. The breast of the dark-eyed girl heaved faintly and a tiny burst of subtle French perfume rose into the air. “I am none other than that elusive gentleman, Basil Lee, better known as the Shadow.”</p>
<p>Taking off his well-fitting opera hat, he bowed ironically from the waist. Then, like a flash, he turned and was gone into the night.</p>
<p>“You get up to New York only once a month,” Lewis Crum was saying, “and then you have to take a master along.”</p>
<p>Slowly, Basil Lee’s glazed eyes turned from the barns and billboards of the Indiana countryside to the interior of the Broadway Limited. The hypnosis of the swift telegraph poles faded and Lewis Crum’s stolid face took shape against the white slipcover of the opposite bench.</p>
<p>“I’d just duck the master when I got to New York,” said Basil.</p>
<p>“Yes, you would!”</p>
<p>“I bet I would.”</p>
<p>“You try it and you’ll see.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean saying I’ll see, all the time, Lewis? What’ll I see?”</p>
<p>His very bright dark-blue eyes were at this moment fixed upon his companion with boredom and impatience. The two had nothing in common except their age, which was fifteen, and the lifelong friendship of their fathers⁠—which is less than nothing. Also they were bound from the same Middle-Western city for Basil’s first and Lewis’s second year at the same Eastern school.</p>
<p>But, contrary to all the best traditions, Lewis the veteran was miserable and Basil the neophyte was happy. Lewis hated school. He had grown entirely dependent on the stimulus of a hearty vital mother, and as he felt her slipping farther and farther away from him, he plunged deeper into misery and homesickness. Basil, on the other hand, had lived with such intensity on so many stories of boarding-school life that, far from being homesick, he had a glad feeling of recognition and familiarity. Indeed, it was with some sense of doing the appropriate thing, having the traditional roughhouse, that he had thrown Lewis’s comb off the train at Milwaukee last night for no reason at all.</p>
<p>To Lewis, Basil’s ignorant enthusiasm was distasteful⁠—his instinctive attempt to dampen it had contributed to the mutual irritation.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you what you’ll see,” he said ominously. “They’ll catch you smoking and put you on bounds.”</p>
<p>“No, they won’t, because I won’t be smoking. I’ll be in training for football.”</p>
<p>“Football! Yeah! Football!”</p>
<p>“Honestly, Lewis, you don’t like anything, do you?”</p>
<p>“I don’t like football. I don’t like to go out and get a crack in the eye.” Lewis spoke aggressively, for his mother had canonized all his timidities as common sense. Basil’s answer, made with what he considered kindly intent, was the sort of remark that creates lifelong enmities.</p>
<p>“You’d probably be a lot more popular in school if you played football,”⁠—he suggested patronizingly.</p>
<p>Lewis did not consider himself unpopular. He did not think of it in that way at all. He was astounded.</p>
<p>“You wait!” he cried furiously. “They’ll take all that freshness out of you.”</p>
<p>“Clam yourself,” said Basil, coolly plucking at the creases of his first long trousers. “Just clam yourself.”</p>
<p>“I guess everybody knows you were the freshest boy at the Country Day!”</p>
<p>“Clam yourself,” repeated Basil, but with less assurance. “Kindly clam yourself.”</p>
<p>“I guess I know what they had in the school paper about you⁠—”</p>
<p>Basil’s own coolness was no longer perceptible.</p>
<p>“If you don’t clam yourself,” he said darkly, “I’m going to throw your brushes off the train too.”</p>
<p>The enormity of this threat was effective. Lewis sank back in his seat, snorting and muttering, but undoubtedly calmer. His reference had been to one of the most shameful passages in his companion’s life. In a periodical issued by the boys of Basil’s late school there had appeared under the heading Personals:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>If someone will please poison young Basil, or find some other means to stop his mouth, the school at large and myself will be much obliged.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The two boys sat there fuming wordlessly at each other. Then, resolutely, Basil tried to re-inter this unfortunate souvenir of the past. All that was behind him now. Perhaps he had been a little fresh, but he was making a new start. After a moment, the memory passed and with it the train and Lewis’s dismal presence⁠—the breath of the East came sweeping over him again with a vast nostalgia. A voice called him out of the fabled world; a man stood beside him with a hand on his sweater-clad shoulder.</p>
<p>“Lee!”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“It all depends on you now. Understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“All right,” the coach said, “go in and win.”</p>
<p>Basil tore the sweater from his stripling form and dashed out on the field. There were two minutes to play and the score was 3 to 0 for the enemy, but at the sight of young Lee, kept out of the game all year by a malicious plan of Dan Haskins, the school bully, and Weasel Weems, his toady, a thrill of hope went over the <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis stand.</p>
<p>“33⁠–⁠12⁠–⁠16⁠–⁠22!” barked Midget Brown, the diminutive little quarterback.</p>
<p>It was his signal⁠—</p>
<p>“Oh, gosh!” Basil spoke aloud, forgetting the late unpleasantness. “I wish we’d get there before tomorrow.”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-freshest-boy-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
<header role="presentation">
<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline"><abbr>St.</abbr> Regis School, Eastchester,<br/>
<time datetime="11-18">November 18</time>, 19⁠—<br/>
Dear Mother:</p>
</header>
<p>There is not much to say today, but I thought I would write you about my allowance. All the boys have a bigger allowance than me, because there are a lot of little things I have to get, such as shoe laces, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> School is still very nice and am having a fine time, but football is over and there is not much to do. I am going to New York this week to see a show. I do not know yet what it will be, but probably the Quacker Girl or little boy Blue as they are both very good. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Bacon is very nice and there’s a good phycission in the village. No more now as I have to study Algebra.</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender"><span epub:type="z3998:valediction">Your affectionate Son,</span><br/>
Basil <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">D.</abbr> Lee.</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>As he put the letter in its envelope, a wizened little boy came into the deserted study hall where he sat and stood staring at him.</p>
<p>“Hello,” said Basil, frowning.</p>
<p>“I been looking for you,” said the little boy, slowly and judicially. “I looked all over⁠—up in your room and out in the gym, and they said you probably might of sneaked off in here.”</p>
<p>“What do you want?” Basil demanded.</p>
<p>“Hold your horses, Bossy.”</p>
<p>Basil jumped to his feet. The little boy retreated a step.</p>
<p>“Go on, hit me!” he chirped nervously. “Go on, hit me, cause I’m just half your size⁠—Bossy.”</p>
<p>Basil winced. “You call me that again and I’ll spank you.”</p>
<p>“No, you won’t spank me. Brick Wales said if you ever touched any of us⁠—”</p>
<p>“But I never did touch any of you.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you chase a lot of us one day and didn’t Brick Wales⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, what do you want?” Basil cried in desperation.</p>
<p>“Doctor Bacon wants you. They sent me after you and somebody said maybe you sneaked in here.”</p>
<p>Basil dropped his letter in his pocket and walked out⁠—the little boy and his invective following him through the door. He traversed a long corridor, muggy with that odour best described as the smell of stale caramels that is so peculiar to boys’ schools, ascended a stairs and knocked at an unexceptional but formidable door.</p>
<p>Doctor Bacon was at his desk. He was a handsome, redheaded Episcopal clergyman of fifty whose original real interest in boys was now tempered by the flustered cynicism which is the fate of all headmasters and settles on them like green mould. There were certain preliminaries before Basil was asked to sit down⁠—gold-rimmed glasses had to be hoisted up from nowhere by a black cord and fixed on Basil to be sure that he was not an impostor; great masses of paper on the desk had to be shuffled through, not in search of anything but as a man nervously shuffles a pack of cards.</p>
<p>“I had a letter from your mother this morning⁠—ah⁠—Basil.” The use of his first name had come to startle Basil. No one else in school had yet called him anything but Bossy or Lee. “She feels that your marks have been poor. I believe you have been sent here at a certain amount of⁠—ah⁠—sacrifice and she expects⁠—”</p>
<p>Basil’s spirit writhed with shame, not at his poor marks but that his financial inadequacy should be so bluntly stated. He knew that he was one of the poorest boys in a rich boys’ school.</p>
<p>Perhaps some dormant sensibility in Doctor Bacon became aware of his discomfort; he shuffled through the papers once more and began on a new note.</p>
<p>“However, that was not what I sent for you about this afternoon. You applied last week for permission to go to New York on Saturday, to a mati. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Davis tells me that for almost the first time since school opened you will be off bounds tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“That is not a good record. However, I would allow you to go to New York if it could be arranged. Unfortunately, no masters are available this Saturday.”</p>
<p>Basil’s mouth dropped ajar. “Why, I⁠—why, Doctor Bacon, I know two parties that are going. Couldn’t I go with one of them?”</p>
<p>Doctor Bacon ran through all his papers very quickly. “Unfortunately, one is composed of slightly older boys and the other group made arrangements some weeks ago.”</p>
<p>“How about the party that’s going to the Quaker Girl with <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Dunn?”</p>
<p>“It’s that party I speak of. They feel that the arrangements are complete and they have purchased seats together.”</p>
<p>Suddenly Basil understood. At the look in his eye Doctor Bacon went on hurriedly.</p>
<p>“There’s perhaps one thing I can do. Of course there must be several boys in the party so that the expenses of the master can be divided up among all. If you can find two other boys who would like to make up a party, and let me have their names by five o’clock, I’ll send <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney with you.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Basil said.</p>
<p>Doctor Bacon hesitated. Beneath the cynical incrustations of many years an instinct stirred to look into the unusual case of this boy and find out what made him the most detested boy in school. Among boys and masters there seemed to exist an extraordinary hostility towards him, and though Doctor Bacon had dealt with many sorts of schoolboy crimes, he had neither by himself nor with the aid of trusted sixth-formers been able to lay his hands on its underlying cause. It was probably no single thing, but a combination of things; it was most probably one of those intangible questions of personality. Yet he remembered that when he first saw Basil he had considered him unusually prepossessing.</p>
<p>He sighed. Sometimes these things worked themselves out. He wasn’t one to rush in clumsily. “Let us have a better report to send home next month, Basil.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>Basil ran quickly downstairs to the recreation room. It was Wednesday and most of the boys had already gone into the village of Eastchester, whither Basil, who was still on bounds, was forbidden to follow. When he looked at those still scattered about the pool tables and piano, he saw that it was going to be difficult to get anyone to go with him at all. For Basil was quite conscious that he was the most unpopular boy at school.</p>
<p>It had begun almost immediately. One day, less than a fortnight after he came, a crowd of the smaller boys, perhaps urged on to it, gathered suddenly around him and began calling him Bossy. Within the next week he had two fights, and both times the crowd was vehemently and eloquently with the other boy. Soon after, when he was merely shoving indiscriminately, like everyone else, to get into the dining-room, Carver, the captain of the football team, turned about and, seizing him by the back of the neck, held him and dressed him down savagely. He joined a group innocently at the piano and was told, “Go on away. We don’t want you around.”</p>
<p>After a month he began to realize the full extent of his unpopularity. It shocked him. One day after a particularly bitter humiliation he went up to his room and cried. He tried to keep out of the way for a while, but it didn’t help. He was accused of sneaking off here and there, as if bent on a series of nefarious errands. Puzzled and wretched, he looked at his face in the glass, trying to discover there the secret of their dislike⁠—in the expression of his eyes, his smile.</p>
<p>He saw now that in certain ways he had erred at the outset⁠—he had boasted, he had been considered yellow at football, he had pointed out people’s mistakes to them, he had showed off his rather extraordinary fund of general information in class. But he had tried to do better and couldn’t understand his failure to atone. It must be too late. He was queered forever.</p>
<p>He had, indeed, become the scapegoat, the immediate villain, the sponge which absorbed all malice and irritability abroad⁠—just as the most frightened person in a party seems to absorb all the others’ fear, seems to be afraid for them all. His situation was not helped by the fact, obvious to all, that the supreme self-confidence with which he had come to <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis in September was thoroughly broken. Boys taunted him with impunity who would not have dared raise their voices to him several months before.</p>
<p>This trip to New York had come to mean everything to him⁠—surcease from the misery of his daily life as well as a glimpse into the long-waited heaven of romance. Its postponement for week after week due to his sins⁠—he was constantly caught reading after lights, for example, driven by his wretchedness into such vicarious escapes from reality⁠—had deepened his longing until it was a burning hunger. It was unbearable that he should not go, and he told over the short list of those whom he might get to accompany him. The possibilities were Fat Gaspar, Treadway, and Bugs Brown. A quick journey to their rooms showed that they had all availed themselves of the Wednesday permission to go into Eastchester for the afternoon.</p>
<p>Basil did not hesitate. He had until five o’clock and his only chance was to go after them. It was not the first time he had broken bounds, though the last attempt had ended in disaster and an extension of his confinement. In his room, he put on a heavy sweater⁠—an overcoat was a betrayal of intent⁠—replaced his jacket over it and hid a cap in his back pocket. Then he went downstairs and with an elaborate careless whistle struck out across the lawn for the gymnasium. Once there, he stood for a while as if looking in the windows, first the one close to the walk, then one near the corner of the building. From here he moved quickly, but not too quickly, into a grove of lilacs. Then he dashed around the corner, down a long stretch of lawn that was blind from all windows and, parting the strands of a wire fence, crawled through and stood upon the grounds of a neighbouring estate. For the moment he was free. He put on his cap against the chilly November wind, and set out along the half-mile road to town.</p>
<p>Eastchester was a suburban farming community, with a small shoe factory. The institutions which pandered to the factory workers were the ones patronized by the boys⁠—a movie house, a quick-lunch wagon on wheels known as the Dog and the Bostonian Candy Kitchen. Basil tried the Dog first and happened immediately upon a prospect.</p>
<p>This was Bugs Brown, a hysterical boy, subject to fits and strenuously avoided. Years later he became a brilliant lawyer, but at that time he was considered by the boys of <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis to be a typical lunatic because of the peculiar series of sounds with which he assuaged his nervousness all day long.</p>
<p>He consorted with boys younger than himself, who were without the prejudices of their elders, and was in the company of several when Basil came in.</p>
<p>“<em>Who‑ee!</em>” he cried. “Ee-ee-ee!” He put his hand over his mouth and bounced it quickly, making a wah-wah-wah sound. “It’s Bossy Lee! It’s Bossy Lee! It’s Boss-Boss-Boss-Boss-Bossy Lee!”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute, Bugs,” said Basil anxiously, half afraid that Bugs would go finally crazy before he could persuade him to come to town. “Say, Bugs, listen. Don’t, Bugs⁠—wait a minute. Can you come up to New York Saturday afternoon?”</p>
<p>“Whe-ee-ee!” cried Bugs to Basil’s distress. “Wee-ee-ee!”</p>
<p>“Honestly, Bugs, tell me, can you? We could go up together if you could go.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got to see a doctor,” said Bugs, suddenly calm. “He wants to see how crazy I am.”</p>
<p>“Can’t you have him see about it some other day?” said Basil without humour.</p>
<p>“Whee-ee-ee!” cried Bugs.</p>
<p>“All right then,” said Basil hastily. “Have you seen Fat Gaspar in town?”</p>
<p>Bugs was lost in shrill noise, but someone had seen Fat: Basil was directed to the Bostonian Candy Kitchen.</p>
<p>This was a gaudy paradise of cheap sugar. Its odour, heavy and sickly and calculated to bring out a sticky sweat upon an adult’s palms, hung suffocatingly over the whole vicinity and met one like a strong moral dissuasion at the door. Inside, beneath a pattern of flies, material as black point lace, a line of boys sat eating heavy dinners of banana splits, maple nut, and chocolate marshmallow nut sundaes. Basil found Fat Gaspar at a table on the side.</p>
<p>Fat Gaspar was at once Basil’s most unlikely and most ambitious quest. He was considered a nice fellow⁠—in fact he was so pleasant that he had been courteous to Basil and had spoken to him politely all fall. Basil realized that he was like that to everyone, yet it was just possible that Fat liked him, as people used to in the past, and he was driven desperately to take a chance. But it was undoubtedly a presumption, and as he approached the table and saw the stiffened faces which the other two boys turned towards him, Basil’s hope diminished.</p>
<p>“Say, Fat⁠—” he said, and hesitated. Then he burst forth suddenly. “I’m on bounds, but I ran off because I had to see you. Doctor Bacon told me I could go to New York Saturday if I could get two other boys to go. I asked Bugs Brown and he couldn’t go, and I thought I’d ask you.”</p>
<p>He broke off, furiously embarrassed, and waited. Suddenly the two boys with Fat burst into a shout of laughter.</p>
<p>“Bugs wasn’t crazy enough!”</p>
<p>Fat Gaspar hesitated. He couldn’t go to New York Saturday and ordinarily he would have refused without offending. He had nothing against Basil; nor, indeed, against anybody; but boys have only a certain resistance to public opinion and he was influenced by the contemptuous laughter of the others.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to go,” he said indifferently. “Why do you want to ask <em>me</em>?”</p>
<p>Then, half in shame, he gave a deprecatory little laugh and bent over his ice cream.</p>
<p>“I just thought I’d ask you,” said Basil.</p>
<p>Turning quickly away, he went to the counter and in a hollow and unfamiliar voice ordered a strawberry sundae. He ate it mechanically, hearing occasional whispers and snickers from the table behind. Still in a daze, he started to walk out without paying his check, but the clerk called him back and he was conscious of more derisive laughter.</p>
<p>For a moment he hesitated whether to go back to the table and hit one of those boys in the face, but he saw nothing to be gained. They would say the truth⁠—that he had done it because he couldn’t get anybody to go to New York. Clenching his fists with impotent rage, he walked from the store.</p>
<p>He came immediately upon his third prospect, Treadway. Treadway had entered <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis late in the year and had been put in to room with Basil the week before. The fact that Treadway hadn’t witnessed his humiliations of the autumn encouraged Basil to behave naturally towards him, and their relations had been, if not intimate, at least tranquil.</p>
<p>“Hey, Treadway,” he called, still excited from the affair in the Bostonian, “can you come up to New York to a show Saturday afternoon?”</p>
<p>He stopped, realizing that Treadway was in the company of Brick Wales, a boy he had had a fight with and one of his bitterest enemies. Looking from one to the other, Basil saw a look of impatience in Treadway’s face and a faraway expression in Brick Wales’s, and he realized what must have been happening. Treadway, making his way into the life of the school, had just been enlightened as to the status of his roommate. Like Fat Gaspar, rather than acknowledge himself eligible to such an intimate request, he preferred to cut their friendly relations short.</p>
<p>“Not on your life,” he said briefly. “So long.” The two walked past him into the Candy Kitchen.</p>
<p>Had these slights, so much the bitterer for their lack of passion, been visited upon Basil in September, they would have been unbearable. But since then he had developed a shell of hardness which, while it did not add to his attractiveness, spared him certain delicacies of torture. In misery enough, and despair and self-pity, he went the other way along the street for a little distance until he could control the violent contortions of his face. Then, taking a roundabout route, he started back to school.</p>
<p>He reached the adjoining estate, intending to go back the way he had come. Halfway through a hedge, he heard footsteps approaching along the sidewalk and stood motionless, fearing the proximity of masters. Their voices grew nearer and louder; before he knew it he was listening with horrified fascination:</p>
<p>“⁠—so, after he tried Bugs Brown, the poor nut asked Fat Gaspar to go with him and Fat said, ‘What do you ask me for?’ It serves him right if he couldn’t get anybody at all.”</p>
<p>It was the dismal but triumphant voice of Lewis Crum.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-freshest-boy-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>Up in his room, Basil found a package lying on his bed. He knew its contents and for a long time he had been eagerly expecting it, but such was his depression that he opened it listlessly. It was a series of eight colour reproductions of Harrison Fisher girls “on glossy paper, without printing or advertising matter and suitable for framing.”</p>
<p>The pictures were named Dora, Marguerite, Babette, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Lucille</i>, Gretchen, Rose, Katherine, and Mina. Two of them⁠—Marguerite and Rose⁠—Basil looked at, slowly tore up, and dropped in the wastebasket, as one who disposes of the inferior pups from a litter. The other six he pinned at intervals around the room. Then he lay down on his bed and regarded them.</p>
<p>Dora, <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Lucille</i>, and Katherine were blonde; Gretchen was medium; Babette and Mina were dark. After a few minutes, he found that he was looking oftenest at Dora and Babette and, to a lesser extent, at Gretchen, though the latter’s Dutch cap seemed unromantic and precluded the element of mystery. Babette, a dark little violet-eyed beauty in a tight-fitting hat, attracted him most; his eyes came to rest on her at last.</p>
<p>“Babette,” he whispered to himself⁠—“beautiful Babette.”</p>
<p>The sound of the word, so melancholy and suggestive, like “Vilia” or “I’m happy at Maxim’s” on the phonograph, softened him and, turning over on his face, he sobbed into the pillow. He took hold of the bed rails over his head and, sobbing and straining, began to talk to himself brokenly⁠—how he hated them and whom he hated⁠—he listed a dozen⁠—and what he would do to them when he was great and powerful. In previous moments like these he had always rewarded Fat Gaspar for his kindness, but now he was like the rest. Basil set upon him, pummelling him unmercifully, or laughed sneeringly when he passed him blind and begging on the street.</p>
<p>He controlled himself as he heard Treadway come in, but did not move or speak. He listened as the other moved about the room, and after a while became conscious that there was an unusual opening of closets and bureau drawers. Basil turned over, his arm concealing his tear-stained face. Treadway had an armful of shirts in his hand.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Basil demanded.</p>
<p>His roommate looked at him stonily. “I’m moving in with Wales,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>Treadway went on with his packing. He carried out a suitcase full, then another, took down some pennants and dragged his trunk into the hall. Basil watched him bundle his toilet things into a towel and take one last survey about the room’s new barrenness to see if there was anything forgotten.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he said to Basil, without a ripple of expression on his face.</p>
<p>“Goodbye.”</p>
<p>Treadway went out. Basil turned over once more and choked into the pillow.</p>
<p>“Oh, poor Babette!” he cried huskily. “Poor little Babette! Poor little Babette!” Babette, svelte and piquante, looked down at him coquettishly from the wall.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-freshest-boy-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Doctor Bacon, sensing Basil’s predicament and perhaps the extremity of his misery, arranged it that he should go into New York, after all. He went in the company of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney, the football coach and history teacher. At twenty <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney had hesitated for some time between joining the police force and having his way paid through a small New England college; in fact he was a hard specimen and Doctor Bacon was planning to get rid of him at Christmas. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney’s contempt for Basil was founded on the latter’s ambiguous and unreliable conduct on the football field during the past season⁠—he had consented to take him to New York for reasons of his own.</p>
<p>Basil sat meekly beside him on the train, glancing past <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney’s bulky body at the Sound and the fallow fields of Westchester County. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney finished his newspaper, folded it up and sank into a moody silence. He had eaten a large breakfast and the exigencies of time had not allowed him to work it off with exercise. He remembered that Basil was a fresh boy, and it was time he did something fresh and could be called to account. This reproachless silence annoyed him.</p>
<p>“Lee,” he said suddenly, with a thinly assumed air of friendly interest, “why don’t you get wise to yourself?”</p>
<p>“What, sir?” Basil was startled from his excited trance of this morning.</p>
<p>“I said why don’t you get wise to yourself?” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney in a somewhat violent tone. “Do you want to be the butt of the school all your time here?”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t.” Basil was chilled. Couldn’t all this be left behind for just one day?</p>
<p>“You oughtn’t to get so fresh all the time. A couple of times in history class I could just about have broken your neck.” Basil could think of no appropriate answer. “Then out playing football,” continued <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney, “⁠—you didn’t have any nerve. You could play better than a lot of ’em when you wanted, like that day against the Pomfret seconds, but you lost your nerve.”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t have tried for the second team,” said Basil. “I was too light. I should have stayed on the third.”</p>
<p>“You were yellow, that was all the trouble. You ought to get wise to yourself. In class, you’re always thinking of something else. If you don’t study, you’ll never get to college.”</p>
<p>“I’m the youngest boy in the fifth form,” Basil said rashly.</p>
<p>“You think you’re pretty bright, don’t you?” He eyed Basil ferociously. Then something seemed to occur to him that changed his attitude and they rode for a while in silence. When the train began to run through the thickly clustered communities near New York, he spoke again in a milder voice and with an air of having considered the matter for a long time:</p>
<p>“Lee, I’m going to trust you.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“You go and get some lunch and then go on to your show. I’ve got some business of my own I got to attend to, and when I’ve finished I’ll try to get to the show. If I can’t, I’ll anyhow meet you outside.” Basil’s heart leaped up. “Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want you to open your mouth about this at school⁠—I mean, about me doing some business of my own.”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“We’ll see if you can keep your mouth shut for once,” he said, making it fun. Then he added, on a note of moral sternness, “And no drinks, you understand that?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, sir!” The idea shocked Basil. He had never tasted a drink, nor even contemplated the possibility, save the intangible and nonalcoholic champagne of his café dreams.</p>
<p>On the advice of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney he went for luncheon to the Manhattan Hotel, near the station, where he ordered a club sandwich, French fried potatoes, and a chocolate parfait. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nonchalant, debonair, blasé New Yorkers at neighbouring tables, investing them with a romance by which these possible fellow citizens of his from the Middle West lost nothing. School had fallen from him like a burden; it was no more than an unheeded clamour, faint and far away. He even delayed opening the letter from the morning’s mail which he found in his pocket, because it was addressed to him at school.</p>
<p>He wanted another chocolate parfait, but being reluctant to bother the busy waiter any more, he opened the letter and spread it before him instead. It was from his mother:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
<header role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:salutation">Dear Basil:</p>
</header>
<p>This is written in great haste, as I didn’t want to frighten you by telegraphing. Grandfather is going abroad to take the waters and he wants you and me to come too. The idea is that you’ll go to school at Grenoble or Montreux for the rest of the year and learn the language and we’ll be close by. That is, if you want to. I know how you like <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis and playing football and baseball, and of course there would be none of that; but on the other hand, it would be a nice change, even if it postponed your entering Yale by an extra year. So, as usual, I want you to do just as you like. We will be leaving home almost as soon as you get this and will come to the Waldorf in New York, where you can come in and see us for a few days, even if you decide to stay. Think it over, dear.</p>
<footer role="presentation">
<p epub:type="z3998:sender"><span epub:type="z3998:valediction">With love to my dearest boy,</span><br/>
<span epub:type="z3998:signature">Mother</span>.</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<p>Basil got up from his chair with a dim idea of walking over to the Waldorf and having himself locked up safely until his mother came. Then, impelled to some gesture, he raised his voice and in one of his first basso notes called boomingly and without reticence for the waiter. No more <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis! No more <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis! He was almost strangling with happiness.</p>
<p>“Oh, gosh!” he cried to himself. “Oh, golly! Oh, gosh! Oh, gosh!” No more Doctor Bacon and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney and Brick Wales and Fat Gaspar. No more Bugs Brown and on bounds and being called Bossy. He need no longer hate them, for they were impotent shadows in the stationary world that he was sliding away from, sliding past, waving his hand. “Goodbye!” he pitied them. “Goodbye!”</p>
<p>It required the din of Forty-second Street to sober his maudlin joy. With his hand on his purse to guard against the omnipresent pickpocket, he moved cautiously towards Broadway. What a day! He would tell <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney⁠—Why, he needn’t ever go back! Or perhaps it would be better to go back and let them know what he was going to do, while they went on and on in the dismal, dreary round of school.</p>
<p>He found the theatre and entered the lobby with its powdery feminine atmosphere of a mati. As he took out his ticket, his gaze was caught and held by a sculptured profile a few feet away. It was that of a well-built blond young man of about twenty with a strong chin and direct grey eyes. Basil’s brain spun wildly for a moment and then came to rest upon a name⁠—more than a name⁠—upon a legend, a sign in the sky. What a day! He had never seen the young man before, but from a thousand pictures he knew beyond the possibility of a doubt that it was Ted Fay, the Yale football captain, who had almost single-handed beaten Harvard and Princeton last fall. Basil felt a sort of exquisite pain. The profile turned away; the crowd revolved; the hero disappeared. But Basil would know all through the next hours that Ted Fay was here too.</p>
<p>In the rustling, whispering, sweet-smelling darkness of the theatre he read the programme. It was the show of all shows that he wanted to see, and until the curtain actually rose the programme itself had a curious sacredness⁠—a prototype of the thing itself. But when the curtain rose it became waste paper to be dropped carelessly to the floor.</p>
<p>Act <span epub:type="z3998:roman">I</span>. The Village Green of a Small Town near New York.</p>
<p>It was too bright and blinding to comprehend all at once, and it went so fast that from the very first Basil felt he had missed things; he would make his mother take him again when she came⁠—next week⁠—tomorrow.</p>
<p>An hour passed. It was very sad at this point⁠—a sort of gay sadness, but sad. The girl⁠—the man. What kept them apart even now? Oh, those tragic errors, and misconceptions. So sad. Couldn’t they look into each other’s eyes and <em>see</em>?</p>
<p>In a blaze of light and sound, of resolution, anticipation and imminent trouble, the act was over.</p>
<p>He went out. He looked for Ted Fay and thought he saw him leaning rather moodily on the plush wall at the rear of the theatre, but he could not be sure. He bought cigarettes and lit one, but fancying at the first puff he heard a blare of music he rushed back inside.</p>
<p>Act <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span>. The Foyer of the Hotel Astor.</p>
<p>Yes, she was, indeed, like a song⁠—a Beautiful Rose of the Night. The waltz buoyed her up, brought her with it to a point of aching beauty and then let her slide back to life across its last bars as a leaf slants to earth across the air. The high life of New York! Who could blame her if she was carried away by the glitter of it all, vanishing into the bright morning of the amber window borders or into distant and entrancing music as the door opened and closed that led to the ballroom? The toast of the shining town.</p>
<p>Half an hour passed. Her true love brought her roses like herself and she threw them scornfully at his feet. She laughed and turned to the other, and danced⁠—danced madly, wildly. Wait! That delicate treble among the thin horns, the low curving note from the great strings. There it was again, poignant and aching, sweeping like a great gust of emotion across the stage, catching her again like a leaf helpless in the wind:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>“Rose⁠—Rose⁠—Rose of the night</span>
<br/>
<span>When the spring moon is bright you’ll be fair⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>A few minutes later, feeling oddly shaken and exalted, Basil drifted outside with the crowd. The first thing upon which his eyes fell was the almost forgotten and now curiously metamorphosed spectre of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney had, in fact, gone a little to pieces. He was, to begin with, wearing a different and much smaller hat than when he left Basil at noon. Secondly, his face had lost its somewhat gross aspect and turned a pure and even delicate white, and he was wearing his necktie and even portions of his shirt on the outside of his unaccountably wringing-wet overcoat. How, in the short space of four hours, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney had got himself in such shape is explicable only by the pressure of confinement in a boys’ school upon a fiery outdoor spirit. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney was born to toil under the clear light of heaven and, perhaps half-consciously, he was headed towards his inevitable destiny.</p>
<p>“Lee,” he said dimly, “you ought to get wise to y’self. I’m going to put you wise y’self.”</p>
<p>To avoid the ominous possibility of being put wise to himself in the lobby, Basil uneasily changed the subject.</p>
<p>“Aren’t you coming to the show?” he asked, flattering <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney by implying that he was in any condition to come to the show. “It’s a wonderful show.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney took off his hat, displaying wringing-wet matted hair. A picture of reality momentarily struggled for development in the back of his brain.</p>
<p>“We got to get back to school,” he said in a sombre and unconvinced voice.</p>
<p>“But there’s another act,” protested Basil in horror. “I’ve got to stay for the last act.”</p>
<p>Swaying, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney looked at Basil dimly realizing that he had put himself in the hollow of this boy’s hand.</p>
<p>“All righ’,” he admitted. “I’m going to get somethin’ to eat. I’ll wait for you next door.”</p>
<p>He turned abruptly, reeled a dozen steps, and curved dizzily into a bar adjoining the theatre. Considerably shaken, Basil went back inside.</p>
<p>Act <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span>. The Roof Garden of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Van Astor’s House.</p>
<p>
<em>Night</em>
</p>
<p>Half an hour passed. Everything was going to be all right, after all. The comedian was at his best now, with the glad appropriateness of laughter after tears, and there was a promise of felicity in the bright tropical sky. One lovely plaintive duet, and then abruptly the long moment of incomparable beauty was over.</p>
<p>Basil went into the lobby and stood in thought while the crowd passed out. His mother’s letter and the show had cleared his mind of bitterness and vindictiveness⁠—he was his old self and he wanted to do the right thing. He wondered if it was the right thing to get <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney back to school. He walked towards the saloon, slowed up as he came to it and, gingerly opening the swinging door, took a quick peer inside. He saw only that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney was not one of those drinking at the bar. He walked down the street a little way, came back and tried again. It was as if he thought the doors were teeth to bite him, for he had the old-fashioned Middle-Western boy’s horror of the saloon. The third time he was successful. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney was sound asleep at a table in the back of the room.</p>
<p>Outside again Basil walked up and down, considering. He would give <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney half an hour. If, at the end of that time, he had not come out, he would go back to school. After all, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney had laid for him ever since football season⁠—Basil was simply washing his hands of the whole affair, as in a day or so he would wash his hands of school.</p>
<p>He had made several turns up and down, when glancing up an alley that ran beside the theatre his eye was caught by the sign, Stage Entrance. He could watch the actors come forth.</p>
<p>He waited. Women streamed by him, but those were the days before Glorification and he took these drab people for wardrobe women or something. Then suddenly a girl came out and with her a man, and Basil turned and ran a few steps up the street as if afraid they would recognize him⁠—and ran back, breathing as if with a heart attack⁠—for the girl, a radiant little beauty of nineteen, was Her and the young man by her side was Ted Fay.</p>
<p>Arm in arm, they walked past him, and irresistibly Basil followed. As they walked, she leaned towards Ted Fay in a way that gave them a fascinating air of intimacy. They crossed Broadway and turned into the Knickerbocker Hotel, and twenty feet behind them Basil followed, in time to see them go into a long room set for afternoon tea. They sat at a table for two, spoke vaguely to a waiter, and then, alone at last, bent eagerly towards each other. Basil saw that Ted Fay was holding her gloved hand.</p>
<p>The tea room was separated only by a hedge of potted firs from the main corridor. Basil went along this to a lounge which was almost up against their table and sat down.</p>
<p>Her voice was low and faltering, less certain than it had been in the play, and very sad: “Of course I do, Ted.” For a long time, as their conversation continued, she repeated, “Of course I do,” or “But I do, Ted.” Ted Fay’s remarks were too low for Basil to hear.</p>
<p>“⁠—says next month, and he won’t be put off any more⁠ ⁠… I do in a way, Ted. It’s hard to explain, but he’s done everything for mother and me⁠ ⁠… There’s no use kidding myself. It was a foolproof part and any girl he gave it to was made right then and there⁠ ⁠… He’s been awfully thoughtful. He’s done everything for me.”</p>
<p>Basil’s ears were sharpened by the intensity of his emotion; now he could hear Ted Fay’s voice too:</p>
<p>“And you say you love me.”</p>
<p>“But don’t you see I promised to marry him more than a year ago.”</p>
<p>“Tell him the truth⁠—that you love me. Ask him to let you off.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t musical comedy, Ted.”</p>
<p>“That was a mean one,” he said bitterly.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, dear, Ted darling, but you’re driving me crazy going on this way. You’re making it so hard for me.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to leave New Haven, anyhow.”</p>
<p>“No, you’re not. You’re going to stay and play baseball this spring. Why, you’re an ideal to all those boys! Why, if you⁠—”</p>
<p>He laughed shortly. “You’re a fine one to talk about ideals.”</p>
<p>“Why not? I’m living up to my responsibility to Beltzman; you’ve got to make up your mind just like I have⁠—that we can’t have each other.”</p>
<p>“Jerry! Think what you’re doing! All my life, whenever I hear that waltz⁠—”</p>
<p>Basil got to his feet and hurried down the corridor, through the lobby and out of the hotel. He was in a state of wild emotional confusion. He did not understand all he had heard, but from his clandestine glimpse into the privacy of these two, with all the world that his short experience could conceive of at their feet, he had gathered that life for everybody was a struggle, sometimes magnificent from a distance, but always difficult and surprisingly simple and a little sad.</p>
<p>They would go on. Ted Fay would go back to Yale, put her picture in his bureau drawer and knock out home runs with the bases full this spring⁠—at 8:30 the curtain would go up and She would miss something warm and young out of her life, something she had had this afternoon.</p>
<p>It was dark outside and Broadway was a blazing forest fire as Basil walked slowly along towards the point of brightest light. He looked up at the great intersecting planes of radiance with a vague sense of approval and possession. He would see it a lot now, lay his restless heart upon this greater restlessness of a nation⁠—he would come whenever he could get off from school.</p>
<p>But that was all changed⁠—he was going to Europe. Suddenly Basil realized that he wasn’t going to Europe. He could not forgo the moulding of his own destiny just to alleviate a few months of pain. The conquest of the successive worlds of school, college and New York⁠—why, that was his true dream that he had carried from boyhood into adolescence, and because of the jeers of a few boys he had been about to abandon it and run ignominiously up a back alley! He shivered violently, like a dog coming out of the water, and simultaneously he was reminded of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney.</p>
<p>A few minutes later he walked into the bar, past the quizzical eyes of the bartender and up to the table where <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney still sat asleep. Basil shook him gently, then firmly. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney stirred and perceived Basil.</p>
<p>“G’wise to yourself,” he muttered drowsily. “G’wise to yourself an’ let me alone.”</p>
<p>“I am wise to myself,” said Basil. “Honest, I am wise to myself, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney. You got to come with me into the washroom and get cleaned up, and then you can sleep on the train again, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney. Come on, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rooney, please⁠—”</p>
</section>
<section id="the-freshest-boy-5" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">V</h3>
<p>It was a long hard time. Basil got on bounds again in December and wasn’t free again until March. An indulgent mother had given him no habits of work and this was almost beyond the power of anything but life itself to remedy, but he made numberless new starts and failed and tried again.</p>
<p>He made friends with a new boy named Maplewood after Christmas, but they had a silly quarrel; and through the winter term, when a boys’ school is shut in with itself and only partly assuaged from its natural savagery by indoor sports, Basil was snubbed and slighted a good deal for his real and imaginary sins, and he was much alone. But on the other hand, there was Ted Fay, and Rose of the Night on the phonograph⁠—“All my life whenever I hear that waltz”⁠—and the remembered lights of New York, and the thought of what he was going to do in football next autumn and the glamorous image of Yale and the hope of spring in the air.</p>
<p>Fat Gaspar and a few others were nice to him now. Once when he and Fat walked home together by accident from downtown they had a long talk about actresses⁠—a talk that Basil was wise enough not to presume upon afterwards. The smaller boys suddenly decided that they approved of him, and a master who had hitherto disliked him put his hand on his shoulder walking to a class one day. They would all forget eventually⁠—maybe during the summer. There would be new fresh boys in September; he would have a clean start next year.</p>
<p>One afternoon in February, playing basketball, a great thing happened. He and Brick Wales were at forward on the second team and in the fury of the scrimmage the gymnasium echoed with sharp slapping contacts and shrill cries.</p>
<p>“Here yar!”</p>
<p>“Bill! Bill!”</p>
<p>Basil had dribbled the ball down the court and Brick Wales, free, was crying for it.</p>
<p>“Here yar! Lee! Hey! Lee-y!”</p>
<p>Lee-y!</p>
<p>Basil flushed and made a poor pass. He had been called by a nickname. It was a poor makeshift, but it was something more than the stark bareness of his surname or a term of derision. Brick Wales went on playing, unconscious that he had done anything in particular or that he had contributed to the events by which another boy was saved from the army of the bitter, the selfish, the neurasthenic and the unhappy. It isn’t given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.</p>
<p>Lee-y! it could scarcely be pronounced. But Basil took it to bed with him that night, and thinking of it, holding it to him happily to the last, fell easily to sleep.</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="he-thinks-hes-wonderful" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">He Thinks He’s Wonderful</h2>
<section id="he-thinks-hes-wonderful-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>After the college-board examinations in June, Basil Duke Lee and five other boys from <abbr>St.</abbr> Regis School boarded the train for the West. Two got out at Pittsburgh, one slanted south toward <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis and two stayed in Chicago; from then on Basil was alone. It was the first time in his life that he had ever felt the need of tranquillity, but now he took long breaths of it; for, though things had gone better toward the end, he had had an unhappy year at school.</p>
<p>He wore one of those extremely flat derbies in vogue during the twelfth year of the century, and a blue business suit become a little too short for his constantly lengthening body. Within he was by turns a disembodied spirit, almost unconscious of his person and moving in a mist of impressions and emotions, and a fiercely competitive individual trying desperately to control the rush of events that were the steps in his own evolution from child to man. He believed that everything was a matter of effort⁠—the current principle of American education⁠—and his fantastic ambition was continually leading him to expect too much. He wanted to be a great athlete, popular, brilliant and always happy. During this year at school, where he had been punished for his “freshness,” for fifteen years of thorough spoiling at home, he had grown uselessly introspective, and this interfered with that observation of others which is the beginning of wisdom. It was apparent that before he obtained much success in dealing with the world he would know that he’d been in a fight.</p>
<p>He spent the afternoon in Chicago, walking the streets and avoiding members of the underworld. He bought a detective story called “In the Dead of the Night,” and at five o’clock recovered his suitcase from the station check room and boarded the Chicago, Milwaukee and <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul. Immediately he encountered a contemporary, also bound home from school.</p>
<p>Margaret Torrence was fourteen; a serious girl, considered beautiful by a sort of tradition, for she had been beautiful as a little girl. A year and a half before, after a breathless struggle, Basil had succeeded in kissing her on the forehead. They met now with extraordinary joy; for a moment each of them to the other represented home, the blue skies of the past, the summer afternoons ahead.</p>
<p>He sat with Margaret and her mother in the dining car that night. Margaret saw that he was no longer the ultraconfident boy of a year before; his brightness was subdued, and the air of consideration in his face⁠—a mark of his recent discovery that others had wills as strong as his, and more power⁠—appeared to Margaret as a charming sadness. The spell of peace after a struggle was still upon him. Margaret had always liked him⁠—she was of the grave, conscientious type who sometimes loved him and whose love he could never return⁠—and now she could scarcely wait to tell people how attractive he had grown.</p>
<p>After dinner they went back to the observation car and sat on the deserted rear platform while the train pulled them visibly westward between the dark wide farms. They talked of people they knew, of where they had gone for Easter vacation, of the plays they had seen in New York.</p>
<p>“Basil, we’re going to get an automobile,” she said, “and I’m going to learn to drive.”</p>
<p>“That’s fine.” He wondered if his grandfather would let him drive the electric sometimes this summer.</p>
<p>The light from inside the car fell on her young face, and he spoke impetuously, borne on by the rush of happiness that he was going home: “You know something? You know you’re the prettiest girl in the city?”</p>
<p>At the moment when the remark blurred with the thrilling night in Margaret’s heart, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Torrence appeared to fetch her to bed.</p>
<p>Basil sat alone on the platform for a while, scarcely realizing that she was gone, at peace with himself for another hour and content that everything should remain patternless and shapeless until tomorrow.</p>
</section>
<section id="he-thinks-hes-wonderful-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>Fifteen is of all ages the most difficult to locate⁠—to put one’s fingers on and say, “That’s the way I was.” The melancholy Jacques does not select it for mention, and all one can know is that somewhere between thirteen, boyhood’s majority, and seventeen, when one is a sort of counterfeit young man, there is a time when youth fluctuates hourly between one world and another⁠—pushed ceaselessly forward into unprecedented experiences and vainly trying to struggle back to the days when nothing had to be paid for. Fortunately none of our contemporaries remember much more than we do of how we behaved in those days; nevertheless the curtain is about to be drawn aside for an inspection of Basil’s madness that summer.</p>
<p>To begin with, Margaret Torrence, in one of those moods of idealism which overcome the most matter-of-fact girls, gave it as her rapt opinion that Basil was wonderful. Having practised believing things all year at school, and having nothing much to believe at that moment, her friends accepted the fact. Basil suddenly became a legend. There were outbreaks of giggling when girls encountered him on the street, but he suspected nothing at all.</p>
<p>One night, when he had been home a week, he and Riply Buckner went on to an after-dinner gathering on Imogene Bissel’s veranda. As they came up the walk Margaret and two other girls suddenly clung together, whispered convulsively and pursued one another around the yard, uttering strange cries⁠—an inexplicable business that ended only when Gladys Van Schellinger, tenderly and impressively accompanied by her mother’s maid, arrived in a limousine.</p>
<p>All of them were a little strange to one another. Those who had been East at school felt a certain superiority, which, however, was more than counterbalanced by the fact that romantic pairings and quarrels and jealousies and adventures, of which they were lamentably ignorant, had gone on while they had been away.</p>
<p>After the ice cream at nine they sat together on the warm stone steps in a quiet confusion that was halfway between childish teasing and adolescent coquetry. Last year the boys would have ridden their bicycles around the yard; now they had all begun to wait for something to happen.</p>
<p>They knew it was going to happen, the plainest girls, the shyest boys; they had begun to associate with others the romantic world of summer night that pressed deeply and sweetly on their senses. Their voices drifted in a sort of broken harmony in to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel, who sat reading beside an open window.</p>
<p>“No, look out. You’ll break it. Bay‑zil!”</p>
<p>“Rip-lee!”</p>
<p>“Sure I did!”</p>
<p>Laughter.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“⁠—on Moonlight Bay</span>
<br/>
<span>We could hear their voices call⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Did you see⁠—”</p>
<p>“Connie, don’t⁠—don’t! You tickle. Look out!”</p>
<p>Laughter.</p>
<p>“Going to the lake tomorrow?”</p>
<p>“Going Friday.”</p>
<p>“Elwood’s home.”</p>
<p>“Is Elwood home?”</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“⁠—you have broken my heart⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Look out now!”</p>
<p>“Look out!”</p>
<p>Basil sat beside Riply on the balustrade, listening to Joe Gorman singing. It was one of the griefs of his life that he could not sing “so people could stand it,” and he conceived a sudden admiration for Joe Gorman, reading into his personality the thrilling clearness of those sounds that moved so confidently through the dark air.</p>
<p>They evoked for Basil a more dazzling night than this, and other more remote and enchanted girls. He was sorry when the voice died away, and there was a rearranging of seats and a businesslike quiet⁠—the ancient game of Truth had begun.</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite color, Bill?”</p>
<p>“Green,” supplies a friend.</p>
<p>“Sh-h-h! Let him alone.”</p>
<p>Bill says, “Blue.”</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite girl’s name?”</p>
<p>“Mary,” says Bill.</p>
<p>“Mary Haupt! Bill’s got a crush on Mary Haupt!”</p>
<p>She was a cross-eyed girl, a familiar personification of repulsiveness.</p>
<p>“Who would you rather kiss than anybody?”</p>
<p>Across the pause a snicker stabbed the darkness.</p>
<p>“My mother.”</p>
<p>“No, but what girl?”</p>
<p>“Nobody.”</p>
<p>“That’s not fair. Forfeit! Come on, Margaret.”</p>
<p>“Tell the truth, Margaret.”</p>
<p>She told the truth and a moment later Basil looked down in surprise from his perch; he had just learned that he was her favorite boy.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes-s!” he exclaimed skeptically. “Oh, yes-s! How about Hubert Blair?”</p>
<p>He renewed a casual struggle with Riply Buckner and presently they both fell off the balustrade. The game became an inquisition into Gladys Van Schellinger’s carefully chaperoned heart.</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite sport?”</p>
<p>“Croquet.”</p>
<p>The admission was greeted by a mild titter.</p>
<p>“Favorite boy.”</p>
<p>“Thurston Kohler.”</p>
<p>A murmur of disappointment.</p>
<p>“Who’s he?”</p>
<p>“A boy in the East.”</p>
<p>This was manifestly an evasion.</p>
<p>“Who’s your favorite boy here?”</p>
<p>Gladys hesitated. “Basil,” she said at length.</p>
<p>The faces turned up to the balustrade this time were less teasing, less jocular. Basil depreciated the matter with “Oh, yes-s! Sure! Oh, yes-s!” But he had a pleasant feeling of recognition, a familiar delight.</p>
<p>Imogene Bissel, a dark little beauty and the most popular girl in their crowd, took Gladys’ place. The interlocutors were tired of gastronomic preferences⁠—the first question went straight to the point.</p>
<p>“Imogene, have you ever kissed a boy?”</p>
<p>“No.” A cry of wild unbelief. “I have not!” she declared indignantly.</p>
<p>“Well, have you ever been kissed?”</p>
<p>Pink but tranquil, she nodded, adding, “I couldn’t help it.”</p>
<p>“Who by?”</p>
<p>“I won’t tell.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh‑h‑h!</em> How about Hubert Blair?”</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite book, Imogene?”</p>
<p>“<i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Beverly of Graustark</i>.”</p>
<p>“Favorite girl?”</p>
<p>“Passion Johnson.”</p>
<p>“Who’s she?”</p>
<p>“Oh, just a girl at school.”</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel had fortunately left the window.</p>
<p>“Who’s your favorite boy?”</p>
<p>Imogene answered steadily, “Basil Lee.”</p>
<p>This time an impressed silence fell. Basil was not surprised⁠—we are never surprised at our own popularity⁠—but he knew that these were not those ineffable girls, made up out of books and faces momentarily encountered, whose voices he had heard for a moment in Joe Gorman’s song. And when, presently, the first telephone rang inside, calling a daughter home, and the girls, chattering like birds, piled all together into Gladys Van Schellinger’s limousine, he lingered back in the shadow so as not to seem to be showing off. Then, perhaps because he nourished a vague idea that if he got to know Joe Gorman very well he would get to sing like him, he approached him and asked him to go to Lambert’s for a soda.</p>
<p>Joe Gorman was a tall boy with white eyebrows and a stolid face who had only recently become one of their “crowd.” He did not like Basil, who, he considered, had been “stuck up” with him last year, but he was acquisitive of useful knowledge and he was momentarily overwhelmed by Basil’s success with girls.</p>
<p>It was cheerful in Lambert’s, with great moths batting against the screen door and languid couples in white dresses and light suits spread about the little tables. Over their sodas, Joe proposed that Basil come home with him to spend the night; Basil’s permission was obtained over the telephone.</p>
<p>Passing from the gleaming store into the darkness, Basil was submerged in an unreality in which he seemed to see himself from the outside, and the pleasant events of the evening began to take on fresh importance.</p>
<p>Disarmed by Joe’s hospitality, he began to discuss the matter.</p>
<p>“That was a funny thing that happened tonight,” he said, with a disparaging little laugh.</p>
<p>“What was?”</p>
<p>“Why, all those girls saying I was their favorite boy.” The remark jarred on Joe. “It’s a funny thing,” went on Basil. “I was sort of unpopular at school for a while, because I was fresh, I guess. But the thing must be that some boys are popular with boys and some are popular with girls.”</p>
<p>He had put himself in Joe’s hands, but he was unconscious of it; even Joe was only aware of a certain desire to change the subject.</p>
<p>“When I get my car,” suggested Joe, up in his room, “we could take Imogene and Margaret and go for rides.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>“You could have Imogene and I’d take Margaret, or anybody I wanted. Of course I know they don’t like me as well as they do you.”</p>
<p>“Sure they do. It’s just because you haven’t been in our crowd very long yet.”</p>
<p>Joe was sensitive on that point and the remark did not please him. But Basil continued: “You ought to be more polite to the older people if you want to be popular. You didn’t say how do you do to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bissel tonight.”</p>
<p>“I’m hungry,” said Joe quickly. “Let’s go down to the pantry and get something to eat.”</p>
<p>Clad only in their pajamas, they went downstairs. Principally to dissuade Basil from pursuing the subject, Joe began to sing in a low voice:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“Oh, you beautiful doll,</span>
<br/>
<span>You great⁠—big⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>But the evening, coming after the month of enforced humility at school, had been too much for Basil. He got a little awful. In the kitchen, under the impression that his advice had been asked, he broke out again:</p>
<p>“For instance, you oughtn’t to wear those white ties. Nobody does that that goes East to school.” Joe, a little red, turned around from the ice box and Basil felt a slight misgiving. But he pursued with: “For instance, you ought to get your family to send you East to school. It’d be a great thing for you. Especially if you want to go East to college, you ought to first go East to school. They take it out of you.”</p>
<p>Feeling that he had nothing special to be taken out of him, Joe found the implication distasteful. Nor did Basil appear to him at that moment to have been perfected by the process.</p>
<p>“Do you want cold chicken or cold ham?” They drew up chairs to the kitchen table. “Have some milk?”</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>Intoxicated by the three full meals he had had since supper, Basil warmed to his subject. He built up Joe’s life for him little by little, transformed him radiantly from what was little more than a Midwestern bumpkin to an Easterner bursting with <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">savoir-faire</i> and irresistible to girls. Going into the pantry to put away the milk, Joe paused by the open window for a breath of quiet air; Basil followed. “The thing is if a boy doesn’t get it taken out of him at school, he gets it taken out of him at college,” he was saying.</p>
<p>Moved by some desperate instinct, Joe opened the door and stepped out onto the back porch. Basil followed. The house abutted on the edge of the bluff occupied by the residential section, and the two boys stood silent for a moment, gazing at the scattered lights of the lower city. Before the mystery of the unknown human life coursing through the streets below, Basil felt the purport of his words grow thin and pale.</p>
<p>He wondered suddenly what he had said and why it had seemed important to him, and when Joe began to sing again softly, the quiet mood of the early evening, the side of him that was best, wisest and most enduring, stole over him once more. The flattery, the vanity, the fatuousness of the last hour moved off, and when he spoke it was almost in a whisper:</p>
<p>“Let’s walk around the block.”</p>
<p>The sidewalk was warm to their bare feet. It was only midnight, but the square was deserted save for their whitish figures, inconspicuous against the starry darkness. They snorted with glee at their daring. Once a shadow, with loud human shoes, crossed the street far ahead, but the sound served only to increase their own unsubstantiality. Slipping quickly through the clearings made by gas lamps among the trees, they rounded the block, hurrying when they neared the Gorman house as though they had been really lost in a midsummer night’s dream.</p>
<p>Up in Joe’s room, they lay awake in the darkness.</p>
<p>“I talked too much,” Basil thought. “I probably sounded pretty bossy and maybe I made him sort of mad. But probably when we walked around the block he forgot everything I said.”</p>
<p>Alas, Joe had forgotten nothing⁠—except the advice by which Basil had intended him to profit.</p>
<p>“I never saw anybody as stuck up,” he said to himself wrathfully. “He thinks he’s wonderful. He thinks he’s so darn popular with girls.”</p>
</section>
<section id="he-thinks-hes-wonderful-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>An element of vast importance had made its appearance with the summer; suddenly the great thing in Basil’s crowd was to own an automobile. Fun no longer seemed available save at great distances, at suburban lakes or remote country clubs. Walking downtown ceased to be a legitimate pastime. On the contrary, a single block from one youth’s house to another’s must be navigated in a car. Dependent groups formed around owners and they began to wield what was, to Basil at least, a disconcerting power.</p>
<p>On the morning of a dance at the lake he called up Riply Buckner.</p>
<p>“Hey, Rip, how you going out to Connie’s tonight?”</p>
<p>“With Elwood Leaming.”</p>
<p>“Has he got a lot of room?”</p>
<p>Riply seemed somewhat embarrassed. “Why, I don’t think he has. You see, he’s taking Margaret Torrence and I’m taking Imogene Bissel.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>Basil frowned. He should have arranged all this a week ago. After a moment he called up Joe Gorman.</p>
<p>“Going to the Davies’ tonight, Joe?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes.”</p>
<p>“Have you got room in your car⁠—I mean, could I go with you?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, I suppose so.”</p>
<p>There was a perceptible lack of warmth in his voice.</p>
<p>“Sure you got plenty of room?”</p>
<p>“Sure. We’ll call for you quarter to eight.”</p>
<p>Basil began preparations at five. For the second time in his life he shaved, completing the operation by cutting a short straight line under his nose. It bled profusely, but on the advice of Hilda, the maid, he finally stanched the flow with little pieces of toilet paper. Quite a number of pieces were necessary; so, in order to facilitate breathing, he trimmed it down with a scissors, and with this somewhat awkward mustache of paper and gore clinging to his upper lip, wandered impatiently around the house.</p>
<p>At six he began working on it again, soaking off the tissue paper and dabbing at the persistently freshening crimson line. It dried at length, but when he rashly hailed his mother it opened once more and the tissue paper was called back into play.</p>
<p>At quarter to eight, dressed in blue coat and white flannels, he drew one last bar of powder across the blemish, dusted it carefully with his handkerchief and hurried out to Joe Gorman’s car. Joe was driving in person, and in front with him were Lewis Crum and Hubert Blair. Basil got in the big rear seat alone and they drove without stopping out of the city onto the Black Bear Road, keeping their backs to him and talking in low voices together. He thought at first that they were going to pick up other boys; now he was shocked, and for a moment he considered getting out of the car, but this would imply that he was hurt. His spirit, and with it his face, hardened a little and he sat without speaking or being spoken to for the rest of the ride.</p>
<p>After half an hour the Davies’ house, a huge rambling bungalow occupying a small peninsula in the lake, floated into sight. Lanterns outlined its shape and wavered in gleaming lines on the gold-and-rose colored water, and as they came near, the low notes of bass horns and drums were blown toward them from the lawn.</p>
<p>Inside Basil looked about for Imogene. There was a crowd around her seeking dances, but she saw Basil; his heart bounded at her quick intimate smile.</p>
<p>“You can have the fourth, Basil, and the eleventh and the second extra.⁠ ⁠… How did you hurt your lip?”</p>
<p>“Cut it shaving,” he said hurriedly. “How about supper?”</p>
<p>“Well, I have to have supper with Riply because he brought me.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t,” Basil assured her.</p>
<p>“Yes, she does,” insisted Riply, standing close at hand. “Why don’t you get your own girl for supper?”</p>
<p>After the third dance was over, Basil led Imogene down to the end of the pier, where they found seats in a motorboat.</p>
<p>“Now what?” she said.</p>
<p>He did not know. If he had really cared for her he would have known. When her hand rested on his knee for a moment he did not notice it. Instead, he talked. He told her how he had pitched on the second baseball team at school and had once beaten the first in a five-inning game. He told her that the thing was that some boys were popular with boys and some boys were popular with girls⁠—he, for instance, was popular with girls. In short, he unloaded himself.</p>
<p>At length, feeling that he had perhaps dwelt disproportionately on himself, he told her suddenly that she was his favorite girl.</p>
<p>Imogene sat there, sighing a little in the moonlight. In another boat, lost in the darkness beyond the pier, sat a party of four. Joe Gorman was singing:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“My little love⁠—</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">—in honey man,</span>
<br/>
<span>He sure has won my⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I thought you might want to know,” said Basil to Imogene. “I thought maybe you thought I liked somebody else. The truth game didn’t get around to me the other night.”</p>
<p>“What?” asked Imogene vaguely. She had forgotten the other night, all nights except this, and she was thinking of the magic in Joe Gorman’s voice. She had the next dance with him; he was going to teach her the words of a new song. Basil was sort of peculiar, telling her all this stuff. He was good-looking and attractive and all that, but⁠—she wanted the dance to be over. She wasn’t having any fun.</p>
<p>The music began inside⁠—“Everybody’s Doing It,” played with many little nervous jerks on the violins.</p>
<p>“Oh, listen!” she cried, sitting up and snapping her fingers. “Do you know how to rag?”</p>
<p>“Listen, Imogene”⁠—He half realized that something had slipped away⁠—“let’s sit out this dance⁠—you can tell Joe you forgot.”</p>
<p>She rose quickly. “Oh, no, I can’t!”</p>
<p>Unwillingly Basil followed her inside. It had not gone well⁠—he had talked too much again. He waited moodily for the eleventh dance so that he could behave differently. He believed now that he was in love with Imogene. His self-deception created a tightness in his throat, a counterfeit of longing and desire.</p>
<p>Before the eleventh dance he was aware that some party was being organized from which he was purposely excluded. There were whisperings and arguings among some of the boys, and unnatural silences when he came near. He heard Joe Gorman say to Riply Buckner, “We’ll just be gone three days. If Gladys can’t go, why don’t you ask Connie? The chaperons’ll⁠—” he changed his sentence as he saw Basil⁠—“and we’ll all go to Smith’s for ice-cream soda.”</p>
<p>Later, Basil took Riply Buckner aside but failed to elicit any information: Riply had not forgotten Basil’s attempt to rob him of Imogene tonight.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t about anything,” he insisted. “We’re going to Smith’s, honest.⁠ ⁠… How’d you cut your lip?”</p>
<p>“Cut it shaving.”</p>
<p>When his dance with Imogene came she was even vaguer than before, exchanging mysterious communications with various girls as they moved around the room, locked in the convulsive grip of the Grizzly Bear. He led her out to the boat again, but it was occupied, and they walked up and down the pier while he tried to talk to her and she hummed:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>“My little lov‑in honey man⁠—”</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Imogene, listen. What I wanted to ask you when we were on the boat before was about the night we played Truth. Did you really mean what you said?”</p>
<p>“Oh, what do you want to talk about that silly game for?”</p>
<p>It had reached her ears, not once but several times, that Basil thought he was wonderful⁠—news that was flying about with as much volatility as the rumor of his graces two weeks before. Imogene liked to agree with everyone⁠—and she had agreed with several impassioned boys that Basil was terrible. And it was difficult not to dislike him for her own disloyalty.</p>
<p>But Basil thought that only ill luck ended the intermission before he could accomplish his purpose; though what he had wanted he had not known.</p>
<p>Finally, during the intermission, Margaret Torrence, whom he had neglected, told him the truth.</p>
<p>“Are you going on the touring party up to the <abbr>St.</abbr> Croix River?” she asked. She knew he was not.</p>
<p>“What party?”</p>
<p>“Joe Gorman got it up. I’m going with Elwood Leaming.”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not going,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t go.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“I don’t like Joe Gorman.”</p>
<p>“I guess he doesn’t like you much either.”</p>
<p>“Why? What did he say?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing.”</p>
<p>“But what? Tell me what he said.”</p>
<p>After a minute she told him, as if reluctantly: “Well, he and Hubert Blair said you thought⁠—you thought you were wonderful.” Her heart misgave her.</p>
<p>But she remembered he had asked her for only one dance. “Joe said you told him that all the girls thought you were wonderful.”</p>
<p>“I never said anything like that,” said Basil indignantly, “never!”</p>
<p>He understood⁠—Joe Gorman had done it all, taken advantage of Basil’s talking too much⁠—an affliction which his real friends had always allowed for⁠—in order to ruin him. The world was suddenly compact of villainy. He decided to go home.</p>
<p>In the coat room he was accosted by Bill Kampf: “Hello, Basil, how did you hurt your lip?”</p>
<p>“Cut it shaving.”</p>
<p>“Say, are you going to this party they’re getting up next week?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Well, look, I’ve got a cousin from Chicago coming to stay with us and mother said I could have a boy out for the weekend. Her name is Minnie Bibble.”</p>
<p>“Minnie Bibble?” repeated Basil, vaguely revolted.</p>
<p>“I thought maybe you were going to that party, too, but Riply Buckner said to ask you and I thought⁠—”</p>
<p>“I’ve got to stay home,” said Basil quickly.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, Basil,” he pursued. “It’s only for two days, and she’s a nice girl. You’d like her.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Basil considered. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Bill. I’ve got to get the street car home. I’ll come out for the weekend if you’ll take me over to Wildwood now in your car.”</p>
<p>“Sure I will.”</p>
<p>Basil walked out on the veranda and approached Connie Davies.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he said. Try as he might, his voice was stiff and proud. “I had an awfully good time.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry you’re leaving so early, Basil.” But she said to herself: “He’s too stuck up to have a good time. He thinks he’s wonderful.”</p>
<p>From the veranda he could hear Imogene’s laughter down at the end of the pier. Silently he went down the steps and along the walk to meet Bill Kampf, giving strollers a wide berth as though he felt the sight of him would diminish their pleasure.</p>
<p>It had been an awful night.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later Bill dropped him beside the waiting trolley. A few last picnickers sauntered aboard and the car bobbed and clanged through the night toward <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul.</p>
<p>Presently two young girls sitting opposite Basil began looking over at him and nudging each other, but he took no notice⁠—he was thinking how sorry they would all be⁠—Imogene and Margaret, Joe and Hubert and Riply.</p>
<p>“Look at him now!” they would say to themselves sorrowfully. “President of the United States at twenty-five! Oh, if we only hadn’t been so bad to him that night!”</p>
<p>He thought he was wonderful!</p>
</section>
<section id="he-thinks-hes-wonderful-4" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h3>
<p>Ermine Gilberte Labouisse Bibble was in exile. Her parents had brought her from New Orleans to Southampton in May, hoping that the active outdoor life proper to a girl of fifteen would take her thoughts from love. But North or South, a storm of sappling arrows flew about her. She was “engaged” before the first of June.</p>
<p>Let it not be gathered from the foregoing that the somewhat hard outlines of Miss Bibble at twenty had already begun to appear. She was of a radiant freshness; her head had reminded otherwise not illiterate young men of damp blue violets, pierced with blue windows that looked into a bright soul, with today’s new roses showing through.</p>
<p>She was in exile. She was going to Glacier National Park to forget. It was written that in passage she would come to Basil as a sort of initiation, turning his eyes out from himself and giving him a first dazzling glimpse into the world of love.</p>
<p>She saw him first as a quiet handsome boy with an air of consideration in his face, which was the mark of his recent rediscovery that others had wills as strong as his, and more power. It appeared to Minnie⁠—as a few months back it had appeared to Margaret Torrence, like a charming sadness. At dinner he was polite to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Kampf in a courteous way that he had from his father, and he listened to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble’s discussion of the word “Creole” with such evident interest and appreciation that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble thought, “Now here’s a young boy with something <em>to</em> him.”</p>
<p>After dinner, Minnie, Basil and Bill rode into Black Bear village to the movies, and the slow diffusion of Minnie’s charm and personality presently became the charm and personality of the affair itself.</p>
<p>It was thus that all Minnie’s affairs for many years had a family likeness. She looked at Basil, a childish open look; then opened her eyes wider as if she had some sort of comic misgivings, and smiled⁠—she smiled⁠—</p>
<p>For all the candor of this smile, the effect⁠—because of the special contours of Minnie’s face and independent of her mood⁠—was sparkling invitation. Whenever it appeared Basil seemed to be suddenly inflated and borne upward, a little farther each time, only to be set down when the smile had reached a point where it must become a grin, and chose instead to melt away. It was like a drug. In a little while he wanted nothing except to watch it with a vast buoyant delight.</p>
<p>Then he wanted to see how close he could get to it.</p>
<p>There is a certain stage of an affair between young people when the presence of a third party is a stimulant. Before the second day had well begun, before Minnie and Basil had progressed beyond the point of great gross compliments about each other’s surpassing beauty and charm, both of them had begun to think about the time when they could get rid of their host, Bill Kampf.</p>
<p>In the late afternoon, when the first cool of the evening had come down and they were fresh and thin-feeling from swimming, they sat in a cushioned swing, piled high with pillows and shaded by the thick veranda vines; Basil put his arm around her and leaned toward her cheek and Minnie managed it that he touched her fresh lips instead. And he had always learned things quickly.</p>
<p>They sat there for an hour, while Bill’s voice reached them, now from the pier, now from the hall above, now from the pagoda at the end of the garden, and three saddled horses chafed their bits in the stable and all around them the bees worked faithfully among the flowers. Then Minnie reached up to reality, and they allowed themselves to be found⁠—</p>
<p>“Why, we were looking for you too.”</p>
<p>And Basil, by simply waving his arms and wishing, floated miraculously upstairs to brush his hair for dinner.</p>
<p>“She certainly is a wonderful girl. Oh, gosh, she certainly is a wonderful girl!”</p>
<p>He mustn’t lose his head. At dinner and afterward he listened with unwavering deferential attention while <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble talked of the boll weevil.</p>
<p>“But I’m boring you. You children want to go off by yourselves.”</p>
<p>“Not at all, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble. I was very interested⁠—honestly.”</p>
<p>“Well, you all go on and amuse yourselves. I didn’t realize time was getting on. Nowadays it’s so seldom you meet a young man with good manners and good common sense in his head, that an old man like me is likely to go along forever.”</p>
<p>Bill walked down with Basil and Minnie to the end of the pier. “Hope we’ll have a good sailing tomorrow. Say, I’ve got to drive over to the village and get somebody for my crew. Do you want to come along?”</p>
<p>“I reckon I’ll sit here for a while and then go to bed,” said Minnie.</p>
<p>“All right. You want to come, Basil?”</p>
<p>“Why⁠—why, sure, if you want me, Bill.”</p>
<p>“You’ll have to sit on a sail I’m taking over to be mended.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to crowd you.”</p>
<p>“You won’t crowd me. I’ll go get the car.”</p>
<p>When he had gone they looked at each other in despair. But he did not come back for an hour⁠—something happened about the sail or the car that took a long time. There was only the threat, making everything more poignant and breathless, that at any minute he <em>would</em> be coming.</p>
<p>By and by they got into the motorboat and sat close together murmuring: “This fall⁠—” “When you come to New Orleans⁠—” “When I go to Yale year after next⁠—” “When I come North to school⁠—” “When I get back from Glacier Park⁠—” “Kiss me once more.”⁠ ⁠… “You’re terrible. Do you know you’re terrible?⁠ ⁠… You’re absolutely terrible⁠—”</p>
<p>The water lapped against the posts; sometimes the boat bumped gently on the pier; Basil undid one rope and pushed, so that they swung off and way from the pier, and became a little island in the night⁠ ⁠…</p>
<p>… next morning, while he packed his bag, she opened the door of his room and stood beside him. Her face shone with excitement; her dress was starched and white.</p>
<p>“Basil, listen! I have to tell you: Father was talking after breakfast and he told Uncle George that he’d never met such a nice, quiet, levelheaded boy as you, and Cousin Bill’s got to tutor this month, so father asked Uncle George if he thought your family would let you go to Glacier Park with us for two weeks so I’d have some company.” They took hands and danced excitedly around the room. “Don’t say anything about it, because I reckon he’ll have to write your mother and everything. Basil, isn’t it wonderful?”</p>
<p>So when Basil left at eleven, there was no misery in their parting. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble, going into the village for a paper, was going to escort Basil to his train, and till the motorcar moved away the eyes of the two young people shone and there was a secret in their waving hands.</p>
<p>Basil sank back in the seat, replete with happiness. He relaxed⁠—to have made a success of the visit was so nice. He loved her⁠—he loved even her father sitting beside him, her father who was privileged to be so close to her, to fuddle himself at that smile.</p>
<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble lit a cigar. “Nice weather,” he said. “Nice climate up to the end of October.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful,” agreed Basil. “I miss October now that I go East to school.”</p>
<p>“Getting ready for college?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir; getting ready for Yale.” A new pleasurable thought occurred to him. He hesitated, but he knew that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble, who liked him, would share his joy. “I took my preliminaries this spring and I just heard from them⁠—I passed six out of seven.”</p>
<p>“Good for you!”</p>
<p>Again Basil hesitated, then he continued: “I got A in ancient history and B in English history and English A. And I got C in algebra A and Latin A and B. I failed French A.”</p>
<p>“Good!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble.</p>
<p>“I should have passed them all,” went on Basil, “but I didn’t study hard at first. I was the youngest boy in my class and I had a sort of swelled head about it.”</p>
<p>It was well that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble should know he was taking no dullard to Glacier National Park. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble took a long puff of his cigar.</p>
<p>On second thought, Basil decided that his last remark didn’t have the right ring and he amended it a little.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t exactly a swelled head, but I never had to study very much, because in English I’d usually read most of the books before, and in history I’d read a lot too.” He broke off and tried again: “I mean, when you say swelled head you think of a boy just going around with his head swelled, sort of, saying, ‘Oh, look how much I know!’ Well, I wasn’t like that. I mean, I didn’t think I knew everything, but I was sort of⁠—”</p>
<p>As he searched for the elusive word, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble said, “H’m!” and pointed with his cigar at a spot in the lake.</p>
<p>“There’s a boat,” he said.</p>
<p>“Yes,” agreed Basil. “I don’t know much about sailing. I never cared for it. Of course I’ve been out a lot, just tending boards and all that, but most of the time you have to sit with nothing to do. I like football.”</p>
<p>“H’m!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble. “When I was your age I was out in the Gulf in a catboat every day.”</p>
<p>“I guess it’s fun if you like it,” conceded Basil.</p>
<p>“Happiest days of my life.”</p>
<p>The station was in sight. It occurred to Basil that he should make one final friendly gesture.</p>
<p>“Your daughter certainly is an attractive girl, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble,” he said. “I usually get along with girls all right, but I don’t usually like them very much. But I think your daughter is the most attractive girl I ever met.” Then, as the car stopped, a faint misgiving overtook him and he was impelled to add with a disparaging little laugh. “Goodbye. I hope I didn’t talk too much.”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble. “Good luck to you. Goo’-by.”</p>
<p>A few minutes later, when Basil’s train had pulled out, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Bibble stood at the newsstand buying a paper and already drying his forehead against the hot July day.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir! That was a lesson not to do anything in a hurry,” he was saying to himself vehemently. “Imagine listening to that fresh kid gabbling about himself all through Glacier Park! Thank the good Lord for that little ride!”</p>
<p>On his arrival home, Basil literally sat down and waited. Under no pretext would he leave the house save for short trips to the drug store for refreshments, whence he returned on a full run. The sound of the telephone or the doorbell galvanized him into the rigidity of the electric chair.</p>
<p>That afternoon he composed a wondrous geographical poem, which he mailed to Minnie:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>Of all the fair flowers of Paris,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">Of all the red roses of Rome,</span>
<br/>
<span>Of all the deep tears of Vienna</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">The sadness wherever you roam,</span>
<br/>
<span>I think of that night by the lakeside,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">he beam of the moon and stars,</span>
<br/>
<span>And the smell of an aching like perfume,</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">The tune of the Spanish guitars.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>But Monday passed and most of Tuesday and no word came. Then, late in the afternoon of the second day, as he moved vaguely from room to room looking out of different windows into a barren lifeless street, Minnie called him on the phone.</p>
<p>“Yes?” His heart was beating wildly.</p>
<p>“Basil, we’re going this afternoon.”</p>
<p>“Going!” he repeated blankly.</p>
<p>“Oh, Basil, I’m so sorry. Father changed his mind about taking anybody West with us.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry, Basil.”</p>
<p>“I probably couldn’t have gone.”</p>
<p>There was a moment’s silence. Feeling her presence over the wire, he could scarcely breathe, much less speak.</p>
<p>“Basil, can you hear me?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“We may come back this way. Anyhow, remember we’re going to meet this winter in New York.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said, and he added suddenly: “Perhaps we won’t ever meet again.”</p>
<p>“Of course we will. They’re calling me, Basil. I’ve got to go. Goodbye.”</p>
<p>He sat down beside the telephone, wild with grief. The maid found him half an hour later bowed over the kitchen table. He knew what had happened as well as if Minnie had told him. He had made the same old error, undone the behavior of three days in half an hour. It would have been no consolation if it had occurred to him that it was just as well. Somewhere on the trip he would have let go and things might have been worse⁠—though perhaps not so sad. His only thought now was that she was gone.</p>
<p>He lay on his bed, baffled, mistaken, miserable but not beaten. Time after time, the same vitality that had led his spirit to a scourging made him able to shake off the blood like water not to forget, but to carry his wounds with him to new disasters and new atonements⁠—toward his unknown destiny.</p>
<p>Two days later his mother told him that on condition of his keeping the batteries on charge, and washing it once a week, his grandfather had consented to let him use the electric whenever it was idle in the afternoon. Two hours later he was out in it, gliding along Crest Avenue at the maximum speed permitted by the gears and trying to lean back as if it were a Stutz Bearcat. Imogene Bissel waved at him from in front of her house and he came to an uncertain stop.</p>
<p>“You’ve got a car!”</p>
<p>“It’s grandfather’s,” he said modestly. “I thought you were up on that party at the <abbr>St.</abbr> Croix.”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “Mother wouldn’t let me go⁠—only a few girls went. There was a big accident over in Minneapolis and mother won’t even let me ride in a car unless there’s someone over eighteen driving.”</p>
<p>“Listen, Imogene, do you suppose your mother meant electrics?”</p>
<p>“Why, I never thought⁠—I don’t know. I could go and see.”</p>
<p>“Tell your mother it won’t go over twelve miles an hour,” he called after her.</p>
<p>A minute later she ran joyfully down the walk. “I can go, Basil,” she cried. “Mother never heard of any wrecks in an electric. What’ll we do?”</p>
<p>“Anything,” he said in a reckless voice. “I didn’t mean that about this bus making only twelve miles an hour⁠—it’ll make fifteen. Listen, let’s go down to Smith’s and have a claret lemonade.”</p>
<p>“Why, Basil Lee!”</p>
</section>
</article>
<article id="the-captured-shadow" epub:type="se:short-story bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Captured Shadow</h2>
<section id="the-captured-shadow-1" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</h3>
<p>Basil Duke Lee shut the front door behind him and turned on the dining-room light. His mother’s voice drifted sleepily downstairs:</p>
<p>“Basil, is that you?”</p>
<p>“No, mother, it’s a burglar.”</p>
<p>“It seems to me twelve o’clock is pretty late for a fifteen-year-old boy.”</p>
<p>“We went to Smith’s and had a soda.”</p>
<p>Whenever a new responsibility devolved upon Basil he was “a boy almost sixteen,” but when a privilege was in question, he was “a fifteen-year-old boy.”</p>
<p>There were footsteps above, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Lee, in kimono, descended to the first landing.</p>
<p>“Did you and Riply enjoy the play?”</p>
<p>“Yes, very much.”</p>
<p>“What was it about?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it was just about this man. Just an ordinary play.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t it have a name?”</p>
<p>“ ‘Are You a Mason?’ ”</p>
<p>“Oh.” She hesitated, covetously watching his alert and eager face, holding him there. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”</p>
<p>“I’m going to get something to eat.”</p>
<p>“Something more?”</p>
<p>For a moment he didn’t answer. He stood in front of a glassed-in bookcase in the living room, examining its contents with an equally glazed eye.</p>
<p>“We’re going to get up a play,” he said suddenly. “I’m going to write it.”</p>
<p>“Well⁠—that’ll be very nice. Please come to bed soon. You were up late last night, too, and you’ve got dark circles under your eyes.”</p>
<p>From the bookcase Basil presently extracted “Van Bibber and Others,” from which he read while he ate a large plate of straw softened with half a pint of cream. Back in the living room he sat for a few minutes at the piano, digesting, and meanwhile staring at the colored cover of a song from “The Midnight Sons.” It showed three men in evening clothes and opera hats sauntering jovially along Broadway against the blazing background of Times Square.</p>
<p>Basil would have denied incredulously the suggestion that that was currently his favorite work of art. But it was.</p>
<p>He went upstairs. From a drawer of his desk he took out a composition book and opened it.</p>
<blockquote class="play-titlecard">
<p>
<b>Basil Duke Lee</b>
</p>
<p>
<b><abbr>St.</abbr> Regis School<br/>
Eastchester, Conn.<br/>
Fifth From French</b>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="continued">and on the next page, under Irregular Verbs:</p>
<table>
<thead>
<tr>
<th colspan="2">Present</th>
</tr>
</thead>
<tbody lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">
<tr>
<td>je connais</td>
<td>nous con</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>tu connais</td>
<td/>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>il connait</td>
<td/>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>He turned over another page.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:drama z3998:scene">
<header class="play-titlecard" role="presentation">
<p>
<b><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington Square</b>
</p>
<p>A Musical Comedy by<br/>
<b>Basil Duke Lee</b><br/>
Music by Victor Herbert</p>
<p>
<b>Act I</b>
</p>
</header>
<p>The porch of the Millionaires’ Club, near New York. Opening Chorus,</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Leilia and Debutantes</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:song">
<p>
<span>We sing not soft, we sing not loud</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">For no one ever heard an opening chorus.</span>
<br/>
<span>We are a very merry crowd</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">But no one ever heard an opening chorus.</span>
<br/>
<span>We’re just a crowd of debutantes</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">As merry as can be</span>
<br/>
<span>And nothing that there is could ever bore us</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">We’re the wittiest ones, the prettiest ones.</span>
<br/>
<span>In all society</span>
<br/>
<span class="i1">But no one ever heard an opening chorus.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Leilia</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Stepping forward:</i> Well, girls, has <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Washington Square been around here today?</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</blockquote>
<p>Basil turned over a page. There was no answer to Leilia’s question. Instead in capitals was a brand-new heading:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:drama z3998:scene">
<header class="play-titlecard" role="presentation">
<p>
<b>
<i>Hic!</i>
<i>Hic!</i>
<i>Hic!</i>
</b>
</p>
<p>A Hilarious Farce in One Act<br/>
by<br/>
<b>Basil Duke Lee</b></p>
<p>
<b>Scene</b>
</p>
</header>
<p>A fashionable apartment near Broadway, New York City. It is almost midnight. As the curtain goes up there is a knocking at the door and a few minutes later it opens to admit a handsome man in a full evening dress and a companion. He has evidently been imbibing, for his words are thick, his nose is red, and he can hardly stand up. He turns up the light and comes down center.</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Stuyvesant</td>
<td>
<i>Hic!</i>
<i>Hic!</i>
<i>Hic!</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">O’hara</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">His companion.</i> Begorra, you been sayin’ nothing else all this evening.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</blockquote>
<p>Basil turned over a page and then another, reading hurriedly, but not without interest.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:drama">
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Professor Pumpkin</td>
<td>Now, if you are an educated man, as you claim, perhaps you can tell me the Latin word for “this.”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Stuyvesant</td>
<td>
<i>Hic!</i>
<i>Hic!</i>
<i>Hic!</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Professor Pumpkin</td>
<td>Correct. Very good indeed. I⁠—</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</blockquote>
<p>At this point <i>Hic!</i> <i>Hic!</i> <i>Hic!</i> came to an end in midsentence. On the following page, in just as determined a hand as if the last two works had not faltered by the way, was the heavily underlined beginning of another:</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:drama">
<div class="play-titlecard">
<p>
<b>The Captured Shadow</b>
</p>
<p>A Melodramatic Farce in Three Acts<br/>
by<br/>
<b>Basil Duke Lee</b></p>
<p>
<b>Scene</b>
</p>
</div>
<p>All three acts take place in the library of the <b epub:type="z3998:persona">van Bakers’</b> house in New York. It is well furnished with a red lamp on one side and some crossed spears and helmets and so on and a divan and a general air of an oriental den.</p>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">When the curtain rises <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Saunders</b>, <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Leilia van Baker</b> and <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Estella Carrage</b> are sitting at a table. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Saunders</b> is an old maid about forty very kittenish. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Leilia</b> is pretty with dark hair. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Estella</b> has light hair. They are a striking combination.</i>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“The Captured Shadow” filled the rest of the book and ran over into several loose sheets at the end. When it broke off Basil sat for a while in thought. This had been a season of “crook comedies” in New York, and the feel, the swing, the exact and vivid image of the two he had seen, were in the foreground of his mind. At the time they had been enormously suggestive, opening out into a world much larger and more brilliant than themselves that existed outside their windows and beyond their doors, and it was this suggested world rather than any conscious desire to imitate “Officer 666,” that had inspired the effort before him. Presently he printed Act <span epub:type="z3998:roman">II</span> at the head of a new tablet and began to write.</p>
<p>An hour passed. Several times he had recourse to a collection of joke books and to an old Treasury of Wit and Humor which embalmed the faded Victorian cracks of Bishop Wilberforce and Sydney Smith. At the moment when, in his story, a door moved slowly open, he heard a heavy creak upon the stairs. He jumped to his feet, aghast and trembling, but nothing stirred; only a white moth bounced against the screen, a clock struck the half-hour far across the city, a bird whacked its wings in a tree outside.</p>
<p>Voyaging to the bathroom at half-past four, he saw with a shock that morning was already blue at the window. He had stayed up all night. He remembered that people who stayed up all night went crazy, and transfixed in the hall, he tried agonizingly to listen to himself, to feel whether or not he was going crazy. The things around him seemed preternaturally unreal, and rushing frantically back into his bedroom, he began tearing off his clothes, racing after the vanishing night. Undressed, he threw a final regretful glance at his pile of manuscript⁠—he had the whole next scene in his head. As a compromise with incipient madness he got into bed and wrote for an hour more.</p>
<p>Late next morning he was startled awake by one of the ruthless Scandinavian sisters who, in theory, were the Lees’ servants. “Eleven o’clock!” she shouted. “Five after!”</p>
<p>“Let me alone,” Basil mumbled. “What do you come and wake me up for?”</p>
<p>“Somebody downstairs.” He opened his eyes. “You ate all the cream last night,” Hilda continued. “Your mother didn’t have any for her coffee.”</p>
<p>“All the cream!” he cried. “Why, I saw some more.”</p>
<p>“It was sour.”</p>
<p>“That’s terrible,” he exclaimed, sitting up. “Terrible!”</p>
<p>For a moment she enjoyed his dismay. Then she said, “Riply Buckner’s downstairs,” and went out, closing the door.</p>
<p>“Send him up!” he called after her. “Hilda, why don’t you ever listen for a minute? Did I get any mail?”</p>
<p>There was no answer. A moment later Riply came in.</p>
<p>“My gosh, are you still in bed?”</p>
<p>“I wrote on the play all night. I almost finished Act Two.” He pointed to his desk.</p>
<p>“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” said Riply. “Mother thinks we ought to get Miss Halliburton.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“Just to sort of be there.”</p>
<p>Though Miss Halliburton was a pleasant person who combined the occupations of French teacher and bridge teacher, unofficial chaperon and children’s friend, Basil felt that her superintendence would give the project an unprofessional ring.</p>
<p>“She wouldn’t interfere,” went on Riply, obviously quoting his mother. “I’ll be the business manager and you’ll direct the play, just like we said, but it would be good to have her there for prompter and to keep order at rehearsals. The girls’ mothers’ll like it.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Basil agreed reluctantly. “Now look, let’s see who we’ll have in the cast. First, there’s the leading man⁠—this gentleman burglar that’s called The Shadow. Only it turns out at the end that he’s really a young man about town doing it on a bet, and not really a burglar at all.”</p>
<p>“That’s you.”</p>
<p>“No, that’s you.”</p>
<p>“Come on! You’re the best actor,” protested Riply.</p>
<p>“No, I’m going to take a smaller part, so I can coach.”</p>
<p>“Well, haven’t I got to be business manager?”</p>
<p>Selecting the actresses, presumably all eager, proved to be a difficult matter. They settled finally on Imogene Bissel for leading lady; Margaret Torrence for her friend, and Connie Davies for “Miss Saunders, an old maid very kittenish.”</p>
<p>On Riply’s suggestion that several other girls wouldn’t be pleased at being left out, Basil introduced a maid and a cook, “who could just sort of look in from the kitchen.” He rejected firmly Riply’s further proposal that there should be two or three maids, “a sort of sewing woman,” and a trained nurse. In a house so clogged with femininity even the most umbrageous of gentleman burglars would have difficulty in moving about.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you two people we won’t have,” Basil said meditatively⁠—“that’s Joe Gorman and Hubert Blair.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t be in it if we had Hubert Blair,” asserted Riply.</p>
<p>“Neither would I.”</p>
<p>Hubert Blair’s almost miraculous successes with girls had caused Basil and Riply much jealous pain.</p>
<p>They began calling up the prospective cast and immediately the enterprise received its first blow. Imogene Bissel was going to Rochester, Minnesota, to have her appendix removed, and wouldn’t be back for three weeks.</p>
<p>They considered.</p>
<p>“How about Margaret Torrence?”</p>
<p>Basil shook his head. He had vision of Leilia Van Baker as someone rarer and more spirited than Margaret Torrence. Not that Leilia had much being, even to Basil⁠—less than the Harrison Fisher girls pinned around his wall at school. But she was not Margaret Torrence. She was no one you could inevitably see by calling up half an hour before on the phone.</p>
<p>He discarded candidate after candidate. Finally a face began to flash before his eyes, as if in another connection, but so insistently that at length he spoke the name.</p>
<p>“Evelyn Beebe.”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>Though Evelyn Beebe was only sixteen, her precocious charms had elevated her to an older crowd and to Basil she seemed of the very generation of his heroine, Leilia Van Baker. It was a little like asking Sarah Bernhardt for her services, but once her name had occurred to him, other possibilities seemed pale.</p>
<p>At noon they rang the Beebes’ doorbell, stricken by a paralysis of embarrassment when Evelyn opened the door herself and, with politeness that concealed a certain surprise, asked them in.</p>
<p>Suddenly, through the portière of the living room, Basil saw and recognized a young man in golf knickerbockers.</p>
<p>“I guess we better not come in,” he said quickly.</p>
<p>“We’ll come some other time,” Riply added.</p>
<p>Together they started precipitately for the door, but she barred their way.</p>
<p>“Don’t be silly,” she insisted. “It’s just Andy Lockheart.”</p>
<p>Just Andy Lockheart⁠—winner of the Western Golf Championship at eighteen, captain of his freshman baseball team, handsome, successful at everything he tried, a living symbol of the splendid, glamorous world of Yale. For a year Basil had walked like him and tried unsuccessfully to play the piano by ear as Andy Lockheart was able to do.</p>
<p>Through sheer ineptitude at escaping, they were edged into the room. Their plan suddenly seemed presumptuous and absurd.</p>
<p>Perceiving their condition Evelyn tried to soothe them with pleasant banter.</p>
<p>“Well it’s about time you came to see me,” she told Basil. “Here I’ve been sitting at home every night waiting for you⁠—ever since the Davies dance. Why haven’t you been here before?”</p>
<p>He stared at her blankly, unable even to smile, and muttered: “Yes, you have.”</p>
<p>“I have though. Sit down and tell me why you’ve been neglecting me! I suppose you’ve both been rushing the beautiful Imogene Bissel.”</p>
<p>“Why, I understand⁠—” said Basil. “Why, I heard from somewhere that she’s gone up to have some kind of an appendicitis⁠—that is⁠—” He ran down to a pitch of inaudibility as Andy Lockheart at the piano began playing a succession of thoughtful chords, which resolved itself into the maxixe, an eccentric stepchild of the tango. Kicking back a rug and lifting her skirts a little, Evelyn fluently tapped out a circle with her heels around the floor.</p>
<p>They sat inanimate as cushions on the sofa watching her. She was almost beautiful, with rather large features and bright fresh color behind which her heart seemed to be trembling a little with laughter. Her voice and her lithe body were always mimicking, ceaselessly caricaturing every sound and movement near by, until even those who disliked her admitted that “Evelyn could always make you laugh.” She finished her dance now with a false stumble and an awed expression as she clutched at the piano, and Basil and Riply chuckled. Seeing their embarrassment lighten, she came and sat down beside them, and they laughed again when she said: “Excuse my lack of self-control.”</p>
<p>“Do you want to be the leading lady in a play we’re going to give?” demanded Basil with sudden desperation. “We’re going to have it at the Martindale School, for the benefit of the Baby Welfare.”</p>
<p>“Basil, this is so sudden.”</p>
<p>Andy Lockheart turned around from the piano.</p>
<p>“What’re you going to give⁠—a minstrel show?”</p>
<p>“No, it’s a crook play named The Captured Shadow. Miss Halliburton is going to coach it.” He suddenly realized the convenience of that name to shelter himself behind.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you give something like ‘The Private Secretary’?” interrupted Andy. “There’s a good play for you. We gave it my last year at school.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, it’s all settled,” said Basil quickly. “We’re going to put on this play that I wrote.”</p>
<p>“You wrote it yourself?” exclaimed Evelyn.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“My-y gosh!” said Andy. He began to play again.</p>
<p>“Look, Evelyn,” said Basil. “It’s only for three weeks, and you’d be the leading lady.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. Why don’t you get Imogene?”</p>
<p>“She’s sick, I tell you. Listen⁠—”</p>
<p>“Or Margaret Torrence?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want anybody but you.”</p>
<p>The directness of this appeal touched her and momentarily she hesitated. But the hero of the Western Golf Championship turned around from the piano with a teasing smile and she shook her head.</p>
<p>“I can’t do it, Basil. I may have to go East with the family.”</p>
<p>Reluctantly Basil and Riply got up.</p>
<p>“Gosh, I wish you’d be in it, Evelyn.”</p>
<p>“I wish I could.”</p>
<p>Basil lingered, thinking fast, wanting her more than ever; indeed, without her, it scarcely seemed worth while to go on with the play. Suddenly a desperate expedient took shape on his lips:</p>
<p>“You certainly would be wonderful. You see, the leading man is going to be Hubert Blair.”</p>
<p>Breathlessly he watched her, saw her hesitate.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he said.</p>
<p>She came with them to the door and then out on the veranda, frowning a little.</p>
<p>“How long did you say the rehearsals would take?” she asked thoughtfully.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-captured-shadow-2" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h3>
<p>On an August evening three days later Basil read the play to the cast on Miss Halliburton’s porch. He was nervous and at first there were interruptions of “Louder” and “Not so fast.” Just as his audience was beginning to be amused by the repartee of the two comic crooks⁠—repartee that had seen service with Weber and Fields⁠—he was interrupted by the late arrival of Hubert Blair.</p>
<p>Hubert was fifteen, a somewhat shallow boy save for two or three felicities which he possessed to an extraordinary degree. But one excellence suggests the presence of others, and young ladies never failed to respond to his most casual fancy, enduring his fickleness of heart and never convinced that his fundamental indifference might not be overcome. They were dazzled by his flashing self-confidence, by his cherubic ingenuousness, which concealed a shrewd talent for getting around people, and by his extraordinary physical grace. Long-legged, beautifully proportioned, he had that tumbler’s balance usually characteristic only of men “built near the ground.” He was in constant motion that was a delight to watch, and Evelyn Beebe was not the only older girl who had found in him a mysterious promise and watched him for a long time with something more than curiosity.</p>
<p>He stood in the doorway now with an expression of bogus reverence on his round pert face.</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” he said. “Is this the First Methodist Episcopal Church?” Everybody laughed⁠—even Basil. “I didn’t know. I thought maybe I was in the right church, but in the wrong pew.”</p>
<p>They laughed again, somewhat discouraged. Basil waited until Hubert had seated himself beside Evelyn Beebe. Then he began to read once more, while the others, fascinated, watched Hubert’s efforts to balance a chair on its hind legs. This squeaky experiment continued as an undertone to the reading. Not until Basil’s desperate “Now, here’s where you come in, Hube,” did attention swing back to the play.</p>
<p>Basil read for more than an hour. When, at the end, he closed the composition book and looked up shyly, there was a burst of spontaneous applause. He had followed his models closely, and for all its grotesqueries, the result was actually interesting⁠—it was a play. Afterward he lingered, talking to Miss Halliburton, and he walked home glowing with excitement and rehearsing a little by himself into the August night.</p>
<p>The first week of rehearsal was a matter of Basil climbing back and forth from auditorium to stage, crying, “No! Look here, Connie; you come in more like this.” Then things began to happen. <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Van Schellinger came to rehearsal one day, and lingering afterward, announced that she couldn’t let Gladys be in “a play about criminals.” Her theory was that this element could be removed; for instance, the two comic crooks could be changed to “two funny farmers.”</p>
<p>Basil listened with horror. When she had gone he assured Miss Halliburton that he would change nothing. Luckily Gladys played the cook, an interpolated part that could be summarily struck out, but her absence was felt in another way. She was tranquil and tractable, “the most carefully brought-up girl in town,” and at her withdrawal rowdiness appeared during rehearsals. Those who had only such lines as “I’ll ask <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Van Baker, sir,” in Act I and “No, ma’am,” in Act <span epub:type="z3998:roman">III</span> showed a certain tendency to grow restless in between. So now it was:</p>
<p>“Please keep that dog quiet or else send him home!” or:</p>
<p>“Where’s that maid? Wake up, Margaret, for heaven’s sake!” or:</p>
<p>“What is there to laugh at that’s so darn funny?”</p>
<p>More and more the chief problem was the tactful management of Hubert Blair. Apart from his unwillingness to learn his lines, he was a satisfactory hero, but off the stage he became a nuisance. He gave an endless private performance for Evelyn Beebe, which took such forms as chasing her amorously around the hall or of flipping peanuts over his shoulder to land mysteriously on the stage. Called to order, he would mutter, “Aw, shut up yourself,” just loud enough for Basil to guess, but not to hear.</p>
<p>But Evelyn Beebe was all that Basil had expected. Once on the stage, she compelled a breathless attention, and Basil recognized this by adding to her part. He envied the half-sentimental fun that she and Hubert derived from their scenes together and he felt a vague, impersonal jealousy that almost every night after rehearsal they drove around together in Hubert’s car.</p>
<p>One afternoon when matters had progressed a fortnight, Hubert came in an hour late, loafed through the first act and then informed Miss Halliburton that he was going home.</p>
<p>“What for?” Basil demanded.</p>
<p>“I’ve got some things I got to do.”</p>
<p>“Are they important?”</p>
<p>“What business is that of yours?”</p>
<p>“Of course it’s my business,” said Basil heatedly, whereupon Miss Halliburton interfered.</p>
<p>“There’s no use of anybody getting angry. What Basil means, Hubert, is that if it’s just some small thing⁠—why, we’re all giving up our pleasures to make this play a success.”</p>
<p>Hubert listened with obvious boredom.</p>
<p>“I’ve got to drive downtown and get father.”</p>
<p>He looked coolly at Basil, as if challenging him to deny the adequacy of this explanation.</p>
<p>“Then why did you come an hour late?” demanded Basil.</p>
<p>“Because I had to do something for mother.”</p>
<p>A group had gathered and he glanced around triumphantly. It was one of those sacred excuses, and only Basil saw that it was disingenuous.</p>
<p>“Oh, tripe!” he said.</p>
<p>“Maybe you think so⁠—Bossy.”</p>
<p>Basil took a step toward him, his eyes blazing.</p>
<p>“What’d you say?”</p>
<p>“I said ‘Bossy.’ Isn’t that what they call you at school?”</p>
<p>It was true. It had followed him home. Even as he went white with rage a vast impotence surged over him at the realization that the past was always lurking near. The faces of school were around him, sneering and watching. Hubert laughed.</p>
<p>“Get out!” said Basil in a strained voice. “Go on! Get right out!”</p>
<p>Hubert laughed again, but as Basil took a step toward him he retreated.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to be in your play anyhow. I never did.”</p>
<p>“Then go on out of this hall.”</p>
<p>“Now, Basil!” Miss Halliburton hovered breathlessly beside them. Hubert laughed again and looked about for his cap.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t be in your crazy old show,” he said. He turned slowly and jauntily, and sauntered out the door.</p>
<p>Riply Buckner read Hubert’s part that afternoon, but there was a cloud upon the rehearsal. Miss Beebe’s performance lacked its customary verve and the others clustered and whispered, falling silent when Basil came near. After the rehearsal, Miss Halliburton, Riply and Basil held a conference. Upon Basil flatly refusing to take the leading part, it was decided to enlist a certain Mayall De Bec, known slightly to Riply, who had made a name for himself in theatricals at the Central High School.</p>
<p>But next day a blow fell that was irreparable. Evelyn, flushed and uncomfortable, told Basil and Miss Halliburton that her family’s plans had changed⁠—they were going East next week and she couldn’t be in the play after all. Basil understood. Only Hubert had held her this long.</p>
<p>“Goodbye,” he said gloomily.</p>
<p>His manifest despair shamed her and she tried to justify herself.</p>
<p>“Really, I can’t help it. Oh, Basil, I’m so sorry!”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t you stay over a week with me after your family goes?” Miss Halliburton asked innocently.</p>
<p>“Not possibly. Father wants us all to go together. That’s the only reason. If it wasn’t for that I’d stay.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Basil said. “Goodbye.”</p>
<p>“Basil, you’re not mad, are you?” A gust of repentance swept over her. “I’ll do anything to help. I’ll come to rehearsals this week until you get someone else, and then I’ll try to help her all I can. But father says we’ve got to go.”</p>
<p>In vain Riply tried to raise Basil’s morale after the rehearsal that afternoon, making suggestions which he waved contemptuously away. Margaret Torrence? Connie Davies? They could hardly play the parts they had. It seemed to Basil as if the undertaking was falling to pieces before his eyes.</p>
<p>It was still early when he got home. He sat dispiritedly by his bedroom window, watching the little Barnfield boy playing a lonesome game by himself in the yard next door.</p>
<p>His mother came in at five, and immediately sensed his depression.</p>
<p>“Teddy Barnfield has the mumps,” she said, in an effort to distract him. “That’s why he’s playing there all alone.”</p>
<p>“Has he?” he responded listlessly.</p>
<p>“It isn’t at all dangerous, but it’s very contagious. You had it when you were seven.”</p>
<p>“<em>H’m.</em>”</p>
<p>She hesitated.</p>
<p>“Are you worrying about your play? Has anything gone wrong?”</p>
<p>“No, mother. I just want to be alone.”</p>
<p>After a while he got up and started after a malted milk at the soda fountain around the corner. It was half in his mind to see <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Beebe and ask him if he couldn’t postpone his trip East. If he could only be sure that that was Evelyn’s real reason.</p>
<p>The sight of Evelyn’s nine-year-old brother coming along the street broke in on his thoughts.</p>
<p>“Hello, Ham. I hear you’re going away.”</p>
<p>Ham nodded.</p>
<p>“Going next week. To the seashore.”</p>
<p>Basil looked at him speculatively, as if, through his proximity to Evelyn, he held the key to the power of moving her.</p>
<p>“Where are you going now?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I’m going to play with Teddy Barnfield.”</p>
<p>“What!” Basil exclaimed. “Why, didn’t you know⁠—” He stopped. A wild, criminal idea broke over him; his mother’s words floated through his mind: “It isn’t at all dangerous, but it’s very contagious.” If little Ham Beebe got the mumps, and Evelyn <em>couldn’t</em> go away⁠—</p>
<p>He came to a decision quickly and coolly.</p>
<p>“Teddy’s playing in his back yard,” he said. “If you want to see him without going through his house, why don’t you go down this street and turn up the alley?”</p>
<p>“All right. Thanks,” said Ham trustingly.</p>
<p>Basil stood for a minute looking after him until he turned the corner into the alley, fully aware that it was the worst thing he had ever done in his life.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-captured-shadow-3" epub:type="chapter">
<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h3>
<p>A week later <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Lee had an early supper⁠—all Basil’s favorite things: chipped beef, french-fried potatoes, sliced peaches and cream, and devil’s food.</p>
<p>Every few minutes Basil said, “Gosh! I wonder what time it is,” and went out in the hall to look at the clock. “Does that clock work right?” he demanded with sudden suspicion. It was the first time the matter had ever interested him.</p>
<p>“Perfectly all right. If you eat so fast you’ll have indigestion and then you won’t be able to act well.”</p>
<p>“What do you think of the program?” he asked for the third time. “Riply Buckner, <abbr>Jr.</abbr>, presents Basil Duke Lee’s comedy, ‘The Captured Shadow.’ ”</p>
<p>“I think it’s very nice.”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t really present it.”</p>
<p>“It sounds very well though.”</p>
<p>“I wonder what time it is?” he inquired.</p>
<p>“You just said it was ten minutes after six.”</p>
<p>“Well, I guess I better be starting.”</p>
<p>“Eat your peaches, Basil. If you don’t eat you won’t be able to act.”</p>
<p>“I don’t have to act,” he said patiently. “All I am is a small part, and it wouldn’t matter⁠—” It was too much trouble to explain.</p>
<p>“Please don’t smile at me when I come on, mother,” he requested. “Just act as if I was anybody else.”</p>
<p>“Can’t I even say how-do-you-do?”</p>
<p>“What?” Humor was lost on him. He said goodbye. Trying very hard to digest not his food but his heart, which had somehow slipped down into his stomach, he started off for the Martindale School.</p>
<p>As its yellow windows loomed out of the night his excitement became insupportable; it bore no resemblance to the building he had been entering so casually for three weeks. His footsteps echoed symbolically and portentously in its deserted hall; upstairs there was only the janitor setting out the chairs in rows, and Basil wandered about the vacant stage until someone came in.</p>
<p>It was Mayall De Bec, the tall, clever, not very likeable youth they had imported from Lower Crest Avenue to be the leading man. Mayall, far from being nervous, tried to engage Basil in casual conversation. He wanted to know if Basil thought Evelyn Beebe would mind if he went to see her sometime when the show was over. Basil supposed not. Mayall said he had a friend whose father owned a brewery who owned a twelve-cylinder car.</p>
<p>Basil said, “Gee!”</p>
<p>At quarter to seven the participants arrived in groups⁠—Riply Buckner with the six boys he had gathered to serve as ticket takers and ushers; Miss Halliburton, trying to seem very calm and reliable; Evelyn Beebe, who came in as if she were yielding herself up to something and whose glance at Basil seemed to say: “Well, it looks as if I’m really going through with it after all.”</p>
<p>Mayall De Bec was to make up the boys and Miss Halliburton the girls. Basil soon came to the conclusion that Miss Halliburton knew nothing about makeup, but he judged it diplomatic, in that lady’s overwrought condition, to say nothing, but to take each girl to Mayall for corrections when Miss Halliburton had done.</p>
<p>An exclamation from Bill Kampf, standing at a crack in the curtain, brought Basil to his side. A tall bald-headed man in spectacles had come in and was shown to a seat in the middle of the house, where he examined the program. He was the public. Behind those waiting eyes, suddenly so mysterious and incalculable, was the secret of the play’s failure or success. He finished the program, took off his glasses and looked around. Two old ladies and two little boys came in, followed immediately by a dozen more.</p>
<p>“Hey, Riply,” Basil called softly. “Tell them to put the children down in front.”</p>
<p>Riply, struggling into his policeman’s uniform, looked up, and the long black mustache on his upper lip quivered indignantly.</p>
<p>“I thought of that long ago.”</p>
<p>The hall, filling rapidly, was now alive with the buzz of conversation. The children in front were jumping up and down in their seats, and everyone was talking and calling back and forth save the several dozen cooks and housemaids who sat in stiff and quiet pairs about the room.</p>
<p>Then, suddenly, everything was ready. It was incredible. “Stop! Stop!” Basil wanted to say. “It can’t be ready. There must be something⁠—there always has been something,” but the darkened auditorium and the piano and violin from Geyer’s Orchestra playing “Meet Me in the Shadows” belied his words. Miss Saunders, Leilia Van Baker and Leilia’s friend, Estella Carrage, were already seated on the stage, and Miss Halliburton stood in the wings with the prompt book. Suddenly the music ended and the chatter in front died away.</p>
<p>“Oh, gosh!” Basil thought. “Oh, my gosh!”</p>
<p>The curtain rose. A clear voice floated up from somewhere. Could it be from that unfamiliar group on the stage?</p>
<p>I will, Miss Saunders. I tell you I will!</p>
<p>But, Miss Leilia, I don’t consider the newspapers proper for young ladies nowadays.</p>
<p>I don’t care. I want to read about this wonderful gentleman burglar they call The Shadow.</p>
<p>It was actually going on. Almost before he realized it, a ripple of laughter passed over the audience as Evelyn gave her imitation of Miss Saunders behind her back.</p>
<p>“Get ready, Basil,” breathed Miss Halliburton.</p>
<p>Basil and Bill Kampf, the crooks, each took an elbow of Victor Van Baker, the dissolute son of the house, and made ready to aid him through the front door.</p>
<p>It was strangely natural to be out on the stage with all those eyes looking up encouragingly. His mother’s face floated past him, other faces that he recognized and remembered.</p>
<p>Bill Kampf stumbled on a line and Basil picked him up quickly and went on.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:drama">
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Saunders</td>
<td>So you are alderman from the Sixth Ward?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Rabbit Simmons</td>
<td>Yes, ma’am.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Saunders</td>
<td><i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Shaking her head kittenishly.</i> Just what is an alderman?</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Chinaman Rudd</td>
<td>An alderman is halfway between a politician and a pirate.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</blockquote>
<p>This was one of Basil’s lines that he was particularly proud of⁠—but there was not a sound from the audience, not a smile. A moment later Bill Kampf absentmindedly wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and then stared at it, startled by the red stains of makeup on it⁠—and the audience roared. The theater was like that.</p>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:drama">
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Miss Saunders</td>
<td>Then you believe in spirits, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Rudd.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Chinaman Rudd</td>
<td>Yes, ma’am, I certainly do believe in spirits. Have you got any?</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</blockquote>
<p>The first big scene came. On the darkened stage a window rose slowly and Mayall De Bec, “in a full evening dress,” climbed over the sill. He was tiptoeing cautiously from one side of the stage to the other, when Leilia Van Baker came in. For a moment she was frightened, but he assured her that he was a friend of her brother Victor. They talked. She told him naively yet feelingly of her admiration for The Shadow, of whose exploits she had read. She hoped, though, that The Shadow would not come here tonight, as the family jewels were all in that safe at the right.</p>
<p>The stranger was hungry. He had been late for his dinner and so had not been able to get any that night. Would he have some crackers and milk? That would be fine. Scarcely had she left the room when he was on his knees by the safe, fumbling at the catch, undeterred by the unpromising word “Cake” stencilled on the safe’s front. It swung open, but he heard footsteps outside and closed it just as Leilia came back with the crackers and milk.</p>
<p>They lingered, obviously attracted to each other. Miss Saunders came in, very kittenish, and was introduced. Again Evelyn mimicked her behind her back and the audience roared. Other members of the household appeared and were introduced to the stranger.</p>
<p>What’s this? A banging at the door, and Mulligan, a policeman, rushes in.</p>
<p>We have just received word from the Central Office that the notorious Shadow has been seen climbing in the window! No one can leave this house tonight!</p>
<p>The curtain fell. The first rows of the audience⁠—the younger brothers and sisters of the cast⁠—were extravagant in their enthusiasm. The actors took a bow.</p>
<p>A moment later Basil found himself alone with Evelyn Beebe on the stage. A weary doll in her makeup she was leaning against a table.</p>
<p>“Heigh-ho, Basil,” she said.</p>
<p>She had not quite forgiven him for holding her to her promise after her little brother’s mumps had postponed their trip East, and Basil had tactfully avoided her, but now they met in the genial glow of excitement and success.</p>
<p>“You were wonderful,” he said⁠—“Wonderful!”</p>
<p>He lingered a moment. He could never please her, for she wanted someone like herself, someone who could reach her through her senses, like Hubert Blair. Her intuition told her that Basil was of a certain vague consequence; beyond that his incessant attempts to make people think and feel, bothered and wearied her. But suddenly, in the glow of the evening, they leaned forward and kissed peacefully, and from that moment, because they had no common ground even to quarrel on, they were friends for life.</p>
<p>When the curtain rose upon the second act Basil slipped down a flight of stairs and up to another to the back of the hall, where he stood watching in the darkness. He laughed silently when the audience laughed, enjoying it as if it were a play he had never seen before.</p>
<p>There was a second and a third act scene that were very similar. In each of them The Shadow, alone on the stage, was interrupted by Miss Saunders. Mayall De Bec, having had but ten days of rehearsal, was inclined to confuse the two, but Basil was totally unprepared for what happened. Upon Connie’s entrance Mayall spoke his third-act line and involuntarily Connie answered in kind.</p>
<p>Others coming on the stage were swept up in the nervousness and confusion, and suddenly they were playing the third act in the middle of the second. It happened so quickly that for a moment Basil had only a vague sense that something was wrong. Then he dashed down one stairs and up another and into the wings, crying:</p>
<p>“Let down the curtain! Let down the curtain!”</p>
<p>The boys who stood there aghast sprang to the rope. In a minute Basil, breathless, was facing the audience.</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “there’s been changes in the cast and what just happened was a mistake. If you’ll excuse us we’d like to do that scene over.”</p>
<p>He stepped back in the wings to a flutter of laughter and applause.</p>
<p>“All right, Mayall!” he called excitedly. “On the stage alone. Your line is: ‘I just want to see that the jewels are all right,’ and Connie’s is: ‘Go ahead, don’t mind me.’ All right! Curtain up!”</p>
<p>In a moment things righted themselves. Someone brought water for Miss Halliburton, who was in a state of collapse, and as the act ended they all took a curtain call once more. Twenty minutes later it was over. The hero clasped Leilia Van Baker to his breast, confessing that he was The Shadow, “and a captured Shadow at that”; the curtain went up and down, up and down; Miss Halliburton was dragged unwillingly on the stage and the ushers came up the aisles laden with flowers. Then everything became informal and the actors mingled happily with the audience, laughing and important, congratulated from all sides. An old man whom Basil didn’t know came up to him and shook his hand, saying, “You’re a young man that’s going to be heard from some day,” and a reporter from the paper asked him if he was really only fifteen. It might all have been very bad and demoralizing for Basil, but it was already behind him. Even as the crowd melted away and the last few people spoke to him and went out, he felt a great vacancy come into his heart. It was over, it was done and gone⁠—all that work, and interest and absorption. It was a hollowness like fear.</p>
<p>“Good night, Miss Halliburton. Good night, Evelyn.”</p>
<p>“Good night, Basil. Congratulations, Basil. Good night.”</p>
<p>“Where’s my coat? Good night, Basil.”</p>
<p>“Leave your costumes on the stage, please. They’ve got to go back tomorrow.”</p>
<p>He was almost the last to leave, mounting to the stage for a moment and looking around the deserted hall. His mother was waiting and they strolled home together through the first cool night of the year.</p>
<p>“Well, I thought it went very well indeed. Were you satisfied?” He didn’t answer for a moment. “Weren’t you satisfied with the way it went?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” He turned his head away.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Nothing,” and then, “Nobody really cares, do they?”</p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>“About anything.”</p>
<p>“Everybody cares about different things. I care about you, for instance.”</p>
<p>Instinctively he ducked away from a hand extended caressingly toward him: “Oh, don’t. I don’t mean like that.”</p>
<p>“You’re just overwrought, dear.”</p>
<p>“I am not overwrought. I just feel sort of sad.”</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t feel sad. Why, people told me after the play⁠—”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all over. Don’t talk about that⁠—don’t ever talk to me about that any more.”</p>
<p>“Then what are you sad about?”</p>
<p>“Oh, about a little boy.”</p>
<p>“What little boy?”</p>
<p>“Oh, little Ham⁠—you wouldn’t understand.”</p>
<p>“When we get home I want you to take a real hot bath and quiet your nerves.”</p>
<p>“All right.”</p>
<p>But when he got home he fell immediately into deep sleep on the sofa. She hesitated. Then covering him with a blanket and a comforter, she pushed a pillow under his protesting head and went upstairs.</p>
<p>She knelt for a long time beside her bed.</p>
<p>“God, help him! help him,” she prayed, “because he needs help that I can’t give him any more.”</p>
</section>
</article>
<section id="colophon" epub:type="colophon backmatter">
<header>
<h2 epub:type="title">Colophon</h2>
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epub:type="z3998:publisher-logo se:image.color-depth.black-on-transparent"/>
</header>
<p><i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Short Fiction</i><br/>
was compiled from short stories published between <time>1917</time> and <time>1928</time> by<br/>
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/F._Scott_Fitzgerald"><abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">F.</abbr> Scott Fitzgerald</a>.</p>
<p>This ebook was produced for<br/>
<a href="https://standardebooks.org/">Standard Ebooks</a><br/>
by<br/>
<b epub:type="z3998:personal-name">Hendrik Kaiber</b>,<br/>
and is based on transcriptions from<br/>
<a href="https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/f-scott-fitzgerald/short-fiction#transcriptions">various sources</a><br/>
and on digital scans from<br/>
<a href="https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/f-scott-fitzgerald/short-fiction#page-scans">various sources</a>.</p>
<p>The cover page is adapted from<br/>
<i epub:type="se:name.visual-art.painting">My Daughter Gladys</i>,<br/>
a painting completed in <time>1913</time> by<br/>
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irving_Ramsey_Wiles">Irving <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">R.</abbr> Wiles</a>.<br/>
The cover and title pages feature the<br/>
<b epub:type="se:name.visual-art.typeface">League Spartan</b> and <b epub:type="se:name.visual-art.typeface">Sorts Mill Goudy</b><br/>
typefaces created in <time>2014</time> and <time>2009</time> by<br/>
<a href="https://www.theleagueofmoveabletype.com/">The League of Moveable Type</a>.</p>
<p>The first edition of this ebook was released on<br/>
<time datetime="2024-09-12T18:37:04Z">September 12, 2024, 6:37 <abbr class="eoc">p.m.</abbr></time><br/>
You can check for updates to this ebook, view its revision history, or download it for different ereading systems at<br/>
<a href="https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/f-scott-fitzgerald/short-fiction">standardebooks.org/ebooks/f-scott-fitzgerald/short-fiction</a>.</p>
<p>The volunteer-driven Standard Ebooks project relies on readers like you to submit typos, corrections, and other improvements. Anyone can contribute at <a href="https://standardebooks.org/">standardebooks.org</a>.</p>
</section>
<section id="uncopyright" epub:type="copyright-page backmatter">
<h2 epub:type="title">Uncopyright</h2>
<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>May you do good and not evil.</span>
<br/>
<span>May you find forgiveness for yourself and forgive others.</span>
<br/>
<span>May you share freely, never taking more than you give.</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Copyright pages exist to tell you that you <em>can’t</em> do something. Unlike them, this Uncopyright page exists to tell you that the writing and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. The United States public domain represents our collective cultural heritage, and items in it are free for anyone in the United States to do almost anything at all with, without having to get permission.</p>
<p>Copyright laws are different all over the world, and the source text or artwork in this ebook may still be copyrighted in other countries. If you’re not located in the United States, you must check your local laws before using this ebook. Standard Ebooks makes no representations regarding the copyright status of the source text or artwork in this ebook in any country other than the United States.</p>
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