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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69701 ***</div>
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<div class='figcenter' style='width:80%'>
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<p class='line' style='margin-top:.5em;font-size:2.5em;'><span class='gesp'>ANTENNAE</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'><span style='font-size:x-small'>BY</span></p>
<p class='line' style='margin-top:.3em;margin-bottom:8em;font-size:1.2em;'>HULBERT FOOTNER</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/title.png' alt='' id='iid-0001' style='width:80px;height:auto;'/>
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<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='margin-top:-2em;margin-bottom:.3em;'>NEW YORK</p>
<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:1em;'>GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</p>
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<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:2em;'> <!-- rend=';fs:.7em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:.7em;'>COPYRIGHT, 1926,</p>
<p class='line' style='margin-top:.3em;margin-bottom:-1em;font-size:.7em;'>BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/verso.png' alt='' id='iid-0002' style='width:40px;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.7em;'>ANTENNAE</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.7em;'>—A—</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.7em;'>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p>
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<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:10em;'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'>TO</p>
<p class='line'>MY FIRST CRITIC</p>
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<tr><td class='tab1c1 tab1c1-col3 tdStyle0' colspan='3'><span style='font-size:larger'>CONTENTS</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'><span style='font-size:x-small'>PAGE</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'>Part One:</td><td class='tab1c2 leader-dots tdStyle1'><span>Boys</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'><a href='#ch1'>11</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'>Part Two:</td><td class='tab1c2 leader-dots tdStyle1'><span>Youths</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'><a href='#ch2'>77</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'>Part Three:</td><td class='tab1c2 leader-dots tdStyle1'><span>Young Men</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'><a href='#ch3'>133</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'>Part Four:</td><td class='tab1c2 leader-dots tdStyle1'><span>Lovers</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'><a href='#ch4'>195</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'>Part Five:</td><td class='tab1c2 leader-dots tdStyle1'><span>Husbands</span></td><td class='tab1c3 tdStyle2'><a href='#ch5'>297</a></td></tr>
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<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:10em;font-size:1.2em;'>PART ONE: BOYS</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;font-size:2.5em;'>ANTENNAE</p>
<div><h1 class='nobreak' id='ch1'>PART ONE</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>I</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred Pell</span> stole down-stairs carrying
his shoes. With infinite care he turned the
handle of the front door, his heart in his mouth.
When one pressed down a catch in the lock, it permitted
the outside handle to turn; and one could
come in again. He sat down in the vestibule to put
on his shoes. There was also an outer door, closed
when the family went to bed. This had an ordinary
lock, and the key was in it. It had been Wilfred’s
intention to lock this door, and carry the key with
him; but in the act of doing so the thought struck
him: Suppose there was a fire? How would his
Aunts get out?</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had not much of an opinion of the presence
of mind of those ladies. They might very well
stand there rattling the door, and burn up before
they recollected the basement door. Or the way to
the basement might be cut off. He pictured flames
billowing up the basement stairs. No! let them
take the chance of robbery in preference to incineration.
He left both doors unlocked behind him.
Sometimes the policeman on beat tried the basement
gates as he passed through the block; but
Wilfred had never seen him mount the stoops to
try the front doors. On the sidewalk there was a
horrible moment as he passed within range of Aunt
May’s windows over the drawing-room, then safety.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was not his first sortie at ten o’clock. It
was a way of release from the torment of his
thoughts that he had discovered. That is, if he
remembered it in time. Once the misery had him
fairly in its grip he was helpless. It was this business
of becoming a man. Sometimes he went for
a walk early in the morning; but everybody knew
about that; he could not hug the secret deliciously
to his breast. Anyhow morning walks were for
light hearts, he thought, with a gentle swell of self-pity.
Night for him! How wistfully he looked
back towards the cool zone of childhood. What
happened to you was not pleasant. He had noticed
a funny thing; if he had said to himself during
the day: To-night I will sneak out—there was no
virtue in it; he carried his earthiness with him. But
if while he was in his bed he yielded suddenly to
the impulse; and arose and dressed; a sort of miracle
occurred; he forgot himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was so to-night. The night took him. He was
thrilled by the double line of still houses fronting
each other; each house with its windows fixed unswervingly
on its adversary across the street; the
oblique stoop rails like beards; the cornices like eyebrows.
And overhead the stars, deathless flowers
in a meadow. Wilfred felt that he belonged. He
was as much the street’s as that cat creeping across,
its belly hugging the asphalt. Like the cat he was
all eyes, ears and nose; the thinking part of him had
stopped working. He made a feint at the cat; and
chuckled aloud at the creature’s precipitate loss of
dignity. Gee! how good it was to be out!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Respectable West Eleventh street was already
settling down. Most of the outer doors were closed,
and many bedroom windows showed rectangles of an
agreeable apricot light filtering through the lowered
shades. Wilfred had turned East, seeking life. At
the corner of Fifth Avenue he was struck by the
effect of the new arc lights. Hanging two to a
pole, the mellow pinkish globes stretched far into
the distance in two gradually converging lines. Like
insect lights they climbed the Thirty-Fourth street
hill at last and disappeared. Fruit of Night, Wilfred
whispered to himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In Washington Square this mild October night
there were still many couples sitting on the benches.
The sight of them left Wilfred cold; he merely
wondered at their static attitudes; hours, apparently,
without moving or speaking. But once as
he passed such a couple, a girl whose face was
hidden in a man’s neck, laughed softly in her throat,
and Wilfred’s breast was acutely disturbed by the
sound. It suggested that that private nightmare of
his might be a loveliness when shared; that it was
the means whereby two human hearts might open
to each other. Never for me! he thought with a
needle in his heart; and hurried away from the
sound.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Through Washington Place across Broadway;
through Astor Place and down the Bowery. The
bulk of Cooper Union loomed like a whale against
the sky. The sight of it, brought the slightly fœtid
smell of the reading-room into Wilfred’s nostrils.
It was a place where you could go. The bums
never looked at you. He breasted the Bowery like
a swimmer. No early-to-bed habits here. He edged
along close to the store-fronts, looking at everybody;
entering into them; thieves, prostitutes, drunken
men, sporting characters, and the great unclassified.
So many and such queer souls each peeping suspiciously
out of a pair of eyes. With the shuffling
of the people, the four track line of electric cars in
the middle of the street, and the steam cars of the
Elevated railway immediately over the sidewalk,
the uproar was at once distracting and stimulating.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There were certain store windows that Wilfred
always looked into; the florist’s full of green wire
frames to serve as a foundation for funeral pieces;
a musical instrument dealer’s exhibiting a gigantic
brass horn and a doll’s horn beside it to show the
range of the stock; an animal and bird store with
cages of monkeys. Something furtive and ugly in
the eyes of the people watching the monkeys made
Wilfred exquisitely uneasy. As you went on the
stores became less reputable in character. Besides
the crowding saloons, there were the auction sales,
celebrated in the popular song; the dime museums
and side shows with faded banners; an anatomical
museum, free “for men only.” All the shows had
a free lobby to tempt you in. The most innocent
were those with ranks of Edison’s phonographs inside;
but Wilfred recoiled from the little bone pieces
you had to stick in your ears.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Glancing into a store window where mirrors were
displayed, he saw repeated from every angle, the
figure of a boy that his eyes embraced all over in a
flash. A boy approaching sixteen, tall for his age;
dressed in a shapeless snuff-colored suit, with trousers
that flapped almost as if there were no legs within
them. He walked with a long step having a funny
little dip in the middle. He had wavy, light brown
hair, a lock of which escaped untidily under the
visor of his cap to sweep his forehead. His eyes,
somewhat deep-set, were grey-blue in color, and
had a look at once haunted, secretive and top-lofty—Wilfred’s
word. A wide mouth with uneven lips
like a crimson gash across his white face. There
was a something awkward about him; something
self-centered and peculiar that set him apart from
other boys. A boy to be jeered at. In that flash
Wilfred saw it clearly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Why . . . that’s me, he thought, with self-consciousness
winging back, making the picture hateful.
Oh Lord! what a dub! The picture remained
fixed in his mind amongst the multitude of pictures
capable of turning up at any odd moment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At Rivington Street he turned East again, entering
another populous world quite different in style
from that of the Bowery. Here, on a mild night
the family life of the East side, predominantly
Jewish, was revealed. This was Wilfred’s objective.
His solitariness was comforted by the vicarious
sharing in many households. A narrow street
hemmed in on either side by tall sooty tenements.
The fronts of the houses were decorated with webs
of rusty fire-escapes, the platforms of which were
heaped with the overflow of goods from the crowded
rooms within. From web to web criss-cross, everywhere
ran the clotheslines with their fluttering damp
burdens. In Rivington Street even the air was
crowded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The narrow sidewalk was maggoty with people.
The inner side was lined by humble shops, the
outer by an endless line of gay pushcarts like
boats anchored alongside the curb, stretching for
block after block and displaying every manner of
goods. The low stoops between the shops were
crowded, mostly with women of a complete, unconfined
fatness; nearly every one of them suckling
an infant. These mothers surveyed the scene with
an equanimity that arrested Wilfred. To have a
whole lot of children must be one way of solving
the riddle. He <span class='it'>liked</span> these featherbed women; because . . .
it was difficult for him to find the word
for his thought; they didn’t fidget; they bore their
fruit as inevitably as orchard trees. From the windows
overhead leaned other fat women, comfortably
supporting their forearms on pillows laid across
the sills. Their faces expressed a great content.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred yielded himself to the scene of life. He
had the sensation of straining open like petals. This
was the pleasure they couldn’t take away from him;
a pleasure that left a sweet taste in the mind.—The
lavish set-out of goods under the brown canvas shelters;
apples floating in brine and unwholesome-looking
preserved fish; rows upon rows of ratty fur
neckpieces and muffs; bolts of printed cottons; gay
garters and suspenders; jewelry; dazzling tinware.
The pushcarts were lighted by smoking kerosene
torches that threw leaping, ruddy lights and sooty
shadows on the scene. I must notice everything;
Wilfred would say to himself; and forthwith begin
to enumerate a catalogue in his mind. But his darting
eyes could not wait for the names of things; they
flew ahead and he forgot the catalogue. Presently
he would come to consciousness thinking: I am
not noticing anything!</p>
<p class='pindent'>The people! The dirty, savage, robust children
shouldering their way through the crowd, shrieking
to each other. To these children grown-ups were
no more than bushes obstructing their hunting paths.
Then there were the young people; the scornful,
comely youths flaunting their masculinity, and the
pretty girls undismayed by it. Empty and hard
these young people were; what of it? They were
aware of their beauty, and of their desirability in
each other’s eyes; they were proud with youth; it
was fine to see.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred turned North at last into a side street
to find another way home. Dark streets had a different
sort of attraction. No doubt the black houses
were just as full of tenants as the others, but here,
people were not drawn to the windows, nor down-stairs
to the forbidding sidewalks. Only a group
of men was to be seen here and there, on the steps,
or loitering half-concealed in a vestibule. Night-birds,
Wilfred thought with an intense thrill; cutthroats.
How stirring to think of men who were
restrained by nothing! Through each house there
ran a narrow arched passage to a yard in the rear,
where there was always, he knew, a second house
hidden from the street. There would be a gaslight
in the yard, and you would get a glimpse of greenish
flagstones. By day or by night these passages teased
Wilfred; but he had never dared to enter. In such
dens Oliver Twist had been taught to steal; Nancy
Sikes had been choked by the brutal Bill.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred soared like a bird. This was one of his
“moments.” Why they came sometimes and not
other times he did not know. His breast hummed
like harpstrings. The seat of his intense feeling
seemed to be somewhere at the back of his palate.
It was almost the same as a pain, but it was rare!
At such a moment nothing was changed; everything
became more intensely itself. He was still Wilfred,
but a Wilfred made universal. He entered into
everything and became a part of it. At such a
moment all tormenting questions were laid; it was
sufficient that things were. Life was painted in
such high colors that he was dazzled. The feeling
of pain was due to the fact that he couldn’t take it
all in. He had the actual sensations of soaring;
he stretched his nostrils to get sufficient oxygen.
Mixed with pure exaltation was the feeling: How
wonderful of me to be feeling this way!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Impressions were bitten into his consciousness as
with an acid. That frowning perspective of the
confined street with its different planes of blacknesses;
granite paving stones, flagged sidewalks,
brick tenements; the whole was like a dead scale
upon the living earth, which nevertheless one apprehended
quivering underfoot. It was there, though
it was not seen, the fertile earth capable of bringing
forth forests. At either end of the block an
arc light casting its unnatural beams horizontally
through, picking out the ash cans and empty boxes
grouped along the curb in fantastic disorder. Everywhere
the bold shadows, black and sinister.
Whether beautiful or ugly, it thrilled him through
and through. Half way through the block, the door
of a closely shuttered place was thrown open, letting
out a startling shaft of light and a babel of voices;
then sharply pulled to again. Oh, life, how
marvellous!</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the approaching corner there was a saloon;
and its side door, the “Family Entrance,” protected
by the usual fancy porch of wood and glass, lay in
Wilfred’s path. A discreet radiance came through
the frosted glass. In the corner formed by this
porch with the main building Wilfred beheld a
group of six or eight boys standing with their shoulders
pressed together in a circle, heads lowered.
Their stillness, their uneasy looks over their shoulders,
conveyed an intimation. He paused, all
aghast inside as if he had been surprised by a wound.
His spirit came diving down like a broken-winged
bird. Little scorching flames were lighted in the pit
of his stomach, and he tasted the bitterness of
wormwood.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He walked on, trying to look unconscious. One
of the boys was his own age, the others varying
sizes smaller. As he came by, the big boy cast a
wary look over his shoulder. Seeing Wilfred’s stricken
face, the boy instantly knew how it was with him,
and Wilfred knew that he knew. He felt as if he
must die with shame. The boy’s face broke up in
a horrid triumphant leer. Wilfred was never to
forget any detail of the look of that boy. He wore
ribbed cotton stockings faded to a greenish hue, and
button shoes much too big for him with fancy cloth
tops and run-over heels; around his neck was wound
a white cotton cloth, hideously soiled, suggesting
that he had had a sore throat weeks before. His
face—close-set sharp black eyes; longish nose; lips
suggesting the beak of a predatory bird; was all
lighted up by that all-knowing, zestful leer. A
wicked, dirty, comely face; it was the zest expressed
there that dishonored Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Without turning around, the boy with a slight
derisive cock of his head conveyed an invitation to
Wilfred to join the circle. Wilfred, gasping, hastened
by with lowered head, a hot tide pouring up
and scorching his cheeks and forehead. The boy’s
mocking laughter pursued him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hey, wait a minute, Kid!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred darted around the corner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He made his way home with head down, averting
his sight from the sordid streets, and the disgusting
beings that frequented them. He knew of course
that the change was in himself. He had lost his
talisman in the mud. He felt sodden. What’s the
use? he asked himself in the last bitterness of spirit;
I can’t climb a little way out of the muck, but my
foul nature drags me back again. I am the same as
that rotten boy. He saw it. . . . Oh God! if I
could only forget the look of that boy!</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>II</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>he</span> circle of boys in the corner by the Family
Entrance broke up. Joe Kaplan, the biggest
boy, cuffed and booted smaller ones aside, and
walked off towards Rivington street, indifferent to
what became of the others. He slapped the flagstones
with his spreading shoes, and whistled between
his teeth. He was feeling good. A recollection
of the white-faced boy flitted across his mind,
buoying him up with scorn. Kid from up-town, he
thought, sneakin’ around lookin’ for somepin bad.
Gee! what rotten minds them kids has! But Joe
could not put this kid out of his mind right away.
What made him look at me so funny? he asked
himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the Rivington street corner Joe lounged
against a pillar with his shoulders hunched forward,
making a stupid, sleepy look come in his face.
Under his drooping eyelids gleamed a spark. This
was his hunting ground. Every little stir in the
crowd had its meaning for him. He marked the
cop on the sidewalk to the left, leaning back with
his elbows propped on a rail, surveying the crowd
with good-humored contempt. Hogan; nothing to
fear from him; a fat-head, always looking at the
women. On the corner in the other direction was
Mitchell; a terror if you tried to turn a trick on the
storekeepers; but he despised the pushcart men; all
the cops did. However, Joe had heard that the
pushcart thefts had made so much talk, the captain
of the precinct had sent out a couple of plain-clothes
men to mix with the crowd. He was looking for
them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taking to the middle of the street, Joe shambled
up to the corner and back, making out to be a low-down
poor mutt, searching under the pushcarts for
butts. Joe could let his mouth hang open, and a
sort of film come over his eyes; you would swear he
was half-crazed with drugged cigarettes. His tour
assured him there was no plain-clothes men in that
block. He could smell a cop out. He gradually
narrowed his beat to and fro, his objective being
the pushcart that was selling furs. Cold weather
was coming on, and it was doing a brisk trade.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Suddenly Joe perceived a thin-faced lad older
than himself, standing about with a cagey eye. Bent
upon the same business as himself of course. Joe
grinned inwardly. He ain’t as smart as me, he
thought. Watch me make him work for me. Joe’s
only regret was, that there was nobody to see how
clever he was. He unobtrusively fell back to the
curb opposite the cart of furs, where he appeared to
be looking at everything in sight except the thin-faced
lad.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This one edged up to the pushcart from behind.
Occasionally he turned a white face over his shoulder
with a faraway look. Clumsy work! thought Joe;
if there was a cop within a hundred feet he’d get
on to his face. The pushcart had a rack about
three feet high built around three sides of it, the
better to display its wares. This rack was lined
with canvas; but the canvas, as Joe could see, was
not securely fastened at the bottom. The canvas-covered
rack concealed the thin-faced lad from the
proprietor of the cart, who was in front.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When he saw the thin-faced lad throw away his
cigarette, Joe crossed the road. The lad was watching
the proprietor around the edge of the screen,
and did not see Joe. Joe went around the opposite
end of the cart, and stood, making his eyes goggle
at the grand display of furs. In this position he
could no longer see the thin-faced lad, but he saw
what he was waiting for; the piece of fur disappear
under the canvas with a jerk. Others saw it too,
and cries were raised. Some took after the thief.
Every eye was turned in that direction. The distracted
proprietor flung himself over his stock with
arms outspread.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Everybody was looking the other way! What a
snap! Joe slipped his hand under the canvas at his
end of the cart, and jerked a fur neckpiece out. Fur
makes no sound. Nobody got on to him, and a
second piece followed the first. Thrusting his prizes
under his coat, he walked off, whistling between his
teeth. Oh, I’m smart! I’m smart! I’m smart! he
thought upon a swelling breast. The foretaste of
a big meal made his mouth water.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having disposed of his loot in the back room of
a little dry goods store where he was known, Joe
proceeded to a restaurant on Canal street. This
was no hash house, but a regular bon-ton restaurant,
with cloths on the tables, and waiters that didn’t
dast give the customers no lip, so’s they had the
price. Here you could get a big T-bone steak and
coffee for thirty cents, with French fried and bread
thrown in, and all the ketchup you wanted. Joe
went in feeling big; it wasn’t often a kid of his age
had the nerve to enter <span class='it'>that</span> joint.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Half an hour later he leaned back and picked his
teeth. He felt out o’ sight inside. He <span class='it'>liked</span> that
joint; in the middle of the night it was always
warm and bright, and had a stir of life about it.
You could hear the meat frying at the back, and
smell the smoke of it. There were two men sitting
opposite to each other, leaning forward until
their heads almost touched, and whispering, whispering,
each one rapidly stirring his coffee without ever
looking toward the cup. Planning some job all
right, thought Joe; bet they ain’t as smart as me,
though. You can see they’re nervous. Across from
the men sat a girl who was vainly trying to attract
their attention. She was beginning to look bedraggled,
and there was a look of terror in the bottom of
her eyes that excited Joe’s scorn. She was on the
toboggan all right. Been kicked out of the houses.
A man would be a fool to take her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His breast twanged with exultation. He was a
smart feller; he was all there, you bet. A feller
could have a good time in this world if he was smart
enough. Everything waitin’ to be picked up. No
danger of <span class='it'>him</span> gettin’ pinched. He was just a little
too smart for them. Gee! it was great to bat around
at night, and sleep in the day when the thick-heads
was workin’! Let the thick-heads work! There was
plenty of them. Workin’ never got you nowhere.
Look at his old man. . . . Soon as he was old
enough he’d have a woman to work for him. Funny
how women would work for a man. Soft. Oh well,
he’d have one of the best. When he wanted anything,
he went out and got it. That was the sort of
feller he was. He was smarter than anybody.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe went home by way of Allen street where the
houses were. After midnight when the East side
generally was beginning to quiet down, Allen street
was in full swing. Joe never tired of watching the
game that was played there. The men looked so
sheepish when they sneaked into the houses, and
more so when they came out later, cleaned out. Each
man looking as if he was the first who had been
trimmed. These were the poor fools who hadn’t
spunk enough to get a woman for themselves. The
painted-up girls too, at the windows, grinning at
the men like cats, and making goo-goo eyes, and calling
pet names to get them to come in. And the poor
suckers fell for it! It was enough to make a feller
laugh. Besides, there was often a good trick to be
worked in Allen street. If you could get hold of a
souse before he fell into the hands of the girls.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On this night Joe had the fun of seeing Chicago
Liz’s house raided by the police. He had heard
rumors that Liz was having trouble with the Captain
along of her payments. The police didn’t bother
the other houses of course, and all the girls were at
the windows and doors watching. It was good sport
to see Chicago Liz’s girls carried out into the street
in their short dresses; yelling and carrying on, and
joshing the crowd until they were shoved in the
wagon. The Madame herself, who looked sour, was
taken away with a policeman to herself in a two
horse cab.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After it was over, Joe was beckoned by a girl
standing in a doorway across the street. This was
Jewel La Count who was in Clara Moore’s house.
Joe had a sort of footing in that house as occasional
errand boy. Jewel was half Italian like himself;
but nobody knew what the other half of her was.
They were about the same age, but Jewel tried to
put it over him because she had been going with
men for more than a year. Joe sneered at her, but
these girls were often useful to him, and he went
across the street. A certain uneasiness attacked him
at the thought of speaking to her alone. Kid though
she was, he wasn’t sure how to handle her; he hadn’t
discovered any way of getting her going.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What yeh want?” he asked gruffly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel’s great brown eyes took him in unsmilingly,
and turned away. “Nottin’,” she said. “There’s
nottin’ doin’ to-night. I just wanted somebody to
talk to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe felt at a loss. “Aah!” he said, kicking the
step with his spreading shoe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me somepin, Kid,” said Jewel. “I never
get out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” said Joe. He sized her up calculatingly
out of the corners of his eyes. She was a damn pretty
girl. But that meant nothing to him. Her skin
was as soft and smooth as a baby’s. The prettiest
girl in the street. He had heard said that Clara
Moore knew what a good thing she had in Jewel, and
took good care of her. “Where’s the Madam?”
he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Out,” said Jewel indifferently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’d catch hell if she saw you down in the
street.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I ain’t lookin’ for anything. The house is closed
to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A silence fell between them. Joe wished himself
away from there. Jewel made him feel small. He
whistled between his teeth, and cursed. “——!
but it’s slow in the street to-night. Why the hell
couldn’t Liz pay up and let business go on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel ignored this as if it had not been spoken.
That was the way she was, thought Joe sorely, independent.
Stealing a look at her, he was struck by
the calm rise and fall of her breast under the pretty
waist. She was healthy all right. Well, she lived
soft; nothing to do but eat and sleep.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like to talk to somebody on the outside,” said
Jewel. “In this house it’s always the same. . . . I
like to talk.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you got plenty company,” said Joe with
a knowing grin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah! I don’t talk to them,” said Jewel coolly.
“They don’t ac’ human. I like young kids better.
Seems like boys went dotty when they got to be
men.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe knew what she meant, but he wasn’t going to
let anything on to a girl. “Aah! you’re a bit too big
for your shoes,” he said loftily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It made no impression on her. “I like the streets,”
she said dreamily. “I wisht I could roam the streets
with a gang of kids. That’s what I’d like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t know when you’re well off,” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where you been to-night?” asked Jewel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To the Bowery Mission,” said Joe derisively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yeah,” said Jewel. “You look it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laughed, and felt more at his ease. After all,
there was something about Jewel. . . . She didn’t
talk with a sponge in her mouth like other girls. She
gave it to you straight. “I had a steak at Dolan’s,”
he said offhand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, you did!” said Jewel. “Where’d you git
the price?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I hooked a coupla cat-skins offen a pushcart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Were you chased?” asked Jewel eagerly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nah! What d’ye think I am?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel paid no attention to the question. Her
thoughts pursued their own course.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on up,” she said in friendly fashion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe went hot and cold. At first he didn’t know
what to say.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I got a pack of cigarettes in my room,” the girl
went on; “we’ll smoke and chin. I’ll mend your
coat for you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Clara’d give me hell if she come home,” said
Joe. He heard the little quaver in his own voice
and it made him sore. A hard nut like him!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Clara wouldn’t mind you,” said Jewel,
coolly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This stung.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You often been in before,” said Jewel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was true, and why shouldn’t he go now? But
something inside him trembled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on,” Jewel went on; “I’ll show you all
my things. I got real nice things of my own. I
keep ’em locked in my drawer. I’d like to show ’em
to somebody. I got a big doll that I dressed myself.
She looks real cunning. I got a set of dishes from
Chinatown. I got a solid silver photograph
frame. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who’s in it?” asked Joe with a curling lip.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“President Cleveland,” said Jewel undisturbed.
“Come on up. We’ll talk. You could come often.
I’d like to have somebody come to see me, that belonged
to me like. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe felt that he must play the man. “Nottin’
doin’ to-night, girly,” he said, as he had heard men
say along Allen street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel looked at him with her big, calm eyes.
Then she laughed. She planted her hands on her
hips, and opened her mouth wide to let it come out.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” snarled Joe. “Aah . . . !” Her
laughter stung him like whips. If she had said anything,
he could have got back at her, but she laughed
what was in her mind, and there was no answer to
that. She wasn’t just trying to get back at him;
she really thought he was as funny as hell. “Aah!”
snarled Joe, “I’m not afraid of you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed afresh, and by that he knew that she
knew that he <span class='it'>was</span> afraid of her. “Aah! to hell with
you!” snarled Joe, grinding his teeth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He walked off followed by the sound of her
laughter.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>The Kaplans lived in two rooms on Sussex street.
Joe banged the door open noisily. Here was a place
where he could make himself felt. Though it was
past midnight his father and mother were still sewing
pants on the two sewing machines, side by side
against the wall between the cook-stove and the
front windows. Their bowed backs were to Joe as
he entered. On a chair between the two narrow
windows sat a girl of eleven asleep, her head fallen
back against the wall, her white, unchildlike face
turned up to the gaslight; mouth open. The pair of
pants she had been sewing on, had slipped to the
floor. On a broken, carpet-covered sofa against the
left-hand wall, lay two little boys sleeping in their
clothes; the outer one clinging to his brother to keep
from rolling off. The dining table with the remains
of the last meal upon it, was shoved into the back
corner of the room. Pants in various stages of completion
were piled everywhere.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, this is a hell of a dump to come back to!”
said Joe in a rasping voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the sound of his voice, the two little boys
rolled off the sofa, and creeping on hands and knees
to the only unoccupied corner, curled up in a fresh
embrace, and instantly fell asleep again. It pleased
Joe to see how quickly they moved. His mother rose
heavily from her machine, and threw a ragged piece
of quilt over the boys. She shook the girl by the
shoulder, and led her staggering into the back room,
where the child collapsed on a mattress spread on
the floor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe sat down on the vacated sofa, and commenced
to take off his shoes. His eyes roved around the
place full of contempt. There was both a window
and a door into the back room, which had no other
openings. It was not much larger than a closet; the
bed and the narrow mattress thrown down beside it,
filled the floor space. From lines stretched across
between wall and wall hung whatever of the family
wardrobe was not in use. The walls were painted
blue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“God! what a home for a fellow!” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nobody paid any attention. His mother plodded
back to her machine without looking at him. His
father never had stopped working the treadles. Joe
looked from one to another in a rage. Nice pair of
broken-down mutts they were! Was this the best
they could do for him? Did they think a fellow was
going to stand for it? His mother was a strong,
healthy woman, but dead from the neck up; dazed-like;
dumb. She took everything that came. It was
almost impossible to get her going. His father—Joe
grinned; you could always get <span class='it'>him</span> by the short
hairs. Joe gloated over the humbled back. His
father was askeared of him, all right! Yah! the
skinny Jew with his ashy face and sore eyes! His
grey hair was coming out in spots like a mangy dog’s.
The tufts that remained curled in ringlets with the
bald spots showing through. His beard too. Spit-curls!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How the hell do you expect me to sleep in this
racket?” snarled Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This lot is promised in the morning,” said his
mother in a dead voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s that to me? I gotta have my sleep.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take my place on the bed,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What! sleep wit’ <span class='it'>him</span>,” said Joe indicating his
father. “Not on your tin-type. I’m more particular,
<span class='it'>I</span> am.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The woman shrugged, and went on with her sewing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On the level,” said Joe, undressing, “is he my
fat’er?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You shut your mouth,” she said, without looking
around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Honest, I can’t believe that bag o’ bones ever
made me,” drawled Joe. “I ain’t like him. It beats
me, Mom, how you could a’ done it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two machines whirred on, with only the necessary
pauses to turn the goods.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe raised his voice a little to make sure of being
heard above the sound. “But its a cinch some Jew
made me. I got Jew blood all right, and I’m glad of
it. The Jews are a smart people. . . . All except
him. He’s a botched Jew; a scarecrow; he’s a Jew
that didn’t come off. He must a been made of the
stale bits like that twice-baked cake yeh git such a
big hunk of for a penny, but at that it would make
you puke to eat it. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe’s father suddenly rose, and turning round, supported
himself against the back of his chair with a
wasted, shaking arm. Joe, with a grin, watched
how the sparse curls of his beard seemed to stiffen
and quiver. “You bad boy . . . you bad boy!” he
said in a husky broken voice. The old geezer’s lungs
were rotten. “You are my son, God help me! When
you were placed in my hands I gave thanks to God
for my first-born. Little did I think it was a curse
He was laying upon me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The old man straightened up, and shook his
scraggy arms above his head. Good as a t’eayter,
thought Joe. “Oh God! what have I done to deserve
such a son!” he croaked. “I have worked hard
all my days, and have wronged no man!” He waved
his sticks of arms about. “Look! Look! How we
live; how we work! We are sick and starving. And
he comes in from the streets, the loafer! greasy with
good food, and twits me to my beard! . . . God has
abandoned me! God has abandoned me! . . .”
Straining back his head like a man struggling for air,
the old man staggered into the back room. They
heard him fall, a dead weight on the bed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laughed loudly. “Well, if I’m a hell of a
son, you’re a hell of a father,” he called after him.
“What did you ever do for me?” He pulled an old
coverlet from under the sofa, and wrapped himself
up in it, laughing. “Gee! it’s rich when the old
man begins to call on God!” he said. “That’s the
Jew of it! And him kicked out of the synagogue,
like you was kicked out of the church! This is a
swell religious family, this is!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His mother did not answer him. She kept her
broad back turned to him. Joe saw her glance over
at the other machine to measure how much work
the man had left undone. Then her head went a
little lower, as she made the treadles of her machine
move faster. Joe, feeling better now, flung an arm
over his eyes to shield them from the gaslight; and
settled himself to sleep.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>III</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>owards</span> evening Joe Kaplan and two boys
smaller than himself were making their way
down Fifth Avenue. They had started out in the
morning five strong, but two of the kids had been
lost somewhere. They had spent the day in Central
Park where they had seen the m’nag’rie, and the
swan boats and the rich kids riding in goat carriages
on the Mall. Of the latter Pat Crear had
said: “Gawd! all dressed up in velvet and lace like
doll babies, and strapped down in them little wagons
so’s they can’t fall out; it’s a wonder they don’t get
heart disease from the excitement.” In order to find
out if he was human, Pat had given the long curls of
one little boy a sharp tweak, and cut whooping
across the grass to the shrubbery.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They had had the luck to come across a boy selling
lozenges in an out of the way spot. They had swiped
his box offen him, and after sampling some of each
flavor, had sold the rest in another part of the park,
thus providing the means for a more substantial
feed. Afterwards they had wandered away up to
Harlem mere, and had lost themselves in the woods
up there. They built a fire, and made out they were
hoboes, and Tony Lipper had killed a squirrel with
a stone. No kid he knew had ever done that before,
and he was bringing it home in his pocket to prove it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On Fifth Avenue the elegant carriages rolled up
and down, each drawn by a pair of glossy horses
stepping high, and each driven by one or two men
sitting up in front without moving, like the tin men
on pavement toys. On the sidewalk the tony guys
were walking up and down, many of the Johnnies
wearing silk ties and swinging sticks, the dames
with sleeves as big as hams and little tails to their
jackets sticking up like a chippie’s. Joe and the
other boys were pleased by the sense of their incongruity
in that company, and they accentuated it
by slapping the pavement with their broken shoes,
spitting to the right and left, and talking rough.
They felt great when they succeeded in attracting
the scowls and the disgusted looks of the passers-by;
or when a lady daintily drew her skirts aside to
avoid contact.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dare me to spit on the next one?” said Pat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you do some Johnnie will crack yeh over the
coco wit’ his stick,” said Joe indifferently. “But
yeh kin show yeh don’t give a damn for them by
makin’ snoots. They can’t do nottin’ to yeh for
that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They came to two great square houses built of
brownstone and joined together in the middle by a
bone like the Siamese twins, so imposing that Pat
was led to ask:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What the hell buildings is them?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Vanderbilts live there,” said Joe. “They’s
the richest guys in the world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On’y one family in the whole goddam house?”
said Pat. “Gee! it must be lonely for them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were not especially interested in this high-toned
world; it didn’t touch them anywhere. It
was different though, when they caught sight of a
quartette of tough kids like themselves, moseying
along on the other side of the way looking innocent.
Joe and his two instinctively sought cover behind
the swell guys, whence they watched the enemy
warily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All harps,” said Joe. “Likely they belong to the
Hell’s Kitchen gang over by the North river. Say,
that’s the worst neighborhood in town. They’s a
coupla murders done there ev’y day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What they doin’ on Fift’ Avenoo?” asked Tony
fearfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Same as yourself,” said Joe with scorn. “If you
was to go over on the West side you’d get moralized
by the Hell’s Kitcheners, wouldn’t yeh? And the
same on the East side by the Gas house gang or the
Turtle Bays. But you’re safe on Fift’ Avenoo ain’t
yeh? All the fellas goes up Fift’ Avenoo cos that’s
neutral ground, see?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They’s some bad gangs up-town, too,” Joe went
on. “The Hundredth street gang, and the Hundred
and Tenth. I’ve heard tell how the Hundred and
Tenth Streeters come down Amsterdam Avenue by
Bloomingdale Asylum, spread across the street from
curb to curb like skirmishers, and carryin’ all before
them. They’s on’y a few cops up there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Hell’s Kitcheners passed out of sight, and
were forgotten.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Say, Joe,” asked Pat, “why don’t you never go
with the East Houston street gang or the Delancey
Streeters?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” said Joe, “that’s childish to me, all that
fightin’ for nottin’. I play my own hand, see?
When I go out, I go for somepin for myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You go wit’ us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You go wit’ me, you mean. I ain’t no objection
to havin’ a coupla little suckers along to do what I
tell ’em.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they reached Thirty-Fourth street it was
growing dark, and they cut through to Broadway
where there was more life after nightfall. To the
smaller boys it seemed as if the people were dressed
sweller over here, but Joe said they were not so high-toned
as the Avenue gang. The women were mostly
high-priced tarts, he said. Every block had its
theatre; the Standard, the Bijou, Palmer’s, Daly’s,
the Imperial and the Fifth Avenue. The Twenty-Eighth
street crossing appeared to be the busiest and
brightest spot, and here they took up their stand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lookit,” said Joe, “you two want to sit on that
grating, see? as if you was cold and was after the
warm air comin’ up. You want to sit on the front
edge, see, so’s when anybody pitches you a nickel it
won’t go through the grating, see? You don’t have
to do nottin’ but look poor the way I showed yeh,
and shiver, and squeeze up close for warmth. Pat
looks t’ best wit’ his fat’er’s coat on. Tony, if you
let me tear your pants a little more so’s the skin
would show. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nottin’ doin’! It’s the on’y pair I got.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, to hell wit’ it, then. You keep a little behind
Pat. For God’s sake don’t ast for anything, or
hold out your hand, or you’ll give the whole snap
away. You don’t want to even look at the people.
Look down on the ground as if you was all in wit’
t’ hunger and cold, see? And don’t forget to look
surprised ev’y time you get a penny.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe retired down the side street. Occasionally he
strolled past the huddling pair on the grating, surveying
them out of the corner of his eye with pride
in the effect. Pennies and nickels fell at their feet.
In fact they were too successful, the ring of the coins
on the flagstones reached the sharp ears of the blind
woman who sold matches at the door of the Fifth
Avenue Theatre adjoining. She came out in a rage,
furiously tapping; a fearsome figure with her big
bonnet, her blue glasses, her voluminous petticoats.
Lashing out with her stick, she drove the boys away
with frightful curses.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gawd! what langwidge from a woman!” said
Pat, a little awestruck, when they collected their
forces, down near Sixth Avenue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However, they had already taken seventy cents.
Joe took the money, but laid out a part of it on a
big feed of frankfurters, bolivars, and sarsaparilla on
Sixth. They filled their pockets with cigarettes.
They felt fine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They drifted up-town again. Later they found
themselves outside a big new theatre by Fortieth
street, called the Empire. They loitered on the
pavement just out of reach of the carriage man,
watching the four-wheelers and the hansoms trundle
up and discharge their passengers. There was one
or two of these here horseless carriages among them,
which came drifting up to the curb as quietly as
boats, the driver perched up behind, steering with a
handle. From all the vehicles ladies descended,
pointing a satin slipper to the ground. They wore
velvet cloaks, red, green or white, and no hats,
which was strange, since they were not poor women.
The men wore big black capes; they had hats, tall
ones, and it was the boys’ chief interest to get a
vantage point where they could see the men press
their hats against their hips as they walked through
the lobby, and smash them flat. A remarkable sight,
which caused them to laugh uproariously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The stream of arrivals at the theatre door had
about ceased, when two Johnnies came along through
Fortieth street, and paused, grinning at the three
boys. Joe was familiar with that grin. Young fellows
who fancied themselves, like to sass a street
boy, and if you answered them back smart, but not
smart enough to put them out of face, very often
there was a dime in it, or a quarter if the fellow had
an edge on. But these two were not the real thing,
Joe perceived; counter-jumpers. One of them had
two blue admission checks in his hand, and he said
to his friend: “Let’s give ’em to the little fellers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe, with a meek expression, instantly effaced himself.
The other two, not deceived by this maneuver,
watched him anxiously. Joe strolled off to the
gallery door of the Empire, from which the two
Johnnies must have just issued. Presently Pat and
Tony approached, each nipping a blue ticket between
his fingers. They stopped to consult in whispers.
They crossed the street, and stood kicking a hydrant
and looking at Joe. Joe looked up and down the
street. Suddenly the two set off towards Sixth avenue
on the run. Joe was not to be drawn off. They
came back on his side of the street, each one trying
to persuade the other to go first. Then they decided
to rush the theatre door together. Joe was not confused
by these tactics. He had picked out his victim
from the beginning. Tony Lipper was the smaller
of the two. Joe snatched the check out of Tony’s
hand, and started up the stone stairway with Pat
beside him. As soon as Tony was eliminated, Pat
sucked up to Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That dirty little guinney hadn’t oughta go into
a swell house like this. His pants is tore.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They found themselves sitting towards the top
of a steep bank of seats looking almost straight down
into an illuminated well; the stage. The curtain
was up. Joe had been to the London and the
Thalia, but never to a swell up-town t’eayter. At
first he was confused by the play, which was not like
a play; it was just ordinary talking. He wondered
if it was a custom up-town for the actors to sit
around on the stage and talk before the play began.
But from the close attention accorded by the audience
he judged that this must be the play; a newer,
tonier kind of play, he guessed, and applied his mind
to it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Well, the stage represented a room in a very fine
house, such a room as Joe had never been in; but
he accepted that room; an instinct told him it was
the thing. A party was going on; the people were
of the sort that Joe had seen entering the theatre.
There was a sour-faced woman in a brown silk dress
who was making a fuss. She said she was going
home because there was another woman in the house
that she didn’t like, and the others were all trying
to smooth her down. Why the hell didn’t they let
her go, thought Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a lot of talk about this other woman,
and Joe’s curiosity was excited about her. Then she
came in, and the audience clapped; a little thing
with a proud nose. She put all the other women in
the shade. She wasn’t so pretty neither, but there
was something about her . . . she just walked in
and took the place. Joe was struck by her flashing
glance, which could make out anything she wanted,
without giving her away. Gee! she’s smart! he
thought. She knows how to work ’em! She was
wearing the prettiest white dress he had ever seen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gee! this is a rotten show!” whispered Pat Crear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, it didn’t cost you nottin’!” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ain’t nottin’ to it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not to an ign’rant little mutt like you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let’s go down to Fourteent’ street. Somepin
doin’ there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go ahead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Pat would not go alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a fresh-complected Johnny in the play
who was stuck on the little woman with the proud
nose, and they were fixing to get married. But all
his folks were dead against it; for why, Joe could
not understand, since she was certainly the pick of
the basket. There was a lot of lahdy-dah talk he
didn’t understand. He was interested in studying
the details of that house, and the looks and manners
of its high-toned inmates. He particularly admired
the cool way the men handled themselves; lighting
their cigars and pouring their drinks. Actin’ as if
they owned the earth, he thought; and that’s the
right way to act. It takes the heart out of the poor
boobs.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Finally there was a scene in what looked like a
book-store; but Joe picked up in the course of the
action that it was called library, and all the books
belonged to the man who lived in that house. There
was a long talk in this room between a big guy who
let on he was a lawyer—he was the fresh-complected
Johnnie’s uncle; and the little woman with the
proud nose, who was now wearing a grey dress even
sweller than the white one. Bit by bit the lawyer
guy broke her down (But not really, because all the
time she was crying and carrying on, she was still
looking around with that unbeatable eye) and it all
came out that she had had a kid, and wasn’t married
at all. This discovery rather dashed Joe; for he had
forgotten that it was a play, but this was just the
same as the plays on the Bowery. In real life for a
girl to have a kid wasn’t nothing. But maybe it was
different in high society.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The noisy scene drew Pat Crear’s attention back
to the stage. When the curtain fell, he said: “Aah!
I’d like to paste that fat slob! What he wanta
make t’ guyl cry fer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah, you don’t know nottin’,” said Joe. “It’s
on’y a play, like. I don’t pay no attention to that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You was takin’ it all in,” said Pat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe’s close-set eyes seemed to draw closer together;
he gnawed a finger nail, scowling slightly.
“I dunno . . .” he muttered. “It set me thinkin’,
like. . . . It was a chance to see how them rich folks
lives inside their houses. They lives nice. Plenty
of room to spread themselves. And t’ best of
ev’yt’ing, see? That’s what appeals to me. Soft
stuffs like silks and velvets around yeh, and women
fixed nice. Servants to ac’ humble, and bring yeh
ev’yt’ing yeh want. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maybe that was all made up, too,” suggested
Pat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shut up, you pore ign’rant mutt, and listen to
what I’m tellin’ yeh! . . . Look at the dirty way
our folks live. What do folks call us? gutter-snipes;
street ayrabs, and such all. Well, them folks are no
better’n we are, on’y they got money, see? Well,
I guess they’s more money to be got the same
way. . . . This is a free country and I’m as good as
anybody. . . . You don’t git money by wuykin’ your
heart out, neither. It ain’t wuykman as gits rich.
It’s the smart guys. They wuyk the boobs and
suckers. . . . When you git older you begin sizin’
things up. I’m near sixteen now. Well, I’m a smart
feller. I’m gonna live soft too, and have a servant
that I can boot around. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They didn’t boot their servants.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shut up! They could if they wanted to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where you gonna git it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll git it all right. I allus gits what I wants.
. . . I know what I want now. I want a whole lot
of money. . . . First-off I got to make a good appearance.
I’ll git me a nobby suit and a haircut
. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Chrrrist!” said Pat, grinning derisively. Inside
the theatre he knew he was safe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shut up, you mutt!” said Joe, without heat. “A
mutt you was born, and a mutt you’ll die!”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>IV</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>E</span>ast Broadway</span> was the Fifth Avenue of the
East Side. A wide street lined, not with tall
tenements like the other streets, but with moderate
sized brick houses with steep roofs and big
chimneys. Nothing grand about them, but solid
looking. One family to a house. In these houses
lived the smart guys who lived directly off the poor
boobs of the East Side: that is to say: doctors, lawyers,
politicians, rabbis and prosperous storekeepers.
Many of these guys were able to buy up the up-town
blokes several times over, it was said, but they made
out they lived simple and bragged about being East-Siders;
it was good for business. They were smart
guys all right, but Joe had no intention of stopping
at East Broadway.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was on his way to report to a lawyer who had
hired him to secure evidence against a man, whose
wife wanted to get a divorce. Having extended the
scope of his operations, Joe had been able to procure
himself a whole suit with long pants; also new shoes
and a cap. He wore a white celluloid collar which
he cleaned with a rag every morning. But he was
already dissatisfied with the effect; his suit was beginning
to look crummy, because he had no way of
getting it cleaned and pressed. He wanted two suits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The nights were cold now, and the people had
retired indoors. While he was still some way off,
therefore, Joe’s attention was attracted by a little
group gathered below one of the old-fashioned
stoops. From the way the people on the sidewalk
were bending over, he perceived that something was
the matter; and hastened forward. Sitting on the
bottom step he beheld a funny-looking little woman,
her knees as high as her chest, her skirts drawn up
high enough to reveal a pair of new button shoes of
soft leather, which toed in like a little girl’s. She
was tenderly feeling of her ankle. Not at all a
grand person, yet Joe instantly perceived she was
of the up-town world. What a chance! he thought,
energetically shouldering aside the women of the
neighborhood who were bending over her. They fell
back muttering: “Fresh!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are yez hurted, lady?” Joe enquired, making his
voice purr.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She lifted a pair of big, foggy grey eyes. “My
ankle,” she murmured, “I put my foot in a crack,
and twisted it badly. . . . I don’t know. . . . I’m
afraid it’s sprained!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Send for the ambylance,” said a voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no! no!” said the little woman like a scared
child. “I want to go home!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” said Joe. “What you want is a cab.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes!” she said. “Can one get a cab in this
neighborhood?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can git you one,” said Joe. “Fella I know.
Just around the corner. You wait here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He ran around to McArdel’s livery stable in Division
street, and gave the order. In three minutes he
was back again. The crowd had increased in numbers;
he bored his way through it as a matter of
right. “S’all right, ma’am. Cab ’ll be here
d’rectly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked up at him half grateful, half afraid
of the bold-faced boy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe faced the crowd truculently, his eyes darting
from face to face to discover if anybody was inclined
to dispute his claim to the woman. Just let
them try it, that was all! “Get back, can’t yeh!” he
cried roughly. “Can’t yeh give the lady air?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Out of the corners of his eyes he sized her up. He
was excited. What a chance! What a chance! He
put aside his errand to the lawyer. He felt a burning
desire to learn her, to master the secret of her
nature, to envelope her, to turn her to his own uses.
She looked easy, with that foggy glance and the
childlike droop to the corners of her mouth; but she
was of a world that was strange to him; he must
make no mistakes. He had not missed the fact that
she was half afraid of him; and he set himself to
subdue his masterful air before her, and to butter his
grating voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yer all right, Lady. I’ll see yeh troo!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He cuffed aside the small boys, who came pushing
between the legs of the adults to have a look.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile he registered every detail of her appearance.
She was about fifty years old, but her
face was very little wrinkled, and her color was
fresh. She looked as if she had been preserved under
a thin film of paraffine; even her eyes. There was a
strained look in her eyes. She’s scared now; you
can’t get her right, thought Joe. Obviously an old
maid; likes the soapy stuff, he thought. She wore a
long, close-fitting coat of dark green, having many
little capes, each edged with grey fur; and a small
black hat shaped like a shell clinging to her head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The cab came rattling and banging around the
corner, and the old horse slid to a stand on his shaky
legs. The crowd opened a way through for the lady.
She surveyed the rusty vehicle, the furry beast that
drew it, and the boozy driver on the box in unmixed
alarm. The smell of the outfit came clear across the
sidewalk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“S’all right! S’all right!” Joe repeated. “Of
course the swellest turnouts was already out, but I
know this driver. He’s a safe driver. . . . Stand
up on your good leg, lady, and lean on me. . . .
Here you, take her other arm.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Supported on either side, the lady hopped across
the sidewalk on one foot. Somehow they got her
bundled in. Joe shouldered his helper to one side.
Keeping his hand on the handle of the door, he
stuck his head inside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where to, Lady?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nineteen West Eleventh street,” she said faintly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nineteen; that’s near Fifth avenue; thought Joe
with satisfaction. Repeating the number to the
driver, he climbed nimbly after the lady, and pulled
the door to. The cab jerked into motion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” she gasped from her corner. “You needn’t
have come!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“S’all right,” said Joe. “Don’t cost no more for
two than one. You need me to help you out, see?
The driver maybe can’t leave his horse stand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The old cab lurched and swayed. Talking was
well-nigh impossible until they turned into an
asphalt paved street. Joe had seldom ridden in a
cab, but he had only a side glance of his mind for
that experience. He was preoccupied with the little
lady, pressing herself into her corner. Frightened,
it seemed. He greatly desired to improve his opportunity,
but was afraid of queering himself. If he
could only make her talk he could get a line on her!
Finally he ventured politely:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You was a long way from home, lady.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thursday nights I teach sewing to working girls
in the White Door Settlement,” she said nervously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I see,” said Joe. “Them settlement houses
does a lot of good.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No response. She looked obstinately out of the
window.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However “Settlement” had given Joe his line. He
had heard all about those Christers who came down
from up-town to lift up the poor. “On’y wisht I
could go to one,” he said mournfully. “I’m so darn
ign’rant.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not rise to it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe persevered. “I got no time for it. I gotta
work nights as well as daytimes. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is your work?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe smiled to himself. He had forced her to ask
that. “Oh, I got a regular job in the daytime.
Nights I sell papers to help out. I got heavy expenses.
. . .” He left his sentence teasingly in the
air.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Expenses? A boy like you? . . . Huh? I
suppose you mean you have to help out at home?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe felt assured now that he could handle her. He
proceeded to spread himself. “Oh, I ain’t got no
regular home, like. I just sleep around where I can
get the cheapest bed. Summer nights I often sleep
in the park to save the price of a bed. I got a kid
brother, you see. I got him boardin’ wit’ a nice
family on East Broadway. I was just comin’ from
there, when I seen you. Three dollars a week, I pay
for him. That’s what keeps me hustlin’. . . . Besides
his clo’es and all. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The lady came partly out of her corner. She was
interested. “Why . . .” she said. “What stories
one hears! . . . I don’t know. . . . It seems terrible.
. . . Huh? Have you no father and mother?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dead, ma’am,” said Joe, sadly. “My old man,
he was killed in a boiler explosion; and me mutter,
she just wasted away, like, after.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, dear!” she said. “And the whole burden
fell on you! . . . Huh? . . . You poor boy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I don’t mind, ma’am,” said Joe quickly.
“I’m a bugger for work. . . . He’s a real cute little
feller. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How old?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s his name?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Malcolm, ’m.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was no lack of conversation during the rest
of the drive.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they drew up at the address given, Joe
perceived to his satisfaction that it was a fine neighborhood;
quiet and genteel. Number Nineteen was
one of three houses in a row; smaller than their
neighbors, but having a neat, choice look. The red
bricks were set off with a white wood trim; there
were elegant lace curtains in the windows.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Between them Joe and the cabman helped the
lady up the steps. The outer door of the house was
closed. In response to their ring, it was presently
opened by another little lady, very like the first, but
having a more sensible look. Joe was relieved; a
man might have been difficult to deal with.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The lady at the door gasped in dismay. Joe’s
lady pretended to make out that it was nothing at
all, but all the time she was letting on that she was
real bad off. This one had such a funny way of
talking. She couldn’t say anything right through,
but always run out of breath in the middle, and
fetched a little gasp. Huh? Very often she ended
up with something quite different from the beginning.
An Irish maid came, and all three talked at
once, or made clucking noises. A houseful of
women; what luck! thought Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sister and the maid received the sufferer from
the hands of Joe and the cabman. To the cabman
Joe said out of the corner of his mouth: “You’ve
got your pay; cheese it!” The man went down the
steps. Joe himself insinuated his body inside the
door, and closed it. He made himself inconspicuous
in the dark vestibule. The two women were making
their way towards the stairs, supporting the sufferer
between them. Intent upon her, they paid no attention
to Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The strong servant picked up her mistress bodily,
and started up the stairs. The other lady followed
with her arms outstretched as if she expected them
to fall over backwards, and clucking all the way.
Joe entered the house, softly closing the inner door,
and eagerly looked around him. His first feeling
was one of disappointment; the carpet was worn.
Still . . . the place was fixed up real nice; nothing
grand, of course.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The gas was burning inside a fancy red lantern;
there was a funny carved oak hat-stand with brass
hooks; and on the other side of it a table with a
silver plate on it, full of cards with people’s names
on them. Joe took note of how the stair carpet was
fastened down by a brass rail running across each
step. That was a neat rig, now. The door into
the parlor at his right hand, was open, but that room
was dark. However, enough light came in from the
street to show him that it was a real nice room,
crowded with pretty fixings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Hearing a stir overhead, Joe hastily smoothed his
hair down with his hands, and sat down in the hall
with a Christly expression. The sister of the hurt
lady came tripping down the stairs at a great rate.
She had a worried look; evidently it had just occurred
to her that Joe had not been disposed of.
She saw him and stopped on the stairs. “Oh!” she
said. She was a little older than her sister, yet
somehow had a fresher look. But not a woman who
was accustomed to dealing with men. She had a
smooth oval face, and pretty sloping shoulders like
a girl.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I brought her home,” said Joe, modestly, to help
her out.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes! Of course!” she said. “Just wait a
moment till I fetch my purse.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, lady, no,” said Joe. “I don’t want nottin’
off yeh. I was just waitin’ to hear if your sister was
bad hurted. I t’ought maybe I could run for the
doctor.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” said the lady. She came slowly down the
rest of the stairs. She was looking at Joe with little
wrinkles in her forehead. Joe could read her
thoughts. He had put her in the wrong by refusing
the tip she had offered him. Now she didn’t
know what to do with him. She didn’t like him, but
she felt that she ought to like such a true-hearted lad
as he was making out to be. Well, Joe didn’t care
whether she liked him or not, so he could make her
do what he wanted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall I go for the doctor?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no!” she said, recollecting herself. “It is not
serious. It has happened before, and I know just
what to do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I’ll be stepping,” said Joe. He lingered,
allowing his glance to travel wistfully around the
pleasant interior.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m sure we both thank you,” said the lady uneasily.
“I wish. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe looked up encouragingly, but she didn’t go on.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We both thank you very much indeed!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t mention it, ma’am,” said Joe. “. . . My
name is Joseph Kaplan,” he added suggestively, and
lingered still.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes?” she said with a strained smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She became very uncomfortable, but Joe couldn’t
get her over the sticking point. There was nothing
more he could do without showing his hand. He
thought: Oh, well, I can come back to ask how the
other one is getting on. He said softly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-night, lady,” and with a wistful glance in
her face, let himself out of the door.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was left standing in the hall looking unhappy.
As soon as he was gone, she could not understand
how she could have shown such a lack of
proper feeling toward that poor boy. She wanted
to call him back.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>V</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>“T</span>he</span> sight of so much sin and suffering . . .”
said the lady with the sprained ankle. “Hum;
there were fleas in that cab. . . . I don’t know;
they don’t seem to realize! . . . Huh? And the
most of it falls on the innocent!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If they was more like you we’d be a hull lot
better off,” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not like me, Joe, no! . . . That horse ought to
have been reported to the S.P.C.A. Oh, dear! There
are so many things one ought to . . . Joe, you
should say: ‘If there were more’—if you don’t mind
my telling you. . . . Huh? . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No’m. I’m crazy to learn. Ain’t had no
chances. If there were more like you. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, Joe! . . . I’m sure it had some terrible disease
. . . I’m but a poor weak vessel! One night
a week . . . Huh? The air is so bad! . . . Yes;
if I was made of sterner stuff I would give up everything
I possess and . . . I don’t know. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you gave away ev’yt’ing, ’m, you wouldn’t
have nottin’ to give to the poor.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I don’t believe in . . . Huh? You must
practice your th’s. Like this: ‘Everything; nothing.’
Huh? . . . It is yourself that you must give. . . .
They don’t seem to appreciate. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were sitting in the parlor of the little house
on West Eleventh street—only they called it drawing-room,
Joe had learned. The little lady was
seated on a sofa by the window, with her injured
foot on a stool before her; a silk scarf thrown over
her ankle. It was after five on Sunday afternoon,
and the servant had just lighted a tall lamp which
stood beside the old-fashioned piano at the back of
the room. The lamp had a very large shade made of
yellow crinkled paper, which spread an agreeable
glow around. It was like a play.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe, his hair well slicked down, had the air of
being established in the house, and he knew it. He
kept his eyes lowered so as not to betray his satisfaction.
Handling the old maid was as easy as eating
pie. She could take any amount of soft sawder. On
a stand beside the sofa was a vase containing three
damaged pink roses, wired to their stems. Every
now and then she glanced at them with a softened
look. The other sister was in and out of the room.
The one was called Miss May Gittings; the other,
Mrs. Fanny Boardman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Gittings continued, her hazy grey eyes shining
on something far away: “Sympathy; understanding;
encouragement; that is the message I try
to . . . Huh? And plain sewing . . . oh, dear!
they seem to have no womanly feeling for the needle.
. . . The worst of misfortune is, it breeds a callous
spirit. . . . I don’t know. . . . When they jeer at
me I tell myself it is but the anguish of their souls
peeping out. Every Thursday I find it harder and
harder to work myself up to . . . Ah, yes! . . .
Poor dear girls. . . . Huh? . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I was there, I’d learn them!” said Joe doubling
his fist.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Joe! you wouldn’t hit a girl . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course I wouldn’t <span class='it'>hit</span> them,” he said quickly.
“But I’d give ’em a good layin’ out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, you can’t do away with poverty!” said Miss
Gittings. “There’s one or two of them <span class='it'>would</span> be the
better for a good whipping. . . . Huh? . . . The
great thing is to teach the poor to be more spiritual-minded.
. . . They chew gum with their mouths
open. They know it annoys me. . . . Huh? . . .
So they can trample on the ills of the flesh. We are
all equal sharers in the things of the spirit. . . .
And I know some of them smoke cigarettes. . . .
Huh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You talk beautiful,” murmured Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can talk to you. You’re the first poor person
that ever understood me. . . . Huh? . . . You’re
only a boy, but you’ve been through the fire. . . .
You should say: ‘Talk beautifully’. . . . And your
spirit is refined like. . . . Huh? . . . whatever
shortcomings your exterior . . . but that’s not your
fault. . . .”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Boardman was a more practical-minded person
than her sister—but not much more. She had an
easy-going sensible look. She had been married only
three months, and that twenty years ago, Joe had
learned, but the experience, brief as it was, apparently
enabled her to keep her feet on the ground,
while the sister, who had never known a man, pursued
her batlike flights through the air. But a funny
thing was, as Joe was quick to see, the batty one was
the leading spirit of the two. Apparently there was
more force in her notions than in the other’s commonsense.
Mrs. Boardman followed contentedly wherever
Miss Gittings led. Therefore, if you made
yourself solid with the old maid, you would be all
right with the widow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you spend your Sunday afternoons with
Everard, Joe?” asked Miss Gittings. “You might
bring . . . Huh? . . . Is he a very destructive
child?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No ’m. You mean Malcolm. I t’ought I hadn’t
oughta keep him outa Sunday School, like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You mustn’t run your words together. . . . Of
course; quite right. . . . Say that sentence again,
slowly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe obeyed very willingly. This was useful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you go to Sunday School, Joe?” asked
Mrs. Boardman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll tell you the troot . . . truth, ’m, I ain’t got
the face. I’m so ignorant, they’d put me amongst
the littlest kids.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But if Malcolm is only nine, you must have been
at least six or seven when your mother died. Didn’t
she give you any religious instruction?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes’m,” said Joe vaguely. “. . . She was a
good woman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you remember her clearly?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes’m, I kin see her now!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Gittings exchanged a look with her sister.
“But Fanny, that is psychic!” she said, opening her
eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe had no idea what the funny-sounding word
meant. Evidently it was a word which excited them.
He waited with stretched ears for some clue to its
meaning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you mean that merely in a manner of speaking,”
asked Mrs. Boardman of Joe; “or do you
mean you can actually see her as if she were a living
person?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe had no doubt of the answer required to this
question. “I kin see her just as plain as I see you
’m.” He closed his eyes, and went on: “She was a
tall woman and she gen’ally wore a grey dress, real
full in the skirt. She had real black hair, parted in
the middle, and brushed down flat, and she wore a
little gold cross hangin’ round her neck, and a gold
ring on her finger. We wasn’t so poor then.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“An authentic spirit portrait. . . . Huh? . . .”
murmured Miss Gittings to her sister. “Tell me,”
she asked Joe in some excitement, “under what circumstances
does she usually . . . Huh? . . .
how? when? where?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, she comes most any time,” said Joe, “but
gen’ally at night. She shows brighter in the dark,
seems like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a spirit touch!” murmured the sisters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She most allus comes when I’m feelin’ bad,” Joe
went on. “When I ain’t had no supper; or when I
gotta sleep on a park bench. Then I see her beside
me, bendin’ over. She puts her hand on my
wrist. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can you <span class='it'>feel</span> her hand?” demanded Miss
Gittings breathlessly. “This is important. . . .
Huh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Surest thing you know ’m! Just like this!” Joe
grasped his own wrist.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How truly remarkable!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And she says: ‘Fight the good fight, Joe!’ Or:
‘Stick it out, son; your mutter is watchin’ you.’ Or
somepin like that. Then I feel all right again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A genuine psychic!” murmured Miss Gittings
breathlessly. “. . . Huh? . . . This rude, uninstructed
. . . The veriest sceptic must be . . . Oh,
sister! . . . Tell us more,” she said to Joe, “my sister
and I are extremely interested in such phenomena.
We ourselves . . . go on! go on!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>By this time, of course, Joe had grasped the sense
of the funny-sounding word. Spirits! Well, he
could feed ’em as much as they’d take. “Wuncet,”
he resumed solemnly, “things was real bad with me.
Malcolm was sick, and had to have the doctor, and
the folks he lives with was after me for the two
dollars to pay him; and I didn’t have it; and I didn’t
dast go to see how he was, wit’out it; and I was near
crazy, you bet! And I happened to be goin’ troo
Rivington street where the pushcart market is, and
they was all kinds of things on the pushcarts that
a feller could pick up; hats and fur-pieces and
women’s jackets and all; and I made up my mind to
snitch a baby’s jacket for Malcolm’s sake. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But what could you have done with that?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, there’s places you kin sell them things.
There’s plenty bad fellers on the East Side makes a
business of it, and they’re allus askin’ yeh to go in
wit’ ’em. But I don’t have no truck wit’ ’em.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go on!” said both sisters together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, while I was standin’ there waitin’ for the
man to turn his back so’s I could prig the jacket, all
of a sudden I seen me mutter beside me. She didn’t
say nottin’ that time, but she looked real bad. She
just took aholt of me and pulled me away from the
pushcart. She pulled me around the corner into
Ridge street, and down the hill to the church there,
and inside the church. It was all dark awmost, except
the candles on the altar. And she took holy
water, and put it on me—honest, I could feel the
very drops! and she made me kneel down beside her,
and she prayed to God! to make me a good feller,
and keep me from sin. And say, there was all a faint
sort of light around her head, like there was a candle
behind her head, only there wasn’t no candle. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Boardman glanced at her sister a little
dubiously, and Joe perceived that he was laying it
on too thick. You fool! he said to himself, why
can’t you leave a thing lay, when it’s doin’ well.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However, he had Miss Gittings locoed with the
story. The big grey eyes were full of wonder like a
child’s. “Go on!” she said. . . . “Huh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, when I looked again, she was gone,” said
Joe. “But I felt all light, like, inside. I come out
of the church, and went right to see the doctor, and
when I told him I hadn’t no money, he said sure,
he’d go see the kid, as often as would be necessary,
and I could pay him when I earned it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fanny,” said Miss Gittings impressively, “we
must report this extraordinary case to the circle.
. . . Huh? . . . Let scoff who will! . . . We can
produce the boy. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, sister.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The front door opened and closed, and a slender
shadow fell in the hall. Joe was instantly all attention.
Another member to this household! The
whole problem was altered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred, come here,” said Miss Gittings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>No response.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred!” she repeated, raising her voice a little.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A boy of Joe’s own age came into the room with
rather a sullen air; on the defensive. Joe perceived
that it was that same white-faced boy. . . . God!
<span class='it'>that</span> kid! All the ground was cut from under his
feet. For an instant he thought of flight.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But only for an instant. It steadied him to perceive
that the kid was a lot worse upset by the meeting
than he was. The kid’s eyes were fixed and
crazy, like. He was looking at Joe as if he saw a
headless ghost rising out of the grave. It almost
made Joe laugh. What the hell! he said to himself;
the kid wouldn’t dare to name anything to the
women. And anyhow, he didn’t see nothing but
what his own dirty mind imagined. . . . He’s no
better than me himself. I can handle him, too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is my nephew, Wilfred Pell,” said Miss
Gittings, pleasantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Please to meet yeh,” said Joe affably.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The frantic look in the kid’s eyes warned Joe not
to put out his hand. He <span class='it'>might</span> explode.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had been down to Staten Island. The
Aunts approved of these Sunday excursions. For
once they were of a mind with Wilfred about something.
To-day he had discovered a lovely spot called
Willow Brook, which in its wild beauty and solitude
might have been a thousand miles from New York,
instead of actually within the city limits. It had
been a good day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Upon entering the house, his heart sank, recognizing
from the tones of his Aunt’s voice that there
were strangers in the drawing-room. One could not
get past the open door without being seen. And he
did want to get to his own room to think. He debated
sneaking out again, and entering by the basement,
but his Aunt called him in her company voice.
The second time she called, he was obliged to enter
the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was astonished to see a boy of his own age,
sitting with his back to the windows. He examined
him with eager curiosity. When the boy arose and
came towards him, Wilfred’s heart failed him. That
boy of the East Side!—cleaner now, and better
dressed, but the same boy! Wilfred turned sick
inside. This was a hallucination, of course; that
wicked, bold, long-nosed face had haunted him,
these past weeks. This was the Tempter; the destroyer
of his peace! Well, it was all over then; this
was the end; he was done for!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then his Aunt May introduced them to each other
in her silly-sounding voice, and Wilfred realized
that Joe was no apparition. He looked at him in
helpless confusion. By what trick of fate had he
come to be sitting in the drawing-room of the prim
Aunts as if he belonged there? The explanation
when it came was natural enough:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is the boy who brought me home when I
sprained my ankle on Thursday night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s heart sank lower still; for this looked
like the direct interposition of Fate or whatever
Power there was, on the side of the enemy. If this
boy had actually gained a footing in his own home,
how could he, Wilfred, hope to withstand him, and
all that he represented? . . . He didn’t want to
withstand him. He was lost. After the first glance,
the black-haired boy avoided looking at Wilfred.
He was as demure as a cat. He knew his own power.
Wilfred glanced at the roses with a painful sneer.
Faded ones, of course, because they were more
pathetic.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An awkward constraint fell upon the quartette.
Aunt May, having introduced the two boys with
as much as to say: You two ought to be friends,
had become silent and fidgety. It must be apparent
now, even to her fuzzy wits, that we couldn’t
be friends, thought Wilfred. There was some desultory
conversation between Joe and Aunt Fanny.
The black-haired boy was exercising a horrible fascination
over Wilfred. Fairly well dressed now,
Wilfred perceived how good-looking he was. A
healthy, pink color showed in the bold, thin profile;
the whole head expressed a power of cynical hardihood.
This boy doesn’t care <span class='it'>what</span> he does! thought
Wilfred. In body, too, Joe’s shoulders were wider
than Wilfred’s, and under the shoddy pants the line
of a trim thigh was revealed. Joe’s comeliness sickened
Wilfred. He has every advantage of me! he
thought despairingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As from a distance, Wilfred heard his Aunt May
saying to him in the manner of a rebuke: “Joseph
has been telling us about himself. He has had a
hard life. . . . I don’t know. . . . It is very interesting
to hear. . . . Huh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred has been so sheltered!” put in Aunt
Fanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred listened woodenly. A screech of laughter
sounded through him. Oh my Lord! they are
on the way to make a hero of Joe!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very interesting. . . .” Aunt May repeated
vaguely. “. . . Huh?” The presence of Wilfred
forced her to look at Joe anew, and to ask herself
what was to come of his being in the house. An
unfortunate boy, and not to be blamed in any way;
still . . . a great boy like that . . . almost a
man . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>An uncomfortable situation. Joe was master of
it. He stood up, saying easily:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I gotta go now. Malcolm’ll be lookin’ for me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A feeling of relief pervaded the other three. Joe,
with eyes modestly cast down, waited for the ladies
to invite him to call again. They felt strongly the
suggestion to do so, but with Wilfred standing there,
resisted it; and were glad that they had resisted it
as soon as Joe was out. But all three inmates of the
house knew by instinct that they had not seen the
last of Joe. The sisters looked at each other with
eyes eloquent of relief. Nevertheless, Aunt May
said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A deserving boy, sister. . . . Huh? . . . We
must do something for him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Aunt Fanny answered: “Yes; and gifted with
a strange power, May.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It fell to Wilfred’s part to show Joe out of the
front door. When they got out in the hall Wilfred’s
heart was pounding, and he had a difficulty in getting
his breath. Not for anything would he have
looked at Joe; he knew without looking, how Joe’s
hard, bright, all-knowing eyes were fixed on his
face; and Joe’s thin protuberant upper lip was flattened
in a zestful grin. As Wilfred stood holding
the door open, Joe came so close to him that he
could feel the warmth of his body, and stood there,
trying to make Wilfred look at him. But Wilfred
would not.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Goin’ to take a walk to-night?” Joe murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, nearly suffocated by the beating of his
heart, silently shook his head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . any time you feel like it . . . come
on down. You’ll find me somewheres around those
corners. . . . I’ll show you ’round.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe ran down the steps thinking: Funny look that
kid’s got. But I got him going. Wonder why he
takes it so hard? . . . Oh, to hell with them; the
whole three of them is easy! I can get what I want
out of them. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred closed the door, and leaned his forehead
against the ornamental glass pane. It had a sort of
Gothic arch cut in the glass, from which depended
a number of meaningless tails, each winding up in
a curlicue. Wilfred, nauseated, was thinking:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Any time . . . any time . . . that means I’ll
have to fight it every night. . . . Wouldn’t it be
better to give in at once, and save all that? . . .
Disgust might cure me. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the drawing-room Aunt May called him.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>VI</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>M</span>rs. Boardman</span> poured her sister a second
cup of coffee. Wilfred had just departed for
school, and the sisters were able to talk more freely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sister,” said Mrs. Boardman, looking very uncomfortable,
“do you . . . do you entirely believe
Joe’s story?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Gittings looked no less uncomfortable, but
answered quickly: “I see no reason. . . . Huh?
. . . Obviously Joe was too ignorant to . . . anyhow,
you and I agreed long ago that it was better
to be deceived than to be sceptical!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred says. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Gittings caught her up. “And since when
have we been taking Wilfred as an. . . . Huh?
. . . Oh, Wilfred is so . . . I declare, Fanny! You
know it as well as I do!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But Joe’s story does vary, sister.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That signifies nothing. A spiritual experience is
susceptible of various. . . . Huh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, very likely you’re right. . . . What are
you going to do about him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do about him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, he keeps coming here. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see why you should put the entire responsibility
up to me!” said Miss Gittings tartly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You brought him here the first time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sister!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He brought me. . . . Huh? . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, he makes me so uncomfortable!” cried Mrs.
Boardman from her heart. “And you, too, sister!
It is useless for you to deny it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Gittings did not deny it. She merely stirred
her coffee. After awhile she said: “I think my
first plan. . . . Huh? . . . A strangely pertinacious
boy! . . . Let us take him. . . . That must
be his Jewish blood . . . to a meeting of the circle.
If Professor Boiling or Mr. Latham should happen
to. . . . Huh? They being men . . . it would be
more suitable. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Mrs. Boardman with a sigh. “Certainly
he is too much for us! . . . But sister,” she
objected. “If we took him to one of the meetings
wouldn’t it look as if we were prepared to vouch
for him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Vouch for him?” echoed Miss Gittings, startled.
“Huh? . . . Well, what alternative is there?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought we might just mention Joe to Professor
Bolling, without taking any responsibility for
him, and ask the Professor here some night to
question Joe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Gittings considered the suggestion. “Yes,”
she said, “letting the professor understand of course
that our minds were quite. . . . Huh? We might
ask Mr. Latham the same night; and Mrs. Van
Buren; but not the other members of the circle with
whom we are not exactly on. . . . Yes! And we
might ask two or three people from outside the circle
to whom we wish to show some little. . . . Quite
informally. . . . Huh? . . . But Joe himself, sister,
do you think. . . . Huh? . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m sure he will behave admirably,” said
Mrs. Boardman, not without a touch of bitterness.
“He is so quick to adapt himself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It must all be very informal. . . . You might
make one of your Spanish buns. . . . Huh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you think we could pass wine? In father’s
day. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think that would be an affectation now. Everybody
knows that we do not keep wine in the house.
. . . It would give us an opportunity of asking
Cousin Emily Gore here. . . . Huh? . . . She
affects to be interested in. . . . And we cannot
entertain such rich people in any formal way.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you suppose Amasa Gore would come?”
asked Mrs. Boardman eagerly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Naturally; if it was in the evening. Cousin
Emily is not the sort of woman who goes out in the
evening without her husband.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! in that case he could meet Wilfred, without
it seeming to have been contrived! Oh, sister!
if Mr. Gore would only take an interest in Wilfred,
the boy’s future would be secure! . . . But Wilfred
is <span class='it'>so</span> difficult!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will prepare him beforehand,” said Miss
Gittings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No! No! sister. I confess I do not understand
the boy, but I am sure that would be a mistake!
He becomes so cynical and obstinate when we try
to point out a proper course of action to him. Say
nothing to him beforehand. It is the only way!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, in any case Mr. Gore must do <span class='it'>something</span>.
. . . Huh? . . . We may properly let them
see that we expect it. . . . His wife’s first cousin
only once removed! . . . A pitcher of lemonade
will be much more suitable. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What about a bottle of whiskey for the gentlemen?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cousin Emily would hardly approve. She has
strong views. . . .”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>VII</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>M</span>iss Gittings</span> had asked Joe if he would
come on such and such a night, and let a
college professor question him about his “psychical”
experiences. There would be a few other friends
present, she said. When Joe had suggested that his
clothes were hardly suitable for an evening party,
he had been met with silence and pained looks. He
had not really expected to get a new suit out of it;
he had discovered before this that these people,
though they lived nice, were poor in the sense that
they had to look twice at every dollar. He had
begun to ask himself if they were worth bothering
about; he hadn’t got anything out of it; but now he
decided that the chance of meeting their friends was
worth one more night of his time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe conceived the idea of bracing Isador Cohen
for a new suit on the strength of his rise in society.
Cohen kept the best-known secondhand store in
town on lower Sixth avenue, and Joe had had various
dealings with him. There were fine clothes in
his store, too. So Joe had told his story to Cohen,
offering to prove it by letting Izzy see him go into
the Eleventh street house by the front door. Izzy
took him up; and not only did he see Joe admitted
to the house; but a moment later he received a
greeting from Joe through the parlor window. Izzy
subsequently allowed, that Joe was a smart feller,
and advanced him a suit, and all the fixings. Joe
picked out a neat blue cheviot of good quality, and
was fitted and sewed up on the spot. At Izzy’s they
specialized in providing a man with a quick change.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The party was for eight o’clock. Joe was the
first to arrive. The ladies of the house were greatly
pleased with his improved appearance; but the
white-faced boy walked out of the room when Joe
entered, and did not appear again, until the other
guests had come, and his Aunt went up-stairs to
fetch him. The college professor proved to be a
young man, tall; elegantly-dressed; and having a
sort of childlike, wild eye. The other guests were
mostly elderly. They were all solemn. Joe had
not the slightest anxiety on the score of fooling
them; because they obviously wanted to be fooled;
and expected it. He made out to be quiet and bashful
among the strangers. The white-faced boy was
watching everything he did with a sneering smile:
he was on to Joe. What of it? Joe was on to
him, too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe was reminded of a Broadway play by the way
all the people sat and stood around the drawing-room,
talking in fancy voices with the idea of letting
each other know what fine people they were. Like
kids at a sidewalk game. It was funny to see full-grown
men standing for it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The last pair of guests drove up to the house in
a handsome carriage with two dummies on the
outside seat, wearing tall hats with ornaments at
the sides, and dark green overcoats with silver buttons.
Joe watched them from the window. One
dummy jumped down from his seat before the carriage
quite stopped, as if he was worked by clockwork,
and ran around behind the carriage to be
ready to open the door. That’s what I call style,
thought Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The entrance of this pair into the drawing-room
changed the whole atmosphere of the party. It was
clear to Joe from the silky quality that appeared in
the attitude of everybody present, that these were
not just ordinary rich people, but something exceptional.
The professor was nowhere now. Seeing
this, all Joe’s faculties sharpened. He recognized
a great opportunity. His whole nature went
out to the new arrivals. He became one great
yearning; to get next! to get next! The other
people in the room ceased to exist for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The gentleman was a handsome, middle-aged man,
somewhat soft in face and body. He wore a fine
dress suit; and sported a neat, pointed beard. His
expression was inclined to be sulky; his eyes gave
nothing away. The lady was a tall, spare, faded
blonde; wearing an expensive, ugly green silk dress,
and a good deal of jewelry. She had a proud, sour
look; and took all the smiles and bows of the people
present as her right; whereas the gentleman was
indifferent to them. Joe hung around them, hoping
to be taken notice of. He had not been brought
to the attention of any of the guests yet. The lady
put up her glasses, and looked at him as if he had
been something in the menagerie; the gentleman took
no notice of him whatever.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe soon gave the lady up. She was not in his
line at all. He concentrated passionately on the
gentleman. He surrendered himself, that, by entering
into this other nature, he might command it.
By degrees Joe became aware that the gentleman
scorned spirits and spiritualists: that he had been
brought there against his will: that rich though they
might be, his wife had him tied fast to her strings:
that behind his grand front lurked a timid soul.
He was an intensely respectable party; his clothes;
his expression; his whole bearing showed how conscious
he was of being respectable: and yet! . . .
and yet! . . . The sharpened Joe at certain moments
perceived a pained roll to the man’s eyeballs,
such as you see sometimes in a horse. He had a
trick of wetting his lips with his tongue; and when
he did so, Joe took note between mustache and
beard of how fleshy and dark those lips were. Joe
glanced at the sour-faced wife, and smiled inwardly.
Hope dawned. With a man so respectable as that,
you’d have to be damn careful what you <span class='it'>said</span>; but
you could let him see things without saying them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Oblivious to the clack of voices in the room, and
the moving about, Joe, quietly, with all the force
of which he was capable, desired the gentleman to
look at him. Since the rich pair were the centers of
attraction in the room; everybody trying to bespeak
their notice by word or smile, his task was difficult.
Joe was patient. It doesn’t matter how long it takes,
he said to himself; he must look at me in the end
. . . he <span class='it'>must</span> look, because I want him to.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the midst of a conversation with somebody
else, the gentleman’s bored glance suddenly swerved
to Joe. Joe, outwardly the quiet, abashed boy,
let a world of meaning appear in his eyes for him
alone. The gentleman was startled; he hastily
turned away his glance. He changed color; puffed
out his cheeks a little; twirled the ornament on his
watch chain. By and by his eyes came creeping
back to Joe’s face, and found Joe’s eyes waiting.
The two pairs of eyes embraced, and were quickly
cast down. I’ve got him going! thought Joe exultantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe had heard the gentleman addressed as Mr.
Gore. That suggested nothing to him; Gore was a
common enough name. But later, he heard the lady
call her husband Amasa, and when he put the two
names together, a great light broke on him. Amasa
Gore! Joe had read plenty about <span class='it'>him</span> in the newspapers.
One of the sons of Isaac Gore, with whose
story every boy of the streets was familiar. The
smartest guy America had ever produced; the little
wizard of finance; the railroad wrecker; who used
to throw Wall street into a panic by holding up a
finger; and who died leaving a hundred million dollars.
For an instant Joe’s heart failed him at the
bigness of the game he had cut out for himself;
<span class='it'>Amasa Gore</span>! But he stole another look into the
gentleman’s face, and confidence came winging back.
He was only a man like any other. He was easy!</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the psychical part of the evening was introduced,
Joe accommodated himself to the wind from
Mr. Gore’s quarter. If Mr. Gore had come there
expecting to give the laugh to the spiritualists,
naturally he would be put out if the show appeared
to be a success.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So Joe turned tongue-tied and idiotic. He could
relate no interesting experiences; he boggled at answering
the simplest questions. The ladies of the
house were astonished and shamed before their
guests; the professor was nonplussed; the white-faced
boy in the background though he had always
mocked at the psychical experiences, looked at the
distressed faces of his Aunts and was angry. However,
Joe cared nothing about these people now. He
saw that Mrs. Gore took the failure of the exhibition
as a personal affront to herself, and that her
husband was secretly pleased that she was cross.
Joe was satisfied with the outcome.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The professor abruptly dropped his questioning,
and the while company plunged nervously into general
conversation again. Joe saw that they would
have liked to kick him out, but they couldn’t, because
it would not have been high-toned. Instead,
they all made out from that moment that Joe was
no longer present. That suited Joe very well. He
remained in an obscure corner between the end of
the piano and the dining-room door. At intervals
Mr. Gore’s uneasy eyes crept to Joe’s face, and
never failed to find Joe’s eyes waiting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There were great difficulties in Joe’s way. Mr.
Gore was so respectable and scary, he saw that it
would be up to him to make all the running. In
the end his man might escape him out of sheer funk.
It was necessary for him to have a private word or
two with Mr. Gore before the evening was over;
and how was that to be managed when the millionaire
was continually surrounded by admiring listeners,
who obliged him to play the respectable. That’s
what’s the matter with him, thought Joe, thinking of
the pained roll to his eyeballs; there’s always people
watching him, and he never has a chance to be bad.
Well . . . !</p>
<p class='pindent'>Refreshments were served. There was a blight
upon the party, and while it was still early, the
ladies retired up-stairs to put on their wraps. The
gentlemen had left their hats and coats on the hall-rack,
and they stood in the hall talking, while they
waited for the ladies. Besides Mr. Gore and the
Professor, there were two others. The boy who
lived in the house had disappeared. It was now or
never with Joe. With a modest air he made his way
out between the gentlemen. He knew Mr. Gore
would look at him as he passed; and he did look.
Joe gave him a speaking glance; and letting himself
out the door, waited on the stoop.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It worked. Mr. Gore presently came through the
door behind him, and glanced importantly below
as if he had come out to make sure that his carriage
was waiting. He made a great business of cutting
and lighting a cigar; ignoring Joe. Joe smiled inwardly.
He had but a precious second or two; no
time to beat around the bush.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I couldn’t go on with that fool business after I
seen you,” he murmured. “I could see that you
was on to that foolishness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That was very, very wrong of you!” said Mr.
Gore severely; “to deceive those good ladies!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never thought of the wrong of it until after I
seen you,” said Joe, making his eyes ask. “Then
I was sorry all right. . . . It was them led me into
it. They liked to be fooled. And I’m only a poor
boy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you no employment?” asked Mr. Gore.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe shook his head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Um! . . . Ha!” said the millionaire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you give me a job?” whispered Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Gore looked scared, and puffed out his
cheeks. “Impossible!” he said. “Ah . . . in my
sort of business there is nothing suitable. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you let me come to see you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Impossible!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I don’t mean come to your house,” said Joe.
“Of course the Madam wouldn’t like a poor boy like
me comin’ round. . . . But to your office . . . ?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Quite impossible!” gasped the millionaire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe heard the voices of the ladies within. He
had but one more throw! “If you was to walk home
to get the air, like,” he whispered swiftly, “I could
catch up to you. And you could talk to me. If I
only had a man like you to tell me what to
do . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Gore gave no sign. The door opened, and the
rest came streaming out on the stoop. Joe flattened
himself against the balustrade, and watched. There
were polite good-byes. It seemed to be the general
feeling that the Gores must be allowed to get away
first; and everybody else remained on the stoop,
while the millionaire handed his wife down, and the
footman opened the carriage door. Mr. Gore paused
with a foot on the step, as if he had just had an
idea.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“. . . Er, my dear,” said he to his wife, “I am
smoking. I will walk home so that you may not be
troubled by the fumes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe felt like God.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The footman closed the carriage door, and running
around behind, climbed up nimbly as the
carriage started. The turnout clip-clopped briskly
down the street. Mr. Gore set off towards the
Avenue, swinging his shoulders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The long-legged young professor suddenly scampered
down the steps. “Oh, Mr. Gore, if you’re
walking . . . !” he cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In his heart Joe cursed him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Gore paused politely. There was a brief exchange
on the sidewalk which Joe could not hear.
Then . . . the professor remained standing where
he was with a foolish look, and Mr. Gore walked on,
swinging his shoulders. Joe’s heart rebounded.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:10em;font-size:1.2em;'>PART TWO: YOUTHS</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch2'>PART TWO</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>I</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>N</span>othing</span> in the Gore offices could have been
changed in many years, Wilfred supposed.
Many a country lawyer did himself better. Mr.
Amasa Gore shared one very large room with his
secretary, John Dobereiner and his assistant secretary,
or office boy, or door-keeper, or whatever you
chose to call him, which was Wilfred. The room
had a door opening directly on the public corridor;
and double doors in the right and left walls. Various
officials of the Gore railroads strolled through
from time to time; and Mr. Isaac Gore, the elder
brother, was in the habit of making his escape
through their room, when his own way out was
blocked. Still, there was privacy of a kind, the
room was so big. From his corner Wilfred could
not hear what Mr. Gore might be saying in his
corner; nor could Dobereiner from his.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s particular job was to open the corridor
door when anyone knocked. He would open it a
crack first, with his foot behind it, while he reconnoitred.
So far there had never been any excitement.
Nothing was painted on the door but the
number of the room, 47; and this password, was
given out only to Mr. Gore’s friends. Occasionally
a crank or a begging widow took a chance and
knocked: that was all. In the beginning Wilfred
had speculated on what he would do should an
anarchist burst in with a bomb in a satchel. That
had happened to Russell Sage, once. Wilfred had
made up a story about it, in which he played a heroic
part; but it was not one of his best stories.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Gore’s big roll-top desk was turned cater-cornered.
The door into his brother’s office was at
his hand in case <span class='it'>he</span> wanted to make a quick getaway.
When he was seated at his desk, Wilfred could see
no more than the thin lock of hair which waved on
his forehead, and his sulky eyes when he raised
them. Mr. Dobereiner’s desk was in the other front
corner; Wilfred’s desk in one of the back corners.
One could have given a ball in the middle of the
room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The great chance of his life! his aunts called it;
being placed so close to a millionaire. How Wilfred
hated it! Day after day he felt as if there was
some foul stuff smoldering in his breast, the fumes
of which were slowly suffocating him. So much
had been made of this job, he couldn’t conceive
of any escape from it. The whole millionaire atmosphere;
the bluff, man-to-man air which the
cleverest of Mr. Gore’s creatures had learned to
adopt towards their master; he hated it. The private
secretary, Dobereiner was an out and out toady
and lick-spittle; Wilfred didn’t mind him; it was
the fine gentlemen; the various stockbrokers; corporation
officials; dummy directors and so on; Ugh!
Loathsome!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Gore was a good enough employer; liberal;
he was rather a fool behind his big front, and Wilfred
could have liked him under other circumstances.
Millionaire and office boy preserved a distant air
towards each other. Wilfred took care to keep the
lashes lowered over his resentful eyes. He kept his
employer’s check-books and accounts; thus he knew
that Mr. Gore’s income amounted to more than
seven hundred thousand dollars a year. It made
the office boy grind his teeth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had not enough to do to keep him busy
during office hours; and he shamefully neglected
what he had to do. It had been understood when
he came, that he was to perfect himself in shorthand;
that he might take some of the correspondence
off Dobereiner’s hands. There lay the Pitman textbook,
and the note-book handy to his hand; and the
sight of them turned his stomach. Wilfred spent
the greater part of the days in listless dreaming:
his body held in such a position that to a glance
from behind he might appear to be practicing shorthand.
He suspected that Mr. Gore spent hours
dreaming, too. Well he was able to if he wanted.
Certainly there wasn’t much business transacted in
that office. Yet Mr. Gore kept regular office hours.
Apparently he hadn’t anything to do, but come sit
in his office. So far as Wilfred could judge he had
never read a book in his life. What an existence
for one with two thousand dollars a day to spend!
But to scorn his employer didn’t help Wilfred any;
he knew he was the idle apprentice, and he hated
himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A murmur was heard from Mr. Gore’s corner,
and Dobereiner, springing up, paddled to his employer’s
desk. He had very large flat feet that
turned out wide, and his knees gave a little with
every step. He had bulging blue eyes that held a
doglike expression; and his broad, ugly, German
face was always oily with devotion. An invaluable
creature, Wilfred conceded, but not the man he
would choose to have around him. A brief whispered
colloquy took place—everything was whispered
in that office; and Dobereiner came hustling
over to Wilfred’s desk, breathing a little hard, as
one who bears momentous tidings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Gore has decided not to go out to lunch,”
he said. “Please bring him a glass of milk and two
chicken sandwiches from the directors’ restaurant.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred cast a glance on Dobereiner, and went
out. In a moment or two he returned—empty
handed. Dobereiner ran to meet him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is Mr. Gore’s lunch?” he demanded,
aghast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I gave the order,” said Wilfred. “A waiter
will bring it directly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Dobereiner’s slightly bloodshot eyes stuck out at
Wilfred—but more in dismay, than anger. “I told
you to bring it!” he stammered. “Mr. Gore must
not be kept waiting!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred looked at him without speaking, one side
of his mouth pressed stubbornly into his cheek. All
but wringing his hands, Dobereiner turned, and
waddled out of the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In due course he returned, bearing the glass and
plate as if they were holy vessels. Placing them on
Mr. Gore’s desk, he stood back. Mr. Gore did not
ask the wherefore of this act of service, but picked
up one of the sandwiches, and bit into it. Wilfred
suspected that such incidents as this did not injure
him with his boss; after all they were of the same
class: it was other things.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Gore was still munching when there was heard
a light, assured tapping on the glass of the corridor
door; two fingernails rotated. Wilfred’s breast
burned and his lip curled painfully as he went to
open the door. They all knew who this was. Dobereiner
turned a foolish, beaming smile towards
the door; and Mr. Gore looked over the top of his
desk with all the sullenness gone out of his face.
Wilfred opened the door; and Joe Kaplan breezed
past him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Lo, Wilfred! . . . ’Lo, Mr. Dobereiner. . . .
Good morning, Mr. Gore.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He got no answering greeting from Wilfred; but
a fat lot Joe cared for that. That was the worst of
it; filled with a fervor of indignation, Wilfred had
not the power to make Joe feel it. Why? He
knew. It was because his indignation was insincere.
The sight of the glittering Joe made him sick with
envy. He was crushed by the hatefulness of his
own feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred scanned him in the effort to discover
something . . . something that would enable him
to feel superior. But Joe was too perfect; he was
too exactly what Wilfred himself dreamed of becoming;
the gay, gilded, insouciant youth. Insouciant
was one of Wilfred’s favorite words. To
be sure, Joe was a little <span class='it'>too</span> well-dressed to be a
gentleman; but there was nothing blatant about
him; he picked things up too quickly. And everybody
was ready to forgive a slightly dandified air
in so good-looking a youth. Wilfred, while he
sneered at the beautifully-fitting dark green suit
with a small check, the puffy Ascot tie with a handsome
pearl in it, the Dunlap derby fresh from the
burnisher’s iron, secretly admired. Somehow Wilfred’s
effects never came off. Though they were of
the same age, the finish Joe had acquired made him
look three or four years older. Wilfred was miserably
aware of being an untidy and gangly eighteen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe plumped himself down like an equal in a
chair at Mr. Gore’s left hand; and their heads drew
close together. Whisper; whisper; whisper; punctuated
with chuckles. Joe was visible at the side of
the desk; but Mr. Gore Wilfred could not see; however,
he knew only too well how the man’s face
relaxed; how his sulky eyes became moist and irresponsible;
and how the thick lips parted. Almost
anybody except the fatuous Dobereiner could have
told at a glance what was the relation between those
two. Wilfred had no difficulty in reading his employer;
a sensual man, weak and shy. It was Joe’s
perfect shamelessness which had won him. It was
the same with everybody. The satyr in Joe’s hard,
bright, close-set eyes encouraged the imprisoned appetites
to come out and stretch themselves. Had
not Wilfred felt it himself? Only he could not
let himself go. He did not blame Mr. Gore; there
was something warm and human in the man’s surrender.
He was getting something that his nature
craved. But Joe! while he smiled and murmured
and debauched others, <span class='it'>his</span> eyes remained cold and
bright and watchful. What a horror!</p>
<p class='pindent'>What did they talk about? They were arranging
the details of parties, Wilfred assumed; small,
discreet parties, conducted without danger of discovery.
That would be Joe’s business. Wilfred’s
opulent imagination proceeded to supply the details
of their parties. Oh Heaven! supreme luxury and
voluptuousness! And Joe of course, a sharer in it
all. Envy suffocated him. Joe had turned out
such a tall, handsome, graceful fellow. And no
foolish scruples to hamper him! Joe shared in it;
the soulless gutter-snipe; the lad no older than himself;
he had everything; money; good clothes; admiration;
and endless pleasure: while he, Wilfred
who <span class='it'>had</span> imagination and feeling was poor and half-baked
and despised and starving for joy! Why
didn’t the dull millionaire come to <span class='it'>him</span> for his
pleasures? He had imagination. In Joe’s parties
there would be a leer; but in <span class='it'>his</span> only a mad, mad
joy! In the midst of this Wilfred grinned bitterly
at himself; for he knew well enough that he was
shameless only in his imagination. A shivering fastidiousness
held him in leash. After all, Joe was a
fitter instrument for the millionaire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These talks between Mr. Gore and Joe always
ended in the same way. Mr. Gore pulled out a little
drawer in his desk, and took something from it that
found its way into Joe’s trousers pocket. The fool!
thought Wilfred; does he suppose I’m not on to
him? Always, later, a check would be made out to
a certain Harry Bannerman, a creature of Mr.
Gore’s, who would carry it to the bank; and bring
back the wherewithal to replenish the drawer against
Joe’s next visit. Many hundreds of dollars weekly.
Mr. Gore did not require cash for anything else,
since he had credit everywhere.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then Joe, sleek and elegant as a panther,
would steam out, scattering good-byes; and Mr.
Gore, resuming his ordinary sulky mask, would
glance intimidatingly at poor Dobereiner and Wilfred,
as if daring them to suggest that he had ever
dropped it. Dobereiner of course, had no thought of
criticizing his master; and Wilfred at least adopted
a polite air of inscrutability. On this occasion
whether or not Mr. Gore suspected the thoughts that
Wilfred hid under it, he said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bring over your note-book, Pell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred obeyed with a heart full of bitterness—sharp
apprehension, too. <span class='it'>He</span> was required to make
pot-hooks while Joe was sent out with a pocketful
of money, to scour the markets for beauty! The
inevitable humiliation awaited him now; perhaps
the final humiliation. Wilfred hated his job, but
was none the less terrified of losing it. For where
would he, the timid, the self-distrustful, the half-baked,
find another? And how could he ever face
the Aunts who had plotted for years to obtain this
job for him?</p>
<p class='pindent'>After an unhappy quarter of an hour Mr. Gore
said in a bored voice: “. . . Er . . . How long
does it take to learn shorthand?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Three months,” murmured Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ve been studying it longer than that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s difficult . . . to apply oneself at night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’m sure you’re not very busy in the daytime.
. . . What’s the matter with you, Pell? You
would do very well here, if you would only wake
up. You appear to be half asleep most of the time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will try to do better,” mumbled Wilfred, loathing
himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He went back to his desk, seething. The fool!
The fool! The empty-headed, dull, rich fool! It’s
lucky he has his money-bags to give him some
identity! He hasn’t even got brains enough to go
to the devil by himself, but must hire a boy to lead
him!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then his mood changed. He sat staring at the
square glass inkstands on his desk, with their lacquered
iron covers; cheap stuff stamped out by the
million. What is to become of me? he thought
with a sinking heart; I undertake to rage at everything,
yet I am no good myself. There is no beginning
place in me; I am spread all over. I want to
be . . . I want to be everything, and I have started
at nothing. Everything I try to grasp dissolves in
my hand. I exist in a fog! . . . God! how I hate
business! My father was a failure, and I am a
failure, too. What is one to do if one has the
instincts of a gentleman and no money . . . !</p>
<p class='pindent'>Dobereiner was looking over at Wilfred in horrified
commiseration. He could imagine nothing
worse than to be rebuked by Mr. Gore. During the
rest of the day his manner towards Wilfred was
gentle. Wilfred glared at him helplessly.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>II</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>J</span>oe</span> had chosen the top floor in a row of old
walk-up flats on West Fifty-Eighth street. The
neighborhood was one of the best in town; but the
house itself was unimproved, and a little run-down;
anybody might live in such a house. It was pleasant
too, to walk up the interminable, dark, shabbily-carpeted
stairs, and at the top burst into a paradise
of red velvet portières and Oriental divans crowded
with feather cushions. Joe had bought all the stuff
himself; it had been great to pick out the very best
quality velours and the thickest rugs. It was Mr.
Gore who stipulated for a walk-up apartment. In
a house with an elevator, you ran the chance of a
blackmailing elevator boy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel Le Compte (Mr. Gore had suggested the
changed spelling of her name) sat half reclining in
a Morris chair, sewing a ribbon strap on a sheer
undergarment, with microscopic stitches. Joe lay
stretched out on a divan with his hands under his
head, watching her. She was wrapped in a blue silk
kimono embroidered with pink chrysanthemums;
Joe had picked that out, too. Her legs were crossed,
and from the foot which was elevated, a quilted blue
mule dangled free of her rosy heel. Her plentiful
black hair was gathered in a rough twist on top of
her head: and she had no make-up on her face. Joe
liked to see her without her war paint; when she
left it off, the babyish look came back to her cheeks;
they no longer looked all of a piece; but showed
delicate, dusky discolorations and unevennesses. A
damn pretty girl, Jewel; and how well she suited
her luxurious surroundings! He had had the wit
to foresee that while she was still in Allen street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From time to time Jewel looked up from her
sewing, and her eyes travelled with pleasure over
Joe from head to foot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re fillin’ out,” she remarked. “You’ll soon
be a man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” said Joe; “I’m man enough alretty to be
<span class='it'>your</span> master!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel laughed. “Listen to it! I got you to
nurse, boy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where would you be if it wasn’t for me?” demanded
Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, as a business manager you’re all right,” said
Jewel. “That wasn’t what I meant. . . . In ten
years maybe you can talk about bein’ my master!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you know I’ll stick to you that long?”
asked Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you will. Not that it matters . . . but
you will.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe felt uncomfortable. “Why will I?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know . . . I guess we’re a pair . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A thousand recollections tumbled into Joe’s mind.
He looked at Jewel and in her unsmiling eyes he
saw the same things that were in his own mind.
For the moment he seemed to have become Jewel;
and Jewel him; he the woman; Jewel the man. It
made him feel queer. “Aah!” he snarled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel resumed her sewing. “It’s like this,” she
said; “with all the other fellows I’ve known, I had
to chuck a bluff, see? One kind of bluff or another.
And they the same with me. Like an Irish jig,
when you dance up to your partner and back. . . .
But with you—though you’re only a boy, it’s different.
. . . You belong to me, like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The hell I do!” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel shrugged. “Not that my saying so, matters.
Either it’s so or it isn’t so, and we can’t change it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I t’ink you got Jewish blood, too,” said Joe,
“That’s how they talk.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do’ know what I got,” she said indifferently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Jews are a great people,” said Joe; “when
they chuck all that Jewish bunk, and get down to
tacks. . . . But an old-fashioned Jew! Gee! Like
my old man. A preachin’ Jew’s the limit!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel was not listening to this. The color of her
eyes seemed to darken. “I know why it is,” she
said. “With me . . . you forget yourself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You forget yourself, too,” said Joe quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, sure!” she said lightly. Joe perceived resentfully
that she only said it to shut him up. “It’s
great to be able to make a fellow like you lose himself,”
she went on with a slow smile; she was honest
enough then; “you’re so stuck on yourself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” said Joe sorely. For the moment he
could find no rejoinder; he studied her, looking for
some way to get back at her. “You’ll get fat,” he
said at length.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, bright-eyes!” she said unconcernedly.
“Your eyes run over me like rats. . . . But at that,
men will still like me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why will they?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I dunno. . . . It’s somepin. . . . For the same
reason maybe, that women will always run after
you, you pink and black devil!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because I’m so handsome?” said Joe, grinning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nah! there’s a plenty of handsomer fellows
than you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you’re no Lillian Russell!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s somepin we know . . . but I don’t know
how to name it. . . . Neither you nor me gives a
damn. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now you’re talkin’!” said Joe, pleased.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But . . . we’ll never be able to get shet of each
other,” Jewel went on with her darkened eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’d better get hitched, then,” said Joe,
sneering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Gawd!” she said, disgustedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe echoed her disgust. “Oh, Gawd!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They looked at each other and laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ll always come back,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m gonna marry a swell dame,” said Joe; “the
pick of the whole four hundred. . . . You needn’t
laugh. You wait!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go ahead,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You kin marry, too, if you play your cards
right.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel laughed suddenly. “Thanks for the favor,”
she said. . . . “Not on your life! I like my own
self too well. I like to live alone. . . . Why should
I marry? I ain’t ambitious.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To get a man to keep you when you’re old,” said
Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll put by enough for me old age,” said Jewel.
“I don’t want much. All this—” she waved her
arm about, “is all right to attrac’ custom, but it
don’t mean nottin’ to me. . . . A nice plain room
wit’ a winda on a busy street. There I’ll sit. . . .
All I want good is a bed. My bed must be of the
best; a1 box spring and a real hair mattress. Plenty
of tasty food cooked the way I like it. Nobody to
hinder my comin’ and goin’; nobody wit’ the right
to bother me! That’s livin’!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah! you’ll git like the fat lady in Barnum and
Bailey’s!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It wouldn’t suit me,” said Joe. “I want to be
mixed up in things. I’m gonna be a big man. One
of the biggest. I been about a bit now. I’m as
smart as anybody I see. I’m gonna make them feel
me. I like to see the buggers crawl on their bellies.
Like Dobereiner. I’ll have a secretary like Dobereiner.
Makes you feel great. . . . And a hell of
a big house on Fift’ Avenoo, and a yacht and a
private car . . . there isn’t anything I won’t have!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re welcome to it,” said Jewel. “Seems
childish to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And a swell-lookin’ wife to take around, wearing
diamonds all over her. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just the same, you’ll come to see me,” said Jewel
smiling to herself; “fat though I be.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you braced the old man?” asked Jewel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe armed himself with caution. He had been
waiting for this. “No,” he said. “All bills paid,
and a hundred a week clear! Ain’t yeh satisfied?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Jewel. “This may blow up any time.
I want to be protected. A lump sum down. A
man as rich as that; it’s customary. It don’t have
to be in cash. A string of pearls, if it suits him
better. Or anything I can realize on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe smoothed out his tone. “You’re right, Jewel.
You’re certainly entitled to it. Just leave it to me.
I’ll brace him as soon as the time is ripe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The time is ripe now,” said Jewel with quiet
stubbornness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who’s runnin’ this show?” Joe demanded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s some things you don’t know,” said Jewel.
“You’re only a kid. The time is ripe. The old man
is ripe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right,” said Joe. “I’ll brace him next time
I see him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s what you said before. You needn’t mind
now. I’ll brace him myself to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe sat up suddenly. “Go ahead!” he cried violently.
“And the whole show’ll blow up right
then! I know that old geezer! If <span class='it'>you</span> ask him for
money, he’ll fade! He likes to make out it’s all a
fairy-story like, when he comes here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has he already given you the money for me?”
Jewel asked unexpectedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe’s mouth opened and shut. He perceived that
he had betrayed himself by showing too much heat.
Oh well, he had to have it out with her anyhow.
“Yes,” he said coolly, falling back on the divan.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel stood up suddenly. Her sewing fell to the
floor. She stood over Joe with clenched hands; a
flush in her dark cheeks; her big eyes burning—she
was handsome! “You dirty cheat!” she said, not
loud. “You rotten kid! Rotten before you’re
ripe! You thieving Jew! . . . I might have known
how it would be!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe felt relieved. If this was how she was going
to take it, he was right there with her. He grinned
up at her. “Aah! chase yerself!” he drawled. “This
is my show. I started it, didn’t I?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You didn’t earn this money, damn you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I put you in the way of earning it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel suddenly quieted down. “Was it in cash?”
she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, railroad bonds. He got ’em out of the safe
deposit box himself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel sat down, and picked up her sewing. This
was what Joe was afraid of. He ground his teeth
together. “Aah, what was you anyhow when I
picked you out of the gutter?” he cried noisily.
“You was nottin’ but a dirty little Allen street. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel smiled at him. “What’s the use?” she
said; “you know you got to fork out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m damned if I will!” cried Joe. “Now you
know it, what you goin’ to do about it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel merely pulled her sewing this way and
that.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m damned well gonna keep those bonds!”
shouted Joe. “You tell the old man when he comes
here to-night! Maybe he’ll hand you a new set.
I don’t think! What <span class='it'>can</span> you do? It’s back to
Allen street for yours if <span class='it'>I</span> drop you. The old man’ll
fire me, you says. What the hell do I care?
‘ ’ll still have the mon’, won’t I? I’m about troo wit’
t’ old stiff anyhow . . . and he don’t need neither
me nor you no more, if you want to know it; cos I’ve
taught him the ropes. There’s plenty other girls.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe’s tone changed. “. . . But you got him
eatin’ out of your hand. He don’t want to hafta
make up to a new girl. If you was wise you could
keep him long as you wanted. The longer you kep’
him, the harder it would be for him to make a break.
You could work him for a whole sheaf of gilt-edge
bonds. But you gotta make a stink, I suppose.
That’s just like a woman. All right! All right!
If you’re so stuck on the Allen street houses. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe ran out of matter. You’ve got to have some
return from the other side in order to keep this sort
of thing up. He jumped up, and walked about the
room muttering angrily; picking things up and putting
them down again; darting little side looks at
Jewel. She went on sewing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe found his voice again. “It’s up to you now.
I warn yeh! I’m about to resign the job as your
manager anyhow. It don’t give me enough scope.
I’m tired suckin’ up to that old dub—to anybody!
I’m gonna operate on my own now. I’ll have them
comin’ to me! And I don’t need no woman in my
business neither! . . . A few thousands is little
enough for you to pay me for puttin’ you where
you are. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In spite of himself, Joe could not keep his mind
on any one line; it shot off this way and that. He
sounded weak to himself. How the hell had he
come to let himself be put on the defensive anyhow?
Now, struggle as he would, he could not keep a
whining tone from coming into his voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah! what’s the matter with yeh? I ain’t tryin’
to swipe the bonds offen you. You know me! I
on’y want to use ’em for a little while. I got a
scheme. . . . I can pay you back twice over. I can
make money for both of us. You said I was a good
business man. Well, I’m a better business man than
you know. On’y I got to have a lump sum to start
with. As a decoy to attrac’ more. I’ll tell you my
scheme. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I ain’t interested,” said Jewel, biting off her
thread.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now listen, Jewel. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You hand over my bonds,” she said, looking at
him steadily. “When they’re in my own hands,
then you can talk. I’ll have the handling of my own
money, see? If your scheme looks good to me, I’ll
put something in it—but I’ll say how much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe flung himself down on the divan again.
“Yeah!” he said in extreme bitterness. “You think
you’re gonna run my business, don’t you? What
you know about business? You never been off
Allen street till you come up here. You’d do better
to stick to your own business, and leave me mine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where are the bonds?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah! in the inside pocket o’ me coat.” Joe
flung an arm over his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel got up without haste.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>III</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>F</span>rom</span> his place in the corner of the basement
room Wilfred watched the other diners covertly.
Had he but possessed a mantle of invisibility his
happiness would have been complete. As it was,
his pleasure in looking at people vanished when
they looked at him. There were four places at a
table, and he was most comfortable when all were
taken. People sitting so close, never looked at you;
and they made a sort of screen for you; moreover
he was able to listen to their talk, and to build
upon it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He ate his dinner in this place on West Tenth
street once or twice a week; or as often as he could
scare up the necessary thirty-five cents. He told
his Aunts he had to work late at the office. How
scandalized they would have been could they have
seen him sitting there with a bottle of wine before
him. They would never realize that he was grown.
The place had no license of course, and you
had a pleasant feeling of lawlessness; at any
moment the police might come banging at the door.
But they never had. A plain and friendly place,
it supplied something that Wilfred had apprehended
in novels of foreign life. He had got in the first
time by attaching himself to the tail of a party at
the door. Now he was known there and hailed by
name. The generous minestrone, ravioli, etc.,
made his stomach purr. When he sat back and
lighted a cigarette, life ceased to appall.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was run by a handsome Italian woman with a
heavenly smile, named Ceccina. Her husband,
Michele, held sway over the kitchen, which was
revealed through an open door; and their three
children Raymo, Alessandro and Enriqueta helped
their mother to wait upon the tables. Simple people;
Wilfred loved them from a distance, except the
little girl, who was pert without being engaging.
It was the fault of the fond patrons. Wilfred felt
it his duty to discourage her. He had a specially
warm spot for Alessandro the bullet-headed one, a
blonde sport in that dark family. Alessandro, always
watching for a chance to sneak out and play
in the streets, was often in trouble with his father,
who swore at him in English, without being aware
of the comic effect of his aspersions on the boy’s
parentage.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The round table in the middle of the room, which
would hold six at a squeeze, was reserved for a little
company of friends that included two known
authors; a lady editor; an artist; and a long-legged
young man of unknown affiliations, whom the others
called the bambino. These people constituted the
focus of interest in the place. Wilfred watching
them, and listening, decided against them. Let the
authors be known as well as they might, their circle
was not the real thing; its brilliancy was self-conscious.
One author looked like a walrus with his
tusks drawn; the other like an elderly trained
poodle. The artist had a voluminous cape to his
overcoat; and rattled his stick against the door-frame
when he entered. Somebody said he designed
labels for tomato cans. The room was small enough
for Wilfred to scoop in these bits of information,
as they flew about.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These and others in the room were of the general
show; there was one group that Wilfred had taken
for his own; whom he regarded with an intensity of
interest that hurt. Young fellows, no more than
a year or two older than himself; lively young
fellows; and good friends! Until he had come to
Ceccina’s he had never seen any young men like
these, but he immediately understood them; he
seemed to have been waiting for such. The conventions
upon which young men ordinarily formed themselves,
had no force with them. Their eyes seemed
to see what they were turned upon; they were interested
in things; they could let themselves go;
and how they talked!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two of them came every night. These addressed
each other as Stanny and Jasper. Stanny was short
and sturdily built; with an expression of doughty
wistfulness that arrested Wilfred. He had a tenor
voice with rather plaintive modulations, that went
with his eyes. A man every inch of him, from the
set of his strong shoulders, and his courageous
glance; but a man who felt things and wondered.
Up to this time Wilfred had despairingly supposed
that manliness was the capacity for not feeling
things. Jasper, with his crisp, bronze, wavy hair,
and warm color, was full of a slow, earthy zest.
His face generally wore a sleepy half-smile; and he
had a trick of squinting down his big nose. Wilfred
inferred that he must have wit, from the surprised
laughter which greeted his rare sallies.</p>
<p class='pindent'>These two were sometimes joined by an older
man with a fine, reticent face and silky black beard,
whom they called Hilgy. Hilgy had his features
under such control, that it was impossible to decide
whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest. Wilfred
observed that sometimes his own friends did
not know how to take him. Hilgy liked to string
them. Sometimes a thin, handsome youth no older
than Wilfred, made one of the party. They called
him Binks; and so exuberant and audacious was his
style, that all hung upon his words, though he was
the youngest among them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unfortunately for Wilfred, these fellows, unlike
the party at the center table, talked low and all
he could get of it was a phrase here and there.
He had gathered that they were all artists, though
they wore their hair short, and dressed like anybody
else. They forced him to reconsider all his
notions about artists. Art! the word rang hopefully
in Wilfred’s consciousness; it was a way
other than business, of making one’s living. Of
course he couldn’t be a painter, because his fingers
were all thumbs. But a writer, perhaps; that was
an art, too. Years ago, his grandfather had told
him he had imagination; he had been hugging the
assurance ever since. Nobody else had ever suggested
that he had any worthy quality. Still, a
writer!—how ridiculous to dream of such a thing,
when he lacked a college education.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For many nights Wilfred had been watching
these happy fellows. Such friends! What would
he not have given for one friend, and each of these
had three! Talk boiled out of them. Sometimes
at a heard phrase, Wilfred’s own breast would froth
up like yeasty beer. It was so extraordinary to discover
that they talked about the same things that
troubled his mind! They were clever. They poked
sly fun at the other diners. Once Wilfred caught
Stanny’s nickname for the writer who looked like
a poodle: “Flannel-belly!” Inexplicably right!
he laughed whenever he thought of it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had taken two of the four to his heart;
Stanny and Binks. But his feelings toward them
were different: for the one he felt a violent affection
and sympathy; for the other, a violent, helpless admiration.
One or another of these two, or both of
them, linked arms with Wilfred in his waking
dreams; and into their attentive ears he poured the
frothy stuff that choked his breast. When he came
to himself, he would smile, to think how in his
dreams, he did all the talking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On this night none of the fellows had come, and
Wilfred was obliged to swallow his disappointment.
Ceccina had finally been obliged to give their places
to a party of overdressed strangers from up-town,
who stared rudely around the room, and made audible
comments. Such people cheapened everybody
in the place. Wilfred cursed them under his breath.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then the bell rang, and Stanny and Jasper
entered the room, a good half hour after their usual
time. Wilfred’s heart leaped like a lover’s; then
set up a tremendous pounding; for the only two
vacant places together, were at his table. The two
crossed the room as a matter of course; and Stanny
asked him politely if they might share his table.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly!” stammered Wilfred, keeping his
eyes down. He simply had not the courage to look
at them so near to.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They sat down side by side opposite him. Wilfred’s
breast was in a commotion. His confusion
must have affected the other two, for they were
silent at first. Undoubtedly they thought him a
churl, who hugged his solitude. He could not
bring himself to look at them. He was bitterly upbraiding
himself. You fool! What a poor figure
you are cutting! Why can’t you be natural? These
are simple, likable fellows, willing to be friends.
They are your kind. What a chance! And you’re
throwing it away! You won’t get another such
chance. This is what comes of dreaming! Unfits
you for the reality. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Their soup was brought; and they hungrily applied
themselves to it, with encomiums upon its
flavor. While waiting for their next course, they
picked up a conversation that had evidently been
dropped a little while before. They spoke low; but
Wilfred’s sharpened ears heard every word.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think you’re foolish,” said Stanny, “after working
in the office all day, to sit in your basement
nights, hacking away at your carving. With a book
of Italian verbs open besides you, too. Or if you’re
not there, you’re sitting in Madame Tardieu’s stuffy
room, droning French with that tiresome old soul!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She needs the money,” mumbled Jasper. His
shy, unsure utterance endeared him to Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, that’s not your fault,” said Stanny,
slightly exasperated. “You’re too easy. She knows
she’s got a good thing, and she’s nursing it along.
. . . I say, it’s not natural at our age.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What else is there to do, nights?” grumbled
Jasper. “We haven’t any money to spend.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Loaf!” said Stanny, promptly. “A certain
amount of loafing is necessary to the soul’s health.
You’re doing violence to your nature with this continual
grind. It’ll get back at you some day. This
self-improvement business can be carried too far.
How can you improve when you’ve worked yourself
into a half-doped state? . . . I bet you fall asleep
in your chair at Mme. Tardieu’s many’s the night,
while the old body drools on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s a fact,” confessed Jasper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While they talked together, ignoring him, Wilfred
quieted down. It was better they should ignore
him, he thought; for if, as was probable, they should
not like him, that would be worse. Meanwhile what
a glimpse into their lives he was getting!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Last night,” said Jasper in his diffident, masculine
voice, “I was sitting in Madame Tardieu’s
room. It’s true, I was half asleep. I happened to
look out of the window. . . . In the house opposite,
there was a girl going to bed. She’d forgotten to
pull down the shades. . . . Damn nice-looking girl!
When she put up her arms to unpin her hair . . .
lovely round arms . . . such a picture! . . . Well
. . . I lost my head. I said good-night to the old
lady in a hurry, and I went . . . I mean I went
across the street. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>What!</span>” exclaimed Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s a rooming house. The outer door was closed.
I waited on the stoop until one of the lodgers came
home. Told him I’d lost my key. He let me in.
I went up to the girl’s room and went in. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good God! what did <span class='it'>she</span> say?” demanded Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, she was surprised,” said Jasper shyly. “But
she didn’t make much of a fuss . . . I stayed. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose she <span class='it'>had</span> made a fuss?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t think of that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You had been drinking!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. . . . Something got into me. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was astounded and delighted by this
anecdote. Such delicious effrontery was almost
inconceivable to him. It was <span class='it'>right</span>, thought
Wilfred; that was the gallant way; the
mad, imprudent jolly way! Jasper loomed a
hero in his eyes. He ventured to steal a look at
the pair of them. Stanny was a little scandalized
by the story—but only a little. Evidently it was
much the sort of thing a friend might expect to hear
from Jasper. Then Wilfred looked at Jasper; and
at the same moment Jasper happened to raise his
shy, wicked eyes to Wilfred’s face. A spark was
struck, and suddenly they laughed together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred blushed scarlet. “I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“I couldn’t help hearing. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, that’s all right,” said Jasper, blushing, too.
“You know how it is.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A warm tide of joy coursed through Wilfred. To
be hailed by Jasper as a fellow!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny now included Wilfred in his remarks.
He was annoyed. “A piece of folly, if you ask me,”
he said. “God knows what might have happened!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But it wouldn’t, to him,” said Wilfred. “There
wasn’t any room in his mind for it to happen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny looked at Wilfred dubiously. Wilfred
blushed again. What nonsense am I talking? he
thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He understands,” said Jasper, with a jerk of his
head in Wilfred’s direction.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I understand,” said Wilfred, a little breathlessly.
“But I wouldn’t have had the nerve to carry
it through, myself. I think it was fine!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Huh!” said Stanny. “You don’t know this
idiot as well as I do. Works himself into a state
of stupefaction. Then suddenly blows up, and
doesn’t know what he’s doing. I don’t call that
rational!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, reason isn’t everything!” said Wilfred
grinning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hear! Hear!” said Jasper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny’s irritation was only on the surface. He
grinned back at Wilfred. “You shouldn’t encourage
him!” he said with an affectionate glance at Jasper.
“The old stove-in-bottom! You wouldn’t think he
was capable of it, to look at him, would you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m not bragging about it,” said Jasper with an
aggrieved air. “I only told you how it was. I’m
ashamed of myself now, I felt rotten about it all
day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If it had been me, I wouldn’t be ashamed,” murmured
Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Anyhow, you’re no Joseph!” said Jasper to
Stanny. “How about Myrtle?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A flicker of disgust made Stanny’s face look
pinched. “Oh, that was just a common or garden
pick-up,” he said; “all conducted according to rule.
It’s ended. Two nights ago I blew her to a ride in
a hansom. Bowling down Fifth Avenue. Felt like
a lord! She spoiled it by getting mercenary. I
invited her to get out, and came home alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why shouldn’t she be mercenary?” asked Jasper
mildly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, I’m a sentimentalist!” said Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred experienced a pang of sympathy. Glancing
in Stanny’s face, he thought: He deserves better
than that!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Spaghetti was brought to Stanny and Jasper;
and they applied themselves to it. Wilfred, who
had finished his meal, lit a cigarette with slightly
trembling fingers; and prayed that this might not
be the end. In his mind he searched furiously
around for interesting matter to carry on the talk;
while at the same time another part of his mind
warned him not to force the occasion, or it would
break down as it always did; but to let the occasion
use him. While he was still distracted between
these inner voices, the talk started of itself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Said Stanny: “When I came down-town to-night,
I saw that they had taken away the female figures
leading up to the Dewey Arch on either side. Charlotte
Marshall posed for those figures. She comes
here sometimes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve seen her,” said Wilfred. “What a strange
creature!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny smiled at him good-naturedly, in a way
that made Wilfred feel very young. Of course!
thought Wilfred. I was trying to be wise. I <span class='it'>will</span>
be natural!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All legs,” grumbled Jasper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, that’s the sculptor’s ideal,” said Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The degenerate sculptor’s ideal!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Anyhow, it looks a lot better without them—or
her,” said Stanny. “I like it, though it’s been
damaged a bit by the weather, and by the hubs of the
busses driving through. Wish you could have seen
the pair of drivers I saw to-night, racing through
abreast, licking their horses like the chariot race in
Ben-Hur.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not really good,” said Jasper. “Just a lot
of miscellaneous architecture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you ought to know, old Goat and Compasses!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like to look at it,” said Wilfred shyly. “Just
because it was run up for a sort of festival. It was a
damn fool thing to spend all that money on a
monument of lath and plaster. That’s why I like it.
Everything else is so damned useful. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He suddenly became aware that both young
fellows were listening to him. Self-consciousness
supervened, and his tongue began to stumble. They
listen! he thought. I can talk too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you paint?” asked Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred shook his head. “I’m only a millionaire’s
office boy,” he said, trying to carry it off with
a grin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s nothing,” said Stanny quickly. “I make
line drawings for James Gordon Bennett, and
Jasper here, draws plans for a millionaire jerry-builder.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Some day I hope to write,” Wilfred said. In
that moment his resolution was formed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That so?” said Stanny with interest. “We
haven’t got a writer in our bunch.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s heart almost burst out of his breast.
Did he mean anything by that? . . . But probably
not.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thenceforward, talk never failed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The three youths left the restaurant together. A
despair had seized upon Wilfred. There was
nothing further he could do to prolong the occasion.
He had no place where he could ask them to come.
This was the end! They paused on the sidewalk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Which way you go?” asked Stanny, offhand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I live in Eleventh street.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Walk around by the Avenue with us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So he obtained five minutes reprieve. At the
Eleventh street corner they paused again. Wilfred’s
heart was low. His tongue clave to his palate.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny said in the forthright manner that became
his doughty self so well: “Look here; I’ve
got a garret up on Fourteenth street. Jasper’s
coming up. Would you like to come and look at
my stuff?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Would he! Wilfred could scarcely reply. “Oh
yes!” he murmured. “I was hoping you would
ask me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Both lads looked at him with quick pleasure.
Without knowing it, he had said exactly the right
thing. They marched up-town three abreast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Got anything to drink?” mumbled Jasper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Divil a drop, you sponge!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I . . . I wish you’d let me . . . stand treat,”
stammered Wilfred. With his fingers, he made sure
of the limp dollar bill in his trousers pocket. That
was for lunches the balance of the week, but . . . !</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right,” said Stanny. “We’ll go round by
Maria’s, and get a bottle of Nebiola . . .”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>IV</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>owards</span> the close of the business day, Joe
Kaplan dropped in at Harry Bannerman’s
little office on Nassau street. He had been there
before. In his sphere, Harry occupied much the
same relation to Mr. Gore that Joe did in his. It
had been no part of Mr. Gore’s plans to make his
two favorites known to each other, but they had in
a way of speaking smelled each other out. No
doubt it had occurred to Harry, as it certainly had
to Joe, that an alliance would be useful. How else
could they keep tab on each other? It had greatly
amused Joe to watch Harry’s face when he had
unexpectedly come into Mr. Gore’s office one day to
find Joe seated by the millionaire’s desk. Joe could
imagine Harry going to Dobereiner for information;
and Dobereiner getting off his innocent spiel
about the clever young man whom Mr. Gore was
educating! How Harry must have been tormented
by the sums in cash he was forced to draw every
week! Well, now, unknown to Mr. Gore and
Dobereiner, Harry and Joe had become “intimate”
friends. That was funny, too!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’Lo, Harry!” said Joe. He allowed a shadow
to appear on his brow, and rolled his Eden perfecto
moodily between his lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is out o’ sight!” cried Harry. “I’ll be
through directly. We’ll go out and have something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Behind this parade of heartiness, Joe perceived
the glitter of hatred, and exulted. He dropped on
a chair, and extending his elegantly trousered legs
plucked at the creases. A sickly look appeared in
Harry’s eyes. Don’t he wish he was me! thought
Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe said, gloomily: “I need a drink!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the matter, old fel’?” asked Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe, observing the spring of eager malice in his
eyes, thought: He’s a smart fellow; but I’m smarter.
I can play on him like the piano. I can surround
him all about, and be ready for him to move in any
direction! Joe said: “You’ve got me in a hole,
that’s what!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I?” said Harry, opening his china blue eyes,
candid for once in his astonishment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe chuckled inwardly; and looking Harry over,
made him wait for the explanation. Harry was a
young man, but not so young as he looked. He
made a business of being a young man. He was
slender; yet somehow he gave the impression of being
soft and plump. A dimple in one cheek contributed
to that effect. From the neck up he had a
naked look, though his head was furnished with a
sufficient quantity of hair. It was one of those heads
of hair that suggest a wig. He even had a small,
stiff mustache, every hair of which was laid in order.
Just the same his face had a naked look.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How could I get you in a hole?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I been talkin’ too much about you up at the flat,”
said Joe. “About our gettin’ to be friends, and goin’
around together, and all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has she told <span class='it'>him</span>?” asked Harry sharply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nah! That kid is wise. She don’t tell the old
man anything but what he wants to hear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the trouble then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe scowled. “Aah! She wants me to bring
you up there while the old man’s out of town.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harry quickly lowered his lids—not so quickly,
though, but that Joe perceived what was under
them. It was funny! Harry of course, was out of
his mind with curiosity concerning the flat on Fifty-Eighth
street, and it’s occupant. “Well . . . why
not?” said Harry with a shrug.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good God! man!” cried Joe. “Suppose the old
man got on to it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why should he get on to it, if the girl is on the
level with us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose she was to get stuck on you?” said Joe.
“Where would I be?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harry fiddled among the papers on his desk.
“Oh, you can leave that to me,” he said with a
laugh. “I’m not going to let her . . . I might ask
you the same question. Where would <span class='it'>I</span> be if she
did?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see how you could help yourself,” said
Joe. “If you attempted to discourage her, it would
only make her worse. I tell you frankly, after a
certain point <span class='it'>I</span> can’t handle her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did she say?” Harry asked, keeping his
face averted from Joe—but Joe marked the deepening
dimple.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Said she was bored, seeing nobody but the old
man and me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . you’re not old,” suggested Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m like her brother,” said Joe. “We scrap
all the time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I mean, what did she say about me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Said if I didn’t bring you up, she’d come down
here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So this has been going on some time?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, a couple of weeks.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . it’s up to you,” said Harry. “You’re
running that show.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you want to come?” asked Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m only human,” said Harry, shrugging.
“I’m curious to see what the old man’s taste is.
. . . But it makes no real difference. I have other
interests as you know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe grinned inwardly. Does he think he’s taking
me in, the jay-bird! He said, grumblingly:
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to take you. I’ll get
no peace until I do! . . . Look here, if there should
be any trouble, can I count on you to do the right
thing by me? Suppose the old man should get on
to something, will you tell him it wasn’t my fault?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, sure!” said Harry, with a reproachful
look. “You ought to know me better than that,
Joe! . . . Make your mind, easy. There isn’t going
to be any trouble. I’m the quietest little pot of
tea that ever brewed on the back of the stove!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right,” said Joe. “We’ll go on up, after
we’ve had a drink. We can have dinner sent in
from outside.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Shortly after midnight Joe and Harry issued
out of the house on Fifty-Eighth street. Apparently
there was nothing to choose between them for mellowness;
but Joe was not as mellow as he was making
out to be. He linked his arm affectionately
within Harry’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re a damn good fellow, Harry! I think
the world of you! . . . Just the same there’s going
to be trouble as a result of this night’s work!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re foolish!” said Harry, dimpling. “She
didn’t care. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know her!” said Joe significantly. “She wasn’t
going to let anything on to you, of course. And me
being there, too. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well,” said Harry expansively, “even so! Need
the heavens fall? . . . Oh my God! what a skin!
Like old white velvet. . . . What the old man don’t
know won’t hurt him!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look at the position it puts me in!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t need to know, either.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah . . . !” Joe grew vague. “Well, I can’t
help it. . . . ’S too soon to go home, old fellow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My club is near here,” said Harry. “Come in
for a nightcap.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nested in a deep leather chair, with a fresh cigar
between his lips, Joe’s gaze at the dying fire appeared
to become slightly rapt. “Look here, Harry,
you’re the best friend I’ve got. I can talk to you.
God! the life we lead, we never get a chance to
open up. You don’t dare to let yourself go with
any ordinary guy. . . . I want to tell you something,
Harry. I suppose to you I appear just a fly
kid; happy-go-lucky, and all that. But that ain’t
the real me. I hate the position I’m in. You’re
a whole lot better off than me; still, it’s much the
same. I don’t see how you can stand it either!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stand what?” asked Harry sharply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sucking up to that —— —— ——!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, there are good pickings!” said Harry with
a sickly smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To hell with pickings! Are you going to be
satisfied with his droppings all your life? Not
me! . . . We only have to look around us. Everybody
on the inside is making pots of money right
now, pots! There’s never been anything like it.
Why shouldn’t we? Wouldn’t you like to have
money enough of your own to tell that old swell-front
to go to hell, and close the door as he went
out?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harry twisted in his chair without answering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I mean to,” said Joe. “I want a pile, and
I’m going to grab it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How?” asked Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I been picking up quite a bit about the
ways of the Street, one place and another,” said
Joe. “I make the old man talk about it, without
his getting on to how much he’s giving away. All
the talk is of mergers now. The air is full of it.
That is how the money is made. Millions in a
stroke of the pen!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Everything is merged, now,” said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not quite everything. I’ll tell you about a
cunning little merger that I have in mind. These
electric cabs that have increased so fast the last
two or three years. You see them everywhere
now. There are five small companies operating
them. The damn things are so expensive, and they
break down so often, the companies are all bankrupt,
and only keep going by selling more stock
all the time. You can always stick the public with
a new thing like that. How about merging all the
New York cab companies?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But if they’re all bankrupt . . . ?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe wagged his hand. “What do I care about
that? Think of the publicity! Everybody is interested
in cabs. Cabs are romantic. Cabs are always
associated with going on the loose. And horseless
cabs have news value. Look here! First you go
round to the different companies and make an agreement
with each one. Oh, it ain’t much of an agreement.
They simply agree to come in if the others
do, see? Anybody will agree to that. But the five
agreements make a good-looking bunch of documents
to shake in a sucker’s face, see? He won’t read ’em.
Then you incorporate. There’s regular men you
can get for incorporators. I’m going to call it the
Consolidated Cab Co. Con. Cab ’ll look good on
the ticker. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s a con, all right,” said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By God! that’s right!” said Joe pulled up short.
“A cheap josh might ruin us. Well, call it the Manhattan
Cab Company, then. Man. Cab on the
ticker. . . . Soon as you’re incorporated, you let
loose your publicity. ‘Big Corporation formed to
take over all New York cabs!’ That’s news, see?
You don’t have to pay for it. It’s good for a front
page spread. Then you place an order for a thousand
new cabs. That’s another news story. Then
you get an option on an abandoned car-barn, and
announce a super-garage, see? And so on. You tell
how wonderful the new service is going to be, and
quote the reduced rates. The papers will eat it up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When you get the public appetite sharpened,
you begin to put out your stock on the curb in a
small way. You must have real nice engraved
certificates; none of your filled-in stuff. Of course
the wise guys know there is nothing behind it but
hot air, but some of them will take a chance on it.
They always do. Hundred dollar shares will sell
for four or five or six on the curb. That’s enough
when you can issue all you want. It’ll pay expenses.
You hire a nice office—nothing showy;
and engage a polite old geezer with white hair to
take in the visitors’ cards. And so on. Then I’ll
have Amasa Gore approached. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you think for a moment you’re going to
sting <span class='it'>him</span>?” said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing like it! He’ll be invited to share in
the profits! . . . Suppose the stock is selling on the
curb at six, see? He’ll be offered a thousand shares
out of the treasury, or as much as he wants, at three,
see? Then it will be announced that Amasa Gore
is taking an active interest in Manhattan Cab, and
will be elected as vice-president at the next directors’
meeting. The stock will jump to ten or twelve then,
and he’ll sell out on the q.t. You know he does
that all the time. He told me so himself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And when it becomes known that he has sold?”
said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, anybody that wants, can have Manhattan
Cab then,” said Joe with a grin. “I’ll be short on
the stock, myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where will you get yours?” asked Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“After the company’s incorporated, I’ll have a
set of directors of course. I’ll have them vote me a
thousand shares out of the treasury stock for my
services in promoting the company. Then I mean
to put some real money into it, too. When the
stock is first put out on the curb, I’ll be the buyer,
see? To create a market. I’ll get it cheap. I’ll
have two or three thousand shares when the time
comes to sell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It listens good,” said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’ve only given you the rough outlines. I’ve
got the details all planned out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you’re not nineteen yet,” objected Harry.
“Your face is too smooth. You couldn’t command
attention.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lord! what do you think I am!” said Joe. “I’m
not going to appear in this personally. It would
queer me, after. This isn’t going to be my last deal
on the street. I’ll get fellows to act for me. You
don’t think I’d undertake to sell Amasa Gore any
stock, do you? He don’t look on me in that light.
And you know how sore it makes him when anybody
disarranges his ideas. . . . No, I want you to
put me onto somebody who will take on the promotion
of the company, after I’ve got my thousand
shares. I want a young fellow with plenty of vim
and go; enthusiastic, but not <span class='it'>too</span> smart. What they
call idealistic, see? It’ll be my job to fire up his
steam. A fellow with a name that is known in the
street, if possible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is Silas Moore Bristed,” suggested Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s a good-sounding name. I’ve heard it
before.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, you have. He’s grandson to the first Silas
Moore Bristed, the famous inventor, whose name is
borne by several big corporations. But it’s all
passed out of the family. Young Silas is as poor
as a church mouse. He’s a salesman in a bond
house.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A good sort of fellow?” asked Joe, conveying a
certain intimation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Innocent as a lamb,” said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’ll look him over.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll introduce you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No you don’t! Just tell me where he’s to be
found, and I’ll get next him. He mustn’t know of
any connection between you and me, because later,
he’ll have to come to you, when he wants to make
his proposition to Amasa Gore.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I see!” said Harry with a thin smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . I suppose I got to go,” said Joe,
smothering a yawn.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look here,” said Harry in a voice that showed
strain, “what is there in this for me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
“Why, you’ll be right in on the ground floor, old
fel’! I’ll tell you the exact right moment when to
buy and when to sell. You ought to clean up a
nice little pile on it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about a little treasury stock for me, too?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What for?” asked Joe with a cold stare.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You really need me in this,” said Harry.
“You’ve got ideas, I grant, but I’ve got the experience.
You and I ought to be working together
shoulder to shoulder in the background.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I certainly am grateful for any help you can
give me,” said Joe, “but I hadn’t counted on regularly
taking anybody in with me. There isn’t
enough in it for two.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh hell!” said Harry, “what’s a few shares of
treasury stock more or less. Issue me a thousand
shares, and I’ll guarantee to get Amasa Gore into it.
You know what influence I have there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that a threat?” asked Joe calmly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harry appeared to be wounded to the quick.
“What do you think I am!” he cried. He looked
around him as much as to say: In my own club,
too!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because, if it is,” said Joe, coolly, “there’s nothing
to it. Whether you get any treasury stock or
not, you have a chance to make thousands buying
and selling the stock on the curb. You’re not
going to queer that!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you think that way about me, I can’t talk to
you,” said Harry, with dignity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe looked at him quizzically. “Aah! climb
down!” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a silence. At length Harry said:
“Well, do I get the thousand shares?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You <span class='it'>do</span> not!” said Joe promptly. “This is my
scheme. You can’t expect to come in on the same
basis as me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, five hundred, then,” said Harry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh hell!” said Joe, “I can’t Jew a friend down!
I want you in with me, Harry; that’s a fact! I
look up to you, Harry. You’ve taught me a lot.
I’ll make it five hundred shares. . . .”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>V</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred</span> could scarcely credit his own situation.
There he lay, he the solitary one, inside
man of four lads stretched out on two cots placed
against the wall of Stanny’s studio in the assumption
that they would afford more room when they
were shoved together. The other three were asleep.
Sleep was far from Wilfred’s eyes. His head
hummed with wine. He lay on his back, very still
in his strait place for fear of disturbing Stanny, who
was alongside him. Jasper was on the other side
of Stanny; and Jasper’s young brother Fred had the
perilous outside place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had started to rain fitfully on the tin roof overhead.
Wilfred remembered how the low-hanging
clouds had rosily given back the glow of the street
lights. That delicate glow was coming through
the skylight now, pervading the room with a ghostly
radiance. The front of the room came down like a
low forehead to two windows, set in only a foot
above the floor. You had to go down on your
knees to look out. Below, all day, was spread the
panorama of the shoppers on the busy side of Fourteenth
street opposite, and the sidewalk vendors
with their baskets. The skylight was in the high
part of the room at the back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That room was dear to Wilfred beyond measure.
Not for its beauty, because it contrived at the same
time to be both bare and littered—it was a chaos
now, after parties on two succeeding nights. It was
the first room where he had been free; a man’s room,
smelling of tobacco, where you could spread yourself.
It didn’t have to be tidied up until you felt like it;
dirty clothes could be kicked into the corners. The
paraphernalia of Stanny’s trade lay about—Stanny,
his friend, whose thick shoulder lay warmly against
Wilfred’s thin one now; drawing-boards; sheets of
bristol board; drawings stood up with their faces
turned to the wall; and everywhere, thumb-tacks
and Higgins ink bottles with their tops like black
nipples. To the walls were pinned several of
Stanny’s best drawings; distant prospects of landscape
that stung Wilfred with their beauty. It
was marvellous to him that such effects could be
created with a scratching pen. When Stanny drew
people, their faces all had a slightly tormented look.
Funny!</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had been a lively thirty hours in the lives of
the friends. Wilfred went over it in his mind,
smiling into the darkness. Jasper’s young brother
Fred had come down from Lockport to see the town;
and they had had a supper of canned lobster and
Nebiola in his honor. That started it. To their
provender had been added a fruit cake, brought
from home by the guest—such a fruit cake as Wilfred
had never tasted. Canned lobster and fruit
cake! Nobody had been sick but the guest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At first they had been rather disconcerted by their
guest. Jasper didn’t know his brother very well, it
appeared. Fred knew all about New York from
hearsay, and undertook to tell them. He didn’t
say so; but it was clear he was a little surprised
at there being no ladies included in the supper party.
He drank largely of Nebiola; and unquestionably
enjoyed himself; but his air of implying that there
was something naughty about it all, rather dashed
the others. Until Hilgy began to jolly him in his
quiet way. But after Fred had been sick, he returned
to the table with a pale and thoughtful cast,
and they liked him better.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That soft-voiced, poker-faced mockery of Hilgy’s
was rather terrible. None of them was safe from
it; not Hilgy himself: because when he desired
sympathy, the others supposed that he was still
mocking. Then Hilgy would get a little sore. He
was a handsome fellow, with his silky black beard,
and the subdued manner that concealed such powerful
batteries. You never knew you had been hit,
until a moment or two afterwards. Wilfred was in
awe of him, he was so much older; almost thirty.
It annoyed Hilgy that anybody should be in awe
of him, so Wilfred struggled to treat him as offhandedly
as Stanny and Jasper did; whereupon
Hilgy, perceiving the struggle, with characteristic
perversity started mocking Wilfred subtly. So intercourse
was a little difficult. Yet Wilfred admired
Hilgy without stint.</p>
<p class='pindent'>What a privilege it was to be associated with
such fellows. Wilfred doubted if there was a circle
in all New York that could show the same average
of brilliancy. Unfortunately he couldn’t recall any
of the bright things that had been said; he hadn’t
that kind of a memory; but he had the scene of the
party to a hair. There were only three chairs in
the room; and they had dragged up the cot to make
two seats more, while Wilfred sat on an up-ended
suit-case. Stanny at the head of the table—How
Stanny blossomed under the influence of Nebiola,
yet never lost his plaintive air; Jasper at the foot,
looking down his nose with an expression of. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>What was the word to describe Jasper’s expression
when he had had a drink or two? Sly drollery?
. . . no! Recondite glee! . . . no! Arch solemnity?
. . . well that was better, but not <span class='it'>the</span> phrase.
I shall never be a writer! thought Wilfred sadly.
Epithets do not explode in my head like they do in
Stanny’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>. . . Hilgy and Binks sitting on the cot; and
Fred alongside Wilfred. Five keen, vital faces to
watch, revealing their characteristics in the wrinkles
of merriment—well, say four faces, because Fred’s
was rather a pudding; united in good fellowship, yet
betraying such fascinating differences of nature, and
suggesting such mysteries! Wilfred was unable to
imagine a greater pleasure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the laughter and gibes were suddenly
turned against Wilfred himself, he was ready to
sink under his confusion; but he liked it nevertheless.
It assured him that he had an identity too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After supper Binks had become delightfully silly.
A special bond united Wilfred and Binks; the kids
of the crowd, exactly the same age. They had to
conceal their kiddishness from the older fellows, but
might reveal it to each other when alone. They
were intensely jealous of each other. Wilfred had
to be content with second place, because Binks surpassed
him in everything. Binks at nineteen already
had his drawings in the best magazines. Wilfred
was enslaved by his admiration of Binks’
elegant air that was not dependent upon dress, his
outrageous audacity; his faculty for making friends.
Binks was nonchalantly one with gangsters, and with
the Four Hundred. What a Godsend that would
be to me, thought Wilfred; if I had it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Amazing fellow, Binks! He had said: “My
boss asked me to lunch on Wednesday. He runs
what he calls the Simple Life Club. Not so damn
simple. Has in the fellows who write and draw for
his magazine to amuse the society dames he knows.
I sat next to Mrs. Van Buren. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Peter Polk Van Buren?” asked Wilfred,
amazed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, that’s her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The most beautiful woman in New York!” said
Wilfred, “and the greatest name!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That so”? Well, she was a peach all right. As
we took our places she kicked my foot under the
table. She begged my pardon, and I said: ‘Oh,
go as far as you like!’ It sort of broke the ice. She
said she was dying to smoke; but she didn’t know
how the other women would take it. I said: ‘Oh,
go ahead. When they see you start they’ll all
smoke themselves black in the face!’ Across the
table sat:” he named names that took Wilfred’s
breath away. “Some party! . . . I came home
afterwards, and carried down the washing from the
roof for my mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>By degrees Wilfred had perceived that Binks’
affections were not warm like Stanny’s and Jasper’s.
With sharpest pain he thought: The fellows he met
last night for the first time are just the same to him
as us. . . . Oh well, that’s his nature. You have
to take him as he is. When Binks got drunk, and,
no longer clever, made believe that the studio
was a skating rink, Wilfred felt like a father to
him. At any rate I can carry my liquor better than
Binks, he told himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After supper there came a point when Jasper burst
into flower like that night-blooming plant whose
name Wilfred couldn’t remember. He stood behind
a chair, haranguing them in the manner of a
rabbit-toothed curate with his spectacles slipping off
his nose. A rag-tag parody of biblical quotations,
and pulpit jargon. The congregation rolled helplessly
on the floor. At such moments, Wilfred
thought, Jasper under his unsure manner revealed
richer ore than any of them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The supply of Nebiola had given out; and they
went cascading down the four flights of stairs for a
fresh supply. They found Maria’s restaurant
empty; and in the back room Binks banged on the
piano while the others danced. Oh! the combination
of Hilgy’s grave, sad head and skittish legs.
Hilgy never laughed; he only caused the others to.
It seemed to Wilfred that as his friends became
wilder, he grew ever more sober. But as they
stopped to read a sign in the street, an enormous
laugh was suddenly directed against him when it
was discovered that he was holding one eye shut.
I must have been drunk, too; thought Wilfred, surprised.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rest was merely noise and wild laughter.
Pictures leaped out of the dark. The foolish Fred,
dressed up like d’Artagnan and posed upon the model
stand for Stanny to sketch—he had no idea he was
being joshed; Stanny’s expression of indignant wistfulness
when he tried to rise from the floor, and discovered
that he was sitting in the glue which somebody
had overturned. Oh, how good it was to
laugh! It washed you out! Oh, Nebiola, and the
pink foam in the glasses! How these expansive
rackety nights drew fellows together! After two
such nights on end, Wilfred felt that he had a real
hold upon them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next day was Sunday. They met at noon in
a cheap restaurant on Fourteenth street. There was
renewed laughter at the sight of Jasper’s morose
expression as he pushed a piece of dry toast around
his plate with a fork. Fred was pitiful; all the
Lockport doggy air had gone out of him. It transpired
that Jasper had invited Hilgy (who lived up-town)
to spend the night with him and his brother,
and the bed had collapsed under the triple load.
There had been a high old row. The widow with
whom Jasper lodged had fired them on the spot; and
it was only after much persuasion that she had relented
to the extent of letting them stay out the
night.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She had a mash on Jasper,” said Hilgy, “and
what really made her sore was him seeing her in her
nighty and curlpapers. She realized that she could
no longer hope.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The situation was awkward since practically all
their money had been spent in Fred’s entertainment.
However Stanny had said they could share his studio
until they scraped together enough to pay an advance
on another room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The moving was the occasion of the second party.
It was more restrained than the first owing to a
certain shortage of supplies, still . . . ! At midnight
between two showers they had issued out to
conduct the hegira. Returning, what a circus! A
treat for the occasional passer-by. Hilgy first with
rolls and rolls of tracing paper under one arm; and
in the other hand the front end of Jasper’s trunk.
Jasper next with the hinder end of the trunk in
one hand; and in the other the front end of a folding
cot. Binks had the stern end of the cot in one
hand; and an end of a drawing-table in the other;
Wilfred the other end of the drawing-table and one
handle of a Gladstone bag; Stanny the remaining
handle of the bag, and more rolls of drawings and
tracings. Fred brought up the rear, walking alone,
with a suit-case in each hand, and more rolls caught
under his arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus they made their way up the midnight
Avenue, like one of those wooden-jointed snakes
that were sold on Fourteenth street. Whenever anybody
stopped to stare at them, the grave Hilgy
capered like a goat. In the middle of the street,
Jasper’s suit-case (carried by Fred) burst with a
loud report, flinging soiled under-clothing, broken
shoes and lead pencils far and wide. Fred, dropping
the suit-case, fled up the street, and made out he
wasn’t with them. The others as well as they could
for laughing, gathered up the debris. Hilgy held up
a torn union suit in an attitude of pensive regard.
Oh, Gee!</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the Fourteenth street corner a suspicious cop
had stopped Hilgy with a question. This was nuts
to Hilgy. Putting down his end of the trunk, he
walked down the line, introducing each fellow by
name to the officer with a childlike air. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred lost in the scene he was picturing, snickered
aloud. A low voice at his ear recalled him to
his surroundings; the bed; Stanny’s room; Stanny
himself alongside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aren’t you asleep, Wilf?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I thought you were.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hell! I can’t sleep.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny slipped his arm through Wilfred’s. It
was the first time since Wilfred could remember,
that anybody had made such an overture in his
direction; he caught his breath and felt quite silly
and confused. He pressed Stanny’s arm hard
against his ribs, and neither said anything.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Finally Stanny asked: “What were you laughing
at?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At Hilgy and the cop,” said Wilfred. “I’ve
been going over it in my mind . . . trying to find
words.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Stanny, “when you
start dramatizing a thing you spoil it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know,” said Wilfred eagerly, “I know just
the point when analysing things becomes barren.
I stop short of that now. It’s all right to think
about things when you can keep yourself detached
from them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you never can!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes, I can, now,” said Wilfred confidently.
Suddenly his confidence ran out of him. “Well,
sometimes I can,” he amended.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny chuckled derisively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know, I’m foolish . . . But you like me . . . ?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny squeezed his arm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I . . . I can’t tell you what you are to
me, Stanny. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t try!” said Stanny
quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To have somebody I can talk to like this . . .
I can’t believe it! I had made up my mind that I
was a freak. I expected to be laughed at, so I
intended to hold my tongue all my life. . . . Do
you think I am effeminate, Stanny?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He <span class='it'>does</span> think so; thought Wilfred; but it doesn’t
matter if he is my friend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It isn’t important,” said Stanny, groping for
expression; “all this bunk about manliness . . . if
you have mind . . . if you have character. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, but have I?” demanded Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t worry about it . . . ! You’re too self-conscious.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure! But how can I help that? You’re like
my Aunts. When I was little they were always
telling me I was too thin-skinned. You might as
well blame a man for being blind.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t think about yourself so much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Everything comes back to yourself. Yourself is
the only measure you have for other things. . . .
I’ve read hundreds of books, but I’ve never had anybody
to tell me things. I don’t even know how to
pronounce the words I have read, because I never
heard anybody say them. . . . Only my grandfather,
and he died when I was eleven. He was a
man! I read his books. They are stored in a packing-room
next to my room. Darwin, Huxley,
Spencer and Tyndall were his favorites. I can’t
make much of Huxley or Herbert Spencer, but Darwin!
Oh, Gee! Darwin is my man!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why Darwin in particular?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I dunno. Sort of mental hero. Always willing
to face a new fact though it destroyed all his work
up to that moment. . . . My grandfather wasn’t
a one-sided man. He read the poets too; also Emerson
and Carlyle. I’m crazy about Carlyle. . . . .
It was fine to discover that your nature and mine
were alike, Stanny!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You hop about so!” grumbled Stanny. “The
hell they are!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know. . . . It is you and the others, who have
cured me, made me healthy in my mind. I used to
think I was going crazy. . . . But especially you.
There’s something between you and me . . . like
this, we can talk about things. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A start of laughter escaped Stanny, which had not
altogether a merry sound.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why do you laugh?” asked Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, when we talk . . . you do most of the
talking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose I do. . . . But you must know that
nothing would please me better than to have you
talk to me about yourself. How can I lead you
on to talk about yourself, except by going on about
myself?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know,” mumbled Stanny. . . . “It’s not from
any lack of friendliness that I don’t. It’s all inside,”
he touched his breast; “but I can’t get it out.
It hurts. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know,” whispered Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t know!” said Stanny irritably.
“Things come out of you easy enough. We’re different.
You think over to-night and last night, and
it makes you chuckle. I don’t feel like chuckling.
I drank too much wine. It brings things up in me
that I can keep under most times. I drink to forget,
and it only makes things clearer. I dread the end
of the evening, when I’ve got to lie here staring.
. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What things?” asked Wilfred in concern.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know. . . .” Wilfred heard his teeth
click together in pain. “I’ve got my head against
a stone wall. Always have had.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ve got a stubborn kind of nature . . .”
hazarded Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, to hell with my nature!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now my nature I suppose is light. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Happy Wilf!” said Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Happy Wilf! Wilfred snatched at the phrase.
It supplied the identity he was in search of. The
moment it was spoken he recognized its truth, though
up to that time he had regarded himself as among
the unhappiest of mortals. This would necessitate
the recasting of his whole scheme. It started a
dozen rabbits in his mind. There was evidently
an unhappiness to which he was a stranger. Was it
worse not to be able to explain one’s unhappiness?
And so on. These rabbits must be run down one
by one later. Happy Wilf! Stanny had given him
a character!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the matter?” whispered Stanny, alarmed
by his silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing. What you said made me think. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny snorted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, recollecting that he had Stanny to console,
pulled himself together. “Things are buried
way down in you,” he said. He heard the heavy
tone in his own voice, and was dissatisfied with it.
“That’s why it hurts when they struggle up. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake! I wish you wouldn’t always
be trying to explain me to myself!” interrupted
Stanny. “It’s a most irritating way that you have.
. . . Things are not so easy explained. I’m like
. . . I’m like a man standing with his back to the
shore, and the waves breaking over his head!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m sorry,” whispered Wilfred. “I’ve got to be
trying to explain things. I can’t rest with them.
But you mustn’t mind what I say. I’m only
. . . I’m only . . . what is the word? I’m only
speculating. I don’t insist on anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re too young. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I don’t think age has got much to do with it.
I knew the same things when I was a child. Age
only seems to bring you the words to put them
to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Words! Huh! They don’t explain anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s the same with books,” Wilfred went on.
“You don’t learn much from books. In books you
just seize on what has already been whispered to
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake! You’re beany!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred clung to his arm. “I know,” he murmured.
“Let me be that way with you. Let me
let everything come out without having to watch
myself, or be sorry for it afterwards. You’re my
only safety valve.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny returned the pressure of his arm. “Oh,
blow off as much as you want to,” he grumbled.
“Don’t mind my cursing.” He struggled with what
he had next to say: “The truth is . . . the truth
is . . . I need you too. There is no curtain between
us. . . . But I’ll never admit it again.” Then very
gruffly: “And don’t think you have me explained
with your literary phrases!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t, really. All my life I’ll be speculating
about you, without ever being sure of anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, don’t let me know you’re doing it, that’s
all.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>When he opened his eyes in the morning, Stanny
looked at Wilfred in horror. “My God! what a
lot of rot we talked last night! We were drunk!
For God’s sake forget it, Wilf!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure,” said Wilfred, grinning.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:10em;font-size:1.2em;'>PART THREE: YOUNG MEN</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch3'>PART THREE</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>I</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>I</span>mmediately</span> upon the closing of the Stock
Exchange at noon on Saturday, Theodore Dodge
came to Joe Kaplan’s office. Dodge was a stockbroker,
who enjoyed the prestige of being known as
the financial advisor, and representative on ’change
of Cooper Gillett, present head of the famous old
New York family. Joe was expecting a communication
from that quarter. The Gillett millions had
always been invested in New York real estate, but
Cooper Gillett was interesting himself more and
more in Wall street. Only a few people knew that
it was Joe Kaplan who had introduced him to the
excitements of that game.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Dodge plumped himself down, and without preamble
said gloomily: “It closed two points higher.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe nodded, good-humoredly. All the strings of
this affair were safely in his hands, and he had only
to jerk a finger here and there, to make things
come about as he wished.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course the stock began to show strength as
soon as I stopped selling,” Dodge went on: “Everybody
was watching me. I sent three messages to
Cooper Gillett from the floor, and got no answer.
Finally I left the floor, and went to his office.
Keep and Shriver were with him. He was biting
his nails in a blue funk. When I asked for additional
orders to sell, he flew into a passion. ‘I’m
already short forty thousand shares of the damned
stock!’ he cried. ‘Suppose she jumps five points
more? I should be seriously embarrassed!’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We all laughed a little at this,” Dodge went on.
“ ‘Seriously embarrassed’ sounded comic, coming
from him. ‘How about the rest of us?’ said I.
‘We have all put every cent we possessed into this.’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘The more fools, you!’ he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘We followed you in,’ I reminded him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Yah! and now you look to me to get you out
again!’ he snarled. ‘I must throw away a million
maybe, to save your paltry thousands!’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I gave it to him straight, then. ‘Look here,’
said I, ‘that’s not the point. Never mind what we
stand to lose. I’m your broker, and I’m supposed
to give you honest advice. Well, here it is! Everybody
knows you can’t go into a deal like this, and
stop half way. You might just as well stand on
the corner, and pitch your money down a sewer opening.
As soon as I stopped selling for you, the stock
began to rise. When it becomes generally known
that you have released the pressure on it, it will rebound
like a rubber ball. It won’t be a question of
five points rise then, but ten, and very likely twenty.
You’ll lose half a million dollars, and become a
laughing-stock. I’ll be ruined. . . .’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘On the other hand,’ I said, ‘if you see the thing
through, you <span class='it'>can’t</span> lose! This is simply a duel
between you and the Mattisons of Chicago. Well,
you’ve got more money and more credit than that
crowd. As yet, you haven’t begun to touch your
resources. You’re bound to beat them out in the
end. . . . Now what are my instructions for the
opening on Monday?’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But he only sat there glowering and biting his
fingers. I couldn’t get him up to the sticking-point.
Your name was never mentioned, but we could all
see that he wanted you to buck him up, and wouldn’t
admit it. You must see him to-day, Kaplan, or
we’ll all be in the soup. He’s going out of town
over Sunday.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I can’t see him unless he sends for me,” Joe
objected. “If I go after him, he is bound to take
the defensive, just as he did with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’ll never send for you,” said Dodge gloomily,
“because he’s ashamed to admit that a man as
young as you has so much influence over him. . . .
Couldn’t you run into him as if by accident?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What are his movements?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The four of us are lunching at Martin’s at one
o’clock. After we’ve eaten, I’ll steer them into the
café. Anybody could drop into the café.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But the three of you being there, he’d smell a
rat for certain,” said Joe smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You could cover your tracks; you’re clever at
that. . . . You <span class='it'>must</span> see him before he goes out of
town!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, look here,” said Joe. “I’ll drop into
Martin’s with some other fellows, see? It will be
up to you to make Cooper Gillett invite me to your
table.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” said Dodge, vastly relieved.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And here’s a piece of advice for you,” Joe went
on. “Don’t give him an indigestion of the subject
during lunch. On the other hand, you mustn’t enter
into a conspiracy of silence either, or <span class='it'>that</span> will make
him suspicious. If the subject comes up, speak your
minds on it, and let it drop again. Never nag a
millionaire. That’s my motto.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Joe came into Martin’s by the Broadway entrance,
at the heels of the two friends he had picked up for
the occasion. On Saturday afternoons everybody
who was anybody in New York desired to show
themselves at Martin’s, and the café was crowded.
Joe was aware, as he passed down the room, that
many heads were turned to follow him. He knew
that they were beginning to call him “the Boy
Wonder of the Street” and his heart exulted.
Already he had succeeded in getting his head well
above the ruck of the town.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He and his friends sat themselves down at a table
against the back wall. The friends had their instructions.
The three put their heads close together
as if they had serious business to discuss, or some delightful
plot to lay. Joe seemed not to see Cooper
Gillett and his party who were seated at a larger
table in the center of the room. In addition to
Dodge, Gillett had with him Judge Keep, one of
his attorneys; and Eddie Shriver, a young relative
of his wife’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Out of the tail of his eye, Joe perceived the eager
resentment with which Gillett beheld <span class='it'>him</span>. He
could almost hear the millionaire say: “There’s the
damned kid now! He don’t appear to be worrying!”
There was no occasion for Dodge to exercise any
diplomacy; for Gillett immediately dispatched
Shriver to Joe’s table. Shriver was a good-looking
young fellow with a blond beard, who did everything
he was told.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Gillett wants to speak to you,” he said to
Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe started with pleased surprise. “Hello,
Eddie!” Looking eagerly beyond him, he waved his
hands to his friends at the center table. Many
people in the place were looking at them. “Meet
Mr. Cummings and Mr. Underwood . . . Mr.
Shriver. I’ll be with you in five minutes, Eddie.
There are one or two things I have to settle with
these gentlemen before they hustle for their train.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe kept the multi-millionaire waiting a good
quarter of an hour. Then, after bidding an ostentatious
good-bye to his young friends, he strolled
over. Joe found the atmosphere of Martin’s pleasantly
stimulating. Before any of the quartet had
a chance to speak, he said cheerfully:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That was a nice little rise we had just before
the close of the market.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This diverted what Gillett was about to say.
He looked disconcerted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe occupied himself with a cigarette. “I hope
you all sold while the selling was good,” he
remarked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m already short forty thousand shares,” grumbled
Gillett.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The shorter you are, the more money you’ll
make,” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about Monday?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’ll rise a couple of points more. Sell every
share you can find a buyer for! . . . It wasn’t such
a bad move to hold off for awhile. You’ll have a
better market, Monday, because of it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>An uncertain look came into Gillett’s red face.
Joe caused his own face to look wooden. The stockbroker
lowered his eyes. He could see that the current
was already setting the other way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about that item on the news ticker to-day?”
asked Judge Keep. “It was stated that our new
machine, wouldn’t work.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And it won’t either,” grumbled Shriver. “I can’t
do anything with it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I instigated that story,” said Joe, flicking the ash
off his cigarette.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gillett stared. “What the deuce for?” he
demanded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To bring buyers for Mattison’s stock into the
market,” said Joe. “We can’t continue to sell the
stock short if there are no buyers. The thing was
beginning to stagnate.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But we got all our publicity on that new machine.
. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What of it?” said Joe. “They can’t take it
away from us now. A new invention is news, but
the failure of a new invention isn’t news. We’ll
tap new sources of publicity.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But suppose I gave the order to sell, and Mattison’s
stock still rises on Monday?” said Gillett.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“An hour or two after the opening she’ll flop,”
said Joe casually.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you know?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taking a paper from his pocket, he spread it out
on the table. It was the page proof of a Sunday
article for the newspapers, embellished with photographs.
Joe, grinning, read out the headlines:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cooper Gillett buys another big factory! The
young financier hot-foot on the trail of the trust!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Me, young?” said Gillett grinning, too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It endears you to the public,” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t buy the factory. I only have an option
on it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s in a word! It ’ll all be forgotten in a
couple of days. . . . This will appear to-morrow in
five of the biggest cities in the country. A whole
page, see? It recapitulates the story of our other
three factories. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Which have never manufactured anything . . .”
put in Shriver.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The public doesn’t know that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good God! how much is this going to cost me?”
asked Gillett, rapping the paper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not a cent,” said Joe, grinning. “That’s the
beauty of it. The magic name of Gillett is always
news, see? It’s been accustomed to the front page
for four generations. And what’s more, trust-busting
is now the latest popular sport, and we got in
just right. Mattison is the trust, and we’re the
noble champions of the down-trodden common
people! We’ve got him in a position where he can’t
fight back. This story will send his stock off four
or five points. That’ll give you a chance to cover,
if you’re scared. As for me, I mean to hold on for
a week longer, if I can string the banks along.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mattison’s not at the end of his rope yet. By
straining his credit, he’ll be able to maintain his
stock at a decent level for another week. I’ve got
another story for next Sunday, and then he’ll be
done. The bottom will fall out of the Trust. We’ll
make a killing! When that happens, you must not
be contented with covering, but buy! buy! buy!
Spread your orders through a dozen houses.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mattison will have to come to us, then. We will
ask for a million of their stock to cease hostilities.
Technically, of course, he will be buying out our
company. A million for our four junk factories
which have never manufactured anything, and the
good will of our business—it is to laugh! This, together
with what you’ve bought on the market, will
give you a controlling interest in the trust, and you
will then be elected director and vice-president and
the stock will jump twenty-five . . . forty points!
Gee! what a killing!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gillett turned to Dodge. “Look here,” he said,
“you wanted instructions for Monday. Dump a
block of five thousand shares on the market at the
opening; and go on selling as long as you can find
takers. I don’t set any limit.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Broad smiles surrounded the table. Only Joe
looked indifferent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An uncomfortable thought occurred to Gillett.
“I say,” he objected, rubbing his lip; “when it comes
out that I have sold out to the Trust, and been
elected a vice-president, it’ll put me in a rotten light
with the public.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, it’ll all be forgotten in a week,” said Joe
smoothly. “—By everybody except Mattison.
We’ll give the public something else to think about
if you like. . . . Look here, if you want to stand
well with the public, I’ve got another scheme. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His three hearers leaned toward him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s been too many Trust Companies formed
under the new banking law. Some of them are
damned hard up for business. We’ll pick on one of
them, and let it be quietly circulated around that
it’s in a bad way, see? A bank is very sensitive to
that sort of thing. We can pick up whatever stock
comes into the market at a discount; and when our
bank gets good and groggy—if there’s a run on it,
so much the better; you can step forward and deposit
a million in cash. Think of the publicity! They’d
elect you president or anything else you were willing
to take; and the stock would jump twenty-five
points. You’d be hailed in the newspapers as the
savior of the institution, and incidentally make a
handsome profit, see? . . . It’s just as easy to work
it one way as the other. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Business having been disposed of, the talk around
the table slipped into undress. Joe, watchfully
keeping all four of his auditors in play, made the
running. He had diverse elements to deal with; for
while Gillett and Dodge were frankly high livers,
old Judge Keep was the pillar of some church or
another; Eddie Shriver an easy-going young husband
and father. Different as they were, they all
yielded to Joe’s insinuating looseness. Joe had a
smiling way of taking the worst for granted that the
most prudish of men found difficult to withstand.
He worked to bring a certain sly, sheepish grin into
the faces of his hearers; and when that appeared, he
knew they were his.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Secretly, Joe was weary of his present audience.
They were too dull; too old; his power over them
was too easy to exert; they made him feel like a
second-rate performer. Glancing around the room
to see who was looking at him, Joe perceived that a
figure, vaguely familiar, had taken a seat at one of
the small tables by the Twenty-Sixth street windows.
It was that kid, Wilfred Pell, the white-faced kid;
the kid with the funny look in his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe was immediately interested. That kid had
always teased his interest; it was hard to say why,
because it was a footless sort of kid; he cut no ice.
But Joe had never been able to make him give in.
There was a bad streak in him all right; it instantly
responded to Joe’s suggestion; but the kid would
not let himself go. Joe had never been able to make
him look sheepish. Not that it mattered a damn;
still . . . why hadn’t he been able to?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now he looked as untidy as ever in his wrinkled,
mouse-colored suit; it might almost have been the
same suit he was wearing three years ago; and with
much the same look in his eyes, but intensified by
growing manliness; a sort of crazy, proud, hot look—what
<span class='it'>was</span> that look? If he felt like that, why the
hell didn’t he let himself go? Obviously a damn
fool; one of these, morbid, solitary kids; rotten!
But Joe couldn’t dismiss him; there was something
there that he couldn’t get.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe saw that Wilfred had been watching him,
though he quickly turned away his eyes when Joe
looked. No greeting passed between the two.
Wilfred’s look made Joe purr with gratification.
Funny, that this insignificant kid had that effect,
when Cooper Gillett’s ill-concealed admiration only
bored him. What a contrast between the two of
them. There was he, Joe, handsome, elegantly-dressed;
sitting as an equal with some of the best-known
men in New York, telling them things: and
there was that other kid, just the same age, untidy
and sallow-cheeked, sitting alone and unregarded,
looking out of place in the swell joint. And Wilfred
showed that he felt the contrast. You could almost
see him grind his teeth when he looked at Joe. The
kid hated him, yet he was crazy about him in a way;
while his mouth was ugly with a sneer, his eyes had
a certain slavish look in them, that Joe was familiar
enough with. Joe looked in one of the mirrors and
plumed himself, aware that this would make the
kid feel worse.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe now experienced a renewed zest in entertaining
his table companions. As a careless youth to
youths he related the surprising adventures of his
hours of ease, making out that they were not at all
surprising. When he wished to make a good impression,
Joe never allowed himself to boast, but let
it be assumed that the other man was quite as bold,
shameless, insatiable and lucky as himself. His
middle-aged listeners fawned upon him in gratified
vanity. Joe never looked again, but was always
conscious of the hot-eyed spectator in the background.
Let the kid see how I can make the famous
Cooper Gillett eat out of my hand, he thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“. . . She was dining with her husband at the
next table. I had Millie with me. Millie and the
husband were sitting back to back, and that left the
peach, facing me, see? All through the meal she
kept looking at me in a certain way; you know how
they do. They love to do it when they’re with their
husbands. It’s a slap in the old man’s eye; and
they feel safe when he’s there. Don’t expect to be
taken up. But they don’t usually do it when you’ve
already got such a pretty girl as Millie with you.
That suggested to me that the peach must be damn
sure of her charms, and I was interested. She <span class='it'>was</span>
a peach!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Usually, Millie is a good-natured little thing;
and I suggested that she follow the peach into the
ladies’ cloak-room, and make a date with her for me.
But for some reason she got up on her ear—you
know how it is with women; and refused. So I
shook her. I timed it so’s I came out on the sidewalk
right behind the peach and her hubby. I
marched up to her and raised my hat. Gosh! she
near died. Didn’t know which way to turn. But
she was game. She recovered herself, and introduced
me to the old man as Mr. Smithers. He was
jealous as Hell. That made it twice as much fun,
of course; you know! An old clothes-bag like that,
hadn’t any right to have such a pretty wife, anyhow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The old man had called a hansom, and she invited
me to ride up-town with them—since I lived
just around the corner from them, as she said. The
old man made out to sit in the middle, but that just
suited me, because he had to sit forward a little,
and the peach and I were able to talk sign language
behind his back. And all the way up-town I need
hardly say, she was real affectionate to him, pulling
his ear, and rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.
Isn’t that like a woman? By God! if I ever get a
wife, I’ll recognize the danger signals! And she
told him all about me, see? thus providing me with
my cues. Oh! she was a clever little devil! When
we got up to their flat, she sent him out to the delicatessen
for bottled beer. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the party at the round table broke up, they
passed close beside Wilfred’s table on their way to
the Twenty-Sixth street door. Joe did not look at
Wilfred; but was pleasantly aware of the look that
the other cast upon him as he went by.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Outside, Joe’s friends boarded cabs for their
several destinations. Gillett and Keep went off together.
Joe was left alone with a spice of anger
in his breast. These men were willing to let him
flatter them; willing to let him make money for
them; but they never asked him home. However,
the feeling quickly passed. To Hell with it! thought
Joe; when I’m ready, I’ll make my way into any
house in New York!</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the moment he was at a loose end. He hesitated
on the sidewalk. Where to find amusement?
A recollection of that kid’s queer look came back
to him. Turning, he went through the doors again.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>II</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>O</span>n Saturday</span> afternoon, after a long prowl about
the picturesque edges of Manhattan, Wilfred
made his way to Martin’s café. This was a treat
he could occasionally give himself. It was rather
awful to enter the place alone, but once you got your
legs under a table, you sank into a comfortable
insignificance. And what a scene for the connoisseur
of humanity! he thought. Martin’s was the center
of New York life—not fashionable life, because
that had moved up-town with Delmonico’s; but
fashionable people hardly counted nowadays; the
best-known writers, artists, actors; men of the hour
in every walk of life, frequented Martin’s. And
exquisite women! the flower of New York’s women;
who cared what their social status might be?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred could not meet the eye of one of these
delicate creatures, but in his mind he explored them
through and through. In his mind he experienced
the gallant way of dealing with them. Sometimes
when he overheard snatches of conversation at
near-by tables, he burned to tell the whining male
for the honor of his sex, that <span class='it'>that</span> was not the way!</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the present occasion when he looked about the
rooms, he received an unpleasant shock upon beholding
Joe Kaplan seated at a table in the vicinity, the
center of a group of admiring older men. Oh Lord!
can I never hope to escape him! thought Wilfred.
The face of one of Joe’s companions struck familiarly
on his sight; a face that had been reproduced
in the newspapers; handsome, dusky, florid; blurred
a little by self-indulgence. Cooper Gillett, of course.
It <span class='it'>would</span> be a multi-millionaire, thought Wilfred,
sneering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He saw that Joe’s own style had improved very
much. He had lost his too-sleek appearance. Joe,
who was always learning, had discovered that the
acme of good taste in men’s dress was expressed in
an elegant carelessness. He was wearing a suit of
grey homespun, obviously made by the most eminent
of tailors. His tie was of a soft silk, cornflower
blue; and he had a knot of ragged cornflowers stuck
in his buttonhole. His hair lay on his head like a
raven’s wing; his skin was as pink as a baby’s; the
teeth he revealed in his frequent smiles were as
gleaming and regular as a savage’s. What if his
eyes were a little too close together? they sparkled
with zest and good humor. Well, he could afford
to be good-humored. He lived.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Twenty-three years old, and already at the top
of the heap! A rich man, and the associate of rich
men. He would never be obliged to grind his teeth
in lonesomeness. That shameless smile of his would
be devastating among women. Women loved to be
yanked down from their pedestals, and quite right,
too. How charming to yank them down. Half the
desirable women in the place were looking at Joe
now.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But <span class='it'>does</span> Joe live? Wilfred asked himself. He
has no feeling. That’s what makes him great.
That’s what gives him such a power over everybody.
He doesn’t care. That’s what gives him such a
power over me—God damn him! I feel, and he
does not. He lives his life, and I feel it for him,
and curse my own impotence! It is feeling which
makes me so ineffectual. Feelings . . . all kinds
of feelings that lay hands on me and drag me back!
Oh God! I wish I could be a soulless animal like
Joe! . . . And yet . . . what’s the use of living a
crowded life if you can’t realize it? After all, isn’t
it more real to have the feeling than the substance
. . . ? But down that path you soon begin
to gibber! To hell with thought! I want the fleshpots!</p>
<p class='pindent'>He perceived that Joe was aware of him, though
he gave no sign of recognition. A certain increased
amplitude appeared in Joe’s style. Wilfred sneered.
It’s nuts to him to have me looking at him, he
thought; the fellow of good family who has come
to nothing, gazing with sickly envy at the street
Arab who has risen to affluence! By God! I will
not look at him again!—But he could not help himself.
His eyes were dragged back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile he sneered. Rotten little hooligan!
He gets on because he’s got no conscience. If a
decent man can’t get on in the world, so much the
worse for the world! I don’t envy him his present
company; millionaires and their hangers-on! Those
fellows are dead inside; that’s why they like him.
Even the warmth of a dung-heap is warmth!
Scratch the pink skin and you’d find just a common,
foul-minded Jew! Wilfred’s thoughts seared his
breast. He looked away from Joe in a despairing
effort to divert his mind; but the animated spectacle
in which he had hitherto taken such pleasure, no
longer had any meaning for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Joe and his party arose to leave, their
course took them out beside Wilfred’s table.
Wilfred kept his eyes down until they had passed;
then raised them to that hateful-enviable back. The
tall grace of Joe’s slim figure, so perfectly turned-out—he
had put on a black soft hat, just enough
out of the ordinary to emphasize his stylishness; the
confident poise of his head; it seemed almost more
than Wilfred could bear. Oh God! how I hate him!
he thought; he poisons my being! Meanwhile the
under voice was whispering: If I could only be him!</p>
<p class='pindent'>As Joe went through the door, a girl sitting at
the last table, glanced up at him through her lashes.
Wilfred had already marked her; she was the prettiest
girl in the room; fragile as tinted china; a flame
burning in an egg-shell. She wore an amusing little
seal-skin cape with a high collar; and a smart black
hat elevated behind, and tilted over her adorable
nose. A fatuous old man was sitting opposite her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Instantly Wilfred’s burning fancy rearranged the
scene. The girl was still sitting there with her inscrutable
half-smile, but now Joe was opposite her
all togged up to the nines, looking at her with insolent
mastery. And Wilfred with money in his
pocket, very well dressed, with that something in his
air which showed that his grandfather had worn
good clothes before him, came strolling in. As he
passed their table, the girl raised her lovely speaking
eyes. Their glances met and clung for an instant,
and something passed between them that Joe would
never know.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With ready self-possession, Wilfred turned to
Joe, saying: “Hello, Kaplan, I didn’t recognize
you.” Joe’s greeting was stiff; but Wilfred, coolly
ignoring that, said something humorous that caused
the girl to giggle deliciously. She looked at Joe in
a way that he could not ignore, and he was obliged to
murmur churlishly: “Mr. Pell . . . Miss Demarest.”
(An assumed name of course; the enchanting
and mysterious creature gave herself recklessly,
while she looked for the man!) She offered Wilfred
her drooping hand, not quite able to meet his eyes
now, while she murmured: “Won’t you sit down for
awhile?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred spoke of real things with a simple humor
that showed up the cheap facetiousness that passed
current at Martin’s for what it was. A new look
appeared in the girl’s beautiful eyes. As in a flash,
she had perceived the great truth, revealed to but
few women: that it is the shy, imaginative men who
are really the delicious rakes at heart; while the
showy, flaunting fellow, the professional lady-killer
is cold and shallow. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred suddenly caught sight of Joe in the flesh,
coming towards him. It was like an icy douche. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>To his astonishment, Joe stopped at his table.
He said with his disarming grin:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello, Pell!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred mumbled in reply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t speak to you before,” Joe went on, “because
of that gang I was with. They’re gone now,
thank God! and I can be myself.” He dropped into
the chair opposite Wilfred. “What you drinking?
<span class='it'>Grenadine au Kirsch?</span> Nothing but apple water!
Have an absinthe with me.” He signalled a waiter.
“Hey, <span class='it'>garçon! Deux absinthes au sucre.</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe Kaplan speaking French! A yell of laughter
inside Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To have the effulgent Joe sitting opposite, attracting
all eyes to their table, made Wilfred exquisitely
conscious of the discrepancies of his own dress. Joe’s
brilliant personality beat him to the earth; he hated
himself for being so easily overcome. He couldn’t
meet those hard bright eyes. He was full of indignation
that Joe had presumed to sit down without
waiting to be asked; and at the same time he was
amazed that Joe deigned to notice him at all.
Surely he could not be so insignificant as he seemed
to himself if. . . . But vanity was slain by the hateful
suggestion that it gratified Joe to sit there displaying
the contrast between them to the assembled
company.</p>
<p class='pindent'>How Wilfred writhed under that thought! Yet
it would have been too ridiculous for him to get up
and walk out of the place. He had not courage
enough for that. He sat there, enduring it, until
people forgetting them, looked elsewhere. Then
curiosity began to burn in him, and he no longer
wished to go. What a chance to learn the truth
about Joe! If he could be induced to talk about
himself; to reveal his commonness; it would destroy
the absurd, splendid, evil creature of Wilfred’s
imagination, and cure his envy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Funny how we always run into each other,” said
Joe; “big as the town is! What you doing now?”
He was only giving Wilfred half his attention; the
black eyes were roving around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I work for the Exchange Trust,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Amasa Gore’s bank. Did he put you in
there? I haven’t seen Gore for near four years.
How is the old stiff? . . . And Dobereiner? And
Harry Bannerman?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know,” said Wilfred. “I never go there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Still living with the Aunts?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I have my own place now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s what a fellow wants, eh? When he
grows up,” said Joe with a good-humored, and infinitely
suggestive grin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stiffened his face; but in spite of himself,
his breast warmed a little towards Joe. There
was a sort of infernal bond between them. Wilfred
was a profligate too—that is, he desired to be.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The bottle and glasses were brought, each glass
with a little silver fountain placed on top, through
which the water dripped on the sugar, alternately
side and side, with a fairy tinkle. Wilfred watched
the operation fascinated. He tingled with pleasure
at the thought of drinking the dangerous stuff. As
the sugared water mingled with it, the green liquor
mantled and pearled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A whole lot has happened since those days,” Joe
went on. “I’ve ceased to be a pimp, and have become
a stockjobber. It’s considered more respectable,
I understand. Anyhow, it’s more profitable.
Already I’m rich, but not as rich as I shall be. Wall
street is easy picking for me. I’ll tell you why. The
fellows down there have got the name of being the
smartest on earth, and they know it, and that makes
them careless, see? They’re so accustomed to doing
others, they forget that they may be done, in their
turn. Another thing; Wall street has got a bad
name, and they’re always scared of what people will
say. They want to be both pirates and pillars of
the church. I got an advantage over them, because
I don’t give a damn what anybody says, as long as
I can keep out of jail. What was I? Just a kid
out of the East Side gutters. I had nothing to lose.
I’m a realist, I am. I think things through.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Besides, I got a sort of gift of reading men.
I don’t know how it is, but when I’m talkin’ to a
man, I always seem to know the bad things he’s
thinking about, and is afraid to let on. Some men
look good, and some look bad; but it don’t matter
how good a man <span class='it'>looks</span>, you can depend upon it,
he’s got a secret badness in him, that he nurses.
Everybody likes me because I’m so damn natural.
Even the men I get the best of, come round. Morality
is the curse of this country. Everybody is sick
of it, really. That’s why an out and out bad actor
like me becomes a sort of hero to everybody. You
would never believe the things that respectable men
tell me when they get a drink or two in them. It’s
morality that perverts them. They feel they
can let themselves go with me, because I got no
morals. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred thought with a kind of enthusiasm: This
is great stuff! I must remember it. He asked,
shyly: “How about women?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, women,” said Joe carelessly, “they’re a different
proposition. I only know one thing about
women, and that’s all that concerns me. . . .
There’s no money to be made out of women. . . . I
can tell you, though, women are a damn sight more
natural than men.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, afire with curiosity, had not sufficient
effrontery to question him further.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe held his glass up to the light. “I’m crazy
about this green stuff! My favorite poison! Makes
your blood sting as it runs. Makes you feel like a
king! I don’t dare drink it when I got business on
hand. Might do something reckless like telling a
millionaire the truth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was disappointed with his first taste of
absinthe. It was as mild and insipid as anise-seed
drops. He had drunk half his glass, and it had had
no effect whatever. All at once, he realized that he
was enjoying its effect, without his having been
aware of its coming on. His heart was lifted up.
All his faculties were sharpened. He found himself
able to look Joe in the face. Oh, wonder-working
spirit! I shall drink absinthe every Saturday afternoon,
he resolved.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred looked at Joe. After all, he’s only a
fellow like myself, he thought. He has his parts,
and I have mine. He’s a trafficker and I’m an artist.
Would I change? Not likely! I can see a damn
sight further into him, than he can into me. He
sees that I have a sort of grovelling admiration for
him in my blood; what he does not see is, that I
despise him in my mind. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>A second absinthe followed the first.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s nice to have a fellow your own age that you
can let go with,” said Joe. “I get pretty sick of
playing bright-eyes all the time to those old dubs I
got to work.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Haven’t you any friends?” asked Wilfred with
a secret satisfaction.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Friends?” said Joe. “Hundreds! But all older
men than me. Got no time for young fellows.
They just fool. I’m a business man. . . . But
damn it all! I’m only twenty-three. I like to cut
loose once in a while without thinking what I’m
saying. There are women of course, but they don’t
understand a man’s thoughts. I can talk to you.
From the first I felt there was something . . . that
you and I understood each other.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred shivered internally. It’s true, he
thought; but by God! I’ll never confess it to him!
Rather to his surprise he found himself talking to
Joe with an impartial air.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve always been interested in you. You’re an
extraordinary fellow. You remind me of Adam;
or of an artificial man that I read about, who was
created by a great scientist, and let loose on the
world. A perfectly-functioning man, with no hereditary
influences to restrain him. It gives you a
terrible advantage over the rest of us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Say, what are you driving at?” said Joe with
a hard stare.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred smiled to himself. Got under his skin
that time! However, he did not wish to quarrel
with the man, but to explore him. In order to divert
him, he said: “I’d like to hear about your Wall
street operations.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe’s annoyance passed. “Ah, to hell with my
operations!” he said. “This is out of business hours.
. . . I’d like to get good and drunk over Sunday.
Are you on?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was sharply arrested by desire. What
a chance! After that Joe would have no mysteries
for him! But of course, a power outside his control
shook his head for him. He heard himself saying
primly: “Sunday is my working day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe was not sufficiently interested to enquire what
he meant. “That’s a good-looking wench over here
at my left,” he said; “the one with the black hat
tipped over her nose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was willing to meet him on that ground.
“Out o’ sight,” he agreed. “Wonderful looking girls
come here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They ought to be,” said Joe; “highest-priced in
town . . . let’s get a couple. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>An icy hand was laid on Wilfred, chilling the
absinthe-engendered warmth. In spite of himself,
he could not quite command his face. Joe chuckled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s easy fixed,” he said. “All you got to do is
slip a bill to the waiter. You don’t even have to do
that, because François will get a rake-off from the
girls later. He has a list of their telephone numbers,
see? He calls them up, and in a few minutes a pair
of them will breeze in and say: ‘<span class='it'>So</span> sorry we were
late!’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred miserably shook his head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t need to be afraid of them,” said Joe.
“Just because they look like Duchesses. They
wouldn’t be let in here if they didn’t. They’re just
girls like any others. They’ll make it easy for you,
when they see you’re green.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was bitter for Wilfred. “I’m not afraid of
them,” he said quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laughed again. “Aw, come on,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m not dressed. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It don’t matter,” said Joe. “So long as you have
the price.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I haven’t,” said Wilfred desperately.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh Hell!” said Joe. “I didn’t suppose you had.
This is on me. . . . Look!” He produced a wallet
from his breast pocket, and partly opening it, revealed
a thick stuffing of crisp new yellow-backed
bills. “That’s my Sunday money. I’ll go halves
with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I . . . I couldn’t,” stammered Wilfred, grinding
his teeth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not? Money means nothing to me. I mean
spending money. It would be fun to give you a
swell, expensive time for once. You look as if you
needed it. Come on; to-morrow’s Sunday.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred thought: This is not generosity, but
merely the desire to shine at my expense. He was
almost suffocated with wounded pride. He could
not trust himself to speak; but merely shook his
head again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe was enjoying his discomfiture. “Haven’t you
ever?” he asked, grinning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” lied Wilfred. “But I didn’t buy it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, sure!” said Joe. “Love. That’s all right,
too. But there’s something about a pretty girl you
never saw before, and never expect to see again . . .
you don’t give a damn, and she don’t. . . . Look
here, I’ll lend you the money. You can pay me
back.” He held up a finger for François.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ll have to entertain them by yourself,”
warned Wilfred. “I won’t stay!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, to Hell with it, then!” said Joe, disgruntled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the waiter came, Joe asked for their bill.
Wilfred insisted on paying for half the drinks, taking
care to conceal from Joe how thinly his wallet
was lined. They left the café in silence. On the
pavement outside, Joe signalled for a cab, and
Wilfred stiffly bade him good-bye.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe, grinning sideways at Wilfred, caught hold
of his arm. “Wait a minute, fellow!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred read that grin perfectly. His thoughts
were bitter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come along with me,” Joe said. “I’m going
up to see my girl—my steady girl I mean. Been
going with her five years. Almost like an old married
pair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sorry, I can’t,” said Wilfred. “Some other
time. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aw, come on. This is just a social call. She’s a
peach of a looker. She’ll put you at your ease. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred detached his arm. “Sorry, I can’t,” he
said. “Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe, one foot on the step of the cab, called after
him: “Say, Kid, it’s time you grew up!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred walked away quickly. Joe’s parting shot
rankled like a barbed dart. It was true! It was
true! He had not yet become a man!</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>III</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>J</span>oe</span> was rich enough now, to come out into the
open. He had lately taken two rooms high up
in the newest building on lower Broadway. The
marble entrance hall with its uniformed attendants,
and its ranks of velvet-running elevators, was the
most imposing in town. It gave Joe a standing with
the public to have his name listed in the telephone
book; moreover, it pleased him to have men twice
his age coming to see him hat in hand, and talking
humble. They never got anything out of him; for
Joe dug up his own business in his own way. In the
outer room were installed a shiny-haired clerk, and a
crisply-laundered stenographer; Joe’s own room was
furnished with waxed mahogany and a Bokhara rug.
The windows looked out over the Upper Bay.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One morning, shortly after Joe had arrived at
his office, the gentlemanly clerk (Joe would not have
Jews about him; Jews around an office were too
suggestive of sharp business) came in to say that
an old woman wanted to see him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What have I got to do with old women?” asked
Joe, with lifted eyebrows. “What sort of old
woman?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A real poor old woman, Mr. Kaplan. I couldn’t
get anything out of her. Just said she wanted to see
you. She must have seen you come in. She was here
before, this morning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Even so, do I have to see her?” asked Joe with
a hard look. He enjoyed putting the clerk out of
countenance; a fair lad, prone to blush and to turn
pale; the two of them were the same age.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, sir. Certainly not, sir. I’ll send her away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wait a minute,” said Joe harshly. A slight
uneasiness had made itself felt. The old woman
had seen him come in, the clerk said; that sounded as
if she knew him. “Let her come in,” said Joe carelessly.
“A beggar, I suppose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When his clerk opened the door a second time,
Joe beheld his mother. Oh well, he had always
expected it to happen sooner or later. He saw in a
glance that the old woman was stupid with terror,
and that he should have no trouble with her. So it
was all right. The clerk was disposed to linger.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe helped himself to a cigarette from the silver
box on his desk. To the clerk he said carelessly:
“Call up Mr. Mitchell, and tell him I will see him
here at eleven o’clock.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The door closed; and mother and son were left
looking at each other. Joe had the advantage, because
the windows were at his back. He experienced
no emotion at the sight of his mother. In eight years
she had changed very much. That vigorous, peasant’s
frame was broken. Her face which had once
had the strength of apathy, looked sodden now.
Her clothes . . . Ugh! Joe hoped she would not
sit down on one of his chairs. She seemed incapable
of speaking; and Joe felt no inclination to help her
out. It was a settled maxim with him, to make the
other party speak first. He lit his cigarette with the
greatest deliberation, and holding the lighted match
high above the ash receiver, let it flicker down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Finally she stammered: “I seen the name and the
address in a newspaper. . . . I come round to see
if it was my Joe Kaplan. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you tell anybody in this building your
name?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head. “I do’ want to make no
trouble for you, Joe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What <span class='it'>do</span> you want?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, Joe. . . .” Speech failed her. With a
falling hand, she indicated herself—then him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe regarded her thoughtfully; whistling between
his teeth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a silence, she began again. “Well, Joe . . .
your fat’er is sick. He’s got the consumption. He’s
like to die on me any day. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isn’t that old geezer dead yet?” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It takes all I kin earn to buy him his medicine,
and a bit for the two of us to eat. I can’t save the
rent. The landlord has pasted a notice on the door.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where’s Lulu?” asked Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She left home when she was seventeen. I ain’t
seen her since.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you can’t blame her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I ain’t blamin’ her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was she good-lookin’?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. . . . God help her!” murmured the
woman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, fudge!” said Joe. “. . . Where’s the
boys?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On the streets. They come home sometimes. I
feeds them—if I has it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you want of me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, Joe . . . we’re your folks. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cut it out!” said Joe with a gesture. “I’ve been
told often enough that I’ve got no natural feelings.
All right; I’m not going to make out to have any
now. Home Sweet Home never meant nothing to
me but a place to git away from. As for my father.
. . . Gee! it made me sore even as a young kid
to think that I sprung from <span class='it'>that</span>! The dirty, whining
Jew! I’d do something handsome for you, if
you could prove to me he wasn’t my father!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You wouldn’t want him to be buried in Potters’
Field. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not? The main thing is to get him buried.
A dead man rests just as comfortable in Potters’
Field as in Woodlawn!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But the disgrace of it. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah! talk sense to me!” cried Joe, screwing up
his face in irritation. “I’m a realist! Do you know
what that means? You used to be one yourself.
What’s come over you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do’ know what’s come over me,” she muttered,
wiping a hand over her face. “I don’t think about
nothing no more. Don’t see no use in it. . . . I just
go along. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’ve climbed out of that pigsty!” said
Joe. “All by myself, I climbed out. I don’t owe
nothing to you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Without another word she turned to go.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wait a minute!” cried Joe, exasperated. “I
didn’t say I wouldn’t do nottin’ for you. I just
wanted to have it well understood you hadn’t no
claim on me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She waited.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I always been willing to help you out,” grumbled
Joe. Something about the dirty, broken-spirited old
woman seemed to make him so sore he couldn’t see
straight. “Soon as I got money I went to Sussex
street first-off, but you had moved away. One of
the neighbors give me a number in Forsyth street,
and I went there, but you had moved again, leaving
no address. What more could I do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We had to move often,” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Listen; I’m willing to keep you in comfort, on
condition that you change your name, and keep
away from me, see? Call yourself Cohen or Levy,
or any common Jewish name. Go hire some nice
clean rooms, and put in some new furniture. Get
everything new, and just walk out of the mess you’re
in and get a fresh start, see? Don’t tell anybody
who knows you as Kaplan where you’re going. And
if you want any comfort in your new life, you’d
better not tell the boys.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” she stammered. “I couldn’t shake the
boys, Joe! That wouldn’t be right, like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, that’s up to you. As long as you have a
dollar, they’ll bleed yeh!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know . . . but when the old man goes, I’d
be alone. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right. If the boys ever tried to make trouble
for me, I’d know how to handle them. They can’t
get money out of me by threatening to expose my
past, because I brag about it, see? . . . As soon as
you’re settled in your new rooms—Aw, take a regular
nice flat with a kitchen and a bathroom and all;
write to me under your new name, see? and send the
address. I’ll fix it so’s a bank will send you forty
dollars a week as long as either of you live. . . . I’ll
give you the money now for the furniture and the
first month’s rent.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Over his desk he passed her a handful of crackling
bills. The old woman drew back from them with
a look of horror that made Joe laugh. “Here, take
them,” he said. “They won’t burn yeh!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s . . . it’s too much!” she stammered. His
harshness she had taken as a matter of course; his
beneficence terrified her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laid the bills down on the edge of his desk.
After a while she picked them up in tremulous
hands. The old face began to work in an extraordinary
manner. “Oh Joe . . .” she stammered.
“Oh, Joe . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe ran a hand through his sleek hair. “For God’s
sake, don’t turn on the waterworks here!” he said.
“You never did that!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m broke, Joe!” she wailed. “I got no resistance
no more!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake!” cried Joe, striding up and
down. “. . . For God’s sake when you get in
your new place keep yourself clean! I suppose
you’re too old to change your ways much, but you
can keep clean! . . . Your face is dirty! . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Joe. . . . I gotta thank you, Joe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t make me laugh!” said Joe. “I’m no philanthropist!
I want things fixed in a certain way
between you and me, and I’m willing to pay for it.
If you ever come around me again, the deal is off,
see? Beat it now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But she lingered. She plucked up a little courage.
“If you was to see the youngest, Joe. . . . He’s a
smart kid. Something could be made of him. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then make it,” said Joe. “You’re his mutter.
You’ve got money, now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I t’ink he’s like you, Joe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Useless!” said Joe, grinning. “You can’t touch
my heart. . . . I couldn’t do nothing with a boy
off the streets.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s what you was.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Exactly! And nobody couldn’t do nothing with
me. I did it for meself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you want to see the old man before he
goes?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What for? When he was well the sight of
him used to make <span class='it'>me</span> sick!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . good-bye, Joe. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Easy with the Joes when you open the door!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll be careful. When I write I’ll put Mr.
Kaplan. . . .”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>IV</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>he</span> four friends drifted out into the street from
Ceccina’s. Linking arms, they paraded towards
Sixth avenue, singing. Binks had to be put in the
middle because he wobbled at the knees. Stanny
and Jasper each had a good edge on, too. Jasper
was gloriously released. Wilfred observed them
enviously. I can drink like a fish, he thought, and
it has no effect whatever!</p>
<p class='pindent'>They made a round of their favorite resorts; the
Grapevine; Maria’s; Mould’s over on University
Place. Wilfred tossed down more fiery potations
than the <span class='it'>vino de pasto</span> of Ceccina’s. It only intensified
his self-consciousness. I’ll never be able to carry
it through! . . . You <span class='it'>shall</span> go through with it! He
was ceaselessly plotting how he could shake his
friends without exciting ribald comment. As they
became really drunk that offered no difficulty. But
how dear they became to him! How he hated to
leave them! . . . I really ought not to leave them
now. I’ve got the only cool head in the party. They
might get into serious trouble. Some other night
I’ll start out alone and . . . Come off! You’ve <span class='it'>got</span>
to go through with it!</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the end he found himself alone without knowing
exactly how it had come about. I must be
getting drunk! he thought hopefully. But no! the
surroundings were still bitten into his consciousness
as with acid. The trees of Union Square, misshapen
like rickety children, and tragic in the bareness of
November; the ugly statue of Lincoln on the corner
that he had passed a thousand times without ever
seeing it; the green electric cars creeping like worms
around the double curve; and that endless, dingy
press of people that shuffled back and forth on the
south side of Fourteenth street every night in the
year. Such dulled and flaccid faces! Why were
they deader than the faces on other streets? Why
did they crowd together on the one sidewalk, leaving
the other empty?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred went east on Fourteenth street. That
stretch of Fourth avenue between Union Square and
Cooper Square was devoted after nightfall to the
traffic in which he was resolved to share. He turned
into Fourth avenue with a wildly beating heart. It
was not crowded here; just a few figures furtively
veering and hauling on their way. The shop windows
were dark, except those of the dazzling saloons
on every corner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.
How can I choose when I’m so shaky? he thought.
What do you say to them at first, anyway? What
a pitiful fool I should appear if I tried to address
one with a thick tongue! I’ll never be able to go
through with it! . . . You <span class='it'>shall</span> go through with it!
Wilfred perceived a young woman approaching,
with her eyes fixed on him. In blind panic he
stopped, and made believe to be attracted by something
in a shop window. It was a cobbler’s window,
quite dark, with nothing in it but a row of run-over
shoes to be mended.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An arm was slipped through Wilfred’s arm, and
a voice murmured in his ear: “Hello, sweetheart!”
Wilfred turned a pair of terrified eyes. She was
not bad-looking; a Greek girl perhaps; dark and
opulent. Her face was not painted. Her glance
was fairly open—at least she had not the leer that
Wilfred so dreaded. He felt himself like putty in
her experienced hands, and was relieved. This is
not as bad as I expected; he thought. A price was
named, and certain conditions laid down. This part
seemed very unreal.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next thing Wilfred knew, he was being shepherded
up a steep straight flight of stairs over a
saloon. There was a red carpet on the stairs, sooty
on the edges, and worn threadbare in the middle.
At the top of the steps stood a desk; a dog-eared
hotel register lay upon it. A young waiter appeared
from somewhere; and collecting a dollar from Wilfred,
shoved the register towards him to be signed.
Wilfred wondered about the waiter. A fellow his
own age. Though his white suit was much soiled,
he was not uncomely, with his stiff blond hair sticking
up on his crown like a schoolboy’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The waiter whisked them into a bedroom close
at hand, and shut the door. Wilfred drew a long
breath to steady himself. There he was alone in
a bedroom with a woman he had never seen until five
minutes before, and who was already preparing to
reveal herself. How amazing! One swift glance
around, and the common room was photographed on
his brain forever. The cheap yellow bureau just
inside the door, where Wilfred stood frozen, one
hand resting upon it. He could see himself from
the outside as if the eyes of his soul were suspended
under the ceiling. Stretched across under the window,
the bed, because there was no other possible
place for it; in the corner behind Wilfred, the washstand;
two chairs—all of the same ugly yellow
wood. The bed was covered with a soiled white
spread which still bore a significant impress in the
middle. Wilfred wondered if the impress was still
warm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wishing to do the thing in good style, he had
ordered drinks; and they were now brought; cocktails
with a red cherry in the bottom of each glass.
Wilfred looked at the young waiter again. He put
the tray on the bureau, and departed without looking
at Wilfred. He had an extraordinarily inscrutable
air; he had taught himself to see nothing; to give
nothing away. What a queer job for a lad, popping
in and out of the bedrooms! Wilfred wondered if
he had ever been out in the country. How many
rooms were there in the place? All occupied no
doubt. He listened.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He indicated one of the drinks to his companion.
He would not carry it to her, for fear of betraying
the trembling of his hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Much obliged, fella,” she said politely, “but I
don’t indulge. Drink ’em both yourself. You kin
understand if I drank with every fella, I’d be paralyzed
before morning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Good God! thought Wilfred. “How many?” he
asked involuntarily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah, fergit it!” she said, perfectly good-tempered.
“What do you look at me like that for?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, abashed, schooled his eyes, and started
slowly to undress. He had no feeling of shame;
but only of strangeness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His companion chattered away. She was rather
a likeable sort. “It’s the drink that does for girls.
So I keep away from it. The rest don’t do you no
harm, if you take care of yourself. You kin depend
upon me, fella. My name’s Angela. I ain’t been at
this long. I started it so’s I could help me mutter
out, and keep me young sister in school. She’s smart.
We’re gonna send her to college. You’re a nice
lookin’ fella. Is this the first time?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Wilfred quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bet it is, though I kin tell. None of them
wants to admit it. Well, you might do worse than
begin wit’ me. You look somepin like my fella.
He’s blond, too. But he’s got twenty pounds on
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had heard that these girls always had a
lover. That seemed strange to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s a deckhand on the steamboat <span class='it'>Albertina</span>.
. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I share with a deckhand! thought Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He gimme this ruby ring I wear. If you come
to see me at my place I’ll show you his pitcher. Me
and him’s gonna git married when I kin save enough
to furnish wit’.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Good God! thought Wilfred again. “Does he
know?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Angela’s big, good-humored face was momentarily
disfigured by a scowl. “What the hell is it
to you? . . . Aw, . . . fergit it! . . . What you
look at me like that for? Come on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Wilfred stood still. His feet were weighted
down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What you waiting for? What’s the matter wit’
me, you look like that? Come on. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred went towards the bed like an automaton.
He looked at her. After all there was nothing
astounding in her unveiling. It was just a human
body, the complement to his own; one was instinctively
familiar with it. He recognized dispassionately
that it was a generous, comely woman’s body,
without blemish. He was reminded of fruitfulness;
it was a body fit for Ceres, for Eve. What lovely,
dimpling hollows! what a magical texture in
woman’s skin!—But it didn’t seem to matter. What
mattered terribly, and made him tremble, was the
strangeness of the soul that inhabited this woman’s
body, sending him such queer intimations through
her eyes, all the while her tongue was so glib and
matter-of-fact. Their bodies might press together
as one, but their souls were sundered by an immensity
of space. . . . How piteous!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What you look at me like that for, fella?”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Once more Wilfred stood in front of the bureau
with one hand upon it, his head lowered. Angela
was busy in the corner behind him. He did not feel
that anything of moment had happened to him. He
was not changed. . . . Was <span class='it'>that</span> all? . . . But,
no! He had failed; that’s what it meant. He was
not human enough to take fire and burn in the beautiful
human way. He was just a sort of figment of
a man; an hallucination. He fulfilled himself only
in imagination. Faced with reality, he dissolved.
A dreadful fear gripped him. It was like falling
through space. His hand tightened hard on the edge
of the bureau, as if to convince himself that here
was a real flesh and blood hand gripping palpable
matter. . . . The edge of the bureau was blackened
by many cigarette burns. The men who had laid
those cigarettes down, <span class='it'>their</span> bodies had burned!</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girl came, and passed an arm around his
shoulders. “You’re a wonderful fella!” she murmured.
“I like you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Oh, yes! thought Wilfred. Flattery is a part
of her business.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the hand that lay on the bureau, Wilfred
sported an antique ring of no great value. She
turned it round on his finger. “Give it to me for
a keepsake, fella,” she whispered cajolingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred thought: She knows that normal men
have a moment of tenderness now. But not me. I
feel nothing. He shook his head, and drew away
from her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you like me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re all right!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She tried to wheedle more money out of him.
Wilfred shook his head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, will you come to see me again?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She slipped a card into his hand. “That’s my
home address. It’s nicer there than these Raines
Law joints. If you come in the afternoon I can
give you more time. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred walked home, musing. His brain was
active and cool. From a point at a little distance
outside himself, he surveyed the scene in the hotel
bedroom, and grinned. The girl’s attitude had been
absolutely right of course. Matter-of-fact was the
only thing to be under those circumstances. It was
he, who had played the mountebank. . . . What
comical little insects human beings were! . . . Well,
it had been a richly humorous experience, and it had
taught him a lot. He was glad it had happened.
. . . But never again! Might as well make up his
mind to it, that he was different in that respect
from other men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Inside the door of his own room, another mood
was lying in wait for him. He loved that room;
everything in it had been chosen by himself. It was
on the ground floor at the back of what had been
a fine dwelling in its day. There was a noble
fireplace with a mantel of black marble. The fire,
burning low, filled the room with comfortable warm
shadows. Desire struck into Wilfred’s breast like
a dagger.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ah! if there was a dear girl waiting <span class='it'>here</span> for me!
he thought. One whose heart I knew, and who knew
my heart! How sweet before the fire to take her
in my arms and kiss her neck; to . . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s veins were full of molten fire then; his
head whirled giddily. He burst out laughing. Here
you are at your imaginings again . . . !</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>V</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>J</span>oe Kaplan</span> was walking up lower Broadway,
hugging himself within an expensive overcoat.
Catching sight of his shining eyes and wreathed lips
in a mirror, he thought: Picture of a man who enjoys
life! Well, everything was going fine with him.
He put down his feet deliberately, for it suited his
humor to affect the solid air of an established man
of thirty-five—but his heels were light.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Passing the Union Trust Building, his attention
was attracted by a slender figure, who, with self-consciously
averted head, sought to hurry by him
unseen. Joe caught the man’s shoulder and swung
him around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bristed!” he cried. “How are you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The other, held in Joe’s grip, showed his teeth
painfully; scowled; turned red; said nothing. Joe
saw that he would have liked to strike him, but was
too civilized. Six or seven years older than me,
thought Joe; but a child in my hands! One of those
white-headed boys with rich blue eyes like a picture—and
like a picture, with nothing behind it. But
this pup had one merit; he had not yelped when he
was held up by his tail.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come and have lunch with me,” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, I don’t care to,” said Bristed stiffly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What the hell!” said Joe. “That’s ancient history.
. . . I was just thinking about you. Or
rather, I was casting about in my mind for somebody
like you. You lost out through me once; well, now
you got a chance to make through me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve had quite enough of you,” said Bristed
bitterly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be a fool. Come and have a good lunch
with me at the Savarin. That commits you to
nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bristed’s blue eyes sought out Joe’s black ones.
“You know I think you’re a scoundrel,” he said
quietly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe was not in the least put out. “That’s all
right,” he said laughing. “Now you’ve put yourself
on record, there’s no reason you shouldn’t take a
lunch off me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right. I’ll come,” said Bristed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They continued up the street together. Joe
warmed on the outside by the overcoat; and inside,
by the sense of well-being, discussed the morning’s
news of the Street. Bristed said nothing. Joe, without
ever looking at him, was aware how he was
biting his lip, and darting painful and envious looks
like adders’ tongues at Joe’s profile. Joe had that
effect on young men. It stimulated him. This
young man gave Joe no concern. A slack-twisted
skein, he was thinking; I could sell him
out twice over, and still he wouldn’t be able to
stand out against me, if I wanted to use him again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once inside the expensive restaurant, Bristed began
to lose something of his pinched air. This is
like coming home to him, thought Joe. The <span class='it'>maître-d’hotel</span>
remembered him. “How do you do, Mr.
Bristed. It is a long time since we have had the
pleasure of seeing you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I’ve been travelling,” said Bristed carelessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe rubbed his upper lip to hide a grin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe ordered a choice little meal, and a bottle of
Johannisberger. Bristed was impressed, but would
not show it. Joe was becoming an adept in menu
cards; and was prouder of this accomplishment than
of his greatest coup on the Street. He himself,
never over-ate; there were too many swollen
paunches surrounding him down-town. He liked
too well, the feeling of being twenty-three and on
his toes. Besides, he went in for other pleasures.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When at last they lighted up their Eden perfectos,
Joe said: “Gosh! when I was a brat in Sussex
street, I never expected to be burning these!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bristed betrayed no interest in his reminiscences.
“What do you want of me this time?” he asked
bluntly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Keep your shirt on,” said Joe coolly. “This is
not financial. I’m already making money faster
than I can hire safety-deposit boxes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is it then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m going into society.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bristed laughed unpleasantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe did not mind, because it was not assured
laughter. Bristed knew quite well that Joe <span class='it'>could</span> go
into society if he wanted to. “There’s plenty of
society already open to me,” Joe went on; “but I’ll
have nothing short of the best. The real top-notch.
I’ve got money enough already to support the position;
and in a few years, if I live, I’ll be one of the
big half dozen of this burg.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t doubt it,” said Bristed bitterly. “You’re
marked for it. . . . Do you think I am able to help
you get into society?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“None better,” said Joe. “Your father, and his
father before him were in the forefront.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” said Bristed. “My grandfather had the
distinction of making money, and my father of
spending it. But what have I got?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The family name,” suggested Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure! And an old house on Thirty-sixth street
that we can’t afford to heat properly in the winter;
and where my mother and sister do their own housework.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But the best society in New York is open to you,
if you had the money to take your place in it. The
old society. That’s what I have my eye on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And where are we going to get the money?”
asked Bristed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“From me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No! by God!” said Bristed. “We haven’t fallen
as low as that!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go ahead!” said Joe smiling. “Shoot off your
fine sentiments, and then we’ll get down to
business.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bristed became incoherent in his indignation.
“What do you think I am? Do you think I’d lend
my mother and sister to. . . . There are some things
you don’t understand smart as you are. Ah! I’m not
going to talk to you. . . !” He stood up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit down,” said Joe quietly. “You can always
turn me down, you know. Only a fool turns down
a proposition before he hears it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bristed sat down looking rather like a fool.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, briefly,” said Joe, “without any skyrockets
or red fire, what is the objection?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you think we’re going to foist you off on our
friends . . . ?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Easy!” said Joe. “There’s not going to be any
foisting. You ought to know me. Wherever I go,
I stand on my own bottom. I say to everybody:
Eight years ago I was a dirty little ragamuffin on
Sussex street. My father and mother made their
living sewing on pants for a contractor. When I
was hungry I stole things off the pushcarts to get
me a meal.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It pays to tell that, eh?” sneered Bristed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re dead right, it pays,” said Joe. “The idea
it suggests to the other person is: Look how far he’s
risen! I never made any pretences. Don’t have to.
That’s how I get along. People think it’s original.
Everybody likes me except those who have lost
money through me. If you could only see it, it’s
your fine sentiments that keep you down. Bet your
grandfather wasn’t troubled with them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take this scheme that I propose—you wouldn’t
exactly have to beat the drum for me, you know.
I’m fairly notorious. The Boy Wonder of the Street.
Folks high and low are curious to have a look at
me. I’d be a social asset instead of a liability. I’ve
noticed that family, blue blood and all that, don’t
cut as much ice as they used to. Those people, having
bored each other stiff, are now beginning to look
around for a little outside entertainment . . . Of
course I could climb up anyhow. But I don’t care
to take the trouble to lay a regular campaign. Prefer
to begin at the top . . . I like the girls up
there,” he added grinning; “they’re so damned independent.
Like me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damn you!” said Bristed under his breath.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Keep the change!” said Joe cheerfully . . .
“How much would it take to keep up your house
in good style?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not a big house,” muttered Bristed. “Ten
thousand a year.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll make it twelve thousand,” said Joe. “And
what’s more, I’ll settle a good round sum on your
mother in the beginning, so that when I no longer
need you, she wont be left flat.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what would we have to do, exactly, to earn
it?” asked Bristed, sneering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just have me to your house, and have your
friends there to meet me. After that I stand or fall
by my own efforts.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Everybody would know where the money came
from.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And why the Deuce shouldn’t they know?
That’s what people like you can’t see! Tell the
truth about the whole affair. Tell everybody. Then
they’d begin to respect you . . . There’d be a lot
of benefits to you in addition to the twelve thou.
If you and your folks took your rightful place,
you’d have a chance to look around yourself, eh?
and . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No thanks!” said Bristed violently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, of course you wouldn’t sell yourself,” said
Joe dryly. “But she might be a damn fine girl,
though rich. It <span class='it'>has</span> happened. I tell you straight,
Bristed, it’s your only chance. You haven’t got
the guts to make good in the rough and tumble of
the Street. You’re too gentlemanly. Then there’s
your sister . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By God . . . !” said Bristed with burning
eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Keep your hair on,” said Joe coolly. “That is
not a part of my plans.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you mean to marry?” sneered Bristed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I do, I shall look higher,” said Joe, facing
him down. “. . . However, I mean to thoroughly
canvass the field first. I don’t want money of course.
I mean to marry a girl of the very highest position
who hasn’t got too much. But she’s got to be a
regular top-notcher!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I won’t have anything to do with it!” said
Bristed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Put it before your family,” said Joe, undisturbed.
“You owe them that. Tell them the worst
you know about me. If they want to look me over
before committing themselves, all right. Then if
they turn me down, why that’s all right, too. I
can easy find somebody else.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’ll tell them,” said Bristed. “But I’ll
advise them against it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s all right, old man,” said Joe. “I have
confidence in the ladies. They are always realists.”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>VI</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred</span> was washing himself at the basin in
his little dressing-room. He bit his lip to
keep back the whistle that naturally issued at such
a moment, because he had found that if he kept
quiet in there, the girl in front would sometimes
come into her dressing-room which adjoined. In the
old house there had been a pantry running across between
the two rooms, and this had been divided by
the flimsiest of partitions. When he was on his side
and she was on hers, it was almost as though he were
in her company. She was a little brown girl, delicately
rounded, with an innocent, gentle, provoking
air, and a skin like peaches and cream. How delicious
it was to picture her washing at her basin while
he was washing at his!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had never spoken to her. She had a
husband. The pair of them excited a warm interest
in Wilfred because they were so young. A mere
boy and girl and they initiated so much further than
he was! Once he had had a glimpse into their room
as he passed the door. It was distressingly bare;
nothing but a bed. Evidently one of these imprudent
runaway matches. He, considering himself a
prudent person, was charmed by imprudence in
others. Yet Bella Billings the landlady, hinted that
already things were not going well in the front room.
The husband, a sulky-looking blond lad with an unwholesome
complexion, was a telegrapher who
worked all night, and slept in the daytime. Thus
the little wife was thrown much into Bella’s company.
A well-meaning creature, Bella, but rabid
in her emotions; hardly the best advisor for a discontented
girl wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus Wilfred’s thoughts as he held his head close
to the water to avoid a noisy splashing. As he
straightened up, groping for his towel, a murmur of
voices from the front room reached his ears. It came
from the direction of the bed. Wilfred became very
still, and his heart beat faster. What did a boy-husband
and a girl wife say to each other in bed?</p>
<p class='pindent'>No words reached his ears; but the sense of the
murmuring was very clear; the girl beseeching, the
lad’s surly voice denying.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, blushing all over, retreated into his
main room with the towel about his head. He was
filled with a delighted astonishment. He had never
guessed that the sort of girl a man aches for might
in turn ask. He had supposed that such a one
merely suffered a man to love her out of her kindness.
The discovery that a woman might be both
desirable and desiring seemed to change the color of
life. He silently addressed the front room: “Oh, if
you were mine!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>That was all. A day or two later, as Bella had
foretold, the establishment in the front room suddenly
broke up. The young telegrapher went off to
take a job in the Southwest, while his wife returned
to live with her mother in a Connecticut town. Wilfred
did not forget her. In his dreams he invited
her. The fact that she had been married lent her
an added seductiveness. He led Bella on to talk of
her. It transpired that they kept up a correspondence.
Her name was Mildred.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Bella Billings was draping herself ungracefully
in the doorway of Wilfred’s room. For reasons of
propriety she would never come all the way in. His
room, being on the ground floor, was convenient to
stop at. She liked Wilfred, perhaps because he allowed
her to talk as long as she pleased. Few of
her lodgers would. Wilfred found her conversation
no less tiresome than the others did, but kept himself
up with the reminder that he was a literary man,
and Bella undoubtedly a character. She talked
with a wasteful expenditure of breath that left her
gasping halfway through a sentence, but unsilenced;
and a display of pale gums that slightly shocked
Wilfred. It seemed to him that he had never seen
anything so naked as Bella Billings’ gums.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was an institution on the South side of Washington
Square. Everybody had lodged with her one
time or another. In addition to letting rooms unfurnished
without service, she conducted a manufacturing
business in a rear extension to her house.
“Stella Shoulder-Brace Co.” the brass plate at the
door announced; but “shoulderbrace” was a euphemism;
what she made were various artificial contours
for the female form. These objects were shaped
on strange machines in the back premises like parts
of iron women, polished. Bella—everybody south
of Fourteenth street called her Bella behind her back—also
painted Newfoundland dogs and cupids after
Bouguereau in oils upon red velvet panels.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her subject at the moment was pernicious anæmia
from which she had been a sufferer. She was describing
to Wilfred how her fingernails and toenails had
dropped off. Wilfred had heard it before; but was
rendered patient by a design of using Bella for his
own ends. As soon as an opening presented itself,
he said carelessly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Only six days to Christmas! What are you
going to do to celebrate, Miss Billings?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Deprived of the support of her discourse, Bella
blinked uncertainly. “Well . . . I don’t know,”
she said with a giggle. “I suppose I’ll do nothing
as usual.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Everybody ought to have a big time, Christmas,”
suggested Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bella took a fresh pose in the doorway. “I’ve
kinda got out of the way of social life,” she said.
“Being so devoted to my art, and all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why don’t you give a party?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ohh!” said Bella breathlessly, “I don’t know
people well enough to give a party.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You would before the party was over,” said
Wilfred. “That’s what a party’s for.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know enough people to ask.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Small parties are the best. You know some
girls.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, there wouldn’t be any fun in a hen party.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” said Wilfred; “let’s
give a joint party during Christmas week, you and
I. You ask the girls and I’ll bring the fellows.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bella’s eyes widened, and she uncovered the pale
gums. Then she nodded until Wilfred thought her
head must snap off. “All right!” she said panting.
“But why bother about any more girls? I’d love to
entertain your friends.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, we must have enough girls,” said Wilfred
quickly. “If there was only one, the fellows would
get to quarrelling.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will Stanny come?” she asked breathless and
giggling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s my favorite. He’s so wistful. I always
wonder what he’s thinking about when he looks so
wistful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maybe his corns hurt,” said Wilfred. This was
the line to take with Bella.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Mr. Pell, you’re so cynical! . . . Who else
will you bring?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just Stanny and Jasper; the others will be out
of town.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must ask the two boys from the top floor.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, them!” said Wilfred. “How about the
girls?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, there’s Hattie Putzel,” said Bella. “Her
brother’s on’y a bootblack, but you would never
know it from her. A real stylish girl. And there are
the two Scotch lassies I met in the restaurant where
I eat sometimes. Regular little ladies, they are.
Name of McElderry.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s four, counting yourself,” said Wilfred,
“against five fellows. Must have another girl.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, let me see . . .” said Bella.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He waited breathlessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s that Maud Morrison who used to be my
forelady in the shop . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was obliged to show his hand. “Do you
think that Mildred would come?” he suggested
offhand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now that’s a good idea!” said Bella. “The poor
little thing must be having a dull time living at
home. A wife who is no wife! I might keep her
here with me a couple of days Christmas. I’ll write
to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred started to brush his coat, whistling softly.
He was aware that he must be looking exceedingly
self-conscious. Fortunately Bella was not perspicacious;
her mind was busy with plans.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll get a gallon of Marsala wine from the Eyetalian
in Thompson street. You and me can go
halves on it. I’ll get the girls to bring sandwiches.
Charley works for a commission merchant; he can
bring apples . . .”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, Stanny and Jasper, having dined at Ceccina’s,
made their way across Washington Square.
Stanny and Jasper were calm and anticipatory;
Wilfred was tormented by an anxiety that he did
not confide in his friends. Up to that morning
Mildred had left Bella in doubt as to her coming.
Wilfred had staked everything on her. Suppose
she did not come? Cinders; ashes; dust!</p>
<p class='pindent'>They went into Wilfred’s room to leave their
hats and brush their hair. From Bella’s room in the
rear extension, came the sounds of a discreet little
company. When they entered Wilfred could
scarcely bear to raise his eyes to look. Ten people
crowded the room to suffocation. Yes! and there
she was, sitting in the farthest corner, her lashes
sweeping her flower petal cheeks. A great wave of
relief and laughter surged in Wilfred’s breast.
What a joke that she should look so virginal! You
darling! if you knew what I know about you! he
thought. He could not meet her eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a squeeze in Bella’s room which was
crowded before anybody entered it; and at first an
awful constraint settled upon them. No one said
anything except the nervous Bella, whose occasional
squalls of talk seemed to be lost in a vacuum. The
girls just sat, looking aggravatingly refined; and the
young men stood holding up the walls with their
backs. Wilfred began to sweat gently; he felt responsible.
Neither Jasper nor Stanny was disposed
to help him out. Jasper squinted down his nose;
and Stanny looked obstinately mournful. Wilfred
blamed the two men from up-stairs. They didn’t
belong. Charley was a lean and sprawling youth;
Dave a dark and solid one. Boors, thought Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Finally in desperation, Wilfred said: “Let’s go
into my room. It’s bigger.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girls decorously shook out their skirts and
prepared to follow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Things began to go a little better. Wilfred had
a bottle of cherry brandy that he circulated with
trembling hands. There was but one liqueur glass
to each two persons, and that helped to break the ice.
The guests began to circulate and pair off. Hattie
Putzel and Jasper found each other out. Hattie
was a handsome, dark girl with a great deal of
manner. It was impossible to believe that her
brother was a bootblack. During the whole evening,
Jasper kept his arm around Hattie’s waist without,
so far as Wilfred could see, ever exchanging a word
with her. However they seemed to understand each
other. Stanny got one of the little Scotch girls,
but Bella was continually organizing cutting-out
expeditions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mildred sat by herself shy and demure. Wilfred,
electrically conscious of her, had not yet dared to
approach. Nevertheless there were mute exchanges.
Wilfred was aware that her demureness was addressed
to him. It seemed to be clear to everybody
present that this was a case; and no other fellow
tried to interfere.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the cherry brandy was finished, the hospitable
Bella produced her gigantic demijohn of
Marsala. During the rest of the evening the demijohn
never left the crook of her arm. “<span class='it'>La Vivandière</span>”
Stanny dubbed her. Bella was wearing
a dress made by herself of red flannel with
black crescents printed on it. Half beside herself
with giggling, panting excitement she was such
a ludicrous figure as to make them all self-conscious.
They scarcely liked to look at her. However, by degrees
the party became animated and noisy; and
Wilfred felt no further concern for the outcome.
Wilfred and Mildred kept apart, glancing at each
other with sidelong eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bye and bye Charley invited the crowd up to his
room. As they swept up-stairs, Wilfred and Mildred
came together at the tail of the procession. In
the semi-darkness of the hall, out of sight of the
others, Wilfred felt more confidence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello!” he whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello yourself,” she whispered back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come to-night!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bella told me you wanted me to come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Funny we shouldn’t meet until after you had
moved away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I used to wonder about you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The darling! She had wondered about him!</p>
<p class='pindent'>She slipped her arm through his like a little girl,
and Wilfred pressed it. Something broke loose in
his breast. He roared up through the house: “Clear
the track for we are coming!” And galloped up the
stairs, dragging the laughing and protesting Mildred
after. Only once or twice in his life had Wilfred
found his whole voice like that.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the last dark landing she pulled back a little.
He got it. His eager arms went around her with a
will. He crushed the slender delicious body against
his own. Ah! what a moment! To close his arms
about his dream, and find them full! To
be assured that he was no sprite, but a
man like other men! Their lips hungrily
sought each other in the dark. Again and again!
Never should he get enough! Oh woman! Oh
mystery of delight! Oh terrifying feast to be halved
with a hungry stranger!</p>
<p class='pindent'>They entered the lighted room carefully apart
from each other; subdued and highly self-conscious.
A roar of laughter greeted them. They blushed
scarlet, but rather enjoyed it. Mildred made haste
to lose herself amongst the girls. The dignified
Stanny tempted Wilfred. Seizing his hands, Wilfred
whirled him about like a dervish.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you gone crazy?” said Stanny, affronted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny was not having a good time. He desired
to shine in the eyes of the little Scotch girl, and that
ridiculous, ogling Bella was making him look like
a fool! In some sort of hand-holding game that
they all played, Bella, pretending to be insulted,
accused Stanny of having tickled her palm. Stanny’s
sense of humor was not equal to it. Pure hatred
glittered in his eyes, as he denied the charge. Wilfred
will never forget the picture made by Bella in
the red flannel dress, sitting in the middle of the
floor with her toes sticking up, embracing the mighty
demijohn, and coyly expressing a hope that no gentleman
would take advantage of her condition.
None did.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Hunger set them all cascading down the stairs.
Supper was served in Bella’s shop at the rear, amidst
the queer polished forms on which the “shoulderbraces”
were made. A difference arose between
Jasper and Charley, upon the latter’s expressing a
desire to share the society of the aristocratic Hattie.
For a moment a row threatened; but Wilfred had
the happy idea of suggesting that they settle it by
seeing which could first pitch an apple into a stove
pipe hole near the ceiling. After sundry apples had
been squashed against the wall, Jasper won.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred and Mildred, sitting a little apart from
the others, ate largely, while they gazed at each
other, no longer ashamed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Funny, how it makes you hungry,” said Wilfred,
grinning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How what does?” asked Mildred, with an innocent
air.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . you know!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mildred giggled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While Wilfred laughed with her, the sweetness
of her struck through his body like a dagger. She
exercised at once the charm of a child and of a
woman. If she had been really grown-up, he would
have been terrified of her, but she was a child at
heart, and Wilfred was all right with children. At
the same time, notwithstanding her dawn-freshness,
she was a woman more experienced than himself.
He did not have to remember to spare her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Something set the crowd rampaging up the stairs
again. Perhaps there were others who took advantage
of the dark halls. Wilfred detained Mildred
at the bottom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let them go,” he whispered; “they’re so noisy.
Let’s you and I go into my room where it’s quiet.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no!” said Mildred. “Not in there with you
alone!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh,” said Wilfred, immediately cast down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They hung unhappily at the bottom step.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Please</span> come,” he begged.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will if you promise to be good.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll be as good as I can.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They ran into Wilfred’s room. He closed the
door, and slid the bolt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you mustn’t do that!” cried Mildred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He told himself that her words didn’t signify anything.
He believed that her lips were hungry for
his. Wine had turned them crimson. So he merely
looked at her, and walked away from the door. She
avoided his look. They drifted to the worn bearskin
in front of the fire, and sat down upon it, not touching
each other. Now that they were alone together,
behind the bolted door, constraint afflicted them
again. They stared into the fire. Wilfred had a
sense that precious moments were being wasted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Finally Mildred said primly: “You have a nice
room.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Like it?” said Wilfred. “It’s nice to have your
own place.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I came in here once with Bella, when you were
out,” she confessed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you?” he said delighted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wanted to see if there were any pictures of
girls about.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did you care?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, girls are always curious about a boy like
you. You never give yourself away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Delicious flattery! “Well, there are no pictures.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I expect you’ve got them put away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I don’t know any girls.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well all I can say is, you’re pretty cheeky for
a beginner!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred felt bold and masterful again. “That is
because you sweep me off my feet,” he said. He
leaned towards her, bringing his face very close to
hers. How enchanting it was to remain like that,
without actually touching her. What a strange,
strong current passed into him from her!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have put a spell on me!” he faltered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Promise me to stay quite still for a minute,” she
whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What for?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just because I ask you to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . I promise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She caught his face between her two hands. “I
want to kiss you all by myself,” she murmured. “In
my way.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred closed his eyes. “I’ll try to endure it,”
he whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lots of times. . . . Lots of times!” she crooned.
“Ah, you’re so sweet! You’re as sweet as a baby!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred received this with mixed feelings. “I
don’t want to be kissed like a baby . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Between kisses she giggled. “Well, I’m not! . . .
I just said you were as sweet as a baby. . . . I’d
like to kiss you a hundred times without stopping!”
Moving her head from side to side that her lips
brushed his, she whispered: “I’m so glad you’re new
at this . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Time’s up!” cried Wilfred, flinging his arms
around her. Deprived of any prop, they toppled
over on the rug. “You weren’t good!” he murmured
accusingly. “You began it! That lets me out!
What do you think a man is made of? . . . Oh,
you darling . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wilfred, don’t!” she begged in a panic.
“Please, <span class='it'>please</span> darling Wilfred! You’re so much
stronger than I! <span class='it'>Please</span> let me up! Let me out of
this room . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gathering her up in his arms, Wilfred carried her
to the couch.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clinging to him, she continued to protest.
“Please, <span class='it'>please</span> Wilfred! Let me up . . . ! I demand
that you open that door! . . . Oh, Wilfred,
I’m so ashamed. I can’t bear to look at you . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s easy fixed,” he said, laughing. He
reached over their heads, and turned out the light.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>In the small hours the three friends were making
their way back across Washington Square arm in
arm, Wilfred in the middle. Wilfred was too much
excited to seek his bed; he had offered to see his two
friends home. Jasper’s face wore a sleepy smile;
but Stanny looked disgruntled. On this night he
had had no luck.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s turgid feelings almost strangled utterance.
“By God! but you fellows are dear to me!”
he cried, pressing their arms against his ribs. “What
would I do without you? I suppose I’m drunk.
When I froth up like this I know I make a fool of
myself. I don’t care. I’ve got to tell you how I
feel. . . . I’ve been as miserable as hell lately.
Well, that’s over. I’ve made a stage. . . . You
think and think and get nowhere. No fixed point!
Like a squirrel in a revolving cage! Like a nebula in
the ether!—That’s damn good, you fellows. . . .
Nebula in the ether! . . . For once I have forgotten
myself! It’s astonishing. By letting everything
go I caught hold of something solid. There is
such a thing as joy! Oh, Heaven, it makes up for
everything! There is beauty. . . . Oh my God!
but life is good! I wouldn’t change with God
to-night . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Stanny. “One would
think you were the first male!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So comic was this explosion of disgust, that
Jasper and Wilfred stood still and roared with
laughter. Stanny punched them, laughing, too. A
tension was relieved. They continued skylarking on
their way.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:10em;font-size:1.2em;'>PART FOUR: LOVERS</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch4'>PART FOUR</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>I</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>O</span>n</span> the way to Thursday dinner with the Aunts,
Wilfred went around by Sixth avenue in order
to have a look at the news-stand. Yes, the Century
was out! Good old Century in its plain yellow
dress, and neat lettering! Wilfred’s heart set up a
slightly accelerated beating. Before paying over
his thirty-five cents, he took the precaution of consulting
the table of contents. “Romance in Rivington
Street. . . . Wilfred Pell.” A sigh of satisfaction
relieved his breast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Oblivious to the uproar at Sixth avenue and
Eighth street, he leaned against a shop window to
get the light over his shoulder, reading the sentences
that he already knew by heart, with a delighted grin
pressing into his cheeks. How human and funny it
was! how offhand and graceful! He had <span class='it'>got</span> it that
time! At the same time an inner voice was saying
dryly, in Hilgy’s manner: Oh, it’s not as good as
all that! His delight was mixed with apprehension:
Would he ever be able to get it again?</p>
<p class='pindent'>He gave his private ring at the Aunts’ door-bell,
that the maid might not be brought up-stairs from
her work. Aunt May opened the door. Wilfred
had shoved the magazine in his overcoat pocket. He
would not blurt out his news. Besides, his Aunts
would be sure to say the wrong thing. Aunt
May held up her cheek to be kissed, without looking
at him. It was one of the most amusing characteristics
of his people, the way they took each other for
granted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The reason for Aunt May’s abstraction was
revealed. “I think a rat must have died under the
floor. . . . Huh?” she said sniffing. “These old
houses . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How inconsiderate!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was already on her way back to the drawing-room,
and did not get it. Wilfred presently followed,
carrying the magazine in his hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am just finishing a letter,” said Aunt May at
her desk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred looked around the room with a warm
feeling about his heart. How pleasant the sight
of something that was unchanged. The Brussels
carpet with its all-over design; the skimmed-milk
wall-paper with its neo-Gothic ornaments traced in
gilt; the square piano with yellowed keys and absurd
muscle-bound legs; the carved walnut furniture.
Could he not do something in a story with that
tranquillizing room, with the whole quaint little
house which was of a piece with it—but no! He
was still too close to it. At the thought of the room
up-stairs which had been his, he shivered with old
pains and ardors.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred commenced to read the delicious story
all over again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having sealed her letter, Aunt May became aware
of his smile. “What is amusing you?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damn good story!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred! This is not South Washington
Square!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, beg pardon, Aunt. They tell me that profanity
is becoming fashionable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not in this house! . . . Who is the story by?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred affected to turn back to the beginning.
“Chap called Wilfred Pell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred! Give me that magazine!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Together they studied the illustration to Wilfred’s
story.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think much of that,” remarked Aunt
May.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Putrid!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One is prepared for it,” said Wilfred like a long-suffering
author. “He’s made my young lad look
like a race track tout. Twenty years out of date.
Why can’t these fellows look about them when they
go into the streets? . . . However, it’s a Dugan,
you see. That lends importance to the story. They
paid more for that one picture than they did for the
story.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How unjust!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The placid, rosy Aunt Fanny came into the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fanny!” cried her sister. “Wilfred’s story in
the Century!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Aunt Fanny seized the magazine, and while her
eyes fastened upon it, she held up her cheek sideways
to be kissed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Said Aunt May with a thoughtful air: “Wilfred,
how many of those could you . . . Huh? . . .
About the same amount of writing as ten letters, I
should say. And if you had nothing else to do. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, but I have not your facility, Aunt May.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t try to be funny! . . . Say, two a month
anyway. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not how many you can write, but how many
you can sell, my dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, but the cheaper magazines will all be after
you . . . Huh? now that the Century. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that. The cheaper
magazines have a grand conceit of themselves, you
see. They affect to look upon the Century as a back
number.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All the best people read the Century!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Unfortunately there are so many more people
of the other kind!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Later, at the table, Aunt May said with a casual
air—but her hazy grey eyes were intent upon her
thought: “Wilfred, now that you are becoming
known . . . Huh? . . . you ought to . . . <span class='it'>Do</span> sit
up straight in your chair! . . . you ought to go
about more . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, I circulate like a dollar bill!” said Wilfred.
“I am worn and greasy with handling.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I <span class='it'>wish</span> you wouldn’t be vulgar!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Seriously, I have dozens of friends now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, South Washington Square!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m known as far North as Fifty-Ninth street.
The Fifty-Ninth street crowd of artists and writers
are <span class='it'>most</span> respectable. They sell their work, too. I
know Walter Sherman, and Louis Sala and Frances
Mary Lore. Miss Lore is a special friend of mine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two Aunts exchanged an anxious glance.
“Lore?” said Aunt Fanny. “Who are her people
. . . Huh? . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me see,” said Wilfred, “her father was a
letter carrier in Memphis. Or else he was the garbage
collector. I forget.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, it doesn’t signify, does it? Frances Mary
stands on her own bottom.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Wilfred!</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Aunt! I didn’t mean what you mean!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Seriously, Wilfred,” said Aunt May, “you are
twenty-six years old. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We should hate to see you marry on South
Washington Square,” put in Aunt Fanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Aunt May frowned at Aunt Fanny. This was too
direct.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred grinned at them both. An outrageous
retort trembled on his tongue, but he bit it back.
After all, they were dear old dears. And he was
his own man now. “Well, thank God! that’s not
an issue,” he said. “I don’t want to marry and I
couldn’t if I did!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You ought to know the people who <span class='it'>count</span>,” said
Aunt May.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So I do,” said Wilfred. “In my world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But that’s a very small world, my dear. . . .
Huh? . . . I mean the great world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Society?” said Wilfred. “I can hardly see myself
performing with that troupe of trained seals.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And why not, pray?” asked Aunt May, bridling.
“That is where you belong, on both sides of
the house. Your name alone. . . . Huh? . . . the
sole representative of your branch. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you have become quite nice-looking,” added
Aunt Fanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, ladies, thanks,” said Wilfred bowing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nor are we entirely forgotten,” said Aunt May
with dignity, “notwithstanding the parvenues who
crowd everywhere. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And the girls of that world are so much prettier
and more charming,” put in Aunt Fanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Aunt May frowned at her again. But it was the
seeming injudicious remark of Aunt Fanny’s which
arrested Wilfred’s attention, and sent his mind
cavorting down the very avenue that they wished.
It was true! The girls of <span class='it'>his</span> world, writers and
artists, good fellows as they were—well, that was
just the trouble with them, they were such good fellows!
When women descended into the arena to
compete with men, they lost something of their
allure. What cynic had he heard say that? He
himself, would never have dared say it out loud
amongst his friends; but was it not true? And sometimes,
confound them! they beat a man at his own
trade! How could you make love to a girl whose
stories were in greater demand by the editors than
your own? . . . Why not be honest with yourself,
and confess that you were enough of a Turk at
heart to be attracted by the idea of exquisite girls
especially trained and groomed to please men. Very
reprehensible, of course, but as long as there were
such girls going, why not have one?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was recalled to his surroundings by hearing
Aunt May say, casually:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Every time we see Cousin Emily Gore she asks
after you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So that was the milk in the cocoanut! “Kind of
her,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She has several times given you an opening to
call; but you never would.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That was when I was working for her husband,”
said Wilfred. “No sucking up to the boss’s wife
for me, thanks.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred! What an expression!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I’m on my own now; the case is altered.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And Cousin Emily says,” added Aunt Fanny,
“that there’s such a shortage of dancing men in society,
they’re at a premium!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Aunt May looked annoyed. Fanny <span class='it'>would</span> say
the word too much!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, so I’ve heard,” drawled Wilfred. “Low
society is really more select.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you call on Cousin Emily Gore? . . .
Huh?” asked Aunt May.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Haven’t got a Prince Albert.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are told it is no longer indispensable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, they’ll take us in anything now, eh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Do</span> be sensible, Wilfred! . . . Will you go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, I suppose an author’s got to know all
sides of life—even the lowest.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two ladies exchanged a look of mutual
congratulation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wednesday is her day,” said Aunt May. “And
Wilfred, dear, do allow yourself to be . . . Huh?
. . . As you know so well how to be. . . . This
mocking air may be . . . But not in Cousin Emily’s
world, my dear. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was then, Wilfred saw, Aunt Fanny’s turn to
feel that May was risking all they had gained by
saying too much. Their faces were so transparent!
“Cousin Emily takes a special interest in the débutantes,”
Aunt Fanny hastily put in. “They say
that this year’s débutantes are the loveliest in
years!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well I may be a Turk,” said Wilfred, “but I’m
not as much of a Turk as that—no débutantes!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A Turk. . . . Huh? . . .” said Aunt May.
“I’ll let her know you’re coming.”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>II</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred</span> knew the Gore house from cellar to
garret, from having been required once in the
old days, to take an inventory of its contents. It
was rather piquant to be there now as a guest in a
swallow-tail coat. It was not one of the greatest
houses in New York; but ’twould serve. His hat
and coat were taken from him in a horrible entrance
hall in the “Moorish” style, all the rage about 1890.
He passed through the library (which contained no
books) all done in red velvet, and entered the
drawing-room behind. The drawing-room, with its
great bay-window giving on the side street, was
rather fine he considered; evidently a pretty good
decorator had been let loose in here. But there was
far too much stuff in it. The prevailing tone was
an agreeable blue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the bay stood a grand piano, with a great
golden harp placed beside it. Wilfred smiled at
the harp. It had not been moved in seven years.
“Why in Hell a harp?” he asked himself. Against
the wall facing the bay stood an immense upholstered
settee; and over the settee in the place of
honor, hung the famous portrait of Mrs. Gore by
Madrazo. A superb figure. The rich blue brocade
of her corsage seemed to be glued to her body like
wall-paper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a dinner for about twenty people. Mrs.
Gore affected the Knickerbocker set, whose present
day representatives showed a sad falling off from the
picturesqueness of their ancestors. The ladies affected
a rich and dowdy style of dress, still featuring
the abdomen; and the gentlemen also, who ran to
bottle shoulders, and a small, neat melon under
their waist-bands, suggested the magazine illustrations
of twenty years ago. Obviously gentlemen,
who toiled not neither did they spin. In America,
for some reason, they looked piteous. There were
several more or less subdued young persons present.
Wilfred was introduced to a few of the guests, and
left to shift for himself. He was to take in a Mrs.
Varick, an anæmic little woman who kept up a fire
of virtuous platitudes. One could safely agree with
everything she said, while one looked about.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A little late, when all the estimable guests were
visibly becoming uneasy, a woman entered the room,
who changed the whole complexion of the party.
Like a wild bird lighting in the poultry yard, Wilfred
thought. She was about his own age with miscellaneous
American features, not in the least beautiful.
But she had the divine carriage of Diana, and
Diana’s arrowy glance. Never had Wilfred beheld
that proud, free glance in living woman. What a
glorious spirit it betokened! So defiant and desirable
it rendered him helpless. She was wearing a
dress of tomato red, partly misted with smoke-colored
net. Nothing of yesteryear about <span class='it'>her</span>!
Though she and all her works must have been
anathema to the drab ones, Wilfred observed that
they were inclined to fawn upon her. Obviously,
that girl could get away with anything, anywhere,
Wilfred thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the table he was terrified and delighted to discover
that she was to be on the other side of him.
She sat down, talking busily to her companion.
Wilfred stole a glance at her place card. “Miss
Elaine Sturges.” It had the effect of striking a gong.
Elaine Sturges! Wilfred had not been above reading
of the doings of the butterflies he despised; the
Sturgeses of North Washington Square; elect of the
elect! For several seasons she had been chief
amongst the unmarried girls. It appeared that no
entertainment was complete without her. Merely
from having her name so often printed, the lustre
of fame was about her plainly-dressed brown head;
and Wilfred’s imagination was dazzled afresh.
While he sagely nodded his head in agreement with
Mrs. Varick’s ambling comment, he sought in his
mind to have ready some arresting thing to say, when
his chance came. But his mind was a blank.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He happened not to be looking in that direction
when a contralto voice said near his ear: “I say, who
are you? Your place card is covered up.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred jumped. “Wilfred Pell,” he said,
smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought I knew all the Pells.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m only an offshoot. A scribbling Pell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Didn’t think such a thing was possible!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They laughed, knowing the Pell characteristics.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred thought: She has not read my stories.
. . . But why should she? I must say something
at once, or she’ll turn back to the other man. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>When it came, it sounded feeble. “I hate to be
asked my name. I dislike it so much!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What, Wilfred?” she asked carelessly. “Yes, it
is rather in the Percy and Harold class.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One’s mouth takes such a foolish shape in saying
it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her cool, strong glance sought his eyes appraisingly.
There was a thought in her eyes that she did
not utter; but he read it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You think Wilfred suits me?” he said smiling,
and sore at heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wasn’t thinking,” she said coolly. “. . . You
have nice eyes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nice eyes! At that moment it was like an insult.
And so good-humored about it! He struggled with
a crushing sense of inferiority.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, at any rate, you are well-named,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Am I? I thought the original Elaine was a pale,
die-away maiden who floated down the river with
flowers in her hair, and her toes turned to the sky!—But
maybe I’m thinking of somebody else. My literary
associations are hazy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Lady of Shalott?” suggested Wilfred. “I
was thinking of the mere sound of the name. Elaine!
So forthright!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So you think I’m a forthright sort of person?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rather!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That requires consideration.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you seem to yourself?” asked Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I don’t know. . . . We are all over-civilized,
over-complicated nowadays. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are neither civilized nor complicated,” said
Wilfred boldly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well upon my word!” she said, half-affronted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Diana,” murmured Wilfred. “You know that
picture at the Metropolitan; a rotten picture, but a
glorious woman!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She continued to stare, really amused, as with a
baby’s prattle. Wilfred, as if Mrs. Varick had
spoken to him, turned away. I <span class='it'>did</span> make an impression
then, he thought; better leave her with it!</p>
<p class='pindent'>They talked again at intervals during dinner; the
usual sort of thing. Wilfred had no other daring
inspiration. However, when the divinely brave eyes
turned on him, he perceived a speculative look in
them. At least I exist for her, he thought hopefully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After dinner there was music in the drawing-room
(but not on the harp) and all the guests had to stay
put—or so Wilfred supposed. Not having been
sufficiently ready-witted to maneuver himself into
a position beside her, he watched her from down the
room. He was sitting beside the door into the hall.
There was a sleek fellow behind her, leaning forward
with his lips close to her ear. He appeared
to be able to amuse her. He was not in the least
afraid of her, Wilfred observed with a pang.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taking advantage of a little movement among the
guests between numbers, the red girl with characteristic
nonchalance came sauntering down the long
room, attended by her companion. Wilfred’s skin
began to burn and prickle. She was headed directly
for him. He suffered acutely. He did not see how
he was going to keep his head up if she passed so
close. She had laid a dreadful spell on him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not pass him by. She stopped, and he
jumped up. Careless of who might hear, she said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come and sit on the stairs with me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred followed her like a man in a dream.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, Ted,” she said over her shoulder to the
other man, and he remained within the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred tingled. Came to me in the face of the
whole room! Sent the other man away! But he
was deeply perturbed, too. It should have been
me to go to her, and carry her off. . . . What will
Mrs. Gore say to my walking out on her concert
like this?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine seemed to read his thoughts. “They won’t
blame you,” she said smiling. “They know me!
. . . Oh well, poor dears! I like to give them
something to talk about. They lead such dull
lives!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the hall, the stairs started off at right angles,
and after pausing on a sort of Moorish balcony,
turned and went up in the proper direction without
further divagations. Above the balcony it was
rather secluded, and not too light. Here they sat,
Wilfred with a tumultuously beating heart. There
was already a meek youth and maiden higher up.
Elaine permitted Wilfred to light a cigarette for her.
Wilfred was astounded at his situation. Smoking
companionably on the stairs with Elaine Sturges!
He had supposed that these girls were so circumspect.
However, there was nothing equivocal in the
clear glance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“After a season or two, what an experience of
stairs you must acquire!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Eh?” she said, not getting it—or not choosing
to get it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You ought to write a monograph on the subject,”
he blundered on; “The stairs of New York.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled inattentively, and Wilfred felt like
a perfect ass.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never meet any artists or writers,” she said,
“except old and famous ones. It seems so odd for
a young man to go in for it. And a Pell!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She means that she thinks its unmanly, thought
Wilfred with a wry smile. “Oh, it’s an easy job,”
he said flippantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You only say that because you think I’m not
capable of understanding,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not at all!” said Wilfred quickly. “It’s because
I can’t appear to take myself seriously, without feeling
like a fool!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” she said, looking at him as if he had given
her new food for reflection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred felt like a specimen impaled on a pin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me more about myself,” she said presently.
“It’s refreshing!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have so little to go on!” protested Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That didn’t seem to hamper you a while ago.
Make it up as you go along.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You always do exactly what you please.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled inscrutably. “That isn’t very clever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred felt flattened out. “Well . . . you
have entirely false notions about life,” he said,
making a desperate fresh start.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s better,” she said serenely. “In what way
do you mean?”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>III</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>I</span>t</span> was after the lawful hours of business. Casting
a glance up and down to assure himself no policeman
was watching, Wilfred descended three
steps, and knocked on the shuttered door of the little
Hungarian café in East Fourth street. He was admitted
as a matter of course. A haze of tobacco
smoke filled the interior. The cymbaline player had
gone home; and the place seemed oddly quiet. There
were only four or five figures crouching over the
tables; habitués of the place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Relief filled Wilfred’s breast at the sight of
Stanny in his usual place, over against the wall, his
back to the door. Impossible to tell if he were
drunk. It required more than a casual glance to
discover that in Stanny. Opposite him sat Mitzi
of course, with her seraphic, unchanging smile. The
wide-eyed, soulless, pretty creature!—Not soulless,
really; one must be fair; soulless only to them.
Stanny, brooding upon her face, was giving everything
away in his eyes. Andreas, the proprietor,
passing to and fro with the drinks, scarcely troubled
to hide his contempt. Wilfred became hot with
angry compassion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Big Andreas greeted him with loud heartiness,
the while his black eyes glittered remotely. They
hated each other. Mitzi turned her smile on Wilfred,
offering him an adorable, plump, cruel little
paw with short tapering fingers. That is to say, the
kind of hand which is called cruel, he thought. In
reality there was no cruelty in Mitzi; she was merely
docile. Stanny looked around at him without any
expression whatever; and by that, Wilfred knew he
was drunk. He dropped into the seat beside Stanny,
and a glass of <span class='it'>tchai</span> was put before him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’Ello, Vee’fred!” said the adorable Mitzi
“ ’Ow you was to-night?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was fully sensible of her magical quality—the
quality of a red rose beginning to unfold; but
it left him unperturbed. For one thing she was too
foreign. “Out o’ sight!” he replied. “I don’t need
to ask how you are. You are prettier than ever
to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You lie!” said Mitzi, pouting good-humoredly.
“You no t’ink I pretty girl. You t’ink I ogly girl.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aw, shucks!” said Wilfred. “You know quite
well you’re the prettiest girl East of Third avenue!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mitzi, having exhausted her English, relapsed
into her smile. Occasionally she made a droll face
at either Stanny or Wilfred and murmured: “Aw,
shucks!” Mitzi could sit and smile at a man—any
man, the whole evening through without betraying
either tedium or self-consciousness. There was that
in her smile Wilfred thought, which called into
being fires she was incapable of comprehending.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was aware that anger was smoking within
Stanny. Finally it puffed out spitefully: “What
do you want here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A glass of <span class='it'>tchai</span>,” said Wilfred, smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By God! I’m sick of this Ten Nights in a Barroom
stunt!” said Stanny passionately. “You’re
not my keeper!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Keep your shirt on,” said Wilfred, smiling still
for Mitzi’s benefit. “I don’t aim to be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then what brought you here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wanted company,” said Wilfred. It was true,
but Stanny would not believe it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I’m going to Hell, I prefer to go in my own
way,” said Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” agreed Wilfred. “But I can’t help thinking
you’re getting damned little out of this lap.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s all right!” said Stanny with drunken
obstinacy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What you say him?” asked Mitzi, without in
the least caring what the answer might be.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m telling him I wish you were my sweetheart,”
said Wilfred grinning. (How sick he was of his
own grin!) “That’s what makes him sore.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aw, shucks!” said Mitzi.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you expect to get out of it?” Wilfred
went on to Stanny. “You know as well as I do, that
the man only puts out his pretty little wife as a decoy.
He never lets her out of his sight. I don’t see
how you can fall for it. With him looking on and
sneering!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish to God I could see you make a fool of
yourself over a woman!” cried Stanny bitterly.
“You wouldn’t be so damn superior then!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred grinned until his nostrils hurt. He had
spent the earlier part of the night walking up and
down North Washington Square, gazing at the
lighted windows of the Sturges sitting-room with
sick eyes; picturing a man inside bolder than himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I never will! I never will!” said Stanny.
“You’re too much up in the air!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t know me,” murmured Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yah! a hell of a romantic feller if the truth were
known, eh?” sneered Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred went on grinning inanely; tracing a
capital E on the table with his forefinger. It created
a sort of diversion to have Stanny abusing him
unjustly; it was a counterirritant. He was absolutely
sure of Stanny’s affection. It comforted him
a little to lean his breast against the thorn of misunderstanding.
It was the nearest to obtaining
sympathy that he could hope for, he thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After awhile Wilfred said: “Will you come
now?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No!” said Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Mitzi, though she could not understand their
talk, perceived that there was something inimical in
the atmosphere. Presently she yawned behind the
sinister little manicured paw, and stood up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, goo’-ni’, boys. Come round to-morrow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Through sullen lashes Stanny watched the little
thing go swaying down the room and through the
curtain at the rear, an unfathomable pain in his eyes.
Wilfred raged internally. A man like Stanny to be
brought down by <span class='it'>that</span>! What am I raging at? he
asked himself. Certainly not at Stanny; nor at the
unconscious, infantile Mitzi. And he had no God
to rage at.—At the same time Wilfred envied
Stanny; his pain was so much simpler than his own.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred and Stanny went out on the sidewalk.
At the Third avenue corner Stanny stopped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You had better leave me here,” he said bitterly,
but without anger; “you can do me no good
to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about your doing me a little good?” suggested
Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t make me laugh!” said Stanny. “You’re
as transparent as window glass! . . . If you could
only get rid of your evangelical streak!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t want to save you,” said Wilfred. “I
just want to be with somebody. Even you! . . .
My God! you’re a selfish beggar!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny snorted, and started walking on with that
extraordinarily doughty carriage of his, more pronounced
when he was drunk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred fell in beside him. “Oh hell,” he said,
“you can say what you like. I’m not going to leave
you. . . . You can come to my place if you want.
Or I’ll go to yours if you’d rather.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t sleep,” muttered Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No more can I. Let’s walk then.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they had gone a block, Stanny stopped
short, and faced Wilfred. “I know I’m a bloody
fool,” he said ill-temperedly. “Now are you
satisfied?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred slipped his arm through Stanny’s “I’m
a bloodier fool than you, old fellow, and my heart’s
just as heavy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake!” cried Stanny passionately.
“You and your heart! Do you think I can’t see that
you’re saying that just to make me feel better?
Nothing can touch <span class='it'>you</span>! I wish to God you’d give
over trying to manage me like a woman!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they got to the corner of Washington
Square, Stanny kept straight on, and by that Wilfred
knew that he was coming to his place. As they
turned in at the old iron gate, rusting under its
hundred coats of paint, in Stanny’s sullen eyes could
be read as plainly as if it had been spoken, his intention
of inveigling Wilfred into going to bed, and
afterwards slipping out again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As soon as they got inside Wilfred’s room, they
started to quarrel viciously. Wilfred insisted on
making up the fire, and Stanny said they shouldn’t
need it. Then about the bed. Stanny all but
knocked Wilfred into his own bed. Wilfred however,
insisted on lying down on the moth-eaten bearskin
before the fire. Stanny looked as if he would
have liked to kick him there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You might as well take the bed,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m damned if I will!” cried Stanny passionately.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I was alone, I should be lying here just the
same. I can’t sleep, and I like to look at the fire.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Seeing pictures, eh?” sneered Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, seeing pictures. . . . What fools we are to
scrap with each other, Stanny. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, what fools!” agreed Stanny, suddenly
falling quiet and mournful.—But instantly, he lost
his temper again. “You needn’t think I’m going to
take your bed and leave you lying on the floor!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you know what you can do with it,”
snarled Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny flung himself into Wilfred’s big chair,
and the bed remained without an occupant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The firelight filled the room. The rows of books
looked gravely down from the tall shelves. Bye and
bye Wilfred had the satisfaction of seeing the bitter,
down-drawn face in the chair begin to relax. Stanny
took a more comfortable position, and his head
dropped over against one of the wings. But he was
not yet asleep. From the borderland he murmured:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She has enslaved my senses. . . . I am besotted
. . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred murmured involuntarily: “You don’t
know it, but you are lucky it is only your senses.
If it was your imagination that was enslaved, there
would be no satisfaction possible; no escape; ever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was no reply, and Wilfred looked over apprehensively.
To his relief he perceived that Stanny
had not heard it; he was asleep.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stretched himself out on the old rug,
yielding to the luxury of pain. Real pain that bit
like teeth. For an instant he beheld the truth with
devastating clearness. There was no hope for him.
Elaine’s instinct was sounder than his own. He and
she could not possibly find happiness together. He
was a better man than she would ever guess: but
his worthier qualities were sealed to her, and must
always be so. Impossible to reach an understanding.
In another way, he was not man enough to
be her mate. How that thought stabbed! But it
was the truth. It must be faced out. Thank God!
pain could be borne. He had his own kind of
strength, not at all a showy kind, and Elaine would
never perceive it; but he need not despise himself.
Pain fortified him. He looked over towards Stanny
with a feeling of gratitude. In some queer way it
was due to the presence of that solid body in his
chair, that he had been vouchsafed this moment of
lucid pain, instead of being dragged as usual, helpless
at the heels of the wild horses of Imagination.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>IV</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>I</span>n</span> the winter twilight Elaine and Wilfred were
sunk in easy chairs side by side before the fire in
the Sturges sitting-room, the smoke of their cigarettes
mounting lazily. In that serene atmosphere Wilfred
was least serene. Whenever he sat there his heart
beat too fast; and the clamorous thoughts jostled
confusedly in his brain. The smiling servants had
softly brought the tea things, and later, had carried
them away. A lovely, gracious life! Should he
ever be able to take it as if it were his by right? The
Sturges house was almost exactly opposite Bella
Billings; distant about three hundred yards; but
social deeps rolled between.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine was sliding down in the deep chair on the
small of her back, her long legs inelegantly thrust
out, her feet crossed. Elaine could yield to any
common impulse without losing the quality of distinction,
he thought. The firelight was strong in her
resolute face. It was not beautiful in the ordinary
sense. He despised the insipidity of pretty women.
There was something much greater here; character;
passion; and that divine assurance of herself.
Whence arose Elaine’s magnificent air? It was because
she held herself one of the elect of earth.
Ordinary people were so far beneath her, she could
afford to exhibit them every kindness. All wrong!
thought Wilfred. A preposterous assumption! Yet
there it was! And it beat him down!</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were good enough friends to be silent together
when they felt like silence. But those
silences! At a certain point Wilfred’s heart would
begin to rise slowly into his throat. There she sat
a yard away, and so remote! He ached for her intolerably.
Was this love? More like an insanity.
Suppose she were to cast herself suddenly into his
arms, would he know what to do with her? Would
he not turn clammy? Did he ever know what he
wanted? An insanity! Being denied her, he ached
and burned. Burned, while he sat still and answered
her cool remarks, coolly. Why was he forced to
go on thinking and thinking about her in her presence?
Making figments of her while the reality was
at his side!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine herself never thought, though she liked to
suppose that she did: all her acts, words were struck
out of her, instant and bright as fire. How natural
for her to despise one like him! She <span class='it'>did</span> despise him
sub-consciously, though they were good friends; her
speculative glance often confessed it. That high air
of hers was a continual challenge to his masculinity,
and he dared not take it up. Wilfred believed that
she was just a little higher with him than with
others. It suggested that she believed he was a
coward in the presence of women. In other quarters
he had not been considered so. What good was that
to him here? By thinking him a coward she made
him a coward in <span class='it'>her</span> presence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yet she had singled him out, him, the insignificant
scribbler, amongst a crowd of glittering young men
who dangled after her. These hours that Wilfred
spent alone with her had been specially contrived
by her. Nothing happened by accident in Elaine’s
busy life. In dealing with men, she enveloped herself
in an atmosphere of high mystery. During
Wilfred’s hour she never volunteered the least information
as to how she had spent the other twenty-three.
It tormented him unbearably. He knew
that other men came to the house on other days. He
had seen some of them springing eagerly up the steps.
Well, and why not? He had nothing to reproach
her with. She was always clear-eyed and candid.
But she ordained how much of herself each was to
have. An hour to Wilfred twice a week perhaps,
leaving him to spend the others in torment. He
suffered when he was with her; he suffered when he
was away. His only moment of happiness came
when <span class='it'>he</span> went springing up the steps. Things had
come to such a pass with him, he could no longer
do his work.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Why had she singled him out for even these infrequent
hours? That he might talk to her. There
was no secret about it. “Nobody talks to me like
you,” she had said once, while her eyes flickered with
unconscious contempt for the young man who was
a talker. And Wilfred accepted it, hating himself.
They sat in front of the fire talking like disembodied
intelligences while Wilfred eyed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After such a silence, Elaine said: “The trouble
with me is, I don’t know anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hear! Hear!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you needn’t get funny,” she retorted. “It’s
something to know that you don’t know anything.
. . . I mean. . . . What do I mean? I mean I
don’t know anything in my head. I know lots of
things by intuition. I think I know more than you
do, that way. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not a doubt of it,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But the voice of intuition is dumb,” Elaine went
on. “I act as I act without knowing why. There
is no residue. Intuition prompts you how to act at
the moment; but it doesn’t help you to lay out a
course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>How exactly, sometimes, unconscious people can
convey what is in their minds! thought Wilfred enviously.
“What about books?” he suggested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Books! Pshaw! Books are a kind of dope!”
said Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You read only novels—and those, not the best.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I <span class='it'>do</span> read the best!” she said indignantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mean the latest best,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I read poetry, too. . . . But poetry just lifts
you up—and lets you drop again. Oh, I suppose it’s
my fault. Really serious books bore me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are good novels,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They get on so slowly!” said Elaine with a sigh.
“And when you do disentangle the meaning, it’s only
what you know already.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is it, exactly, that you are after?” asked
Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Knowledge of life,” she said promptly. “Old
people pretend that they have all the knowledge. I
<span class='it'>feel</span> that they are wrong.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In what, for instance?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, it’s a platitude amongst old people that
love always dies.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know of any book that would assure you
that it doesn’t,” said Wilfred, lowering his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never mind books. What do you think? Does
love die?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What kind of love?” he asked with a sinking
heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What kind?” she repeated staring. “I mean
love between a man and a woman, of course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Passion burns itself out,” said Wilfred, “but I
suppose something fine may come of it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, that’s just like an old person,” said Elaine.
“The cooling-off process is hideous to me! I don’t
want any left-overs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, what are you going to do about it?” he
asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It doesn’t help to be cynical!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What does your own heart tell you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My heart tells me that love dies,” murmured
Elaine unexpectedly. She was staring into the fire.
“I was hoping for some reassurance.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hope it does,” said Wilfred flippantly. He
observed that his teeth were clenched together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She ignored this. “Even though love is transitory,
should we not stake everything on it, anyway?” she
murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Everybody must decide that for themselves,” he
said composedly, feeling like a little waxy-faced
oracle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But what do <span class='it'>you</span> think?” she insisted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s too complicated!” he said with a burst of
irritation. “I could not possibly give an answer to
cover the whole question.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Another silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you believe in the devil?” asked Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In my own individual devil, yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s he like?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s a wet blanket!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine laughed. “How original! Mine is a more
conventional sort of devil.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you know?” she asked quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can’t I have intuitions too?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you’re entirely wrong about <span class='it'>me</span>,” she said
vivaciously. “You have been from the first. You
have a ridiculous notion that I am a sort of cavewoman.
Why, if I were, would I be talking to you
like this now?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred smiled into the fire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, if it amuses you . . . !” said Elaine,
shrugging.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know that big statue of Barnard’s,” she
presently went on; “I Feel Two Natures Struggling
Within Me”?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All rot!” he said rousing himself. “I imagine
that is just a little joke of Barnard’s on the dear
public. What he is really portraying is the Triumph
of Youth Over Age! It was a favorite subject during
the renaissance. . . . Two natures! Life is
not so simple! That is merely a theological distinction.
Body and soul are <span class='it'>not</span> at war with each
other. We can’t get anywhere without Body. In
the complete life you would find Body and Soul
pulling in double harness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But is there ever a complete life?” asked Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . no! I suppose not!” murmured
Wilfred, falling through space. “It is only an
ideal. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Their eyes were suddenly drawn together. They
exchanged a startled, questioning glance like prisoners
beholding each other from separate towers.
Forever solitary and wistful. They knew each other
then. They hastily looked away, laughing in an
embarrassed way; each terrified lest the other might
speak of what he had surprised. But neither spoke,
and they secretly softened towards each other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After awhile Elaine got up, and switched on the
lamps. She glanced at the clock. “There’s a man
coming directly,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stood up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be silly!” said Elaine. “Suppose I <span class='it'>was</span>
giving you a hint to go, why be in such haste to take
it? It’s not very flattering.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve had my hour,” he said, trying to speak
lightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You said that just like an actor! Oh, I wish I
could teach you how to deal with women!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, if it comes to that, why is it always up
to the man?” demanded Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine opened her eyes. “Well, women have to
be won, don’t they?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He spread out his hands. All wrong! All wrong!
But he could not dispute her. She had stolen his
strength.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit down again,” she said. “You ought to know
by this time that I never deal in hints. What I have
not yet had a chance to say is, I want you to meet this
man. An unusual specimen!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred discovered that he still had reserves of
pain. Was <span class='it'>that</span> the rôle he was to be called upon to
play?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Far-off in the great house Wilfred heard the buzz
of the door-bell. After an interval the front door
opened and closed again with its opulent thud. He
entered quickly, thought Wilfred. There were rapid
footsteps on the stairs. Coming up two steps at a
time. Wilfred’s heart beat suffocatingly. That
treacherous heart of his!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s Joe Kaplan,” said Elaine, shielding her face
from the fire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Joe Kaplan,” said Wilfred with an air of
interest. His belly suddenly failed him. Rising,
he caught sight of the grinning, white-faced manikin
in the mirror over the fireplace, and quickly lowered
his eyes in disgust.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have heard of him?” asked Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who hasn’t?” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe swept in. “Hello, Elaine!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had risen, and was helping herself to a fresh
cigarette from the mantelpiece. “Hello, Joe,” she
said, without looking around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having caught sight of Wilfred, Joe stopped
short in his eager progress.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is Mr. Pell,” drawled Elaine. “. . . Mr.
Kaplan.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe jerked into motion again. “I know him,” he
said. “Hello, Pell! What the devil are you doing
here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was said with a good-humored grin, though
Joe’s eyes were snapping. To Wilfred’s relief, he
did not put out his hand. Perceiving enmity, Wilfred
had not sufficient self-command to match the
feigned good humor. Inside him there was howling,
black confusion. Yet the necessity of good form
was strong upon him, too. All he could do was to
stand grinning in a sickly way. How craven he
must appear, knuckling under to Joe at the first
word!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe wasted no time on him. Elaine had reseated
herself, and he plumped into the chair that Wilfred
had lately occupied. “I say, Elaine,” he said; “I
saw that blue chow to-day. He’s a sweet-tempered
little beast; but my man says if you want to show
him, he’s not good enough. So I thought we had
better wait until something first-class turned up.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I liked him,” said Elaine. “And he liked
me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, in that case, Princess, he shall be here
to-morrow!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So Joe has become a sporting gentleman, thought
Wilfred with curling lip. Wilfred was left standing
like a clown with a witless grin daubed on his
face. What he ought to have done was to leave,
he knew; but he was incapable of making a good
exit; and he would not slink out like a whipped dog.
So he stayed. He sat down on a straight-backed
chair a little to one side of the fireplace, facing the
other two. The faces of Elaine and Joe were
strongly revealed in the firelight. It was nothing to
them if Wilfred watched them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They rattled on. It appeared that they shared
a hundred small interests. Joe had achieved the
precise tone of Elaine’s world. The rattle was all
a blind, Wilfred suspected. The fact that they
never looked at each other, gave the game away.
He imagined that he heard a rich quality in their
laughter, having nothing to do with the trifles they
discussed. Hidden things escaped in their laughter.
Elaine’s superb nonchalance might very well be a
sham. She could get away with anything. Such
a woman recognized only one truth; the truth of her
emotions. Color had stolen into her cheeks; it was
an effort to keep her lips decorous. Secrets! secrets!
between these two! Diana was only a woman of the
flesh! What a handsome male Joe was, damn him!
Wilfred felt as if he would die with the beating of
his heart, and the pressure of blood against his
temples.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Knowing himself, he strove desperately to make
a stand against this madness. You are imagining
it all! You cannot honestly say that Elaine has
changed in the slightest degree. She treats Joe precisely
the same as she treated you. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine sought to draw Wilfred into the talk.
“Funny you two should be acquainted,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes,” said Joe with a mocking laugh in
Wilfred’s direction. “It’s ten years since we first
laid eyes on each other. Remember that night,
Pell?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I remember,” said Wilfred, seeking Joe’s eyes
in wonder. Joe’s eyes skated laughingly away.
Clever and daring as Satan! thought Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe went on to give a humorous account of the
psychical evening at the house of Wilfred’s Aunts
long ago. Elaine was to infer that this was the
occasion of their first meeting. In telling the story,
Joe allowed his own soullessness to appear quite
nakedly. He didn’t care; nor, apparently, did
Elaine. It was a good joke.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile Wilfred was working himself up to
the point of going. He finally stood up with a jerk.
“Well, I must trot along,” he said in a thin voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So long, Wilfred,” said Elaine in her boyish
way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ta-ta, old man,” said Joe ironically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>You be damned! thought Wilfred, looking
straight ahead of him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He went out stiffly. Silence in the room behind
him. Already! Already! What if he should go
back? . . . Why go back? He knew without going
back. And it wouldn’t shame <span class='it'>them</span>! . . . Elaine
. . . and that soulless blackguard! All her brave
colors hauled down! Abandoning herself . . . his
practised embraces! Oh, Christ! . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>He hurried out of the house with a shrieking in
his ears.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>V</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>A</span>fter</span> having resisted the temptation for many
days, Wilfred pushed a button at the door of
one of the little flats in the Manhanset Building on
Fifty-Ninth street. He was ashamed to drag his
dead and alive self there for succor; nevertheless a
feeling of thankfulness sprang up in his breast like
water in dusty earth. What a blessing it was to
have a place where you could drop in without an
appointment, and be sure of your welcome. Perhaps
he could conceal from Frances Mary how far gone
he was.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She opened the door. His eyes were gratified by
the sight of her bland and dusky fairness; her calm.
Frances Mary was always the same. “Hello!” she
said with her ironical smile, while her eyes beamed
with friendliness. She had a quality of voice that
worked magic with refractory nerves. “Come in!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She walked away from the door, leaving Wilfred
to close it and follow. If she had read anything
in his face she gave no sign of it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hope I’m not interrupting your work,” he said,
trying not to sound perfunctory. He knew he was
interrupting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was ripe for an interruption.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the end of a tiny hall was her general room, a
mellow retreat highly characteristic of its owner. It
had two windows looking northward over the flat
roofs of dwellings below. The effect was of green
and brown and gold. Wilfred looked around him
thirstily; it provided just what he needed then.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This room is as right as a natural thing,” he said
grinning. “Nothing sticks out. It doesn’t ask to
be admired, but to be flopped in. Demoralizing I
call it. Makes me feel tearful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary looked most ironical when she was
flattered. “Want a hanky?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a hard coal fire burning in the grate.
She put a plump brass kettle on the trivet and swung
it in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t bother about tea,” said Wilfred; “at least
not for me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want it,” she said. They always carried
through this little fiction.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She moved about the room, bringing out the tea
things. She had the gift of getting things done
without any fuss. A tall woman, of an essentially
feminine tenderness of flesh, her glance was not
tender but level. The leaf-colored room was a fit
setting for her. Wilfred’s frantic feeling passed
away. How restful! How blessedly restful!
Her unexpressed sympathy was like sleep stealing
on.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He could always count on her sympathy, he reflected,
though she rarely agreed with him. There
was a wholesome astringent quality in her nature.
She was not generally popular he had observed with
surprise. People complained that she seemed to
mock at everything. They would not see that her
mockery was only a thin shield for her heavenly
kindness of heart. He felt that he alone understood
Frances Mary. She had a slightly invidious smile;
and her gentle glance was generally veiled. In particular,
stupid women hated her for her smile. Yet
she was what is known as a woman’s woman; she
had devoted friends amongst the best sort of women.
On the other hand she seemed to know but few
men, and they not the best sort of men; women’s
men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary was predestined to die single, Wilfred
supposed, watching her. And she so splendidly
made; what a pity! Loved babies, too. But she
lacked any disturbing quality for men. Well, she
was one of the rare women who could do without
a man. There would be no souring here. Not with
that serene mind. The happiest person he knew.
Noble. If one had only had the luck to fall in love
with a woman like that instead of . . . well, it
would be just the difference between life and death!
But you couldn’t fall in love with Frances Mary.
She was too intelligent. A hollow laugh sounded inside
Wilfred. What would be said of a man who
uttered such a sentiment in a story?—But it was
true just the same. Nature disregarded intelligence
in the business of mating. Perhaps intelligence was
too modern for Nature. It was a truism that a
man’s man and a woman’s woman were the best
types of each sex. What a ghastly joke anyhow,
the whole damned business of sex! The peach-like
Frances Mary doomed to shrivel, ungathered; and
he to his Hell of base jealousy!</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not look at him while she moved about,
nevertheless Wilfred felt that he was being explored
with a faculty other than sight—that withdrawn
glance of hers; that hint of a smile. In haste he said,
still in the tone of one determined not to be perfunctory—he
could hear it!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How is your work going?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the tone, her smile deepened; but she answered
simply: “I’ve been working at the ‘Æolian Harp.’
I’d like you to read part of it later.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I expect I shan’t like it,” he said. “A little bird
tells me you have been niggling at it. I warned
you to leave it alone. It was all right as it was.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>An adorable look of anxiety came into Frances
Mary’s face. It gave Wilfred a pleasant sense of
power. She came to a stop; looking at him; biting
her lip. “I . . . I thought I had improved it,” she
faltered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your vice is, never knowing when to leave a
thing alone,” he said severely. “You lose sight of
the whole in the parts.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I expect I do,” she said with a disarming humility.
“Your criticism is awfully good for me. . . .
What are you doing?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred relapsed into the depths. “Nothing,” he
said. The blackness was real enough; but he equivocated
respecting its cause. For days past he had not
even tried to write. “I’m still stuck in the middle of
my restaurant story.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the matter with it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Too damn sentimental!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary was silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred found he was not so deadened, but that
he could still feel the pin-pricks of wounded self-love.
“You don’t say anything,” he said bitterly.
“You think it’s tripe, too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, not as bad as that!” she said. “The sentimentality
was implicit in the original design. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why didn’t you tell me so then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I tried to, but you wouldn’t have it so. . . .
Why not finish it now, frankly in a sentimental
vein; and go on to something else.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not advise me to tear it up?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But it has charm. It will sell readily.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You think that’s all I’m good for!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head. “You can be as brutal as you
like, next time. Your Rivington street story wasn’t
sentimental.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah! don’t throw that up to me! I’ve never been
able to equal it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Every artist knows that feeling!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You manage to maintain the level of your stuff.
It makes me sore, you write so much better than
I do!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary smiled somewhat dryly. “I’ve been
at it longer than you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That hasn’t got anything to do with it. You
have an instinct for perfection, while I’m all over
the place!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perfect stories of perfect ladies to adorn the
chaste pages of our leading family magazine!” she
said, smiling still.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It doesn’t matter what they’re about, they’re well
done!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose I do write better than you do now,”
she said, ceasing to smile. “But my work is much
the same as it was ten years ago when I began.
There is more hope in your unevenness than in my
dead level.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I truckle to the editors,” said Wilfred glooming.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So you do,” admitted Frances Mary—and
laughed when he looked up resentfully. “But as
long as you know it, the case is not hopeless.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m no good!” said Wilfred, touching bottom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have it your own way,” she said. “You are in
one of your self-accusatory moods to-day, and to
argue with you only strengthens your obstinacy.
I’ll wait until you come out of it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not only to-day!” Wilfred burst out. “I
shall never write again! I’ve utterly lost the knack.
I can’t put together an intelligible sentence! I have
gone dead inside!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary looked at him levelly before answering.
Wilfred knew that look. It was to enable
her to decide if this was the mere froth that he
sometimes gave off, or if there was really something
in it. He couldn’t tell which she decided. She said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not drop work for a while? Take a day or
two off to walk in the country. There is snow on
the Connecticut roads.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He shook his head. “Can’t leave town just now,”
he said, looking down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She made no comment. The tea was made. Extending
a cup she said: “Try hot tea.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred forgot his guard for a moment. Raising
his eyes to hers, he broke out laughing. “What a fool
you must think me!” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For an instant, the veil was lifted from her
glance too. By his laughter she knew that he was
in real pain. She laughed too. “Perfect!” she
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her laughter; her warm glance made Wilfred feel
that existence was a little less like a vacuum.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>He allowed himself to be persuaded to stay for
dinner. Dinner in Frances Mary’s flat had the effect
of a miracle. Without any heat or fuss or noise, a
little table appeared in the center of the room, and
was dressed in snow and silver. She wafted in and
out of the room, keeping up the conversation from
the kitchenette. An enticing odor gradually got itself
recognized, and in a surprisingly short space of
time, behold! there was the dinner on the table,
an exactly right meal, never quite the same as anybody
else’s dinner. Like her room, and like her
stories, it revealed the Frances Mary touch. There
was even a little bottle of wine to grace the board.
At the last moment she had made an opportunity to
go change her dress. Wilfred, who knew something
about housekeeping, always marvelled how
it was done.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He suddenly discovered a renewed zest for food.
“Oh, this is good!” he said continually; and Frances
Mary trying in vain to look ironical, smiled all over
like a little girl. A tinge of color had come into her
magnolia-petal cheeks and her eyes were bright.
Feeding herself abstractedly, she eagerly watched
every mouthful he took, and filled his glass before it
was half emptied. They talked shop, and Wilfred
experienced a precarious happiness. Outside of that
enchanted haven the beast might be waiting to rend
him—let it wait!</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the table was cleared they gave themselves
up to talk. Frances Mary had an insatiable
curiosity concerning Wilfred’s friends, whom she
had never seen, and his daily doings. He enjoyed
feeding it of course; but was sometimes troubled by
the feeling that he was inflicting himself unduly on
his friend. When he remembered to try to draw her
out, she was generally too many for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What have you been doing lately, Frances
Mary?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me about your friends.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t make them sound as interesting as you
do yours.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you do with yourself? You can’t
write all the time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I ruminate,” said Frances Mary flippantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed. “I can see you!” he said unguardedly.
“I know you so well!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him quickly, started to speak, and
thinking better of it, pulled down the corners of her
mouth mockingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, sure, that was a fatuous thing to say,” muttered
Wilfred, blushing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s what everybody says to everybody,” she
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I ought to have known better. Nobody
knows anybody, really.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know,” said Frances Mary, “when two
people live together they may. Because then they
have a chance to watch each other in the company of
others. But you and I travel in entirely separate orbits.
The only point of intersection is your coming
here to see me. And you don’t come very often. And
if you find anybody else here you clear out immediately.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But surely we get more out of it. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Surely! The point I was making is that all you
see is your own facet of me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you mean you show a different facet to
everybody?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, nothing so exciting. Alas! I am not different
from other girls. I am always the same—at
least I think I am. What I mean is, that you
only see in me what you wish to see, and there is
never anybody else around to upset your self-pleasing
notions.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, come!” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s just as well,” said Frances Mary with her
mocking smile—she was mocking herself now.
“Who wants the truth to be known about oneself?
Especially a woman. Mystery is her existence. No
matter how clever she is, she cannot escape the common
fate of woman. Her own concerns are so unreal
to her! . . . Mercy, what nonsense I am talking!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A note of real bitterness had crept into Frances
Mary’s voice, and Wilfred felt that he was on the
brink of a disclosure. But while he was still trying
to puzzle out her meaning in his mind, he discovered
that he had been hurried on to something else. It
was a trick of hers. She was now asking him about
his experiences in society.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I couldn’t keep that up,” said Wilfred with
his glib, surface mind. “It was useful to see a few
interiors, and get a line on the way those people
talk; but it’s deadly, really. You can’t let yourself
go. It was cruel hard on a child of nature like me!
And Mrs. Gore’s dinners weren’t as good as yours.
Not by a damn sight.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought perhaps you might make a friend or
two.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hardly, in that milieu.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That brilliant girl you told me about; Elaine
Sturges; she sounded promising.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This name had the effect of a cave-in under Wilfred’s
feet. He dropped sickeningly; the waters of
wretchedness closed over his head. Just when he
had succeeded in forgetting it, too. He carefully
made his face a blank. The skin of it grew tight in
the effort. “Oh, yes, she has character,” he said
carelessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you see her any more?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She leads a crowded life,” said Wilfred. “Occasionally
she vouchsafes me an hour.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How picturesque, such a life!” murmured
Frances Mary. “Has she got the imagination to
conceive its picturesqueness?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred attended closely to his pipe. His heart
swelled and seemed to squeeze his lungs. He cautiously
drew a long breath. He wondered if Frances
Mary was doing this on purpose, but dared not look
at her, for he suspected that she was looking at him.
Her eyes were sharp.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hardly imaginative,” he said, after a pause, as
if for consideration.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If she isn’t imaginative, what on earth do you
find to talk about?” asked Frances Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred thought of venturing a laugh; decided
against it. He shot a glance at Frances Mary
through his lashes. She was no longer looking at
him. The line of her averted face suggested the same
agonized self-consciousness that he felt. Of course,
he thought, I am giving everything away, and she
feels for me. She has guessed everything. Why not
be open with her? He trembled with a horrible internal
weakness. No! he thought desperately. If
I let a single word out, I should go completely to
pieces. Make a disgusting exhibition of myself;
this thing’s got to be clamped down. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, she likes me to explain her to herself,” he
said lightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary let the subject drop.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>VI</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>“T</span>his</span> only drives me crazy!” said Joe, suddenly
rising. “. . . It maddens me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine huddled in the big chair, turned sideways
and dropped her face on her outstretched arm.
“You’re not so crazy but you’re able to stop!” she
murmured resentfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe helped himself to a cigarette from the mantel.
“The servants already suspect,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What makes you think so?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They tap on the door before coming in.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, let them suspect! They’re devoted to me.
Servants always are.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That may be; but it won’t prevent their talking.
And talk spreads from servants.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t care!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I <span class='it'>do</span>. If you won’t take care of yourself, I must
take care of you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine smiled crookedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m not taking a moral attitude,” said Joe.
“It’s just that I don’t choose to have my wife talked
about by servants.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have not said that I would marry you,” she
said quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you will!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine was silent, looking into the grate. She was
pale; her cheeks showed little shadowy hollows.
It was a disagreeable mild day out-of-doors; indoors
the fire sulked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her silence shook Joe a little. Darting an uneasy
glance at her, he asked combatively: “Why don’t
you want to marry me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine closed her eyes and let her head fall back.
Joe’s eyes fastened on the pulse in her wan throat.
“Ah, don’t let’s begin that again,” she said in a
lifeless voice. “It gets us nowhere. . . . I love
you! Isn’t that enough?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A spark returned to Joe’s eyes; his lips pushed out
a little. “But where is it going to land us?” he
said. “We’ve got to thresh the thing out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine opened her eyes. “Oh for heaven’s sake
give me a cigarette and let’s stop arguing about ourselves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put the cigarette between her lips and lighted
it. “Why don’t you want to marry me?” he persisted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I marry, commonsense tells me it ought to
be a man of my own sort. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is new!” put in Joe. “Where did you get
it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“. . . This madness will pass. What would we
have then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You mean one of the slick young fellows
I meet around here? How often have you told me
that their smoothness made you sick? You said it
was my commonness and coarseness and naturalness
that attracted you in the beginning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, I said it; what good to remind me of it
now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m only trying to get at your meaning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . marriage is an everyday affair—a
matter of superficialities if you like; breakfast, lunch
and dinner. We have to live by little things when
this passes. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What makes you think this feeling we have for
each other will pass?” demanded Joe. “That is not
like you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . everybody says it will pass . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is everybody . . . Wilfred Pell?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine straightened up in anger. She tossed the
cigarette into the fire. “Don’t be common and tiresome!”
she said. “Do you think I would allow Wilfred
Pell to discuss my private affairs with me?—or
any other man? . . . What on earth made you
think of him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I dunno,” said Joe indifferently. “I just had a
hunch. . . . Just the same, it <span class='it'>was</span> Wilfred Pell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, very well!” said Elaine hotly. “Then I am
a liar!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a silence. Joe whistled softly between
his teeth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not that I give a damn,” he presently said, good-humoredly.
“A man like Wilfred Pell couldn’t
trouble my peace any. I know the white-faced,
hungry-eyed breed. You will always find them in
a woman’s room whispering with her. That’s as
near as they get, poor devils! sympathetic and safe!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred Pell is a gentleman!” said Elaine.
“He is intelligent and good-hearted and decent!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure!” cried Joe, grinning with an open brow.
“He is all that; and I am none of it!—But what
does it all signify really, between man and woman?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine was silent, still angry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is just spinning words,” said Joe, his voice
becoming warm. “Why fight against the inevitable,
sweetheart? I am your man! You can’t resist me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are my woman!” he said with glittering
eyes. “Look at me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She dragged her eyes up to him, where he stood
by the mantelpiece, a tall, muscular figure, displaying
himself. He was as finished in appearance as any
young man she knew; and he had in addition, the
zest which had always tormented her in the faces
of vulgar young men. Her eyes grew irresponsible;
her face seemed to sharpen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you doubt it?” he demanded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head helplessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t argue with you,” she said, low.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re the sort of woman that never loves but
once,” said Joe. “If you were to let me go . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you threatening to leave me?” she asked,
with a bitter smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Frankly, I can’t stand this,” said Joe. “I must
either have you entirely, or I <span class='it'>will</span> leave you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine was silent. Her eyes were hidden. Suddenly
she rose, and going to one of the windows,
stood, twisting the cord of the window shade between
thumb and finger, and looking down on the
squalid panorama of soiled, half-melted snow. The
old Square looked exhausted and leprous with the
patches of scant dead grass and naked earth showing
amidst the snow. Finally she murmured:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not sure that you love me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What more do you want?” cried Joe. “You
know your power over me. You have felt my heart
beat against yours. You know that when I come
near you, I am lost.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A power over your body,” she murmured without
looking around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s the only thing I know,” said Joe coolly.
“I don’t go in for soul states. You’ve read too many
novels. For God’s sake let’s be natural with each
other. What else is there but this blind hunger we
have for each other. The big thing that comes only
once!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And passes!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Passes? Why do you keep harping on that?
Do you doubt your own power? A woman like
you! Are you afraid of common women? You
will never lose me as long as you are sure of yourself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I have lost you already!” she whispered to
the glass.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s that?” he asked irritably.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She would not repeat it. “I shouldn’t so much
mind about you,” she said slowly, “if I was sure
that <span class='it'>I</span> could stay mad. That’s what I most dread,
coming to myself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You needn’t fear,” said Joe smiling. “I’ll
undertake to hold you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine continued to look out of the window.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently he said: “I suspect the real reason is,
you think I’m not good enough for you . . . not
that I blame you. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s not it,” she said quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have never put on any pretences with
you. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no!” she said bitterly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have told you the whole of my nefarious history. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wouldn’t care if you had committed a murder!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose people warn you against me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes. Everybody. I don’t listen . . . I live
only for the hours I spend with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Same here,” put in Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine looked at him involuntarily. The little
hollows in her cheeks darkened; and her eyes became
liquid with bitter mirth. She laughed shakily, unaware
that she was laughing; paused as if startled
by the sound; and resumed in her former toneless
voice: “From the first moment that I saw you in
the field at Piping Rock I was lost. It was your
damned insolence. In half a glance you knew you
had me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Insolence was your line,” said Joe laughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then it was a kind of retribution,” she said
darkly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You looked at me as if I was something dirty in
the road.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You knew you had me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you had me, too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head. “There was triumph in your
eyes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All a bluff,” said Joe; “a man’s supposed to
look like that. . . . Why, for weeks after that
whenever we met, you went out of your way to insult
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A fat lot you cared!” murmured Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And the first night I tried to kiss you,” said Joe
chuckling; “Gee! . . . Remember? Cave woman
act. No man ever took worse punishment for a
kiss.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You knew you had me,” murmured Elaine.
“You laughed. . . . Oh, God! why does it have to
be so one-sided!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now who’s agonizing?” said Joe, going to her.
“One-sided nothing! We’re both crazy. It’s just
as it ought to be. We would be as happy as kids
if it wasn’t for outside interference . . . I can see
exactly what has happened. Your folks have been
keeping after you about me, until you’re half hysterical.
Well, it’s nobody’s business but our own. I
am able to take care of you. Let’s steal away by ourselves
and get married. We are free, white and
twenty-one. That’s the way to stop the uproar.
Nobody bothers about a thing once it’s done. To-morrow,
Princess—or to-day! now! My car is at
the door. Then good-bye to all worries. Nothing
but happiness—Oh, my God! think of it. . . . Go
get your hat and coat!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine shook her head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe drew her back from the window. Holding
her within one arm, he roughly pressed her hair back
from her forehead, and kissed her eyelids. “You
can’t fight against this thing, sweetheart,” he whispered.
“It’s stronger than we are. The more you
try to fight it, the stronger it gets!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, don’t!” she whispered between his kisses.
“I know it. . . . Oh, if I could stay like this forever!
Oh, God! if I didn’t have to think!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stop thinking, dearest dear. Come with me and
stay with me forever. Come now! . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She withdrew herself from his arm. “I will not,”
she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe returned to the fireplace and flung himself into
one of the big chairs. “Oh God! you do try a man’s
patience!” he exclaimed. “You want me, and you
don’t want me! Where is this going to end?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m afraid of you,” Elaine said suddenly. She
had turned, and was looking at him somberly. The
fear she spoke of was not evident in her glance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laughed softly. “That’s flattering,” he said:
“for you’re the bravest woman I know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went a step or two towards him. She seemed
to speak by a power outside herself. “In our maddest
moments your eyes are still measuring me. You
never lose yourself. . . . You should not have
forced me to speak of this. I see that all the things
I ordinarily say are mere nonsense—like the noises
made by savages to keep devils off. . . . You have
roused a fever in me that is burning me up. . . . But
. . . but . . . I don’t want to have a child. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Joe, startled,
showing his teeth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The jangling voice recalled her to herself, wincing.
She walked unevenly up and down. “The
nonsense that they teach girls!” she murmured. “It
made a rebel of me. I had prudence and obedience
and chastity thrust down my throat until I fell in
love with everything that was reckless and bad. I
understood the devil worshippers. That’s how you
got me. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t care how I got you,” said Joe with a secret
smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She came to a stop. Her eyes were widely distended
and quite unseeing. She made vague passes
with her hand in the effort to express the inexpressible.
“But all that stuff I laughed at . . . religion
. . . all that stuff . . . is getting back at me . . .
I mean may be it is . . . all kinds of things are
working inside me . . . maybe there’s something in
it. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re talking wildly!” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head. “I never got so close to
naming it before . . . the thing you don’t talk
about . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come here,” said Joe, half contemptuously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head inattentively. “Let me
be. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He stood up. “Come here!” he said, peremptorily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him reluctantly—and lost herself.
A deep blush overspread her pale skin; her face
became irradiated with a confused and imploring
smile. She went to him slowly; shamed and rapturous.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe had dropped back into the big chair. Placing
his hands on her shoulders, he pressed her down
to her knees at his feet. “Put your arms around
my neck,” he commanded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She obeyed. He pressed his lips to hers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now . . . <span class='it'>now</span> tell me if there is anything in
life that matters beside this,” he said breathlessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No! No! No!” she whispered passionately.
“I want only you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You see, you’ll have to marry me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, Joe!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I say you shall!”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>VII</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>O</span>n</span> a mild, bright afternoon, Elaine and Wilfred
ran down the steps of the Sturges house, and
turned east. Wilfred had enjoined Elaine to dress
plainly; and she was wearing a severe tweed coat,
and an inconspicuous hat bound round with a veil.
Thus clad, her brave air was more apparent than
ever. Wilfred’s heart beat high. Leaving behind
them the big house which typified Elaine’s crowded
exotic life, he felt for the first time that he had her
to himself. Looking at her, he thought: It is impossible
that Joe could reach his grimy paw so high!
As usual, I have been tormenting myself without
reason.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now elucidate the mystery,” said Elaine.
“Where are we going?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Into the East Side,” said Wilfred. “My stamping-ground.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Slumming?” she asked, running up her eyebrows.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, indeed!” said Wilfred quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’m thankful for that. I’m no slum angel.
. . . But why should we go there then? It’s not
done.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I haunt the East Side for my own benefit, not for
the East-Siders’,” he said. “I want to show you
something real for once.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You funny man!” said Elaine. “I suppose you
think you are sincere in this nonsense.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I warn you it is useless to expect me to be born
anew.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t,” he said quickly. “This is no deep-laid
plot. Your life suffocates me. I am never myself
in it. I wanted to have you once where I could
breathe: to drag you down to my level if you like.
It’s only for an hour. It won’t injure you permanently.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not afraid of being injured,” she said a
little affronted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are afraid of being changed, though.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not at all!” she said stiffly. . . . “Still, I don’t
see why I have to be dragged through the slums.
I shan’t like it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, your conventional nose will turn up at the
smells, and your eyes avert themselves from the
dirt,” said Wilfred; “but there is a grand streak of
commonness in you if one could only get at it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine looked at him a little startled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Instead of a young lady of fashion you ought
to have been a camp follower of the Revolution,”
he went on. “I can see you shaking the Tricolor
and yelling for blood!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She liked this picture, and showed her white teeth.
“You have the silliest notions about me!” she said
scornfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They made their way through St. Mark’s Place
and East Tenth street to Tompkins Square. This
neighborhood, still suggesting 1860, with its plain
brick tenements of low height, and old-fashioned
store-fronts was a favorite haunt of Wilfred’s. It
was still Irish-American New York, with the descendants
of the original be-Jasus bhoys standing on
the corners. It had the appeal of something doomed;
for the old stores here and there were erupting in
showy modern fronts; and the Jews were creeping
in from the South.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine did not get the special character of the
streets, but any comely individual interested her.
There was a stalwart young teamster unloading his
dray, who, confident of his manhood, glanced sideways
at Elaine with daring, mirthful eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What charming, wicked eyes!” murmured
Elaine, after they had passed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred felt a little crushed. His eyes were not
wicked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Proceeding farther east, they turned up-town,
following always the last street on the edge of the
Island. Wilfred found these forgotten streets full
of character; the utilitarian steam-roller had not
flattened them out. Actually, in the summer-time,
spears of grass could be seen pushing up between
the cobble-stones. There was a group of deserted
buildings falling into ruin; and a little general store
whose aspect had not changed since the days when
New York was pure American; there was a smithy,
which, lacking only a spreading chestnut tree, might
have been transported entire from up-state. There
was a yard piled with junk, which would have been
fascinating to pick over; and there were high board
fences with padlocked gates concealing mysteries.
The inhabitants of the scattered dwellings in these
last streets stared at the intruders like mountain
folk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He tried enthusiastically to convey it all to
Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Looking at him with a quizzical eye, she asked:
“Would you like to live over here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Wilfred.
“Isn’t it refreshing after the awful sameness
of the other streets?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine peered dubiously through a filthy archway
leading into a dank, paved court. “Well, I don’t
know,” she said; “I like a place that I know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Farther up-town, they came to a wide waterside
street which had lately been laid off on made ground.
On the river side a row of big new piers had been
built, sticking out into the river. As yet no sheds
covered them; and it was one of the few places in
the water-engirdled town Wilfred pointed out, where
one could see the water from the street. The great
shipping interests had still to take possession of the
piers; consequently a confused throng of humble
craft were tied up there; including canal-boats; sailing-lighters
(which had once been called periguas);
little old steam-boats laid up for the winter; and a
rigged ship or two, waiting for a charter. Many of
these vessels revealed family life on board. The
open piers were heaped with rough cargo that would
take no damage from the elements. The whole made
a scene irresistibly entangling to the eye.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the landward side a raw building or two had
been run up alongside the new street to house the
inevitable saloon with its colored glass and gingerbread
work; but for the most part the vista was of
coal-yards, and yards for the storage of wagons at
night. These were backed by the side walls of the
tall new tenements in the cross streets—not so new
but that the white paint was scaling off the bricks,
and the fire-escapes rusting. From every floor of the
tenements extended lines of flapping clothes affixed
to tall poles in the rear. Looking through between
the backs of the houses, one beheld a very blizzard
of linen. The sun was preparing to descend behind
the tenement houses, and over across the wide river,
the ugly factories of the Greenpoint shore (no longer
green!) were sublimated by his horizontal rays.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred looked around him with a kindling eye.
Elaine, glancing at him askance, said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Interesting if not beautiful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’ve quit worrying about what constitutes
beauty!” said Wilfred. “All I know is, this <span class='it'>bites</span>
me. It’s because it sums up my town; the flapping
clothes; the collection of queer craft; they could be
of no other town; it’s New York!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Crossing one of the streets leading away from the
river, they saw a crowd assembling before the gates
of a coal-yard. Little boys appeared from nowhere,
running and crying in an ecstacy:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Somep’n t’ matteh! Somep’n t’ matteh!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The rallying cry of New York!” murmured
Wilfred. Anticipating ugliness, he took hold of
Elaine’s arm to draw her on; but she resisted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let’s see what it is,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had no recourse but to follow her into
the side street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two burly young men out of the coal-yard were
fighting. It was a serious affair. Greasy with coal-dust,
their faces dehumanized, there was nevertheless
a dignity in the fighting look; hard, wary and
intent. One was a mere lad; a young bull, with
round head sunk between his brawny shoulders, and
a remarkable mane of crisping black hair. The
other, some years older, was cooler and warier; not
without grace. How vain this one’s efforts! Though
he was no older than Wilfred, on the plane of savagery
his day was already passing; it was marked
under his eyes. He might beat the lad now; but the
lad would beat him next year. They were well-matched;
they sparred smartly; and broke away
clean; just the same there was a savage fury behind
their blows.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was a little sickened. Yet he
had the envious feeling that these simple brutes
possessed a key to life that had been taken from him,
without any other being supplied. The younger
man received a blow on the mouth that drew blood.
He indifferently swept the back of his hand across
his mouth, leaving a hideous smear. Had Wilfred
been alone, he would have wished to see the affair
to a conclusion, though he could not have borne to
watch it continuously. His eyes would bolt, and
have to be forced back. Now, with Elaine beside
him, he was in distress, thinking of her womanhood
exposed to such a sight.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on! Come on!” he whispered urgently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She turned a look of scorn on him. “You wanted
me to see something real,” she said. “Can’t you
stand it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was thinking of you,” he murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She seemed to have increased in height; and her
face wore a hard, bright look; in fact, a reflection
of the look on the coal-blackened faces. She is of
them; not of me! Wilfred thought sadly. She had
not lost the simple key of life—the heroic key; and
alas! he was no hero. He no longer saw the fight.
Before his mind’s eye rose a picture of himself and
Elaine yoked together and hopelessly opposed.
Every advantage would be hers. It would be fatal
for him to marry a woman with that strain in her,
he thought; and at the same time his desire for
her was increased tenfold, by reason of her savage,
bright eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was no conclusion to the battle. A cry of
“Cheese it, the cop!” was raised; and the two combatants,
bolting through the ring that surrounded
them, disappeared within the coal-yard. The spectators
were left standing at a loss. A blue-coated
officer approached with dignity from the river front.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hey! Move on there, youse!” he cried, disdaining
to enquire into the cause of the gathering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The people reluctantly made a pretence of moving
this way and that; but scarcely left the spot. The
bluecoat, with his Olympian air, went on a little
way, and then came back again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Still Elaine would not be drawn away. She saw
a knot of people excitedly discussing the affair; and
coolly elbowed her way in, leaving Wilfred to follow
at her skirt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hey! Move on! didn’t I tell yez!” commanded
the officer, heading for the group; and dispersing it
with strong outward thrusts of his forearms. The
elegant Elaine was thrust aside with the rest. Up
to this moment nobody had taken any particular
notice of her; but the policeman, observing her dress,
looked her up and down with amazement. He did
not, however, address her. Wilfred suffered acutely.
Elaine, ignoring the officer, fell into step beside a
girl who seemed to be the source of information, and
Wilfred walked beside Elaine, feeling as ineffective
as a toddling child.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What started it?” asked Elaine, avidly interested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girl was a meager little thing, not more than
sixteen years old. Her thin jacket was mended
crookedly; her shoes ran over at the heel. She
wore a big black lace hat, which projected far beyond
her pompadour like a fan. She was not at all
averse to talking. It was her moment. Everybody
was trying to walk alongside her, pressing close to
hear; some in front walking with heads over their
shoulders; all mouths open.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“T’at utter fella,” she said; “I mean t’ old fella;
he’s too fresh, he is. He t’inks he’s t’ hull t’ing!
Me guyl friend, she lives next door to t’ coal-yard,
see? and he’s all a time flirtin’ wit’ her at t’ winda.
Just to show off to t’ utter fellas in t’ yard what a
hell of a fella <span class='it'>he</span> was, understand?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, I understand,” said Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, it was all right until he begun to holler up
at her,” the girl went on. “Then me friend’s old
woman, she got sore, see? If he’d come up to her
respectable in the street, like, she’d a gone out wit’
him, maybe—but to holler up at t’ winda like
t’at!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Elaine; “it’s not done!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re right! It ain’t done! . . . So I says to
my friend, I says, I’d stop by the yard when he was
in on his cart, and I’d tell him real nice, to cut it out,
see? And I did ast him just as polite, to cut it out,
and he begun to get fresh wit’ me. An t’en t’ black-headed
young fella he come in on his cart, and he up
and tells t’ utter fella to cut it out. And t’ utter
fella, I mean t’ old fella, he begins to cuyse. Such
language! And me standin’ right t’ere all a time!
T’en t’ black-headed young fella, he soaked him one,
and t’ey went outside to settle it. . . . T’at old
fella, he’s t’ bully of t’ hull yard. But he’d a got
hisn to-day if t’ cop hadn’t a come. T’ black-headed
boy’ll lay him out cold, yet!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s a handsome lad,” said Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is so, lady! And strong! My! He ain’t
but nineteen year old, neit’er.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall you see him again?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, he kin allus find me if he wants me,” she
said with a toss of the lace hat. “I don’t live far.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the corner, the group broke up, and Wilfred
was able to draw Elaine away at last. In his mind
he was confused and bitter. Elaine scorned these
people; yet she was able to talk to them without self-consciousness;
he loved them, and could not. All
his explorations on the East Side were conducted in
silence. Not only was his tongue tied, but he knew
he had an aloof air which prevented people from
addressing him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine guessed what was passing in his mind. She
said with a smile: “You see I am closer to them
than you are.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred said nothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“These people interest you, because they are
strange to you,” she presently went on. “They are
not strange to me. Just people. . . . All the same,
I’m glad my great-great-grandfather made a lot of
money! . . . Wilfred, if you lived over here, you’d
spend your time walking up and down Fifth avenue,
looking in the rich peoples’ windows, and dreaming
about <span class='it'>their</span> lives!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It’s true! thought Wilfred. She has her own
fire, and doesn’t have to bother; but I can only go
about warming myself at the fires of others!</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>They reached one of the little terraces on the East
River cliffs. Elaine swung herself up on the parapet
that closed the end of a cross street; while Wilfred
standing below her, leaned his elbows on the stone.
Off to his left ran a little street of brownstone
houses a block long, with back yards dropping over
the cliff. Darkness was falling; no one was in sight.
Elaine drew the tweed coat more closely around her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Light a cigarette for me,” she said. “If anybody
comes, I’ll hand it back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s lips caressed the cigarette as it left them.
Fascinated, he watched Elaine’s cool fresh lips close
upon the same spot. How sweet that vicarious kiss!
He ventured to move closer to her; and at the touch
of her body, a momentary benediction descended on
his agitated breast—momentary, because he had
that to say which would destroy it forever.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, has it been a success?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They had walked fast, and the flags were up in
Elaine’s cheeks. “The walk, yes!” she said quickly.
“But as for your East Side! . . . Well, I prefer
the middle.” She shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m
not a snob. I know these people are every bit as
good as I am; but I don’t feel any call to herd with
them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, let them go!” said Wilfred, smiling.
(How useless this ordeal! But he had resolved
upon it. As soon as it was dark, he had vowed.)</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine, glancing at him through her lashes, moved
away ever so slightly. The move was not lost on
Wilfred, but he stubbornly held to his purpose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Looking out over the river, Elaine said quickly:
“This view makes up for any amount of East Side!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, thankful for the respite, followed her
glance. The stream was like a magical beam of twilight
in the dark. It seemed to be the source of its
own blue, darkling radiance. The fading sky held
no such poignancy. The river was both still and
subtly perturbed; like a smooth breast swelling upon
inaudible sighs; like a quiet face working with obscure
passions. Out in the middle rose the crouching
black rocks off the point of Blackwell’s Island;
the island itself, appeared, pointing out of the obscurity
like a gigantic black forefinger. On it rose
the inhuman prison buildings. Architects are always
successful in designing prisons, Wilfred thought.
Further to the left, and high against the sky sprang
the vast cantilever bridge, a rumbling portent of
the Age of Machines.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred put his yearning hand upon hers. She
snatched her hand away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wilfred! not <span class='it'>that</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Elaine, will you marry me?” he whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” she breathed crossly. “You know very
well I don’t love you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why on earth . . . ?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wanted you to know that I loved you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I knew it. I am not blind.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I was forced to tell you . . . because it was
so difficult.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you ridiculous man! . . . I couldn’t possibly
fall in love with a man like you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it,” he murmured, while the iron entered
slowly into his soul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You knew it all along,” she said. “You are no
fool. I was glad to have you come to see me, you’re
so intelligent. But I wondered why you continued
to come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I couldn’t help myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine said no more, but looked out over the river,
kicking her heel impatiently against the stone of the
parapet. How deeply grateful Wilfred was, to be
spared her pity. How prompt and honest had been
her response—like all her responses to life. While
he backed and filled! He was not even sure at this
moment that he wanted to marry her. Was there
not a feeling of relief amidst all his pain? . . . Ah!
if he might only hold her close, close in his arms
and stop thinking!</p>
<p class='pindent'>He said: “You’ll catch cold if you continue to
sit here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lifting herself on her hands, she sprang down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll have to walk a bit before we can hope to
find a taxi,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the matter with the car-line?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right. The nearest is on Second Avenue.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They walked away from the river in a constrained
silence. This was harder for Elaine to bear than for
Wilfred. After awhile she burst out crossly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, bother! You’ve spoiled everything!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred smiled. “No,” he said. “You get me
wrong. I am not bitter, because I expected nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think that’s just an attitude,” she said, looking
at him shrewdly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, you’ll see—if you don’t cast me off.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She impulsively slipped her hand through his arm.
“Oh, Wilfred, I <span class='it'>do</span> want you for a friend!” she said.
“I have nobody to talk to but you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was very happy. He thought without
bitterness: I suppose I am a poor-spirited creature.
Thankful for small favors. He said: “Why not?
That thing is cleared away now. There are no
bars between us. That’s why I spoke.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have already given me three different reasons
for speaking,” she remarked acutely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed. “All true! Life is not so
simple!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re a funny man!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know nothing about men,” said Wilfred.
“You only recognize one quality in men. You want
me for your friend, yet you despise me because I am
willing to come in on that basis.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not despise!” she said quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, supply your own word.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mind if you scold me,” she said with unexpected
humility.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed again, not very mirthfully. “I
can be honester with you now,” he said. “I have
nothing to lose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She stopped. “I’ll put your friendship to the test
at once,” she said abruptly. “Let’s not go home.
Let’s walk for miles and miles. Have dinner out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, <span class='it'>will</span> you!” cried Wilfred in delight.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well! . . . you’re easily consoled,” she said
dryly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t help but be happy when you are beside
me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She dropped his arm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They turned Northward again. They went down
hill under the bridge approach, and alongside the
towering gas tanks. The next stage was marked
by East River Park, with its row of fancy little
brick houses, circa 1888; then through Pleasant avenue,
a raw thoroughfare, belying its name; and
finally through the secluded streets around the
Northeast corner of the island, lined with gaily-painted
wooden dwellings like a village. Not until
they had reached the plaza where the red trolley cars
start for the Bronx, did Elaine confess to being tired
and hungry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you got enough money?” she asked like
a boy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred nodded. “We’ll get on the El. and ride
back to Sixty-Seventh street,” he said. “There is
a restaurant on Third avenue called Joe’s, famous
in its way; I expect it’s like no place you have ever
been in.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The neighborhood was not prepossessing; and
neither was Joe’s; a common-looking place with two
rows of long tables, ended against the wall, like a
Bowery restaurant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine looked about her with bright eyes. “I have
never eaten in such a place,” she said. “I shall
love it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not really as bad as it looks,” said Wilfred.
“The commonness is deliberate. It is designed to
attract those who appreciate good food, but do not
like to put on style.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a good idea!” said Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I don’t know,” said Wilfred. “Joe is a
little discouraged. Style seems to be in the ascendant;
and good living on the wane!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can plant my elbows on the table, and slump
down anyhow,” said Elaine. “Do you think they
will allow me to smoke?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll hazard it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred insisted on ordering champagne.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How silly in such a place!” objected Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no!” he said. “Joe is prepared for it. . . .
Besides champagne has a special virtue. It puffs one
up.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine pushed her plate away. “Wonderful
food!” she said. “I’m as full as a tick!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She lit a cigarette. There was no interference.
Nearly all the other diners had left now. Wilfred
was sitting opposite her with a smile etched around
his lips; gazing at her with half-veiled eyes of
pleasure. Elaine’s look at him became quizzical.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why shouldn’t I be happy?” he said reading
her thought. “To-night I have had the best of you.
Our walk together in the dark; our confidence in
each other. If I were your husband I could have
nothing better.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine’s smile broadened; and he perceived that
she regarded this as mere sentimentalizing. Well,
it didn’t matter now. He smiled on. He made
no attempt to explain that his exquisite happiness
was due to the fact that his heart was big and soft
with pain. Impossible to convey such things in
words.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Besides, I have confessed myself to you,” he
added. “I need hide no longer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are hiding things from me now!” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Things, but not myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>While she quizzed him, something was working
behind it. Her eyes fell. “I wish I could be happy
. . . like that,” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An apprehension of worse to come struck through
Wilfred. “You must feel something the same as I,”
he said quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Something,” she said. “You’re a dear!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The word chilled Wilfred. He hastened past it.
“But not content?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Happiness seems to me to leave a bad taste in
the mouth,” said Elaine, affecting lightness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An exclamation of dismay was forced from Wilfred.
“Oh!” Obscurely he had felt that Elaine
was unhappy; but this forced it on his consciousness.
He was thrown into confusion. He could scarcely
conceive the possibility of pitying the glorious
Elaine. She suffering too—but not for him! Still
. . . fellows in pain! Compassion welled up in
his breast. Compassion is most due to the strong,
he felt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s just a phase,” he said quickly. “You
knew the feeling of ridiculous happiness when you
were a child.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes,” she said, “and later than that. That
feeling is natural to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It will come back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wonder!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s a cloud over your sun at the moment;
that’s all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?” she asked with a hard
look, jealous of her secret.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It intimidated Wilfred. “I was only speculating,”
he said, his eyes trailing away. Inwardly he
was in a panic. Was it Joe? . . . It could not be
Joe. . . . But he knew that it <span class='it'>was</span> Joe! The
thought was like the recurrence of a madness. He
fought against it blindly. . . . She had not succumbed.
She was fighting. Something must be
done to help her! . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine said, gloomily resting her chin on her
palm: “Nobody can help anybody else, really. Each
of us has his own particular hell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“People <span class='it'>could</span> help one another if they were
sufficiently honest,” Wilfred insisted. “It requires
a terrifying honesty. Once or twice in a lifetime,
maybe . . . I’ve been helped.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine’s look upon him was scarcely flattering.
It said: Your case is hardly the same as mine!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Something must be done! Something must be
done! the panic-stricken voice cried within Wilfred.
He despaired of finding the right words to say. He
said nothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When you’re faced by a serious problem, should
you listen to your heart or your head?” asked Elaine,
flicking the ash off her cigarette.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To both,” he answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s merely silly,” she said with curling lip.
“If they’re warring voices.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred flushed. “I was wrong,” he said. “It’s
confusing. . . . I never can speak without thinking.
You should listen to your heart always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah!” she said, with the air of one who had
caught him out. “Then you believe that passion
should override everything; all considerations of
prudence; everything!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred felt his lips growing tight. “Passion
does not always come from the heart,” he said. “As
I understand it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is infatuation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At that word Elaine ran up her eyebrows in two
little peaks; but Wilfred somehow found the courage
to face her out. A silence succeeded, which shook
him badly. A gush of foolish, emotional speech
filled his mouth like warm blood. He grimly swallowed
it, waiting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose one experienced a violent passion,”
asked Elaine, with a casual air which concealed
nothing from the man who loved her, “how on earth
would one know whether it was love or infatuation?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By the quality of the object,” he said quickly.
“If it was worthy. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s nonsense!” she said scornfully. “If you
were infatuated you would think the object was
glorious anyhow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred shook his head. “That’s where the heart
comes in. No matter how blinded we may be, we
each have a voice in our breasts that whispers the
truth. Only we don’t want to listen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must have a well-trained little prompter!”
said Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at her. He could bear her gibes. He
held his tongue, waiting for the right word.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She said: “I’d have to have some surer guide than
mysterious inner voices.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s easy,” said Wilfred quickly. “If your
passion is for a worthy object you feel proud; if it
is not worthy, you suffer like the devil.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wasn’t talking about <span class='it'>my</span> passion,” said Elaine
laughing; but her long-lashed eyes were dreadfully
haunted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, sure!” said Wilfred, grinning like a man on
the rack. “That’s just the clumsy English language!”
. . . Why can’t we speak out! he cried to
himself; I love her so!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, having got thus far,” said Elaine with a
sprightly air that was almost more than he could
bear; “having recognized that one is the victim of
an infatuation, how is one to set about curing
oneself?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred shook his head helplessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What! has the doctor no remedy to offer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Leave it to time,” he murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That might work in the case of an elastic
nature,” said Elaine. “One of those natures that
snaps easily in and out of entanglements. But there’s
another kind; stubborn.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred could not speak. Something inside him
was pressing up, and he could not force it back.
It was stopping his throat; he struggled for
breath. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Anyhow,” said Elaine, raising her chin, “I don’t
admit your absolutes of love and infatuation.
What’s the difference between them? It’s all in
the point of view. It’s not the object that matters,
but the feeling!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The constriction within Wilfred suddenly broke.
He heard with a feeling of surprise, a low, shaken
voice issuing from between his lips. “Oh, Elaine!
you couldn’t! He’s rotten! I am not quick to discover
evil in people. But this man is altogether
evil. . . . Never mind about his life. I expect he’s
told you; he always does. What he’s done doesn’t
matter. It is what he is! Your nature is clear and
open; you <span class='it'>must</span> feel it . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine after a quick glance of astonishment,
listened with curving lips. “Of whom are you
speaking?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know,” he said, suddenly dashed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There it was out! He need not have been so
terrified, because Elaine was equal to the situation.
She shrugged. “Oh well, it’s no secret that Joe
and I are pals. I should hardly come to you for a
testimonial of his character.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her remote glance, full of pain, assured him that
her inner self was listening to his words. It enabled
him to bear her scorn. “Worse than positive evil,”
he said. “It’s a sort of ghastly sterility. He’s a
monster! He cannot feel anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I assure you, you are wrong about that,”
said Elaine with her tormented and contemptuous
smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lust,” he said very low, not able to look at her
then.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well?” she said simply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was struck dumb by that query. Why
not lust? Well . . . why not . . . ?</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a moment he went on: “You must not think
that I am merely jealous. I have no hopes. If Joe
had never existed, you would not have cared for
me. Remember too, that I’ve known him for ten
years. This is not something that has sprung into
my mind since I learned that you. . . . You <span class='it'>must</span>
believe that I am honest! I love you! If it was
anybody else but him. . . . I haven’t seen Joe but
about half a dozen times in my life. From the first
he has represented to me the principle of evil; that
which destroys us! I have seen how he debauches
everyone with whom he comes in contact. He calls
to the evil in the natures of others. He goes on
unharmed because he feels nothing. The thought
that he might obtain a hold on you, a permanent
hold. . . . Oh God! it won’t bear speaking of! It
is too horrible. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He jumped up as if he were about to run out of
the place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Steady!” whispered Elaine. “People are looking.
. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He dropped into his chair; his startled eyes darting
around.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a silence, she said sullenly: “This is just
emotional stuff.” She turned her cheek on her palm,
half averting her face from him. “. . . Anyhow,
I’m not engaged to him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know the nature of the spell he exerts over
you,” Wilfred went on more calmly. “I have seen
it working; I have felt it myself in a different way.
It is horrible and irresistible—yes, and delicious, too.
Delicious! I say this, because I must force you to
see that I understand. I don’t blame you for feeling
it. . . . You think that I’m something less than
a man—Oh, well, never mind about me! . . . But
I want you to know that I never put you on any silly
pedestal. I love you because you’re warm and
human, and of the same flesh as me. I don’t blame
you. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks!” drawled Elaine. Her eyes were
hidden from him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“. . . I don’t see how you’re going to resist it.
A pure and passionate woman! But marriage. . . .
Oh, God! . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the alternative?” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Give yourself to him,” said Wilfred quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine jerked her head up, staring at him in pure
amazement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That startles you?” he asked somberly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not the suggestion,” she said. “I’m no bread
and butter miss. But that it should come from
you . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, leave me out of it! Look on me as a sort
of disembodied voice. . . . It would be better than
marriage, wouldn’t it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No answer from Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This thing is strong only when you oppose it.
Give in to it, and you’ll discover its insignificance.
. . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine looked at him startled; then closely hid her
eyes again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“. . . Bad morality, but good commonsense,”
said Wilfred with a jangling laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine said in her casual voice: “They say that
infatuation grows on what it feeds upon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mean for a night,” he said bluntly. “Go
away with him. Stay with him as long as you want.
He could not take anything from you that mattered,
if you were not bound. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She gave no sign.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He might reject your offered sacrifice,” Wilfred
went on grimly. “Marriage with you is what he
wants. It would be a fine thing for him. You’d
have to insist. . . .” Wilfred’s voice began to
shake. “Ah, do not fight yourself until you are worn
out! Beware of that fatal moment of weariness,
when you are willing to give into anything!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Would you take me when I came back?” asked
Elaine in an ironical voice without looking at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Like a shot!—if you wanted me. However, I
have no illusions about that. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine laughed shakily, and bestirred herself.
“What a lot of nonsense I’m letting you talk!”
she said in an insincere voice. “One would think
I only had to get on a train with a man to solve all
problems! The Lord knows, I’m not squeamish;
but after all, society is organized on a certain basis;
and I’m not prepared to. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now who’s a coward!” cried Wilfred, facing
her down. “You have accused me of it often enough—by
implication. But at least I will face things
. . . even this! . . . What do you want? The
sanction and blessing of society on such a thing?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her lowered head. “Not really,” she
said very low. “It’s just that I doubt the efficacy
of your remedy. . . .” Then lower still: “I think
. . . that you underrate the strength of such a feeling
. . . in a woman . . . well, in me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps I do,” he said with a dreadfully sinking
heart. “I am not pure. I never was pure. . . .
But, Elaine, not marriage! . . . Oh, not marriage
. . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on,” she said. “The waiters are fidgeting.
They want to close.”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>VIII</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>S</span>he</span> had a sweet, bell-like soprano, which commanded
great applause; but Wilfred disliked
to hear her sing. A little too bell-like perhaps;
a suggestion of the metal, however silvery. He was
reminded of huskier and less admirable voices, which
nevertheless had the power to bring tears to his
eyes. But of course he applauded Daisy with the
rest. He had met her three times on the occasions
of Ladies’ nights at the dinners of a little club to
which he belonged. She sang for her dinner. He
was not in the least attracted to her; but in a circle
of serious-minded men, mostly married, it was up
to him to prove his mettle. He could not have allowed
one of the dull fellows to carry off the only
girl in their midst. She was a girl; but not a particularly
young one; fully Wilfred’s own age. So
he had taken her home each time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was pretty enough to gratify his fastidiousness,
especially as it was not an obvious prettiness.
She wore glasses, which gave her rather the air of
a young school-ma’am; and it was only after reaching
a certain degree of intimacy, that you discovered
there were lovely blue eyes behind the glass. She
had too, an admirable straight, short nose, and a
sweet-lipped mouth, a thought too small. Her body
was well enough. She gave an impression of thinness
which was illusory. She was a coquette, and
a great fool; and conversation with her was a weariness
to a young man who had a good conceit of
himself, owing to her ridiculous assumptions. But
old men and unattractive men crowded around her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred had always found a certain stimulus in
the society of a coquette. It would make him a little
indignant to see other men willing to subserve their
pretensions; and when opportunity offered, he was
eager to undertake the rehabilitation of his sex.
Moreover, it was amusing to observe the astonishment
of a coquette when her queenship was coolly
questioned. Derision was devastating to coquettes.
Unfortunately, the game was too easy. There was
no glory in making a conquest of a coquette. Dethroned,
she forthwith grovelled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Daisy lived far up-town. She shared a tiny flat
with a girl who was a trained nurse. To-night in
order to make the long journey tolerable, Wilfred
set about provoking Daisy to wrath.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a pretty little wife Dexter has!” he
remarked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you think so?” said Daisy melodiously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Such eyes, such teeth, such hair! I don’t blame
him for keeping her close.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is just what you would do, isn’t it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You bet I would! . . . Sweet enough to eat!
Think of having <span class='it'>that</span> to fetch your slippers!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, she looked like a slipper-fetcher,” said
Daisy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You wouldn’t fetch a man’s slippers, would
you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are merely being fatuous!” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“. . . Like a delicious kitten!” said Wilfred.
“All soft and downy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They live in the Bronx, don’t they?” enquired
Daisy, feeling of her back hair. “She looks as if
she had her clothes made near home.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred hooted. “You can’t bear to hear another
woman praised!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not at all!” said Daisy with dignity. “I enjoy
looking at a pretty woman as much as a man does.
I have always said so. Women are nicer to look
at than men, any day. And a woman is a far better
judge of another woman’s looks than any man is!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maybe so,” said Wilfred. “But a pretty woman
isn’t pretty for women.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, only for the lords of creation, I suppose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re rather pretty yourself,” he said casually
appraising her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Merci, monsieur!</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you give yourself such airs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This line served very well for half a dozen stations
on the elevated. Daisy stiffened her back as
if she had swallowed the poker; and her eyes shot
sparks of pure anger through the glasses. All very
well; good fun as long as the sparks flew; but when,
at last, she began to pull down the corners of her
babyish mouth, Wilfred suddenly sickened.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Turning her blue eyes reproachfully on him, she
murmured: “Why are you so hateful to me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His eyes bolted. Why can’t she play the game?
he thought ill-temperedly. Lord! if she turned soft,
she would be quite unendurable. He cast hastily
about in his mind for some expedient to tide him
over the remaining stations. He happened to remember
that the trained nurse was engaged on night
duty at the time. Affecting to yawn, he said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gosh! I hate to think of the long trip back
again!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not my fault that you live so far down-town,”
she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Believe I’ll stay all night with you,” he said,
very offhand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Daisy was electrified. “How dare you say such
a thing to me!” she cried. “How dare you . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was splendid! It produced the briskest
quarrel they had ever had; and the rest of the stations
passed unnoticed. It carried them down the
stairs, along Columbus avenue, and around the corner
to the door of the apartment house where she
lived. Wilfred was tired of it by this time; and
hailed his approaching deliverance with relief.
Never again! he promised himself. She wasn’t
amusing even in her anger. What an unworthy and
trumped-up business this girl-chasing was, anyhow!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In all my life I have never been so insulted!”
she was saying. “I never want to see you again
until you are prepared to apologize. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This brought them to the steps of her house.
They discovered that the darkened vestibule was
already occupied by a couple engaged in the business
of saying good-night. Daisy quickly caught hold
of Wilfred’s sleeve, and pulled him by. A light
broke upon him. She intended that he should stay!
He trembled with internal laughter. His heart
began to beat faster. They walked on a little way
in silence. Wilfred, grinning, studied Daisy’s face
in the light of a street lamp. It still bore an expression
of ferocious outraged virtue. What somersaults
women could perform without losing their faces!</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they got back, the vestibule was empty.
He followed Daisy into the house without anything
further being said; and into her own little place on
the first floor above. She closed the door, and turning
around, began in pathetic accents:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now that you’ve forced your way in here, I
hope. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed; and seized her rudely in his
arms. An instinct told him that she adored being
treated rudely. He carefully removed her glasses,
and put them on a table. There was light enough
for him to see her charming, vague, shy eyes. He
discovered that he clasped within the too artful
clothes, the body of a very nymph with slim, boyish
legs, round arms, and small firm breasts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, you pretty thing! you pretty thing!” he murmured,
heartily enough.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wilfred, spare me!” she pleaded. “Not
that . . . Wilfred!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did you expect?” he asked, between his
kisses. “That we’d sit here and hold hands?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But Wilfred, I’ve never . . . I’ve never. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then it’s high time you did!” he said, laughing
and kissing her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you’re so masterful!” she breathed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s arms relaxed. Startled, he tossed his
head up, and stared into the dark. <span class='it'>Masterful!</span> Of
course, when one didn’t give a damn! What a horrid
joke this business . . . !</p>
<p class='pindent'>However, there she waited, expectant. And after
all she was very sweet. One couldn’t be wretched
all the time. Here was a drug for wretchedness.
He kissed her again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What was the matter?” she whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought I heard something,” he said with a lip
that curled in self-mockery.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are quite safe,” she whispered, wreathing
her white arms around his neck.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>IX</h2>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;'>—— Hospital,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;'>St. Louis.</p>
<p class='noindent'>Dear Wilfred:</p>
<p class='pindent'>I came here because it was a good way off, and I
wanted to make a clean break with everything.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Besides, I was attracted by the reputation of Dr.
Shales, whom they call the greatest surgeon in the
world; the superhuman butcher. He’s the bright,
particular star of this institution. It was rather
a let-down to discover that dozens of other girls
from all parts of the country had had the same idea.
They flock here in droves. The majority are quickly
sent home with fleas in their ears. But I was accepted.
I suppose you’d say, you idealist, that there
was something fine in this crusade of women to serve
under the banner of pure intelligence and skill. But
that’s not the half of it, dearie. There’s sex in it too.
But not in my case. There’s sex in everything, isn’t
there, like those horrid little bugs under damp
wood. You’d understand what I mean if you could
hear the nurses talking amongst themselves. Our
God, the doctor, is the sole topic. But not much
about his intelligence and skill. Not that you’d
notice! Oh well, I suppose he’s only human. If
you were to believe them, he’s a monster! Thank
God! I’m no idealist! I’ve got no illusions to be
shattered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>My family as you may guess, kicked up a horrid
clamor at the idea of my entering for training here.
The poor dears! I suppose it <span class='it'>was</span> a shock! As
usual, I was called absolutely hard, unfeeling, etc.
However, they did not say the final word to prevent
my coming, suspecting perhaps, an alternative even
more dreadful. I didn’t tell them until my bag
was packed, and I was ready to walk out of the
house. Thus the scene was confined to one tempestuous
half hour. I hadn’t told a soul else. Of
course I have been getting letters in sheaves since I
arrived. Sickening, isn’t it, how people give themselves
away when they take their pens in hand?
One or two of my friends wrote praising me for the
step I had taken. Those letters infuriated me. I
mean, that anybody should have the cheek to impute
pious motives to me. I wrote deliberately insulting
replies. Yet I suppose you’d call them my best
friends. You don’t need to tell me that I am acting
a bad part. I know it. How can I help myself?
I have heard nothing from you. Perhaps you didn’t
know where I was, since it has been kept out of the
papers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As a probationer they have set me to work cleaning
up the diet kitchens, dispensaries, etc. I have
learned to scrub. Actually! Right down on my
marrow bones with brush and pail. If the Avenue
could see me now! We work from seven to seven.
It’s a ghastly grind, because they deliberately overwork
us at first in order to weed out the weak
sisters. Well, I’m strong. I can stand it, but I’m
getting as gaunt as an alley cat. On my afternoons
off, I dress up in my most flaunting clothes, and rouge
my cheeks, and sally forth.—And then I come back
again! Never let anybody persuade you that there’s
any dignity in filthy labor! Nor that it conduces
to serenity of mind! I wouldn’t mind if there was
any <span class='it'>use</span> in it. Oh, God! how I hate this place! I
can’t imagine why I ever came here. I can’t give
it up either, after all the fuss that everybody has
kicked up. The girls of my lot here have made a
sort of hero out of me. They’re poor creatures. This
is bad for me, because it leads me into a swagger.
I’ve been in hot water more than once. I can’t
stomach these head nurses, etc. Take a barren,
starved woman, and give her authority over a lot of
blooming, sniggering girls, and the result is hellish.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Life seems to lead us into one trap after another.
You notice I blame life. I’m so damn conceited.
I suppose that’s what the matter with me. In my
heart I still think there’s nobody in the world quite
like me. Yet I hate myself too! You shook me a
little, and I can’t thank you for it. Didn’t shake
me hard enough, I guess. It hasn’t done any good;
it’s only made life infinitely harder. I wish I’d never
met you! Of course I don’t quite mean that. Once
I was happy. Lord! what rosy illusions I had about
life and love and playing the game. That was my
slogan: To Play the Game! I never noticed that
I was apt to make the rules to fit my own desires.
Now I have flopped into a sort of sink where
everything is smeary. . . . I grind my teeth and
snarl. I have discovered that I am cowardly, too.
That’s the bitterest pill of all. For if I could, I’d
shut my eyes and eat lotuses. I would! I would!
I’d crawl back into my fool’s paradise on any terms,
only the crystal dome is busted. I know there is no
escape <span class='it'>that</span> way, and I can’t face the other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Burn this Old Top, and forget me.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;'>Yours,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;'>Elaine.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;margin-top:2em;'>South Washington Square.</p>
<p class='noindent'>Dear Elaine:</p>
<p class='pindent'>When I read your letter my impulse was to jump
on the first train. The pull was awful! A cry for
help from <span class='it'>you</span>! Very likely you would deny now
that it was a cry for help. You carefully avoided
mentioning the things that were at the back of your
mind. But I could read them. Don’t worry; I’m not
going to drag them into the light. Call it just a cry
of pain, then. I know what the pressure must have
been that forced it from your lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But you see I have not come; and I am not coming.
From the first my better sense warned me that it
would only make things worse. If I saw you I
would only lose my head, and babble weak, emotional
stuff that would humiliate me, and disgust
you. That’s the writer’s penalty. It is my business
to express vicarious feelings. When my own heart
froths up I am helpless. That arouses your contempt.
What you do not consider is, that at the
center of all this flutter there may be a firm core,
worthy of your respect. I suffer horribly from the
inability to express my feelings thoughtlessly. By
staying away from you, perhaps I can remain a sort
of fixed point in your confused horizon. The fact
that you wrote to me at such a time shows that you
regard me in some such light. I must take what
satisfaction I can out of the assurance that you could
not have let yourself go with anybody else like that.
You know these things already. The ghastly part
is, that knowing them doesn’t alter the situation.
All we can do is to make private signals to each other
across the gulf. So I am not coming. To see you
now; to have you shrink from my touch, would
about finish me. I am glad you let yourself go by
letter, and not in speech. I could not have endured
that! If I grovelled and stammered at your feet,
your last illusion, which is me, would be gone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I tried to write you last night, but I was too much
confused. I was blind. I am not the one to help
you. The only way I can help you is by being
baldly honest. I had to force myself to think. Do
not despise the man who is forced to stop and think
when his feelings are rushing him away. It is the
need of my nature. It is the one thing I have to
hang on to in this whirling chaos. And the feelings
are not necessarily any the less genuine. At least
I am never finally deceived by the sound of my
own roaring.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I walked all night. I don’t know that I’m any
clearer in my mind this morning because of it, but
I’m dog tired. I’m beyond the point of considering
what I say. I tore up half a dozen letters last night.
This one has just got to go, and God help us both.
Whatever I say, or do not say, it will not mend the
situation. One things stands out starkly: the touch
of my hand revolts you. You made that fatally
clear. Therefore, I’ve got to stay away from you.
What did you write to me for? I can’t help you.
I’m a man, the same as that other. I can’t be your
confessor. You are contemptuous of my manhood.
I’m not even going to try to give you any
advice. Coming from me it would sound hollow.
If you did what I told you to, you would just blame
me for all the pain which followed. There’s got to
be pain anyway. You’ve got to make up your mind
what to do, and swallow the pain; just as I’ve got
to swallow my pain. We haven’t had the best of
luck, either of us. Well, I won’t die of it, and
neither will you. I am in a deeper hell at this moment
than you will ever know. You, at least, have
kept yourself taut, while I have been wallowing.
With no excuse; no excuse! Your letter coming
at such a moment—Oh, well, I’ve said enough. I
loathe myself.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;margin-bottom:2em;'>Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was Wilfred’s newspaper that informed him of
the romantic sudden marriage in St. Louis of Miss
Elaine Sturges to Mr. Joseph Kaplan, both of New
York. The popular society belle (so the account
ran) tiring of the empty round of gaiety, and determined
to do something useful in life, had gone to
St. Louis without telling any of her friends of her
intention, and had quietly entered the —— Hospital
as a nurse. It was rumored that family
opposition to the Boy Wonder of Wall Street may
have had something to do with her sudden decision.
The Sturgeses were one of the proudest families in
New York, whereas young Mr. Kaplan was very
much the self-made man, as everybody knew.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However that might be, Mr. Kaplan had finally
learned of the whereabouts of his lost lady, and
applying the same downright methods that had characterized
his meteoric rise to fortune, had taken
the first train to St. Louis. When he called
at the Hospital, he had been refused permission to
see Miss Sturges, since she was on duty. Nothing
daunted, he refused to leave the place until she was
produced, and the authorities were forced to yield.
Miss Sturges was called out of the ward. A few
rapid whispered words were sufficient. All in her
nurse’s uniform as she was, Mr. Kaplan bundled
her into a taxicab, and they were driven to the
nearest preacher. . . . And so on, and so on, for a
column or more. . . . All the world loves a lover!
. . . The honeymoon was being spent in Southern
Pines. Later the happy pair would sail for
Italy. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred felt no surprise upon reading this, nor
any strong emotion. He had been through that.
Just a bitter sickness of heart. “So <span class='it'>that</span> is what it
comes to!” he said to himself. Well, I suppose I
may consider myself cured.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>X</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>U</span>pon</span> his return to town in September, one of the
first persons Wilfred met was Jessie Dartrey.
She belonged to the Fifty-Ninth street crowd, though
she herself had no pretensions either artistic or literary.
She and Frances Mary Lore were great
friends. Not exactly a pretty girl, Jessie had a
highly individual charm. Long, dark eyes, and a
crooked mouth of great sweetness. Wilfred liked
her she was “such a little woman.” What was the
right word for her; doughty? peppery? At any
rate, discourse with her was stimulating. Wilfred
had the impression that she cherished a particular
scorn for himself; but he did not mind, it was so
amusingly expressed. When Jessie was roused, she
talked purest Saxon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He met her on the Avenue as he was returning
from a fruitless call at Frances Mary’s flat. He had
found the glass in the door dusty; and a faded card
still in place, with the tenant’s summer address.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello!” said Wilfred. “I’ve just been up to see
if Frances Mary was back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jessie’s expressive mouth tightened for a flash at
the mention of her friend’s name, and Wilfred wondered
what was up. Had the two quarreled? “No,”
said Jessie, readily. “She won’t be back for another
month. The hills are too fine to leave, she writes.
And her work is coming well.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hard on us,” he said lightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again that flicker of intense disapproval across
Jessie’s face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come and have tea somewhere,” urged Wilfred.
“I’m just back myself. I’m starving for a little
town talk.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So even I will do?” she said with heavy sarcasm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Is she jealous? thought Wilfred. What a rum
start that would be! “Your reasoning is faulty as
usual,” he said. “There is great virtue in an accidental
encounter. It has changed the fate of
Kingdoms!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sorry, I can’t give you the change to prove it,”
said Jessie. “I’m booked for tea at a house in
Forty-Seventh street. You can walk to the door
with me if you want.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He turned around, and accompanied her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently she said with a sharp, sidelong glance
of the sloe-black eyes: “You’re changed since I saw
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How?” he asked, agreeably flattered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“More conceited than ever!” said Jessie, suddenly
changing her mind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That was Jessie’s way. She had decided to conceal
her real thought. In order to raise a dust, she
rattled on: “You always look at me as much as to
say: ‘Oh, mumma! look what the cat’s brought in!’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred laughed, and felt uneasy. What had she
seen? Was his face thus easily to be read in the
afternoon sunshine of the Avenue? He made haste
to give Jessie a humorous account of the boarding-house
in the country that he had discovered for himself,
and could not recommend. Jessie punctuated
the story with scornful little snorts of laughter,
shooting glances of her bright eyes into his face, that
fairly snapped with some feeling mysterious to
Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arriving before the house where she was expected,
they paused at the foot of the steps. Said
Wilfred, concluding his story:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Above all, avoid a high-brow boarding-house.
Intellectual table-talk is no compensation for watery
hash.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At that Jessie exploded. It was not a loud explosion,
but it had force. “You make me sick,
Wilfred! Does that reach you? I’d like to smack
your grinning face . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why . . . go ahead!” said Wilfred, astonished,
but grinning still.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t speak to me! Or you’ll make me say
something I’ll regret! You’re a fool, do you hear?
All men are fools, and you’re the greatest! Oh, I’d
like to take you down a peg! I’d like to do something
that would really <span class='it'>hurt</span> you! But you’ve got
no feelings! You’re just a conceited grinner! Stand
there and laugh at me, do! Your mouth’s too big;
why stretch it wider? Oh, you’re such a fool it’s
past all bearing!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And with that, she scampered up the steps without
a backward look.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred walked home thoughtfully. He was not
in the least angered at Jessie, for her tirade had
touched no sore spot. There had been something
beautiful in it; a human who could let all fly like
that. Oh, Jessie was as sound as an apple! He
supposed that her scorn would do him good; there
was no tinge of contempt in it. But what on earth
was biting her? He was obliged to reject the imputation
of jealousy. She had rejoiced in showing
him that he had no power over <span class='it'>her</span>. He carefully
went over her words, but without obtaining any clue.
Her speech had the quality of pure vituperation,
which bears no relation to the thing at issue. “Fool”
was simply a generic term for one who utterly disgusted
you.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then a light began to break over Wilfred, and he
became more thoughtful still. How strange if it
should be <span class='it'>that</span>! he thought. . . . He slipped into a
dream.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>XI</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>hen</span> in the course of time, Frances Mary’s
door was opened to Wilfred, he experienced
a disagreeable let-down. She was quite unchanged;
just as good-looking; just as comradely. It was an
offense in his eyes now. It might as well have
been Stanny or Jasper; there was no thrill in it.
What a fool he had been to let himself imagine
things! . . . Why was he unable to fall in love
with Frances Mary? It was because there was no
trace of sex-consciousness in her to arouse a like
feeling in him. In other words it was her finest
quality which put him off. Same old vicious circle!</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was a little discomposed to find Jessie Dartrey
sitting demurely in the warm-colored living-room.
But her manner had undergone a metamorphosis.
This afternoon the downright creature was almost
anxiously friendly. Wilfred grinned at her mockingly;
but even so, could not rouse her to battle.
He interpreted her changed attitude as a plea to
allow the little scene between them to be forgotten
and buried—and especially not to let Frances Mary
know about it. He was quite willing. He liked
Jessie fine. Very soon she went.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary brought out the tea-things; moving
about the room in her large, graceful fashion. She
was telling Wilfred about her summer in the Vermont
hills. She had found a tiny shack, where she
had lived alone, doing her own housekeeping. There
were three delightful children who brought her supplies
from the farmer’s nearby. Jean Ambrose and
Aurora Page had had a house in the neighborhood.
Frances Mary had made a new friend in a painter
who had come to board at the farmer’s; a diffident
girl, who had come out wonderfully in the end.
Other girls had visited Jean and Aurora, who possessed
a spare room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An Adamless Eden thought Wilfred, with a tinge
of scorn.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary told Wilfred briefly, of the completed
novel she had brought back with her. It was
the story of a woman who had married too late.
She did not suggest on this occasion that Wilfred
might help her with criticism. He felt a little
jealous and sore. Will I ever have the constancy
to write a whole book? he asked himself with a
sinking heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In return he told her about the genteel boarding-house;
and about his long walks over the Ramapo
Mountains, which had reduced his mind to a state of
comfortable vacuity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How is your work?” she asked. “Hasn’t it been
coming well?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s been going well,” he answered with a laugh.
“I sold four stories in the Spring. That is how I
was able to go to the country. I’ve got rid of three
more since. I’ve been reeling them off.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary glanced at him, to see how this was
to be taken.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I know they’re putrid,” said Wilfred. “I’ve
discovered the combination. You take a thoroughly
nice fellow, and a thoroughly nice girl, and you invent
difficulties to separate them; then you remove
the difficulties. There are three old fables that you
can work ad lib; the Cinderella motive; the Ugly
Duckling Motive; and the Prince in Disguise. Work
in a bit of novelty into the setting, and your story
is hailed as Original; a sure go! That’s the sort of
thing they fill the backs of the magazines with;
they’ve got to have a lot of it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary said nothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I had to be writing something,” he said;
“or I’d have gone clean off my chump. That was
the best I could fish up out of myself. The old
keenness has gone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about the mountains?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The mountains did things to <span class='it'>me</span>,” he said flippantly;
“but I couldn’t throw <span class='it'>them</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isn’t there good material in your social experiences
last winter?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Wilfred quickly. Fearful of betraying
his inward shiver, he added: “It’s been done too
often. . . . There’s no lack of material. The lack
is in me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She said no more on the subject.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was sitting beside a little table covered
with a scarf of coffee-colored Italian silk in alternate
stripes, shiny and dull. On the table were some of
Frances Mary’s precious gim-cracks. She loved
little objects of all sorts, if they had beauty. On
this table, a row of books still in their paper wrappers;
a white Chinese bowl, decorated with red fish,
and filled with apples; a small censer of pierced
silver; an enamelled snuffbox; some miniature ivory
grotesques; a bit of cloisonné. Wilfred knew every
object in the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Opposite him, sat Frances Mary by the tea-table,
watching the kettle, which at this season did its
work suspended over an alcohol flame. With her
bright hair banded round her head in a style of her
own; and wearing a soft draped dress the same color
as her hair, what a grateful sight to the eye! Purely
feminine; ladylike—horrible word for a lovely
quality. What was the color of her hair? Wilfred
had always termed it sorrel, but was dissatisfied with
the word. Now the right word leaped into his mind;
fallow! Of course! the color of the fallow deer!
Fallow! a delicious word!—But Frances Mary’s
veiled level glance and reticent lips rejected passion.
She seemed less sympathetic to him than usual.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the silence Wilfred saw the abyss yawning at
his feet, and shutting his eyes, leaped. His limbs
were palsied; his tongue clave to the roof of his
mouth. He said stammeringly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Frances Mary, how about you and I getting
married?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him quickly, her face dimpling with
laughter. “Why, Wilfred! Just like that! . . .
You’re not in love with me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m fed up with love!” cried Wilfred, bitterly,
before he thought of the implications of his speech.
Panic seized him. “With the idea of love,” he
hastily added, becoming aware at the same moment,
that he was only making matters worse.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary’s lashes were lowered. Her face
showed no other change. There was a silence.
Having taken the leap, and not having met with
annihilation, Wilfred began to discover resources in
himself. After all, the whole truth had to come out;
and it didn’t so much matter if it came wrong end
first.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t expect you to give me an answer out of
hand,” he went on. “We must talk it out. I know
that this must appear to you like just another of my
artificial, self-conscious flights, but if you will only
have a little patience with me, I will convince you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Could one marry from conviction?” she asked
lightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes!” he cried. “That’s the very point! The
notion that passion must decide is fatal. I know it!
I know it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You may be right,” she said with a half smile
that he could not interpret. “By all means let us
talk it out!” Her serene glance was raised again;
but it did not rest on Wilfred. She was looking at
the kettle, meditatively. “If you do not love me,
why do you want to marry me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I <span class='it'>do</span> love you,” said Wilfred. “But not. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not passionately,” she quickly interposed, smiling
and looking at him full; an extraordinary look
of remote kindness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was silent. He was being put in the
wrong, though he knew he was right.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, your reasons?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are the finest woman I know,” he said
quickly. This was one of the questions he had
imagined her asking. “I respect and admire you.
My instinct tells me you will grow in my respect
and admiration as long as I live. That’s the only
thing that could hold me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled again. He felt resentfully, that she
was reading him through and through. It wasn’t
fair, because he was all at sea respecting her. Still,
everything had to come out!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You feel that it is essential you should be held,”
said Frances Mary, dryly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh Fanny, you make me feel so young!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again that smile from a distance. The kettle
boiled; but instead of making tea, she put out the
light. She looked about her. Fetching a little raffia
basket, she commenced to sew a lace edging to a
scrap of white stuff.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To live with somebody you trusted!” said Wilfred,
moved by his own words. “Somebody you
could be yourself with; to whom you could reveal
your innermost thoughts! To share the same tastes
and pleasures! Somebody who could help you, and
whom you might help a little—you have said it of
me. Wouldn’t that be happiness?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have pictured it all out!” she said smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I have!” he returned, goaded. “I have
thought about it, and dreamed about it! I know
you laugh at my mixed mental processes, at the way
I deceive myself; well, I laugh too! Just the same
you can build on dreams as well as thoughts. The
soft stuff fades; but something collects little by
little, just from one’s having been deceived so
often.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She disregarded this. “You do not know me,” she
said quietly. “Nobody knows me. I have made a
business of concealing myself. Even in my stories.
Everything I write is just . . . bravura! . . . You
only imagine those fine things about me. Nobody is
any better than anybody else—in some ways. If you
thought you were getting a paragon you’d be frightfully
sold . . . so would I!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not a paragon,” said Wilfred, smiling in his
turn. “I know your faults.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What are they?” she challenged.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are afraid of life. You hate your own
emotions. You dissect them while they are alive.
You are much too refined. Occasionally you ought
to be beaten. You have lived too long in your mind;
you ought to give your blood a chance!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What makes you say that?” she demanded,
startled and affronted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking,” he said.
“It just came out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She quickly regained her equanimity. “Not bad
as far as it goes,” she said. “But you haven’t
touched on the worst things.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her quiet bitterness struck a little fear into Wilfred’s
breast. <span class='it'>Was</span> there an unsuspected worst in
Frances Mary? Oh, well, he was committed now;
no choice but to struggle on. “You have one quality
that I hold to through all,” he said; “your disinterestedness.
The finest quality of all!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her smile became still more remote. “Oh, it’s
easy to be disinterested about things that don’t touch
you too closely,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was a facer for Wilfred. He strove not to
show it. “I’ll take my chance of your soundness,”
he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head. “Passion, preposterous as it
is, is the only justification.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could love you—if you gave me a chance,” he
said sullenly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary laughed suddenly and merrily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know I’m ridiculous,” he said blushing crimson;
“but I mean to see it through. It’s all got to
come out, absurdities and all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why marry at all?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well . . . need you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As a sort of antidote to passion, I take it,” said
Frances Mary softly. All the kindness had suddenly
gone out, leaving her soft face pinched and awry.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was stung beyond endurance. “Yes!”
he cried, jumping up. “An antidote to passion!
I’ve seen it and what it ends in. Am I criminal or
foolish to dream of something better? I looked on
you as a woman above prejudice. It’s easy enough
to make a joke of me because I’m not playing the
old false game with you. You’ve got everything on
your side, the whole weight of the ages! But I
won’t be so easily shut up now; my foolishness has
taught me something. There’s something to be said
for my way, though I’m alone in it. It’s my real
self I’m offering you; though I sound like a fool.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had risen too, and walked away to a table
between the windows where she stood with her back
turned. “I’m sorry, Wilfred,” she said in a muffled
voice. “I shouldn’t have said that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When she apologized, it took all the fire out of
him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently, she turned around; but, the light being
behind her, he could not see her face clearly. “Your
position is sound,” she said, “and you have stated
it better than you think. . . . Still, what you ask is
impossible. For two reasons; first, I am not the
woman you think I am; second, I must think of
myself a little.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The cold voice completed Wilfred’s demoralization.
“I only admit the second reason,” he said
gloomily. “Of course you must think of yourself.
I am seeking <span class='it'>my</span> good.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why should I marry you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you put it to me, the Lord knows!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not think you are the finest man I ever
knew. In fact I have no illusions about you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So much the better,” he mumbled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why? why?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I thought. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You thought I loved you?” she asked quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not so far as that. I thought perhaps you might
come to. There was sympathy. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She came away from the front table. Her hands
were pressed against her breast; her face tormented.
To Wilfred, who was wrought up too, that seemed
natural. “Wilfred, tell me plainly what you have
been doing these last months,” she said breathlessly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll tell you,” he said quickly, “I . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A cry escaped her. “No! Don’t tell me. . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But he was already under way. “I fell in love, as
they put it, with a woman who preferred Joe Kaplan
to me,” he said bitterly. “You know all about Joe
Kaplan. She married him. Well, that cured that.
Afterwards I slid into an affair with a woman whom
I despised. That soon ran its course. Then I went
to the country and tried to haul myself up by my
own boot-straps without succeeding. That’s all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary had returned to her chair. She
was sitting forward in an attitude unnatural to her,
her head lowered. “You experienced passion . . .
for a woman you despised?” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Wilfred. “That’s the point I was
trying to make. That’s how easy it is. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a silence. Then Frances Mary said in
an uncertain voice: “You had better go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stared. “I won’t go for any such reason
as that!” he said hotly. “Are you raising the banner
of conventional morality! <span class='it'>You</span> . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She said: “Suppose I told you that <span class='it'>I</span> . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rubbish!” cried Wilfred. “It would be better
for you if you had!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your ideas are loathsome!” cried Frances Mary
with unexpected loudness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is what I get for trying to be honest!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Honest!</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Simultaneously it struck them what exhibitions
they were making of themselves. They laughed in
bitter vexation, and fell silent. They avoided each
other’s eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I apologize for shouting at you,” mumbled
Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary did not apologize, though she had
shouted too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently something changed in her. She looked
at Wilfred queerly. Settling back in her chair, she
raised her head. “Wilfred, kiss me,” she said in a
colorless voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at her sharply. Her face was drawn
and ugly. His instinct bade him refuse; but she had
told him to do it. He was absurdly under her influence.
He went to her with a hangdog air, and
printed a cold kiss on her lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A little groan of rage was forced from Frances
Mary. She sprang up so suddenly that her chair
was knocked over backwards. All in the one movement,
she fetched Wilfred such a smack on the cheek
that his sight was blotted out for a moment. He
fell back, covering the place, staring at her open-mouthed,
clownishly. Frances Mary burst into
tears; a catastrophic breakdown; her face working
as absurdly and uglily as a small child’s; the tears
fairly spurting from her eyes. Wilfred quickly recovered
himself. He had to repress a desire to
laugh. A load was lifted from his breast. She
could feel! Frances Mary put her hands over her
face, and turned away from him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go! Go!” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred walked to the other end of the room, and
sat down on the couch. “I won’t go till I get to
the bottom of this,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You see . . . you see . . .” she gasped out in
her torn voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She loves me! thought Wilfred in a maze. She
feels passion for <span class='it'>me</span>! What a fatuous brute I have
been! . . . Still, the bars had to be smashed down
one way or another!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now you see what kind of a woman I am! . . .
You’d better go!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think any of the worse of you,” said
Wilfred, smiling to himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Careless of her ugly, tear-stained face, she flung
around, and stamped her foot. “Don’t sit there
and sneer!” she cried. “It’s intolerable!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sneer . . . !” he echoed indignantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Disinterested!” cried Frances Mary. “Oh,
Heavens! . . . I don’t think much of it! Your so-called
disinterestedness is revolting to me! You
talk by rote! Prating of love and passion! What
do you know about either? You’re light! What is
passion to you? An interesting experience! You
have suffered, you say. You’re quite healed, aren’t
you, and ready for fresh experiments? You know
nothing of the agony of repression. For years! For
years! Everything comes out of you like a child’s
babbling. You know nothing of the wolves that
tear. . . . Oh, why don’t you go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred recognized the element of truth in her
portrait of him, but was not dismayed. He could
no longer repress the delighted grin. “I’m not afraid
of your wolves,” he said. “. . . I hail them!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be quiet!” cried Frances Mary. But the new
quality in his grin arrested her. She stared; her
angry face all at a pause.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stood up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t come near me!” she cried sharply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He laughed outright. “All right,” he said. “I’ll
go. But this is not the end, of course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She drew the old veil over her face. But it was
somewhat torn now. Picking up the fallen chair,
she set it on its feet. “I’ll never marry you now!”
she said with extreme bitterness. “However
it might be for your good! Women can’t forget
things as conveniently as men seem to do. This scene
would always be present with me. Even when you
began to love me—as no doubt you would! no doubt
you would! having resolved upon it. I should
always be remembering how you decided beforehand
that it would be a fine thing for you if you could
bring yourself to it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She doesn’t mean a word of it! he thought with
infinite relief and delight. She’s no better than me!
He said: “You’re talking pure romantic nonsense!
You might have got it out of one of my stories!
. . . You’ve got something to learn too!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“From your experience?” she asked with bitter
nostrils.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred walked along Fifty-Ninth street, bemused
with wonder. How extraordinary! How
extraordinary! . . . Well, after all I didn’t do so
badly, considering . . . !</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:10em;font-size:1.2em;'>PART FIVE: HUSBANDS</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch5'>PART FIVE</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>I</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>E</span>laine Kaplan</span> was writing a letter in the
room that the servants called Madame’s boudoir;
but Elaine called it her sitting-room. Boudoir
was a word she detested. There was a knock at
the door.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come in!” she sang out.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her husband entered, smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh,” she said, mildly surprised. “I thought it
was Taswell. He sent word to ask if he could see
me at four. . . . You are home early. Anything
special?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Joe. “I asked Fletcher to come here
at four—I didn’t want him to be seen at my office;
and he’s late. So I shall let him cool his heels for
a few minutes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Something big on hand?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For him, not for me. The fool wants to sell
me his newspapers, now that I’ve stolen their
circulation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Am I to come down-stairs?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You can if you want.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mercy! I don’t want to see old Fletcher. I just
meant, is he to be entertained?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Joe curtly. “Fletcher’s on the toboggan.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He consulted a pocket note-book. “By the way,
can you save the night of the fourteenth for me?
Awful bore, but it would be advisable for us to
appear at the reception for Sir Esme Dordress at
the Union League.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Surely,” said Elaine, making a note on her desk-pad.
“Who’s he?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A governor of the Bank of England. . . . <span class='it'>En
grande toilette</span>, my dear, which becomes you so
well.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks. Hardly in the best taste at a club reception,
is it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course not. But all the other women will.
We can let it be inferred that we are going on to
something else, and get out early. . . . Have one of
mine?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, I prefer these common ones.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lighting up, Joe dropped into a deep chair, and
stretched his legs luxuriously. “Young Taswell?”
he said; “how is he making out with the kid?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t honestly say that he’s doing Sturges any
good,” said Elaine; “but at least he’s doing him no
harm.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rather a fantastic idea, don’t you think? giving
the kid a tutor at the age of six?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I thought he ought not to be entirely in
the hands of women. I have read Pastor Witt’s
book on education. It is wonderful what can be
done with them at such an age. But of course
Sturges is different. . . . I wasn’t thinking of education
so much, as of the masculine influence
generally.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would be no good as a nursery companion,”
said Joe. “No use pretending.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wasn’t reproaching you,” said Elaine with a
clear glance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s a hard little nut, the kid,” said Joe, smiling
at some recollection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So he ought to be at six,” said Elaine quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shouldn’t think you’d get much literature to
stick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t expect to. Taswell’s much more than a
mere literary person. He’s an athlete. He has a
very masculine point of view.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A gentleman, too,” said Joe agreeably.
“Damned handsome fellow!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes,” said Elaine indifferently. “. . . I like
him very much,” she went on. “He pockets his
weekly wage, and keeps his head up. I have him to
lunch with me sometimes. He’s interested in so
many things. We have good talks.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know just what you mean,” said Joe. “Disgusting,
isn’t it? the way nearly everybody licks our
boots. Takes all the fun out of life. I’d like to be
better acquainted with this independent young
man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine offered no comment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a knock on the door; and in response
to Elaine’s summons, the one whom they had been
discussing entered. A young man who brought with
him into everyday affairs, a sharp reminder of that
which is timeless. He was quite unconscious of it.
A wary and a courteous young man, unabashed in
Elaine’s boudoir, yet conveying an intimation that
his astuteness was far from being the whole of him.
The handsome older man received him all smiles;
Elaine’s half glance acknowledged his good looks,
but was annihilating in its impersonal quality.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell, seeing Joe, stopped just within the door.
“Oh, if I am intruding . . .” he began.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not at all!” said Joe cordially. “The appointment
is yours. I was only warming a chair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Courtesies were exchanged. Joe remained
standing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How are you getting along with your pupil?”
he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As well as can be expected,” said Taswell
coolly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laughed. “Are you fond of the little rascal?”
he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s a splendidly healthy child,” answered
Taswell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine, not looking at either man, frowned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you do every day?” asked Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We walk out for an hour if it’s fine,” said
Taswell; “with such conversation, improving or
otherwise, as may suggest itself. If we have to stay
in, I read to him as long as he will listen; or help
him to build something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you hate to tote a kid around?” asked Joe
in his friendly way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not in the least!” said Taswell, smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe laughed indulgently. “It’s not a job I’d
fancy.” He moved towards the door. “Got a man
waiting down-stairs. Hope to see you again.” The
door closed behind him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell’s face betrayed no expression whatever;
neither did Elaine’s. She changed from her desk to
a more comfortable chair. She was wearing a loose-sleeved
black dress which revealed how full of health
was her pallor. The young man watched her, while
courteously appearing not to do so.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have a cigarette,” said Elaine, waving her hand
in the direction of the big silver box. “Tea will be
up directly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell noticed how the black sleeve fell away
from the white arm. He proceeded towards the box.
“You are very kind,” he said. “I’m afraid I cannot
stay for tea.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose it is something special,” said Elaine,
“since you asked to see me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He did not answer immediately. He was staring
down at the cigarette he had just taken. “I must
give up my job, Mrs. Kaplan,” he said quietly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” said Elaine, with quickly falling face.
“I’m so sorry! . . . I thought you liked it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was a wonderful chance!” he said. “I mean,
to be able to earn my living with two hours’ work
a day. You see I’m doing a book, biology, from
which I can expect no immediate return.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why give up the chance?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am doing nothing here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I’m satisfied. I didn’t expect a miracle!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The child is too young,” said Taswell. “I cannot
get hold of him. The two hours a day is a trial
to us both.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why did you tell my husband just now
that . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, he was simply baiting me,” said Taswell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine bit her lip.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently she said: “Is it because you dislike
Sturges?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” he said promptly. “I like him!” The
implication of this speech might have been had in
the involuntarily warm glance which accompanied
it, but which Elaine chose not to see.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I mention that simply because everybody seems
to dislike him,” she said proudly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He dislikes me very much,” said Taswell; “but
that is quite natural. I am the Enemy, because I
will not knuckle under.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t knuckle under to him,” said Elaine
quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, you’re his mother; and he’s obliged to recognize
you as a fixture. You must be circumvented;
but I can be got rid of, if he is determined enough.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And are you content to be got rid of?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it’s my fault,” said Taswell. “I haven’t
got the right sort of patience.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t set too much store by patience,” said
Elaine quickly. “If he’s naughty you ought to
smack him. I would back you up. I smack him
when he is naughty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is never naughty with you,” said Taswell
with smiling lips and speaking eyes. His words
carried two meanings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine’s answer had but one. “No! Because he
knows what he would get! If you were to . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is a difference,” Taswell pointed out,
smiling. “Parental smacking is orthodox.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine got up impatiently. The young man’s
eyes gleamed at the sight of that splendid straightening.
She crossed the room, and came back. “You
make him out a perfect little monster between you!”
she said bitterly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not I!” said Taswell, quickly. “But it’s a great
mistake to suppose that children are not alive to
things. There is a whole world of intuitive knowledge
behind those bright, watchful black eyes of
his.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine stopped short, looking at Taswell with a
kind of horror. Several seconds passed before she
spoke. “He’s just an ordinary naughty little boy!”
she said breathlessly. “There’s nothing special about
him! Just an ordinary little boy!” The words
seemed to be torn from her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell’s eyes expressed a wonder at the sharpness
of her tones. “Of course!” he said. “Just
a vigorous, strong-willed little boy. The real
problem lies in your situation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?” she demanded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re so rich!” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What difference does that make to him?” she
asked haughtily. “If he has always lived in a big
house, where the wheels are greased, and the proper
things appear at the proper times—if he has never
known anything different, how could his character
be affected by it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It isn’t the big house, and the comforts. It’s
being surrounded by servants; people subservient to
him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s why I wanted somebody like you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Exactly,” he said good-humoredly. “But . . .”
He spread out his hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you had a small son of your own,” she demanded,
not without scorn, “would you not know
how to deal with him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes!” said Taswell quickly, with a secret
look of resolution and amusement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine was a little baffled. “Take Nurse,” she
said argumentatively; “I searched over two continents
until I found the one woman who . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“An admirable person!” said Taswell. “I’m sure
you couldn’t do better.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They exchanged a look. Elaine was the first to
turn her eyes away. A subterranean understanding
was created; and because of it Elaine was silently
obliged to abandon her position. She resumed her
pacing. The young man watched her, clearly not
thinking of the child.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently she began to speak in a low, moved
voice, more to herself than to him. “I’ll find a way
. . . somehow! Not necessarily through books and
learning. There are other ways of making a good
life. . . . When he’s a little older I will take him
away. To Wyoming. There will be no servants
there. I will ride with him, and shoot with him,
and go on hikes. I can make a boy of myself
. . . !” She turned on the silent Taswell as
if he were opposing her. Her deep bosom rose and
fell under the black silk; her glance made the young
man think of Boadicea fronting the Roman legions.
“In spite of everything . . . <span class='it'>everything</span>. I will
make a man of him! <span class='it'>My</span> kind of man! Nothing
can stand against a determination such as mine.
Half of him is of me. I have character. I will
strike it into him!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell had risen. His air of astuteness was
gone. He gazed at her, rapt and saddened. It was
not her words, but her look of indomitable despair.
“Oh, Mrs. Kaplan . . . !” he murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sound of his voice recalled Elaine to her usual
self. Turning, and affecting to straighten some objects
on her desk, she said in a muffled voice: “You
have been awfully decent. I quite appreciate your
position. When would you like to go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He roused himself. He put down the cigarette
which he had never lighted. “At your convenience,”
he said, lowering his eyes. “As soon as possible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are quite right. There is no use dragging
on with a situation once you discover that it has become
impossible. You needn’t come back to Sturges
again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you,” he murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She approached him as if to say good-bye. “I
shall always be glad to see you, though. I’ll send
you a check.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell, sensible young man as he was, was hurt
to the quick. “Oh, Mrs. Kaplan . . . !” he said,
very differently from the first time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why . . . what’s the matter?” asked Elaine,
surprised.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He raised his eyes full to hers. “I love you,” he
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine turned away with a quick movement.
Taswell’s eyes fastened on the white V of her back
that showed, instinct with life, under the dead silk.
After a moment or two she said coldly: “Why did
you feel it necessary to tell me that?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t ‘feel it necessary’,” he said sorely. “It
sprang out of me. . . . What harm can it do? I
am going.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no particular harm,” she said. “But I hate
to be made to appear unfeeling. . . . All this sort
of thing simply makes me impatient, it’s so . . . so
. . . I don’t know. Men feel obliged to whoop
themselves up to it, and women to simper.” She
looked around at him scornfully. “What, really,
Taswell! A man of your capacity! How can you
expect to do any serious work?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t . . . now,” he muttered, avoiding her
glance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, I must be seven or eight years older than
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” he said painfully, sweeping away the suggestion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Love . . . ! Bah! Excuse <span class='it'>me</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young man raised his head quickly. A dark
flush was creeping up from his neck. “I’m not
ashamed of loving you, if it comes to that,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine, with a side glance at him, modified her
tone. “I’m not getting at you, Taswell. You’re an
honest, generous fellow. I like you very much.
You speak my lingo. . . . Much too good a fellow
to be making love. I’m fed up with love. I’m
sorry, but the mere mention of love brings out my
worst side. Ugh! these fashionable women with
their sleek lovers! There isn’t a throb of honest
passion in the pack of them! I <span class='it'>hate</span> love . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He raised his sullen eyes to hers again. That
was just it! his eyes said. So do I!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Once I suppose love was a splendid thing,” she
swept on, “but since we’ve become so civilized or
self-conscious, or whatever it is, it has turned into
rather a slimy business, don’t you think? As soon
as men began to dwell on their own animal instincts,
and make up fine-sounding names for them—Ugh!
what a nasty business . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should like to kill him,” the young man murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine instantly threw off her preoccupation with
love, and gave him undivided attention. “Now
look here, Taswell, you’re simply being carried away
by an emotional tornado. Come to! Use you head,
man! In order to justify your feelings, you are pretending
to yourself that I’m a misunderstood and
unappreciated woman cooped up here in my gilded
cage, and all that rot! There is nothing in it!
You’ve been in and out of the house during the last
two months, and have used your eyes, I suppose.
Well, I assure you, you have seen all there is to see.
There is no horrid mystery. Nobody abuses me.
Do I look like a woman who would submit to abuse?
Should I ever be neglected, it would be because I
willed it. I am happier than the run of women because
I know exactly where I stand with myself!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is worse!” he murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not listening to me!” she cried angrily.
“. . . What is worse?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wasted . . . ! A woman like you . . . ! Like a fire
in the night . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh my God!” cried Elaine. “Am I wasted because
I choose to set my heart on a child, instead of
a man? What a little you know!”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>II</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred</span> raised his eyes from the typewritten
sheets to ask sharply: “Are you listening
Fanny?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why of course!” she said, looking across in surprise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You seemed so intent on your stocking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s automatic. My ears are yours. Go on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Five minutes later, Wilfred turned over the last
sheet. He tipped the tin shade of the lamp in order
to direct the light more fully on Frances Mary’s
side of the table; and reached for his pipe. “That’s
about all I can do to that,” he said, with an after
gleam of pleasure in his eye.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are beautiful things in it,” said Frances
Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was pulled up all standing. “Things?”
he said, looking across at her, flicked on the raw.
“Then you don’t think . . . ?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Something wrong,” she said, avoiding his glance;
thoughtfully biting the darning needle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, for God’s sake . . . !” said Wilfred, putting
down his pipe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why throw the second girl into the man’s arms?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I’ve made it clear from the beginning that
she was the right one for him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know; but the real business of the story is between
the other two; and the pleasant touch at the
end takes the edge off its grim reality.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A happy ending is not in itself inartistic,” said
Wilfred combatively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course not! But in this case . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could cut out their actual coming together,”
said Wilfred, very reluctantly; “and just leave the
second girl in the offing . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head. “The suggestion would be
the same.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It wouldn’t sell,” said Wilfred sullenly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This one was not supposed to be a seller,” said
Fanny. “This was your holiday.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damn it! if I cut her out altogether, I’d have to
rewrite the whole thing!” he cried excitedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary said nothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It just struck me, Wilfred.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He jumped up, half beside himself. “All my
work has gone for nothing now!” he burst out. “I
work for days and you destroy it with a word!
You know I can’t afford to spend any more time on
something that wont sell!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He flung out of the room. Frances Mary, pricking
her upper lip with the needle, sat looking at the
door as if her whole being was outside it. She had
been taught that it would make matters worse for
her to follow. For many minutes she sat listening
and waiting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred came in again, horribly self-conscious.
Marching up to his wife, and tipping her head back,
he kissed her lips. She kept her hands squeezed together,
and held her tongue; but could not help her
lips from clinging.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m sorry,” said Wilfred with a ridiculous hangdog
air. “I’m so damned ill-tempered I’m a burden
to myself!” He returned to his chair, keeping his
face averted from the light.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary’s head was lowered, and tears
dropped on the stocking; but her mouth was happily
curved.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re right about the story, of course,” said
Wilfred doggedly. “It’s hard for me to shake off
the romantic stuff that I deal in every day . . . I
ought to have a job of some kind. Pegasus becomes
spavined in the milkcart. . . .” As he forced himself
to speak on, it visibly became less difficult. It
was almost cheerfully that he said at last: “I
wont have to rewrite the whole thing of course. I
can do it in a day if I get an early start. It will be
twice as good.” He drew a long breath, and let
it escape again. He reached for his pipe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When she knew by the sounds that he was intent
upon filling it, Frances Mary darted a look across.
Her eyes, still wet, were lighted with fun.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a bit she murmured: “You’re working too
hard.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He shook his head. “It isn’t overwork that makes
me irritable. It’s the hundreds of little distractions
and interruptions; ordinary business of life. When
I’m working, it hurts like needles to be dragged
back. So by the time night comes . . .” he finished
with a shrug.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But it’s nothing to worry about,” he went on.
“It’s not a disease, but a condition. It’s the inevitable
result of our circumstances, and I must just put
up with it until they improve, or until the children
are old enough for school.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This story ought to have your name on it,
Fanny,” he said. “It’s as much yours as mine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nonsense! I only supplied the critical element.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, critical or creative, what’s the diff.? They’re
interacting. You have supplied a good half of
both.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m not being self-sacrificing,” she said, snipping
the darning cotton. “Some day I’m going to write
again. When the children get bigger. In the meantime
I don’t want to be a mere tail to your kite.
Far better for me to be forgotten awhile, and come
back with a bang!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a lot you have given up!” said Wilfred;
“. . . for this!” He looked around the family dining-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This room is plenty good enough as long as the
children overrun it,” said Frances Mary, a little
up in arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I spoke metaphorically, my angel,” said Wilfred,
smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What! Do you think I would change back with
that envious old maid?” said Fanny with a whole
smile; “me, a woman married to her man! . . .
After I have borne three children!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Too many,” he said gloomily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed. “Sure! My fault! . . . It won’t
hurt me not to write for awhile. My book is lying
at the bottom of my heart, soaking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It will be far better than anything of mine,”
he said. “My work has no time to lie in soak.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be so silly, or you’ll make me cry. . . .
If a book should come of it, it would be entirely
due to you, wouldn’t it? You got our children, and
kept me while I bore them. That’s better than
writing three books. . . . Oh, Wilfred!” she cried
in a sudden rapture, “the children! Their little
shells they got from us, but their souls are their own!
I shall never become accustomed to it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>An obliterating fire blazed up in Wilfred’s eyes.
From across the table, sly and shining, they sought
her eyes compellingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She quickly hid her eyes. The corners of her
mouth were obstinately turned up “Certainly not!”
she said in wifely tones. “After what you just told
me! . . . One of us has got to show some sense!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a silence. The dining-room was full of
comfort.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are the one who has given up things,” said
Frances Mary. “I have found myself in marriage,
and grown fat; while you . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In seven years his face had become a little
greyed; but was still capable of lighting up wonderfully,”
chanted Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You goose!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I needed the halter,” said Wilfred. “I was all
over the place.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look here,” she said, “if by some miracle I
should write a masterpiece to-morrow, it wouldn’t
hurt you nearly as much as it would seven years
ago, would it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh no,” he said. “Then I was raw with vanity.
The mere blowing of the wind hurt me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well then; it won’t be written for another
seven years, if ever. By that time you will be more
pleased than if you had written it yourself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not quite that,” said Wilfred grinning;
“still . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She picked up a fresh pair of socks. “You could
do a little more on your novel now,” she hazarded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He shook his head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ve got nearly three hundred dollars in the
bank.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s my life insurance next month; and I
have to get a little ahead with the next payment on
the house.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish we’d never saddled ourselves with this
house,” she said equably. “We ought to be renters;
free to flit.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know,” said Wilfred; “but it’s fine for the
children to have a fixed spot to grow in; a rock to
fix their little tentacles to—or should it be on?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I dunno. . . . Anyhow, there are those two
stories you sold in England.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They only pay on publication. It may be six
months before we get the money.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s all right if we don’t spend it more than
once. Borrow until it comes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He shook his head. “That would only be another
worry.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred, you don’t take chances enough,” she
said. “Really, you don’t. We always get along
somehow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The children . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bread and milk don’t cost much. And a dish of
soup and greens.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shoes do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They don’t mind patched shoes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Vanity again!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure! . . . I’m not satisfied. With this, I
mean. We need so many things. It’s important
that they should have a nice place to grow up in.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny’s thoughts veered off. Raising her head,
she smiled away in the direction of the window.
“Stephen was so funny to-day,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred took a light from her smile, “How?” he
asked eagerly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When I lifted him out of the tub this morning
he yelled bloody murder as he always does, and I
said: ‘Oh, for shame!’ To my astonishment he
stopped in the middle of a yell, and looked at me in
such a funny, resentful way. It was the first time
I ever reached his consciousness with words.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Really!” he said, with a look of serious pleasure.
“I believe he is going to have a strong individuality.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not a doubt of it,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Silence for awhile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, if you’re going to start right in on the
grind again,” said Frances Mary, “you might take
a little vacation; a walking-trip.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred shook his head. “When I get a little
further ahead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s what you always say! One of the reasons
we came out here was because it was a good walking
center; yet I can’t drive you out!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I might . . . !” he said, throwing up his
head. “For three days. The weather is lovely.
. . . And when I come back. . . . Oh,
Fan . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She gave him smile for smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stanny would be keen about coming,” he went
on. “If I dropped him a line to-night, I could spend
to-morrow fixing this story; and we could start out
together on the following morning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary said nothing. Her silence changed
the feeling of the room; and Wilfred looked across
at her, sharply apprehensive. The silence lengthened.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Fanny!” he said, “Why do you look like
that?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not looking in any particular way,” she said,
darning hard.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know you are! . . . Why this feeling
against Stanny?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary dropped the sock in her lap. “I
can’t help it, Wilfred. He dislikes me so!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re wrong, I tell you! It is only that he is
terrified of you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s nonsense.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s terrified of every respectable woman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m not a respectable woman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why not show him? You stick it on for
fair when he is around.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It isn’t Stanny at all,” she said unhappily. “It’s
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not open with me. These endless talks
that you and Stanny have, that break off so awkwardly
when I come in!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just man-talk.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t tell me that again! It’s only a pretext.
There’s no such thing as man-talk or woman-talk—not
with a woman like me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A good deal of it is Stanny’s talk. I’m always
trying to give him a more cheerful outlook. I never
shall, of course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A good half of it is <span class='it'>your</span> talk. Your eyes do not
light up like that when you are talking to me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, but Fanny . . . ! Why . . . you and I
communicate without talking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No! You keep yourself to yourself until Stanny
comes! . . . I am always perfectly open with
you . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Indeed, you’re not!” said Wilfred quickly.
“There is that whole novel at the bottom of your
heart!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, if I do keep things from you, I don’t save
them up for the first stranger!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Fan!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I won’t be Fanned, and shut up! What I
say is true!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course there’s some truth in it,” said Wilfred
slowly; “but how unfair! . . . It’s true that I can
let myself go in a certain way with Stanny, that
I can’t with you. What of it? Husbands and
wives need not swallow each other. There’s nothing
serious in it. Unless you make it serious by
wrong thinking. You are always for facing things.
Face this, and it will go up in smoke. . . . Stanny
and I have a certain way of gassing at each other.
We’ve always done it. Speculative. Neither takes
the other seriously. It’s an enormous relief. Makes
you soar for the moment. . . . I cannot talk to you
in a speculative vein, because you always have a personal
application in mind. You are jealously guarding
your own. You refer all my ideas back to our
life together. That dries me up. You get your
feelings hurt. I have to be studying how not to
hurt your feelings. —I don’t mind, dear. To be
forced to think of somebody else was my saving.
It’s not serious. But you see there <span class='it'>is</span> such a thing
as man-talk. There is woman-talk too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I let my women friends go when I married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You should not have done so. A wife needs
reserves . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary’s face was tragic. “You are reproaching
me now because I . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, Fanny! Isn’t that exactly what I said!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her head went down. “Once you said I was disinterested,”
she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I was wrong. And you knew it at the
time! . . . I’m glad I was wrong. Disinterestedness
is a good deal like soda crackers.” He reached
a hand across the table. “Fanny, old girl . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t . . . now,” she said sorely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He couldn’t tell whether she was blaming him
now, or herself. “Write to Jessie Dartrey,” he
suggested. “She’d come out like a shot.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor Jessie . . . !” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred breathed with relief. He saw that the
corner was turned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred, I can’t help disliking Stanny!” she
said with a rush, imploringly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It doesn’t matter—if you face it out with yourself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary started busily to work on her sock
again. Her expression assumed to wipe out everything
that had been said since she dropped it. “If
you don’t write to Stanny at once,” she said to Wilfred
rebukingly, “you’ll miss the last collection.
. . . And oh! don’t forget to carry your old shoes
to the cobbler’s to-morrow. They wont see you
through three days’ walking . . .”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>III</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred</span> went to meet the nine-forty from
town. The morning had broken gloriously
after rain. Oh, the new-washed sky, the glittering
trees, and the crystal air! How the group of
ugly little buildings which included the station,
seemed to plume itself in that sweet clarity—like
a gnome dressed in gossamer. That awful ice-cream
saloon built two years ago, and already aged, with
its cheap cotton awning disfigured by blue lettering
stained with the weather; even this was—well,
one couldn’t call it lovely, yet he approved it. It
belonged. Wilfred’s heart puffed up in his breast
like a pop-over in the oven. Too much baking-powder,
he thought, grinning at himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Stanny got off the train, Wilfred saw in a
glance by the down-drawn corners of his mouth,
and his wretched eyes, that he had been having one
of his bad times. Lucky I happened to write just
then, he thought. Stanny’s friendly greeting was
forced.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello, Wilf!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello, Stanny!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Behind Stanny, Wilfred caught sight of a taller
and younger man, whose good looks arrested him
like a blow. A youth out of an antique tale; beautiful,
hard, and unselfconscious. Wilfred’s imagination
galloped off. To his astonishment, Stanny
turned around to allow the young man to come up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I brought a fellow along,” Stanny mumbled.
“Thought you wouldn’t mind. His name is Taswell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mind! Of course not!” cried Wilfred, concealing
his wonder. “We’re in luck with the weather.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young fellow’s face was yellowish; his eyes
and his lips cruel with pain. He was mute, or almost
so; muttered something in response to Wilfred’s
greeting, while his eyes bolted in distaste. He too!
thought Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell was glancing around at the unfamiliar
scene.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s a gashly little boro, isn’t it?” said Wilfred
grinning. “Never mind. Once we climb the hill
yonder, we’ll leave the paths of progress behind.
Come on, you fellows.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shouldn’t we go to your house first?” asked
Stanny, mindful of politeness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nope! Frances Mary doesn’t expect us until we
come back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny looked relieved. The two men came along
in silence after Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred rattled away. “I thought we’d head
first for New City—an amusing village in spite of
its name; then north through Pearl River and
Nanuet, and back to the Highlands. We can make
West Point if you’re interested in that sort of thing;
but I should say, keep back from the Hudson a mile
or so. There are lovely little lakes in there, with
forgotten roads from one to another. We’ll have
to come down into the valley to find a bed . . .
But of course if you don’t feel like strenuous walking,
we can stop anywhere,” he added with a glance
at his companions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You can’t walk too far for me,” said Taswell,
shortly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nor me!” said Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gosh! I needed this!” cried Wilfred, breathing
deep. “I had worked myself to a fare-you-well!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny looked at him with the corners of his
mouth drawn down, and Wilfred could read the
sarcastic words that were not spoken. Happy Wilf!
What Stanny actually said, morosely, was:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did Frances Mary think of it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, she got the whole thing up,” said Wilfred,
glad to score off him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He perceived of course that his giddy talk was
falling on deaf ears; he didn’t mind. Subsequently
it struck him that there was perhaps something cruel
in it. That was the wrong way to deal with the
situation. Down-hearted people are enraged by an
obvious attempt to cheer them, and rightly so. He
became silent. Better to let the sun and the sweet
air have way with them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They plodded along. Rounding the top of the
hill, a mile-wide, shallow valley unrolled below
them. The sight made Wilfred catch his breath;
but he said nothing. It was pasture land, all green
except for the dotting farmhouses and villages; an
unreal, tender green which did not suggest grass or
anything earthly. It was as if one was looking at
the land through a magical green medium. It was
like a sea, tenderer than the real sea, and rolling up
in one vast gentle swell, sprinkled with white ships.
At the far boundaries it faded dreamlike into a
grey void.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stole frequent glances at his handsome
companion. Taswell strode along stiffly, his head
up, looking angrily and blindly straight ahead.
Wilfred’s sense of fitness was gratified by the sight.
The noble way to bear pain. What could have dealt
him such a blow? Bye and bye a sixth sense informed
Wilfred that Stanny resented the keenness
of his interest in this new chum. It was an old
grievance of Stanny’s that Wilfred was too quick to
be on with the new. So Wilfred looked directly at
Taswell no more; happy enough to be in the company
of such a one. Plenty of time! he said to himself.
We have three days ahead of us.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They descended into the valley, where the road
was carried across a clear stream upon an old stone
bridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Half a moment,” said Taswell. “I’m thirsty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred and Stanny waited by the parapet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look here,” said Stanny, jerkily. He refused to
meet Wilfred’s eye. “Didn’t have a chance to tell
you before. I’ve been on the loose again. Suppose
you can see it. Three days. Blind. . . . Oh, you
needn’t say anything!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not going to,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This fellow . . .” Stanny went on. “When I
came to my senses last night I found myself in a dive
up near the Harlem river. He was there, too. In
the same boat, you understand. Has had a knockout
blow. I don’t know what. Won’t talk about it.
I haven’t had any knockout blow. The same thing
as usual. Nothingness. . . . My money had given
out, and so had his. We were put out of the place
together. So we walked all the way down to my
place, and I took him in. By that time we were
ready to shoot ourselves. I found your letter there,
so this morning I borrowed enough from the lunch-room
down-stairs to pay our fares up. We haven’t a
cent.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have enough,” said Wilfred swiftly. “We can
stop at night in farmhouses. I’m damn glad you
brought him.” He looked over the parapet. “What
a splendid young creature, eh, Stanny?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose so,” said Stanny, dismally refusing
to look. “I hadn’t thought of it. Hadn’t thought
of anything at all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One could make a friend of him,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you could!” said Stanny, sneering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred flung an arm around his old friend’s
shoulders, and gave him a shake. Stanny looked
pettish—a sign that he was on the way to being
mollified.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell came springing up the bank. He already
felt better, but refused to admit it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They walked on. Conversation did not flourish
as yet; but the two men from town took out their
pipes, and that was a hopeful sign. Wilfred was
content to bide his time. Stanny had given him
much to think about. These two had been down
into the depths, yet he profoundly respected them.
They were men. They were capable of descending
into the depths. He felt like a spore of thistledown
alongside them. They were forthright; they were
single-minded; they would break before they bent.
Whereas he!—he was of a dozen minds, and was
continually on the rebound. A knockout blow!
Once he had received a knockout blow, and had
turned around and made a happy marriage. Oh, he
was all right, he thought, smiling ironically at himself,
but without bitterness; so things were! He
was sure to keep a toehold in society sufficient to
obtain in the end a respectable funeral! . . . But
what of his two friends? What of Stanny whom he
knew so well? He ached with compassion. What
could a man do to save his friends? Why nothing,
of course. Except to be fond of them. He would
have loved to slip an arm through one of theirs on
either side; but he suspected they wouldn’t like it.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>The three friends were sitting in the general room
of a miserable village drinking-place which called
itself hotel. After all, they had not stopped at a
farmhouse, because, as Wilfred knew, in a friendly
farmhouse one must pay for one’s entertainment with
sociability; and Stanny and Taswell were short of
this coin at present. They had secured a double
room in this poor place for a dollar. They were the
only lodgers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were seated at a bare table with glasses of
beer before them. From the bar adjoining came the
sounds of loud, empty voices; but they were alone.
It was a dreary room; ugly to start with, and worth
nobody’s while to keep tidy and clean. There was
the usual little desk with a worn book, which had
served as a register for many years, and was not yet
full; a rusty cigar-lighter; and a glass inkwell,
caked with dried spillings. There was another
table covered with opened newspapers; and wooden
chairs standing about; “hotel” chairs with round
backs. On the soiled walls hung an old railway map
and a garish calendar.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Things were going well with the three friends.
The springs of talk had been released. Young
Taswell’s face was red from walking all day in the
open; and Stanny had recovered his usual air of
mournful dignity. They were talking about Life
and so forth in a disconnected way, each bent on
expressing himself without much regard for the
others.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The world is shared by the two lots,” Wilfred
was saying dreamily “lords and slaves. The queerest
thing about the situation is that the slaves are as
well pleased with their places as the Lords are with
theirs. They will fight for the privilege of remaining
slaves! All the trouble is made by a third lot,
much smaller; I mean the men who wish to be free
themselves, and have no particular desire to lord it
over anybody. The other two lots join in hating
them of course, for different reasons; and never miss
a chance of trying to step on them. And of course
they generally succeed, since they own the earth
between them. That is why the rarest spirits, the
men with a bit of Michael or Lucifer in them (those
two are so much alike!) so often end as police
court bums or beachcombers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You seem quite cheerful about this rotten state
of affairs,” remarked Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, the act of talking cheers you,” said Wilfred,
grinning. “Thank God! we can still talk about it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re a good fellow,” said Taswell, a little
condescendingly, “but of course that’s all nonsense.
The best men are bound to come to the top!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, well, so long as I’m a good fellow . . . !”
said Wilfred, laughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You talk all over the place,” objected Taswell.
“You don’t follow through. Talking just for the
sake of talking; that’s nothing. You must hold fast
to certain ideas.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Those fixed ideas are the rocks in the rapids on
which we shatter ourselves,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What have we got to hang on to, then?” demanded
Taswell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing! We must let life carry us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, look here . . . ! Nobody knows of course
what the end is going to be; but I’ve got to know
what I’m doing on the way!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I just enjoy the motion,” said Wilfred, smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t really mean anything you say!” said
Taswell, impatiently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s true, in a sense,” said Wilfred. “But
there’s a sort of general meaning to be collected out
of the whole.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s too misty for me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stanny suddenly sprang to Wilfred’s defense. It
was one of his most endearing qualities that he would
never allow anybody else to abuse Wilfred the way
he did himself. “Wilfred is perfectly consistent,”
he insisted. “You’ll see that when you know him
better. He has constructed a sort of scheme for himself,
out of movement, change, balance; give and
take; forward and back; and so on. He’s a philosophic
chameleon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They all laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just the same,” grumbled Taswell, “it destroys
everything to say that the best men go to the
bottom!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your best need not be my best,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell stared at him in exasperation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like that figure about the rapids,” said Stanny,
off on a tack of his own. “That’s what life is, a
rapids. And you have no boat. You are up to your
knees in it; or your waist; or your neck; just as your
luck may be. With the current tearing at you without
a letup. And no shores to climb out on. Steep
walls of rock on either side. All you can do is to
lean against the current, and drag your feet up,
one step at a time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred experienced an actual physical pain that
made him grit his teeth. “That’s all damn nonsense!”
he said, exasperated with compassion. “The
rock of a fixed idea that you’ve been knocking your
head against through life! Why insist on it, and
make yourself wretched? It is equally as true to
say that one may sail downstream with life. The
purest pleasure I ever experienced was in shooting
rapids in a small boat. I didn’t know what was
around the bend, either!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, it’s all talk!” said Stanny, smiling and
unconvinced.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred looked at him, biting his lip. Often one
longed to beat the wrong-headed, unhappy Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell’s mind was still worrying over the original
proposition. Taswell was at a disadvantage, because
in his person at this moment he was offering
a sad commentary on the optimistic philosophy
that he cherished. While he scorned Wilfred’s
ideas, he was strongly drawn to them. “According
to you,” he said to Wilfred, “everything in the
world is wrong and rotten!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not everything,” said Wilfred. “Only certain
human institutions.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Joe Kaplans,” suggested Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell, suddenly roused, brought down the soft
side of his fist on the table. “Oh, <span class='it'>damn</span> him!” he
said thickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hear! Hear!” said Stanny and Wilfred.
“You, too?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Taswell’s eyes bolted. He pressed his lips
together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What brought Kaplan into your mind just
then?” asked Wilfred of Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s just added ‘Truth’ to his string of newspapers
and magazines,” said Stanny. “He’s put
in a stinker as art editor. I had a row with him.
I can see that I am booked to go down where it’s
steep.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were silent for awhile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What <span class='it'>is</span> right in the world?” asked Taswell at
length.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, feeling shamefaced before this hard-eyed
young stranger, grinned and said: “Well,
love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell’s eyes bolted again. They all felt inclined
to blush.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now he’s off on his favorite rocking-horse,” said
Stanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Laughter relieved the strain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell’s laughter was brief. “Well, if you ask
me,” he said harshly, “love leads you into the blackest
hole of them all!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Neither of the other two looked at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mean the love of women,” said Wilfred,
diffidently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He means general love,” said Stanny. “I know
all this by heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never could get that idea,” said Taswell.
“Sounds weak . . . scattered to me. I can’t love
everybody. I don’t want to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, say understanding,” amended Wilfred.
“If I had been Christ I would have put it: ‘Know
ye one another!’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“According to your notions, do women fare any
better in life?” Taswell demanded abruptly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Women or men,” said Wilfred; “we’re all in
the same boat. The most glorious ones are apt to
go under.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Taswell was evidently lying in wait for this answer.
“I deny that!” he said quickly. “I knew a
glorious woman: the real thing; like . . . like . . .
well, the real thing! She made a mess of her life—so
far you’re right; but she didn’t go under. She
picked up what there was left, and went on more
glorious than ever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I knew a woman like that,” said Wilfred softly;
“like a flag in the wind . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes . . . yes!” murmured Taswell. “That’s
fine . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And she made a mess of her life, too. What has
happened to her I don’t know. She must have gone
under in the best sense, I think, though the semblance
of her is still flying.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve never known any woman,” said Stanny, with
the silly-sounding laugh under which men mask their
most painful emotions; “except for an hour or two.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The talk rambled on. They never agreed upon
anything; nevertheless they were drawn together.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>IV</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>I</span>nto</span> a brilliantly lighted, well-filled saloon on
the corner of Seventh avenue and Thirty-fourth
street, strolled Joe Kaplan. He was wearing an
overcoat of English tweed; a white Angora muffler
around his neck; and a fashionable soft hat. Evening
dress was suggested beneath. Accustomed to being
stared at, his expression was bland; but could
not altogether conceal the quality of electric alertness
which attracted people’s eyes, without their
knowing why. Making his way to the bar, he ordered
a drink of whiskey. He looked at nobody, but was
visibly holding himself in readiness to be hailed.
Like a royal prince, he had to be prepared for encounters
in the unlikeliest places. He cultivated the
note of bonhomie in public, which encouraged hails.
This was sometimes inconvenient; but Joe argued
that it was better to be hailed than to be watched
unknown to yourself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was not hailed. Leaning his elbows on the
mahogany rail, and embracing the little whiskey
glass within one hand, preparatory to kissing it, he
gazed with pleasure at his reflection in the mirror
behind the bar. A thoughtless pleasure, and cumulative;
for it made him exult the more, to see himself
exulting. Likeness of a fellow with a dandy appetite!
The fine creases on either side of his mouth
deepened. He observed that the snowy muffler set
off his pink skin and jetty black hair with striking
effectiveness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Swallowing his whiskey, he went out again, and
turned west in Thirty-fourth street. This neighborhood
had lately taken on a nondescript character.
The building of the Pennsylvania terminal had
brought business among the sedate old dwelling-houses,
and some of them were now let out in rooms
to all comers. The landlords collected their rents
in advance, and shrugged their shoulders: the tenants
looked after themselves. Joe had considered all
this before hiring a room there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a final glance around, to assure himself he
had not been recognized, Joe turned into one of the
old houses, and mounting to a hall room on an
upper floor, let himself in. It had been a family
bedroom once; the old-fashioned wall-paper was
rubbed and discolored; the grate was full of litter;
the floor smelled of dust. There was nothing in
the room now but some old clothes hanging from
a row of hooks on the back of the door, and a new
kitchen chair. Without troubling to make a light,
Joe, whistling between his teeth, commenced to take
off his fine clothes replacing them with the shabby
garments from the back of the door. The chair was
to enable him to change his shoes in comfort. He
spread a newspaper to protect his stockinged feet
from the dusty floor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In due course he issued out of the house, metamorphosed.
He was now wearing a greasy mackintosh
with the collar turned up around his neck, and
a shapeless cap pulled down over his eyes. He had
sloughed off more than the fine clothes; somehow
he looked ten years younger, and fifteen pounds
lighter. His glance seemed to have become narrower
and more penetrating, his nose longer, his cheeks
hollower, his mouth more cruel. His gait had become
a loose-limbed slouch, full of a latent spring.
He gave the effect of a young wolf at his ease, with
his tongue lolling. He padded noiselessly along the
pavement at an uneven rate, like an idle wolf;
sometimes a lighted shop window drew him to stand
and gaze with vacant, brilliant eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In another saloon he bought a bottle of whiskey,
and carried it away under the mackintosh. At
Herald Square he hailed a taxicab, and had himself
driven down-town to the corner of Rivington street
and the Bowery. He walked east in Rivington
street, his steps unconsciously quickening, and becoming
purposeful. He loitered no more. Turning
into one of the older tenement houses, the springs
in his body seemed suddenly to be released. Running
up the stairs two at a time, he rapped at a door
on the first landing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was no answer; and with a black face, he
rapped again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From within, a woman’s voice answered coolly:
“You can’t come in.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe looked like a balked wolf then. “It’s me,”
he muttered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t help it. You’ll have to come back in ten
minutes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He slunk back and forth before the door, showing
his teeth, and impotently glaring at the panels.
Then he went noisily down the stairs. Outside, he
kept shifting uneasily around the low stoop with his
wolflike tread, keeping his glance fixed on the entrance
with a snarl fixed in his face; yet half afraid;
for suddenly he veered off across the roadway, with
his head over his shoulder. He entered a lunch-room
opposite, and ordering a cup of coffee, brought it
back to the window where he could still watch the
entrance to the tenement house. Presently a man
came out. Joe had never seen the man, but by his
furtive air he knew it was the man he was waiting
for. Joe, drawing behind the window frame,
watched him, snarling, and profoundly indifferent.
Leaving the coffee, he went back across the street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the comfortable, clean, ugly room, with a
double bed across the front, and a gas-cooker, sink
and icebox at the back, Jewel was waiting for him,
wrapped in a pink, quilted silk coat, which was beginning
to reveal its cotton stuffing. She stood
motionless in the center of the floor, dusky, solid,
significantly shapeless, like a piece of sculpture beginning
to emerge from the stone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What the hell . . . !” began Joe angrily. “A
nice thing . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” she said, moving slightly. “You don’t
own me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t have to have them now!” he cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, I don’t have to have them. But I <span class='it'>can</span>
have them, if I want.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe, cursing, flung his mackintosh on the sofa.
Like a wolf, he snarled obliquely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you’d let me know when you were coming
. . .” she suggested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” he snarled. “That would spoil it. I
like to come on the impulse. . . . And you like me
to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, I do,” she said with a slow smile. “But
you can’t blame me, if you find me engaged.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damnation!” cried Joe, flinging back and forth
across the room with his soft tread. “Oh, damnation!
I might as well go, now!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel shrugged. She moved portentously to the
foot of the bed, where she could look out of the
second window. She knew quite well he had no
intention of going. Looking out of the window,
she waited calmly for him to work off the burden
of his ill-temper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see why you wont let me hire you a decent
place up-town,” he cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yer on’y tahkin’,” she said. “You ought to
know by this time I’ll never take anything off you.
Why, you fool, it’s on’y because you got no strings
on me that you’re still wild about coming here!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She gave him her slow creased smile over a
shoulder. “Well, if I ever git enough of you, I’ll
let you give me a hundred thousand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But this room!” he grumbled. “On the
level . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suits me!” she said. “I wouldn’t change it for
the Waldorf Astoria. I fixed my bed so’s I could
lie in it all day if I wanted, and look into the
street.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s why you’re so fat,” said Joe. “Gee!
you’re fat!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, they tell me you can’t get too much of a
good thing,” she said good-humoredly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe dropped on the sofa, all of a piece. His legs
and arms jerked restlessly. There was no guard on
his sharp face, and the successive emotions flickered
there, and gave place to each other, as inconsistently
as in the face of a wild being. He looked at her
savagely and cravenly. He snarled; and his whole
face became suffused with a dark delight.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You——!” said Joe thickly. “I’ll pay you out
for this!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jewel turned around. Her broad face creased
into wrinkles. She laughed richly in her throat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You come here!” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You come here!” she said coolly. “You don’t
own me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll show you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She awaited him massively. He did not go to
her in a straight line, but veered; and his shoulders
writhed. His darting eyes could not meet her steady,
laughing ones. His eyes were perfectly irresponsible.
Deep, fixed lines of pain and bliss were
etched about his grinning lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By God! One of these days I’ll kill you!” he
muttered, enraptured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed from her capacious breast. “You
talk so big!”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Raising himself on his elbow, Joe felt around
on the bed for the cigarettes. “Just the same,” he
said in an aggrieved voice, “I don’t see why you’ve
got to have anybody but me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yeah,” she said, “sit here twiddling my thumbs,
eh? till you happen to feel like coming round.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I haven’t got anybody but you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So <span class='it'>you</span> say. How do I know whether you have
or not? It’s nothing to me either way. . . . You’ve
got a wife.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah! I don’t trouble her no more. It’s better
that way. As long as I did, we used to scrap. . . .
She never meant anything in particular to me. Too
high-toned.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You got plenty other interests,” said Jewel.
“Men are my amusement. They come here, and talk
about their wives. I listen, and thank my God I’m
no man’s wife. I’m a luxury to them, see? And you
bet they have to mind themselves around me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just the same . . .” grumbled Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the matter with you? You never bothered
about it before. Only to-night you happened
to. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who was he?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shan’t tell you. He don’t cut no ice, anyhow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I admit I don’t like to have my bed
warmed for me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Find another bed, then. There’s no use grousing
about it, and you know it. I mean to live as I
please.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” he grumbled, “a person would think it
was nothing at all to have Joe Kaplan in your bed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aah!” she retorted, “your money’s no good to
you <span class='it'>there</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She chuckled at her own joke, and the bed shook.
Joe, laughing too, tumbled her roughly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your wife must be a funny one,” she said presently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s all right!” said Joe, carelessly. “I did a
damn good day’s work when I copped her. Year
by year she gets handsomer. There ain’t a woman
in New York can wear diamonds like her. She
gives my house the style of a King’s palace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But never to quarrel with you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s too proud to quarrel with me. She’d go
a hundred miles out of her way to avoid a quarrel.
Suits me all right. I don’t want to be bothered
around the house. It’s the same about other men.
Too proud to look at them. It’s a cinch for me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, pride is a cold bedfellow,” said Jewel.
“I’m glad I’m not her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“God! your breast is so broad and firm!” murmured
Joe, pillowing his head there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re my kid,” she murmured, running her
fingers through his thick hair. “For me, you have
never got any bigger.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On’y a kid?” demanded Joe, raising his head,
and grinning close in her face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh well, a man, too. Crazy about yourself, ain’t
yeh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When I come here,” he said, dropping back on
the pillow, “a weight rolls off me, sort of. I can let
myself go. I been with lots of women, but it wasn’t
the same. I was always tryin’ to make them crazy
about me. With you, you old slob! I don’t think
of nothing. What ud be the use? You know
me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Rolling over, he flung his arms around her body.
“You’re so damn solid, so damn solid!” he muttered.
“Gee! it’s great. I don’t know why. You’re
so slow and hard to change. It’s funny, but whatever
you say seems to come right out of the middle
of you. You’re never any different, only more so.
Like a tree, damn you! Rooted in the same spot!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He sat up on the bed, nursing his knees. “Well,
here’s me, if you know what I mean. Look at the
way I’ve worked and schemed, and gone up like a
skyrocket. It’s been a hell of a lot of fun, but it
don’t seem quite real. All sparks, like the tail of
the rocket. It’s been too easy, maybe. Men are
such simps. I never had no setbacks to speak of.
All I was concerned with was keepin’ out of jail.
The same with women. They fell for me so easy,
there was no zip to it. I’ve cut out women. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here I am at the top, and I don’t find it no
different. At heart I’m the same kid that used to
swipe apples offen t’ pushcarts out there. Gee!
I never found a street I liked as well as Rivington.
. . . In them days I thought it would be different
to be rich. A kind of dream, like. But everything
stays just the same. Not but what I enjoy all the
big stuff at that; conferring with prominent men,
and making them do what I want; being God to
thousands of little men; and living in a God-damn
palace and all. But not so much as I did. I’m used
to it now. And there’s always that feeling somehow
that it ain’t quite real. I’ve got a child, and I swear
I can’t feel that he’s mine at all. . . . Funny! . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When I was a kid, once in a while I’d wake up
in my bed all in a sweat. I don’t know . . . I
can’t exactly name it. A sort of where-am-I feeling,
and not a damn thing to grab hold of. God! for a
minute, it makes you fair sick at your stomach.
Well . . . that’s what I mean. Up there on the
Avenue in my fancy bed—it was Louis the something
or other’s bed, or one of those guys; I swear
I have the same dream every once in a while, and
wake up sweating just the same old way. So what
have I got out of it all? Me, myself, inside, I’m
just the same. I’ve got you; but I had you when
I was a kid, and hadn’t nothing else. . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s a funny thing, when you come to think of
it. I don’t mean to be complaining. I’ve had a
hell of a good time, and still do. I have everything
a man could have. I travel light. I don’t worry
about nothing. It’s wonderful what a lot of things
I don’t worry about! They call me heartless.
Well, —— them! A pack of coyotes. They used to yelp
at me in their newspapers. Well, I bought their
newspapers. I’m one of the most powerful men in
New York they say. I suppose I am. But . . .
somehow it don’t seem quite real . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He dropped down, and put his hands around her
thick throat. “Only this . . . ! By God! this
is real . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought you was gonna tahk all night,” murmured
Jewel sleepily. “Such foolishness . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe chuckled.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>V</h2>
<p class='noindent'><span class='lead-in'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ilfred</span> and Frances Mary were having tea
at the Plaza. One of the children had been
sick, and a temporary nurse had been had in for the
others. The sick child was better, and this was the
nurse’s last day. Hence the jaunt to town. After
all, tea is not an expensive meal. They had come
early in order to secure one of the coveted tables
beside the tall East windows, and had made the
meager provender last out. The great room was
now full.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred affected to despise this kind of a
show; but what a bursting-forth it provided in
Fanny’s restricted life. Her shabby coat was
thrown back over the chair, revealing her in a pretty
new dress she had had no opportunity to wear before.
Her hat was becoming. Blue was Fanny’s color.
A hint of pink warmed her dusky cheeks, and the
tired eyes were beaming. For himself, Wilfred had
succeeded in putting the unpaid bills out of mind.
The child was better! It was a good moment; he
swam in it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look at that extraordinary little fat man with
the party of girls,” said Frances Mary. “He could
play the Earl of Loam in Barrie’s comedy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But the Earl of Loam was a respectable husband
and father,” said Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was just thinking of his legs. They must be
the same thickness all the way down like chimney
pots.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should say he’d do better as Silenus.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it possible that a man so old can still enjoy
that sort of thing?” she speculated, looking at the
girls.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know. He has to make believe to. With
a face like that he wouldn’t be accepted in any other
part.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah! what fun it is to watch people!” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred smiled at her with quick warmth. But
the suggestion of gratitude in his smile troubled
Frances Mary. The roomful ceased to interest
her. “You are thinking,” she said, crumbling a
bit of cake, “that it is the only thing we can really
share.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred’s expanding petals were slightly frost-bitten.
Why would she insist on dragging his secret
thoughts out into the light? He hid the damage as
well as he could. “Not the only thing,” he said.
“And anyhow, it’s a lot!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She remained pensive. “We tease each other so!”
she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What of it?” he said; “do we not also. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, don’t start on compensation,” she said. “I
must have my absolutes!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re a little mixed,” said Wilfred. . . .
“You’re welcome to them. . . . Look here, people
with such sensitive feelers as we have are bound to
find marriage full of little wounds. I think we
do pretty well, considering. The only settled grievance
I have against you is that you worry every
little difficulty like a cat with a mouse. The mice
are not important.” Thrusting his feet out, he embraced
hers between them unseen. This he knew
was more potent with Frances Mary than yards of
argument. “Can you imagine us not married to
each other? Or childless?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him deeply and shook her head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, then, what the hell . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She sighed with appeasement; and her glance returned
to embrace the room at large. “What a glittering
spectacle!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Im-hym,” said Wilfred. “Glittering’s the word.
Slightly unreal. Because they’re all on parade.
How wonderful if one could see a crowd of people
really letting themselves out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But where could one see such a thing?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know. . . . Once I saw a festa in an
Italian street here. Little side street up-town.
They had arches thrown across the roadway, decorated
with colored lamps. And all the people’s faces
wore a look of escape. They were swarming in and
out of their church. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look, Wilfred, here’s a distinguished-looking
pair coming in.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred turned around in his chair—and very
quickly straightened again. Confusion came striding
into his contented mind, swinging a scythe.
“Lord!” he said in an uncertain voice, “it’s Joe
Kaplan and his wife. I hope to God they don’t
see us!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She glanced at him sharply. “They’re coming
this way,” she remarked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred looked down. “My back is toward them.
They don’t know you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So that is what she’s like!” murmured Fanny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fortunately there is no vacant table near us,”
muttered Wilfred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As he heard steps come abreast of the table, he
looked out of the window. It was a harrowing
moment. The steps ceased; recommenced; stopped
again. Then Elaine’s clear voice:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilfred! I knew the back of your head!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>From across the table Wilfred could feel Frances
Mary congeal. He looked up with too much of a
start, and rose. His face felt as if it were turning
red and green. He despairingly hoped that with the
passage of the years he had acquired a modicum
of inscrutability. The sight of her took his
breath away. She had blossomed in splendor.
Most beautifully dressed, of course, but that was
not it; the spirit of the woman shone out of her
array. Queenly. There was not a woman in the
room who could approach her. And an entirely
good-humored queen! According to Wilfred’s calculations,
her eyes at least ought to have betrayed
wretchedness; but they were serenely clear. His
whole scheme of things tottered; he felt like a
clown.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hello!” he cried with a false heartiness. “What
a fortunate accident! . . . This is my wife . . .
Mrs. Kaplan.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you do?” said Elaine, putting out her
hand, and looking at Frances Mary with frank and
friendly curiosity. She was likewise saying to herself:
So this is what you’re like!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred and Joe shook hands, and Joe was duly
presented to Frances Mary. Wilfred was even more
astonished at Joe’s appearance. Young, slim, clear-skinned,
at the highest point in the arc of manhood’s
vigor; where were the marks of an evil nature, of
evil living, that ought to have shown before now?
Standing close to him, Wilfred observed the peachy
quality of Joe’s skin, verging into a cool grey upon
his miraculously shaven chin. In seven years Joe’s
face had grown in composure; the habit of authority
had given it a high look. One of the leaders of
men! Wilfred thought with twisted bitterness.
Well . . . one must face it! He felt reluctantly
drawn to Joe. For the thousandth time he wished
he were not so at the mercy of physical beauty.
But presently the bitterness passed with the thrilling
thought: What regions there are in man still to
explore!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You still live in New York?” Elaine said to
Wilfred. “How is it we never see you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, we hardly move in the same circles,” said
Wilfred smiling, and immediately sensible that he
could scarcely have said a worse thing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is too good a chance to be lost,” said Elaine,
looking around for a chair. “May we sit down
with you for a minute?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By all means,” said Wilfred, signalling to a
waiter. Inwardly he cursed the situation. Frances
Mary was smiling like plate glass. It will take me
hours, days perhaps, to bring her round, he thought
despairingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>No more did Joe welcome the situation. “My
dear,” he said, “the Beekmans have seen us. They
are signalling.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>How strangely that “My dear!” rang through the
corridors of Wilfred’s consciousness! He thought
of the seven years of intimacy between these two.
Face to face, stripped of all disguise—but <span class='it'>had</span> they
ever revealed their souls to each other? One would
never know!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Waiters had pushed up two chairs, and Elaine
seated herself. She said to Joe: “Go over and explain
to them that we have unexpectedly met some
old friends. We’ll be with them in five minutes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe marched off, rubbing his upper lip.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The eyes of everybody in the vicinity were addressed
to their table, which was rather cruel on
Frances Mary and Wilfred in their undistinguished
attire. Elaine, of course, was oblivious. She addressed
herself to Frances Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My husband and yours have been acquainted for
many years.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Wilfred has spoken of it,” said Frances
Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In this opening, Elaine betrayed herself to be
not so candid as she appeared. She had apprehended
Frances Mary’s antagonism, and the latter
had instantly perceived it. There was nothing
gauche about Frances Mary, only the glassiness of
her eyes warned Wilfred of jarring voices within.
He was painfully aware of the worn lining of his
wife’s coat over the back of the chair. Joe would
mark that when he came back. Why had he ever
brought her here? They did not belong to it. Wilfred’s
sympathies were all on the side of Fanny—well,
his main sympathies, the outside part of him;
the sprite was for Elaine, because Fanny had intrenched
herself, whereas Elaine was skirmishing
pluckily in the open.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine was momentarily at a loss. It must have
occurred to her to wonder why she had insisted on
sitting down. Like most impulses, it would not
bear a critical examination. Wilfred’s heart went
out to her; it had been a generous impulse. It was
not often that she troubled to come out of her shell
like this. It was Fanny who played the grudging
part. Well, there Elaine was. She tried again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have several children, haven’t you? Somebody
told me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Three,” said Frances Mary. “Two girls and a
boy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I envy you,” said Elaine. “I have only one
little boy. So bad for a child not to have any
brothers and sisters.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Frances Mary politely. She looked
down in her plate. The question was between them,
large, unspoken: Well, why don’t you give him
some?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine turned to Wilfred. “How does the writing
go?” she asked in her whole-hearted way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred, thinking of Frances Mary, shivered for
the speaker. What a false note to issue from the
ringing Elaine! Once she stepped out of her
charmed circle, she was but mortal clay. It endeared
her to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No better nor worse than usual,” he said, smiling
unhappily. What <span class='it'>could</span> one answer to such a question?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I haven’t come across your name lately,” said
Elaine, meaning well.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This remark made the silent Fanny savage. Wilfred
made haste to answer, lightly: “You wouldn’t.
There are so many underground ways of making
one’s living by the pen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>From his wife’s somber glance he gathered that
this had not helped him with <span class='it'>her</span>. Oh dear! Oh
dear! he thought; why must everybody have so
many corns to get trodden on!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe returned with a bland, blank face. He did
not give a hang about them, Wilfred saw; indeed,
he had probably recalled Wilfred to mind only with
difficulty. But his politeness was perfect. It was
Joe who saved the face of the situation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Beekman tells me there’s a report going the
rounds that the suffragettes tried to blow up the
Houses of Parliament, and that the news was suppressed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred was grateful. He had to confess to himself
that polite people have their uses.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good Heavens!” said Frances Mary. “Do you
suppose it’s true?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe shrugged. “It amuses people to pass these
stories round.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I hope they did!” said Frances Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred stared. Could this be his Fanny?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe smiled deprecatingly. “I approve of their
cause, but hardly of their methods,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps they are the only effective methods,”
said Frances Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Englishmen could not possibly give in to
intimidation,” said Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We shall see,” said Frances Mary, smiling back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Elaine had scarcely listened to this. She was bent
like a child on making friends. She said to Joe:
“Mr. Pell is a writer, you remember.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah,” said Joe. “I had forgotten. . . . What is
your line, Pell?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fiction,” said Wilfred. It struck him that there
was something deliciously appropriate in the word.
It was his little private joke. No other eye betrayed
any consciousness of it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I control several fiction magazines,” said Joe,
with his deprecatory air. “You must submit your
stories to my editors.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary was on the verge of an ironic speech
here, but Wilfred managed to divert it with a warning
touch of his foot under the table. “Thanks, I
will,” he said pleasantly to Joe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What are the children’s names?” Elaine asked
of Frances Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mary, Constance, and Stephen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like those names. Mary, I suppose, is . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Six.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The same age as my Sturges. . . . I wish you’d
come to see me some day, Mrs. Pell. And bring
Mary. I mean it. Shall I write and set a day?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, thanks,” said Frances Mary, with a sky-like
candor; “I should like to come ever so much; but
I’m afraid it will be impossible. We live in Rockland
County, you see; and I have no nurse. My
days in town are few and far between.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred gritted his teeth. Ah well, one had to
endure these things. Frances Mary’s spirit was
admirable; but why need she have rebuffed the generous
Elaine?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could send a car out to get you,” suggested
Elaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are too kind! I have made it a rule never
to go visiting with the children while they are
small.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Upon that Wilfred saw that Elaine gave up.
“I’m so sorry!” she said, resuming her usual unconcerned
surface. Meanwhile Joe, out of politeness,
was telling Wilfred the latest news of the government’s
Philippine policy, in which Wilfred was not
the least interested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Presently Elaine arose. “We must be getting on
to our friends. So glad to have run into you. Good-bye.
. . . Good-bye, Wilfred.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went with a frank, final smile at him, that
was hard to bear. If she had gone without looking
at him, he could have built on that. Her whole
attitude had been rather devastating to a man’s
vanity. He could hardly tell himself that she had
lived to regret her refusal of him. Seeing his wife
there in her two-seasons-old coat, and hearing about
the three children and no help! Then Wilfred
grinned inwardly at his own expense. Incorrigible!
Still prone to strut, drawing the rags of his egotism
about him!</p>
<p class='pindent'>His eyes followed Elaine. He saw her whisper
to Joe, and could read her lips. “What a tiresome
woman!” And Joe’s courteous acquiescence.
. . . Even though Elaine and Joe might be perfectly
indifferent to each other, what a beautiful
picture their life made! Eighteenth century beauty.
Maybe there was a sort of peace in a loveless marriage.
Was love really worth all the wear and tear
that it entailed? . . . By way of contrast, he and
Fanny returning to their jerry-built house, and their
niggling domestic cares . . . ! But no bitterness!
The child was better! . . . And anyhow, he could
more fully apprehend the beauty of an elegant life
than its possessors. So was it not really his more
than theirs? An inexpensive and a comforting doctrine
. . . ! One’s own life, too. Sometimes you
were able to survey it from a slight elevation. A
bit of meaning emerged from the welter. Oh yes,
you gained something on the distracting pilgrimage,
though you might not realize it at the time. Bitterness
was gone. He could be thrilled by Elaine’s
splendid air, without experiencing the sting of desire.
. . . He must store away this last sight of her.
How well he knew the gallant carriage of her flat
back, and the little half curls at the nape of her neck!
He had recovered her. She was glorious again! . . .</p>
<p class='pindent'>He sat down facing the cold reality of Frances
Mary. He debated how best to deal with her;
and while he was considering it, heard the mild
words coming out of his own mouth: “Why do you
act so? She is nothing to me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your eyes are full of her!” said Frances Mary,
darkly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred sighed, and made a feeble gesture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She was trying to make us feel cheap!” said
Frances Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are quite wrong,” he said quickly. “Not
until the very end, and you forced that on her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You understand her of course,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred experienced a sort of collapse. Of what
use this endless struggle? No advance was possible.
And how tired he was! Was it <span class='it'>his</span> fault? Why
did the onus invariably fall upon him? Oh, to be
alone and at peace, away from the pulling of all
these hands, big and little! To be at sea with men
for his shipmates . . . !</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let’s go,” said Frances Mary, bleakly. “We
have just time to catch the 5:23.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wilfred roused himself automatically. “No
hurry,” he said. “We’re not going on the 5:23.
. . . It would be too ridiculous to let this accident
spoil our day; to lie down under it! Just for that,
we’re going to make a night of it now. We’re going
to walk down the avenue, looking in all the shop
windows. We’re going to Mouquin’s to dinner, and
afterwards to a play. We can send a telegram to
nurse. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary shook her head. “It would be silly
to spend the money. I shouldn’t enjoy it now.
Come on. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ve damned well <span class='it'>got</span> to enjoy it!” said Wilfred.
“We’re not going home with our tails between
our legs. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The thought of those people. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forget them . . . ! If I can only find a play
with some good laughs in it. . . .”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She picked up her gloves. “You stay. I’d rather
go home, really.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, go ahead!” said Wilfred recklessly. “And
by God! I’ll get drunk! Sometimes it’s the only
rejoinder . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frances Mary laid down her gloves.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>They were walking down the avenue. Apropos of
nothing, Frances Mary said: “Anyway, the man
was impossible! Such insolence!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A great rush of gratitude filled Wilfred’s breast.
She was coming ’round! Cheers! He cunningly
hid his joy. He did not honestly think that Joe had
been insolent, but one could concede that! “I always
told you what he was.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The cheek of his pretending that he had never
heard of you, when you’re a regular contributor to
one of his rotten magazines!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s quite on the cards that he may never read
his magazines,” said Wilfred. “Indeed, I hope
it may be true that I am unknown to him. That’s
why I kicked you under the table.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t understand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose this meeting irritated him,” said Wilfred.
“Mind you, I don’t think he noticed us one
way or t’other; but if it was called to his attention
that he had the power to injure me, he might write
to his editor telling him to step on my stuff hereafter.
That’s the worst of power: a man can’t always
resist the temptation of making it felt, even if
there’s nothing in particular to be gained.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wilfred . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He and his like are our masters,” said Wilfred
serenely, “and it behooves us to step warily in their
presence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How can you be so calm about it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well,” said Wilfred, grinning sideways at her,
“I have, to use that word which you despise, compensations!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny suddenly slipped her arm through his.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wilfred . . .” she faltered. “You’re such a
dear . . . ! I’m sorry . . . ! I believe I’m going
to cry. . . . Now, I’m sure I am! I can’t keep it
back . . . !”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s all right! We’ll turn down this side
street. Let her fly, old girl! . . .”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:.8em;'>THE END</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:.5em;font-size:1.2em;'>TRANSCRIBER NOTES</p>
<p class='pindent'>Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been
employed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious
printer errors occur.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69701 ***</div>
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