The very next evening, when he should have been on his way to Chicago,
he was ringing the door bell of Madeline’s flat. His presence brought
ineffable consolation to the aunt, and was not displeasing to the girl
herself.
“My!” she said loftily. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d come back!”
“Well, I did,” said he. “Aren’t you going back to Compson’s any more?”
“That’s my business!” she answered, but she let him in, and he did not
appear rebuffed.
“Well, I guess they miss you there,” he observed.
“Let ’em!” she retorted with spirit. They were both too polite, too
formal, to take any notice of the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I went
out with that Mr. Bradley, and we got lost in his car. We never got back
here until near noon. There’s no use telling those girls that. They’re
awful spiteful, and they’d never believe me.”
“Well, I do,” said Ritchie.
“I should think you ought to!” said Madeline, with a sternness that
concealed a very warm gratitude.
“Well, I said I did, didn’t I?” pursued Ritchie.
There was a pause.
“He was here to-day,” said Madeline; “him and his sister. I must say I
didn’t think much of her--all painted and everything. She wants to get
me a job with one of those Fifth Avenue dressmakers, as a model, to show
off the dresses.”
There was calm triumph in her tone, but despair seized Ritchie’s heart.
“She says I’d be an elegant model,” observed Madeline.
“All right!” said Ritchie. “Go ahead! Be one! Suit yourself!”
Another pause.
“That po’try you showed me,” said Madeline. “I thought it was sweet.”
“It’s not meant to be sweet,” replied Ritchie severely. “It’s more like,
now, tragic. If you’d read more--”
“I always admired the way you read such a lot,” said Madeline.
In spite of himself, he was mollified. He glanced at her covertly. She
was quite as lovely and disturbing as ever.
“Well,” he said, “of course I got to read. I want to get on. I’m making
twenty-seven a week now, and more when there’s overtime. I spend a good
lot on those correspondence courses, and the Coyote Club and all; but I
guess I could do without them, if I felt like it.”
“I’m not going to take that job,” said Madeline suddenly. “I
wouldn’t--not for anything. I guess I’ve had enough of that kind of
people--all that drinking and all. I’d never get on with that kind!”
“Well, twenty-seven a week, _clear_--” said Ritchie.
The collapse of castles in the air doesn’t make a sound. Down came the
magnificent edifice of Everard Ritchie’s ambitions, and the airy palace
of Madeline’s dreams. In their place was instantaneously erected a
three-room flat in a respectable quarter.
Their hands met, but not their eyes. They were timid lovers; but by that
handclasp they could say all they wished.
“Those people just make me sick,” said Madeline. “You ought to have seen
them dancing out at that place!”
Then their eyes did meet, full of profound confidence and understanding.
His arm went round her shoulders, and she drew close to him.
“I know!” said he. “Fellers like that are no good at all; and those
girls!” He looked at his haughty and incorruptible Madeline. “Those
girls,” said he, from the depths of his vast worldly knowledge, “are
nothing but a bunch of jazz babies!”
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
AUGUST, 1923
Vol. LXXIX NUMBER 3