I
She was now Mrs. Ferdinand King, and had sailed away in Captain
Utterbourne’s _Star of Troy_ on a honeymoon full of mystery—one destined
to carry her not even she knew whither or how far. But Jerome just
remained a clerk immersed in the dust and antiquity of Oaks, Ferguson &
Whitley’s.
He told himself he must keep up a worldly front behind which he could
hide his great unhappiness. This attempt found expression in a certain
rather superficial cockiness, valiantly aided and abetted by the jaunty
little pipe. But he had lost the one girl he ever really cared for, and
felt the loss bitterly. With Stella seemed to go out, too, forever, that
dream of hearth and kiddies to which he had clung so lovingly and so
long. He could not show these things, however. And his ego, though not
morbidly sensitive or in the least vindictive, was still squirming—it was
all pretty complex.
During this unhappy period his defensive cheerfulness was made vaguely
easier by a somewhat surprising friendship which had developed between
himself and the picturesque impresario. After the visit to the schooner,
and certainly after the dinner, the impresario might very logically have
dropped from his horizon; nevertheless, Jerome went right on seeing him
at odd times and places—and, most notably, had been permitted to attend
several rehearsals. These were naturally dazzling experiences, which gave
the clerk glimpses of a wholly new world and brought him into vivid if
momentary contact with men and women who, in their blithe, impressively
sophisticated manner, appeared to know about all there was to know about
life.
Some of the songbirds, it is true, rather kidded the impresario for
taking up with the young clerk; and one of the singers, the official
comedian of the company, worked up a highly successful imitation, which
became one of the best things he did. Yet of course when he appeared upon
the scene, Mr. Curry’s new friend was treated with tremendous respect.
As for Jerome, he thought the members of the troupe without exception
splendid; and, partly, no doubt, as a means of easing the distress in his
heart, even began telling himself he was growing positively infatuated
with a certain girl who did a few small rôles, but mostly sang in the
chorus. Her name was Lili—an extraordinary creature, with great wide,
bewitching, wicked light brown eyes which were always beaming; a mouth
that existed only for eating and loving; a wealth of rich massed hair
and—well, nobody ever did know how much there was underneath it—perhaps
a very great deal, for Lili was deep, in her way, despite genuinely
child-like qualities. She was a truly delightful person, impulsive and
affectionate and a trifle flighty, with a healthy desire to be a prima
donna.
Lili used to amuse herself, when Jerome came amongst them, by beaming
on the poor clerk till he had to blink and would grow quite red. She
had a way of gradually opening her eyes wider and wider as she beamed,
which produced a really electric effect and would make any one’s pulse,
pre-eminently the pulse of a clerk who had never been beamed on that way
before, double and treble its accustomed beat. He didn’t dream it was
she who laughed most heartily over the efforts of the comedian, and that
she herself one day took round a petition, drawn up by the comedian,
requesting signatures of all the male members of the troupe who would
agree to adopt fashion’s latest mandate: a patent clip to hold down the
ends of one’s tie and keep one’s shoulders from growing too haughty.