CHAPTER III

In the twenties, years slip by with the flimsy rapidity of soap-bubbles

blown from the breath of time, unless the person experiencing them has

found an unusually cloistered or passionless existence. As Blanche sat

in the Beauty Parlor where she worked as a hair-curler, she remembered

that she was twenty-two and that her birthday was only twenty-four

hours distant.

The year which had elapsed since her brother’s expulsion as a

prize-fighter seemed to be little more than a crowded and instructive

month. As she sat in the Parlor, during an afternoon’s pause between

patrons, she said to herself: “Gee, here I am, already twenty-two! I’ll

be ’n old dame before I know it. It’s enough to give you the jimjams,

it is.” Something that was not wisdom but rather an engrossed search

for wisdom rested on the smooth plumpness of her face. Again, a light

within her eyes came near to the quality of self-possessed skepticism

and shifted against the survival of former hesitations and faiths.

Life to her was no longer a conforming welter of sexual advances and

retreats, with moments of self-disapproval bearing the indistinct

desire “to get somewhere”--thoughts and emotions had snapped within

her; problems were assuming a more unmistakable shape; the people in

life were displaying to her more indisputable virtues and faults; and

a spirit of revolt was simply waiting for some proper climax. Her

past year of argument and contact with Rosenberg had given her a more

assured tongue and a more informed head. The books that he had supplied

her with had now crystallized to specific inducements--tales about men

and women whose lives were brave, or distressed, pursuits of truth,

and an ever keener knowledge of each other, and a sexual freedom that

was not merely the dodging of lust to an eventual marriage ceremony,

and a dislike for the shams and kowtowings of other men and women.

Frequently, she invited the scoffing of her family by remaining at home

and reading some novel until well after midnight, with her eyes never

leaving the pages. Her sister and brothers, and her parents, felt that

she was getting “queer in the dome,” wasting her time like that when

she might have been picking up some fellow with serious intentions,

or enjoying herself, and though she still went out with men three or

four nights of every week, the family were beginning to fear that she

was not a “regular” girl and that silly, unwomanly ideas had gotten

into her head. In their opinion twenty-two was the age at which a

woman should either be married or be moving toward that end, and they

couldn’t understand her apathy in this matter. They cast most of the

blame on Rosenberg--that dopey mut that she was always afraid to bring

around had evidently turned her against her family and filled her with

junk from the foolish books he loaned her.

Even her mother had begged her to stop going with him and had

complained: “It’s you that’s not me own sweet girl any more. You oughta

stop traipsin’ around with that Jew boy, you oughta. He won’t never

marry you, and it’s I that wouldn’t let you, anyways. He’s got no money

and he’s not right in his head, he’s not!”

Harry had threatened to “beat up” Rosenberg, if he ever saw him, and

her father had railed at her, but she had seemed to look upon their

objections as a huge joke, which had angered them all the more but

left them powerless to do anything except to lock her in her room at

night--an expedient that could hardly be tried on a twenty-two-year-old

daughter who earned her own living and could leave the family roof

whenever she pleased.

On her own part, Blanche had treated their railings with a perverse

resentment. “I’ll go on seeing him just to spite them--who’re they to

boss me around,” she had said to herself. In reality, she had lost much

of her old respect for Rosenberg’s mind and verbal talents, and she was

beginning to see flaws in his make-up.

“He never does anything but talk--he’s a wonder there,” she had said

to herself once. “He takes it all out in wind. I’ll bet you he’ll be

working in that library for the rest of his life, ’r in some other

place just like it. ’N’ again, he always says he’s going to write big

things, but I never see him doing it. I’d like to meet a fellow that’s

doing something--making a name for himself. Gee, ’f I could ever run

across one of those nov’lists, for instance. That man, Ronald Urban,

who wrote Through The Fields--wouldn’t it be all to the mustard to talk

to him! He could tell me all kinds of things I’ve never dreamt of.”

Still, she continued to see Rosenberg because he was the best prospect

at hand, and because she pitied his longings for her, and to show her

family that she could not be intimidated.

Harry was still barred from the ring, and the family had lapsed back

to its old tilts with poverty. Both Blanche and Philip had to give

part of their earnings toward the maintenance of the apartment, as

well as Mabel, who had gone to work as a dress-model for a wholesale

cloak-and-suit firm. She pronounced it “cluck ’n soot,” and affected

a great disdain for her environs and her Jewish employers, but she

was not at all averse to dining and dancing with some of the more

prosperous buyers who frequented her place. Harry had become more of

a wastrel, and did little except loaf around during the day, with

an occasional bootlegging venture and sojourns with women, while

the father loitered about poolrooms and complained of his son’s

persecution, or sat in poker and pinochle games.

As Blanche lolled in the Beauty Parlor, tinkering with her nails, the

image of Joe Campbell was in her head. He had ignored her for six

months and then had bobbed up again on the previous day, and she had an

engagement with him for the coming night. “It’s no use--I can’t get you

out of my head,” he had told her over the telephone. “I stopped seeing

you because I thought you were playing me for a sucker, but go right

ahead, girlie, I’ll bite again. You’re deuces wild and the sky for a

limit with me!” “You didn’t get hoarse telling me that for the last few

months,” she had replied, amused and a little flattered. “Sure not, I

was trying to forget you,” he had responded. “It can’t be done, little

girl. Come on now, let daddy act like a millionaire to-night--he’s good

that way.”

When she had mentioned his call to her family, they had all urged her

to “make a play for him” and angle for a proposal of marriage.

“He must be nuts about you ’r else he wouldn’t always come back for

more,” Mabel had said. “I’ll bet you’re always freezin’ him out, that’s

the trouble. You’ll be a fool ’f you don’t try to land him this time.

He’s loaded with jack, and he’s got a rep, and he’s not so bad-lookin’

at that. What more d’you want, I’d like to know--you’re no Ziegfeld

Follies girl yourself.”

Now, as she sat and polished her finger-nails, Blanche wondered whether

it might not be best to marry Campbell after all. Most of his past

glamor to her had been rubbed away, and she saw him as a second-rate

actor, always laughing to hide what he wanted to get from a girl, and

drinking and spending his money because he wanted people to believe

that he was much more important than he really was, and caring nothing

for the “fine” part of life which she had begun to realize--books, and

paintings, and such things. Still, if she married him he would give

her a leisure and an independence in which she could find out whether

anything was in her or not, and whether she was gifted for something

better than marcelling hair or punching registers. Then she would be

able to sit most of the day and just read and think, or maybe go to

some school and learn something, and meet new kinds of people. How

could she ever make something out of herself if she had to work hard

every day, and give half of her limited dollars to her family, and

listen to their naggings and pesterings? Of course, she did not love

Campbell, and the thought of continuous physical relations with him was

not as pleasant as it had once been--somehow, when you began to “see

through” a man’s blusterings and boastings, his hands and his kisses

lost part of their thrill--but still, he _was_ physically agreeable

to her, and it might be idle to hope for more than that from any man.

He wouldn’t talk about the new things that she was interested in, or

sympathize with her desires for knowledge and expression, but when, oh,

when, would she ever find a man who had these responses? Such men lived

and moved in a different world, and were hardly likely to meet, or to

care for, a questioning Beauty Parlor girl--they could easily procure

women who were more their equals. Besides, it was silly to sit and

mope around and wait for your “ideal” to arrive. You might wind up by

becoming a dull old maid, with nothing accomplished.

The one thing that counseled against marriage to Campbell was her

unfounded but instinctive distrust of him. She could never rid herself

of the feeling that he was secretly cruel and heartless, and that there

was something “phony” about all of his smiles and laughters, and that

he was not nearly as intelligent as he seemed to be, but knew how to

manipulate an all-seeing pose.

The Beauty Parlor was a sweetly smirking, pink and whitish, overdraped

place, trying so hard to look femininely dainty and insipidly refined

and still preserve something of a business-like air. Cream-colored

satin panels were nailed to the walls and pink rosebud arrangements

shaded all of the electric lights except the green-shaded, practical

ones placed beside the tables and the chairs where the work was done.

There were Persian rugs on the hardwood floor, and amateurishly piquant

batiks, and the reek of cheap incense and dryly dizzy perfume was in

the air. Outside of three prosaic, ordinary barber-chairs, the place

had several dressing-tables with long mirrors, enameled in shades of

ivory and pink with thin, curved legs. Bottles of perfume and jars

of paste and powder were scattered over the place, and many framed

photographs of actresses were on the walls, most of them signed: “With

affection (or with regards) to my dear friend, Madame Jaurette” (some

of them had cost Madame a nice penny). These picture-testimonials

had a potent effect upon the Beauty Parlor’s clientele, owing to the

humorous misconception on the part of many women that actresses and

society queens alone are acquainted with the mysteries and abracadabras

of remaining physically young, beautiful, and unwrinkled. Photographs

of society women were much more difficult for Madame to procure--money

was of no avail in their case, ah, _mais non_!--but she did have one of

Mrs. Frederick Van Armen, one of the reigning upper-hostesses of the

day, which she had secured after a year of plotting, and of pleading

notes.

The entire shop had an air of sex running to an artificial restoration

place to repair the ravages of time, or to add an irresistible

exterior to its youth, but there was something hopeless and thickly

pathetic attached to the atmosphere. It was sex that had lost its

self-confidence and its unashamed hungers--sex that hunted for tiny

glosses and protections, and had a partly mercenary fear and precision

in all of its movements.

Blanche’s thoughts of Campbell were interrupted by the advent of the

proprietress, Madame Jaurette, and a young patroness. Madame was fat,

and too short for her weight, but through the use of brassieres,

bodices, reducing exercises, and diets, she had kept her curves from

emulating a circus side-show effect. It was a strain on her nerves,

however, and she had that persecuted but uncomplaining look on her

face. Like a great many middle-class, nearly middle-aged French women,

with very moderate educations, she was a preposterous mixture of

dense cupidities and romantic sentiments, and while the cupidities

had their way with her most of the time, they were always apt to be

knocked galley-west by some gentleman with an aquiline nose, or the

destitution of some weeping girl. She had a round, almost handsome

face, with the wretched hint of a double chin that was never allowed to

go any further, and bobbed, black hair--it didn’t become her but it had

to be mutilated for business reasons--and she dressed in dark, lacy,

expensive gowns.

“Ah, Ma’m’selle Palmaire, you will take so good care of Mees White,

she is vairy fine lady,” she babbled. “Mees White, she always have

Nanette to feex her hair, but Nanette she is here no more. Ma’m’selle

Palmaire, she is really ex-pert, Mees White. She will geeve you, what

you call it?--the curl that won’ come off!”

“’F I’m so good, why don’t you raise my wages once in a while,” Blanche

thought to herself, but she said: “Sure, I guess I know my work all

right. I’ll do the best I can for her.”

The patroness was a slim girl with a disproportionately plump bosom,

a dumbly child-like, near-pretty face, and a great shock of blonde,

bobbed hair. As Blanche heated the curling-irons, the other girl said:

“It’s just the hardest thing to keep my hair wavy. It never does last

more than two or three days. I’ll spend a fortune on it before I’m

through.”

“Why don’t you get a permanent wave--it’s cheaper in the end,” Blanche

answered.

“Oh, I’m never able to afford it when I do get the impulse, and then I

might want it straight again any time. It’s all so much a question of

what you’re wearing and how you feel, you know. D’you think I look good

in curls?”

Blanche had no opinion whatever on the subject, but she replied: “Yes,

indeed, I think they go well with your face.” Patronesses, to her, were

simply blanks to be dealt with in rotation, unless they exhibited an

ill-temper or an impatience. A spell of silence came as Blanche bent to

her task, and then the other girl said: “Don’t you get tired of working

all day in this stuffy place? I know I could never stand it myself.”

Blanche was used to this question--women who tried hard to show an

interest in the beauty-parlor workers but rarely ever really felt it.

“It’s no worse than lots of other things,” she answered. “I’ve got to

earn my living some way. I won’t be here all my life though, believe

me.”

The conversation continued in this casual strain, with neither woman

caring much about what the other said, but with both desiring to lessen

the tedium of an hour. Two-thirds of all the words that human beings

talk to each other are merely unaffected protections and tilts against

an impending boredom.

When Blanche came home from work that night, the members of her family

were seated at the supper-table. After she joined them they began to

twit her about her approaching engagement with Campbell.

“Gonna make him buy the license, Blanche?” Harry asked.

“Yes, a dog license,” she answered.

“That’s a fine crack to make against a fellow like Joe,” Harry replied.

“You’re not good enough f’r him, ’f you ask _me_.”

“’F you give me one of your hankies I’ll cry about it,” she said.

“Maybe that’ll suit you.”

Harry looked at her dubiously--it sure was hard to “get her goat” these

days.

“You’re gettin’ sillier ev’ry day,” Mabel said to her sister. “You’ll

never find another chance like Joe Campbell--they don’t grow round

on bushes. S’pose you’d rather sit all night ’n’ read one of those

no-ovuls uh yours. It’s hard to figure you out.”

“In the first place he hasn’t asked me to marry him yet,” Blanche

answered, “and besides, I don’t see why all of you have to butt into my

affairs so much. I never tell any of you people what to do.”

“Well, don’t forget, I’m your father, and I’m gonna have somethin’ to

say ’bout who you hitch up with,” Will Palmer said.

“Nobody’ll stop you from saying it, but I’m no good at being bossed

around,” she retorted coolly.

“We’ll see ’bout that, we’ll see,” her father responded with a heavy

emphasis.

This daughter of his was becoming too high-handed, and he would

probably have to use harsh measures to her for her own good, but as

long as the matter remained one of verbal exchanges there was nothing

that he could do about it. Just let her start something, though!

“We’re all jes’ tryin’ to look out f’r you, Blanie dear,” her mother

said. “You shouldn’t get so uppity about it, you shouldn’t.”

“I can take care of myself--I’ve had to do it long enough, ma,” Blanche

responded.

“We’ll, I’m with you all the time, and that’s no lie,” Philip said.

He did not understand Blanche to any great extent, but he liked her

independence (“spunk”) because it spoke to the similar feeling within

himself which he was too cowardly to express.

“You’re about the only one in this fam’ly who leaves me alone,” Blanche

answered, with a little dolorous affection.

She knew that Philip was weak and hedging but she was grateful for his

lack of hard interference and pitied his spineless spirit.

As she dressed to meet Campbell she had a don’t-care, tired-out mood.

Let them all talk their heads off--they couldn’t prevent _her_ from

doing what she wanted to do.

When Campbell came up, the rest of her family had departed, with the

exception of her mother, who greeted him with a timid cordiality. How

she wished that her daughter would marry this good-natured, prosperous

man! She herself would have been much better off if she had been more

prudent in her youth and not so much concerned with this “lovin’ and

mushin’” thing. Why, any woman could get to lovin’ a man if he took

care of her, and acted kind and true, and didn’t bother with other

women, and had a nice, jolly nature. Of course, Campbell _did_ go

around with a fast, booze-lapping crowd--she knew what those Broadway

people were, but leave it to Blanche to tame him down if she married

him. Well, maybe Blanche would come to her senses before it was too

late.

When they reached the street, Campbell said to Blanche: “What’s on your

mind, to-night, old dear? You’ve said about six words since I came up.

You haven’t gone back on me, have you?”

“I don’t feel much like gabbing to-night,” she answered. “I guess I

won’t be very entertaining to you.”

“Just be yourself, that’s all I want,” he said, as he squeezed her arm.

He sensed that something might be “going wrong” with her at home, and

after they had entered a cab he asked: “What’s the matter, your family

been razzing you any?”

“Oh, they’re always doing that,” she responded. “They’re great ones on

telling me what I should do.”

“Why don’t you make a break?” he queried. “I’ve always thought you were

a fool to stay in that rotten dump of yours. It’s no place for a girl

with any class to be living in, you know that. You could get a couple

of rooms of your own and do as you please, and sit on the top of the

world.”

He had an idle sympathy for her, and he felt that she would be much

more accessible if she were removed from the guardian eyes of her

family. Funny, how he couldn’t get this girl out of his mind. She had

a “thoroughbred” touch, a high-headed, brave, exclusive something that

he had rarely found in women and could scarcely define. It wasn’t her

looks and she certainly wasn’t particularly talented in any way--it was

a straightness in conduct and word, and an untouched, defiant essence

that seemed to cling to the physical part of her. Some women were like

that--their affairs with men never left any impress upon them. Guess

they never really gave in to any man--that was it.... Should he ever

ask this girl to marry him? Marriage--brr! Wasn’t he still paying

alimony on the first one that he had contracted? No, he’d be willing

to live with Blanche and give other women “the air,” for some time

at least, but no more marrying for him. Even this would be quite an

important concession for a man of his kind, who could have his pick

of pretty girls every night. His first wife had attracted him just

as Blanche did, and what had happened? Everything sweet and snug for

the first six months, and then a first quarrel because she caught him

kissing a girl in his show--nothing but handcuffs and a prison cell

ever satisfied _them_--and then more quarrels about where they should

eat, and what kind of ties he ought to buy, and a dozen more trivial

frictions. And money--two hundred a week for her expenses got to be

like two dollars in her estimation. Then he had felt the gradual

letting down of his desire for her--she had not become less attractive

but less imperative and more a matter of pleasant convenience. He had

returned to unfaithfulness, after drunken parties--how could any man

help it?--and he’d certainly never forget the cheap, blah-blahing night

when she had burst into a hotel room, with two private detectives, and

found him with a woman. No more of that kind of joke for him.

These thoughts occurred to him irregularly as he talked to Blanche in

the cab, and afterwards as they sat in a corner of The Golden Mill.

“You’re a simp to work like a nigger all the time,” he said. “What’s it

bring you, anyway? Three dimes and a crook in your pretty back, that’s

about all.”

“It’s easy for you to talk,” she replied. “Tell me how I’d ever get

along without working?”

“I’ll keep you up any time you say,” he responded, caressing her hand

that rested on the table, “and don’t think I’m spoofing you, either.

I’ll give you anything you want, and no strings tied to it. I mean it.

Don’t think I hand this spiel around ev’ry night! You’ve had me going

ever since I first saw you--you’ve got the class and I know it.”

She looked at him meditatively--it would be necessary to “call him

down” for this open proposal, but--just saying it to herself--why

shouldn’t she be supported by a man? How would she ever get a breathing

spell otherwise?

“When I take money from any man I’m going to be married to him first,”

she replied, “and don’t think I’m giving you any hints, either. ’F I

wanted to be free and easy with men, I’ve had plenty of chances before

this--plenty. I hate to work at something I don’t care much for, sure,

ev’ry girl does, but it’s better than living with some fellow till he

gets tired of you and then passing on to some one else. They’ll never

play baseball with yours truly ’f she can help it.”

He was divided between admiration for her “spunk” and candor, and a

suspicion that she might be testing him.

“I’ll stop dealing from the bottom of the deck,” he said, slowly. “I’ve

known you for two years, now, Blanche, and it’s time that we came to

some understanding. This loving stuff’s all apple-sauce to me--you

always think you’re nuts about a girl till she falls for you, and then

you change your eyesight. I’ve had one bum marriage in my life, and I

never was fond of castor-oil and carbolic acid on the same spoon. If

you’ll hook up with me, old girl, I’ll treat you white, but I can’t

hand out any signed testimonials about how long it’ll last, for you ’r

me. What’s the use of all this worrying about next week and next year?

It’s like not sitting down to your meal, ’cause you don’t know what

you’re going to have for dessert.”

“Well, what’s the proposition?” she asked, surprised at her own lack of

indignation, and liking his unveiled attitude.

“I’ll get you a swell apartment up in the West Seventies,” he said,

“and you can put up a bluff at studying something--music ’r acting ’r

something like that--just a stall to keep your folks in the dark. I’ll

get a wealthy dame I know to take an interest in you, see? She’ll be

the blind. She’s a good sport and she’ll do anything for me. You’ll

be known as a _protégée_ of hers, and your family’ll never know I’m

putting up the coin. Why, it’s done ev’ry day in the year.”

“So, I’m to be your miss-tress, like they say in the novels,” Blanche

answered, with a struggle of irritation and tired assent going on

within her. “I suppose I ought to bawl you out for your nerve, but I

won’t take the trouble. I’d like to _really_ study something, and get

somewheres, but I’m not so sure I want to take it like that.”

“What’s the matter, don’t you like my style?” he asked.

“You’re not so bad ’s far as you go,” she replied, “but I don’t happen

to be in love with you.”

“What of it?” he asked. “You know you like to be with me--that’s what

counts. Most of this love stuff’s a lot of hokum, that’s all. I never

saw a couple in my life that stayed crazy about each other for more

than two years, and that’s a world’s record. If they stick to each

other after that it’s because they haven’t got nerve enough to make a

break, ’r for the sake of their kid, ’r a hundred other bum reasons.

But they’ve lost the first, big kick ev’ry time--don’t fool yourself.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said slowly. “’F a girl finds a man that

loves her for what she is--her ways of acting and talking--I don’t

see why they can’t get along even ’f they do get tired of hugging and

kissing all the time. They’ve got to have the same kind of minds,

that’s it.”

“We-ell, how’s my mi-ind diff’rent from yours?” he asked, amused and

not quite comprehending (she sure had acquired a bunch of fancy ideas

since his last meeting with her).

“It’s this way, you don’t like to read much, real good books, I mean,”

she replied, “and you never go to swell symf’ny concerts where they

play beautiful music, and you don’t care for paintings and statues and

things like that. I never thought much of them myself, once upon a

time, but I’m beginning to get wise to what I’ve been missing. I mean

it. I’ve been going around for a long time with a fellow that likes

those things, and I’m not as dumb’s I used to be.”

Campbell laughed inwardly--doggone if she hadn’t become “highbrow”

since their last time together! This was an interesting, though absurd,

turn of affairs. She had probably been mixing with some writer or

painter, who had stuffed her head with “a-artistic” poppycock, which

she didn’t understand herself, but which she valued because it was

her idea of something grand and elegant. Girls like Blanche were

often weathercocks--not satisfied with their own lack of talent and

ready to be moved by any outburst of novel and impressive hot air

that came along. Well, it would be easy to simulate a response to her

new interests and captivate her in that way, unless the other man had

already captured her.

“How do you know I don’t like those things?” he asked. “I’ve never

talked much about them because I never knew they mattered to you.

I thought you believed that this guy, Art, was a second cousin to

artesian wells. How was I to know?”

She caught the presence of an insincerity in his glibness.

“’F they’d been first on your mind, you couldn’t have helped talking

about them,” she replied. “Anyway, ’f I ever went to live with you, I’d

never do it roundabout, like the thing you had in mind. I’m not much on

lies and hiding things. When I leave home it’ll be a clean break, and

anybody that doesn’t like it’ll have to mind his own business.”

“Well, I only wanted to make it easier for you,” he said. “If you don’t

care whether your family gets sore, or not, it’s all the same to me.”

“Say, you talk as though I’d said yes to you,” she answered. “Don’t

take so much for granted, Joe. I’ve listened to you like a good sport,

instead of bawling you out, but I’m not going to rush off with you

_this_ week.”

“Now, now, I’m not trying to force myself on you,” he said, soothingly.

She _was_ a wary one, and no mistake, but it looked as though he

finally had her on the run, and it was all a question of whether he

cared to exert a little more patience and persuasiveness in the matter.

Of course, he’d continue the game--he had nothing to lose, and it would

be a distinction to have her lovingly in his arms, and he really liked

her defiance and her immunity from ordinary wiles and blandishments.

She was somebody worth capturing--no doubt of that. A degree of cruelty

also moved within his reactions. Just wait till he had her where he

wanted her--he’d do a little bossing around himself then, and if she

didn’t like it....

When they departed from The Golden Mill, the whisky that she had

had played tiddledywinks with her head, aided by the abrupt change

from the heated cabaret to the cooler street air, and she felt an

Oh-give-in-to-him-what’s-the-dif’ mood, and her thoughts grew mumbling

and paralyzed. She swayed a bit on the sidewalk and he put an arm

around her waist, to steady her.

“Say, Blanche, don’t pass out on me,” he said, anxiously. “We’ll go

over to my shack now, that’s a good girlie. I won’t eat you up, don’t

be afraid.”

“I’ll go anywheres ... give my he-ead a rest ... feels like a rock ...

that’s funny ... like a ro-ock,” she answered, mistily.

He hailed a cab, and on the way over to his apartment, she leaned

her head on his shoulder and passed into a semidrowsy state, while

he caressed her with a careful audacity and smiled to himself. Well,

well, Blanche Palmer in the little old net at last--what a blessing

liquor was, if you kept your own head.

When they reached his apartment--two ornate, untidy rooms with mahogany

furniture, and signed theatrical photographs, and an air of cheaply

ill-assorted luxury--he wanted her to rest upon one of the couches,

but her head had grown a bit clearer by this time, and admonishings

were once more faintly stirring within it. Where was she? Where?...

In Campbell’s apartment.... So, he’d gotten her there at last. Damn,

why was everything trying to revolve around her? This wouldn’t do at

all.... She must ... must ... must get herself together. Tra, la, la,

what on earth was the dif’? It would be nice to let the whole world go

hang for one night, and feel a man’s body against hers, and stop all of

this fighting and objecting. Sweet, all right, sweet, but no ... no ...

no ... he’d be getting her too easy ... and all he wanted was ’nother

party with ’nother girl ... she knew ... and she just didn’t love ...

oh, love, nothing ... better to feel good and be yourself ... but she

didn’t trust him and she wouldn’t have him ... just wouldn’t have ...

yes, she would ... no-o ... she’d simply have to pull herself together.

She went to the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind her

before he knew what was happening--he had been standing in a corner

of the room and confidently slipping into his dressing-robe. Then she

plunged her head into cold water, off and on, for the next half hour,

and found a bottle of smelling-salts in his medicine cabinet and thrust

it against her nostrils, and loosened her waist. She felt herself

growing steadier, and the mists in her head changed to a swaying ache

in which her thoughts regathered, and her emotions became sullen and

self-contemptuous.

“You’re some boob, you are, letting Joe Campbell dose you up with booze

and get you to come to his place,” she said to herself. “He almost put

one over on you this time, you conceited dope. How much respect would

he have for you if he got you this way? Say, don’t make me laugh.”

In spite of the sick giddiness that still remained within her, she

became morosely determined to leave the apartment and return to her

home. If he tried any rough stuff, she’d yell for aid, or break

something over his head. But he wouldn’t--he’d never risk losing her.

He’d know darn well that if he tried any movie stunts she’d never see

him again. Well, maybe she had misjudged him--maybe he was really in

love with her and too ashamed to admit it. They always put up that

I-don’t-care-I’ve-got-a-hundred-others bluff, to impress a girl.

Besides, men always wanted the same thing, and they shouldn’t be blamed

for that. It was natural.

During the half hour he had rapped repeatedly on the door and begged

her to come out, and she had ignored his words. Now she opened the

door and walked slowly into the room. He was mixing a highball, and he

looked up with a placating smile.

“Well, feel any better now, Blanchie?” he asked, casually. “Sit down

and rest it off.”

“I’ll say I do,” she answered. “I’m going home, Joe.”

He looked at her intently and saw that at least half of her drunkenness

had disappeared. H’mm, this was a nice state of affairs. Sweet

mamma, he’d rather go after a she-fox any day in preference to this

girl! Well, he would have to renew his caresses and cajoleries--more

carefully this time. He walked up to her and placed his arms around her.

“Listen, don’t leave me flat now,” he said. “I’m wild about you, dear,

and I mean it. What’s the use of stalling around all the time? Hell,

life’s short enough, and the next morning slaps you in the face just

the same. I’d marry you in a second if I didn’t know that marriage

never turns out right. Let’s be ourselves, Blanche dear--let’s cut out

this comedy stuff.”

As he embraced her his words became more sincere than their original

conception had been--somehow transformed by her smooth closeness and

his grudging respect for the note of “class” within her.

She tried to thrust him away from her, with wobbly arms, and said:

“You’ve got to let me go home, Joe, I’m not myself, I’m not. You

wouldn’t want me to give in to you just because I’ve drank too

much--not if you love me like you say you do. ’F I ever come to you I

don’t want to be coaxed--I want to do it of my own accord, and be glad

about it.”

“I can’t, you’ve got me up in the air,” he answered, trying to embrace

her again.

This time she repulsed him with more vigor.

“I’d like to see you stop me,” she said. “’F you try it you’ll wish you

hadn’t.”

She walked to the couch and started to put on her hat and coat. His

mind began to work swiftly, repressing his impulse to follow her and

change it to a battle. The determination in her voice might not be

real--he had subdued other girls by resorting to a mingled physical

struggle and pleading at the last moment--but he had a hunch that it

was genuine in her case. She was that rare kind of girl who had to

be handled with extreme, inhuman care, and who had a fighting spirit

within her and became sullenly stubborn when she thought that a man

was trying to force himself upon her. If he controlled himself now,

it might give him the halo of a “real gentleman” to her, and then

afterwards she would come to him of her own accord, just as she had

said. He walked up to her and held one of her hands, gently.

“What do you think I am--a gorilla ’r something?” he asked. “I’d never

try to keep you here against your will, don’t be silly. I thought you

didn’t mean it ’r else I’d never have acted this way. You’ve got the

wrong slant on me, Blanche. I’ll get a cab for you now and see you

home.”

She looked at him more softly and said: “Maybe I have, Joe, maybe. You

can’t be blamed ’f you want me, but you’ll just have to wait till I

come to you myself, ’f I ever do.”

They descended to the street and he rode home with her. He kissed her

lightly, as they stood in the hallway of her building, and said: “When

can I see you again, dear?”

“I’m too dizzy to think ’bout anything now,” she replied. “Call me up

real soon and we’ll make a date.”

She managed to reach her room with no greater heralding than a

collision with a chair in the kitchen, and after she had undressed

and turned out the light, she pitched herself upon the bed, as though

she were violently greeting a tried and deliciously safe friend. For

a while, fragments of thought eddied through the growing fog in her

head. Hadn’t she acted like an idiot--like one of those movie queens in

the pictures, always struggling around with some man, like they were

ashamed they had bodies? She was alone now--she’d had her way, and she

was winding up with nothing, nothing except another day of hard word

at the “parlor,” with a heavy head to carry around. Oh, gee, where was

the man with a big chest, and a handsome face--it wouldn’t have to be

pretty, like that of a cake-eater--and a complete understanding of all

her longings, and a wonderful mind, and ... her head grew blank and she

fell asleep.

On the next morning she had a virulent headache, and felt thwarted

and taciturn, and was quite certain that life was a fraud and that

the future held nothing for her. The mood remained with varying

intensities, during the next three days, but the resiliency of youth

slowly drove it away, and on the third night, as she sat in her room,

preparing for a “date” with Rosenberg, she felt quite skittish and

intactly hopeful. After all, they hadn’t been able to down _her_ yet.

She’d get ahead in the world before she was through, and she’d find

the man that she was looking for, and in the meantime, Mister Campbell,

and Mister Munson, the stock-broker who had called for her in a

limousine on the night before last--her birthday--and Mister Rosenberg,

and all the rest of them, would have to jig to her tunes. She gave an

idle thought to Munson. He was wealthy, and middle-aged, with a large

wart on his broad nose, and his conversation ... _his_ money, and _his_

friends, and what _he_ would do for her. Yet, thousands of girls would

simply have jumped at the chance to marry him.... All of these men

were just makeshifts along the way, until she came across the man whom

she could really love, and where was the selfishness involved?--her

presence and her talk were worth just as much as theirs, and if they

were not satisfied, there were no ropes tied to them. She never ran

after _them_, did she?

Again, she berated herself for having as much as seriously considered

Campbell’s proposal to live with her and support her--in a couple of

months at most he would have turned away from her and sought another

girl, and then what would she have had? A sold-out feeling, and a

wondering where to turn next, and the whole problem of her life still

staring at her. And to think that she had been on the verge of giving

in to him that night at his apartment! She would have to stay away from

liquor for a while--it might turn her into a rank prostitute before

she knew what was happening. A girl only needed one good push to throw

everything to the winds, and she knew her weakness and would have

to be more on guard against it. When she met a man whom she loved,

she’d be daring and ardent then and tell the world to go to the devil,

without even worrying about how long it might last, and not merely

because booze had made her feel jolly and helpless and overheated. At

her next meeting with Campbell she intended to tell him that they could

never be more than pleasant friends to each other.

As for her family, they were a more concrete bug-bear. She knew that

Harry and her father would become pugnacious if she ever deserted her

home without marrying a man of their choice, but in a pinch, what could

they do except strike her, and if they dared....

She emerged from her room, and Mabel, who was sharing a newspaper with

Harry, said: “I heard you come in las’ night, Blan. ’F it wasn’t five

bells I’ll eat your gray bonnet. I hope you didn’t let Joe get too

frisky, though I wouldn’t blame you much if you did. Only he won’t be

liable to marry you ’less you hold him off--you know how men are!”

“I didn’t see Joe last night, but don’t worry, I wasn’t born

yesterday,” Blanche answered.

“I guess you’re gonna meet that Jew sissy uh yours,” said Harry. “I’ll

give him a boxin’ lesson ’f I run into him.”

“That’s all you ever have on your mind,” Blanche retorted. “I don’t see

that all this fighting of yours has ever brought you much.”

“That’s all right, I’m not through yet,” he responded, with an angry

look. “You hate a guy that doesn’t let off a lotta cheap gas and

wriggle his hips.”

As she left the building to meet Rosenberg at the corner drug store,

two blocks away, she did not notice that Harry was following her. When

she and Rosenberg had exchanged greetings and were about to cross the

street, she heard her brother’s voice cry: “Hey, wait a minnit!” and

they turned around, and she asked: “What do you want, Harry?”

He ignored her and spoke to Rosenberg.

“Your name’s Rosinburg, huh?” he asked. “I just wanna be sure.”

“That’s right,” Rosenberg answered, scenting trouble and wondering what

turn it would take.

“Well, you keep away from my sister, get me? You’ve been fillin’ her

head with garbage and turnin’ her against her own people, you have, and

I’m gonna put a stop to it. You’re a Jew-kike besides, an’ you better

stick to your own kind and leave our girls alone, see? ’F you know

what’s good for you, you’ll trot along, now.”

Caution and wrath contended within Rosenberg. This man was a

professional fighter and gangster, and could probably beat him easily

in spite of the difference in their heights, but, by God, he wouldn’t

stand for that kind of insulting interference.

“You bet I’m a Jew, and I’m proud of it,” he replied. “What gives you

the idea that you can order me around? If Blanche wants to be with me,

that’s her business and not yours.”

“Well, I’m gonna make it my business,” Harry retorted, doubling his

fists and stepping closer to Rosenberg.

Blanche, who had been stunned and then inarticulately angry at first,

glared at Harry--of all the nerve, insulting her escort and handing out

commands to _her_.

“Are you out of your mind, Harry?” she asked. “What do you mean by

butting in like this? I’m not a baby and I’ll do exactly as I please,

and you might as well get that into your dumb head!”

Harry still ignored her and said to Rosenberg: “Are you gonna beat it

’r not?”

“You notice I’m still standing here, don’t you?” Rosenberg asked,

trembling a bit, but holding a lurid roar in his head, in spite of the

sick pain in his breast.

He was in for it--it couldn’t be helped.

Harry immediately punched Rosenberg in the jaw and stomach, in quick

succession, and Rosenberg reeled back but recovered his balance and

advanced with a snarl and wildly swinging arms. They fought around

the sidewalk for the next half minute, while an increasing circle of

men and women gathered silently about them. The spectators made no

effort to interfere, but watched with that intent, hungrily curious

impersonality that usually possesses city crowds in such a situation.

Blanche stood with a numb fear and a helpless anger heavy within her,

as she nervously twisted her little white handkerchief and tried to

look over the heads of the spectators. Was there anything in life

except trouble, and browbeating, and every one trying to pull you a

different way ... and that vile brother of hers ... she’d fix him for

this audacity ... poor Rosenberg, how she had unwittingly lured him

into this mess ... he was more nervy that she had ever given him

credit for ... perhaps Harry was half killing him ... poor, poor boy.

Rosenberg fought desperately, his courage reviving to an unnatural

fervor beneath the repeated stinging blows, but Harry was far too

swift and strong for him, and an uppercut to the jaw finally knocked

Rosenberg to his knees. At this juncture some one yelled: “Jiggers,

here comes a cop!” The ring of onlookers broke instantly, and some of

them sped around the corner and walked swiftly down the side street,

while others stood about indecisively. Harry promptly jumped into a

nearby taxicab and was driven away--he had done his job and didn’t mean

to get arrested for it. Blanche hurried to Rosenberg and helped him

to his feet, just as the policeman, with the proverbial lateness of

his kind, strode up to them. Rosenberg’s left eye was discolored and a

rivulet of blood dropped from his swollen lips.

“What’s all this rumpus about--where’s the fellow that beat you up?”

the policeman asked, loudly.

For a moment, Blanche was about to betray her brother, but she

checked herself--what good would it do? Her hand tugged pleadingly at

Rosenberg’s arm.

“We were walking along when some enemy of his came up and hit him,” she

answered. “I don’t know who the fellow was.”

“Well, y’r escort knows, all right,” the policeman said, turning to

Rosenberg. “Who was he, come on, loosen up.”

“I can’t tell you ’cause I don’t want to make any charges against him,”

Rosenberg answered, slowly. “He started it and I had to defend myself,

that’s all.”

The officer turned disgustedly to the sprinkling of bystanders.

“Did any of you see what happened?” he demanded. There was a chorus of

“noes” and “not me’s.”

“Yeh, you always take it in but you get blind afterwards,” he said,

angrily--he was a new policeman and brassily anxious to make arrests

and acquire a record. “Go on, beat it now, don’t stand around blocking

up the corner. And you, girlie, you’d better take him in this drug

store and have his face fixed up.”

He waved his club as he dispersed the bystanders.

Blanche helped Rosenberg into the drug store, and the clerk applied a

poultice to Rosenberg’s eye and gave him some iodine for his mouth.

Blanche felt an enormous pity for him--he was physically weak but

he was not a coward, and she wished that she could love him, for he

certainly deserved it. She had a sense of guilt at having caused him

all this pain and trouble, and she became confused at the impossibility

of making any amends to him. More kisses and huggings?--they would

only lead him to an eventual disappointment. Only her love could make

him happy, and that couldn’t be manufactured, no matter how much you

respected a man. Oh, darn, was there ever an answer to anything?...

One thing was certain, though--for his own good she would have to stop

seeing him. Otherwise, she would only continue to lure him into danger

without offering him any reward.

On his own part, Rosenberg felt a determined resentment--if he was

going to get his head knocked off for her sake, she would have to give

him much more than friendship. There was no sense in fighting for a

girl who didn’t love you, or refused to surrender herself.

They sat for a moment on one of the drug-store benches.

“You’d better go home now, Lou,” she said. “We’ll get a cab and I’ll

ride up with you. Your face must be hurting you terribly. Gee, I can’t

tell you how sorry I am that all this happened, Lou. Harry’s nothing

but a low-down cur, and if he ever dares to do anything like this

again, I won’t stay home another twenty-four hours. I’ve simply got to

show them they can’t walk all over me.”

“Never mind about me, I’ll be all right in a couple of days,” he

answered. “I’ve got something to say to you, Blanche, but we’ll wait’ll

we’re in the cab.”

As they rode uptown, they were silent for a while, and then he said

slowly: “We’ve got to have a show-down, Blanche. ’F I’m going to buck

your whole family and that rotten gangster brother of yours, I want to

be sure you’ll marry me, first. I’d be a fool otherwise, you know that.”

“I know,” she answered, despondently, “and I don’t blame you a bit. I

like you lots, Lou, I’ve told you that enough times, and you’ve helped

me so much, showing me how stupid I was, and ... I feel blue about

it. I don’t love you--you give me a sort of peaceful feeling, and I

like to hear you talk, and I don’t mind your ways ... but that isn’t

love.... Oh, I’ve tried to love you, but it just wouldn’t come. It just

wouldn’t.... I guess you’d better stop seeing me, Lou. I’d only bring

you more trouble, and it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“I’ll see about it,” he answered, dully. “I wish I’d never met you.

You’ve never brought me anything but sadness, after all I did for you,

and there’s no use keeping it up forever.”

“Lou, don’t say that,” she replied. “You know I’ve been honest with

you. I never made any promises, never, and I’ve always told you just

how I felt. I’m miserable about the whole thing as it is, and you can

just bet I’ll never forget you, Lou. I hung on to you all this time

because I needed you, that’s true, but I’d never have chased you if you

hadn’t wanted to be with me.”

“Well, it’s over, I guess,” he said, “and talking won’t help it any,

now.”

He felt a self-disparaging apathy. He had poured out his thoughts and

ideas to this girl, and set her to thinking as she never had before,

and this was his reward, eh? The whole world was just a selfish swamp.

She had taken his gifts because they were needed revelations to her,

and now she would save her love for some other man, who’d reverse the

process and plunder her of all she had, and feast on the elastic dream

of her body. No one ever loved you unless you walked all over them and

made them worship your highhandedness. He had had a last lesson now,

and henceforth he would have a cheeky, appraising attitude toward

every woman he ran across.

After they had traded their farewells--reluctant, empty monosyllables,

in which each person was trying to say something more and finding

himself unable--Blanche boarded a Ninth Avenue elevated train and rode

home, with all of her thoughts and emotions uncertain and sluggish.

What was the use of living?--you wound up by hurting the other person,

or else he injured you, with neither of you meaning to do it, and then

you separated, and accused yourself of selfishness without being able

to remedy the matter. But this brother of hers--wait till she got

hold of him! She’d give him the worst tongue-lashing of his life, and

warn him never to interfere in her affairs again. What did he think

she was--a doormat? Brother or no brother, he was a cruel, stupid

man, and things would have to come to an issue between them. She was

self-supporting and of age, and if her family persisted in treating her

as though she were a slave, she would have to leave their roof.

As she walked into the living-room of her home, she found her mother

seated beside the table, darning socks and munching at an apple. She

threw her hat and coat upon the seamed, leatherine couch, while her

mother asked: “How come you’re back so soon, Blanie, dear? Ten o’clock,

and _you_ walkin’ in! I think the world’s comin’ right to an end, I do

that. D’you have a fight with the man you was with? Tell your ma what

happened now.”

“Has Harry been back?” Blanche asked.

“No, he never gets back till early mornin’, and so does Mabel, an’

Phil, an’ your pa. None of you ever stays to home to keep _me_ comp’ny.”

“I know you get lonely, ma,” Blanche answered, stroking her mother’s

hair for a moment and trying to feel much more concerned than she was.

“Didn’t Mrs. O’Rourke, or Katie, come down to-night?”

“They did, sure enough, but it’s not like havin’ your own fam’ly with

you,” her mother replied.

Blanche looked at her mother, reflectively. Poor ma, she _was_ kind of

stupid, but maybe she had been more intelligent in her younger days and

had had it slowly knocked out of her. She didn’t get much out of life,

that was a fact, and she worked hard all the time, and she never harmed

anybody. Poor ma.... Then Blanche returned to anger at the thought of

Harry.

“Just wait’ll I see Harry,” she cried. “I’ll tell him a thing or two, I

will!”

“What’s Harry been doin’, now?” her mother asked.

“He followed me to-night till I met Lou Rosenberg, and then he walked

up and told Lou to keep away from me, and picked a fight with him. Of

course he beat Lou up--he knows all the tricks, and Rosenberg doesn’t.

Then a cop came along, and Mister Harry Palmer ran into a cab, like the

coward he is! Believe me, I’m going to show all of you, once and for

all, that you can’t boss me around, and if you keep it up I’ll leave

home in a jiffy.”

“I jes’ know Harry’ll get into jail yet, with all this scrappin’ uh

his,” her mother said, alarmedly. “Maybe this Mister Rosinburg will

have to go to the hospital, an’ then they’ll come after Harry. Did he

hurt him awful bad?”

“No, he just gave him a black eye and cut his mouth, but that was

bad enough,” Blanche answered. “The whole thing happened so quick I

couldn’t do anything about it, and besides, I never dreamt Harry would

dare to pull a stunt like that. I’m so angry I could punch him if he

was here!”

“That’s no way to be talkin’ about your own brother,” Mrs. Palmer said.

“It’s I that don’t think he did right, I don’t, but still, he only

meant it f’r your own good. You shouldn’t be goin’ around with Jews,

you shouldn’t, and this fella Rosinburg, he’s been makin’ you act so

silly-like, with all them books that nobody c’n make head ’r tail of.

You’re gettin’ to be ’n old girl now, Blanie, you are, and it’s time

you were thinkin’ of marryin’ a good man to keep you in comfort.”

“Why isn’t a Jew as good as anybody else?” Blanche asked. “I don’t

love Rosenberg, but believe me, ’f I did, none of you could keep _me_

away from him. I’m going to stop seeing him ’cause I don’t want him

to get into trouble all for nothing, but I won’t stand for any more

orders--I’m a free person, and I make my own living, and ’f I think I’m

doing right, that’s all I care about.”

“Blanie, you’re talkin’ somethin’ terribul,” her mother answered, sadly

aghast. “You oughta have more respect for your pa ’n’ ma, you ought. We

raised you up from a kid, an’ we give you everythin’ we could, an’ we

only want to see you do the right thing. You’ve got to settle down and

have a fine, good-looking, Christian fellow, who’s earnin’ good wages.

Course, you must be lovin’ him first--I’d never want you to marry no

one you didn’t care for, I wouldn’t, but that’s not everythin’ either.

I’d like to see you livin’ like a lady, I would, an’ havin’ a fine

home, ’n’ servants, ’n’ the best uh everythin’.”

“Marry, marry, that’s all you ever think about,” Blanche replied. “You

mean well, ma, but you can just see so far and no farther. What did

you ever get out of marrying, I’d like to know? Nothing but work, and

trouble, and worrying around.”

“That’s why I want to see you do better, that’s why,” her mother

responded. “It’s I that knows how foolish I was, I know it, and I don’t

want you to go through all the strugglin’ I’ve had. ’F you marry a man

like Mister Campbell, now, you’ll live in a swell apartment an’ you’ll

have the things you want.”

“You don’t know what I want, ma,” Blanche said, sadly. “I want to be

somebody, and find out what’s the reason for things, and use my head

for something besides a hat-rack. Any girl can marry and let a man

use her--there’s no trick in that. I’m tired of being just like other

people--I want to act, ’r write, ’r paint, and make a name for myself.

You think a woman shouldn’t do anything except have children and be as

comfortable as she can. You can’t understand what I’m looking for, ma.”

“It’s I that can’t, it’s all foolishness to me,” her mother replied,

perplexedly. “I don’t see why a woman should be anythin’ ’cept a good

wife ’n’ a good mother, ’f she finds a man that’ll treat her right ’n’

provide f’r her. This bein’ somebody you’re always talkin’ about, I

don’t see how it’ll ever make you happy, I don’t. It’s your heart that

counts most, an’ nothin’ else. You never talked like this ’fore you met

that Rosinburg. I’m glad you’re not goin’ to meet him again.”

“We’re both just wasting our words--let’s cut it out,” Blanche said,

depressedly, as she walked into her room.

Her mother looked after her with a sorrowful, uncomprehending

expression. What was her poor daughter coming to, with all this

unlady-like nonsense, and all this refusing to listen to the counsel of

her family, who only wanted her to have a happy and respected future.

Well, maybe she’d change, now that she wasn’t seeing that Jew-fellow

any more. Jews were human beings, but they were tricky and queer and

always out after the money, and they had no right to be picking on

Gentile girls.... Of course, if Blanche didn’t change, then her pa and

Harry would have to take hold of her. She mustn’t be allowed to go to

the dogs and ruin herself and her chances. While she, the mother, would

never let the menfolks abuse her daughter or lay their hands on her,

she still felt that they would have to act sternly to bring Blanche to

her senses. It couldn’t be helped as long as Blanche refused to behave.

When Blanche rose on the following morning, Harry was still asleep,

and they did not collide until she returned from work that night.

The family were seated around the supper-table, and Mabel looked at

Blanche, with curiosity and reproach interwoven, while her father

squinted questioningly at her, and Philip squirmed in his chair,

like some one waiting for a dynamite detonation. He hated family

quarrels--you couldn’t agree with both sides and yet you were always

expected to. He felt that the others were “too hard” on Blanche, and he

hoped that she would give them a piece of her mind.

Harry had a nonchalant mien which placated the fear within him which

he did not quite admit to himself--there was something about Blanche

that he couldn’t fathom, and no matter how much he sought to squelch

this alien foe, with word and action, it never died--a derided but

still-threatening specter.

Blanche was silent until she had seated herself at the table, and then

she burst forth.

“Harry, I’m going to tell you something--’f you ever beat up any one

I’m with again, and try to order me around, I’ll break something over

your head! Just try it once more and see what happens!”

“I’ll do that little thing,” Harry answered. “The last person I was

afraid of, he died ten years ago.”

“That’s just how I feel,” Blanche replied. “’F I’m not left alone from

now on, I’m going on the war-path.”

“Bla-anie, you mustn’t talk that way, an’ you, too, Harry,” Mrs. Palmer

said. “I never, never heard of a brother an’ sister carryin’ on like

this! I do think Blanche oughta listen more to what we tell her, I do,

but breakin’ things over y’r heads, why I never heard the like of it.

You won’t help things that way.”

“See here, Blanche, we’ve got to lay down the law to you,” her father

said. “No more goin’ around with Jews, and no more talkin’ back all the

time. I’m your father an’ I’m gonna put my foot down. You’re not a bad

kid, I don’t say that, but you’re too fresh, an’ you think you know

it all. You better stop readin’ them phony books and pay attention to

yourself, an’ act like a reg’lar girl.”

“Suppose I leave home, what’ll you do about it?” Blanche asked.

“I can’t stop you from doin’ that, but ’f you do, don’t think you can

come back here again--not ’less you’re married, anyway,” her father

replied. “We’ll all be through with you then, an’ you’ll be no daughter

uh mine.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Blanche,” Mabel said. “You don’t

seem to have any sense nowadays.”

“Of course you don’t,” answered Blanche. “All you care about is having

a good time, and working men for all they’re worth, and hunting around

for a fellow with money who’ll marry you. I want to do something that

counts, and I want to look into things. That’s all a mystery to you.”

“Is that so-o?” Mabel asked, bridling up. “I’ve got just as good a head

as you have, even ’f I don’t go around with a chip on my shoulder, like

you do, and tell people I’m better than they are. I’m gonna be a rich

lady and be up in the world ’fore I’m through with the game, but you’ll

wind up with nothing but that hot air you’re always spouting.”

“Well, I think you’re all too rough on Blanche,” Philip said. “Maybe

she ought to marry and settle down, but it’s her look-out. ’F she wants

to make a name for herself, and study something, I don’t see anything

so awful about it.”

“You’re the best one in this fam’ly, Phil,” said Blanche, with a

grateful look. “You’re not so wise, but you do believe in letting

people alone.”

“Yes, you an’ him are twins, all right,” Harry interposed, “but he

knows enough to keep quiet most of the time, and you don’t.”

“Now, Harry, what did I ever do against you?” Philip asked.

“Not a thing, but you wouldn’t side with Blanche all the time ’f you

wasn’t like she is,” Harry answered.

The argument went on, with Blanche subsiding to a hopeless silence, but

as the meal ended, it became more indifferent. Their appeased appetites

brought the others a brief, sluggish contentment, and they felt sure

that it was all just a “lot of jawing,” and that Blanche would never

really revolt--she was a Palmer, after all.

The next week passed quietly enough, with Blanche and Harry casting

disdainful looks at each other but rarely speaking, and the rest of

the family persuaded that it might be better to leave Blanche alone

as long as she failed to do anything definitely objectionable. Then,

one evening, just after Blanche had returned from work, a loud rapping

sounded on the front door, and after her mother had responded, Blanche

heard a gruff voice asking: “Is this where Mabel Palmer lives, huh?”

When her mother had answered yes, the gruff voice continued: “Well,

we’re detectives from the Sixth Precinct, and we want to have a talk

with you people.”

“Oh, Lord, what’s the matter--what’s happened to Mabel?” Mrs. Palmer

asked, agitatedly, as she entered the living-room, with the two

detectives walking behind her.

They were tall, burly men, in dark, ill-fitting suits, slouch hats

of brown, and heavy, black shoes, and one of them had a florid,

impassive face, while the other was tanned and more openly inquiring.

They sat down in chairs and looked the Palmers over. Harry and his

father sought to appear calm and careless but could not repress an

involuntary nervousness--there were several shady spots in their lives

that shrank from the impending searchlight, but these bulls wouldn’t

be acting this way if they really _knew_ anything--while Philip looked

warmly innocent--they didn’t have anything on _him_--and Mrs. Palmer

wrung her hands and told herself that all of her dire prophecies had

been fulfilled. Blanche was curious but undisturbed--little Mabel

Know-Everything had gotten into trouble at last, but what was it?

“Your girl’s locked up at Arlington Market,” the florid detective said.

“You know why, don’tcha?”

“My poor little Mabel, what’s happened to her?” Mrs. Palmer asked. “I

don’t know a thing that she’s done, I swear I don’t!”

“That’s straight, we don’t know what it’s all about,” Harry said, and

his father eagerly corroborated him.

“Well, we nabbed her this afternoon on Broadway,” the other detective

replied. “She’s been mixing up with a lotta bond-thieves, and we think

she’s one of their go-betweens. She’s been seen all the time with

the brains uh the gang, hanging around cabarets with him. We got him

yesterday, and we’ll scoop in the rest of them before to-morrow. If you

people don’t know anything about this, it’s mighty funny you let your

daughter associate with a gang like that.”

“Yeh, why do you let her run loose all the time?” the florid detective

asked.

“I’ve always told her not to be so wild, I’ve always,” answered Mrs.

Palmer, “but she never listened to me. She’s really a good girl

off’cer, she didn’t mean any harm, but she likes to have men payin’

attentions to her. I know she hasn’t done anything wrong, I know it.

She prob’bly thought those men was honest, that’s it, an’ she b’lieved

all the lies they told her.”

“That’s what they all say,” the other detective replied, gruffly.

“You’re wrong, Mabe’s a straight kid,” Mr. Palmer said. “She got into

bum comp’ny an’ didn’t know it, that must be it.”

“That’s what _you_ say, but we got a diff’rent idea,” the florid

detective retorted. “Sure, you’d take up for her, that’s an old trick.”

“I cert’nly will,” the father answered, spiritedly. “’F you’ve got any

evidence against her, all right, but I’ll have to hear it first ’fore I

b’lieve it. I’ll take up for my own daughter any time, any time.”

“Sure, I understand,” the other detective said, more amiably. “All we

know’s that she went around with that gang, hitting up the night clubs,

but we haven’t connected her with anything yet. It looks bad for her,

that’s all.”

“We’ll put her through a grilling to-night and find out more about

it”--the florid detective suddenly turned to Blanche. “What d’you do

for a living?”

“I work at Madame Jaurette’s Beauty Parlor, on Fifth Avenue near

Twenty-sixth,” Blanche responded, coolly. “Come down there some day and

I’ll curl your blond locks for you. They need it.”

The detective grinned and replied: “We’ll look you up, don’t worry.”

“And you, what’s your trade?” he asked her father.

“I don’t do much now ’cause my leg’s on the bum,” Mr. Palmer replied.

“I used to be a bartender in the old days when we had a little freedom

in this town.”

“Well, you’d better stop loafing around and get a job,” the detective

advised.

“I always work when I’m able to,” said Mr. Palmer. “I used to manage

my boy here, Harry, Battling Murphy--maybe you’ve seen him scrap

somewheres. He got a raw deal an’ they barred him from the ring, but

he’ll be back there ’fore long, don’t worry.”

The florid detective looked closely at Harry and then said: “Damned if

it isn’t Bat’ Murphy himself! I won some dough on you once when you was

fighting Kid Morley down at the Terrace. Why didn’t you tell us who you

was?”

“You was askin’ my folks questions an’ I didn’t wanna butt in,” Harry

replied as he shook hands, warmly, with the detective.

“I hear you been cutting up with a bad gang lately, Bat’,” the other

detective interposed, in a tone of friendly reproof. “Better cut it out

and get back into condition again. We wouldn’t like to pull you in,

y’know.”

“You c’n lay a bet I will,” Harry replied. “I’m no has-been yet, I’m

tellin’ you I knocked a coupla fellas out at the gym the other day....

An’ now about this poor kid sister uh mine. She isn’t a bad one, but

you know how fellas c’n fill a girl up with a lotta phony gab. I don’t

think she knew a damn thing about what was goin’ on.”

“You can bail her out, all right, when we’re through putting the

question to her,” the other detective said. “Know any one to go to?”

“Know any one, I’ll say we do,” Harry answered. “Why, Bill O’Brien, the

Wigwam chief in this district’s a good friend uh the old man, an’ me

too. He’ll put up the coin in a second.”

“All right, come down to Arlington Market court to-morrow morning,

ten sharp, when she’s arraigned, and we’ll see what we can do,” the

detective said, with respect in his voice, as both of them rose. “And

by the way, who’s this man in the corner?”

“He’s my brother Phil, works in a drug store a coupla blocks away,”

Harry answered.

“A-all right, I guess you’re all straight enough,” the detective

replied, genially. “Only, if your kid sister gets out of this, you

better keep a strict tab on her. She’s a flighty one and no mistake.”

“It’s sure I am that this’ll teach poor Mabel a lesson,” Mrs. Palmer

said, with a sad eagerness. “An’ to think she’s sittin’ in a cell

right now. It’s terribul, it is!”

“We-ell, don’t take it to heart, she may be out soon,” the other

detective answered.

The detectives departed, and after Harry had cautiously opened the door

and assured himself that they had gone, he came back and said: “We’ve

gotta get poor Mabe outa this. I’m gonna run over to Tenth Avenue now

an see ’f I c’n get ahold of O’Brien.”

“I wonder whether they’ve got the goods on her,” his father said. “I

can’t think a wise girl like Mabel would lay herself open to five years

in the pen. It don’t seem reas’nable. She musta had the wool pulled

over her eyes.”

“It’s li’ble to happen to any girl,” Harry answered. “When a girl goes

out with a guy, how’s she to know whether he’s a crook ’r not? Besides,

if Mabel was in on it she’d have been flashin’ a roll around here, and

if she’s got one she’s sure been hidin’ it well, I’ll say.”

“Well, I do think she oughta be more careful ’bout who she goes with,”

Mrs. Palmer said. “I swear, between Mabel and Blanche, I’m goin’ right

to my grave, I am.”

“Aw, don’t take on so, Kate,” her husband answered. “Mabel’s not like

Blanche anyway--she don’t put on the dog an’ tell her folks they don’t

know nothin’. She jus’ wants to have a good time an’ land a good man

f’r herself, and she’ll get over this mess all right. She made a

mistake in the crowd she went with--they prob’bly told her they was

rich business men.”

“I suppose I’ll have to get arrested before any of you’ll think I know

something,” Blanche broke in, disgustedly. “I’m sorry Mabel got into

this fix, but if you try to play men for their money, you’ve got to

expect that they’ll turn the tables on you, the first chance they get.”

“G’wan, you’re jes’ jealous uh her,” Harry said. “You’d do the same

thing ’f you had nerve enough.”

“Now, now, this is no time f’r scrappin’,” his father interposed.

“We’ve got to hustle around to O’Brien an’ see what he c’n do f’r us.”

The two Palmers departed, and Blanche and Philip tried to soothe the

mother, who had begun to weep and rock in her chair. Blanche felt a dab

of malice toward her sister--Mabel was so dreamless, and never tried

to understand Blanche’s hopes and desires, and was always scoffing and

sneering--but it was swallowed up by a sense of enforced compassion.

Perhaps Mabel was just a misguided girl whose head had been turned by

the flatteries of men, and perhaps she would wake up now and begin to

think, and question herself and her life, to a small degree at any

rate. In addition, Blanche was relieved at this turn in events, since

it might distract the attention of her family and make them drop for a

time their insistence upon marriage, and their naggings about Campbell,

and their jeers at the books that she read. She went to bed early that

night, and reclined awake for a long time, spinning her hopes from the

dark texture of the room. After all, why did she waste so much time in

arguing with her family? They would never understand her in a million

years, and they meant well in spite of all of their meanness, but she

had simply passed beyond them. They wanted her to be like them, and

share their ideas of happiness and propriety, and they used cruel

methods and threats without knowing how cruel they were because they

felt that the end could apologize for the means. It was all inevitable,

and the best thing that she could do would be quietly to pack her

belongings some day and move out to some rooming-house uptown before

they knew what was happening. Then let them rave all they wanted--what

could they do?

Besides, her leaving would convince them that she “meant business,” and

most of their bullying was probably due to the fact that they still

thought that they could force her to obey them. When she was finally

living in a place of her own, she’d go to some art or dramatic school

at night--maybe she could learn to draw after all, since she had been

very clever with sketches when she was a child at school, and still

poked around with a pencil now and then. Or again, why couldn’t she be

able to act on the stage, if she were only taught how to handle her

voice and her limbs. These famous actresses, they hadn’t been perfect

and accomplished in their cradles, and if she studied English and

learned how to speak more correctly, she might have as good a chance as

they had had. Nothing ever came to you unless you had a desperate faith

in yourself. She would have to work long and hard at these things, she

knew that, but she worked hard every day as it was, without deriving

any satisfaction from it.

An image of Rosenberg slipped back to her. Poor boy, wonder what he

was doing now? She owed a great deal to him, and the only payment that

she had given had been to jilt him. Was it always as one-sided as this

between men and women--always a kind of slave-and-master affair, with

one person taking everything and the other person hanging on because

he couldn’t think of any one else and was grateful for the scraps that

were thrown to him? She hadn’t meant to hurt this boy--he had wanted

feelings that were impossible to her, and her body had often endured

his hands out of pity, and her only reason for guilt was that she had

kept on seeing him. But she had needed, oh, she had needed all of the

spurrings-on, and answers, and thoughts, and beliefs in her, which he

had poured out--yes, it had been selfishness on her part, but she was

beginning to think that people could never avoid being selfish to each

other in some respect, even though they hid it behind all kinds of

other names and assertions. They _could_ make it aboveboard, though,

by confessing the unevenness of their relations, and by not demanding

anything that each person was not compelled to give of his own accord.

The ideal, of course, would be a man and a woman who selfishly craved

all of each other, for deeply permanent reasons, in which case each

one would become a happy plunderer--did such a thing ever quite come

off?... Her thoughts trailed out into sleep.

On the next morning at the Beauty Parlor, Blanche was distracted, and

a little uneasy about her sister--after all, the poor kid was just

conceited and flighty, with no real harm in her--and when Philip came

in at noon and told her that Mabel had been released, for lack of

evidence, Blanche was glad that the matter had blown over. When Blanche

returned from her work that night, Mabel was seated in the one armchair

in the apartment, with the rest of the family grouped admiringly around

her. Now that it was all over, they regarded her as something of a

heroine--one who had tussled with their never-recognized but potent

enemy, the law, and emerged scot-free--and although they qualified this

attitude with warnings and chidings, it dominated them, nevertheless.

The mother remained an exception--she hoped that her daughter would act

more soberly now, and leave her nightly dissipations, and mingle with

more honest men.

“Gee, I’m glad you’re out,” Blanche said, after kissing her sister.

“Did they treat you rough after they arrested you?”

“They wasn’t so bad,” Mabel answered. “They put me through a coupla

third degrees, first when they brought me in, and then another one

’bout nine in the ev’ning, tryin’ to trip me up, y’know. They said they

knew I was a prostitute, jes’ to get my goat, and I started to cry and

said it was a darn lie--I jes’ couldn’t help it.”

“They pull that off on ev’ry girl,” Harry said. “’F she is one, then

she’ll own up cause she thinks they know all about it--that’s the game.”

“How’d you happen to get in with a crowd like that?” Blanche asked.

“I didn’t know what they was,” Mabel replied, aggrievedly. “Gee whiz,

you can’t follow a fella around an’ see what he’s doin’, can you? This

Bob Sullivan, now, he told me he was a book-maker at the races, an

ev’rybody I knew seemed to think he was. Then he had a friend, Jack

Misner, said he was a jockey--a little runt of a guy. Bob swore all the

time he was gone on me. He’s a nice fella at that, he is, an’ I’m darn

sorry they got him.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” her mother said. “When any one’s dishonest

they oughta get punished for it, they ought. This world would be a fine

world, it would, ’f ev’rybody went round and robbed ev’rybody else. An’

what’s more, I do hope you’ll stay home more now, Mabel dear, an’ keep

outa trouble, I do.”

“Aw, pipe down, Kate,” her husband broke in. “She’s gotta size up her

men better fr’m now on, sure, but you can’t expect her to sit around

here all night. She c’n have all the fun she wants, I don’t mind, long

as she looks them over more careful an’ don’t swallow all their gab.”

“It’s jes’ no use f’r me to say anythin’,” Mrs. Palmer answered,

dolefully. “None uh you ever pays any attention to Kate Palmer till

it’s too late, and then it’s ma do this f’r me, an’ ma do that.”

“I’ll watch out more, ma, I will,” Mabel said. “When I meet a fella

with a big wad I’m gonna find out how he makes it ’fore I let him take

me out. A girl’s gotta protect herself, that’s a fact.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to go out with a few men that work for a

living--just for a change,” Philip said. “Maybe they won’t take you

to swell joints, maybe not, but they’ll get you into less trouble all

right.”

“Don’t wish any uh Blanche’s kind on me,” Mabel retorted. “When I want

to go to a sixty-cent movie-house, ’r sit down on a bench in the park,

I’ll have my head tested to see ’f I’m all there.”

Her little, straight nose turned up, and her loosely small lips drew

together to a tight complacency. Her plump face was more drawn, and

hollows were under her eyes, and a trace of fright still lingered in

the black eyes, but the expression on her face was one of rebuked

but still ruling impudence. She told herself that she had been stung

once by men--an incredible incident--and would henceforth set out to

revenge herself upon them. It was all just a fight to see which side

would get the best of the other, and she wouldn’t be caught napping

twice. Her goal was to marry a man with money and good looks, and she

wouldn’t allow anything to deter her. Beneath these determinations,

sentimentalities and fears, aroused by the shock of her arrest,

told her that she was flirting too closely with danger, and that it

might be better to look for a stalwart youth with a laughable “line”

and a movie-hero face--she was tired, after all, of letting homely,

slow-tongued fellows kiss and hug her because they spent money to give

her the gay nights that were due to every girl, and then again, she

really ought to consider her poor ma, who was always fretting about

her. Aw, well, she _would_ slow down just a little and stay home

once in a while, and select her escorts with more of an eye to their

safety and their physical attraction, and with money alone no longer

all-supreme, but she would never subside to a back-number--not she.

Plenty of girls ended by catching rich young men with a dash to them,

and she could do the same thing if she kept a level head.

As Blanche listened to her sister, a disapproving sadness welled up

within her--same old Mabel, not a hairbreadth changed. People seemed to

be born in one way and to stick to it for the rest of their lives. She

herself had never been quite like Mabel, even when she, Blanche, had

been much more stupid than she might be now. She had always hunted for

something without knowing what it was, and had always been “easier,”

and more unhappy, and more concerned with the “inside” of herself.

“Men and men, that’s all you’ve got on your mind,” she said to her

sister, softly. “’F you were ever wrecked now on some island, like I

read about once, with nothing but another girl to keep you company, I

think you’d go mad. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.”

“I’d like to know who would,” Mabel answered. “Why, even you, smarty,

you’ve got to step out with diff’rent fellas, I notice. I suppose I’ll

have to excuse myself f’r being a woman, next thing I know.”

“That’s your only excuse,” Blanche said, as she turned away.

“Well, it’s a good enough one to suit me,” Mabel retorted, irascibly.

Blanche walked into her room without replying. What was the use of

speaking to people when your words went into one of their ears and

instantly flew out of the other? Her future course of action had been

determined. If her family ceased to bother her, she would continue

to live with them, and go to some school at least five nights out of

each week and reserve the other two for sessions with men and for

relaxation. She wouldn’t live like a nun, that was ridiculous, but

she would make a serious effort to master some profession or form of

expression that would be much higher and more inwardly satisfying

than doing the same thing with her hands every day. And if her family

continued to be meddlesome and dictating, she would move out some

morning when the menfolk were away.

During the next two days her existence was undisturbed. The Palmers had

been somewhat chastened by Mabel’s arrest, and they had to admit that,

in spite of the disagreeable mystery that Blanche had become, she _did_

manage to keep herself out of difficulties. Their confidence in Mabel

was not as great as it had been, and it affected to a moderate degree

their temporary reactions toward Blanche.

On the third afternoon, Campbell telephoned Blanche at the Beauty

Parlor and arranged to meet her that night. She wanted to tell him that

he would have to remain content with her friendship and that otherwise

she could not see him again, and that her promise to “think over” his

offer of an apartment and a shrouded alliance had been caused merely

by her desperation in the face of barriers that withheld her from her

desires. She intended to tell him frankly that she had resolved to

permit him no greater physical liberties than a kiss now and then,

and that she had made up her mind to reserve herself for the advent

of an actual love. If he still wanted to take her out under those

conditions, she’d be willing to see him once a week at most--he _was_

a jolly sedative in his way--but he would have to show her that he had

a serious mind and a sincere love for her before she would reconsider

his pleas. After all, there was such a thing as slowly falling in love

with a man, if he made you entirely reverse your previous image of him.

Campbell would never closely approach her ideals, she knew that, but

perhaps he might make a respectable progress toward it, in which case

she might accept him as the best real prospect possible to her.

She dressed to meet him that night, with a division of cautious and

sanguinely impertinent feelings seething within her. As they were

walking down Ninth Avenue, he looked admiringly at her round white felt

hat, trimmed with a zigzag dash of black velvet, and her plain yellow

pongee dress that had an air of subdued sprightliness about it, and her

long, black coat with squirrel fur at the bottom. These girls, working

for twenty-five a week, or thirty at most, how on earth did they manage

to doll up like Peggy Hopkins Joyce? Funny too, they never seemed to

retain this penny-transforming ability after they were married!

“You look like a million bucks, to-night,” he said. “I’d give a week’s

salary to know how you do it.”

“Well, listen to Mister Innocent--never heard about instalment plans,

and bargain hunting, and getting things cheap ’cause you know the head

buyer.”

“Oh, even at that it’s the world’s eighth wonder to me,” he replied.

“I’m afraid to take you any place to-night. Everybody I know’ll be

trying to horn in on us.”

“Why, I thought competition was your middle name,” she said, brightly.

“No, it’s only an alias--too much of it’s as bad as too little,”

he answered. “Anyway, don’t you get tired of scrimping and putting

yourself out for clothes all the time?”

“What ’f I do?” she asked.

“Well, you know what I told you time before last,” he said. “I’ll pay

all the bills and like it, any time you’re ready. You said you were

going to think it over--remember?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied, soberly. “I’ll talk to you about it later on

to-night. And don’t call a cab, Joe. Let’s walk a few blocks, for a

change. You always act like you hated to use your legs.”

“I use ’em enough behind the lights to make up for all the riding I

do,” he answered, amused.

They strolled over to Broadway, and were silent most of the time, save

for commenting on some of the people striding past them. When they

reached the corner of Broadway and one of the Forties, he said: “Say,

Blanche, a friend of mine, Jack Donovan, ’s pulling a party to-night in

his place. There’ll be two ’r three chorines from the Passing Gaieties

show, and a couple of respectable crooks--um, I mean bootleggers--that

kind of thing. I said I’d be up about eleven-thirty but I won’t go if

you don’t want to. We could drop in at The Golden Mill and kill time

until then.”

“Sure I’ll come, ’f it’s not going to be too wild,” she replied. “I

never was much on those parties where they try to pass you around like

you was a dish of ice cream.”

“Strictly pairs at Jack’s place, and the same pair lasts through the

night,” he said. “Stick to the woman you’re with ’r take the elevator

down--that’s the rule.”

“’F there’s too much booze flowing, that elevator-boy sure must be kept

busy,” she retorted, with a laugh.

“Oh, we run it ourselves--we’re accommodating,” he said, with a grin.

After they were seated at a table in The Golden Mill and had finished

half of their highballs, she said: “Joe, I’m going to talk serious to

you. I was just in a silly mood when I said last time I’d think about

living with you. It wouldn’t work out--it never does unless two people

really love each other. ’F I ever fall hard in love with you, Joe, I’ll

do it in a minute. I’m not afraid, but I don’t love you now. Besides,

it’s not just a question of some man, with me. I’ve made up my mind

to try and be an artist or an actress--don’t laugh now--and I wonder

whether you could help me any.”

He listened to her with chagrin and amusement--going after her was

like wading for eels, and she certainly had this “higher aspiration”

bug with a vengeance. These girls now, they were amenable enough

when their only desires were a good time, fine clothes, and a man who

wouldn’t give them the shivers, but the moment they started to get this

“self-expression,” I-want-to-be-different craze, boy, what a tough

proposition they became. Still, even that could be turned to your

advantage if you “yessed” it along and insinuated that you alone could

cause it to succeed. In addition, in spite of his cynical feelings, he

could not quite down his respect for her determination to struggle out

of her present life. She was no ordinary girl, that was certain, and in

a way she was a marvel, in view of the family that she came from and

the half-dirty, low-down flat in which she’d been raised. She probably

had no acting ability--they hardly ever did--but you could never be

sure about _her_; she was little Miss Surprise herself. Well, if he

could only land her first, he’d be willing to help her along--why not?

He looked at her eager face, that was not quite pretty but boldly

attractive and well-spaced, and the almost full drop of her bosom

rising and falling more quickly as she talked, and the restrained

sturdiness of her lips. Beyond a doubt, he’d give his right hand to

have her, and yet he couldn’t absolutely tell himself why.

“Well, well, Blanchie’s gone and got stage-struck,” he answered,

lightly. “You know I’ll do anything for you, you know that, but I don’t

want to see you wasting your time. This acting game’s a long, hard

proposition--some get in overnight but they’re damn few in number.

I know girls who’ve been in it for years, and all they’ve got is a

diamond ring in pawn and a favorite chair at the booking agencies. A

girl’s got to have more than ambition to make any one notice her on

Broadway, nowadays. How d’you know you’re fit to be an actorine?”

“I don’t, but I want a try-out just the same,” she replied. “How’ll I

ever know what I’m cut out for unless I go to it and see what I can

do? ’F I turn out to be a frost as ’n actress, I’ll take up drawing

’r something else. There must be something I can do as good as other

people, besides working like a nigger every day.”

“Sure there must,” he said, soothingly. “I’m with you all the time--I

like to see a girl who can think of something else besides putting on

the glad rags and lifting the glasses. You’ve got the stuff in you,

and it’s never had a chance to come out, and I’m the one man you know

who can help you in the acting line, don’t forget that. I’ll get you

a try-out for some play--just a little part, y’know, where you walk

across the stage ’n’ say ‘Madame, will you have the tea served now, or

next Monday?’ I’ll make them take you, too.”

“Will you?” she asked, eagerly. “Say, you’re a brick, Joe!”

“Not my head, anyways,” he said, smiling. “D’you know, I’m really gone

about you. It took two years to turn the trick--little Joe hates to be

caught, he does--but ’f I’m not in love with you now, it’s so close, I

can feel the breath on my neck. Why don’t you hook up with me and let

me have you meet the right people and push you along? You’re not in

love with me now, but you like me pretty well at that, don’t you?”

“I do,” she answered, “but I want to find out first whether you really

mean all of this, and whether you’re really int’rested in the same

things I am. You mustn’t be angry at this. It’s a serious thing to me,

and I want to be sure. Besides, ’f you do care for me, why can’t you

help me even ’f we _are_ just friends?”

“Of course I will,” he responded, with an easy heartiness. “It’s not

like a business transaction to me.”

If she became more and more dependent upon his assistance, she couldn’t

hold out forever.... They departed from the cabaret, after another

highball, and went to the apartment of his friend, Jack Donovan.

Donovan was a sturdy man of forty, whose five-feet-eleven were

supported by flat feet and buttressed by the girth of a paunch. His

head was one-quarter bald and his black hair was wetly combed down, and

the oval of his face, rising from an almost double chin, was a morbid

calculation, as though he were weary of his stage-laughs and smiles,

and wondering what in the devil was so funny about life, anyway, except

that people liked to pay money to be joshed into believing that it was.

He did a monologue in vaudeville--one of those acts in which a portly

“Senator Callahan,” in a frock coat and a high hat, cracks jokes about

the events and foibles and personages of the day, with many a crudely

ironical fling at grafting officials and high prices and prohibition,

with lower puns and slapstick harangues against the prevailing

immodesty of feminine attire--“They’d wear ’em two feet above the

knees if they weren’t afraid it would completely discourage a guy.” He

greeted Joe with an off-hand amiability, and looked at Blanche, after

the introduction, with a side-long intentness. Joe knew how to pick

’em, all right--she wasn’t a doll-baby but she had class to her.

The two front parlors of the apartment had an ebony baby-grand piano,

and Louis Sixteenth furniture picked up at auctions and standing

beside the squat, varnished products of Grand Rapids--an oak sideboard

with large, glass knobs and an oak settee. Some bottles and other

accessories were on the sideboard, and Donovan returned to his

interrupted task of making a round of cocktails. The other guests

had already arrived--the two chorus girls mentioned by Campbell,

and another woman whose occupation might not have desired a public

announcement, and two business men who dabbled in liquor-selling on the

side.

One of the chorus girls, Flo Kennedy, looked like the wax clothes dummy

that can be observed in shop-windows, and hardly showed much more

animation, except that when she spoke, the figure became slightly more

crude and less aloof. Her round face was inhumanly symmetrical below

her dark-brown hair, and its expression was, well, a no-trespassing

sign, over the composed expectation of masculine advances. She

wore a short-skirted thing of terra-cotta silk and cream lace, and

flesh-colored stockings rolled just below the knees, and black pumps.

Her companion, Grace Henderson, was a short, slender, Jewish girl in a

jauntily plain black gown, with bobbed, blondined hair and a mincing,

sensuous glisten on her face--pretty in spite of the tell-tale curve

at the end of her nose. The third woman, Madge Gowan, was silent and

dark, with a half-ugly, long face, whose shapely cheeks and chin partly

diminished the opposite effect, and a fully curved, strong body.

One of the business men, Sol Kossler, a Jew in his early forties, was

roly-poly and half bald, with a jowled, broad-nosed face on which

smug and sentimental confidences were twined--one of those merchants

who succeed more through luck than because of hard shrewdness--while

the other, Al Simmonds, was robust but not stout and had a shock of

wavy black hair, and the depressed face of a man who knew that he was

hoodwinking himself, in his life and thoughts, but could not spy any

other recourse. In their neatly pressed and creased gray suits, both of

the men looked as though their objective were the immaculate erasure of

individuality.

The conversation reverberated with continual laughter. The men expected

each other to utter wise-cracks, and digs at each other’s weaknesses,

and humorous tales, and each one was constantly egging the other on

to self-surpassing retorts. The women were not expected to do much

except listen, and laugh or smile at the right places, and join in the

intervals of more placid gossip about theatrical people, and indicate

a sexual responsiveness without becoming demonstrative (sex would have

been boresome to all of them without the assumption of gayly parrying

uncertainties, even though they knew in advance what the night’s

outcome would be, pro or con).

To Blanche, they were an emptily hilarious lot, out for the usual

things that men and women wanted from each other, and merely laughing

and idling on the way to them--not at all interested in the big,

serious things of which she had had a revealing glimpse--but they

_were_ funny at times, and it _was_ pleasant to be a young woman

patently desired by men, and the chance to be amused and self-forgetful

for one night was not to be sneezed at. She joined in the repartee

between Kossler and Donovan.

“I hear you sold some shirts to Mayor Kelly the other day,” Donovan

said. “One more vote shot to hell.”

“I voted for him last time when he bought them from Sax and Mulberry,”

Kossler retorted. “Li’l’ Sol can’t be corrupted, ’less it’s some one of

the other sex, and even then, corrupted wouldn’t be exactly the word,

y’know.”