1
“ALL right—I’ll wait....”
“Shall we sup in luxury at one of these gilded hotels?”
“Yes, let’s,” she said.
They went to the grill-room. It was gay with its midnight crowd, an
orchestra was playing, and in the cleared space couples were dancing.
The waiter found them a little table in the corner.
“I’m really hungry,” she said. “I forgot to eat dinner.”
“Silly child!” he said. “So did I.”
“Who’s a silly child?”
“I was waiting for my playmate.”
They laughed.
With her cloak thrown back carelessly on the chair, leaning forward with
bare elbows on the table, her black hair tousled about her curiously
slanting temples, her blouse askew over one shoulder, she was indeed
very much a child. And he felt like a child too, and rejoiced in her as
a careless and happy playfellow.
“Let’s start,” she said, ignoring the menu, “with all the different
kinds of little fishes.”
“Good. And—” he consulted the menu—“a filet mignon?”
She nodded. “And petit pois?... And then what? Some kind of salad, I
suppose.”
“One of the things you keep pulling apart all evening.”
“Yes—what are they called? Artichoke. With Hollandaise sauce. And what
kind of cocktail?” he asked.
“The one that has a dash of electricity in it.”
“A Daiquerai!” he affirmed.
“Right.”
“Well, that will do to begin with.—Oh, yes, wine.”
“Nothing sweet,” she warned him.
“A Sauterne, then?”
“That will be nice,” she said.
He gave the order, and when he had finished turned to her. “You know,”
he said, “it always makes me feel reckless to order wine. I’m always
sure that I’m not going to have enough left to tip the waiter.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” she said. “It’s no fun to dine with people
who are blasé about ordering wine—unless you can feel wickedly
extravagant about it, you might just as well drink water. The thrill is
all in the idea, anyway. I think wine is a much overrated institution—so
far as its effects go.... I ordered a liqueur once, a beautiful purple
thing I had just discovered—I forget the name of it; I ordered it, not
to drink, but just to look at—and when the man I was dining with called
my attention to my neglect, and I explained, he was outraged!... But I
wish they would bring the little fishes—I shan’t neglect _them_.”
“It’s nice,” he said, “to be able to think and talk about things that
don’t matter.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as little fishes, and poetry. I’ve been so dreadfully
serious-minded for a long time.—Is Gregory going to put on ‘The Land of
Heart’s Desire’?”
“He hasn’t decided. If he does—”
“If he does, you must play Mary. It won’t be Yeats’s Mary, but it will
be something very exciting, if you play it.”
“I hope he’ll let me.”
“Do you know ‘On Baile’s Strand’?”
“He’s thinking of doing that, too. I haven’t read it. But I hear there’s
nothing in it for me.”
“Oh, yes, there is! There’s the part of the young prince. It wouldn’t be
a half bad idea. You’re quite as much a boy as a girl. You’d be a very
striking young prince.”
“Thank you!”
“However, I was thinking of another part for you—the part of the
warrior-queen that the two kings talk about. You remember?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t actually appear in the play. But she ought to. I’d like to
write you a play about her.”
“Tell me about her!”
“She fights like a man, and bears a love-child to a soldier-king—and
then makes war on him. He is speaking about her afterward, in Yeats’s
play, and he says to the older king:
“_You have never seen her—ah! Conchobar, had you seen her
With that high, laughing, turbulent head of hers
Thrown backward, and the bowstring at her ear,
Or sitting at the fire with these grave eyes
Full of good counsel as it were with wine,
Or when love ran through all the lineaments
Of her wild body...._”
She drank in the lines eagerly, and when he paused she looked at him
gratefully. “I’d like to do a part like that,” she said.
The cocktails came, but she pushed hers aside. “Tell me some more about
her. She loves and hates the same man? Does he understand that—her
lover, I mean.”
“Perhaps not at first—in my play, he wouldn’t. But in Yeats’s play,
years later, he does understand. When the older king complains that even
his former sweetheart makes war on him, he says:
“_No wonder in that, no wonder at all in that.
I never have known love but as a kiss
In the mid battle, and a difficult truce
Of oil and water, candles and dark night,
Hillside and hollow, the hot-footed sun
And the cold, sliding, slippery-footed moon—
A brief forgiveness between opposites
That have been hatreds for three times the age
Of this long ’stablished ground._”
“A kiss in the mid-battle!” she repeated. “That is lovely.”
She raised her cocktail. “Here’s to our play!”
They drank.
“Now,” he said, a little embarrassedly, “I feel that I shall have to
write that play!”
She put her hand on his for a moment. “Don’t feel that,” she said. “I
know—people dream of things and ... don’t do them. I shan’t hold you to
account. But it’s a lovely dream—and that’s what I’m drinking to.”
“But wouldn’t you rather have the play than the dream?” he asked.
“I don’t know.... By the time you wrote it—I would be interested in
something else, and you would want another girl to do it. Why should we
bother with promises? We’re not that kind.... If I said I loved you—and
I could say that right now—I always love people who think of lovely
things, and that play was a lovely thing to think of—why, I wouldn’t
expect you to hold me to account for it ... later.”
“Do you love me?” he asked, in a casual tone.
“Yes.... Here are the fishes!... Of course I do. You are a terribly nice
person. You love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Felix.
The waiter went away, and she laughed. “That was a test,” she said. “A
man who can talk about love in the presence of the waiter without
looking awkward—! But I meant it, too.... These _are_ good, aren’t
they?”
“Delicious! Especially these sprats. I don’t know what a sprat is, but
I’m sure this is one.”
“That’s another thing—people ought to be able to talk about love, and
food, and art, and money, in the same tone of voice. Some men would be
shocked to hear me discuss love and little fishes all in the same
breath.”
“I seem to be passing all your tests.”
“Yes—it doesn’t even make you nervous to be compared with other men.”
“Oh, I suppose there _are_ other men in the world,” said Felix. “They
don’t interest me, but I don’t mind your alluding to them.”
“So long as it’s to their disadvantage!”
“Or any other way. I simply can’t take them seriously. Men seem
ridiculous creatures to me.”
“I’ve known some very interesting ones!”
“You thought so at the time. A pardonable mistake. The truth is, Bobbie
Eulenspiegel, you and I are the only truly interesting people alive in
the world at this moment.”
She laughed up into his eyes. “I think so too,” she said.
She had suddenly become very much a girl, with the light of a feminine
magic gleaming in her mischievous eyes.
“Are you flirting with me?” he demanded.
“How did you guess?” she asked.
The orchestra struck up again.
“Shall we dance?” she said, jumping up from the table.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you know, the last time I danced with you, I had
been drinking, and thought I was dancing with a childhood playmate.”
“Aren’t I your childhood playmate?” she asked pausing at the edge of the
dancing space.
“No, Serpent of the Nile,” he said, taking her in his arms. “And you
aren’t a dryad, either,” he went on, as they mingled with the dancers.
“You are a water-witch, that’s what you are. You dance like water in the
sunlight. You are an exhalation from the salt sea wave. You have no
body—which is even worse than having no soul; if I knew the proper magic
words to pronounce, this which seems to be your body would dissolve, and
I would hold in my arms only a handful of shining mist. You are really
not here at all—there is no one here but me, talking to myself. In fact,
now I think you must be somebody that I invented in a fanciful mood—a
quite imaginary person.”
“You seem to have a number of contradictory theories about me,” she
said.
“Yes—the only thing I am quite sure of is that you don’t really exist.”
“Are you sure that _you_ exist?” she mocked.
“No, now that I think of it, I’m not sure.”
“Perhaps you are an imaginary person that _I_ invented,” she insisted.
“If any one could invent me, I think you might.”
“Oh, easily!”
“That shows how little you know me,” he said. “I don’t think you
invented me, after all. You would be prouder of me if you had.
Masterpieces like that are not thrown off every day.”
“Masterpiece? A mere jeu d’esprit!”
“I renounce you utterly,” he said. “You are a base pretender. Besides,
you are too young to have thought of such things. I believe you said you
were twenty-five.”
“I lied, to impress you. I am twenty-four. How old are you?”
“I am twenty-four, too,” he said. “Remarkable coincidence!”
“Not at all. I am really twenty-seven.”
“Devil! How old are you?”
“Older than you, anyway.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I _am_ an awful liar,” she said, with an air of telling him a secret.
“I shall distrust every word you say henceforth.”
“Good—then I shall always tell the truth, and you’ll be no wiser. You
can’t hold me.”
“Who wants to hold you? Not I!” he said.
“Oh, don’t you?”
“What would I do with you? What are you good for? No, I don’t want you.
Go home,” he told her.
“Now I sha’n’t.”
“All right, stay then.”
“I’ve a rehearsal at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” she remarked.
“What’s that to me?”
“I ought to go home and get some sleep.”
“Then you probably won’t.”
“No. I probably won’t.... There’s the waiter bringing our food.”
“It can wait,” he said.
“You’re in no hurry to get home, I take it?”
“No.”
The music ended. He led her back to their table.
“Besides—” he said. “I didn’t tell you about my new home, did I? It’s on
the north side.”
“Where? I live on the north side too. Think of us two living in the
midst of Wilson Avenue respectability. It’s very amusing.... Is it the
dancing or the cocktail that gives us such an appetite?”
“Or the fact that we had no dinner, perhaps? Just off Wilson Avenue,
near the L station. A dingy bachelor apartment.”
“It can’t be worse than mine. I fear I have no talent for home-making.”
“There’s a dance hall just across the street,” he said. “That’s why I
left home tonight.”
“Why let that annoy you? Why not dance there?”
“Yes, why not? Will you go and dance with me?”
Her eyes lit up. “When?”
“Any time. I imagine it’s always in full blast. Tonight?”
“Yes!” She clapped her hands. “Now!”
“Our supper....”
“What of it? There are other places to eat, a dog-wagon will do. Come!”
She rose, her eyes dancing.
He rose too, throwing his napkin on the table. “Never put off till
tomorrow—”
He helped her on with her coat, and when the surprised waiter came with
the wine, he demanded his check.
“Yes, sir. And the wine, sir?”
“Give it to me!” said the girl.
He handed it over with a dignified gesture.
“You should have borrowed a corkscrew, too!” said Felix, as they left
the room.
“I didn’t want the wine,” she said. “I just wanted to walk out with it
under my arm. I thought you might object.”
“Again you misjudge me,” said Felix. “You can do all the foolish things
you want to—but don’t waste your time doing them to see whether I care.
I don’t care. You can stand on your head here on Michigan Avenue if you
like. I sha’n’t mind.”
“Shouldn’t you?” she said. “Well, then, if I may do as I please, then I
sha’n’t do anything very outrageous. Would it be very outrageous to
visit your apartment in the dead of night with this wine, before we go
to the dance across the street? Will you be put out?”
“Probably,” said Felix. “But there are other places to live. There is
always the park bench, when you have had me turned out of all my
apartments.”
“Oh, my enthusiasm for you won’t last that long. Never fear!... Have we
enough money to taxi up there?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s take the L. It’s quicker. Do you like me, Felix?”
“I sha’n’t tell you!”
They climbed the elevated steps, and waited for a train. A weary
policeman waited there, the only other person on the platform.
“How do you suppose this adventure is going to end?” she asked, as they
walked.
“Who knows?” he answered. “That’s the fun of an adventure—one never does
know.”
She sighed. “If I thought you thought you knew—! But you don’t, do you?”
“And I don’t care.”
“Amazing youth! I can’t tease you, can I? So I won’t try any more....
Don’t you think I ought to go home and go to bed?”
“I’m sure you ought.”
“If we danced all night—”
“I think I will kiss you, right now. The idea has just occurred to me.”
Standing on the platform in the glare of the electric lights, under the
amused eye of the policeman, they kissed each other.
“I _must_ go to that rehearsal at ten o’clock!” she said.
“You shall have three cups of the best coffee the Wilson Avenue Tea and
Coffee Store affords,” he said smiling, “made by the most expert hands.”
She looked frightened. “Let’s _walk_ up to Wilson Avenue,” she said
suddenly.
“Good. We can make it by breakfast time. I’d like a nice long walk!”
“No,” she said. “There’s our train coming! Besides, I can change my mind
several times more on the way up....”
2
“You do make good coffee, Felix!” she said, the next morning. “One more
cup, and I think I’ll be equal to the rehearsal. No, you mustn’t come
with me.”
“I wasn’t going to go with you, foolish child. I’m merely going to
escort you to the front door.”
At the street door she kissed him. “Don’t expect me!” she said. “If you
wait for me, I shan’t come back.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You’ll probably find me curled up on your doorstep when you come home.
Good-bye.”
He watched her disappear around the corner, then went out and looked on
the sidewalk, and in the street. He was looking for a little book which
he had tossed out of the window the night before.
He did not find it. Somebody had picked it up and carried it away....
But that was better than finding it crumpled and muddy in the gutter. It
was the last thing binding him to his old life, and it was just as well
that it should be utterly gone.
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