Book III--Grace Kline Andrews

_Book I_

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

CHAPTER ONE

Even during the latter hour of lunch time the editorial room of the

_Dress Daily_ could never be quiet. The feel of the presses stayed

like audible dust in the air and now and then heavy trucks, passing

by, seemed to jar the building. But the desks of the Fashion

Department were void of life; a solitary man pecked at a machine in

the Woolens Department. All the stenographers except one were

gossiping in the dressing room.

When the entrance door opened a draught made this one girl at the

typewriter scowl and clutch her papers, and a piece of paper in the

Fashion Department blew up and fell listlessly to the floor. Such

vagrant sheets strewed the ground in poor imitation of autumn leaves.

The girl looked up. Because of a way of carrying her head, all her

features, which were regular, seemed to tilt upward, even her small,

cruelly firm mouth. She saw a man from the Advertising Department

followed by a young woman in a sealskin coat. At once she made her

shoulders uncompromising and began to click her typewriter. Her desk

was first from the entrance; people insisted on stopping at it for

directions.

The story about an exhibition of blouses--which, as a great favor,

Mr. Milford had permitted her to visit during lunch time and write

about herself--sprang into being willy-nilly. All the same, she had

noticed the other girl.

"We might--wait--over there, Joe," this girl said, with a pause

before and after the word "wait" that emphasized it slightly.

They sat down in the Fashion Department, facing the girl at the

typewriter, and she heard a low murmur of conversation. She finished

a page, busily rolled it from the machine and put it on the desk.

She inserted another sheet and sat gazing at it, conscious in spite

of herself of the voices, especially the low, deliberate, penetrating

voice of the girl. Somebody looking for a job, she thought. All

sorts of girls came to Mr. Milford for jobs. Then she shrugged, and

wondered why she was bothering her head about this particular girl.

"Anyhow, it can't be my job she's after. Nobody would want this

lousy job."

Her fingers were still moving almost subconsciously on the keys when

she heard the voice of the advertising man behind her, a bit

deferential, for she had frightened him with coldness once before.

"Can you tell me when Mr. Milford will be in?"

She glanced at him. "He never tells _me_," she said, with a slight

smile to remove the pertness. The man smiled back, a little humbly,

and she relented. "He usually comes in about this time."

The man seemed to take this as an entering wedge. He beckoned to the

girl in the sealskin coat. She walked over, her enormous eyes, deep

brown pools, so wide open, so steadily focused, that they appeared to

cling to whatever was in the range of vision, fastening themselves

ahead of her on the other girl's face. Her head was bent forward, as

if with the weight of her eyes, and so were her shoulders.

"Miss Vestry," said the advertising man, "I want you to meet Miss

Kline. Miss Vestry is Mr. Milford's secretary--and assistant," he

concluded with unction.

Miss Kline made a move to draw her right hand out of its sealskin

cuff. Miss Vestry only smiled briefly.

"Now I have to go downstairs for a while, Grace," said the

advertising man. "Miss Vestry will take care of you."

The large eyes moved slowly toward him and clung to him.

"But--you'll be back, Joe? You know--I want you--to introduce me."

There was a curious halt between groups of her words which Anita

Vestry had noticed.

"Sure, I'll be back."

The two girls faced each other only for a second. Miss Vestry turned

to her machine. She could feel the eyes of this Miss Kline lingering

on the back of her head, but she could not think of anything to say

to her, even if she had wished to speak. She felt impatient, as if

she wanted to shake her off. "Why doesn't she go and sit down?"

Miss Kline took a few steps and stood by the side of the desk. The

first page of the story lay face up. Her eyes immediately attached

themselves to it. She picked up the page casually. Holding it at

arm's length, with her head cocked to one side, she looked it over.

When she was through she put the page down without comment, glanced

at the continuation in the typewriter, then sauntered over to a chair

by Mr. Milford's desk.

The breath that Miss Vestry had been holding in was expelled through

her wide nostrils, distended to reject it. She seemed to rise

several inches in her chair as, grabbing the sheet of paper on her

desk, she turned it face down with a distinct, hard, angry thud as

her hand fiercely struck the wood. She did not look at Miss Kline

but she had a glimpse of eyes startled and wider than ever.

Miss Kline touched her on the arm. "I--didn't mean to be rude. I

didn't think you'd mind. I'm--awfully sorry," she said hurriedly.

"Oh, very well," said Miss Vestry with a curl of her lip. At this

moment Mr. Milford opened the door, followed by the advertising man.

"There's Mr. Milford now," she said coldly, and went back to her work.

She heard the introductions, Mr. Milford's admiring voice. They had

grouped themselves near her and, though she would not look up and

pounded hard, taking pleasure in making as much noise as she could,

she had glimpses of Mr. Milford's soggy cheeks, painfully shaven in

that effort at spruce youthfulness which she so disliked about him;

of the girl's tenacious eyes that, while she smiled at Mr. Milford,

now and then cast a baffled glance in her direction. Finally they

seated themselves around Mr. Milford's desk, and his shaking hands of

an old man, which he tried to keep so firm and gallant, began to fuss

with little disquiet motions among his papers. That was always his

preliminary to dictation. Miss Vestry heard him say:

"I'll send you to Harry. He's an old friend of mine--great chap.

He'll find work for a bright girl like you."

He called, in the tone of special dignity which he kept for her,

"Miss Vestry, bring your book, please."

She picked up the notebook, opened it with a swift, professional

gesture, and set her face in stony abstraction, as if she were on

another planet, with words reaching her through the air from no one

and nothing in particular--her special defense against that flow of

easy inanities which fell from the lips of people in dictation and

which she had to collect like so many choice pearls. The other

girl's head was bent, her eyes intent on her lap. "That'll be all,

Miss Vestry."

She put the book on her desk and walked by into the dressing room, to

get away from them--from the girl's low voice, from the two men who

now listened to her with attention and looked at her with a soothed

softening of their faces and let their minds be filled for the while

with her needs. The girls who came to Mr. Milford Anita Vestry

disliked because of the nuisance of taking down and writing the

letters of introduction, and then forgot. But this girl filled her

with such an intense nervous dissatisfaction--was it envy?--that she

sat and clenched her hands to control the loosened odds and ends of

nerves that whirled within her. It was a state of discontent not

uncommon with her, but this Miss Kline--not altogether by the

inadvertent rudeness--had managed to make her lot seem so poor, so

mean, so inferior, that it became a state beyond what she could bear.

CHAPTER TWO

The _Dress Daily_ building stood a few steps from Fifth Avenue. It

was a part of Fifth Avenue, however--the section of the clothing

workers--which Grace Kline always wished to eliminate from her

consciousness as soon as possible. These gloomy structures that shed

almost a sour odor, these hurrying foreign feet brought thoughts that

were not like the thoughts one had after crossing Madison Square and

pausing before Brentano's. There was not in this air the sudden,

resilient thoughtlessness, the expectant quiver, that made the heart

beat faster, the walk more swift and alert after Thirty-fourth

Street. Once, after some discussion about the atmosphere of Paris,

it had occurred to her to wonder at the power which the light feet,

the insubstantial minds of men and women had to impress themselves

far, far beneath heavy pavements, high, high above in the intangible

ether, to shape slabs of stone and sections of air so that, years

after, centuries after, other people would thrill like hounds to the

sense of old, permeating moods. At some times she caught with a stab

of elation the feeling of being one of the persons who, alive to-day,

were adding their slight memories to the store of memory which New

York had from the past and would have to draw on in the future. This

was such a day. It was cold, but the sky was a boundless blue, the

wind raced with a stirring energy, and the air had that

liquefied-diamond quality of the New York autumn.

As she waited for a bus, she turned her mind, by an effort of will

which was becoming necessary to her in the state of harassment in

which she lived, away from the wide-open, limitless blue. It

frightened her, one could so easily get lost there. She turned her

mind away and into herself and shut it within tightly. It was

equivalent to closing the windows in a room. All the draperies that

had been flying about, all her ideas, came to rest in smooth order.

In the first place, it was two-thirty, so Harry Strauss, to whom she

had the letter of introduction, would probably be in. In the second

place, did she look well to see him? She opened her purse and

consulted its mirror--not surreptitiously, for a beautiful girl need

feel no shame to gaze in a glass. Her dark hair, under the black

satin hat, perfectly softened the fine, regular curve of her brows.

Her eyes, by their purely physical depth and width, possessed an

irresistible suction, like the dark waters of deep wells. Her cheeks

were long and too thin. They became hollow under the least strain.

But the even, warm hue of her skin, to which the wind never brought

color or the sun heat, which lay lightly over her face like a pearly,

glowing cloud, concealed the thinness. There was a composed power in

her face, in the lips which were softly put together. She was quite

aware of the eyes of every man who turned without hope but in spite

of himself to glance at her.

By one of those extravagant economies of people who have to make a

prosperous appearance on small means, she had been forced to wear a

fur coat a little early in the season. This fact bothered her for

she was as scrupulous in the choice of her clothes as if they had

been irreplaceable parts of her body. But her spring coat was too

shabby and childish to go job hunting in and she could not afford a

special autumn wrap. The hint of pale orange between the black of

the sealskin and the black of the hat pleased her. That, at least,

was perfect.

Harry Strauss's office was at Forty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue.

She coveted a job and could not help her heart's beating a little

faster. But Grace Kline never felt really nervous about meeting new

people, even prospective employers. Her face, she knew, served her

as sufficient passport, assured her a certain welcome anywhere. As

she watched the streets sidle by, she thought that she had not done

badly for one day of job hunting. The acquaintances she had

collected with this end in view had been kind to her. She already

had one offer in case she found nothing better. If she really got

work with Harry Strauss she would earn a good salary. How much? She

ought to think of how much to ask. To keep her mind still shut--away

from that boundless contingency which was ever before her like a

landscape, luring her to wander in it without plan and only for the

warm joy of the moment--she began hastily to design the clothes she

would get, her winter's wardrobe, if Harry Strauss really hired her.

The shop windows, passing by on both sides of the street, helped her.

She scanned them with concentration and they assured her that these

things could be sufficient, that these things could fill a mind.

They called to her eagerly to trust them and they would tell her what

to do and where to buy.

Just before she entered Harry Strauss's office she paused again and

touched her lips into a faint orange splendor. Then, her eyes

marching ahead of her, her head slightly bent forward, as if with

their weight--her usual carriage--she walked into the office. The

stenographer thought she was haughty and looked at her with an

admiring fear. She had her chair just outside the inner office and

she opened the door to it without getting up.

"Mr. Strauss isn't busy. You can go right in."

Fortunately, it was a small office, for Mr. Strauss, who sat at his

desk rolling a cigar between his teeth, watched each step she took.

He did not rise but waved to her to sit down. Her eyes fixed

themselves on his face, in which appeared the vague, almost wistful

relaxation that she had come to expect as a due tribute to her

appearance.

"Well--er--what's your trouble?" It was kindly, even courteously

said, despite the keen, clever, stabbing gleam in Mr. Strauss's

bright eyes. In spite of all she had heard about him, she liked him

at sight. He was about forty, dressed in a gray suit. A silver mane

of hair, crisp, shining like strong steel wire in the sun, stood back

from his forehead. He had an aquiline nose and his decisive voice

had a note in it as if it were aquiline too.

"I have--a letter--for you from Mr. Milford," she said softly.

"M--m--m." After he had read the letter, his very bright eyes

glanced over it at her, considering her. They halted at her brief

skirt and slid over her legs and ankles. She felt them and was

amused, gratified, strictly within herself. There was nothing wrong

with her legs.

"I've a man working for me now," he said.

She kept quiet.

"I might be able to use a bright girl. Something just came up----"

Her eyes, that had been gazing at the air to the side of him, moved

to his face, stayed there. Although she knew all about her eyes,

this was never an entirely calculated gesture on her part. As soon

as she placed her eyes anywhere, they clung of themselves.

"Just what have you done?" asked Mr. Strauss suddenly. "Milford says

you're just out of college, but you've had some experience."

"I--Mr. McTavish of the Brooklyn _Press_ is a good friend of mine,

and the last two years of college I did movie criticisms for him and

theatrical interviews."

"You know McTavish, hmm. Who else do you know? Know any of the

theatrical and movie crowd on the New York papers? It's your

contacts that count in publicity, you know."

"Yes. I know Hugh Coleman very well--and Tommy Manship----"

"Not Deering? Don't know Deering, do you?" he interrupted.

"No. I don't know him," she said, and her eyes fell with concern.

She had no idea who Deering was.

"Have you got any friends on any of the other papers? Know anyone

down at the _World_?"

"Well, Mildred Nelson is a very good friend of mine," she said with

assurance. She had at least met Mildred Nelson many times.

Mr. Strauss lit his cigar and took up one of the telephones on his

desk. "So you know McTavish, huh?" he repeated. He said to his

stenographer through the phone, "Get me McTavish of the Brooklyn

_Press_." Then he sat back and watched her. There was that in his

face, serious though he kept it, which purred at her discomfort, at

her inability to protest against the rudeness of questioning another

person about her capacities in her presence. She had nothing to fear

from McTavish. Yet she could not help but feel the turmoil of

awaiting the signing of her own reprieve or death warrant there,

before her eyes, against her ears. And Mr. Strauss knew this. She

saw that he enjoyed it, enjoyed her suspense, enjoyed his own

shrewdness, the idea of making an unexpected move, stealing a march

on her poise.

In a few minutes the bell tinkled. She heard Mr. Strauss say,

"Hello, McTavish. Harry Strauss speaking. There's a girl

here--Grace Kline--who says she worked for you. What do you know

about her?" And he kept his eyes, with that malicious twinkle, on

her. But as he listened he took them away and his face grew grave,

respectful. He was handing her the palm of victory. He was saying,

"I see. That's fine. I'm glad to hear that." And, in fact, he

seemed pleased. When he had hung up the receiver he spoke to her

with a note of apology, as if he begged pardon for his suspicion that

she might be cheating him. But wouldn't he have been even better

pleased if the conversation had been unfavorable, if his suspicions

had been justified and he had caught her?

"Well," he said, "McTavish thinks very highly of you. He says you're

a smart girl, doesn't hesitate to recommend you for any job."

She smiled nervously.

"Now, how much would you work for?"

She lowered her eyes. When she raised them again they were frank and

they pleaded.

"I--don't know anything about publicity salaries."

"This job wouldn't pay more than forty to start," said Mr. Strauss,

tapping his cigar against the ash tray. He flashed his stabbing

glance at her but he could tell nothing by her face, whether it was

more than she expected or less. Then he remembered that she was just

out of college and felt annoyed that he had not made it lower. "I

could get plenty of people to work for less," he added. Her

expression grew remote, cool. "But we won't quarrel over a couple of

dollars," he said with a wave of his hand. "There's a good opening

here, and you look like the kind of a girl I want. If you make good,

it may run to as much as seventy-five--a hundred--after awhile.

Depends on you. Well, is that fair?"

"I think so. Yes." She seemed quite composed.

"All right, then, come in to-morrow around nine. Now, you've

probably heard that press agents don't begin work till noon. Forget

all that. This office opens at nine like any other, and I expect you

on time." He was leaning over the desk, his eyes alert and intent,

and after each remark he jerked his chin down for emphasis. "Don't

be nervous. You do your work and I'll be fair to you. Ask anyone

you like. They'll tell you that Harry Strauss is fair." His eyes

seemed to argue with her to believe. "The man I have is out now.

You come in here to-morrow, and you'll meet him. You'll work

together. He'll show you around till you catch on." He dismissed

her.

Just as she was opening the door he called sharply, "Miss Kline!"

She turned and found him facing her, his eyes still more alert.

"Don't tell anyone you're working for me."

He swung away from her, back to his desk, and became very busy.

CHAPTER THREE

Learning from the elevator starter that it was half-past three, Grace

faced Fifth Avenue again with a sort of sigh, not of sadness, but of

anticipation that was almost too stifling. This--this was the part

of the day when she ungirded her mind, set it free, let it wander

among the dark woods and bright flowers of her bitter happiness.

This--this was the part of the day for which she was so tautened, so

wound up that she could hardly wait for the moment of relaxation.

All the elements of her day, all the little notes, arranged

themselves as accompaniment, as an undercurrent, to this hour from

four to five, and she strained toward it as one's ears strain

expectantly toward the melodious, recurrent theme of a symphony.

She hurried across town to Broadway. The sunshine glimmered and

trembled in an ecstasy of autumn fulfillment. Finding no autumn

leaves, each separate ray of sunshine yet put itself to use,

twinkling and rippling on the sides of buildings as if to stir each

separate mote of the shades of ancient foliage. She felt as if the

sun placed a carpet of the cropped fall grass beneath her feet, as if

she proceeded, not between lines of stone, but between rows of

ordered, wine-red trees, bending to the wind.

These city blocks were becoming specially near to her. Even as her

life was rooting itself in them, so they were being buried in her to

form part of the soil of nourishing memory. Already she could meet

shades of herself going and returning along these streets, going at

four o'clock, returning at five. There were shop windows into which

she had stared, not knowing what they showed, so as to hide her tears

from passers-by, cryptic brownstone houses at which she had turned

and glanced so as to conceal an idiotic happiness from the prying

eyes of other people. They were like no other shop windows and no

other houses on earth, and these streets seemed specially stained for

her; they smelled differently, they had a tingling odor.

Before the jazz band of Broadway, with all its tin-pan clamor and

hoots, the irregular lines of buildings and billboards forming a

perfect continuation of the discord, she marked time impatiently.

She had to wait for the traffic to cross to the Astor, and she

couldn't wait and, like a true New Yorker, made up her mind at the

most inopportune moment and began to dodge between. She didn't

hurry. Her feet made the perfect feints and maneuvers for her while

she looked at the motor cars aggressively and put up her hand now and

then to warn them to beware.

The ladies' room of the Astor was almost like a club-room. Grace

often saw the same faces here at the same hour, absorbed like her in

the same purpose, pushing their way between other girls at the

mirrors, unaware of them almost entirely, as they glued their eyes to

their own faces and made them, with a sober, a sacred concentration,

clear and fresh and individual for someone, some one person to meet.

A nun before the altar could not have told her beads with more piety

than Grace Kline attended to her face. Although it needed little

help, there were numerous delicate motions necessary almost to

magnetize it into perfection. Her hair had to be done over with the

exact slender part at the side, the smooth silken widening over the

ears, and a tiny half-bang lying gently under that portion which was

brought somewhat over her forehead. When she was ready to draw on

her gloves, she bestowed a customary sigh on her hands (they were

awkwardly jointed--"washerwoman's hands", she called them), then

turned from all angles before the glass.

She would be just in time. Already the first strain of the melody,

the note of yearning in loneliness, began to sing in her. It had

been a good day, but by herself, the goodness, though she knew it was

there, had no words or point. When she had shared it with someone,

given it to someone to taste, when she had been able to see by

someone else's eyes that it was good, then she would realize its

excellence. And now was the time when the note of yearning would

draw its answering harmony.

At Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, as she crossed, she saw

Blake already turning down the block. The line of his shoulders was

obstinate, each step unhurried. She walked behind him, smiling,

waiting for the moment when she would take a few extra steps and

place herself by his side. He would never turn and see her, he never

by any chance made extra movements. He was an only child, used to

being surrounded by other people's care and thought, and this was

apparent even in his gait, that took no account of any other

pedestrian, never swerved, as if he were sure the others would notice

his direction and clear a path for him. Grace walked just behind his

shoulder, almost touching him, and still, as she expected, he was

unconscious of her. Her smile grew amused, lenient. She stretched

out her hand and put it on his shoulder.

At the same time he stopped and said, "Hello." It was not spoken to

her but to a man in a fur-collared coat whom she had not seen

approaching. Simultaneously, he glanced at Grace. His face flushed

an awkward beet-red, paled. He looked straight at the man, talking

to him, seeming as if he did not feel the hand on his shoulder, did

not know the girl who so obviously knew him. The man, after the

first curious glint in his eyes, pretended not to notice.

For a few seconds Grace stood in confusion on the outskirts of the

little circle of intimacy the two made. The pang which these little

intimate groupings, in which she had no place, in which she might

never have a place, sent through her! The whole world, all its rules

and customs, were bent on pushing her outside of them, keeping her

there in the cold, while the two men spoke of mutual relatives, drew

the warm fibers of their mutual background about them to form a rope

beyond which she stood alone, without anything to tie her to the

group. Her face was white--but not with anger, for she well knew the

ever-present reason which might explain--as she walked around them,

into the tearoom, and waited by the door. Sometimes there were

people in the place whom she knew--it was frequented by what Mr.

Strauss called the theatrical and movie crowd--and whose light,

understanding, inquiring consideration she had to bear. The eyes of

the woman at the desk admired her. She called, "Hello, Miss Kline."

And Grace answered with a certain pity, a certain pride, even in her

present state. Dull women like that had nothing better to do than to

approve of her and ask for her attention.

When Blake came in she saw that he would volunteer no excuse. He was

as pale as she, ashamed, distant. The note of answering harmony was

not there to-day. They were both alone, she outside, he within

something. In silence, they sat down at a table in the farthest

corner; in silence looked at the china plates and bric-a-brac loading

down shelves below the ceiling, at the prints of English hunting

scenes and framed old theater programs which covered the walls. They

always had tea and toast, the cheapest things on the menu, and their

waitress was bringing it without question.

Grace said, feeling along each possible path of approach, "I ought to

celebrate. I've got a job--with Harry Strauss."

He answered with little interest. "Harry Strauss. You'll learn a

lot of tricks from him. That's good."

So the chief episode of the day, which she had waited for him to

taste of, to show her its excellence, was not good after all. What

difference did it make to get a job, to do her hair over, to be

glanced at on the street? She tried again.

"He told me not to tell anyone I was working for him. Why, do you

suppose?"

This time he smiled. "He's pulled a good many raw press stunts. The

papers are supposed to be down on him. I hear he works through a man

named Al Epstein."

"I'm to meet him to-morrow."

"You start to-morrow?" And now his face was smoothing out of its

tight, preoccupied lines. He began to tell her of Harry Strauss's

exploits. He had a memory for all kinds of information, liked to

sort it in his mind, which was very orderly, and produce it with a

faint touch of irony. The anecdotes which he picked up along

Broadway lent themselves especially to this irony. They laughed over

a story of how Harry Strauss had managed to find his way at night to

the electric advertisement of a movie which he was press-agenting and

had arranged the letters to form a word that stopped traffic. He had

hidden the key which unlocked the entrance office to the sign, so

that it was a long time before the letters could be corrected, the

crowds below dispersed. The papers had been forced to print accounts

of the traffic block and to mention his picture as the cause.

When they had done laughing he was ready to regard her fully for the

first time that day.

"You're so lovely to-day, Grace," he said, with his own note of

yearning and looked down at his teacup.

"As ever?" she said.

He nodded emphatically and flushed the violent, almost tearful flush

of sandy-haired people. It was the signal for the recurrent harmony

between them. Now they were close again, now all other fibers had

been cut for awhile and only their own fibers remained, growing

together. Now they could say anything to each other, what he had

been meaning and hating to tell her.

"That was my uncle." He jerked the words out.

Her eyes grew harassed. "Did he--say something? Will he----"

"No, he wouldn't say anything. I--only--well--I didn't----"

"I know." She did know. She had forced herself to understand as

quickly as possible that men--that Blake anyhow--were hideously

awkward in personal relationships. It saved much pain. Blake might

have introduced her as some acquaintance who had come up to him on

the street. There was no law against his knowing girls, no law

against some girl, in casual amusement, putting her hand on his

shoulder. He might have spared her that horrible moment. But, of

course, that would never occur to him.

There was another silence. It was, however, a silence which they

shared. They were both thinking the same thoughts.

"How are things--at home?" she said softly.

"Same. She's going away next month." He never called his wife by

name, and he didn't dare to say "my wife." Grace could say "your

wife" sometimes with a bitter emphasis, but it was forbidden to him.

"Home?"

"No. On a visit."

They exchanged a long look.

"Haven't quarreled, by any chance?" inquired Grace, raising her

eyebrows in pointed archness.

"We never quarrel," he said with a smile. This was their little joke.

"Have you been working?"

"Bill and I finished one act."

"Oh. That's fine."

She was questioning him with her eyes. He knew what that question

meant. Was there any chance--was there--would there--be money?

There were hopes connected with the making of money, which smooths

over many things, which is a good panacea to apply to other people's

heartaches. He turned his teacup round and round in the saucer. Tea

slopped over.

"Well," said Grace, "that's fine about your act. You'll finish the

play soon, won't you? And, by the way, if I start work to-morrow, I

can't tell where I'll be at four. I may be late. Can I call you

anywhere?"

"You might call me at Fred's office. I could drop in there around

four, and if we miss connections you might leave word."

"I hate to call there. They're not very nice to me." Her eyes

pleaded with him. But he looked down and she saw his face hardening

into its so familiar sullen lines. Why should she fuss about such a

little thing? After all, he remembered that he had a good deal to

bear himself. She stretched her arm hastily across and touched his

hand, lying by the plate. He returned a hard pressure. Their hands

lay one within the other on the table. "All right. Then I'll call

you at Fred's around four. And do I see you Saturday?"

"You do," he said.

They got up. Before they rose, she slipped her share of the check

into his palm. He flushed again. He hated this. But at the very

beginning of their afternoon teas she had insisted and made a habit

of it. He couldn't afford to take her to tea every day. He was very

poor. Very well, so was she. They would be poor together. The dull

woman at the desk nodded and looked after them. Together they walked

out, holding their heads somewhat belligerently, in case any

acquaintance should see them and think they had no business to be

together, and twining their arms one within the other.

They walked slowly down to Sixth Avenue. The final chord with all

its fused, attuned, contrasting notes, its gathering of all into one,

was sounding in different ways for each of them. They wished it to

go on and on. When the final chord dies, the symphony is over,

people clatter their seats, the hall grows bare, and ghosts of dead

music wail without noise and cling in the air and will not leave go.

At the corner he put his arms about her and they kissed each other

for a moment. Blake hated embraces on street corners, but there was

no other place for them to kiss.

CHAPTER FOUR

The sunshine was gone. Lights were being turned on in office

buildings. The crowds were beginning to rush home. Before dinner

time in late fall--a windy, hurrying, desolate interval on city

streets when everyone's thoughts fly to an enclosure, some enclosure.

Grace continued to walk aimlessly along Sixth Avenue. After she left

Blake it was always hard for her to button her mind anew against the

cold, lone air. When people leave a warm room the bleak outer air

can penetrate them subtly and thoroughly in a moment until they find

themselves colder than they ever were before, they find themselves

freezing. At such times Grace had some certain recourses, minute

hinges which she used to swing her mood from the unbearable, the

unknowable, to the composed routine of every day. Looking in shop

windows was such a hinge, buying a new pair of stockings, a new

handkerchief, dropping into a movie, ordering a soda. But the best

hinge was a visit with Letty, even a telephone call to her.

Letty and Grace had grown up together and for many years their

families had lived close by in lower Washington Heights, Grace on St.

Nicholas Avenue, Letty in a poorer house just around the corner.

Letty had been a stenographer while Grace had gone to college, but

this had not disturbed their friendship. There was something so

fresh and gay, so frank, about Letty, with her round little face, her

round little suits, and her fresh, greedy little mouth. She had

married soon and well, moving from the house around the corner and

leaving Grace in the apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue. An

Irish-American, she had married a man of Grace's racial background,

German-Jewish-American, and was adapting herself, not too entirely

and with many pert remarks, to his accustomed home-and-family

existence. They lived on Riverside Drive in the Eighties. Often

Grace stopped by on her way home.

As soon as she heard Letty's lively "Hello," Grace felt a sense of

relief. There, very close, were people who cared about her, who were

concerned with her doings, small sheds to huddle into for warmth. No

need to say who it was. The two girls knew all the inflections of

each other's voices.

"What are you doing? I thought I'd come in for a minute," said Grace.

"Oh-h----" Letty's voice dropped. "Harry and I thought we'd eat out

and go to the theater. Why? Anything happened?"

"Oh, no. Nothing special. I got a job." Grace smiled. Even if

something had happened, it would be hard to drag Letty away from an

evening out and at the theater. It was proof of her friendship for

Grace that, once in a while, she had given up a promise of gayety for

her sake--but even so, with a pout, unwillingly.

"That's grand. Oh, Grace, that's wonderful! Where? How? Did you

tell Blake?" Letty's voice was twice as happy, happy for Grace and

happy that she could go on to her party.

Grace giggled. "What're you going to see that you're so excited

about?"

"Oh, just the _Follies_. You know Harold, the Tired Business Man.

He's under a bed right now--looking for a collar button. I don't

have to look. I'm speaking over the phone. Ha-ha! Gosh, he _found_

it! But tell me about the job, Grace. Where----"

Grace explained.

"Gee, I'm glad. I'm awf'ly glad! What're you doing to-night?"

"Nothing, I guess."

Letty's voice became lower, sympathizing. "Want to stay over here

to-night?" Another voice made itself heard but not clear enough for

the words to get through. "That's only Harold," said Letty

impatiently. "He thinks we'll be home too late. Don't mind him."

"I don't," replied Grace, laughing. Letty laughed too. "But I

suppose I might as well go home and tell Ma-a-a. And, listen, I

can't have lunch with you to-morrow. I don't know where I'll be."

"Oh, that's all right. Only call me, will you? And come up

to-morrow night, if you can manage, and tell me all about it."

"I'll call you anyway."

"I'm awf'ly glad! And don't forget to call me. Good-bye, Gracie."

"Good-bye, Let. Have a good time."

Grace went out of the booth, feeling cheerful again. After all, it

had been a successful day. Letty had looked at it and found it

successful. She hated to spoil her mood by crowding into the

Elevated or the Subway. Time enough for that when she got home to

Ma. All the busses would be full now. She searched in her purse.

If she walked on a little farther, along the park, she would have

just enough to pay for keeping her mood intact, safe from being

brushed away by the clumsy hands of the home-going crowds, in a cab

to One Hundred Thirty-seventh Street. Anyhow, she made up her mind

rebelliously, she ought to celebrate to-day in spite of what Ma would

say. Their parlor windows faced the street and Mrs. Kline never

seemed to miss the stoppage of a taxi before the door if that taxi

contained Grace.

The click of Grace's key brought Ma trampling down the long hall of

the apartment. Mrs. Kline's feet always sounded, at least to Grace's

ears, as if they trampled. _Clamp, clamp, clack_.

She couldn't help looking Grace over with pride and couldn't help

saying suspiciously, "Came up in a taxi, didn'cha?"

"It's all right, Ma," said Grace, going past her. "I got a job."

Mrs. Kline followed into Grace's room. She followed everywhere

physically. She was always looking for some loophole through which

to squeeze herself to follow into Grace's mind, into Grace's heart,

into Grace's soul, trying to trample down barrier after barrier as it

was inevitably erected against her. A conversation between Grace and

her mother was like an encounter between a peaceable, besieged city

and its attackers. At first Grace withdrew, like the city, far

within walls and lay low, resigned, merely attempting to ward off

invasion. Then, suddenly, there would come one sally too much. In

desperation, she, like the city, would turn and rise and strike.

Mrs. Kline could not help it. She would do anything for Grace, give

anything to Grace. Mr. Kline had been divorced when Grace was a

child and, to supplement small and irregular alimony, Mrs. Kline had

become dressmaker to her friends so as to send Grace through college

and keep up appearances. She still made dresses. But Grace wasn't

grateful, could not be forced to show gratitude. In truth Grace felt

that she had done her share. As a child, she had delivered gowns to

the mothers of playmates, had cleaned and cooked after school.

During the last years of college she had been able to add to the

family income, and now there devolved on her most of the burden of

supporting her mother. What more did Ma want? Why couldn't she let

her, Grace, alone?

Mother and daughter resembled each other in the contours of their

faces and in a certain insistence which both had. Grace clung with

her eyes. Mrs. Kline clung with her strident voice, with her hands,

by constant assertion. Otherwise, her eyes were china blue and she

had a lot of coarsening, once-golden hair.

"So you got a job. That's good. It's time. How much money are they

giving you? What kind of work? The same kind you did on the paper?"

"Forty to start."

"That's pretty good for a beginner," cried Mrs. Kline, brightening.

"I must tell Mrs. Mendelsohn. Betty Mendelsohn's been working a

month but she only makes twenty-five. You'd think she was the Queen

of Sheba the way Mrs. Mendelsohn acts. I told her if _he_ hadn't

wanted you to make that trip with him you'd have got a job the minute

you graduated too----"

"Oh, all right, Ma. I'm hungry." Grace had taken off her hat and

now, with a sigh, she shook out of her coat.

Mrs. Kline felt it, as usual, between thumb and forefinger. "Well,

it was cold enough for sealskin to-day, in spite of all the fuss you

made. Let me tell you a lot of girls would be glad to have a

sealskin coat, too early or not. The coat's a good buy, too. It's

like I told you. You gotta get money off him while he's got it."

"He" referred to Mr. Kline.

Without answering, Grace walked up the hall into the dining room.

She wore a long pale-orange blouse with loose sleeves and a black

skirt. She seemed taller and slimmer than she actually was, and her

back was a little rounded, but unnoticeably. Behind her trampled

Mrs. Kline, following. She sat down at the table. It was a

middle-class dining room, with every part of a dining-room "set"

righteously in place and with Mrs. Kline's wedding present cutglass

shining icily through the door of the china closet. It was chilly

there. Grace shivered.

"You ought to put something around you," said Mrs. Kline. "Go get

yourself a sweater. First thing you know, you'll catch pneumonia and

you'll be laid up. When do you start work, anyhow?"

"To-morrow."

"So soon? What've you got to wear? I don't know a thing you got.

I'll have to get busy. I'm busy enough as it is. I got a dress for

Mrs. Michaels and another ordered to-day----"

"Ma, please bring in the soup."

"--and I got bridge with the Ladies' Circle to-morrow. And what do

you think? All of a sudden that Mrs. Levine--Levin they call

themselves now--takes notice of me in Temple, and she asks me to come

to tea. Charlie Bintner wants me to have lunch with him, too, this

week. I don't know if that's proper. Of course, I got my divorce

and all, but still... You know Charlie Bintner--I told you he was

always after me. I'll never forget his face when I told him I was

going to get married. But he had only himself to blame. You can't

go around with a girl and go around with her and never make your

intentions known and expect her to wait for you----"

Grace swore under her breath.

Then Mrs. Kline brought in the soup. She was a poor cook and praised

her own cooking. She began to suck in great spoonfuls. Meal times,

when her mother sat opposite and talked in her harsh voice and ate

soup or devoured with gusto oranges out of their rinds, were most

dreaded by Grace. Then she was most at the point of exploding. She

sat tautened over the soup which she had tasted and would not eat.

"Why don't you eat? What's the matter with you?" said Mrs. Kline

sharply.

"Nothing. What's the meat?"

"I got some lamb chops. That's what you like, isn't it? There's no

suiting you ever. Or is something wrong with you?"

No answer from Grace. Mrs. Kline dragged out the soup and trampled

in with plates of chops and weak vegetables which she slammed on the

table. She went back for the coffee. Grace picked at her food and

drank black coffee.

"What's wrong with you?" insisted Mrs. Kline. "You haven't been

eating hardly anything for I don't know how long. What's wrong, I

want to know?"

Grace merely gritted her teeth.

There fell a silence, a bad omen.

When Mrs. Kline spoke again her voice was low and accusing.

"Mara Goldenberg told me she saw you having tea with that same man

the other day."

Grace dug her fork into the chop.

"Now listen, Grace, God knows I don't want to be like some mothers,

prying and snooping. But I'm your mother and I have a right to know

who you go around with. Your other friends call on you here. Why

can't this man come? What's wrong with him that Mara Goldenberg sees

you having tea with him all the time and your own mother don't know

who he is? He looks Gentile, Mara says, and you hold hands with him

on the table--right in front of everybody. Well, all right, so he's

Gentile. Myself, I'm proud to be Jewish, but I'm not a person that

has prejudices. My own brother's married to a Gentile woman as nice

as you could find anywhere, and there's Letty Moses, a Catholic, too,

married to a man whose own mother goes to Temple with me, and nobody

thinks the worse of the Moseses. Do I care who you go around with,

so long as they're decent people? But I want to know who this man is

that Mara Goldenberg sees you with."

"Mara Goldenberg ought to mind her own business. So should all your

friends, for that matter," muttered Grace.

"What's that you said? Mara Goldenberg is a good friend to me and

what she tells me I got a right to know--you should tell me yourself.

I got a right to know. Don't you forget that, young lady! I want to

know who this man is."

The besieged city turned suddenly.

"Well, you won't know," shouted Grace. "It's nothing and it's no

one's business and it's none of Mara Goldenberg's business."

She fled down the long corridor to her room, hearing her mother's

voice as it followed her. She closed the door with infinite caution.

If her mother heard a door shut she would bear down on her privacy on

the instant. But it was no use. Mrs. Kline's feet trampled down the

hall, her hands rapped on the door. Grace placed herself against it

on the inside, held it to. There was no key.

"Let me in, Grace. Don't you dare to shut the door on me," cried her

mother.

"I won't let you in. I'm undressing. Let me _alone_!"

With all her force Grace held the door to. Mrs. Kline rattled the

knob. Then she was still. Finally, Grace heard her feet making

their raucous journey back up the hall. For a long time she kept her

place by the door, taut, putting her hand to her heart unconsciously

to try to ease its racking beat.

The room was dark. When she sat down before her dresser she saw her

eyes in the glass--so huge--the whites distended and gleaming. She

sat there, watching herself, motionless, while the beat of her heart

swung back and forth like a pendulum. Now it waned, now it rose

mercilessly, filling her till she thought she would be torn apart.

It wouldn't stop. It would never stop. She muttered to herself, to

her heart, to her mother, to the whole world--over and over: "Let me

alone. Oh, let me alone! Why can't you let me alone?"

CHAPTER FIVE

It was not long before Grace learned to disregard time in all

connections with Broadway, but this first morning she took Harry

Strauss's warnings to heart and saw with astonishment that, in spite

of them, the office was closed. It stayed closed till nine-thirty.

Then the stenographer sauntered in. Grace was still afraid to leave

even for a moment to get herself a cup of coffee (she had avoided

breakfast with her mother), but she used the chance to throw a little

light on her job through the stenographer. She knew that Mr. Strauss

publicized an occasional movie for one of the big motion-picture

companies, and an occasional show; that he had, usually, theatrical

clients. What sort of accounts was Mr. Strauss handling now? The

stenographer thought that the office would be busy with the young

widow of a famous dancer who was about to "stage a comeback" in a

night club. Grace also wished to find out whether any girl had had

her job previously. Miss MacAlister, who showed that she admired

Grace's face and clothes, said that only Mr. Epstein had worked for

Mr. Strauss, so far as she knew. This encouraged Grace; there would

be no standard of comparison to live up to.

Mr. Strauss made his appearance at ten o'clock and did not seem to be

in the least impressed to find her waiting. What a fascinating crop

of silver hair he had! She felt at home with him. She knew he liked

her looks and she liked his. He said without prelude, "Now Annabella

Arden is to be at Ontalvo's at ten-thirty to take new pictures. Go

over there and wait for her, and when you're through, both of you

come back here. Know where Ontalvo's is, my dear?" He took it for

granted that she knew who Annabella Arden was.

This time she understood that she had not to hurry. She enjoyed the

luxury of breakfast alone in a restaurant. She called up Letty to

bolster her courage, and even so, when she got to Ontalvo's,

Annabella Arden was absent. Learning that she came from Mr.

Strauss's office, the girl at the desk made herself extraordinarily

pleasant. The photographer left the studio for a moment to shake her

hand. Grace realized that it would be good policy to put herself on

cordial terms with these people from the start. She liked them too.

It was all being very nice.

She waited an hour. Still no Annabella Arden. She chanced a

telephone call to Mr. Strauss's stenographer to learn where Miss

Arden lived.

A sweet, blonde voice, infinitely naïve, spoke to her over the wire.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry you had to wait. But I _told_ Harry I

didn't want any more pictures. I have loads and loads, dear." The

voice grew a whit sharper. "Harry didn't tell me how much the

pictures would cost, dear. Can you find out?"

The girl at the desk evaded. "We make special prices for Mr.

Strauss." And Grace understood that Mr. Strauss got his percentage

from them. She was amused. He certainly didn't miss a thing!

"I believe--Mr. Strauss arranges that," she said carefully through

the phone. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Oh, then I think I'll talk to Harry first. Don't you think that

would be wise, dear?"

"Then will you be at the office soon?" said Grace.

"I'm leaving this _very_ minute, honey."

Grace hurried back, worrying. Did Mr. Strauss expect her to insist

on new pictures? Was that part of her job? Mr. Strauss's door was

shut and a new air hung over the office, a business air, at once

abstracted and intent. The stenographer was typing with such speed

that she did not even pause to look up at Grace.

"Mr. Epstein's in with him now," she said over her shoulder.

Feeling very much out of it, Grace took a chair and waited again.

Mr. Strauss's office opened simultaneously with the appearance of

Annabella Arden. She carried out the promise of her voice. She was

a blonde with round eyes, a sharp, pretty little face, the flat,

charming torso and long legs of a dancer. About her neck she had

flung a scarf made up of innumerable tails of animals.

"Come in, both of you," called Mr. Strauss. By his desk sat a short,

sloppy young man, chewing gum with wide motions of his lips, round

and round. Mr. Epstein. Harry Strauss made the introductions

suavely and Grace noticed, as he questioned her and she answered, how

well in hand he had Annabella. He treated her like an employee, not

a client.

"Now, let's get down to business. Where's Russell?" Russell was

Miss Arden's new dancing partner.

"Why, Russell didn't think he could afford you, Harry," said Miss

Arden with great pathos.

Mr. Strauss sneered.

"All right. Now, Al, you and Miss Kline get together and plan your

campaign. Break the story Monday. We must get a lot of space before

the opening. Now, you can have five tables Thursday night for the

newspapers. Now, Al," he said sharply, "you and Miss Kline work

together but don't get in each other's way. You let her take the

_Times_. She knows the people there."

"Does she know Deering?" said Al quickly.

"No, but she knows Tommy Manship and all that gang."

Al glanced at Grace but kept quiet and chewed his gum. He took a

sheet of paper and wrote "Times" in pencil. He added slowly a "K."

"Al, you take the _American_ and the _Journal_. Let Miss Kline have

the _World_, too. She's a friend of Mildred Nelson. Divide the

other papers between you."

"Yeh," said Al. He chewed gum omnisciently. Nothing was beyond him.

"Now, what have you got planned?" demanded Mr. Strauss. Grace made a

nervous contraction of her throat. Al said to her at once, as if

taking a cue, "Now, we gotta get pictures taken right away. Go out

and plant 'em in the roto sections for next Sunday."

"_This_ Sunday. What about this Sunday?" rapped out Mr. Strauss.

And Miss Arden piped up, "Oh, but I think I ought to have my picture

in this Sunday."

A slight look passed between Al and Harry.

Al said, "All right. I might be able to make the _Times_ this

Sunday."

Grace knew he couldn't. It was Thursday and the _Times_ weekly

picture section was sure to be already made up. She thought she

might as well help in the propitiation of Annabella. "I know--Hector

Valley," she said. "I'll go right over and see him."

Al interposed, "I know him very well, too. Very good friendamine,

Heck Valley. I was out on a drunk with him till two in the morning

yesterday."

He went back to his gum and his paper. "Now we'll give a tea for

her," he added. "Ask all the newspapermen. I got a great stunt for

her."

"All right." Mr. Strauss raised a finger. "Now--you--Al," he said

with emphasis, "don't get in Miss Kline's way. Miss Kline, you stick

to your papers." He turned to Miss Arden. "Now, Annabella, one

thing more. These people are working for you, Mr. Epstein and Miss

Kline. Now, I want you above all never to break any appointments

they make for you with newspaper people. Make the appointments at

your convenience; their time is yours. But once you've made an

appointment, don't break it, or you'll get them in wrong with the

papers. They'll work for you faithfully if you keep up your end.

But if you get them in wrong with the papers, they'll lose interest

and you'll lose publicity. Isn't that so?"

Grace and Al said together, "Yes, that's so."

Al turned to Miss Arden. "Where you gonna be this afternoon? I'm

gonna have some pictures made."

"Oh, and Miss Arden said something about the dresses she used to wear

with Gene Arden," interrupted Grace. "I thought--there would be a

good feature story in her giving a few away to girls who need new

evening dresses and can't afford them." She went on nervously. "I

mean--the idea would be that they held too many memories now that Mr.

Arden was--dead."

"But I gave them away already, honey. I sold them," said Annabella

hastily.

"Well, you don't really have to give them away. We--can manage that."

Mr. Strauss nodded at Grace as if to say, "You're learning." He

handed her a folder full of pictures.

As Al rose, Grace rose too and followed him into the outer office.

At once Al took the folder of pictures away from her. There wasn't a

consecutive thought in her mind, nothing but a jumble of feverish

beginnings. By an effort of will she kept her voice, at least, from

trembling. They sat down on chairs near the door, and Al began to

scrawl on his piece of paper.

"We better figure out who we're gonna ask to the tea. And the

opening, too. I thought of an old stunt," said Al. "Old, but it

always works. I'm gonna have her legs insured."

Grace began: "How about----" and he snatched the words from her lips:

"How about a new dance step?" Feverishly, "New dance step" was

written on the sheet of paper.

Al bit his pencil and said thoughtfully, "I don't know what we'll do

about a typewriter for you. I use Miss MacAlister's. I wanted Harry

to get one for you this morning, but he won't. I never liked to work

with a night club," he added, sighing. "It's hard to get stuff

in--and then the late hours. I had the Gaga Club when it opened and

I gave it to Benny Best. You know Benny Best, nice fella? Now we

gotta figure out all the people we're gonna ask to the opening."

The door opened for Annabella.

"Say, where you gonna be practising this afternoon?" called Al.

Annabella gave them the address. "I'll be there till four o'clock,

honey. We're going over the routine." Her eyes lingered on Grace.

It was part of Grace's luck that women were attracted by her looks as

well as men. They wondered at her skin and at the suction of her

eyes; couldn't keep their glances away, wishing to find the secret.

Annabella bestowed a special smile on Grace.

"She likes you," said Al suspiciously. "Know her before?"

"No."

Al looked at his watch. It was nearly two. "Well, let's go out and

grab some lunch. Let's see now, I gotta call the photographer and I

gotta go to the bank. And, say, I gotta get ahold of an insurance

man I know who'll stand for the fake policy. I'm gonna insure her

legs for half a million. Come on."

So many small errands which Al had to do developed on the way that it

was three o'clock before they finally sat down at a lunch counter and

swallowed a sandwich and a cup of coffee apiece. Two nervous spots

burned on Grace's cheeks, under her skin.

"Now listen," said Al. "You run over to the _Times_ and see if you

can plant a picture. I'll go on to the studio. Show up there at

four, will ya? Listen, are those pictures backed? Harry said she

opens Thursday, didn't he? What's her name, Annabelle or Annabella?"

Al insisted on "backing" all the pictures himself--that is, writing a

description on the back. She let him take the lead. With many

frowns and chewings of his pencil he composed at last a paragraph

ornate enough to suit him.

"We don't have to bother with her partner--that's one good thing,"

said Al. "Harry isn't working for him. It's no cinch getting space

for a girl dancer in a night club, but a man--Jesus Christ!"

Whatever he said Grace listened to intently and absorbed.

She hurried over to the _Times_. The head of the rotogravure section

was, as she expected, in the composing room. She left a picture

without much hope, then went into the Dramatic Department to see

Tommy Manship. When she had had her job on the Brooklyn _Press_, she

had been very careful to meet and make friends with as many people on

the New York papers as possible. She had gotten the press agents of

the shows whose openings she sometimes covered to point out and

introduce her to dramatic editors and critics. Sometimes she had

been invited by the press agents to parties where these might be

present. Her foresight was now rewarded. Tommy Manship, the

assistant dramatic editor, knew and liked her. He placed a chair by

his desk for her, heard her story, and puckered his lips.

"I'd help you if I could, Grace," he said. "But you know how much

space we have for dramatic notes week days. We haven't got enough

for the regular shows, let alone night clubs. I might try to slip in

something next Sunday. Send me a note and I'll see."

Watching her big disappointed eyes, he added, "They're running a

dance column now on Sundays. I'll find out who does it and you get

in touch with him. Maybe he'll do something for you."

He telephoned about and wrote down a name and number for her. It was

nice to have her sitting there, such a pretty girl. Not pretty

exactly. Both less and more than pretty. He had been a press agent

himself and he told her when various people on the papers were apt to

be in and advised her how to proceed.

In return she took him into her confidence, with grave eyes fixed on

him.

"I'm--really working for Harry Strauss. But I'm supposed to be

working by myself because Mr. Strauss isn't so well liked by the

papers."

He nodded and grinned.

"I'll see you around now, Grace, won't I?"

"Very--pos-sibly." She always halted in this way between words and

sometimes syllables. People thought it an affectation, but really

there was a catch in her throat that made it necessary.

She went down into the street, soothed by admiration, not feeling so

much of a petitioner. Walking past a window with a clock, she

realized suddenly that it was four. For the first time in a year she

had forgotten to anticipate this hour. For the first time in a year,

an affair of her own--this job--had to take precedence of Blake's

affairs. Always, heretofore, she had attuned herself to his wishes,

arranged her day to suit the convenience of the hour between four and

five for him. It did not occur to her even to question the fact that

her job must come first now. She did not dare not to appear at the

studio. And, although she ached to see Blake, she felt with a start

that she was smiling a little, not hurrying to the telephone. The

air seemed to widen a bit in front of her; she had a returning taste

of freedom, the old freedom she had known and lost. It was the

merest taste and gone on the instant. But it was pleasant.

She was even more pleased to find Blake waiting for her call in

Fred's office, to hear the disappointed droop of his voice. And he

couldn't blame her. It did not occur to him either to question the

inevitable precedence of a job.

"Then I won't see you to-day?" he repeated, as if he must have time

to let this sink in, down into the slow depths of his mind. "I won't

see you to-day.... What're you doing to-night?" he asked suddenly.

"I thought I might go to Let's for dinner."

"Well, I--I'll try to get away. Don't count on it. But I'll try to

get up there."

She was smiling so widely that a man followed her out of the cigar

store. He soon saw the smile was not for him. For the first time in

twelve months Blake had, of his own free will and not by her

exaction, planned to make room in his life, in his wife's life, to

permit her to get in. All these months it had been her sole efforts,

almost, which had nourished the hope between them. Now the hope

sprang up greener, stronger. Blake was helping to cherish it of his

own accord.

She took a street car to the dance studio. Small duties, moods,

comments, questions beat on her exhausted mind as soon as she

entered. Annabella, in a skimpy chiffon practise dress, was posing

with bad temper. She had expected a string of cameras. There was

only one--hired, though Annabella didn't know this. The partner, a

keen, slick-haired youth, tried to insinuate himself into all the

pictures.

"Aw, there you are," cried Al. "Look, Annabella don't understand

that this man's from the I.N.S. that supplies pictures to all the

papers. That's better than getting all the papers up here,

Annabella. This man sees that they all get prints and they have to

use 'em, don't they? They pay for 'em, don't they, Grace?"

Grace added her fervent assurances. "We must get pictures of her

legs," she said. "Hasn't she stunning legs, Al?"

"That's just what I was going to do," said Al.

And, "Your own legs aren't so bad, honey," said Annabella with a

gratified smile.

Between them, they got her on a table and pulled her practise dress

even farther up. They shoved the partner away. They sat her on

another table before the insurance man, pretending to sign a policy

for her legs. They posed her with the partner in a presumably new

dance step--Annabella, however, well to the fore. The photographer

called, "Ready." There were flashes. The long bare room was filled

with smoke. The studio instructor gave a lesson in one corner and

growled at them, about the smoke, about the time they took. A piano

tinkled.

"Now, one--two--three---- Say, you people have got to get out. Your

time's up."

"Now, what'll we call this dance?" cried Al. "We got to get a name

for it. What do you say, Grace?"

"The New Yorker, maybe," suggested Grace after a weary pause.

"Naw, that's too high-tone, too highbrow. Something snappy. Gee, I

don't know about dancing."

"How about the Ritz?" said Annabella's partner.

"The Ritzy Ritz! That's what we'll call it! _That's_ swell. Say,

when I get a hunch, Grace----"

"Now listen, when'll these pictures be ready? Now listen, Grace, you

go down to his office and call for them to-morrow early. Nine

o'clock. See? Good-bye, Annabella. The pictures'll be knockouts.

I bet we make the front page. Now, I'll get in touch with you

to-morrow morning. Good-bye, Annabella. I'll see you get your

break, Karston. Say, you'll be the best-known insurance man in

America to-morrow. See, Grace, you remember Karston. He insures all

the actors and actresses, don't you, Karston? So long. Yeh, we

won't forget to use your name."

Al was everywhere.

"Now listen, Grace, we got time to go down to the office and pound

out some stories--just a short one, see?--so we'll have 'em on hand

in the morning when we start making the rounds. I gotta go down to

the _American_ now myself. Gee, I got that show to see about yet."

It was nearly six. Grace protested.

"Oh, we don't have to do the stories to-night. We have loads of

time. I'll do them first thing--in the morning. Aren't you--tired?"

"Tired! Say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Wait till we start

trotting around to the papers. You gotta hop, I tell you, when you

work for Harry. But I'll get everything fixed up. Leave it to

Friend Al."

He squeezed her arm. He seemed much jollier and not so suspicious,

so she assumed that he was satisfied with her. They hadn't done a

thing, it seemed to her, and she couldn't grasp any of it yet. She

started out, with relief, for Letty's house. She was utterly

tired--so tired. Her cheeks were lengthened; her eyes were holes.

Her heart reached across a city to Blake, to feel him near her. But

anyhow, at least for this day, the prospect looked bright.

CHAPTER SIX

From the start, Grace had in her favor one trait without which there

would be no good salesmen and no good press agents. She had little

consciousness of the unexpressed rights, wishes, and emotions of

other people. Her personality was like a huge shadow going before

her. She kept her eyes straight on it and never noticed what it

encompassed in its circumference. An obstacle had to be very

definite before she would see that the shadow suddenly ended, that it

had been interfered with.

This trait helped her to seem competent and poised during the next

few days, while all the time her mind was busily sorting her

experiences into some sort of order for future guidance. She and Al

had to "plant," that is to insinuate, as many items about Annabella's

opening as possible into the dramatic columns of the papers for

Monday. For Tuesday they had to get more and bigger stories; for

Wednesday even more and even bigger stories. On Thursday, the day of

the opening, the guns had to blaze full blast. The time before

Annabella's debut was the time of most strenuous effort for them. If

Annabella "made a hit," a certain amount of notice would thereafter

come to her naturally and accumulate with slighter aid from the press

agents. Otherwise, they would have to redouble their ingenuity to

keep her name green during the latter period of her engagement. It

was earnestly to be hoped that Annabella would be a success.

At the same time, they had to "plant the time stuff," that is,

arrange for pictures and notices in weeklies and in Sunday sections

which were made up long ahead. Grace had been instructed in some of

the ramifications of Harry Strauss's business. He was not only

Annabella's press agent, he was also her agent and would have to find

work for her in future. He handled the publicity for the night club,

too, Grace learned. This made their task more difficult, since they

had to be sure to get the name of the club used in papers where it

would do the most good, in papers read by people who presumably had

money to spend on night clubs--and these were the very papers which

pretended to be above them.

From her former vantage point on the Brooklyn _Press_, Grace had

thought the work of press agents (publicity representatives they

liked to call themselves, and soon, no doubt, they would be

"publicists") easy and well paid. She had supposed that she would

sit at a desk and telephone and send stories down by messenger or

through the mail, as other of her press-agent acquaintances did. But

Mr. Strauss made it a cautious rule to expect the impossible of his

employees. Grace and Al had to go from paper to paper with folders

of pictures and sheaves of stories, peddling their wares. Although

Mr. Strauss had instructed them to work apart, they "made the rounds"

together. Al insisted, and Grace, at first, thought he might be a

help.

Standing in the outer rooms of the more formal editorial offices,

where a boy transmitted their names, it appeared that Al had contacts

everywhere, knew everyone--very well. He called everybody of

importance on the papers by his or her first name. By his account,

he had roomed with this one, played poker with that one, stayed up

drinking half the night with someone else; had found a job for one,

lent money to another. When, however, they finally arrived before

the desk of the particular dramatic editor with whom Al had been so

intimate, Al's face seemed to return to the editor's mind in a haze

of the most indistinct recognition.

Grace, too, had met most of the people, but in their offices they

seemed more hurried, more preoccupied, than they had seemed outside.

Al might have been the cause. Some were curt with him.

Walking out of one office, he grabbed Grace's arm and made as if to

spit. He relieved his feelings: "Y'd think he was Jesus Christ! The

lousy bastard! And y'know how much that guy makes? Sixty dollars a

week!"

They went from Vesey Street into the mold and under-elevated darkness

of Church, turned down a street near the river, sunny, broken up with

low, sagging structures, smelling of markets and horse dung and

wagonloads of vegetables. A truckman clucked to his horses in front

of the old _Globe_ building, which had been a car barn. A sense of

hollow, dusty wood, steeped in years of grime, a strong, sour odor,

followed them up stairs which were not too solid under their feet.

Al wanted to place a feature story here for Monday.

Between editions, the city room drowsed among its tatters. Even the

A.P. and City News machines clicked sleepily near a circle of copy

desk where men were busy with blue pencils and pieces of paper. A

mild copy boy waited till they accosted him and then jerked his

finger toward a desk. A young man with a face from which he had

ejected all emotion rose and looked over their heads. He was in

shirt sleeves and wore his hat. There exists no combination more

hard-boiled.

Al's eyes became pools of yearning truth, his manner gentle,

good-humored, even faintly rueful, but persistent. He edged up to

the man. He began to explain.

"... Of course, it sounds like a press-agent yarn. But Annabella

Arden says that she feels her husband's presence sort of always in

the air with her. [Gestures] No--no ouija board, no spiritualism,

but just his spirit around her."

Grace squirmed.

After a moment, the man said expressionlessly that he might be able

to use an interview with Annabella in the early edition Monday. He

would see about it in the morning. He sat down. He fastened his

eyes to a length of white paper.

They were so astonished that they had reached the door before Al came

to with a great start. He stopped a copy boy, demanded the

hard-boiled one's name. They made a special trip back. Al took out

a card and put it before the man. He fervently held out his hand.

The hard-boiled one shook it. "I want you to meet Miss Kline, Mr.

Wodehard."

As they went out, Al's face was serene with duty performed. He had

made another contact.

"He's a good chap to know. Assistant city editor."

"Do you think he'll actually use the story?" said Grace.

"Why not? I betcha he sends a reporter up to-morrow. Why not? They

gotta have something to fill up the paper Monday mornings. We gotta

remind him, of course. I tell you when I get a hunch, Grace----"

Grace didn't believe it. She fancied there had been a gleam of

shared amusement in the hard-boiled one's eyes when they had met her

own. She would not have approached him like that.

She wondered why Mr. Strauss had made such a point of dividing the

papers. To try her out? Would Al attempt to take all the credit for

the notices which they were thus placing together?

"Now listen, Grace," Al assured her, "you can tell Harry you did it

all by yourself! I wouldn't care. Say, I been working for Harry

since he started out by himself. I got a ten per cent interest in

the business. Harry's a hard guy to work for but I can get along

with him. Every so often he gets a grouch on and lets out at me, but

I got an interest in the business, so before he goes home he calls me

in and we kiss and make up. Harry pays me $110 a week besides my

profit--I guess I get more than you. Harry's told me what he pays

you, and believe me you're earning every cent you get."

He looked at her acutely. She was about to say that she made only

forty a week--the glance seemed to demand it--but saved herself in

time. She did not yet know whether or not to believe Al.

After her silence he said, with some disappointment, "You don't talk

much, do you?"

She made up her mind not to depend too much on his chatter and his

good nature, to be on her guard.

It was twilight now. They were walking arm in arm across Columbus

Circle from the _Evening Journal_, Grace exhausted, even Al dragging

his feet.

Grace had still to return to the office. She meant to write a story

about the six dresses which Annabella Arden would offer to poor

working girls. As it was Grace's idea, Al had disregarded it in

their brief encounters with the city rooms, but, seizing a moment and

an assistant city editor of a paper which specialized in legs and

actresses, Grace had managed to make the suggestion. He had grasped

at it. "That's not bad. Are you peddling this around to all the

papers or is it an exclusive story?" he demanded. Al opened his

mouth. Grace said quickly, "Exclusive." "You get it to me Monday,

with pictures, and I'll give you a five-column layout. Can't promise

what day. Maybe Tuesday. But it's an exclusive story, now? You're

sure of that?" Grace said she was sure. She was overwhelmed.

Outside, Al fell upon her. "Never promise an exclusive story!" he

cried. "We coulda planted that all over town, all the front pages!

And you go give it to him exclusive! Jesus Christ!"

"But a five-column layout!" said Grace.

They had argued about it, Al declaring that they must offer the story

elsewhere, too; Grace repeating that it was poor business to go back

on a promise to a paper. "Aw, promises!" said Al cockily. "If we

gotta good story, they'll come eatin' out of our hands. To hell with

'em!"

It was the one bright spot in the long day for Grace. Now, when Miss

MacAlister had left her typewriter, would be a good time to write it.

She hoped that Mr. Strauss had left too.

On each of their sallies back to the office Harry Strauss had been

sitting at his desk over a pile of canceled checks, dealing them out

as if he were playing solitaire, shuffling them between thumb and

finger as bank tellers shuffle and count paper money. Sometimes she

had to use the telephone on Miss MacAlister's desk and she could feel

him watching through the open door, counting each call she made. She

knew he listened because once, while Al was arguing over the

telephone with an advertising man (the office also placed

advertisements for clients) Mr. Strauss had called in his resonant,

decisive voice, continuing to deal his checks: "Hang up on him! Hang

up on him!" He looked up at her whenever she entered the office but

made no comment. Only, Al warned her, "Don't make too many phone

calls. Harry don't like that."

Once she had dared to hint for a messenger. She was speaking to Al

in the outer office. Mr. Strauss called through instantly and

bitterly, "And who's going to pay for the messenger? You'd be

surprised how easy it is to send stuff around by messenger, my dear,

and how easy it is then to throw it in the wastebasket. I've been

doing publicity for thirty years--I know."

He was not there now, thank goodness! She let herself in with Al's

key, took her hat off her aching forehead, and laid her head against

the wide black paper holder of the machine. It felt cool and smooth.

She could do nothing but sit still for a while.

Later, she was still sitting before a sheet of yellow paper in the

typewriter. Under the yellow stare of the electric light she typed

feverishly, tore out the paper, crumpled it. Balls of crumpled paper

fell, one after another, into the wastebasket. What _was_ the matter

with her? She had been accustomed to write quite easily items,

interviews with actresses, but she had not counted on the paralyzing

self-consciousness which seizes a press agent who must get a certain

name into a story. The name was no longer one among many but _the_

name in the whole world. No matter where she put it, it seemed to

poke out, swell, and spread over the paper. How should she slip in

the name of the club? "Slip" was the word. There was an element of

guilt and stealth in it. The story must not sound like a press-agent

yarn.

When she had finally pounded it out the story sounded to her like

nothing but a press-agent yarn. She read it with eyes so exhausted

that they stung and stuck. "Would any poor working girl like a new

dance frock? ... awaiting her choice in the wardrobe ... of ANNABELLA

ARDEN.... The dresses were put into the bottom of a deep trunk and

forgotten, together with other souvenirs.... Now ANNABELLA ARDEN is

making her return appearance ... at the CLUB MIRAFLORE Thursday

night...." The name of Annabella Arden seemed to be on every line

and that of the club on every other.

The back of her neck felt permanently bent and the soles of her feet

burned as they touched the ground.

The next morning, Saturday, Grace thought there might be a lull. But

she found Al lying in wait for her the moment she entered the office.

He was sorting a mass of flimsy sheets on which were typed short,

final announcements of the opening. Addressed envelopes flew toward

him out of the stenographer's machine.

"Now, we gotta get these to everybody to-day," cried Al. "Come on,

Grace, lend a hand. And listen, I gotta get ahold of that City News

man. He'll send it over the wire."

"You don't really think City News will let that go over the wire?"

said Grace involuntarily. Her eyes took in the slew of papers and

envelopes. "And--how can we deliver all this to-day?"

"You watch me," said Al. "I'll show you."

In a daze, she began to sort the envelopes. She counted forty.

Some, however, were addressed to different departments of the same

papers. She put her hand to her head and exchanged a long look with

the stenographer and Miss MacAlister giggled. In time, Grace would

learn that the Harry Strauss system, the Broadway system, was to bite

off everything within reach, regardless of whether or not it could be

chewed; afterward, the undigested bits, unfinished matter, would be

spewed about. She was still taking instructions too literally.

When this task was over, Al was lying in wait for her again.

"Now listen, Grace, one thing we forgot. We didn't get anything to

Arch Seuer down at the _Dress Daily_. He'll give us a good break,

and Harry's sure to put up a holler if we miss him. All the salesmen

and buyers read that paper--go to night clubs. So you type a special

note for Seuer and go down there right away--and grab all the

envelopes you can and deliver all you can on your way--and meet me at

the Sun at four."

Grace hastened down to the _Dress Daily_. She had meant to see Mr.

Milford again anyway. It would be wise to thank him. Besides, he

sometimes used sketches of actresses' clothes if they were decorated

in a way to suit his column. Grace had seen some block-printed

garments in Annabella's wardrobe. But she remembered something,

something unpleasant, something that had pulled her shadow up short

and forced her to take notice, in Mr. Milford's department. What was

it?--oh, yes--that girl, his secretary. She certainly didn't like

her, Grace. Grace had to pause and consider this. Unwitting, Anita

Vestry had chosen a perfect path to Grace's interest. A person who

didn't like Grace and was not afraid to show it disturbed her, even

caused her some fear. What was it that they saw in her to scorn?

Could they be holding some secret harm in store for her? Did they

know--know about her?

Grace saw that Mr. Milford was not in. Miss Vestry stood by his desk

with her back to the door. After Grace had done her errand she

walked past again, and now Miss Vestry was typing. But she didn't

look up. She wore the same brown tweed suit; her profile was just as

stern. Grace halted by her desk and fixed large, worried, tentative

eyes upon her. Miss Vestry waited for the other girl to speak.

"Do you think--that Mr. Milford," began Grace, swallowing nervously,

"would use--any sketches of block-printed dresses? I'm--doing

publicity for Annabella Arden, the dancer--and I saw some very

unusual ones among her clothes."

Again Anita Vestry noticed the tenacious eyes, the halts between

phrases, the curious way in which the girl's eyes advanced and the

lower part of her face retreated as she talked. It was interesting

to watch. She felt in better humor to-day and was a little ashamed

of her pettish outburst at their first meeting.

"You'd have to ask him," she replied, yielding somewhat. "We haven't

anything for next Saturday," she suggested.

"Would there be time--if I called up Monday?"

"Oh, yes. Plenty of time." She looked down at her hands on the

typewriter keys.

Still Grace lingered. The other girl seemed so removed, regarding,

but sealed against her. She searched for some way to penetrate

herself into the other's consciousness. Suddenly she said, without

really meaning to, "Look--Miss Arden opens Thursday night at the Club

Miraflore. I--they say I can ask a lot of newspaper people.

There'll be five tables. Wouldn't you--like to come?"

The hue of Miss Vestry's face softened into what was almost a blush

and she gazed at Grace. In all the months she had been in New York,

this was the first proffer of acquaintance, of pleasure, that had

come her way, or that had come her way directly enough for her to

notice. As luck would have it, she even owned a suitable dress; old,

but seldom worn, it would do, and there was one man at her rooming

house who, she thought, could serve as escort. But... Her mouth

drew down again. She lowered her eyes to her hands, then raised them

suddenly, frankly.

"I haven't got an evening wrap," she said, and grew red.

This was the best possible way to fix all of Grace's attention and

sympathy. On this point of clothes Grace could enter at once into

anyone's feelings. It was so engrossing, so sore a point with her.

Didn't she herself have to--hadn't she had to as far back as she

could remember--scrimp and plan and borrow and make over and make do?

To her, too, any offer of amusement must bring as its first reaction

the idea of what she could possibly wear. Perhaps that dress would

do, but... Oh, yes! She knew. She reflected. She could wear her

sealskin coat now. Letty--but Letty had been invited and would need

her own wrap. Mrs. Kline, however, had an old cloth cape, gaily

lined, which Grace had sometimes used for an evening cloak. She

moved closer to Miss Vestry.

"I have a wrap I could lend you," she said. "Do come."

"Oh." Miss Vestry's face was wholly open, wholly grateful. "All

right," she said, and smiled, a twinkling smile. She made a great

concession. "I--I'll talk to Mr. Milford about those sketches."

"Oh, _thank_ you!" said Grace. "Then that's settled. I'll--get the

wrap down to you on Thursday. Good-bye."

On the way out she spent a few minutes concerning herself with this

girl. She felt more than curiosity, a sort of imaginative wonder

about her, which was unusual. What was her life? How did she

manage? Whom would she bring to the club? Even--what were her

thoughts? Grace felt pleased with herself, with her impulse and with

its results, of which she could approve.

The envelopes she carried soon shook her out of reverie. She began

to hurry and worry and close off her mind. She flew uptown, then she

flew downtown. There was an engagement with Blake in the offing, one

of the few evening engagements he could permit himself. She didn't

mean to miss it, but she had to. When she met Al at the _Sun_ not

even her own share of envelopes had been delivered, and Al, as usual,

recollected numerous additional duties.

They sped from paper to paper, from Dramatic Department to Dramatic

Department, from one yellow, tiredly glaring, dusty city room to the

next. From Park Place they walked across City Hall Park, black and

quiet, with huddled figures on the steps of the City Hall; newspaper

vendors, small oases of noise, shouting their wares down the wind.

The tiny, tireless lights gleamed along Park Row. The Woolworth

Building stood deserted, above it all, white and high, like a dream

in youth. They went down several black steps, felt a black square

about them, and there were the delivery trucks of the _American_, the

hoarse, bare bowels of its building swallowed them. Men looked up at

Grace from under green eyeshades with the instantaneous, naïve

interest of newspapermen in a pretty girl, any girl. She made a

moment to call Blake when he should have reached the restaurant and

arranged to see him later at the theater. He was sulky, but it

couldn't be helped.

She and Al walked arm in arm from outside darkness into yellow light,

rush, and noise, then into darkness again, into the desert, with its

small islands of power, which this section was at night; glad of each

other's company, glad of a parallel effort against the forceful,

whirring, harassed indifference of the presses, felt now in the dusky

air, but neither heard nor seen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Club Miraflore was below sidewalk level; a few steps down, an

office by the window, very wide, carpeted stairs leading farther down

to the cloakroom and the dance floor. The owner, a tall and handsome

Irishman, approved of Grace's looks, of the sort of plaintive

simplicity with which she accepted orders then, when she was not yet

habituated to these people. He did not sling her about as he slung

Al. All the same, she understood why even Al disliked to work with

night clubs. From the man at the desk, who noted reservations, to

the proprietor, everyone's eyes had a hard gleam; everyone had a

suspicious, calculating hospitality; everyone watched to see in whose

back it would be easiest to plunge a knife.

Grace had been asked to come early Thursday night to receive the

newspaper guests, so, still literal, she was the first to arrive.

She entered nervous and worn.

Since Monday she and Al had been buying all the morning papers and

all the evening papers (Harry Strauss wouldn't order or pay for

papers) frantically scanning them, clipping and hoarding scraps of

newsprint, little notices, and exhibiting them to Mr. Strauss. The

"breaks" had been good, Al said. They had got in one journal a

front-page story about the insurance of Annabella's legs. The

five-column layout had appeared. But she could never tell whether

Mr. Strauss was pleased or not. He sniffed at the small items and

looked down his nose, cautiously, at the large ones. That morning

Mr. Strauss had called them both in. On his desk lay the New York

_Times_. He pointed to a box, front page, top column.

As they were not handling the publicity for Annabella's partner, they

had carefully omitted his name from the announcements, but they had

nevertheless, been obliged to attach it to the photographs of the new

dance step. An evening paper, remarking that he had the same name as

the son of a millionaire banker, had, without further ado, printed a

half column about the banker's son acting as Annabella's partner. Al

and Grace had seen this and congratulated themselves on the "break."

Both Annabella's name and the name of the club held prominent places

in the story. But the _Times_, which they had not yet examined, had

taken the trouble to verify. The banker's son would _not_ appear

with Annabella; he had, in fact, changed his given name to avoid

constant confusion with the partner.

There it was in a front-page box of the New York _Times_--acme of

publicity. Annabella's name was mentioned once. The name of the

club was not. The partner's name, however, was given several times.

Al and Grace drew a deep breath. They were about to burst with

elation. Al, hushed, with eyes that bulged as at some act of God,

read the notice over Mr. Strauss's shoulder, "Gee! Front-page box!"

"Who's responsible for this?" snapped Mr. Strauss. Grace and Al

glanced at each other. Both would have liked to take the credit.

Neither wished to admit that they were not responsible at all. It

was just an accident--a glorious accident.

Mr. Strauss said quietly, cuttingly, "Puffed up with yourselves,

aren't you?"

Al made excited gestures. "Jesus Christ! What the hell d'y'want us

to do, Harry? Here we get a box in the _Times_----"

"Yeh. You get a box in the _Times_ for that bastard," sneered Mr.

Strauss. "Who's paying for this, the Miraflore or that lousy hoofer?"

"But what the hell d'y'expect us to do?" cried Al in despair. "Did

we plant that story, Grace? You tell Harry. See! The _Times_ got

it themselves. What the hell can _we_ do about it?"

"What the hell am I paying you for?" inquired Mr. Strauss. "To get

publicity for Annabella and the Miraflore, or for a bum hoofer?"

They had walked out much subdued.

"We're all right," Al muttered. "Harry always expects the world. He

promises the world. Gee! A front-page box with Annabella's name! I

wish we were working for that partner, too. He's good--better'n she

is. Who's Annabella anyhow? Just a dizzy blonde hoofer, that's all

she is."

Publicity, Grace had noticed, had its first and fullest effect on Al.

On the days when Annabella "got" little or nothing in the papers, his

opinion of her sank; on the days when she "got a break," she rose in

his esteem.

Grace and her mother were still barely speaking so she had not dared

to ask Mrs. Kline to make a new dress. She wore to the opening an

old dark brown lace, the color of her eyes, with a trailing orange

sash. It was becoming enough, but, as usual, there was a wrong note

to cause unease. Her short sealskin coat was not really an evening

wrap, merely very obviously masquerading as one. When she had

checked it she felt better.

Then, the five tables for the newspapers developed into one long

table almost against the orchestra. And she and Al had invited so

many people! Ought she to speak about that? She didn't know what to

do. The orchestra was tuning up, squawking and piping. The round

rows of tables were glassy white, ghastly; the waiters stood against

the wall. Mr. Larchmont, the owner, came over and inspected her in

one sharp glance from bare shoulders to tapered ankles.

"Everything all right?" he said. She nodded. "Now, all I ask of you

is this--if any of these newspaper fellas show up not in evening

clothes, please see that they sit away from the dance floor. This is

an exclusive club, you know. Lots of society people will be here

to-night. I don't want them to get the idea we let _anybody_ in."

He snorted at the very thought. "Do you understand?" Again she

nodded. "And if they want anything--a little--" he made a wide open

motion of his hand--"just ask the waiter. They can't have the whole

cellar, y'understand--but there's plenty of it." He gave her a

brisk, charming smile, a smile of approval, and went away.

The next to arrive were Letty and Harold Moses. Grace had begged

them to hurry. They were not newspaper people, of course, but

whenever Grace could find a loophole to drag Letty in, to share

anything with her, she did so.

Letty was giggling.

"Gee, we're the acrobats, we're opening the show. Harold almost died

when he saw the empty tables. I couldn't get him in, almost.

Where's Blake?"

"He wouldn't come so early."

"He's right," grumbled Harold. He was a man of thirty, dark,

clean-shaven, well dressed. He looked steady. The idea of making

himself conspicuous in any way, even as the first to arrive at a

night club, bothered him.

Letty caught the eye of the orchestra leader and would have signaled.

Harold put down her hand.

"I know he'd play for us if we asked him," said Letty, tapping a

small, light foot. "Oh, Gee! Harold, the old spoil-sport. Is Blake

really coming?"

"Yes. We--arranged _that_," said Grace. Letty always gave her

composure and a feeling of maturity.

"Wife hasn't gone yet?"

"Not till next week."

Harold smoked and looked away. This business of running around with

a married man. He disapproved of both Blake and Grace, but of Grace

most. Letty never considered Blake's wife at all, but Harold,

strangely enough, did. He felt sorry for her and in accord with her,

as if, though he had never seen the woman, he realized that they

shared a mutual trouble, that they were both on the side of the

easily overlooked.

"Blake'll dance with me anyhow--if Harold won't."

Harold couldn't help looking alarmed.

"Who do you think called me up the other day? Paul! Yop. And I

can't even see him, Harold's so mean about it."

Harold's lips shut in an unhappy line. He was determined at any rate

not to be on the side of the deceived.

"He _did_! Can't keep away, can he?" said Grace, who knew very well

that Letty would manage to see Paul. Probably her aid would be

enlisted in the arrangement. At the same time, she sympathized with

Harold and changed the subject. "My Gawd! Isn't anyone ever coming

to this night club?"

People were straggling in, though very slowly. The orchestra played

once or twice, the sad, calling notes of orchestras on empty dance

floors. Without a human response, dance music was the loneliest

music on earth, Grace thought.

After theater time, after eleven, the club began to seem appreciably

warmer and warmer, gayer and gayer; there was talk now and the

waiters flew, and the orchestra became cheerful with appreciation.

Lovely dresses and lovely faces bloomed about them. Letty and Grace

envied the corsages of orchids. Their table was rather silent. A

newspaperman had appeared with a large wife, pathetically pleasant.

The newspaperman drank. There was the photographer, Al's friend,

with a girl from the _Telegraph_.

At midnight Blake walked in, very pale under the lights, and sat

mutely by Letty, dancing only when she asked him. Grace knew that he

disliked this environment. It made him feel poorer and shabbier than

ever. He did not smoke and turned the water glass with his highball

round and round in his hand. But Grace could not give him any

attention. Two newspapermen, acquaintances of hers, had also come.

She danced with one, then the other, then brought them to Letty.

Letty rose to dance and Grace slipped into her chair. She had no

time to talk to Blake, however; the wife of the newspaperman leaned

over the table and preëmpted her. With her eyes, Grace beseeched

Blake to dance with this woman, knowing it would be useless. He was

comfortable, sitting there silent, and would be oblivious to all else.

At the same time, she had a glimpse of Miss Vestry with a quite

presentable man in tow. They were weaving their way between tables

and among dancers going and coming. Miss Vestry looked better than

Grace had expected. She had pretty, short hair, reddish brown.

Grace introduced her to Blake. She had to rise then to dance and,

watching from the floor, she saw, over and under heads, that Miss

Vestry was actually talking to Blake, very brightly. She brushed by

Letty.

"Who is _that_ girl?" said Letty.

"Go over and see if Blake needs rescuing," said Grace over her

shoulder.

"He doesn't look it," said Letty swiftly, and tripped away in her

partner's arms.

When Grace returned to the table Miss Vestry was on the opposite

side, at the other end. Grace made a moment to lean over Blake and

whisper, "Was it terrible? I'm sorry."

"Oh, she was telling me a funny story about a taxi driver," said

Blake with a smile.

So Grace contemplated Miss Vestry across the table with a new

curiosity. What was there to her? Blake was usually annoyed by

strangers.

The fusion of the group no longer depended on Grace. The separate

elements had been welded for the moment, in some way, into one note

of enjoyment. Even the talk was unrecognizable by individual voices.

The party had a voice of its own, confused and gay. Harry Strauss

walked over from his table, his shock of hair more vigorously silver

than ever, and patted her arm. "Everything all right? All the

liquor you want?" Then Al burst upon them, holding tight by the

elbow a lady in an orchid gown, expansive so that there seemed to be

dozens of Als, whacking all the men on their backs and bending close

to the bare shoulders of all the girls. He didn't know Blake but he

slapped him on the back too. Blake flushed and sat up straighter.

"That fella on a paper?" said Al to Grace. "No? Gee, I thought I

knew him. Oh, he came with you, huh?" he said with a knowing

intonation. Grace had to remind herself that that tone of voice was

habit. Al knew nothing, could know nothing whatever. "So only three

showed up. Well, that don't mean a thing. All the fellas say

they'll come and then nobody shows up. We--we're _all right_," he

cried, putting his arm about the back of her chair in the excess of

his spirits. "We'll make it. This is a good party." He spread the

palm of his hand emphatically before her nose. "Wait till you see

Annabella. Say, that baby's got something up her sleeve. She'll be

a knockout."

"Where did you see her?" said Grace.

"I saw her. I saw her," shouted Al, and frisked away. Blake and

Letty moved across several vacant chairs to her side. Everyone else

was dancing. Directly opposite, Anita Vestry and Harold were in

close conversation.

"I don't want to pry, but may I know what you and Harold can find to

discuss so earnestly for half an hour?" called Letty above the noise

of the orchestra.

Harold looked up and Miss Vestry reddened a little.

"We're talking about Trenton," she said. "I come from Trenton."

"Oh, my Gosh!" said Letty. "He's telling you about lace mills, then.

I never knew anyone who talked more about _lace_ mills."

Miss Vestry laughed. "No. We're talking about potteries."

"_Potteries_! Do I get _potteries_ for breakfasts and dinners now?"

It was a comic wail of despair.

Everybody laughed. And then, as she was talking, Miss Vestry noticed

that everyone had been eliminated, everyone but Grace and Blake.

Strange how, as she chatted with Letty Moses, she had also to be

aware of what those two said. Perhaps it was the penetrating

character of Grace's voice, the pause between phrases, which kept the

ear subconsciously waiting, watching for the continuing phrase.

Perhaps it was a curious tenseness of atmosphere. The pair seemed to

gather the air around them and raise and hold it to some higher point

where they alone sat. Or perhaps it was only because they seemed so

utterly unaware of other people, looked and spoke and acted at and

for each other. Anita Vestry could feel the three-cornered

conversation waning, dying of its unimportance, as if the ears and

attention of the others were also fixed elsewhere upon something more

dominant. Yet Grace and Blake were saying little.

"When--must you leave?" Grace was asking.

"Two. I'm supposed to be working at Bill's house."

"Does Bill know it?"

"Mmm."

"Is she really going next week then?"

There was no answer. Grace desisted. She always knew just the

moment to stop, had learned it patiently and profited by her

experience. She said, "Anyhow, you'll have time to see our Annabella

perform."

All the dancers were returning to their tables. The floor was

cleared. A woman sang. Al had moved a chair between tables,

regardless of the frowns of Mr. Larchmont and of the waiters, and sat

at ease with his feet spread in front of him. When he caught Grace's

eye ne winked and made violent, jovial signals.

Annabella appeared in a white, downy dress, with her partner, sliding

like a large swan through the motions of a formal waltz. This was a

tribute to Gene Arden, who had been a ballroom dancer. A few people

pattered their hands. The next number belonged to Annabella alone;

then she met her partner and the two performed some pretty, jigging

steps. Alone again, she was better but not very exciting. There was

light applause--and intermission.

Al rushed over.

"This is just the beginning. Wait, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Grace glanced toward Harry Strauss's table and felt depressed. Mr.

Strauss was looking down his long nose, tapping a glass with his

fingernail.

"He doesn't seem pleased," she said. "If she's no better than

this----"

"Say, don't you worry!" cried Al. "That kid has the stuff. This is

just a starter. She's a little scared, see? But she's got something

up her sleeve you don't know nothin' about." The music began.

"Watch this now. You'll see." He scurried away.

"He always knows so much," she murmured to Blake.

"Mmm. That's the Broadway act," said Blake.

Suddenly the circle of dance floor was flooded with a light that made

it waver in long lines as if it were not wood but water. Annabella

entered. Was it Annabella? Everyone sat up. The baby face was

gone. This woman had no face--her face couldn't be noticed or

recollected. She wore a short skirt of green grass apparently, and a

band of grass lightly confined her breasts. The middle of her torso

was bare, gracious, wide, and white. It was flat but not thin; the

softness of the flesh was evident. She took a few steps directly

within the light. She turned and sang, kicked out, danced. All at

once she stood still. Her hips swayed. The audience breathed

heavily. She was no longer Annabella Arden or anybody. She had

completely, unconsciously visualized herself into a symbol. She was

a woman--the woman. Holding herself still, the woman moved her body

from the hips. The woman's white flesh rippled as a ray of white

light ripples on a clear stream, and she threw up one white arm like

a call. As she pranced, she sang, and it was as if she whinnied.

"Well," cried Al, hollering above the thud of feet and hands, the

applause, the calls, and mopping his brow. "Wha'd I tell you? Look

at Harry now."

Harry Strauss was clapping and nodding his head slowly and

definitely. Variations of the shimmy were still novel that year.

"She's a knockout! I bet Harry's glad now he tied her up."

"Do you mean to say Mr. Strauss didn't know about--this?"

"Oh, he knew. But he didn't know how this belly-dancing,

what-you-call-it, would go in a ritzy club like the Miraflore.

Larchmont didn't want to try it."

"It would go anywhere, from a honky-tonk up," said Blake. He had to

raise his voice. There was still applause.

"You in show business?" cried Al.

Blake rose and spoke to Grace. "I'd better run along now before the

encore."

"Don't--mind about me. I'm staying with Let to-night anyhow."

It hadn't occurred to Blake to mind about her, she saw. Once this

would have hurt her, now she was resigned. That was just Blake's

way. He was sorry and took her hand gently, in front of Al, to make

up for his remissness.

"Hey, ain't he taking you home?" cried Al. "Say, there's a chance

for _me_ now!"

Blake went at once.

After the encore Grace dragged Letty off the dance floor to go home.

Miss Vestry was just leaving, too. Letty said to her with

enthusiasm, "Come and see us sometime, call me up, won't you?"

Harold yawned widely in the taxi and Letty, animated as ever, gave

him a push and a kiss. "The tired old business man. Well, your

evening wasn't lost, was it? Just think of all the great big

potteries you discussed with Miss--Miss--what was that girl's name?"

"Vestry. She seems to be all right. Blake liked her," said Grace.

"And so do I," declared Letty. "I asked her to call me up. Why

don't you bring her along, Gracie, some Sunday maybe? I mean it.

That's a nice girl, intelligent."

"Sunday? Oh. That--reminds me. What are--your plans--Sunday after

next? I--was going to borrow your apartment."

"Uh-huh." By a direct look Letty signified that they had best

discuss this when they were alone. Harold had turned away his face,

twisted with irritation and embarrassment.

CHAPTER EIGHT

On the Sunday which Grace had reserved, the Moseses came home in ill

humor from a vaudeville show and a walk. It was a cold November

afternoon, blanketed in the lethargy of the day of rest, with a wind

which swept along the closed shop windows on Fifth Avenue and between

the people on Broadway and left both streets naked--naked and dull.

Harold wished to return home as quickly as possible, but Letty said

the walk would do them good. He suspected that she had promised not

to come back before a certain hour.

Nor did their house seem much more cheerful to him than the street.

It consisted of a tiny entrance, one square room, and behind that a

doorless alcove through whose looped, glossy curtains twin beds could

be seen. There was also a bit of tiled kitchenette near the

entrance. Everything was in order. Everything shone with the chill,

dustless luster of the apartment house itself, its mirrored elevator

and its hall boys. And over everything lay a special Sunday

atmosphere, like a heavy gray enamel.

Blake and Grace were sitting on the couch, rolling private jokes

between them. _They_ were happy enough. To Harold their good cheer

was the final straw. One couldn't even be alone in one's own house

with one's own troubles without the mood of those two interfering.

He went into the bathroom, the only unoccupied room in the house, and

banged the door.

Grace lifted her brows in sincere surprise. "What is it now?"

"Oh-h," said Letty with a long, a gusty sigh, "don't ask me! It

started with his insurance and then went on and on and on."

She threw off her coat and sat down beside Blake. He put an arm

around her and they kissed each other while Grace regarded them with

an encouraging, a mock-coy amusement. She often spoke of the

attachment between Blake and Letty. She even urged them to flirt a

bit, serving up Letty's kisses as an extra fillip to Blake and

feeling secure with the knowledge that these were passed out always

through a window in the solid barrier of Letty's loyalty to her, a

window which had been opened by her permission and would be sealed at

her behest. It was not so much that she trusted Letty--only Letty

was that kind of a girl; her friends' preserves were so enclosed in

her mind that they were practically invisible. Of course, if their

friendship no longer existed--"If I should die for instance," Grace

often said meditatively, "you two might--start something."

Harold understood the situation, too, but this did not mean that he

enjoyed it. He went to the armchair by the window. Grace and Blake

were now rolling their special jokes on to Letty, but Harold was left

to smile out in the cold; not intentionally, more as if the circle of

three had too close a harmony to need or permit of additions. From

experience, he knew that it would not be possible for him to start a

new conversation. If he tried, if even Letty tried, Blake's voice,

which was a little hoarse, as if with weariness, and Grace's

contralto and Grace's characteristic laugh would separate the words,

brush them aside, distract the attention. Neither Harold nor Letty

could attach as much importance to what each said as Blake and Grace

apparently could to what they said. Grace made of each laugh a

particular tribute to Blake as king, to herself as queen. It was too

deep and too prolonged for a snigger, but she laughed, drawing the

laughter inside of herself, arching her shoulders, curling her lips,

lifting her head, making a distinct point of each gesture, as if her

amusement had a distinct significance, an appreciation peculiar to

herself and necessarily transcending all other appreciation.