The great floating hotel glided steadily ahead over the smooth, black
waters of the Mediterranean. Somewhere within her hull, boiler fires
were roaring and a labyrinth of machinery was driving furiously, but
only a slight, muffled throb reached the ears of the lone passenger
standing at the rail directly under the bridge. Over his head he
could hear the regular tread of the watch officer as he paced his
monotonous round. In front of him was the dark immensity of the
night, broken only when he lowered his eyes to take in the lights
from the port-holes and the jagged streaks of phosphorescence
streaming back from the bow as it cut the water.
Rodrigo was quite happy. His ripening friendship with Dorning, the
new clean life into which every minute of the ship's progress was
carrying him, the cool, damp darkness that surrounded him, added to
his content. He snapped his cigarette into the Mediterranean and
with a peaceful sigh walked into the crowded, brilliantly lighted
saloon in search of his friend.
The waiter was standing expectantly at Dorning's table, while
Dorning, menu card in hand, was looking about for Rodrigo. Another
man sat at the table with the American, a small, nervous, middle-aged
man, who was also fingering a menu.
"I feared you had changed your mind and leaped overboard or
something," Dorning smiled as Rodrigo approached. "I want you to
meet Mr. Mark Rosner, Rodrigo. Mr. Rosner--Count Torriani." Rodrigo
bowed and slid into his place at the table.
"Mr. Rosner is an old friend of my father's," Dorning explained. "We
met by chance at the door of the saloon."
Rosner elaborated upon the explanation in a rapid, clipped voice. "I
worked for Dorning and Son for a long time, Count Torriani. I left
them five years ago to open a shop of my own in London. I did rather
well, but you know how it is--once an American, always an American.
There is no town in the world like New York. I sold out my place in
London six months ago. Since then I have been traveling in Italy
acquiring a stock, and I am on my way back to New York to go into
business there."
He directed his conversation toward Rodrigo, evidently awed a bit by
the young Italian's title and reserved manner and anxious to make an
impression. Mark Rosner was a rare Jewish type, an impractical
æsthete who disliked business life intensely but who nevertheless was
consumed by the urge to make money. The struggle had whitened his
mop of unruly hair prematurely, stooped his fat shoulders, and worn
his nerves to ragged edges. The truth was that his London venture
had been a failure and his new stock had been bought in Italy on
borrowed capital. His delight at meeting John Dorning again had been
partly caused by genuine pleasure at coming upon the son of a man he
had always liked and admired and partly by the thought that he might
derive aid later from the Dornings in getting started in New York.
"Count Torriani is to become associated with us in New York," Dorning
remarked when the waiter had departed with the three orders.
Dorning, now that Rodrigo had arrived, would rather the third party
were not present. He remembered Rosner as a valuable employee, but
as one who was always timid in taking responsibility and evasive and
whining when things went badly. However, he was too kind-hearted to
snub the fellow.
Rosner replied in his jerky voice, "Really? You couldn't join a
concern with a finer reputation, Count Torriani. Dorning and Son are
the leaders in their line in New York, as you probably know.
Sometimes I wish I had never left your father, John." Dorning
secretly smiled at Rosner's sudden familiarity. "But you know how it
is--there is a certain satisfaction in being on your own, in spite of
the risk involved."
He went on to relate in considerable detail the difficulties that had
beset his venture in London. In the midst of his recital the food
arrived. Rodrigo and John Dorning, who were hungry and bored, fell
to at once and heard only snatches of the remainder of Rosner's
querulous discourse. Englishmen of the art world, according to
Rosner, were prejudiced against Americans in the same line of
business, particularly Americans of Semitic extraction. He gave
instances of alleged discriminations against him.
"I don't suppose, though, that it's much different in New York,"
Rosner admitted. "I remember many of the old-line concerns were
against foreigners there too, and I don't suppose it has changed
much. I recall how Henry Madison opposed your father's taking on
that Italian sculptor, Rinaldi, and how pleased he was when the chap
fell down and had to be let out. You were there then, weren't you,
John?"
John did not look over-pleased. "Rinaldi was not the man for the
job," he said with a frown. "My father was carried away with his
enthusiasm for the man's work in clay. Rinaldi was no good out of
his studio, and Madison quickly recognized it. The fact that Rinaldi
was a foreigner had nothing to do with the matter."
Rodrigo now listened with interest for the first time since he had
sat down at the table. He foresaw that his career with Dorning and
Son might not prove as unruffled as he had anticipated. This did not
greatly annoy him. He had little of the eccentric artistic
temperament, and there was enough of the merchant blood in him to
enable him to adapt himself to office work. At least, he hoped so.
If obstacles arose, he would overcome them.
"Who is Mr. Madison?" Rodrigo asked politely.
"He is the manager of our establishment," John explained. "There is
no cause for alarm, Rodrigo. He is the most honest, fairest person
alive."
Rosner, glancing furtively from one of his tablemates to the other,
sensed that he had rather put his foot into it. Why had he not
remembered that Count Torriani was a foreigner? He flushed with
embarrassment and, to change the subject, asked John, "Is your father
still active in the business?"
Dorning's sensitive face clouded. He answered, "No, my father has
not been in very good health for the past year or so. He is staying
at our place at Greenwich and only gets down to the office once or
twice a month."
"Then you have charge?"
"Yes--with the able assistance of Madison and the rest of our staff.
It isn't a very difficult job, as you can imagine. The long-standing
reputation of Dorning and Son and the organization my father built up
don't leave a very great deal for the head of the concern to do."
"All the same, it's quite a responsibility for a young fellow only a
few years out of college, John, and I congratulate you." What there
was of shrewdness in Mark Rosner now showed in his dark, ineffective
eyes. Young Dorning was evidently kind-hearted, and, of necessity,
inexperienced. An appeal to him for assistance by an old employee of
his father's would probably meet with a favorable response.
After dinner the two younger men contrived to rid themselves of
Rosner's company temporarily on the plea that they wished to unpack
their bags. Having accomplished this task, they drifted into the
smoking-room, where the card players were already hard at it.
Waiters were running here and there with tinkling glasses. The air
was hazy with the smoke of many cigarettes and cigars.
A corpulent gentleman with the wine-ruddy face and expansive clothes
and manners of a London theatrical producer, as indeed he was,
approached the two friends as they stood surveying the scene. "Would
you two gentlemen care to make up a table at bridge?" he asked.
Bridge was John's favorite diversion. He played a careful,
serious-minded game for pleasure rather than for profit. He looked
suggestively at Rodrigo, who shrugged affirmatively. The Italian
would have been happier at baccarat or some other continental game
which moved more quickly than bridge. But he was willing to please,
and it occurred to him that his funds would not permit his
participation in baccarat as played in this smoking-room, for a few
moments' observation had shown him that the stakes were very high.
The red-faced Englishman guided them over to a table near the
stairway. A gaunt, pale, long-haired man was already seated there,
surrounded by three tipped-up chairs. He was idly shuffling the
cards and dropped them to rise as his companion reappeared. The
introductions revealed that the stout Englishman was Gilbert Christy,
producer of the Christy Revues, which Rodrigo was familiar with as
elaborate girl-and-music shows relying upon well-drilled choruses and
trick stage effects rather than cleverness for their success. The
lean Englishman was Clive Derrick, leading man in Christy's current
show. The Christy Revue was transporting itself overseas, after a
brief and rather unremunerative engagement at Rome and Naples, to try
its luck on Broadway.
"André Chariot has been filling his pockets in America," boomed
Christy, whose voice was as loud as his vest. "Why not I?"
Rodrigo agreed that the chances were excellent, being too polite to
explain that Charlot's divertissements were clever, while Christy was
about to offer America something which Ziegfeld and other native New
York producers were already doing better than anybody else in the
world.
Bridge at a shilling a point with the two theatrical men did not
prove exciting. The close air in the room and the dullness of the
game elicited yawns from Rodrigo after a while. He envied John his
ability to enjoy close concentration upon the cards, and apparently
not to notice the fact that his opponents were boastful bores, as
well as bad bridge players. Due to John's good work, he and Rodrigo
were soon so far ahead in the scoring that the eagerness of their
partners, who were bad losers and had already begun to quarrel with
each other, to find an excuse to abandon the play became pointed.
The excuse finally arrived in the form of a dark, pop-eyed little
Englishman, who twittered up to Christy like a hesitant robin and
said in a low voice, "I'll have to ask your help, Mr. Christy.
Binner's bags are missing, and she is raising the devil."
Christy turned upon him wrathfully. "Go find them then. What kind
of a company manager are you anyway?"
"I've looked high and low, sir, and they're not to be found. She's
storming about her cabin, threatening to return on the next boat, run
amuck among the company's baggage in the hold, and all that. She's
in a fearful rage."
"Let her rage. God, I've had nothing but trouble with that woman
ever since we left London. I might better have left her in the
chorus."
"I wish you'd come, sir," the company manager urged timidly. "The
other passengers are complaining."
Christy sighed prodigiously, the sigh of a man upon whose shoulders
rest the cares and responsibility of almost the entire world. "I'm
sorry, gentlemen," he apologized, "but I'll really have to handle
this situation personally. Please add up the scores and I'll settle
later."
When he had left, Rodrigo, who had taken a sudden lively interest in
the dialogue, asked the sad-faced Englishman who remained, "Is the
lady's name Sophie Binner?" His tone was more eager than he had
intended it.
"Yes," replied Derrick. "Do you know her?"
"Slightly. I met her while I was at Oxford. I spent my vacations in
London. She was a chorus girl then."
"She has the ingenue role in this show. Rather a decent voice. And
a right pretty girl. But a fearful temper. Thinks she should have
everything Trevor--Emily Trevor--the star--gets. Always kicking up a
row. I don't see how Christy puts up with her, really." A few
minutes later he suggested that Christy might need his help and
departed in the direction of the recalcitrant actress' stateroom.
Rodrigo had an impulse to accompany him. Fancy Sophie Binner here on
the same ship with him! He discovered to his surprise, for he had
thought that their final quarrel in her London apartment had killed
whatever attraction she had had for him, that he was experiencing a
pleasant thrill at the anticipation of meeting her again. Worldly,
selfish, bad-tempered Sophie. But pretty, tender-eyed Sophie also.
He glanced at John, who, engrossed in the mathematics of the scores,
had not listened to the revelatory conversation with Derrick. John
Dorning, of Dorning and Son, the impeccable old concern of high
ideals that Rodrigo was about to enter. Rodrigo sighed. He would
have to abandon his wasteful life from now on. No more Sophies. A
few nice girls perhaps that Dorning might introduce him to and whom
he would have to treat with irreproachable decorum.
He watched the angular back of Clive Derrick disappearing through the
door leading to the deck. He would not seek out Sophie. Of course,
if he should come upon her accidentally, as he undoubtedly would
sooner or later, unless her tantrum or rough weather confined her to
her cabin the rest of the voyage, he could not be held accountable
for that.
When, a half hour later, John expressed his intention of going to
bed, Rodrigo denied that he was sleepy and said he would take a turn
or two around the deck. His turn led him to the ballroom, which he
entered as casually as his rather guilty conscience permitted.
Sophie, he tried to tell himself, was undoubtedly still in her
stateroom battling with Christy. But he knew very well that if there
was one thing she preferred to quarreling, it was dancing.
The Italian band was dispensing a not very well executed American
jazz tune. The room was fairly crowded with dancers. Rodrigo,
smoking in the doorway and surveying the dancers idly, tried to
persuade himself that he was looking for no one in particular. In a
few minutes he saw her. In a white, creamy costume that harmonized
excellently with her fluffy yellow bobbed hair, she looked the
picture of animation and content as she gilded by quite close to him
in the arms of Gilbert Christy. Rodrigo smiled. It was so much like
the Sophie he knew, one minute swearing at a man and the next dancing
with him. Admiration was mingled with his smile. She was prettier,
better dressed and had more of an air about her than she had
possessed when he had known her in London.
When the music stopped, Rodrigo contrived, almost without being aware
he was contriving it, to be near Sophie and her partner. He had some
uneasiness as to how she would receive him. Their last meeting had
been so stormy. Sophie, glancing his way and recognizing him at
once, glided up to him and seized both of the hands he outstretched
to her. "Rodrigo!" she cried with the smiling exuberance Christy
Revue audiences knew so well. "Fancy meeting you here! Do you know
Mr. Christy?"
Rodrigo admitted that he did, and the three walked over toward the
seats at the side of the ballroom, Sophie retaining an intimate grip
upon Rodrigo's arm.
"Now, dear boy, tell me all that has happened since I saw you last,"
she bubbled. "Where have you been keeping yourself? Why have you
been hiding from all your old friends? Some of the girls we used to
pal around with are in this show--Muriel Case, Betty Brewster--do you
remember them? But please give me a cigarette, somebody, or I shall
perish. Oh, thank you, Rodrigo." She took a second to inhale
gratefully. "Has Gil--Mr. Christy told you that I have a featured
part in this show? We're on our way to conquer Broadway now--that
is, if some fool doesn't mislay my bags again." She flashed her
small head at Christy an instant and glowered. Rodrigo wondered if
there was some more intimate tie between Sophie and the producer than
merely that of artiste and manager.
"But do tell me something about yourself--I'm all thrilled with
interest, truly," she rattled on. He had hardly started to accept
her invitation when the music shuffled on again, and without waiting
for him to ask her, she popped up and held out her arms to him.
Sophie was an adorable dancer, and Rodrigo was quite as expert as
she. If her pliant body clung rather closer to his than was
necessary, he was surely not the one to protest. He stopped talking
and gave himself over to the rhythm of the dance. For the time being
there was nothing in his head except the tom-tom beat of the jazz
orchestra and the intoxicating presence of this white, satiny girl.
It mattered not that she was shallow, selfish, mascaroed, rouged.
She had the power of, for the moment, setting his senses aglow, of
banishing the workaday world into oblivion. She had suddenly become
a sparkling fountain of pleasure. His mind grasped at length that
the music had stopped, they had stopped dancing. As he released
Sophie, too hurriedly, she tilted her head and shot a significant
little smile up at him. The smile said: "You are still the same old
Rodrigo." Was he? The thought disturbed him, because he knew it was
almost true. And he did not wish it to be true any longer. He was
leaving his old life behind. It had been waste--pleasurable perhaps,
but still waste. John Dorning was hereafter to be his ideal.
He led Sophie decorously back to their chair and discovered, to his
secret dismay, that Gilbert Christy had departed.
"Oh, thank heaven he's gone," Sophie approved heartily, spreading out
her creamy skirts and slipping over very close to Rodrigo when he sat
down. "I had a terrible row with him over my bags, you know. He
found them under my bunk, after I'd sent the company manager for him,
and he got very sarcastic about my helplessness. I made him
apologize good and proper, you can bet, before I'd come up and dance
with him, and it isn't over yet. I'm not in the chorus any more. I
don't have to get down and grovel." Her wide blue eyes were snapping.
"Aren't you and Christy very close friends then?" asked Rodrigo. She
glanced inquiringly at him, as if to detect in his expression what it
was he suspicioned. But Rodrigo's face was a mask of innocence.
"One has to keep on the right side of the cove who is paying the
bills," said Sophie carelessly. Then, lowering her voice and
injecting into it a soft note that was disturbing to him, she asked,
"But, Rodrigo, haven't you missed me at all?"
"Many times," he answered.
"We used to have some wonderful hours together."
He moved a little away from her. He started to rise. "I really must
be going," he said. "I have something to tell the man I'm traveling
with before he goes to bed. You didn't know, did you, Sophie, that
I'm entering business in America? With Dorning and Son, the art
dealers. John Dorning, the head of the concern, is traveling with
me."
This seemed to strike her as funny and she burst into a rather vulgar
and throaty laugh. He straightened a bit. "Oh, fancy you in
business, Rodrigo," she bubbled. "Will you wear a long linen coat
and sit upon a high stool? And this Mr. Dorning--is he nice?"
"He is a fine chap--my best friend."
"You must introduce me. And if you're going to his cabin, you might
be a gentleman and escort me to mine."
"I had intended to," he said stiffly. He did not like her laughing
at him, as if the thought were ridiculous that he should be a success
in business.
She took his arm as they walked out into the darkness of the deck,
snuggling close to him as the cool, damp air of the sea struck them.
They sauntered back toward the stern of the great ship. She was
making a special effort to be nice to him, chattering reminiscences
of the old days in a low voice, looking up brightly at him in that
laughing way of hers. He hardly answered her. When they had reached
the taffrail, with the tall canvas-covered hand steering wheel
cutting off the view in front and nothing but the creamy wake churned
up by the propeller and the darkness in back of them, they stopped as
if by mutual consent. She came close to him. Without a word he took
her into his arms.
She did not mind that, a moment later, he released her convulsively
and seemed almost angry at her. Her flushed face smiled into the
darkness. She still had the power to sway him, and she was well
pleased with herself.
"You are still the same," she whispered, "But you must be very proper
with me the rest of this voyage. Christy thinks he is in love with
me, and he is very jealous. I have no intention of losing my job.
But in New York we can have good times together. I will give you my
address. At first I shall live in a hotel and later, if the show is
a success, in an apartment, where I can entertain my friends."
Rodrigo was already moving away, and she followed him. He was
silent, rather chagrined at himself and her. He left her at the door
of her stateroom without offering to kiss her again.
Yet the next day at breakfast he was on the lookout for her, in spite
of himself. She did not appear, having breakfasted in her stateroom.
Later in the morning, walking the deck with John, they were hailed by
a gay feminine voice from a steamer chair. They turned, and Rodrigo
saw that it was Sophie and sitting next to her was the ruddy Christy.
John was introduced. She muttered something to Christy, who shook
his head. She sprang up lightly and seized Rodrigo's arm, crying
gayly, "I will walk with you, if you don't mind. I need the
exercise. There being no taxis to take him, Gilbert says he will, as
usual, remain seated." She flipped back her small head in a mock
gesture of scorn at the moody Christy.
Though she locked a friendly hand in John's as well as Rodrigo's arm,
it was to the latter that she addressed the bulk of her animated
chatter. She had sized John up in a flash as a serious-minded young
man who would not be interested in her charms, though he looked quite
formidably rich and had a pleasant enough face. Rodrigo strove
manfully to include his friend in the conversation and forestalled
several attempts on the diplomatic John's part to desert them.
Rodrigo did not intend to be left alone with this creature again if
he could help it, even in broad daylight.
During the rest of the voyage he really made a determined effort to
avoid her. Since the sea soon turned rough and she was a poor
sailor, this was not so difficult. To aid him, Gilbert Christy very
quickly became aware that Sophie and this too handsome Italian were
old friends, and being too wise to send her flying into his rival's
arms by quarreling with her about him, the really infatuated
Englishman contrived to keep constantly by his ingenue's slim
shoulder.
It was not until a day out of New York that, somewhat pale and
listless from her indisposition, she established herself in her
steamer chair again, Christy sitting in the next chair and guarding
her like a very red-faced Cerberus. When the ship docked on a
typically blustery New York March morning, she found an opportunity
at last to give Rodrigo an important message. Count Torriani and
John Dorning, having landed, were standing impatiently beside their
luggage in the huge barn-like shed on the dock when, seizing the
moment when Christy had stopped some twenty feet away to bark
instructions at the nervous little company manager, Sophie came
gliding swiftly between the luggage littering the place.
"I've ducked over a second to say good-bye," she greeted them, though
she was looking at Rodrigo. "I'm stopping at the Biltmore, and for
goodness' sake, call me up as soon as you get the chance. I'm just a
poor English girl all alone in a strange, big city, you know." She
looked around, shrugged impatiently. "Oh, dear, the great Christy is
beckoning. So long, old dears, and please give me a ring." She blew
them a kiss and fled.