XI

Tootle’s sentimental difficulties were the more annoying inasmuch

as he had only himself to blame, though he had this excuse: that

the plight in which he found himself floundering, according to the

caprices of the most fascinating game of chance in the world, was

one into which many a satisfied male idol has precipitated himself

unwittingly. In brief, up to the advent of the Christmas party and

Drinkwater’s impertinent intrusion, Tootles had been adored because

he was in the strategical position of permitting the adoration.

During this time, Pansy, enraptured with Tootles’ sartorial

splendor, his aristocratic features (which reminded one of a

footman or a duke), his holiday English intonation, and finding

him only languidly interested, was overjoyed at his condescension

and quite miserable at his displeasure when she forgot and shifted

her pose. Her eyes showed plainly her adoration, and she hurried

gratefully to his call whenever Tootles would come rapping at the

door, saying in his impertinent manner:

“Miss Hartmann, Mr. St. George Kidder will receive you for half an

hour--for only half an hour, mind you. He has a sitter at three--a

lady of the highest society, who wishes her visits to remain

unsuspected.”

The more coolly the young scamp took her adoration, the more she

adored him; and matters might have gone on thus indefinitely, had

not Tootles been so amateurish as to resent the attentions of

Drinkwater. Overnight the whole face of the world was changed, and

from being pursued by a beautiful nymph who trembled under the

favor of his smile, Tootles, to his indignation, found himself the

pursuer, without quite comprehending how the transformation had

been worked. He was as astonished (as he himself expressed it)

as the fleeing rabbit circling around a tree is to find himself

abruptly pursuing the dog. Miss Pansy, from a grateful young lady

with her heart at her finger-tips, became overnight a delighted and

outrageous little flirt, maliciously bent on tormenting him to the

limit of his endurance. Tootles, not having sense enough to stop

and run in the opposite direction, continued with wrath and fury to

pursue the tantalizing eyes which danced at him over her fleeing

shoulder, until he was ready to believe that the love and likewise

the tragedy of his life had descended upon him.

Belle Shaler’s trifling allusion to Drinkwater had aroused the

atavistic yearning for murder in simple or exaggerated degrees in

his usually easy-going nature. He stopped before the door of her

studio a moment, frowning darkly, before deciding, with supreme

cunning, to disguise his misery under a countenance of excessive

joy. Pansy, to his relief, was there, camped in a green-plush

rocking-chair, sewing on something pink and filmy. On the

center-table was a very large vase of chrysanthemums. When Tootles

perceived this, his gaiety descended, so to speak, into the cellar.

He entered the room with a forced dapperness, saying:

“Have the diamonds come yet, or would you prefer pearls?”

The room was divided by a green-baize curtain which concealed

the domestic arrangements and the oil-stove. Popular full-pages

in color from magazines and newspapers littered the walls, while

different articles of furniture were decked out in ribbons and

ruffles, which gave them the effect of displaying their lingerie. A

sewing-machine was disguised under an Eastern blanket, while the

bed-couches were piled with fancy pillows, depicting such romantic

scenes as a mother-bird feeding its young; a tennis-match entitled

“Love All,” the noble red Indians around a camp-fire, and another,

adorned with a red-cheeked damsel with her hand behind her head and

her legs out of proportion, inscribed “An American Beauty.” Tootles

saw none of these details, nor the kimono-covered screen, nor

the knicknacks on the desk representing dogs with pipes in their

mouths, rabbits in the form of match-safes and a young man kissing

a young lady over a stile. He saw only the chrysanthemums.

“Oh, hello!” said Pansy, continuing at her work.

“Who’s that?” said Belle, sticking her head through the curtains.

“Oh, it’s only you!”

Tootles put his hand on his heart and made several rapid bows.

“Thanks--thanks for this ovation!”

“What have ye been doing all this while?” Pansy condescended to

say, and, as though this were a soul-confidence, she raised her

eyes liquidly and allowed her glance to flutter in his in one of

those destructive looks which do not need to be taught at high

school.

“It’s my birthday,” said Tootles, hoping to derive some future

advantage; “and I am arranging for my friends to give me a

surprise-party.”

“Go wan,” said Pansy, who, having treated him to a melting look,

now froze him with one of indifferent disdain. However, the scent

of dinner in the air demanded a certain diplomacy. She smiled.

“What is it--feed or show?”

“It is my birthday,” said Tootles indignantly. “Don’t you think I

was born, the same as you?”

“Come off!” said Belle, who emerged from behind the curtains with

her hat on. “I’ll bet they picked you off a tree.”

“My dear girl,” said Tootles, who resorted to his defensive English

accent, “it would be far better if you attended to your own

troubles. At this very moment, Flick may be a suicide. He started

for the river.”

“He may choke to death,” said Belle scornfully, “but he’ll never

end in water.”

“He is exceedingly distressed,” said Tootles, who was afraid that,

if he annoyed her, she might stay. “Well, girls, the automobile

will be here at seven. Those who love me are invited.” And as he

was still fearful that she might linger, he added artfully, with

an admiring glance at her slender body and saucy face tucked under

a fur toque that set off her rebellious shock of hair, “Belle, I

particularly want you; I like to be surrounded by beautiful women.”

As Belle Shaler was both human and feminine, she was grateful, and

showed it, first by abuse, and then by a bit of advice.

“Try that on some one from the green grass,” she said, with a tilt

of her nose. “Oh, I’ll be there.” And she added, patting his cheek:

“Well, he’s a nice boy, only”--this in a lower tone, with a glance

at Pansy--“don’t be a softy, Tootles--give her hell.”

Tootles answered her with a manly glare, to convince her of his

inflexibility, and the door once closed behind her, flung a leg

over the table, flirted with the work-basket, waited unsuccessfully

for Pansy to take the initiative, and ended by saying:

“Well, how about it?”

“About what?” said Pansy, looking up as though she had just

perceived his presence.

“Those who love me are invited,” said Tootles, folding his arms and

giving her a killing look, as he remembered his favorite romantic

actor, Mr. Wilbur Montague, would have done in such a situation.

“Do you want me to come?”

Saying which, she put down the sewing and looked again into his

eyes with a tender look that seemed to say, “‘Why hide what’s in

your heart, dear?’”

“Oh, no,” said Tootles, falling back on sarcasm as he felt himself

crumbling weakly; “I came here expressly to beg you to refrain.”

“Now you’re cross,” said Pansy, quite delighted. “I suppose it’s

them flowers.”

“What flowers?” said Tootles, looking around in surprise. He

examined them and added: “Wired! Cheap stuff. Now, isn’t that just

like a shyster lawyer!”

“Silly!” said Pansy, bursting into laughter. “How do ye know that

ain’t for Belle?”

“Really?” said Tootles, beaming as though the sun had suddenly

entered the room.

“Goose!”

“You’ve been mean enough to me,” said Tootles, taking her hand.

“You might let up.”

“Do you really want me to come?” said Pansy, smiling all over.

“Want you? Why, you beautiful creature,” said Tootles,

ecstatically, “come, and I’ll go before you with a dust-pan and

dust the way! That’s how much I want you.”

These higher flights from Tootles always moved Pansy, who had a

penchant for refined romance. She relented, and there was quite an

important discussion as to whether Tootles did not, in fact, really

believe that Myrtle Popper’s eyes were more unusual than hers, and

favor the figure of Belle Shaler. All of which would have had an

agreeable ending, had not Belle returned and let the cat out of the

bag by asking Pansy if she might wear some of her chrysanthemums.

When Tootles returned, to find King O’Leary in a perplexed

self-examination, he was in a fearful state. He slammed the door

and dove on the couch, where he gave an exhibition of tearing his

hair which would have inspired Mr. Wilbur Montague himself to envy.

“Say, what is this?” said O’Leary, after a moment of amazement.

“Love or bills?”

Tootles’ remarks, while intelligible, remained outside the limits

of organized speech which the wise fathers who established the

dictionary as an uplift have imposed. In the end, when calm had

returned, he arose and said, with terrific impressiveness:

“That ends it! King, take witness--I’m through--I’m cured!”

“Oh, Pansy’s a good sort, all right,” said O’Leary, understanding.

“Good sort! Yes; certainly. Do tell me why I, St. George Kidder,

with a career, with fame and with riches, a future, should be

running after a little smudgy-eyed slip of a girl who hasn’t a

thought in her head.”

“Oh, now!”

“She hasn’t. King, I swear she is positively stupid! Fact. Now,

honestly, what gets me, why am I pattering at her heels--why?”

“She has beautiful eyes, son.”

“Do you think that’s enough? No; it’s not enough!”

“Well, that depends how close they are,” said King O’Leary

ruefully, thinking of other eyes.

“Do you see me now?” said Tootles fiercely. “I am calm. I am not

saying this because I am excited. I am calm. Now listen: I can

look at myself and see what’s what. King, I am cured! There’s

nothing--nothing there. A pretty face, yes--but that’s all.

Drinkwater can have her. I don’t care now. It’s only vanity--just

low, despicable vanity, with me, I admit. Thank heaven, I am strong

enough to admit it, and because I admit it, I can laugh at it!” He

gave an imitation of great hilarity. “Lord, King, what asses we can

be!”

Belle Shaler rapped at the door.

“Hey there, Tootles!”

“Well, what?” growled Tootles, stopping short.

“Pansy wants to speak to you.”

“Oh, she does? Well, I’m in the bathtub,” said Tootles, and, as the

steps went down the hall, he whistled blithely at King O’Leary, and

said:

“You see?”

“Sure; but why did you give a lie?”

“I dislike undignified discussions,” said Tootles loftily.

“Well, on the whole, I think you’re right about the girls,” said

O’Leary. “We’ll give them a grand-stand finish to-night, and then

we’ll get down to tacks.”

Flick came in with his hat over his eyes, saying gloomily:

“Is the wake still on?”

While King O’Leary was explaining the finality of the ceremony,

there came a rush and tap outside, and the voice of Belle Shaler

cried:

“Tootles, Pansy’s cut her finger.”

“Good Lord!” said Tootles, who sprang from the imaginary bathtub

to the door, to find Belle Shaler confronting him with a scornful

glance.

“Hmm! Bathtub! Well, young man, I know what I’d do to you.”

But behind Belle was Pansy, with soulful eyes, holding out an

imploring hand, saying in the voice of an angel:

“Tootles--please!”

Tootles went, and when he returned, he said triumphantly, deadened

to all sense of shame:

“It was all Belle’s doing. The flowers were hers. I suppose I was a

little hasty.”

They departed in taxi-cabs at seven sharp. Tootles in evening

dress, pleasantly aware of the admiring glance of Pansy, directed

at the irreproachable set of his white cravat; Flick with collar

reversed and a black-silk square drawn over the opening of his

vest; while the problem of passing King O’Leary through the

barriers of evening dress was solved by the simple expedient of

taking the part out of his hair and decorating him with a flowing

tie, which, as Tootles aptly remarked, made the difference between

a genius and a piker. In case of need he was to be addressed as

“Prince Olgoff.” Despite these precautions and Tootles’ finished

air of distilling money, whether due to the irreverent expression

of Flick or some suspicion of the virtuosity of King O’Leary, they

were held up at the door of the brilliant dining-room. While they

were fidgeting under the expert scrutiny of the head waiter, the

ladies all aflutter, who should come up from a near-by table but

Dangerfield.

“Friends of mine, Oscar,” he said. “One of your best tables.”

He glanced at Flick’s clerical make-up with a twinkle in his eye,

but under Tootles’ cautious look he checked himself and took

the introductions gravely, and only Flick, who had noted the

apprehensive glances of the group of men he had left, divined under

the correctness of his attitude the fierce struggle for control

which was going on.

“Did you get the name the head waiter called him?” said O’Leary to

Tootles, as they were ushered to a corner table with honors due to

an ambassador.

“No.”

“Neither did I, but it was not Dangerfield--hello!”

“What is it?”

O’Leary, whose eyes had found some one in the crowd, mumbled an

evasive explanation and proceeded to arrange the table with

special attention to the placing of Tootles and Pansy.

The evening made a terrific impression on the ladies, whose eyes

began to glow more kindly under the spell of the lights and the

music and the awed recognition of what each dish must cost. They

went to a comic opera in a box, in full view of an audience, took

supper among the highest paying social strata, oblivious of the

rising fear in the breasts of Flick and Tootles lest O’Leary might

make an error in subtraction. King, in fact, had calculated so

fine that he was forced to send the others ahead while he picked a

quarrel with the waiter to save the tip for the journey home, where

they ended, so to speak, in a dead heat. At that, disaster had

hovered near while Flick was arguing Belle Shaler out of a second

ice.

“Did you see him?” O’Leary found a moment to whisper to Flick.

“Never thought he’d get out of the door,” said Wilder, who had

watched Dangerfield’s perilous exit.

“No, not Dangerfield--Drinkwater,” said O’Leary. “I was afraid

Tootles would see him.”

“That ferret! Was he there? Chasing Pansy, eh?”

“No--he was there on other business,” said O’Leary. “Mark my words,

he’s on Dangerfield’s trail, boy. There’s some dirty business in

the wind.”

Tootles approached, and they switched the conversation. Each couple

now showed such a desire to linger in the shadows that they arrived

at the sixth floor well together.

“Mr. St. George Kidder has a few words to say,” said Flick gravely.

Tootles, the stage having been thus set, brought one lock of hair

over his forehead in the wild, romantic way of a true genius, and

said:

“Charming and beautiful women--we thank you! We thank you for

being just what you are--charming and beautiful! We thank you the

more because to-night we say farewell. You laugh, you doubt me--but

the laugh is on you. You thought to roll on forever in luxury.

To-night you have assisted at our farewell appearance as gilded

dispensers of ill-gotten wealth.”

“Amen!” said Flick and O’Leary, in sepulchral chorus.

“Despite your sneers, your abuse, your cruel misunderstandings,”

continued Tootles, charmed with the sound of his own voice, “we

have shown you how artists dispense their wealth. While gold flowed

from our pockets, we planned only how to give you pleasure. Now

that we face a cold, hard dawn, without a cent, without a friend,

but proudly, with the inspiration of our art, we do not wait to be

abandoned by you--we say farewell!”

“You’re broke?” said the three girls, in horrified chorus.

“Broke!” said the three men, delighted; and, falling into lockstep,

their hats waving gaily, they marched roaring with laughter down

the hall and into their room.