Horace lived in an overwhelmingly grand apartment house on Riverside
Drive. His private door was opened by a man servant, and Frances was
conducted to a boudoir where a French maid waited to assist her. She was
a little nervous at the unexpectedly sumptuous tone of the
establishment; she wasn’t accustomed to rich people. She dreaded meeting
the mistress of such a household, not only on account of the
unfavourable reports she had had from Lionel, but also on account of her
richness. A most ignoble awe, from which no living soul is immune....
It might be too that she felt a warning shudder, could divine the shadow
of the pain she was to suffer here. She never again entered that house,
but she remembered always every detail of what she had seen there. It
was the setting, the stage of such an unforgettably bitter scene.
She was glad to find Horace alone, although she was not pleased by her
hostess’s delay. He was in the “library,” a panelled room, dimly and
richly lighted by Oriental lamps and crowded with massive furniture.
(She didn’t see _any_ books.) He was very cordial and kind, though
melancholy. He apologised for Julie.
“She was late getting in,” he explained, “and it takes her the deuce of
a time to get herself ready.”
It certainly did, for it was quite half an hour more before she
appeared.
“I’m sorry, people!” she cried, running into the room, and swept them
all with a smile.
_This_ Julie, the impossible, the cruel, the vulgar! This sparkling
lovely thing, with her piquant dark face and the figure of a nymph!
Frances found it hard to believe.... Except that she was over-dressed,
in a glittering sort of ball gown, and that her voice was not at all
agreeable.
“I shouldn’t call her ‘impossible,’” she thought. “In fact, I think
she’s fascinating.”
And so long as she confined herself solely to looking at Julie, she did
find her fascinating. She was very young--years younger than Horace, and
filled with an ardent vitality. She produced an extraordinary effect of
brilliancy, although her conversation was far from clever. She was one
of those people who absolutely take one’s breath away; her glances, her
gestures, her gipsy vividness wrought a spell; one could watch her in a
daze, indefinitely.
But the fascination wore off a bit for Frances after she had experienced
something of Julie’s famous rudeness. She was utterly ignored. Horace
tried to talk to her, but he was not fluent, and his dinner engrossed
him. She had nothing to do but listen to Julie talking to Lionel, a
torrent of gossip about people not personally known to either of them,
glib comment on plays and books and fashions and dances. Lionel’s
interest lay in just these things; he had as many stories as she: those
mysterious tales of prominent people, confidential to a degree, heard
from someone who really knows.... If Lionel hated and despised Julie and
she loathed him, they dissembled it well. They were friendly, they were
more than friendly, they were comrades. He had never talked with such
interest to Frankie!
“Did you notice Mrs. Lord on the Avenue yesterday, Li? I never saw such
a fool. A skirt like that with her celebrated bowlegs!”
And so on. The impossibleness of Julie was now fully evident to Frances,
the gross vulgarity beneath her dainty charm, the malice, the nastiness
in her shallow heart. She was glad Lionel didn’t like her; she told
herself that his absorption in her chatter was only politeness.
When the dinner was over, she retired with Julie to a little music room,
where Julie began to smoke. She changed abruptly now that there were no
men about, became frankly, brutally hard.
“Well!” she said. “You’ve picked a winner! When Horace told me Li was
going to be married, I couldn’t believe it. I told him there wasn’t a
girl on earth who’d be such a fool.”
“Why?” asked Frances coldly.
“The boy’s a joke, my dear child! A perfect _joke_! The biggest idiot
there is. He spent all the money his mother left him in two years, just
making a fool of himself. And now he expects to sit down on Horace for
the rest of his little life. It makes me sick.”
Frances had grown rather pale.
“I suppose he thinks he is welcome in his brother’s house,” she said.
“Lord! He knows I’m sick and tired of his hanging about. It’s not that!
He doesn’t care whether he’s _welcome_ or not. He worries us to death.
And that chump of a Horace always gives in to him. I only hope you’ll be
able to do something with him. I’ve told old Horace we didn’t understand
that in this country--a young, able-bodied man sitting round the house,
living on someone else. I said if Horace had any money to waste, he
could waste it on me. I can do with all he’s got!”
Frances, shocked, outraged, stunned by this sudden and vigorous attack,
tried to rally.
“He does work,” she said.
“_Work!_ My God! Horace told me himself what an infernal nuisance Li is
in the office. He comes in late and fiddles about a bit, and then goes
uptown again. Work! He just likes to call the money he gets out of
Horace a salary instead of graft. It comforts his little pride. Let’s
see your ring!” she demanded suddenly.
Frances took it off and handed it to her.
“Two carats! And look at the setting! For God’s sake! I bet poor Horace
had to shell out heavily for that!”
Frances did not put it on again; she held it in her hand. She was in
anguish, so great that she was afraid she would not be able to hide it
much longer. It called for every ounce of self-control she possessed to
speak in a fairly natural voice.
“I didn’t understand the situation,” she said, “and I’m sure--he
didn’t--entirely realise----”
“I’ve spoken plainly enough to make him ‘realise.’ No; he’s a hopeless
case; I only wanted to warn you that Horace isn’t going to take care of
a whole family. Oh, don’t get furious! I know you didn’t know about it!
Only Li’s a grafter born and bred.”
“You misjudge him,” said Frances sternly. She wasn’t going to be routed
by this horrible little savage. “I don’t think you’re able to understand
a man of his type.”
“My Lord! I’ve met dozens like him. Just a nice, harmless little
grafter. You’ll find them in every hotel in the city. My dear child, I
know men mighty well. I’ve had experience!”
Then, to Frankie’s indescribable relief, she left the topic of Lionel
and began a history of her own life, with particular emphasis on her
suitors. Her father had been a “Cattle King,” she told her, in all
seriousness, a millionaire. She had been brought up on a ranch, and then
sent to school in the East, to “finish.”
“_The_ best school in New York,” she said. “Dad had a hard time to get
me in. But I hated it. I had a great deal of talent for drawing, so I
just walked out of the school and got a studio in Washington Square, and
plunged right in. I got lots of work from the start, fashions and
society sketches. Popper was tickled to death. He said he’d double every
cent I made, and he did. He likes independence. But I gave that all up
when I got married. I’ve taken up dancing. I’ve got a regular gift for
it. I could go on the stage to-morrow if I wanted. I’ve had offers from
the big managers.”
The men came in then, and she offered an exhibition.
“I’ll show you the dance I’m going to do in the Fresh Air Fund Bazaar.
You play, Li; go over this music while I get ready,” and she disappeared
for a long time.
Lionel sat down at the piano and began obediently to try the music she
had handed him; a sensual, banal thing, called new, but very
reminiscent. He turned his head to smile at Frankie, and then gave his
attention to the music, innocently satisfied with the answering smile he
had had from her. The light from the lamp shone on his sleek head; he
looked so young, so very slim, so fragile and well-bred; her heart ached
for him in his unconscious shame. Of course, _of course_, he didn’t
realise! She no more despised him than a mother despises a greedy child.
Julie came back in a costume which completed Frankie’s nightmare of
misery and shame. She called it Hindu. Her slim legs and feet were bare,
and her body so gauzily covered.... Frances involuntarily glanced at her
husband, but he was staring up at the smoke rings he was blowing.
Her dancing was good--quite beautiful. But Frances was not an artist,
not an æsthete; she was something of a prig and very much of a Defoe. A
little--a tiny bit more of either in her nature would have turned the
balance and sent her to her feet in terrible indignation. However, she
was able to endure the exhibition with apparent coolness, watched the
half-naked Julie twisting supplely before Lionel’s eyes without a
visible trace of what she felt.
But how immeasurably glad she was to get away!
“Please send away the taxi,” she asked Lionel. “I’d like to walk a
little way. And talk to you.”
Cheerful and unsuspicious, he complied.
“Wonderful night!” he remarked, looking with grateful eyes at the river.
She clutched his arm.
“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, and he was startled to hear a sob in her
voice.
“What’s wrong, dearest girl?” he asked anxiously, trying to see her face
in the dark.
“That awful--that dreadful, disgusting woman----” she said, in a broken
voice. “Oh, Lionel! You can’t imagine!...”
“Did she say anything to upset you, old girl?”
“It’s not that---- It’s ... I didn’t know----”
She dried her eyes and spoke more calmly, all her courage, all her
pride, all her love impelling her. She held out the ring, glittering
marvellously in the light of a street lamp.
He stared at it in stupefaction.
“Frances!” he cried.
“Please take it! Lionel! My dear boy! I couldn’t wear it.... She
said--_he_ had to pay for it. That it’s all _his_ money.... Oh, my dear
old Lionel, don’t you see? I’ll wait--till you can get me one--of your
own!”
Regardless of passers-by, he put his arm about her waist.
“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll do exactly what you want--always. I know I’m
not nearly good enough for you. Only tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to be a _man_!” she cried passionately, and began to cry
again.