But it chanced that Norman met her in the street about an hour after
Tetlow's call.
He was on the way to lunch at the Lawyer's Club--one of those apparent
luxuries that are the dire and pitiful necessities of men in New York
fighting to maintain the semblance and the reputation of prosperity. It
must not be imagined by those who are here let into Norman's inmost
secrets that his appearance betrayed the depth to which he had fallen.
At least to the casual eye he seemed the same rich and powerful
personage. An expert might have got at a good part of the truth from his
somber eyes and haggard face, from the subtle transformation of the
former look of serene pride into the bravado of pretense. And as, in a
general way, the facts of his fall were known far and wide, all his
acquaintances understood that his seeming of undiminished success was
simply the familiar "bluff." Its advantage to him with them lay in its
raising a doubt as to just what degree of disaster it hid--no small
advantage. Nor was this "bluff" altogether for the benefit of the
outside world. It made his fall less hideously intolerable to himself.
In the bottom of his heart he knew that when drink and no money should
finally force him to release his relaxing hold upon his fashionable
clubs, upon luxurious attire and habits, he would suddenly and with
accelerated speed drop into the abyss--We have all caught glimpses of
that abyss--frayed fine linen cheaply laundered, a tie of one time
smartness showing signs of too long wear, a suit from the best kind of
tailor with shiny spot glistening here, patch peeping there, a queer
unkemptness about the hair and skin--these the beginnings of a road that
leads straight and short to the barrel-house, the park bench, and the
police station. Because, when a man strikes into that stretch of the
road to perdition, he ceases to be one of our friends, passes from view
entirely, we have the habit of _saying_ that such things rarely if ever
happen. But we _know_ better. Many's the man now high who has had the sort
of drop Norman was taking. We remember when he was making a bluff such
as Norman was making in those days; but we think now that we were
mistaken in having suspected it of being bluff.
Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care--how sensitive a man
becomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle in
his pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big black
stamp "No Funds"--Norman, groomed to the last button, was in Broadway
near Rector Street. Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl--a trim,
attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line. A second glance,
and he recognized her. What was the change that had prevented his
recognizing her at once? He had not seen that particular lightish-blue
dress before--nor the coquettish harmonizing hat. But that was not the
reason. No, it was the coquetry in her toilet--the effort of the girl
to draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within the
reach of extremely modest means. He did not like this change. It
offended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy.
He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name--"Miss
Hallowell."
She stopped, turned. As soon as she recognized him there came into her
quiet, lovely face a delightful smile. He could not conceal his
amazement. She was glad to see him! Instantly, following the invariable
habit of an experienced analytical mind, he wondered for what
unflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longer
showing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him. "Why, how
d'ye do, Mr. Norman?" said she. And her friendliness and assurance of
manner jarred upon him. There was not a suggestion of forwardness; but
he, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she were
bold and gaudy, after the fashion of so many of the working girls who
were popular with the men.
This unfavorable impression disappeared--or, rather, retired to the
background--even as it became definite. And once more he was seeing the
charms of physical loveliness, of physical--and moral, and
mental--mystery that had a weird power over him. As they shook hands, a
quiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and he
stood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yet
perfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form--longing to kiss
that sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those clear
eyes grow soft and dreamy----