Produced by Don Kostuch. (This text was produced from files
obtained from The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Transcriber's note: The original unedited text file came
from http://www.archive.org/details/nobody00jacogoog]
NOBODY
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
[Illustration: "Miss Manwaring! For the Love of Mike--"]
NOBODY
By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
AUTHOR OF "The Lone Wolf,"
"The Brass Bowl," "Cynthia of the Minute,"
"The Destroying Angel," Etc.
With Frontispiece
By W. L. JACOBS
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York
Published by Arrangement with GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1914,
By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
Copyright, 1915,
By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
_This novel was originally published serially,
under the title of "An Outsider."_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I ANARCHY
II BURGLARY
III ACCESSARY AFTER THE FACT
IV BLACKMAIL
V CONSPIRACY
VI ALIAS MANWARING
VII FRAUD
VIII A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
IX PICAROON
X LEGERDEMAIN
XI THE THIRD DEGREE
XII MACHIAVELLIAN
XIII MARPLOT
XIV MAGIC
XV FALSE WITNESS
XVI THE PLANT
XVII EXPOSE
XVIII BREAKING JAIL
NOBODY
CHAPTER I
ANARCHY
"What you gonna have?"
To this inquiry the patron made no response; head bent, nose between
the pages of the magazine, she pored sedulously over a legend attached
to one of the illustrations.
After a decent pause in waiting the waitress renewed her demand with a
sharper accent:
"Say, lis'en; what you want?"
"White satin, veiled with _point d' Angleterre_,'" Miss Manvers
replied distinctly, if without looking up, aware simply of something
imperative in the starched but humid presence at her elbow.
Pardonably startled, the waitress demanded with the rising inflection:
"_Wha-a-at?_"
"'The court train,'" Miss Manvers pursued in abstraction, "'is lined
with lace and dotted with bouquets of orange-blossoms--'"
She checked herself suddenly, looked up shyly, and essayed a pale,
apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry; I didn't realise--"
But now the waitress had caught a glimpse of the illustration and was
bending over the patron's shoulder for a better look.
"Gee!" she commented sincerely. "Ain't that a dream?"
"Yes," Miss Manvers admitted wistfully, "it's a dream, right enough!"
"That's so, too." Deftly, with a large, moist, red hand, the waitress
arranged knife, fork, spoon, and paper serviette on the unclothed
brown board before Miss Manvers. "That's the worst of them fashion
mag'zines," she complained; "they get your goat. Sometimes after
readin' some of that dope I can't hardly remember orders right, just
for wishin' somebody'd come along and hang some of them joyful rags
onto me!"
Then, catching the eye of the manager, she straightway resumed her
professional habit of slightly wilted hauteur--compounded in equal
parts of discontent, tired feet, heat-fag and that profound disdain
for food-consuming animals which inevitably informs the mind of every
quick-lunch waitress.
"What you gonna have?" she demanded dispassionately.
"Ham-and, please."
"Plate of ham-and. Cawfy?"
"Yes, iced coffee and"--Miss Manvers hesitated briefly--"and a
napoleon."
Reciting the amended order, the waitress withdrew.
For the next few moments the customer neglected the fashion magazine
which she had found--apparently a souvenir of some other
absent-minded patron--on the seat of the chair next that one of her
own casual choice.
She stared blankly at the smudged and spotted bill of fare propped up,
in its wooden frame, against an armour-plate-china sugar-bowl. She was
deeply intrigued by the mystery of human frailty as exemplified by her
reckless extravagance in ordering that superfluous bit of pastry. Miss
Manvers's purse contained a single coin of silver, the quarter of a
dollar; being precisely the sum of her entire fortune. Her ham and
beans would cost fifteen cents, the coffee and the napoleon five cents
each. In other words, she would be penniless when she had paid her
score--and Heaven only knew for how long afterward.
Her lips moved without sound in her worn and pallid face. "What's the
difference?" she bully-ragged her conscience. "I might as well be
broke as the way I am!"
The argument was painfully reasonable; that inmate of New York
who has but five cents has nothing.
On the other hand, there was nothing whatever to be advanced in
extenuation of her folly in thus inviting indigestion--a passion for
pastry is its own punishment no less than any other infatuation to
which mortal flesh is prone. Sally was morally certain she would
suffer, and that severely, before nightfall.
"Well, what of it?" she grumbled sullenly. "If I die for it, it's
cheap at the price! And, no matter what happens, it can't be any
hotter afterward than it is now."
Somehow soothed by this cynical reflection, she sat up, mopped her
flushed forehead with a handkerchief of which she was not proud, and
drank thirstily of her tumbler of ice-water.
The grateful draft reminded her that she had actually been athirst
ever since noon. It was now almost three o'clock--thanks to which fact
she might eat in the comparative comfort of a lunchroom which boasted
no patron other than herself. But she was little appreciative of this
boon; she comprehended her surroundings with just a little languid
resentment of their smug cleanliness and their atmosphere impregnated
with effluvia of cheap edibles. But if these seemed offensive she
would have been willing to overlook them on certain
conditions--as she proved when the waitress reappeared with her order.
"I don't suppose--" Miss Manvers began, but hesitated.
"What say?"
"I don't suppose you need any more girls here?"
"Lookin' for a job?" the waitress inquired brilliantly. "I dunno--I'll
ask the manager, if you want."
Miss Manvers nodded a barely audible "Please!" She munched drearily
for a few minutes, staring out through the front windows wherein, from
dawn till dark, a white-clad chef industriously browned the wheats and
cast sinkers; beyond their wide expanse of plate-glass, stenciled with
the name of the establishment in reverse, a vista of sun-smitten
street danced drunkenly through the reek from the sheet-iron griddles.
Miss Manvers wondered dully if the sidewalks were really less hot than
those same griddles.
"The manager says nothin' doin'," the waitress reported. "But you can
leave your name and add-ress if you wanta."
"Thanks," said Miss Manvers; "but what's the use?"
"That's right, all right," the other sympathised. "Besides, take it
from me, this ain't the kind of a job you could make good at. You
gotta be a horse like me to stand it, 'specially days like this."
"Yes, I was thinking of that--"
"Believe me or not, nobody ain't got no idear what hot is without
they've juggled hash in one of these joints on a summer day. The
kitchen back there is honest' somethin' fierce. Three of our girls
fainted dead away in the noon rush."
"Oh, I know," Miss Manvers sighed; "I've tried it before--and failed."
The entrance of another customer prevented further confidences, and
Miss Manvers was left to resume her scanning of the fashion magazine.
If its distracting quality was unquestionable, it hardly contributed
comfort to her mood.
"In selecting her personal apparel," she read, "the bride-to-be must,
of necessity, be guided by individual requirements and the social
position which she is to assume. Although much has been said about the
advisability of purchasing only what is really needed and can be worn
before the styles change, it is a common fault of brides to buy too
much. . . . It is assumed that the June bride will have already on
hand a suit or two, a one-piece frock of serge or similar material, a
top-coat, an afternoon coat or one of the new capes, evening gowns,
and an evening wrap, one or two afternoon and luncheon frocks,
and hats, shoes, and similar accessories. . . ."
Here Miss Manvers withdrew from the printed page long enough mentally
to inventory her own wardrobe.
"That lets me out," she said, and turned a page.
The caption, "A Feudal Aristocracy," caught her attention. "Long
Island," she learned, "is a poem itself to-day, even if it is
suffering from cheap developments, the encroachment of tenantry, and
the swarming of the commuters. It is too bad that this garden spot
must be overrun, and indeed there has been a movement to stay the tide
of immigration from the city. In one section our best people are
buying up vast stretches of property to add to their private estates.
. . ."
Fascinated, Miss Manvers thrust aside a garnished plate, took a gulp
of the decoction called coffee, and attacked her napoleon.
"I am so glad," she continued to read, "to see that we are adding to
our estates and fast forming an aristocracy of the countryside; we
really live at our country places now for over half the year. Even the
large weddings are no longer town affairs. If one has an estate it is
so much smarter now to marry off one's daughters from the country
place. Yet there is always one difficulty about this method of
procedure: can such weddings be afforded the prominence
necessary? Weddings, of course, must be given a certain amount of
advertisement, through the proper channels, because each of us stands
for a representative house, which must not drop into oblivion. . . ."
At this point Miss Manvers wrinkled her nose indignantly. "Just for
that," she informed the unknown author of this artless screed, "just
for that now, I've a great mind not to go to Long Island at all this
summer--not even once to Coney!"
She turned impatiently back to the advertising pages and reviewed the
"classified wants" listlessly, forewarned by experience that they
would offer no invitation to one of her singularly modest
accomplishments; none of these advertisers desired the services of a
saleswoman, a typist, or even a lady's-maid. Not that Miss Manvers
imagined she would score a success in the role of lady's-maid, though
it was almost the only means open to her of earning a livelihood
which, thus far, she had not essayed.
Such work was hardly calculated to suit a girl with a mind of
independent cast and what is known as a temper of her own: prohibitive
barriers between her and such bread as may be earned in the sweat of
domestic servitude.
Little disappointed, then, she turned attention to "Chat of the Social
World," gossip which exercised potent fascination upon the girl's
intelligence. She devoured with more avidity than she had her
food those pretentiously phrased chronicles of the snobocracy--trite
announcements of post-season luncheons, dinners, dances, and bridge
parties; of departures for Europe and for American country homes, of
engagements and of weddings--distilling therefrom an acid envy that
robbed her napoleon of all its savour.
Such was the life for which she yearned with every famished aspiration
of her being. And why not? Who were these whose half-tone portraits
smirked complacence or scowled disdain to her inspection--who were
these that they should enjoy every good thing in life while she must
go hungering all her days for a little pleasure? Scarce one betrayed
by feature or expression either breeding or intelligence superior to
that of Sally Manvers, late of the hardware notions in Huckster's
Bargain Basement!
Regarding the full-page reproduction of a photograph showing a
jibber-jawed June bride in full regalia, Miss Manvers was moved
enviously to paraphrase an epigram of moot origin: "There, but for the
grace of God, stands Sally Manvers!"
There was enough truth in that to excuse a little gulp of emotion;
which, however, was craftily dissembled.
In due course, rising, Miss Manvers stood and delivered at the
desk of the blond cashier, then, penniless, wandered forth into the
brutal sunshine.
Her homeward way took her up Sixth Avenue, through Thirty-Fourth
Street, and northward on Park Avenue.
She went slowly, wearily, as suited a drudge to whom respite from
drudgery brought no earnest of ease or pleasure. The burning air beat
up into her downcast face from sun-baked stones that scorched through
the soles of her shoddy shoes, and she gulped down acrid mouthfuls of
it rather than breathed.
June was still young, but already summer, like some burly ruffian
shouldering spring aside with her work half done, held the city in the
hollow of a hot and humid hand.
In the mid-afternoon glow, lower Park Avenue owned its personal
atmosphere of somnolent isolation, in strong contrast with the bustle
of proletarian Fourth Avenue at its one extreme and the roar at the
other of traffic-galled Forty-Second Street. Of the residences a few,
whose awninged windows resembled heavy-lidded eyes, overlooked
wayfaring folk with drowsy arrogance; the greater number, with boarded
doors and blinded windows, like mouths and eyes tight shut in
seasonable slumber, ignored the world entirely.
Though she had passed that way twice a day for years on
end--always in consciousness of that aloof spirit informing the
inanimate, and in such resentment thereof as properly rewarded a
studied insolence--never before to-day had Sarah Manvers found the
genius of the neighbourhood so unmitigatedly intolerable. It was with
downright relief that presently she turned from the avenue eastward
and accomplished in the span of one short cross-town block a transit
of the most violent contrasts, from the dull dignity of the socially
eligible, if somewhat _passe_, through a stratum of shabby gentility,
to a region of late years dedicated to the uses of adversity
undisguised.
A few doors short of Lexington Avenue she paused, sighed, turned,
climbed weather-bitten steps to a brownstone entrance, and addressed
herself to three long flights of naked stairs.
She left behind, at the entrance, the dingy parlours of "Mme. Levin,
Modes et Toilettes," on the first landing the wailing-rooms of a
hag-ridden teacher of vocal culture, on the next several dusty
chambers perennially unrented, and gained at the top an open door
whose panels sported a simple rectangle of cardboard advertising the
tenancy of (in engraved script) _Miss Lucy Spode_, (in ink) _M. A.
Warden_, and (in pencil, a scrawl) _Manvers_.
Through this the girl walked into a back room of generous size, which
boasted a top-light together with the generic name of studio, and
was furnished with an ill-assorted company of lame and dismal pieces.
The several vocations of its tenants were indicated by a
typewriting-machine beneath a rubber hood thick with dust, a folding
metal music-stand and a violin-case, and a large studio easel
supplemented by a number of scrubby canvases. A door in the partition
wall communicated with a small bedchamber of the kind commonly termed
"hall room." And in one corner a stationary wash-stand and a gas-stove
for morbid cookery lurked behind a Japanese screen of dilapidated
panels.
Near the windows, on the end of a box-couch, a young woman was
perched, thin shoulders rounded over the ink-stained drawing-board
resting on her knees. She had a large, self-willed mouth and dark
Bohemian hair, and wore a dreary cotton kimono over a silk petticoat
whose past had been lurid. One hand clutched gingerly a bottle of
India ink, the other wielded a scratchy steel drafting-pen.
Interrupted, she looked up with a start that all but spilled the ink
and cried in a voice heavily coloured with the enervating brogue of
the Southern born:
"My land, Sally! _What_ time is it?"
In the act of unpinning her hat (a straw that even a drowning woman
would have hesitated to grasp at) Miss Manvers paused to consult an
invalid alarm-clock which was suffering palpitations on an
adjacent shelf.
"Twenty past three," she reported, sententious.
The artist cocked her head, squinted malevolently at her drawing,
dipped, and busily scratched once more.
"Scared me," she explained: "coming home so early!"
Sally removed her collar with a wrench and a grunt: "Got a date?"
"Sure; with Sammy--four o'clock."
"Salamander stuff, eh?"
"What do you want--a day like this? I'm half-cooked already, and I
guess I can go through a little fire for the sake of a sixty-cent
_table d' hote_ and a trip to Coney. But you needn't worry; it'll be
hotter than this before Sammy warms up enough to singe anything. His
intentions are so praiseworthy they pain him; he blushes every time he
has to recognise the sex question long enough to discuss the delights
of monogamy in a two-family house within commuting distance of
Prospect Park South."
"You don't mean to say you've got that far along--already!"
"That's the reward of a year's steady angling, honey."
"Heavens, but how you must carry on with Sammy!"
"Believe me, it's something scandalous," sighed Lucy Spode.
"But why--" Sally began in a tone of expostulation.
The other quickened with a flash of temper. "Don't ask me! I came
No'th to study art and mingle with the world of intellect and fashion,
and after three years I'm drawing heads for fashion magazines at a
dollar per, and I know a minor poet who's acquainted with the
assistant editor of _The Scrap-Book_, and the one man I know who owns
a dress-suit gets fifty cents an hour for posing in it. If that isn't
enough to make me welcome even the prospect of married life with Sammy
Myerick and a woman to do the washing, I don't know--"
"Well, if you aren't crazy about Sammy, why not chuck him? Marriage
isn't the last resource for a girl like you. You've got just as many
wits to live on as the next one. This town's full of young women no
better-looking than either of us, and with even less intelligence, who
manage pretty comfortably, thank you, on the living the world owes
them."
"Sally Manvers!" cried the Southern girl, scandalised, "what a way to
talk!"
"Oh, _all_ right," said the other indifferently. "Where's Mary
Warden?"
"Lyric Hall-rehearsing."
"Lucky Mary!"
Lucy Spode looked up in astonishment. "Lucky!" she protested; "dancing
till she's ready to drop, in this awful heat, and no pay for
rehearsals!"
"All the same," Sally contended, "she's got some chance, some right to
hope for better things. She's an understudy, and her principal might
fall ill--or something. That's better than marrying a man you don't
care for--or clerking at Huckster's for seven dollars a week."
"Cat," said Miss Spode dispassionately. "Who's been mussing your fur?"
"Life."
The steel pen was poised again while Lucy Spode surveyed Sally Manvers
suspiciously.
"What do you mean--life?" she demanded.
"This sort of thing." Sally waved a comprehensive hand. "Living here,
in this hole, and most of the time not even able to pay my share of
the rent; slaving for a dollar a day, and losing part of that in
unjust fines; walking to and from the store to save car fare; eating
the sort of food we do eat; never having pretty clothes or pleasures
of any sort. I don't call this a life!"
"You've got indigestion," Miss Spade diagnosed shrewdly. "I'll bet two
bits you've been eating napoleons again."
"I have got indigestion, but it's thanks only to being fed up
with existence--the kind we lead, at least. I want something better."
"The vote, perhaps?"
"For two cents I'd throw something at you."
The artist uncoiled her legs, stuck the pen in her hair, set the
ink-bottle down on the floor, sighed, and, lifting the drawing-board,
held it at arm's length, studying her work through narrowed eyelids.
"Then it must be a man," she concluded absently. "When a woman of
twenty-seven wants something and doesn't know what it is, it's either
the vote or a man."
"Oh, shut up."
"With man an odds-on favourite in the betting." Miss Spode laid the
board aside with a "Thank goodness, that's finished!" and, rising,
stretched her cramped limbs. "What I'd like to know," she persisted,
"is whether it's man abstract or a man concrete."
Sally laughed bitterly. "Take a good look at me, dear--as an exhibit,
not as a friend--and tell me honestly whether any man worth having
would glance twice at me."
"You can be pretty enough," Miss Spade returned seriously, "when you
want to take the trouble--"
"But I don't--ever."
"The more fool you."
"What's the use--on seven a week? What's the good of being pretty in
rags like these? It only gets a girl in wrong. I don't care how
fetching I might make myself seem--"
"But you ought to."
"Look here; do you know how a reporter would describe me?"
"Of course; 'respectable working girl.'"
"Well, then, men worth while don't run after 'respectable working
girls'; they leave that to things who wear 'Modish Men's
Clothing'--with braided cuffs and pockets slashed on the bias!--and
stand smirking on corners we have to pass going home. Do you think I'd
do my hair becomingly, and--and all that--to attract such creatures?"
"So it's abstract man. Thought so!"
"It's starvation, that's what it is. I'm sick for want of what other
girls get without asking--pretty clothes and--and all that sort of
thing."
"Meaning," the artist interpreted gravely, "love."
"Well," Sally demanded, defiant, "why not?"
"Why not indeed?" Lucy returned obliquely, wandering round the studio
and collecting various articles of wearing-apparel toward her
appearance in public.
"I'm twenty-seven," Miss Manvers declared mutinously. "I'll never be
younger--I want to be loved before I'm old!"
She paused, viewed with reassuring amusement Lucy's countenance of
perplexity, and laughed again.
"I've had ten years of independence; and what has it brought me? The
reward of virtue: that swaybacked couch for my bed, Uneeda biscuit for
my bread, and for salt--tears of envy!"
"Virtue is its own reward," Lucy enunciated severely.
"Virtue is its only reward, you mean!"
"You don't talk fit to eat."
"You know what I mean. Only mental bankrupts go to the devil because
they're hungry. I'm less bothered about keeping body and soul together
--Huckster's seven a week does that after a fashion--than about
keeping soul and mind together."
"It sounds reasonable."
"I'm desperate, I tell you! And there's more than one resort of
desperation for a girl of intelligence."
"As, for instance-"
"Well--you've named one."
"Man?"
"That's the animal's first name."
"But you've just pointed out, a successful campaign demands a
wardrobe."
"Even that can be had if one's unscrupulous enough."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"To seek happiness where I can find it. I'm game for anything. I'm
'north of fifty-three'!"
"You're _what_?"
"Have you forgotten the 'Rhyme of the Three Sealers'? 'There's never a
law of God or man runs north of fifty-three'! Well, the age of
twenty-seven is a woman's fifty-three, north latitude--at least, it is
if she's unmarried--time to jettison scruples, morals, regard for the
conventions, and hoist the black flag of social piracy!"
"In plain language, you think the hour has struck to doll yourself up
like a man-trap. What?"
"Yes--and hang the expense!"
"By all means, hang it. But where? It's a case of cash or credit; the
first you haven't got, and I don't see your visible means of
supporting a charge-account at Altman's."
"There are ways," Sally insisted darkly.
"You can't mean you'd do anything dishonest--"
"I'd do _anything_. Look at all the people in high places who began as
nothing more nor less than adventurers. Nobody's fussing about how
they got their money. It's a sin to be poor nowadays, but the sin of
sins is to stay poor!"
A moment of silence followed this pronouncement; then Miss Spode
observed pensively:
"Something's happened to you to-day, Sally. What is it? You haven't
been--"
"Fired again'? Not exactly. Just laid off indefinitely--that's all.
With good luck I may get my job back next September."
"Oh, but honey!" Lucy exclaimed, crossing to drop a hand on Sally's
shoulder: "I am sorry!"
"Of course you are," Sally returned stonily. "But you needn't be. I'm
not going to let this make things any harder for you and Mary Warden."
"How perfectly mean! You know I wasn't thinking anything like that!"
"Yes, dear, I do know it." In sudden contrition, Sally caught the
other girl's hand and laid her cheek transiently against it. "What I
meant to make clear was"--she faltered momentarily--"I've made up my
mind I'm a Jonah, and the only decent thing for me to do is to quit
you both, Lucy, my dear!"
She ended on a round note of determination rather than of defiance,
and endured calmly, if with a slightly self-conscious smile, the
distressed look of her companion.
"Don't be silly!" this last retorted, pulling herself together. "You
know you're welcome--"
"Of course I do. All the same, I'm not taking any more, thanks."
"But it's only a question of time. If you can't wait for Huckster's to
take you on again, Mary and I can easily keep things going until you
find another job."
"But that wouldn't be fair!"
"What wouldn't be fair?"
"To sponge on you two under false pretences." "False pretences!" Lucy
iterated blankly.
"I was laid off last Saturday. I didn't say anything, but I've been
looking for something else ever since--and this is Wednesday, and I'm
through. I'm sick and tired. I've got just as much right as anybody to
live on society, and that's what I'm going to do from now on!"
Miss Spode lowered a cloth skirt over her head and blouse before
pursuing. "But what I can't understand is how--assuming you're in
earnest--"
"Deadly earnest!" Sally declared.
"--and mean to go through with this--how you think you'll get a start
without doing something downright wrong."
"It wouldn't be fair to tempt me the way I feel to-day."
"There's only one thing," Miss Spode announced, adjusting her hat,
"that prevents me from speaking to a cop about you: I know you're a
fraud. You couldn't do anything dishonourable to save you."
"Oh, couldn't I!" Sally returned ominously. "You wait and see!"
"Well, well," said the other indulgently, "have it your own way.
Hooray for crime! But if I stop here listening to you preach
anarchy I'll be late for Sammy. So I'm off." Pausing in the doorway,
she looked back with just a trace of doubt colouring her regard. "Do
try to brace up and be sensible, honey. I'm worried about leaving you
alone with all these blue devils."
"You needn't be. I can take care of myself--"
"Well, promise to do nothing rash before I come home."
"Promises made for keeps are specifically prohibited by article nine
of the Social Pirate's Letters of Marque. But I don't mind telling you
the chances are you'll find me on the roof when you get back, unless
this heat lets up. I'm going up now; this place is simply
suffocating!"
But her smile grew dim as she resigned herself to an evening whose
loneliness promised to be unbroken; that faint flush faded which had
crept into her cheeks in the course of her half-whimsical,
half-serious harangue; she looked once more what life had made her--a
work-worn shop-girl, of lack-lustre charm, on the verge of prematurely
middle-aged, hopeless spinsterhood.
Another six months of this life would break her, body and spirit,
beyond repair.
Her eyes, that ranged the confines of those mean quarters, darkened
quickly with their expression of jaded discontent.
Another six months? She felt as if she could not suffer another six
hours. . . .
After a time she rose and moved languidly out into the hall, from
which an iron ladder led up through a scuttle to the roof, the refuge
and retreat of the studio's tenants on those breathless, interminable
summer nights when their quarters were unendurably stuffy. Here they
were free to lounge at ease, _en deshabille_; neither the dressmaker
nor the teacher of voice-production ever troubled their privacy, and
seldom did other figures appear on any of the roofs which ran to the
Park Avenue corner on an exact plane broken only by low dividing walls
and chimney-stacks.
Three chairs of the steamer type, all maimed, comprised the furniture
of this roof-garden, with (by way of local colour) on one of the
copings a row of four red clay flower-pots filled with sun-baked dust
from which gnarled and rusty stalks thrust themselves up like withered
elfin limbs.
Selecting the soundest chair, Sally dragged it into the shadow cast by
the hood of the studio top-light, and settling down with her feet on
the adjacent coping, closed her eyes and sought to relax from her
temper of high, almost hysterical nervous tension.
Thoughts bred of her talk with Lucy for a time distracted her,
blending into incoherent essays at imaginative adventures staged in
the homes and parks of the wealthy, as pictured by the sycophantic
fashion magazine and cast with the people of its gallery of
photographs--sublimely smart women in frocks of marvellous
inspiration, and polo-playing, motor-driving, clothes-mad men of an
insouciance appalling.
On the edge of unconsciousness she said aloud, but without knowing
that she spoke, three words.
These were: "Charmeuse . . . Paquin . . . Bride . . ."
And then she slept; her pallid face upturned to that high-arched sky
of brass, from which light and heat beat down in brutal waves, she
slept the sleep of exhaustion, deep and heavy; dark and stupefying
sleep possessed her utterly, as overpowering and obliterating as
though induced by drugs.