Mama used to call papa that when she was angry with him.
"Well," said Lolly, "I'm the bona-fide Bohemian article. My family
think I'm the limit. What do you think?"
"I think you are trying to shock me," I said.
"Well, have I?"
"No, not a bit."
"Then you're the only girl in the house I haven't," she said with
relish. "You know, I'm in pretty bad here, a sore spot in the body
politic. Out I'd go this blessed minute if it wasn't for the fact that
they're all afraid of me--afraid I'll show 'em up scorchingly."
"Would you do that?" I asked.
"Watch me!" said Lolly, laughing.
The lights went out, and then she swore. She had to scramble about on
the bed to find her cigarettes. When she was going out, she said:
"Oh, by the way, if you like, I'll give you a card to a fellow out in
the stock-yards. You go out there to-morrow and see him. He may have
something for you."
Have I, I wonder, in this first rough picture of Lolly done her an
injustice? If so, I hasten to change the effect. Lolly was a true
adventurer; I dare not say adventuress, for that has a nasty sound. I
wonder why, when adventurer sounds all right. Though at heart she was
pure gold, though her natural instincts were refined and sweet, she
took a certain reckless pleasure in, as it were, dancing along through
life with a mocking mask held ever before her. For instance, she took
an almost diabolic delight in painting herself in black colors. She
would drawl off one startling story after another about herself as with
half-closed eyes, through the smoke, she watched my face to judge of
the effect of her recital. Sometimes she would laugh heartily at the
end of her confidences, and then again she would solemnly assert that
every word was true.
The morning after her first visit she woke me up early and, although
Estelle grumbled, came airily into our room and got into bed with me.
A queer sort of antagonism existed between Lolly and Estelle, which I
never quite understood at the time, though perhaps I do now. Lolly,
with her reckless, handsome stylishness and dash represented the
finished product of what poor Estelle tried to be. To make a crude
sort of comparison, since Estelle herself worked in a clothing house
and used clothing-house figures of speech, it was as if Lolly were a
fine imported model and Estelle the pathetic, home-made attempt at a
copy. She had copied the outlines, but not the subtle little finishing
touches. Lolly, moreover, was acutely, amusedly aware of this, and she
took a wicked and heartless delight in teasing and gibing at Estelle
with words fully as slangy as Estelle's own, but which fairly stung
with their keenness and caustic wit.
I could understand why Estelle hated Lolly, but I never could
understand Lolly's contempt for Estelle. She always dismissed her as
"Trash, Nora, trash!"
So now Estelle turned over in bed and snorted loud and long as Lolly
got into mine.
Lolly said:
"George! how the _hoi-polloi_ do snore!"
Estelle lifted her head from the pillow, to show she was not sleeping,
and, as she would have put it, "petrified" Lolly with one long,
sneering, contemptuous look.
Lolly had come in, in fact, on an errand of mercy toward me, to whom
she had taken a sudden fancy very much reciprocated by me. She said she
wanted me to go out to the stock-yards as early as possible, as she
understood this man she knew there wanted a stenographer right away.
His name, she said, was Fred O'Brien, and she gave me a card which
read, "Miss Laura Hope, the _Inter Ocean_." On the back she had written:
"Introducing Miss Nora Ascough."
I was delighted. It was like having another reference. I asked her
about this Mr. O'Brien. She said, with a smile and significantly, that
she had met him on a recent expedition to the yards in an inquiring
mood for the _Inter Ocean_ in regard to the pigs'-hair department, of
which he was then manager.
"Pigs' hair!"
I had never heard of such a thing, and Lolly burst into one of her
wildest peals of laughter, which made Estelle sit up savagely in bed.
"You'll be the death of me yet," said Lolly.
That was all the explanation she gave me, but all the way to the
stock-yards, and as I was going through them, I kept wondering what on
earth pigs' hair could be. I must say I did not look forward with any
degree of delight to working in the pigs'-hair department.