|YOU are to picture Washington Square at the beginning of June. Very
early in the morning--to be accurate, eight-fifty. Without the old
bachelor apartment building, fresh green trees, air steaming and
quivering with radiation and evaporation from warm wet asphalt, rumbling
autobusses, endless streams of men and girls hurrying eastward and
northward to the day's work or turning into the commercial-looking
University building at our right, and hard at it, the inevitable hurdy
gurdy; within, seventh floor front, large dim studio, Hy Lowe buttoning
his collar and singing lustily--
"I want si-_imp_-athee,
Si-_imp_-athee, just _symp_-ah-thee!”
The collar buttoned, Hy, still roaring, clasped an imaginary partner
to his breast and deftly executed the bafflingly simple step of the
hesitation waltz over which New York was at the moment, as Hy would
put it, dippy. Hy's eyes were heavy and red and decorated with the dark
circles of tradition, but his feet moved lightly, blithely. Hy could
dance on his own tombstone--and he would dance well.
At one of the two front windows Henry Bates, of _The Courier_, otherwise
the Worm, in striped, buttonless pajamas caught across the chest with
a safety-pin, gazed down at the Square while feeling absently along the
sill for the cream bottle.
The third member of our little group of bachelors, Peter Ericson Mann,
was away; down at Atlantic City, working on something. Also nursing a
broken heart. For everybody knew now that he and Sue Wilde were not to
be married.
The desk served as breakfast table; an old newspaper as cloth. There
were flaked cereal in bowls, coffee from the percolator on the bookcase,
rolls from a paper sack.
The Worm lingered over his coffee. Hy gulped his, glancing frequently at
his watch, propped against the inkstand.
“Oh,” observed the Worm, pausing in his task of cleaning his pipe with a
letter opener, “I nearly forgot. A lady called up. While you were in the
hath tub.”
“This morning?” Hy's face went discreetly blank.
“Yes, Miss--Miss--sounded like Banana.”
“Miss Sorana.” Hy's eyelids fluttered an instant. Then he lit a
cigarette and was again his lightly imperturbable self. “What an ungodly
hour!” he murmured, “for Silvia, of all girls. But she knows she mustn't
call me at the office.”
The Worm regarded his roommate with discerning, mildly humorous eyes.
“Who, may I ask, is Silvia? And what is she?”
Hy missed the allusion. “If _The Evening Earth_ were ever to come into
possession of my recent letters which I devoutly hope and trust they
won't”--Hy staged a shudder--“they would undoubtedly refer to her as 'an
actress.' Just like that. An actress.”
“Hm!” mused the Worm, “it's in writing already, eh!”
Hy shrugged his shoulders. “The old world has to go round,” said he.
Then his eyes grew dreamy. “But, my boy, my boy! You should see her--the
darling of the gods! Absolutely the darling of the gods! Met her at the
Grand Roof. Good lord! figured in cold calendar arithmetic, it isn't
eight days. But then, they say eternity is but a moment.”
“A dancing case?” queried the Worm.
Hy nodded. “After ten steps, my son, we knew! Absolutely knew! She knew.
I knew. We were helpless--it had to be.”
At this point Hy pocketed his watch and settled back to smoke
comfortably. He always bolted his breakfast by the watch; he always
chatted or read the paper afterward; he was always late at the office.
The Worm was studying him quizzically. “Hy,” he said, “how do you do
it?”
“Do what?” queried Hy, struggling with a smile of self-conscious
elation.
“Oh, come! You know. This!” The Worm gestured inclusively with his pipe.
“Ten days ago it was that Hilda Hansen person from Wisconsin. Two weeks
before that--”
Hy raised his hand. “Go easy with the dead past, my son.”
The Worm pressed on. “Morally, ethically, you are doubtless open to
criticism. As are the rest of us. That is neither here nor there. What
I want to know is, how do you do it? You're not beautiful. You're not
witty--though the younger among 'em might think you were, for the first
few hours. But the ladies, God bless 'em!--overlooking many men
of character and charm, overlooking even myself--come after you by
platoons, regiments, brigades. They fairly break in your door. What is
it? How do you do it?”
“It's a gift,” said Hy cheerily, “plus experience.”
The Worm was slowly shaking his head. “It's not experience,” he said.
“That's a factor, but that's not it. You hit it the first time. It's a
gift--perhaps plus eyelashes.”
“But, my boy, I sometimes fail. Take the case you were about
to mention--Betty Deane. I regard Betty as my most notable
miscalculation--my Dardanelles.”
“Not for a minute, Hy. As I've heard the story, Betty was afraid of
you, ran away, married in a panic. She, a self-expresser of the
self-expressers, a seeker of the Newest Freedom, marries a small
standpatter who makes gas engines. To escape your hypnotic influence.
No--I can't concede it. That, sir, was a tribute to your prowess, no
less.”
Hy assumed an expression of modesty. “If you know all about it, why
ask me? I don't know. A man like me, reasonably young, reasonably
hardworking, reasonably susceptible--well, good lord! I need the
feminine--”
“I'm not puzzled about the demand,” said the Worm, “but the supply.”
“Oh, come! There aren't so many. I did have that little flare-tip with
Betty. She promised to go away with me on the night boat. She didn't
turn up; I took that trip alone.”
“It got as far as that, eh?”
“It did. Whatever her reasons she skipped back to her home town and
married the maker of gas engines. The Hilda Hansen matter caught me on
the rebound. There couldn't ever have been anything in that, anyway. The
girl's a leaner. Hasn't even a protective crust. Some kind uncle ought
to take her and her little wall-paper designs back to Wisconsin. But
this is--different!” He fumbled rather excitedly in his pocket and
produced a letter--pages and pages of it, closely written m a nervous
hand that was distinguished mainly by unusually heavy down strokes of
a stub pen. He glanced eagerly through it, coloring as his eyes fell on
this phrase and that. “You know, I'd almost like to read you a little of
it. Damn it, the girl's got something--courage, fire, personality! She's
perfectly wild--a pagan woman! She's--”
The Worm raised an arresting pipe. “Don't,” he said dryly. “Never do
that! Besides, your defense, while fairly plausible, accounts for only
about three months of your life.”
Slightly crestfallen, Hy read on in silence. Then he turned back and
started at the beginning. Finally, looking up and catching the Worm's
interested, critical eyes on him, he stuffed the document back into his
pocket, lit a new cigarette, got up, found his hat and stick, stood a
moment in moody silence, sighed deeply and went out.
The telephone rang. As the Worm drew the instrument toward him and
lifted the receiver the door opened and Hy came charging back.
The voice was feminine. “Is Mr. Lowe there?” it said.
“Gimme that phone!” breathed Hy, reaching for it.
The Worm swung out of his reach. “No,” he said into the transmitter,
“he's gone out. Just a moment ago. Would you like to leave any message?”
And dodging behind the desk, he grinned at Hy.
That young man was speechless.
“Who did you say?” Thus the Worm into the telephone. “Mrs. Bixbee?”
He spoke swiftly to Hy. “It's funny. I've heard the voice. But Mrs.
Bixbee!” Then into the telephone. “Yes, this is Mr. Bates. Oh, you were
Betty Deane? Yes, indeed! Wait a moment. I think he has just come in
again. I'll call him.”
But at that name Hy bolted. The door slammed after him. The Worm could
hear him running along the outer corridor and down the stairs. He had
not stopped to ring for the elevator.
“No,” said the Worm now unblushingly, “I was mistaken. He isn't here.
That was the floor maid.” As he pushed the instrument back on the desk,
he sighed and shook his head. “That's it,” he said aloud, with humility.
“It's a gift.”