The two hundred and fifty--less ten per cent--which an imaginary Mrs.
Beamish had paid for the pleasure of not hearing Cassy sing, transported
the girl who was not given to transports. These subsiding, she viewed
the matter from its business aspect. She needed a frock, a wrap, a hat,
gloves, shoes and certain things that are nowhere visible except in
advertisements, shop-windows and extreme privacy. Also, her hair
required tralalaing. Meanwhile, first and foremost, Lennox must be paid.
The subsidy was not too much by a penny. These considerations occupied
but an instant.
"When is it?" she asked the Tamburini, who, a moment before, had
dumbfounded her with the money.
"When is what?" inquired the ex-star who already had forgotten Mrs.
Beamish.
"Why, the concert!"
Carlotta Tamburini was dressed like a fat idol, in silk and false
pearls. There the idolatry ceased. In her hand was an umbrella and on
her head a hat of rose-leaves which a black topknot surmounted. About
her shoulders was a feather boa. It seemed a bit mangy. Seated on
Cassy's bed she looked at a window that gave on a wall. Cassy was
standing. Behind Cassy was a door which the extinguished light had
closed. Beyond, in the living-room, was the marquis. Anything that he
did not hear would not hurt him.
"Oh, she'll let us know."
"What sort of a catamount is she?"
At that the former prima donna's imagination balked. But she got
something out. "Nice enough. What do you care?"
"I hate all those snobs."
"So do I," said the Tamburini, who worshipped the breed even when
non-existent. "But don't go and include him. If it hadn't been for
him----"
"Was he with her?"
"You ought to have heard the way he went on about you. She said: 'Why,
Monty, I do believe you'd like to marry her.'"
Cassy's mouth twitched as she munched it. "She presumed to say that!
She's an insolent beast."
"He shut her up, I can tell you. He said if he got on his knees, you
wouldn't dust your feet on him."
"That jackanapes! I should say not!"
"You might say worse. Take the Metro. You're spat on if you're down and
spat at if you're up. A dog's own life." Lifting her voice, the fat
woman sang: "Croyez-moi car j'ai passe par la."
"What has that to do with it?"
Nothing whatever, the Tamburini truthfully reflected but omitted to say
so. Paliser, in producing Mrs. Beamish, had also produced the programme.
With both was a cheque. With the cheque was the assurance of another and
a bigger one. She had only to earn it. To earn it she had only to follow
the programme. The poor soul was trying to. The job was not easy. Cassy
was skittish. A pull on the rein and she would kick the apple-cart over.
Femininely she discounted it all. Cassy was not worth the time, the
trouble, particularly the careful handling. There were girls in plenty,
quite as good-looking, who, without stopping to count two, or even one,
would jump at it. But there you were! Paliser did not want partridges
that flew broiled into his mouth. A true sportsman, he liked to snare
the bird. The feminine in her understood that also. Besides it was all
grist for her mill. But the grist was uphill, and if the noble marquis
got so much as an inkling of it, he was just the sort of damn fool to
whip out his sword-cane and run her through. The honour of the
Casa-Evora, what? Yet, being on the job, she buckled to it.
"What will you get, dearie?"
Cassy sat down. Her previous ruminations returned. Escorting them was a
vision of a baronial castle. In the hall, a guest-book in which you
wrote your name. A squad of lackeys that showed you into a suite of
salons. Rugs on which there was peace; sofas on which there was ease;
etageres on which there were reveries. Nothing else. No cupboards hung
with confections. No models sailing in and out. Nothing so commercial as
anything for sale. Nothing but patrician repose and the chatelaine--a
duchess disguised as a dressmaker--who might, or might not, ask you
upstairs.
In war time at that! Though, it is true, Congress had only just declared
it.
But, Cassy reflected, two hundred and fifty, with Lennox deducted and
less ten per cent, would not take her as far as the drawbridge. The
fleeting vision of the castle passed, replaced by the bargain seductions
of department-stores.
Fingering the money, she said: "Where does this person live? She ought
to send a taxi."
"Certamente," replied the fat woman, lapsing, as she occasionally did
lapse, into the easy Italian of the lyric stage. "She certainly will."
Cassy jumped up. "Well, then, you come along while I take a look about.
Afterward we will have lunch. I'll eat, you can watch me and I'll tell
you how it tastes. There's the telephone!"
Cassy opened the door, went out into the narrow and shadowy hall and
took the receiver.
"Yes? Oh! None the better for the asking. To-night? Impossible.
To-morrow? Perhaps. Good-bye."
"Who was that?" the noble marquis called from the room beyond.
"An imbecile who wants me to dine and go to the opera."
"Not that Paliser?"
Cassy, poking her head in at him, threw him a kiss and returned to the
Tamburini with whom, a little later, she was praying among the
worshippers that thread the sacred and silent way where Broadway and
Sixth Avenue meet.
In an adjacent basilica, the atmosphere charged with pious emanations,
with envy, malice, greed and all other charitableness, choked the girl.
But at last the holy rites were ended. To the voluntary of $109.99, she
passed into the peace of Herald Square where the ex-diva swayed, stopped
and holding her umbrella as one holds a guitar, looked hopelessly and
helplessly about.
"You're not preparing to serenade the Elevated?" Cassy bawled in her
ear.
In the slam-bang of trains and the metallic howls of surface cars that
herded and volplaned about them, the fat lady, now apparently gone mad,
was gesticulating insanely. Yet she was but indicating, or trying to
indicate, the relative refuge of a side street in which there was a
cook-shop.
Then, presently, after all the dangers that may be avoided in remaining
at home, and supplied with such delights as clam fritters offer, she
savorously remarked: "I hope I am not going to be sick."
The charm of scented streets, the sedatives of shopping, the joy of
lightsome fritters, these things, combined with the job, the unearned
cheque and the fear of losing both, made her ghastly.