_At the third gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the precious
stones that adorn her neck_....
I
Alfred Stone spat bitterly on the floor of his bedroom--which was also
his living-room and library. His cigarette tasted like toasted rag, and
in his mouth there was scum. Brown, brown and yellow, he told himself.
This boozing till all hours in the morning must be stopped. A hard
night last night down at Lüchow's, but the crowd left there at half
past one when they couldn't get anything more and went over to Andy's
on Second Avenue and played poker-dice till six. No wonder I feel
rotten, said Stone. It was past midday. He swallowed a cup of strong
tea which he made with trembling hands. He had a concert to "cover,"
a concert at Mendelssohn Hall, but first he must go to his office at
the "Daily Chanticleer." He looked at his image in the glass. His skin
was dingy, discolored, his eyes unnaturally dilated. A hard night and
a hard face. He lighted a cigarette. Tea and tobacco soon steadied his
nerves. He was in a moody humour. What's the use of anything? was its
keynote. The bookmakers had hit him hard the day before; hence the
drinking bout with a gang of chaps for whom he didn't care a rap. Ulick
had been with them at the start, had eaten a hearty dinner, but, as
usual, dodged away when the heavy drinking began. Smart Ulick. But a
bloody blighter when it came to sticking. However, I can't blame him,
philosophically added Stone. Ulick doesn't drink or smoke. Why should
he tag after a band of thirsty ruffians like ours. He's girl-mad,
that's what he is. And why the sudden interest in Easter Brandès?
Her name gave him a new point of departure. That young woman was too
shrewd by half. Too ambitious, uncannily so. The soul of a pawnbroker,
he had accused her of having. Young, not bad looking--he was critical
this day--but coldly selfish; what's worse, she didn't mind letting you
see how indifferent she was.
She would make a man run himself to death and take it for granted. But
he was through. I bring her to the Cosmopolitaine, introduce her to
the right set, and she seems to think it only natural. Not a word of
thanks, if you please. She doesn't mind that stinker Lapoul messing
over her, never turns a hair. And yesterday I take her to Ash, and
because she hears some wholesome truths she vents her spite on me at
dinner last night. What do you think of it? In the violence of his
outraged dignity Stone left the table and sauntered to the window. Ugh!
he groaned. It was raining and the prospect of going out to listen to
a dull piano-recital--or was it some screecher of a soprano--gave him
the blues worse than ever. What a rotten life, he meditated. I feel
like a chicken with the pip. Oh, Lord, how long? Well, Frida Ash, the
good old girl, certainly did lay down the law to Easter. A promising
career. But work, work like a galley-slave for at least four years;
maybe five. I'll do it, cries Easter. A bargain, says Frida. Easter
gets two or three lessons a week and in return is to be accompanist for
Ash. That's a nice job, I don't think. Play accompaniments all day for
a set of imbecile amateurs. But what can she do? She has no money. She
is too chilly to earn any by approved horizontal methods.
He puffed a fresh cigarette. Am I fond of the girl? he asked himself.
No, not by a long shot, but she will be a fine morsel for some lucky
chap--with money. Oh yes lashins' and lavins' of money she'll want.
What a curious bird she is, just like Invern. She tried to pump me
about him. Is she mashed on him? Who knows? I fancy the lady didn't
much like vacating his rooms. She asked me, with such a funny look
in her eye: "How is it your friend is in town, lecturing at the
Conservatoire, and all that. Yet he doesn't live in his own apartment?"
And what a thunder-cloud expression she wore when I carelessly
explained: "Oh you must know, Ulick is a bit of a runabout. I suppose
he has something new on his staff. He usually disappears at such
times, till the period of disillusionment; then he returns to the
home-nest, pale but pious. He's a queer bird also, is Ulick." Aha! the
girl positively became discontented. I have to laugh. No, she won't
do for me. Her eyes are too secret, too calculating, and her ears too
tiny--but they are pretty ears all the same. Heigho! I'll dress and go
to my little hell hall. The man who invented musical criticism should
have been evirated. Ha! that's a good word, evirated! I'll use it in
my notice tomorrow. Herr Slopstein should be evirated for the manner in
which he played Beethoven....