Through muddy dreams he struggled into half-consciousness. He fought
with naked spectres for the possession of Mona. There were centaurs
but they battled among themselves. He ran through endless vistas of
magnificent halls, as full of flowers as a hothouse, and as he ran,
himself naked, the flowers became alluring nude women, each with a
pie and gluttonously eating. It was a nightmare full of mare's nests.
Nothing happened, yet every moment was fraught with tragedy--the
tragedy of indigestion. Ulick struggled. He put out a hand. It touched
human flesh, a face, a nose. His chest was oppressed by a strange
weight. Something living lay across him, the owner of the face. He
could feel regular breathing. Releasing an arm he rubbed his eyes
trying hard to locate himself. Who the woman so closely embracing
him? A woman without peradventure of a doubt. It was not the first
time that he had awakened in the company of a stranger; toujours la
femme! Such happenings are not unusual in the life of adventurous
youth. If he had been a drinking man he could have understood his
slippery memory. Drinking? Wine? There was a distinct scent of stale
alcohol about him, and then he realized that it was the hot breath
of Dora. He gently lifted her head and placed it on the pillow. She
murmured, nothing intelligible. Ulick greatly desired to know the
time, greatly desired to bathe, dress and escape. It is an instinct
of a healthy animal that as soon as it has coupled with its female it
hastens away to sleep elsewhere. Homo sapiens invented affection, and
then followed sentimentality. He got out of bed without disturbing
the girl. The room was in semi-obscurity. Tip-toeing, he reached one
of the heavily-curtained windows. Peeping out he saw that it must be
midday, or later. What to do? He tried several door-knobs, finally
found himself in a bath-room where he speedily switched on light.
His clock told him a quarter past eleven, but it had run down. Some
one tried the door and asked: "Are you up dearie? What time is it, I
wonder? Oh! my poor head! I must have a cup of tea or I'll go crazy."
Dearie! It was the classic phrase in all its perfection, consecrated by
the generations of women, thought Ulick, and he called out: "All right,
Dora I'll be with you in two minutes."
But if he was in prime condition after a cold dip and a rub, his lady
friend was not. The dainty Dora of the bacchanale had given place to
a girl with puffy eyelids, discoloured complexion, bloated cheeks,
sagging mouth, bad breath and tarnished glance. She was suffering,
and hardly took time to twist her abundant hair into shape. Withal,
a charming creature, as she stood in the daylight before her glass.
An expression of discontent, bred of late hours and dissipation
was contradicted by her young eyes, which incessantly smiled. She
couldn't have been more than eighteen and her figure was nubile in
its firm flesh and flowing contours. Decidedly a treasure-trove for
an erotic man. Ulick went to her and she met him half-way. They
embraced so desperately that she cried: "You are such a dear, you are
such a man!" And again they made the eternal gesture which mankind
shares in common with his simian cousins at the Zoo or of the jungle.
Youth must have its fling and the almighty has set his seal upon the
multiplication of the species. And youth is better so employed than
killing, or swindling, or guzzling, believed Ulick. Dora and Ulick
were now thoroughly satisfied with one another and they made room in
their consciousness for the play of a still more powerful instinct than
reproduction. They were both hungry at the same time. Dora declared
her headache vanished; Ulick, glad of the news, nevertheless wished
she wouldn't address him with the inevitable "dearie." It sounded as
naked as a cornet solo, this familiar appellation of the bordel. How
unoriginal is man, how little he changes with the ages. In every tongue
since the Babel scandal there is the equivalent of "dearie"; only, it
is the property, this vocable, of the women of whom Dante wrote: "As
the rill that runs from Bulicamé, to be portioned out among the sinful
women...." Ulick felt relieved when breakfast was announced.
Dora, thanks to her invincible youth, had partly recovered. Last
night was a thousand years ago for her; only the present existed.
Eternity is now. She wore a morning-gown as pretty as herself. And
she was pretty; in his eyes she kept growing prettier each time he
looked at her. He said so. She rushed round the table to kiss him. A
tempestuous temperament. The breakfast-room was also the living-room.
It was in a tasteful key, the furnishing banal. The view gave on a
sea of roofs and spires. The park, with its sunburnt foliage, even
then a green that had decayed for want of proper soil, lay across the
west prospect. Dora informed him that the apartment was in the tallest
building on upper Lexington Avenue. He believed her. There was one
balcony, and of stone. Together they stood upon it smoking their first
cigarette. Both were in an expansive mood. Strong tea, buttered toast
and marmalade unloosed their tongues. Before they left the room she
had rung and another pretty girl entered. She was a quadroon, lovely
of hair, complexion, and with a profile that would not have been out
of place on an antique medal. Ulick, who Paris born and bred, had no
"democratic" prejudices on the score of colour, admiringly stared at
the girl as she noiselessly went about her task. Dora didn't like his
look. "I see," she primly remarked, "you for the black-and-tan!" His
inquiring expression, for he didn't understand, caused her to jerk
her head in the direction of the maid. "I mean the slavey." "Oh!" he
carelessly confessed, "I had a little chocolate-coloured mistress from
Mauritius when I lived in Paris, and she wasn't half as pretty as this
girl. Since Baudelaire set the fashion young French poets and artists
have gone in for dusky concubines. I hear that at the time there was
such a demand that the Isle de France was positively emptied of those
young women. You know, Dora, Manet painted a marvellous negress in
his Olympe, the slim, nude courtesan with the depraved eyes in the
Luxembourg. It ought to be in the Louvre--perhaps it will be some day--"
Dora pouted. "I don't care a snap for your old poets and their nigger
brides. Give me a cigarette. Be nice to me. Can't you cuddle me a
little bit?" Perfect, said he, mentally. The type, he reasoned, is
confined to no particular race. Customs differ; women, never. He became
impatient. He mentioned an afternoon engagement at 5 o'clock. It must
be all that now, and he kissed Dora good-bye. She was nettled. "You are
just a man, after all. You are all alike as peas in a pod. I expected
you to take me out to dinner, then to some show. What a dull night
I've before me." He was sorry. "I'll be back by seven," he assured
her, and she gave a little cry of mingled joy and triumph. "You are
a dear, Ulick. I'll be ready for you. Change your clothes. You look a
sight in those togs." "Thanks--one reason why I must get down town.
Fresh linen, my love." "Where do you live?" He gave the Utopian Club
address. He didn't like women to track him home; unless it were Easter
or Mona. What were those two girls doing now? And why did he dream of
Mona Milton, Mona of all girls, instead of Easter--or Dora? Dreams are
silly, meaningless, and you can't rationalize them. He started to go,
when Dora significantly said: "Don't forget the mantelpiece." For the
second time that afternoon he was puzzled. "The mantelpiece," he echoed
and searched for one with his eyes. Dora was not embarrassed. "The
rent, angel-child, must be punctually paid on the first of the month.
Our landlord is a terror. This apartment house is filled with well kept
ladies. No questions are asked. The elevator runs all night. We don't
bother with the police. So, my sweet laddybuck plank down the mazuma,
or must I make a noise like a dollar-mark for this stupid young chap
from Paris?" He understood. He opened his wallet and gave her a handful
of notes; thereat she ecstatically screamed and hugged him. He escaped.