mincing forward.
“Yes, Florabelle,” said Drew, standing once more before the vanity.
Tai withdrew with backward steps.
“Florabelle” took a small silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently
dusted the bench upon which he suggested that “Madame” rest her slender
form. With much bowing and curtsying, Floyd was now ready to proceed
with his masterful art of transforming this man into a charming hostess.
The beautician was slight, with tiny features. Although he was well on in
years, he looked no more than fifty. “A half century plant,” he had once
called himself. He wore his hair long and dyed it periodically, according
to the fashion. On his feet were patent leather pumps of shining black,
with medium heels. With his frock coat of gray he wore dark trousers.
While engaged in his profession, he affected a long white smock with a
lavender lace handkerchief in the pocket over his heart. His cheeks,
having been recently paraffined, were now symmetrical and would remain
that way for weeks to come, when their contour would again have to be
remodeled.
He fingered Drew’s hair, combing it straight back from the head. The
short locks fell gracefully between his fingers as they discussed the
different styles—dismissing this, then that one until the matter was
decided. Then quickly Floyd began his craft.
“Madame,” he said, “as a privileged acquaintance of long standing, do I
know any of your guests of this evening?”
“Yes, Florabelle,” said Drew, in a soft and gracious tone. “You recall
Beulah. She has been suffering lately with acute indigestion and general
complications. But she’s coming.”
“My _dear_ Madame!” The artist raised his eyes to the ceiling. “_That_
one! _She_ should have retired from society years ago! She is very well
fixed financially, you know, but oh!—she is so tight! I’ll wager she’s
home now dressing her own hair! Imagine! The ends will all be burned, and
there’ll probably be some burns on her neck. It simply makes me shiver!
And she’ll wait until she gets here to-night to use _your_ powder! It’s
not that I care—but I could transform her into a beautiful person. Her
taste is vile—simply vile! And dearie, with _that_ face!—I’d have to work
for hours and hours! As I’ve said before, I don’t care what she does, but
she _could_ be made ravishing!”
Florabelle’s dainty white fingers had been busy at work—shampooing and
rinsing—and were now in the act of combing the hair and turning the soft
ends under.
“What gown has Madame selected to enhance her singular beauty, if I may
ask?” questioned the little hairdresser.
“White velvet, ’Belle. I feel nostalgic this evening,” answered Drew.
“Ah!” cried Florabelle in delight. “Then indeed I have a gorgeous
surprise for you! I have an amazing lotion, greaseless, odorless, which
tints the hair an incredibly lovely white. I used it on Monsieur—” he
bent down and whispered a name into Drew’s ear. “She insisted upon it.
Madame was _very gay_ that evening. It was the first time I had tried the
preparation on any of my exclusive clientele. Madame was wearing a short
velvet jacquette of green over her white velvet gown; and she wore green
rouge on her cheeks and lips in the current Parisian fashion. Dearie,”
the hairdresser put one finger to his lips and took a step backward,
“would you like to be the first to use these tints in America?”
“I should love white hair with the dress,” said Drew thoughtfully. “But
not the green. I prefer to wear a small jacquette of black velvet lined
with red. Make my lips the same shade as the lining.”
“Oh!” cried Florabelle. “You shall be a dream!” And he set to work.
Drew sat quietly, continually admiring himself in the mirror—an
occasional turn of the lip or a raised eyebrow showing approval—amazed
with each glance at the artistry of the man who was transforming him.
Florabelle talked incessantly, constantly gesturing until Madame’s
coiffure was finished.
“Ah, Drewena!” now cried the little hairdresser. “You are complete—so
perfect!” he exclaimed delightedly, finishing off with a touch of perfume
upon the eyebrows and behind the lobes of Drew’s ears.
* * * * *
Drewena walked slowly through the drawing room and critically observed
the fold of the draperies. It was just before twilight and through a
high, oval window crested with stained glass, she idly watched the towers
below her. There were tears in her eyes. The light became softer, barely
touching now the throats of the doves which nested in the eaveless
pinnacles, subduing the irregular flash against their wings. Their
silent, ever-changing motion somehow caused her to think of Martin; and
the recollection of the mannerisms of her friend—that isolate, strange
night in the cocktail lounge—his actions there, sometimes gentle, but
more times cruel, made Drewena close her eyes. Why these tears?—like
those of a younger passion—full of the same anxiety, the same dull anger
at enslavement and desire to escape! She looked into the east, formed
her lips into a smile and turned away. Tying her white satin robe more
closely about her waist, Drewena sat down at the piano, one slim, white
leg against the casing of deep ivory. On each end of the piano was a tall
cathedral taper, lighted. The irradiance was vague under her hands as she
improvised. The melody was reminiscent of Chopin, and again of Debussy.
Drewena consciously built a theme upon their lovely chords, and smiled to
herself as she thought of the semblance of originality attained by other
contemporary plagiarists. As she continued to improvise, Patsy, known as
“Pat” on more sober days, entered the drawing room.
An “English” butler, whose father had been Irish, Patsy was carrying a
small bouquet of black lilies brought from the Malay peninsula at great
trouble by Drew’s florist. Devoid of her usual attire, Patsy was somewhat
ridiculous. Her concave nose and forehead where the toupee failed to
hide the round, bald skull, gave her a strange type of “swish.” Her
upper teeth sagged in the back when she talked, and her bulbous lips had
the appearance of an aging tomato. She wore a little “how-de-do!” of
white lace upon her wig which had become entwined in it. A single wart
of considerable size pushed through the tiny cap which fell at intervals
over her nose for lack of better support. Her black silk skirt was
short, showing the bony protuberance of her knee where once, in a moment
of folly, she had mounted a horse and was promptly unseated, bruised
and flattened. Her blouse was full, barely concealing two lemons she
had taken from the icebox. Altogether, with her wide grin and unhappy
form she was seemingly the most pathetic of creatures. But when Drewena
languidly motioned for silence while she played on, there was an amused
understanding between the servant and mistress as Patsy adjusted the
flowers on one corner of a table where they would catch the reflection of
their darkness in a tall mirror whose frame was a wreath of golden doves
in flight.
* * * * *
In Deane’s living room, Martin stood by the divan examining a
long-trained evening gown of canary yellow. Its pale satin sheen in the
lamplight was unusually luminous against the blur of the couch. Martin
spoke earnestly.
“But I don’t understand, Deane. A guest can’t be just an observer at one
of these private affairs. I’d be clumsy. I wouldn’t fit in and I don’t
see why you want me to go.”
There was a perverse light in Deane’s eyes. She was thinking strangely.
She wondered: _Is he sure, really sure he won’t fit in?_ But aloud she
said, “Drew invited you and that is sufficient reason.”
Martin looked at the dress again.
“Am I supposed to wear that fantastic rig just to satisfy a whim of yours
and Drew’s? I tell you, Deane, the entire situation is repellant to me.”
Again Deane thought in the same odd manner: _It isn’t like him to shy
away from anything. He knows himself so well—is it that he’s afraid?_—she
stopped these thoughts. “It only seems repellant, Martin,” she observed.
“Drew will make things easy.” She bit her lip. “And Carol and Roberts
will be there, too. Why don’t you take it as a joke?” She tried to laugh,
but the effect was so hollow and unusual that Martin turned and put his
arms around her.
“What is really behind this, Deane?” he asked her gently. “Is Drew
attempting a new type of drama, and are you in on it? If it’s a game,
I’ll go along with you.”
“It isn’t a game,” said Deane insistently. “There isn’t anything dark
or mysterious about it. It’s just a costume party—a stag affair, that’s
all.” She avoided his searching gaze.
Martin laughed brutally, the hurt and sickness inside him manifested.
Then he sobered, looked at her steadily for a moment, a faint shine in
his eyes.
“All right,” he said quietly. “What do I do first?...”
After he had taken a bath, he shaved as closely as possible and rubbed
his glowing body with a scent not unpleasant, although he imagined that
he detected the impossible effluvium of man-oil as its base. Next he
pulled on long stockings of a light sun-tan, his lip curling. But the
curious feel of silken underwear and all the intricacies of the garter
belt intrigued him, and he laughed aloud as he fastened his stockings
to it. The artificial breasts were made of soft rubber fiber, of medium
size and cup-shaped in appearance. It was with considerable trouble that
he hooked these objects on, the elastic and stays acting contrary. The
dress went over his head with difficulty, also; but he twisted and pulled
it until it came into place. After he had smoothed out the wrinkles
with his hands and set it square with a few quick jerks he felt more
comfortable—the gown was even cool and good against his belly. So he sat
down with relief and put on the pale yellow satin slippers set aside for
him. When he stood up, however, one ankle bent under the strain of the
high heel. After that he moved more cautiously, trying to remember the
principles of navigation on an icy, rolling deck, and although he lacked
a certain naturalness, he soon walked easily enough.
Deane laughed and clapped her hands when she saw him and seemed herself
again; but in a moment she returned to the grim abstruseness of her
former attitude. She narrowed her eyes, put on an apron, then draped a
towel around his neck to keep from spilling the make-up on his shoulders.
Martin leaned back, closing his eyes in silent despair; while Deane,
testing each shade of lipstick on her hand until she found the right
one, realized that she had never tried so hard with herself. She gave his
lips, which seemed carved, a brilliant color for the artificial light.
“Damn it,” he said.
Deane did not reply. It was unlikely that she heard him, for the same
antagonistic attitude surrounded her; and, too, she was absorbed by her
painstaking job. The blue line of underbeard around the jaw and chin had
to be blocked out; for this, she used a flesh-colored paste, rubbing it
in gently. The rice powder was rachel in shade, made almost the color of
Martin’s skin by the addition of a pinch of ocher. This was carefully
smoothed away. She used no rouge. And so she continued, blending and
examining, until she stepped aside to view her finished handiwork and
exclaimed rather sharply, “Sit up!”
Which Martin did, looking at her with a kind of agitated wonder. But
Deane, seeing only his face—with his gray eyes now turned to green, and
his somewhat melancholy expression softened by women’s devices, ran to
him, fell on her knees and began to weep deeply. At this, Martin lifted
her to him, holding her, trying to kiss her cheeks. But she slipped away
and dried her tears and blew her nose, saying, “It would spoil your looks
and I’ve worked too hard for that.”
He started to put his hand to his head but Deane cried out, “Oh, no!”
For his hair, parted in the middle, had been combed back of the ears
to a point at the base of his neck, where a braid, similar in shade
and texture, had been cleverly attached, wrapped and pinned. His hair
was now the same wheat-like color as his skin; and the cold, precise
line from his head to his shoulders had the essence of that deliberate,
calculated passion which so often appeals to the sensitized, yet physical
individual. When at last he stood up and lit a cigarette, leaning with a
conscious gracefulness upon the piano, Deane went to him and looked up at
him uncertainly. Seeing him stand there in such elegance and strength,
she bitterly regretted the perversity which had driven her to push him
toward this mad adventure. And though her pride rebelled at calling it
off at this late moment, she said rather timidly, “Of course, Martin, you
don’t have to go if you really dislike it so much.”
“What?” he almost shouted, looking at her incredulously. “Well, I’ll be
damned!”
“Oh, hush!” said Deane nervously. “Of course you’re going! I was just
teasing.” But she looked at this man in woman’s clothing and she realized
she had never been so attracted. She watched the long muscles flex in his
arm as he moved his cigarette. A furious desire struck her.
“You must hurry,” she whispered, gritting her teeth. “You will be late.”
Again Martin looked at her steadily, the green glaze covering his eyes.
“I’ll return immediately after the party,” he said, picking up the wrap
she had chosen for him. “Read this—” and he pressed a letter into her
hands and left, unsmiling.
When he had gone, Deane opened the letter with feverish haste and read
it swiftly. Still standing, she threw it across the room, removed her
hairpins and mussed her hair until it was wild. With a sob she flung
herself face down on the divan and worked her body on the pillows until
she screamed. Then she wept until she fell asleep.
* * * * *
Carol arrived at the drag wearing a leopard cape with a high, stiff
collar. There was a single stone in his triple-peaked tiara, filigree
work coiling around the gem. Patsy helped him off with his wrap, glanced
slyly at his rather buxom figure, and announced him in the drawing room
in a falsetto voice.
“Miss Stevens,” cried Patsy, in her unusual pitch.
Drewena hurried forward and put her arms around her guest.
“Carrie!” she exclaimed. “You look simply gorgeous!”
Carrie’s cheeks deepened with pleasure. Her saucer-like eyes gave out a
wet, blue happiness.
“I’m _so_ glad you like me,” she said. “I didn’t want to look tacky.”
“‘Tacky,’ indeed!” said Drewena, for the beauty of Carrie’s gown
astonished her. “_That_,” she continued, looking at the dress, “_is_ a
creation! Where did you find it?”
Carrie’s eyes shone with pride, though at the same time there was
delicacy in the way she modeled the skirt with her hands.
“I didn’t find it, Drewena. I designed it. I made it for next spring,
thinking perhaps I _might_ be a June bride. I planned to do it in white
if the style was attractive.” Carrie looked a little anxious. “Is the
severe line too much for my hips?—they are rather large.”
“Of course not, dear,” answered Drewena. “It is very becoming.”
“Then,” said Carrie, “you _do_ prefer the material to taffeta or crepe.
I’m _so_ glad,” she continued. “Those flouncy things always make me
feel like a middle-aged matron.” She pushed the blonde hair of her
transformation more firmly behind her ears and touched the roll at the
back of her neck.
Drewena marveled at the change in her young friend. How awkward and
lonely Carol had appeared in the stilted, formalized trousers styled
for men! And how charming was this lovely Carrie, away from the stiff
tailoring of masculine attire!
Drewena studied the gown. As she saw it, the waist-line—the Grecian
fashion in which the garment fell into the imperceptible folds of the
long train, had the artless symmetry of certain sculpture. The dress was
without sleeves, close-fitting, with high, pointed breasts, and with
its back cut low, to the waist. Its color was a gentle pink of shaded
salmon that blended into Carrie’s smooth bare arms. There were two golden
bracelets on her wrists and two small bells on the ring-finger of her
left hand. Following the soft curve of her throat was an exquisite,
golden necklace. As she stood and turned in such a manner that her white
back, with a tiny mole on the shoulder could be seen, Drewena put her arm
around her waist, and pulled her aside, where they could talk alone.
Out in the hall, Carrie grasped the arm of her hostess.
“Will Martin be here to-night?” she asked almost shyly.
Drewena frowned.
“I don’t know, my dear,” she said at last, noting the child-like look of
disappointment which appeared on Carrie’s face.
Inside the dressing room, which had been transformed into a powder room
for the guests, a pompous creature was seated at the vanity. “Beulah” was
a retired manufacturer with a great deal of money in the bank, but no
penchant for spending it. In fact, she was known to drive the sharpest
bargain for “trade” of any of her sisters, never carrying more than a
quarter in her pocket when she cruised. Nor did her pick-up have to be
presentable, for she worked the doughnut shift. “They’re all the same,”
she used to say sententiously. “Just throw a sack over it, and shoo it
out before dawn.... And never give them breakfast,” she would caution,
if permitted. “It spoils them.” Whenever the fleet was in, she would go
into retirement. She would lock all her doors and keep her butler on
a kind of sentry duty, not even admitting a hallboy who might have an
idle moment. As far as the fleet was concerned, no one quite understood
Beulah’s strange reaction. But it was established fact that once,
avoiding her usual care, she had sneaked away to the drugstore for a
soda. Intent upon her guzzling, she had failed to notice a sailor who had
sat down close beside her. But upon turning her head and seeing the man
in uniform, Beulah had let out a shriek, her eyeballs had rolled upward
and she had fainted dead away. Some said that doubtless it had been some
frightful experience which had given her this strange allergy. “It must
_simply_ have put her in stitches!” one of her friends had observed....
As for the hallboys, it was true, she never paid them well; but there
were always things to be picked up, and Beulah’s eyes were failing. The
hallboys loved her for this little infirmity, and never took anything
more than they felt was honestly due. Altogether, Beulah was regarded as
a rather queer, but decidedly powerful person in her set; and no young
debutante could expect a successful coming out unless Beulah was behind
her—which she usually was.
Thus Drewena realized the value of this social contact for Carrie if the
young girl was to spend much time in New York.
“You look awfully nice this evening, Beulah,” she said. “What are you
doing out here all alone?”
“Powdering my face like _mad_,” Beulah answered, daintily packing the
rich powder into the sore jaw and chin where she had shaved too closely.
“Those faggots outside are dishing me to death. Just wait till I go in,
though. They’ll stop their cackling!”
Drewena led Carrie to her by the hand.
“Beulah,” she said, “I want you to take Carrie under your wing to-night.
She may not be in New York long and I want her to have a grand evening.
I’ll want her part of the time, when I’m not going the rounds.”
Beulah lifted her sagging, experienced face to Carrie, who stood there,
fluttering slightly. Then the dowager graciously held out both her hands.
“I’ll show you the _best_ people, dearie,” she said. “Just hold on to
your old auntie’s arm and we’ll see if there isn’t some trade in sheep’s
clothing. And by the way,” she added, smiling shrewdly in the sunless
room, “is that little bitch, Kate, going to be here? I’ve made a vow to
do that one! She can’t fool these old professional eyes—tired though they
may be.”
Drewena laughed.
“Yes, Beulah, she’s here. And quite beautiful too, in green. She just got
back from Chili—some kind of an electrical engineering project.”
“‘Project,’ my grandmother!—rest her bones.” Beulah sniffed. “Doing
the Indians again—what she sees in _them_ is beyond me! But the hussy
_is_ interesting.” Beulah swished the bow at her back, spread the wide
skirts of her lavender gown and opened a long black ostrich feather
fan. Breathing deeply, so that her large bust swelled out, she followed
Drewena out of the room, taking Carrie on her arm.
“There she is,” she whispered hoarsely, and the old lady stopped to
glance covetously at Kate.
Kate was dressed in a green velvet gown of a deep jade cast. Her necklace
was of intercircled loops of jade as was her linked green bracelet. The
earrings were slender pendants of the same hue and stone. With this
ensemble she was bound to use a cautious make-up—her skin, tanned by the
flat sun of the Andes, being almost enough. Only a dark red splash across
her lips, as though she had been recklessly eating cherries, seemed a
necessary cosmetic. Her black hair was curled bewitchingly, up from the
forehead and sides. When she saw Beulah, she beckoned wildly and the
green purse which hung from her arm banged against a punchbowl which was
near the tiny bar.
“Common!” someone said in a stage whisper, but Kate only laughed and
crooked her finger at Beulah again, who strode forward with aggressive,
formidable steps, half dragging Carrie.
“Have a drink, darlin’?” asked Kate, looking up at the dowager.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Beulah, in an affected voice. “It’s _so_ sweet
of you to ask me.”
Kate ladled out two drinks. As she handed one to Carrie, she said,
“That’s a lovely gown, honey. Drewena told me you made it yourself. Why
don’t you drop around at my place some time next week and show me how you
do it?”
Beulah coughed slightly and pinched Carrie’s arm.
Kate turned to her with another glassful of punch.
“Here you are, dear,” she said. “It will be good for you.” But she was
thinking, “I’ll bet it’s the first free drink she’s had in months!”
Aloud, Kate spoke again. “And now, darlin’, _do_ have another.”
Beulah nodded graciously, her eyes a little brighter.
Kate thought once more, “You old bitch! I hope you choke on it and get as
blue as blue can be!”
“Kate, dearie,” said Beulah, after her fourth, “there’s just the right
touch of bitters to the bottle—it makes one have a feeling of heavenly
bliss!”
Kate smiled and thought, “You don’t know a good drink from a bad one. You
just take all you can get, and that’s all you know. You might have been
pretty in your day—but your blooming days are past forever.”
At this moment, a splendid creature bore down upon them, all sails set.
She was a broad-shouldered fellow, whose snappy skirts and impudent
coiffure failed to cover her intention.
“Mercy!” she exclaimed. “Just dishing it!”
Kate took a whisky straight and smiled at the “debbie” in a tantalizing
fashion.
“To think,” said Kate, “a moment ago there wasn’t a piece of trade in
sight! I was just hoping.”
The big girl turned around and looked back over her shoulder.
“Oh!” she cried in an obligato, “you New Yorkers _can_ be so bitchy!”
Then she sailed on and rounded the turn to the powder-room.
“Dirt!” said Beulah.
“Tawdry!” exclaimed Carrie.
“From Boston?” asked Beulah.
“No, Baltimore,” answered Kate. “Working up from the bottom in her
father’s steel mill, I believe. That’s where she got the muscles. The
thick head came naturally though.” Kate opened her purse and took out a
small bottle of perfume from which she removed the stopper. Shaking a
few drops of the scent on her fingers, she touched them to her ears and
throat, patting the remaining moisture on the imperceptible beard around
her chin.
Just then, Patsy’s familiar voice announced “Miss Roberts.”
Drewena was standing by the door as the newcomer, somber of face even
through her high, natural coloring, and as Drewena thought, all the more
beautiful because of her stone-like gravity, entered the drawing room;
for, dressed in a cunningly fashioned gown of silver cloth, she looked
more like an impassioned Joan of Arc in mailed armor than a modern
executive of lives. Around her throat lay her mother’s string of black
pearls, and her hands were encased in an unusual muff of blue fox.
“I’m so glad you came after all, Roberta,” said the hostess quietly. “You
have been keeping too much to yourself, and I’m sure that you’ll have
a little fun to-night. Carrie is here—she’s the most amusing camp! And
Kate, and Beulah, and Docky——”