By this time I had my own little _coterie_ and I prided myself it was a
cosmopolitan gathering which graced our little apartment on the second
and third Sundays of the month. There was so much to learn, the
interests were so diversified that I eagerly welcomed members of other
professions than our own--if they were worth while. Our sculptor friend
brought men who had travelled in remote parts of the world; they in turn
brought others. We numbered several army and navy officers, a German
scientist, men and women journalists, a cartoonist and an artist, women
engaged in Settlement work and the quaint old French professor who
taught me the language. When we could overcome his diffidence he was a
mine of information. He had witnessed the Commune of Paris and was
working on a book on that subject.
It is an interesting study to divide the _pastiche_ from the real. The
time-killers and the curious soon dropped out. It was not difficult to
limit our _coterie_ to the dimensions of our home. I could not but
contrast my simple "at homes" with those of the Dingleys. We had
received several cards for their Sundays and Will said we must go to at
least one of them. The Dingleys had sprung from humble beginnings. They
were jocosely referred to as the "ten, twent' and thirt's."
When I was a little girl in short skirts they were members of a
repertoire company which played our town during County Fair week. The
repertoire comprised such good old timers as The Two Orphans, the
Danites, East Lynne, the Silver King, Streets of New York, Camille and
The Ticket-of-Leave Man. Mrs. Dingley was the leading lady and her
husband the utility man. She was my ideal of a heroine--in those days.
Her hair was very golden, and as the weepy heroine she wore a black
velvet dress with a long train. That black velvet (later experience told
me it was velveteen) played many parts. It was a princess, and for
evening wear the guimpe had only to be removed. Or, when the heroine was
ailing, as becomes a persecuted woman, the princess, with the help of a
full front panel, was converted into a tea-gown. Again, it was used as a
riding habit, draped up on one side and topped by husband's silk hat
wound round with a veil. With a good deal of crepe drapery from the
bonnet, the same gown passed muster as widow's weeds. Mentally, I
resolved that when I became an actress I should have just such a
prestidigital gown in my wardrobe.
By dint of hard work on Mrs. Dingley's part and unmitigated nerve on the
part of her husband they had finally arrived on Broadway. They had
recently acquired a large house in the older part of the city and I
understood it was Mrs. Dingley's idea to establish a _salon_. Certainly
she was successful in drawing a crowd. The house was strikingly
furnished. There was much gold furniture and antique bric-a-brac;
canopied beds and monogrammed counterpanes. After a personally conducted
tour of the house and an enlightening dissertation upon the real worth
of and prices paid for the fittings, one retained a confusing sense of
having had an exercise in mental arithmetic.
It seemed rather catty of the women to make fun of the Dingleys behind
their back and at the same time accept their hospitality. Two smart
looking women whom I recognized as members of Mrs. D's. company appeared
to get no little amusement out of the coat of arms on Mrs. Dingley's
bed. "Why didn't they purloin a beer-stein, quiescent on a japanned
tray?" I heard one say.
"Or a Holstein bull rampant on a field of cotton," the other giggled.
I failed to grasp the significance of their remarks, though I saw the
humour in their allusion to the empty book-shelves which lined the walls
of the library. "Why not buy several hundred feet of red-backed books,
like a certain politician who wanted to fill up the wall space in his
library?"
"Pshaw! It would be cheaper to use props," scoffed the other.
I myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning,
as Mrs. Dingley was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop. Later I committed a _faux
pas_, though I meant no offense. In my effort to say something nice to
my hostess I remarked that I had seen her years ago during the early
days of her struggle and that I had been one of her ardent admirers. The
way she said, "Yes?" with the frosty inflection made me understand she
did not care to remember her beginnings.
While we were drinking tea out of priceless cups--the history of which
was being retailed by our host--there was a commotion and a craning of
necks toward the stairs. The hostess hurried forward to greet the late
arrival. There was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a
small pleasant-faced man with a Van Dyke beard entered the room. Our
host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. "Here comes the
king--here comes the king!" hummed the two actresses, winking
significantly at me. There was a buzz of voices while Mrs. Dingley
paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful
proprietorship. The little man had a penchant for pretty girls and
flattery. He got both. Everybody fawned on him, Mr. Dingley laboured
heroically to be witty. My curiosity finally drove me to ask my
neighbours who the little man was.
"Is he a manager, or a producer, or?--?" I whispered.
There was a peal of laughter before I was answered.
"O, he's a producer, all right! Why, don't you know who he is? He's the
goose that laid the golden egg!" taking in the gold furniture with a
comprehensive sweep of her hand. She lowered her voice and leaned toward
me. "He's Mr. ----!" I recognized the name of the multi-millionaire. "Is
he?" I queried, trying to get another look at him.
The women relapsed into their confidences. "How do you suppose she
explains it to ----?" calling Mr. Dingley by his first name. The other
woman shrugged her shoulders. "She doesn't have to explain; money
talks."
On the way home I asked Will what they meant.
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "They do say that the little man
is an 'angel.'"
"Well, suppose he is?" I began indignantly. "There is such a thing as
clean-minded men of the world: patrons of art without ulterior motives.
All art needs fostering, and who better able to help the climbers
than ----?"
Will laid his hand on mine, a little way he had when he wanted to
reassure me.
"I haven't a doubt in the world that there are clean-minded men of means
without 'ulterior motives,' as you express it. I also believe that hen's
teeth are rare."
* * * * *
There were other near-salons to which we were invited. Some of them were
highly temperamental gatherings. Every large city has its artistic set,
but New York may safely claim the medal for the half-baked neurotics who
wallow in illicit cults which they sanctify in the name of art. One of
the most typical and, by the same token, the most amusing of these
esoteric feasts was presided over by a lady-like creature who had spent
some time in the Far East. We were met at the outer portal by a jet
black, down-South negro done up in full Eastern regalia. An air of
mysticism permeated even the box couches against the wall. They had a
peculiar "feel" to them and one sank into their enfolding depths as one
is taught to sink into the arms of Nirvana. It must have been awful for
short, fat persons to scramble to their feet, after once being beguiled
into sitting on these couches. The mysticism was enhanced by burning
incense, shaded lights, draperies, and the host himself, who received us
in Eastern garb, resplendent with the famous jewels, a gift from some
potentate or other. We were conducted to a dais where the guest of
honour--an oily, complacent Swami--received us. If we were pretty, the
Swami held our hands longer than the amenities of good society demand.
Some of the guests were highly sensitized beings. Some were lean like
Cassius; perhaps they "thought too much." There was a preponderance of
Greek and other classic dresses, over un-classic figures. (Why _will_
doctors condemn the corset?) Hair-dressing was simplicity itself; in
fact, the simplicity suggested a lick and a promise. Sometimes there
were beads woven in the scrambled mess.
The sockless damsel was in evidence and nobility was represented by a
certain antique Baroness with a penchant for baby blonde hair. Affinity
hunters abounded. By the dreamy longing of their watery eyes shall ye
know them. Some there were who had made several excursions into the
realms of free and easy love, but _all_, all had returned empty-handed,
unsatisfied. O cruel Fate! And so they go, hunting, hunting....
After a call to silence, the Swami with the ingratiating smile and good
front teeth made an address. It was a mystical, tortuous, rambling
discourse which sounded to me a good deal like an advocation of free
love. He told what ailed us; he said we didn't love enough. He assured
us it was O, so easy to get our slice of the wonderful, all-pervading
ether with which we were saturated. We simply didn't know how to use it.
He had come to teach us: his the mission to prescribe for us.
Electricity had been harnessed, why not love? I shuddered when I thought
of the possibilities of a love-trust. Of course it would be cornered by
some of the millionaires.
After the address everybody clustered around the dispenser of Oriental
pearls. The Swami slipped little printed matters into the palms of the
neophytes. They told how farther enlightenment could be attained, on
given days at given hours and given prices.
Later our brute element was fortified by wafers and a mysterious punch.
I felt sorry for the late-comers who missed the intellectual feed and
arrived just in time for the refreshments. Wafers are not very
sustaining. The punch was a mysterious and subtle concoction with a
tendency to promulgate the tenets of the Swami's new religion. Before we
took our leave I thought the eyes of the new disciples had grown more
languishing and were considerably lit up. It may have been, of course,
that the Swami had taken the lid off a few vats of his cerulean ether
which was too highly rarefied for those present. As we closed the door
and stepped out into the winter night, we instinctively inhaled the cold
air, which, though it may not be full of love, is full of common-sense
ozone.
"When Boston people want to be naughty they go to New York." Our hostess
nodded sententiously across the table as she made the statement.
"Why confine it to Boston? Why not Philadelphia, Washington or ----?"
"Because I don't know anything about those cities, and I do know my home
city," interrupted his wife.
"I guess you're right," Mr. Mollett answered. "It's the same spirit
which keeps alive Le Rat Mort, or Maxim's, or any of those resorts in
Paris. You rarely meet a Parisian at these show-places. If it were not
for the foreigners--principally Americans and English--they'd have to
shut up shop."
"That's precisely my contention. One does things in Paris or New York
one would never think of in Boston."
Will had met Mr. Mollett at a Lambs' Gambol one Sunday night during the
recent season in New York. They had taken a shine to each other, to use
Mr. Mollett's expression, and had exchanged cards. "I liked your husband
from the start," Mr. Mollett once said to me. "He's not a bit like an
actor; he's natural and not a bit of a _poseur_." It appears that when
anyone wants to pay an actor a particularly high compliment he tells him
he is not a bit like an actor! This is not flattering to the rank and
file of players, who labour under the misapprehension that to be
effective they must act on and off the stage.
On the opening night of the following season in Boston Will was pleased
to find a card from Mr. Mollett and a note from his wife, asking whether
I was in town; if so, would I waive the formality of a call and join
them at "beans" on Saturday night after the performance.
Mrs. Mollett's Saturday suppers were as much of an institution as the
beans themselves. Our hostess was a bright, intelligent little woman
without the pretense of the intellectual. Externally, she had all the
ear-marks of a Boston woman. She wore the practical but disfiguring
goloshes of a Boston winter and she carried a reticule. Her dress might
have been made in Paris, but it had a true New England hang to it. It
wasn't a component part of her; it was _a thing apart_. Her skin was
rough and fretted with pin-wrinkles. I never saw a jar of cold cream on
her dressing-table.
The Molletts enjoyed a comfortable income which they appeared to use
judiciously. Their home was comfortable and in good taste. Their library
was a treat; not merely fine bindings and rare editions. The volumes
showed an intimate acquaintance with the owner. By the process of
elimination they had formed a selected chain of the better class of
actors, who found a warm welcome awaiting them whenever they played
Boston. The Molletts' leaning toward the artistic had no taint of the
free-and-easy predilection. The element of illusion furnished by their
player friends was precisely the variety needed to counteract the
monotony of their daily routine. Both sides benefited by the exchange.
Boston was the first stand on tour. The second season had opened with a
six weeks' engagement in New York and one, two or more weeks were booked
in the larger cities. The original company was advertised and--rare
integrity--maintained. Will decided that it was cheaper to carry the boy
and me on the road than to keep up two establishments. Luckily we sublet
our apartment. I was for sending Experience back to her home, though I
had become sincerely attached to her and so had Boy. Will declared we
could not manage without a nurse. I assured him we could. "You don't
suppose you can carry that Buster around in your arms, do you? And
wouldn't I look nice climbing on and off trains, and coming into hotels
with a baby in my arms? Pretty picture for a matinee idol! No, ma'am,
Experience remains. Besides," he smiled at me, "a nurse and a valet help
to make a good front. It'll keep the management guessing."
Unfortunately the management were not the only ones kept guessing. Good
hotels were expensive and Will's position did not permit him to stop at
any other kind. It worried me a great deal to see Will's envelope come
in on Tuesday and scarcely anything left on Wednesday when we had paid
the bills. I suspected, too, that Will had some debts hanging over from
last season. I knew he had drawn on the management during the summer. We
foolishly took a cottage at Allenhurst on the sea, where we spent our
holidays. The week-end parties proved expensive. It was easily
accessible to New York and I never knew how popular Will was with the
profession until that summer. I regretted we had not gone back to the
farm in the Catskills.
I saw a great deal more of Will on the road than I had in New York.
There was no Lambs' Club and, though Will had guest-cards to clubs in
various cities, there was not the lure of intimate association. We took
long walks together, browsed in the book-shops, visited public buildings
such as the library in Boston, and sometimes lunched or "tead" with
friends. Will did not care to accept invitations to dinner; he said it
made him "logey" to dine late and interfered with his evening
performances. Altogether we came nearer to the old intimacy and
comradeship than we had known for several years. At Christmas time we
planned the boy's first tree. We believed he was now old enough to
appreciate it. Santa Claus now became a name to conjure with; it acted
as a bribe to good behaviour or a threat of punishment.
Will and I went shopping together. The big toy-shops proved the most
fascinating things in the world. We spent hours looking at the wonders
of toy-land which the present-day child enjoys. Will said it made him
feel like a boy and surely it brought out all the youth in his nature.
His eyes would snap and sparkle with delight over a miniature railway
with practicable engine and carriages, electric head-lights, block
signals and the like. "Gee! What wouldn't I have given for an outfit
like that when I was a kid!" he would exclaim. As for me, I couldn't
make up my mind which I enjoyed the most; the pretty children who
crowded the shop or the toys they came to see.
We made several visits to Santa Claus land without being able to decide
what would best please Boy. Experience advised us to have him make his
own choice. When Experience took him for a tour of the shops he decided
upon everything in the place. Suddenly the whole world faded into
insignificance: "Senyder!" he stuttered, pointing imperiously to a dog
whose breed seemed as indeterminate as the prototype. All dogs were
Snyders to Boy, but perhaps the perpetual motion of the tail which
wagged automatically reminded him most strongly of the original. It did
no good to tell him that Santa Claus would bring Snyder down the
chimney. Boy had his own ideas about fairies and their ilk. He refused
to leave the shop without the dog. Needless to say the dog went home
with us. Will never could endure Boy's shrieks. But, in extenuation,
let it be said that not one of the toys Boy found grouped about his tree
on Christmas morning--and their name was legion--gave him the joy he
found in the mongrel pup. Miss Burton sent a box from far-off San
Francisco, where she was playing. The Chinese dolls interested him for a
moment, but his heart was true to Snyder. He slept with him, shared his
food with him, sobbed out his childish grief with Snyder in his arms,
and refused to part with his faithful friend even when old age robbed
him of his woolly coat and shiny eyes.
The star gave a party on Christmas Eve. When the curtain went down on
the last act, the applause was choked off by the flashing on of the
house lights. The stage-manager gave the order to strike, and in a short
time the stage was clear. The carpenters then put together the
improvised banquet board--great long planks of lumber resting upon
saw-horses. From the iron landing of the first tier of spiral stairs
upon which Will's dressing-room gave I watched the caterer's men lay the
table. I had spent the latter part of the evening in the cubby hole--a
rare occurrence, since I seldom went behind the scenes except with
friends of Will's who had attended the performance and who wanted to
see what the back of the stage looked like.
Shortly before twelve o'clock the members of the company and a few
outside guests assembled on the stage--where they were received by the
star-hostess. In the midst of the chatter the lights went out. At first
everyone thought it an accident until a bell in the distance chimed the
witching hour. As the last stroke died away a faint jingle of sleigh
bells wafted across the air. Nearer and louder they came, interspersed
with the snap of a whip. A great shaft of light from above shot
obliquely across the stage. From out of the clouds, as it seemed, a
full-fledged Santa Claus descended like a flying machine. With the aid
of a little "sneaky" music furnished by the orchestra and the faithful
spot-light which dogged his very footsteps, Santy placed the huge tree
in the centre of the table and unloaded his pack. With many a grotesque
antic he surveyed his labour of love and finally, having sampled the
contents of a decanter which graced the table, he rubbed his much padded
pouch in satisfaction, laughed merrily, shouted a "merry Christmas to
you all," and disappeared into the clouds. The effect was so bewitching
and so eerie that old Kris received a spontaneous "hand" on his exit.
I thought of Boy and how much he would have enjoyed the scene. Myriad
little lights twinkled like stars upon the wonderful trees. A warm, red
glow poured from imaginary fireplaces off stage. To the accompaniment of
ohs! and ahs! and a merry potpourri from the orchestra we took our seats
at table. I am sure any audience would gladly have paid a premium for
tickets to this special performance.
The supper proved to be an eight-course dinner. There was everything
from nut-brown turkey to hot mince pie. The drinkables were varied and
plentiful. I noticed that after the third or fourth course everybody was
telling everybody else what a good actor he or she was. It developed
into a veritable mutual admiration society. Will kicked me under the
table several times when the character man told him what a good actor he
was; it was common property that the character man "knocked" Will behind
his back. The tall, good-looking girl I had noticed at rehearsals passed
around a new diamond pendant she had just received from her friend in
New York.
"He's just crazy about you, ain't he?" chaffed one of the actors. The
good-looking girl laughed and winked.
"He sure is," she answered, "and I never even gave him as much as
_that_," measuring off an infinitesimal speck of her thumb nail.
A shout of laughter greeted her remark. A little later when she got
warmed up she made eyes at Will across the table and threw him violets
from her huge corsage bouquet. "Ev'ry matinee day I send thee violets,"
she paraphrased in song, the significance of which was lost on me until
some days later.
Toward the end of the dinner the packages were opened. Each memento was
accompanied by a limerick hitting off the idiosyncrasies of the
recipient, who was asked to read it aloud. Whoever composed the
limericks was well paid for sitting up o' nights, for they caused a deal
of merriment even if they were not entirely free from sting. After
dinner there was vaudeville. The star gave some imitations of a _cafe
chantant_ which brought down the house. The musical director had
composed a skit which he called "Very Grand Opera." The theme hinged on
a leave-taking of one or more characters from the other. The book
consisted of one word; _farewell_. I had never realized how long-winded
the farewells of opera are until I heard the parody. The humour of it
quite spoiled the tender duos, trios and choruses of the genuine
article.
Dear old Mr. and Mrs. ---- contributed a cake-walk. No one suspected the
grumpy old gentleman to have so much ginger in him. A good old Virginia
reel and "Tucker" limbered everybody into action.
Before we dispersed, old Santa Claus--impersonated by one of the walking
gentlemen--again donned his beard and buckskin and accompanied by a
noisy crew carried the great tree to the boarding-house where the
child-actress of the company was staying. At the street end of the alley
which led from the stage-entrance a big burly policeman stopped them;
they _were_ noisy to be sure. But even the officer laughed when Santy
touched him on the arm and in a "tough" dialect asked him, "Say Bill, do
youse believe in fairies?"
If Will had any experiences in Boston only one came under my notice;
rather, it was forced upon me. It was during the second week of the
engagement that Will began to bring me violets. Now, he had not shown me
this attention for several years. I was too much flattered at the time
to notice that the flowers always came on matinee days, after the
performance. Will generally took a walk after a matinee. He said it
refreshed him for the evening performance. He would come in, glowing
from the exercise, simply radiating health and energy. I knew what time
to expect him and I would sit listening for the elevator to stop on our
floor. I knew Will's step the minute he came down the hall. When he
opened the door I instinctively sniffed the fresh air he brought in with
him. I liked to feel his cold cheek against mine ... and to hear him
puff and growl to amuse Boy as he pulled off his heavy coat. He was
irresistible. The violets came in a purple box with the imprint of the
florist in gold letters. The first time he brought them he set the box
on the table without handing them to me. One of my weaknesses is
flowers.
"What's this?" I asked, pouncing upon the box.
"Open it and see," he answered with one of his quizzical sidelong
glances.
"For me?" I asked a little dubiously. I lost no time in opening the box.
If the shadow of a thought that an admirer of Will's had sent him the
flowers flitted across my mind it was lost in Will's smile as he
answered,
"For my best girl."
I buried my face in their cool depths. "Violets! O, the beauties! I like
the single variety best, don't you, Will? They're so fresh and woodsy."
Then my conscience smote me. Violets are expensive this time of year.
"Will--weren't they _horribly_ expensive?" Just the same I was pleased
to death--as I had heard matinee girls say--and I made up my mind to
forego something I needed to offset Will's flattering extravagance. I
nursed and tended those violets until the next matinee day came round.
When they faded I pressed them between blotting paper, intending when I
got back home to put them away with other flowers Will had given me....
It was on Tuesday, the day after Christmas. I had gone out with Mrs.
Mollett to tea at a woman's club. The violets Will had brought me after
the Christmas matinee were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. The
huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. Mrs.
Mollett and I were late in getting back. I felt sure I should miss Will,
who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. As I passed
through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. He told me there
was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. I asked for a card but
none had been sent. Wondering who could be calling on me--I had so few
acquaintances in Boston--and anticipating a pleasant surprise I followed
the boy to the parlour on the second floor. It was a large room and I
stopped in the portiered doorway half expectantly. The only occupant of
the room was a tall person--whether woman or girl I could not discern.
She stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. As she
glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition I turned to go.
The bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. "That's the lady who asked
for you over there." He approached the girl, who turned timidly.
"You wanted to see Mrs. Hartley, didn't you? This is she."
It was probably the surprise of hearing correct English from the lips of
a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. When I looked at
the visitor I saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion.
"There is--there appears to be some mistake," she stammered, addressing
herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. "I asked to see Mr.
Hartley--Mr. William Hartley," she called after the boy, though her
voice was scarcely audible. She looked toward the door in a bewildered
manner as if her only desire was to get away. There was something so
distressing, so pathetic about her embarrassment; not a modicum of
_savoir faire_ or bluff to help her out. I found myself saying in a
kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: "I am Mrs. Hartley; Mrs.
William Hartley. Is there anything I can do?"
For a full minute we stood and looked at each other. Under the full
light, which the boy had switched on as he went out, her face and figure
were sharply limned. A tall woman has always the best of it in any
controversy, though I am sure my _vis-a-vis_ did not realize her
advantage. If her mind was as confused as her face indicated she was to
be pitied. She was not merely a plain woman; she was the epitome of
plainness. Nature had not given her a single redeeming feature; there
was not even a hint of sauciness to the upturned nose; not a
speculative quirk to the corner of the mouth or a fetching droop to the
eyelids which sometimes illuminates the plainest of faces. Perhaps she
realized the niggardliness of her gifts. There was an evident attempt at
primping. Her hat sat uneasily upon a head unaccustomed to the
hair-dresser's art. The shoes, too, I felt, were painful: they were so
new and the heels so high, and unstable--a radical departure from the
common-sense last which was as much a component part of her as the feet
themselves. I visualized her home, her life and her commonplace
associates ... the eternal illusion of the stage ... Will's magnetism,
combined with the perfections and never-failing nobility of the stage
hero.... I saw it all as clearly as I saw the strained,
vari-expressioned face before me. All this in a brief fleeting moment. I
smiled encouragingly. Her eyes met mine, then wavered and drooped, and
drooping rested upon the violets--and we both understood....
"Won't you sit down?" I said, leading the way to a divan with the idea
of easing the situation. "Do have a pillow!--there, is that more
comfortable? These sofas seem never to fit in to one's back.... I'm
sorry Mr. Hartley is not in. Usually he _is_ in at this hour, but
to-night he is dining out. I know he will be sorry to have missed you,
for I am sure he wants to thank you in person for the lovely flowers.
Yes, he told me all about it and we both appreciated your sweetness in
sending them. I hope Mr. Hartley wrote and properly thanked you,"--I
rattled on, hoping to give her time to recover herself. "He is, as a
rule, quite punctilious in these matters, but with the holidays and the
extra matinees--" I finished with an expressive shrug. There was a
disheartening silence.
"I think I must be going," she faltered at last, waiting for me to rise.
"I'm afraid I've kept you too long.... You've been very kind.... I hope
you haven't been shocked by ... by ... the unconventional way I...." Her
speech came in jerks.
"Not at all," I answered, jumping in and anticipating my cue. "Not at
all!" I reiterated, injecting more warmth in the confirmation than I
intended. I walked with her to the elevator. "I'm sorry it is so late or
I would ask you to stop for a cup of tea. But you will come again, won't
you?--perhaps you'll telephone me one morning--not _too_ early----" I
laughed a little as I pressed the button--"we're not early risers, and
we'll arrange a time when Mr. Hartley can be with us. I want you to meet
the boy--O, yes, we've got a baby, too! Of course, _we_ think him the
most wonderful baby in the world. Aren't parents a conceited lot?" ... I
pressed her limp hand and smiled good-byes as the lift bore her out of
sight.
Then the smile went out of me. I felt angry with myself: I felt I had
overdone it. What was the woman to me that I should exert myself to put
her at ease with herself? She was but one of the silly creatures who
"chase" the actor and pander to his vanity. I regretted the impulse
which prompted me to ask her to tea. Truly, I had made a fool of
myself.... At least, I had prevented her from making a farther fool of
herself--and of me....
I went to my room but did not turn on the light for fear of attracting
Experience, whose room was across the court. She was probably waiting
for me. I wanted to be alone. I removed the violets from my coat. My
first impulse was to throw them out the window; then I thought better of
it--and of her. They represented a woman's illusions--no, two women's
illusions.... Will had deliberately fooled me; even Miss Merdell, the
tall good-looker, knew he was fooling me. That was what she meant when
she chaffed him about the violets at the Christmas party. Perhaps it was
not of great consequence, but, does a woman ever forgive a man for
wounding her self-respect?...
I did not look at Will when I told him of the visitor. He extricated
himself gracefully. He said he thought my perspicacity would have made
me tumble to the truth and when I didn't he concluded it was a shame to
put me wise. And, after all, what did it matter? He had brought the
flowers home to me when it was an easy matter to have turned them over
to the extra girls....
Miss Gorr--that was her name--came to tea; in fact, she came several
times. Will declared she was in a fair way of becoming a bore.
"For Heaven's sake, don't turn her loose on me," he expostulated. "I'm
willing to give her photographs and advice but I don't want to be seen
about with a freak like that!"
I caught myself wondering--and I was ashamed of the thought--whether
Will would have been bored were Miss Gorr not so hopelessly plain. Alice
was _smart_ and there had been others and would probably be more to
come. I reached the point where I could shrug my shoulders
indifferently. It was all a part of the game and I was learning to play
it....