By the middle of December there was some talk among The Talkers of
Stuart Sutton and little Miss Greenway.
“She plays her game quietly,” remarked Julian Fairless. “I haven’t
anything on her. She _looks_ straight.”
“Wasn’t she Sadoul’s girl?” asked Sam Warne.
“You never can tell whose girl any girl was.”
Stayr said: “It’s usually somebody you never heard of. Possibly she
once made a monkey of Sadoul. Probably she’s making another of Stuart
Sutton. Certainly there has been, is, and will be a simian somewhere
cherished by her.”
“If it’s true that there are two kinds of women,” observed Fairless,
“no man can guess which is which unless they tell you.”
“There’s only one kind,” said Stayr.
“You mean potentially, I hope.”
“Does it matter?” sneered Stayr. “If you marry you’re stung; if you
don’t you’re stung just the same. It’s fifty-fifty however you play ’em
or however they play you.”
“Yours is not an amiable philosophy,” said Warne, laughing.
“Listen, old sport, here’s the true and only solution: take ’em easy
when they come; give ’em three cheers when they go. The man who makes
of woman anything more than an agreeable incident belongs to the era of
the Dodo. Don’t try to understand her. There’s nothing to understand.
You have only to observe her. She’s utterly obvious. A protozoan is
subtle compared to her.
“She has only one imperative function--so has a cat that fills a
basket full of kittens. All her habits have their origin in that single
necessity.”
Thus talked The Talkers, whose necessity is to talk, and who can no
more escape functional destiny than can the female cat.
* * * * *
Gilda was forming a habit of going about with Stuart more or less,
traversing a lively but limited orbit the centre of which was a
semi-intellectual coterie of unclassified modernists who knew no law
except inclination.
All were opportunists, but lived up to that creed only lazily. For the
inclination of the majority was to think idly, live idly, follow lines
of least resistance, and balance the account with talk.
Gilda went with Stuart to various teas, dances, restaurants, theatres,
exhibitions, lectures, conferences, and parties of sorts. He dined
at her apartment now and then. Their preference for each other was
discussed and the intimacy criticised with varying degrees of charity
and cruelty.
What perplexed people was the absence of sentimental symptoms, none, so
far, being apparent even to the most malicious scrutiny.
As though, in the banquet of youth, these two had begun at the wrong
end with the dessert, and now were progressing tranquilly backward
toward the hors d’oeuvres.
Even the smouldering gaze of Sadoul detected nothing to serve as fuel
to feed inward fires. And Stayr, utterly gross, observed them uneasily,
disturbed that any theory of his should be punctured with impunity.
“The trouble,” snickered Pockman, “is with Sutton. He’s one of those
congenital celibates. The girl really is a little devil.”
“What’s the trouble then?” demanded Stayr. “Any girl ought to land any
saint.”
“The trouble,” said Pockman, “is that she knows she’s a devil, and
watches herself.”
“If she’s a devil she’ll behave like one some day. Otherwise, what’s
the fun in being one?”
“There you are, Harry. Sometimes a girl like that gets more pleasure
out of martyrdom. And I think that’s the case with Gilda Greenway.”
“Isn’t there any question of morals involved?” inquired Warne. “Some
people have ’em, in spite of what you say.”
“None. Chastity is an heirloom in some families--like the Hudson River
Suttons. There are certain things such cattle _won’t_ do. As for the
girl--well, maybe it’s a moral kink--I guess she was born with the
usual virginal instinct--but she’s had a brand new fight on her hands
ever since she died----”
He smirked and cast a stealthy glance at the men about him. Although a
doer, in spite of professional fears Pockman was also a born Talker. He
couldn’t help it. But every indulgence in garrulous dissipation brought
him remorse. Even now he knew he would regret what he was going to say.
But he said it:
“I gave Gilda Greenway a new nymphalic gland and started her machinery
again. Sadoul tried to give her a new ego. But the original ego came
back, too; and now, I fancy, there’s mental hell to pay at times.”
“Do _you_, a reputable physician, believe that?” yawned Stayr in utter
disgust.
“I’m telling you what Sadoul tried to do to her. I express no personal
opinion concerning psycho-hypnosis. I entertain none concerning any
psychic phenomena--not even when I see examples.”
“_What_ have you seen?”
“I saw Sadoul photograph the exuding ego from a cadaver in St.
Stephen’s Hospital.”
“A soul?”
“Call it that.”
“What did it look like?”
“It began to exude as a tenuous vapour, very faintly luminous. After
forty-eight minutes and some fraction it commenced to assume human
shape. An umbilical cord was visible.... The process continued for
several hours.”
“Sadoul photographed it?”
“He did. And when the cord dissolved and the formed ego was ready to
depart, Sadoul actually halted it through what seemed to be hypnotic
control.... My God,” muttered Pockman, suddenly sweating at the
recollection, “we had that damned thing in the death-chamber for hours,
under Sadoul’s control, and subject to his every suggestion.... I don’t
scare easily. But I got sick with--well--with superstitious fright,
I suppose.... I believe I’d have gone crazy if Sadoul hadn’t let the
thing go.”
Pockman’s flat, livid features had become viscous with unhealthy sweat.
He wiped his face, hunched his shoulders, and started to move away at
his rickety “Holbein” gait.
“Go on and tell us more about those stunts!” called Sam Warne after him.
“Go to the devil,” retorted Pockman. “I’m sorry I told you fellows
anything. You’re all mouth and ears and there’s nothing else to you
except intestines!”
* * * * *
There wasn’t much else--merely a matter of degree. Stayr was a greater
feeder than Derring; the latter had the larger ear area; Fairless more
loquacity, etc., etc.