Chapter XIV 250

_Chapter I_

Harold Prewett sat in the broad, black-walnut seat of an ambiguous

piece of furniture which branched above, in spreading antlers, into a

rack for coats and hats and which below, at either side, provided means

for the disposition of canes and umbrellas. The mere presence of these

heavy, sullen antlers was sufficiently dispiriting to increase the

gloomy atmosphere which environed the young man. The room in which he

sat waiting was a hallway. Through a vestibule one entered it from the

street, and it served its purpose as the main artery through which the

life of the house flowed, by offering entrances and exits to the other

rooms on that floor and, by way of a staircase, carpeted in turkey-red

and guarded by black-walnut banisters, it led to regions above. There

was a high wainscot of the oppressive black-walnut, and the wall from

the wainscot to the solid panelled ceiling was covered with a thick

embossed paper, bronze in colour, embellished with a grandiose and

florid, semi-heraldic pattern. The vestibule door and the door into the

street beyond were both open and the warm June light filtered through

and somewhat dispelled the moroseness of the 1875 grandeur of the

place. On the first landing of the staircase, midway between the two

floors, a stained-glass window, of purple and blue and green diamond

panes, permitted a little more light to enter. Underneath this window

the great pendulum of a high hall-clock swung slowly back and forth,

marking the sluggish passage of time with its sharp, tiresome ticks.

Harold Prewett was an attractive young man, with chestnut-coloured

hair, brown eyes, a healthy complexion, and a fairly competent build.

He looked well in his clothes, a double-breasted brown suit, which

any sophisticated person could have told you came from a Fifth Avenue

tailor, and the modest shade of his cravat indicated a conservative

taste in tinges. The young man had recently graduated from college,

but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest excessive confidence

on this account. He fidgeted a good deal; he mumbled to himself,

evidently rehearsing words and phrases of which he hoped presently to

deliver himself in the presence of an audience. He twirled his straw

hat nervously between his fingers and, occasionally, he stood up and

walked about, but, after a moment or two of this restless marching, he

invariably returned to his seat in the hat-rack under the spreading

antlers.

The cause of his perturbation was somewhat grotesque. He had been

summoned to a conference with his father. Now, most boys, in good

health, well-dressed, with no special crimes on their consciences,

would be able to face even the most irascible of parents without any

great amount of diffidence. The facts in this case, however, were

decidedly peculiar. Father and son had yet to meet for the first

time. The reasons governing the postponement of this encounter were

not unknown to a few of George Prewett’s friends, but Harold himself

was entirely uninitiated in regard to them. Before going away to

college he had lived with an aunt in Connecticut. He had always been

provided with plenty of pocket-money and, on rare occasions, he had

received instructions on minor points of conduct from his father’s

legal adviser. During his college years his vacations had invariably

been spent at the home of his aunt, who, under orders, probably, never

mentioned his father’s name, although she was his sister. He had not,

indeed, been entirely certain that his father was alive until, on the

day that he graduated, he had received a telegraphic summons from the

lawyer, bidding him to come to his father’s house on West Eighty-second

Street in New York. His father, at last, desired to see him.

Now the nature of this unnatural father’s plans in his behalf held

sinister terrors for Harold. This aloof parent, having footed the bills

unquestioningly for twenty-one years, might conceivably have it in

mind to take advantage of this fact to make unpleasant conditions in

regard to the future. He might wish his son to become a bond salesman

or to embark in the cloak and suit business. Harold was a little

dubious about the future. He seemed to lack strong desires, but he was

conscious of a few strong aversions. The cloak and suit business was

one of these, for a reason hereinafter to be noted.

Moodily occupied with such morbid meditations, Harold had been sitting

in the hat-rack for ten or fifteen minutes. He sat there for another

five before the approach of the man who had met him at the door

announced to him that his suspense was presently to be relieved in

however unpleasant a manner.

The man spoke: Mr. Prewett will see you now, sir.

The man led the way, Harold following closely at his heels, up the

red-carpeted staircase, along the upper hallway to the very front,

where he knocked on a closed door. There was a moment of hesitation

before a brusque Come in! concluded all this preliminary ceremony.

Harold’s heart was beating very fast; he was entirely unaware of the

opening and closing of the door, the departure of the servant, and his

own eventual shuffling to the centre of the room. When he had recovered

himself sufficiently to look about, he noted that he seemed to be

standing in a vast library. A man, who was, he assumed, his father,

sat facing him, bent over a desk, apparently intent on the perusal of

a quantity of papers. Harold became a trifle calmer as he began to

realize that the man at the desk was almost certainly as much perturbed

and embarrassed as he himself had been. Presently, after a few more

seconds of silence, during which the boy stood perfectly still, the

elder man (a much older man than Harold had expected to see) rose and

leaned over the desk to shake hands with his son.

How do you do? were his first words and his voice sounded suspiciously

choked.

Harold echoed this polite cliché.

George Prewett pointed to a chair and then, seemingly entirely overcome

by the meeting, by the first words, and by his thoughts of past and

future, sank back into his seat and again appeared to busy himself with

the pile of papers on his desk.

Completely confident by now that his father was certainly more

terrified than he had been at any stage of this strange game, Harold

grew steadily cooler. He stared at the rows of books in shelves against

the walls, at the steel-engravings above the shelves, at the curtained

alcoves framing the windows, and then he ventured to look back at this

eccentric figure who seemed to be ostentatiously pretending to be

unaware of his presence, a stout, half-bald, rapidly aging man, who

wore eye-glasses framed in tortoise-shell, and a suit of purple mohair.

This scene in the comedy was now abruptly terminated. The elder man

spoke again.

Fond of athletics, I suppose? he queried, almost sharply, in a voice

which was deep but not unpleasant in quality.

Not games so much, but I like to ride and swim, Harold answered.

No football or baseball?

No, I don’t care much for those.

Good!

Following this exchange of information there was another brief silence.

Well, what do you want to do now?

I don’t know, sir. Your lawyer informed me that I was to make no

decisions regarding my future. He asked me to wait.

And you have strictly regarded this injunction? George Prewett seemed

almost anxiously eager.

Naturally I have endeavoured to follow the instructions of one to whom

I was indebted for my income. Also, quite naturally, I have at times

speculated on my future. I must admit that certain occupations appear

to me to be extremely distasteful.

Those are? The older man was gruff.

Harold paused and blushed. Then he spoke out: I have no wish, sir, to

engage in the cloak and suit business.

It was the turn of George Prewett to blush, but beyond the obvious

embarrassment which convulsed his features, it was possible to discern

what seemed to be the evidence of a deep and abiding joy and relief.

You are my son! he cried. Embrace me.

He rose from his seat and Harold stood up to meet him. The older man

grasped the younger man’s shoulders. The son tried to encircle his

father’s waist. This constrained attempt at a display of affection

seemed to exhaust them both, and, dropping their arms, they sank back

into their chairs. The father was the first to rally.

You are my son! he repeated. My son! Your answers are music to my ears.

You are saying exactly what I would have you say. Then, with an air of

suspicion, You haven’t been warned?

Warned? By whom? The young man sufficiently showed his bewilderment.

George Prewett was reassured. No, he said, Sanderson would never break

my trust, betray my confidence. No more, I think, would my sister. It

is fate, he cried, fate, which has given me the son I would have asked

for, had I asked for a son at all, he wound up, musing on some hidden

grief.

Then, with one of those quick transitions which marked his character,

Have you had your lunch?

Why yes, father; it is nearly four o’clock.

So it is. So it is. I never know the time. I have been so occupied

today that I have forgotten to eat, but the dinner hour is approaching

and one meal a day is enough for any man. Well, I’m pleased with you,

delighted would be a better word. Yes, I’m delighted with you.

Harold said nothing.

And now, I suppose that you wish to know about your future, so far as I

have any concern with your future. Or would you rather, perhaps, learn

something of your past?

It is for you to say, father. Tell me what you feel like telling me.

It is no easy task I have set myself. You may turn against me. You

don’t know me at all, and it is difficult to tell a boy what I have to

tell you. But you must believe that I am pleased with you--he paused

for a moment to wipe the moisture from his eye-glasses--or I would not

be willing, or able, to tell you what I am about to tell you now.

I do believe it, father.

I am sure you do. You must know then--the hand of George Prewett shook

and there were traces of emotion in his voice--that your mother was an

extremely beautiful woman, and that she was the only person I have ever

really loved. I was past forty when I married her, but she was a young

girl at this period. A few months later I learned to my delight that,

in the course of time, she would be delivered of a child. The plans

I made for the life of that little girl, for it never occurred to me

to consider the possibility that I might have a son, were prodigious.

I will not take up your time, young sir, in describing them, but you

can judge of my supreme disappointment when I learned that my wife had

given birth to a boy. My grief and rage were merged in despair when I

was informed by her physician that my beloved wife had but a few more

hours to live.

At this point in his narrative, the elderly gentleman began to choke.

He pounded the desk for a few seconds with an ivory paper-cutter before

he resumed his story. Harold, meanwhile, sat perfectly quiet.

I was told that my wife was aware of her fatal condition and wished to

see me for the last time before she died. Our meeting for this parting

was the saddest moment of my life. I will not dwell upon it--he mopped

his brow with his large white linen handkerchief--but upon its results.

On her deathbed, my wife, who knew that under such conditions I would

promise anything, exacted an oath from me. That oath concerns you. I

swore before God over your mother’s deathbed that you should have a

college education.

But, sir! Harold now began plainly to exhibit his astonishment.

Do not interrupt me! his father resumed harshly. Hear me out. I have

no intention of leaving anything unexplained. I have asked you to come

here today solely for the purpose of explaining everything. Understand

then, young man, that I myself am the victim of a college education.

I went to college ... and learned nothing. I left the doors of the

university without the slightest preparation for the life to come.

Commencement! What an ironic word. It should be called bewilderment. I

had studied Latin, Greek, and English prose. I was conversant with the

principles of mathematics and chemistry, but I was utterly unfamiliar

with life and how to live it. I had no specific talents. I was not an

artist. I had no capacity for writing. I discovered, in fact, that,

far from establishing any of the laws of existence, my education had

completely unfitted me for any sort of intercourse with men. I had been

much better off had I never seen a campus.

My people were not poor, but their means were moderate. I had brothers

and sisters. The necessity of my making a living for myself was borne

in upon me by my well-intentioned parents, who had thrown me in the way

of forgetting how to make it. In the face of their hope that I would

quickly choose some occupation or profession, I found myself completely

helpless. I felt no calling for the ministry, the law, or medicine;

nor had my education fitted me for any of these pursuits. My father,

therefore, a physician in a small town, could give me no assistance.

In my extremity I received a letter from one of my college mates, who

had inherited from his father a modest but prosperous cloak and suit

business. He, too, was bitterly despondent, and felt himself utterly

incapable of undertaking the management of the firm. It had occurred

to him, however, that together we might minimize the chances of

failure. This opportunity to enter a stray edge of the business world

was worse than anything that I had dreamed might happen, but I was

forced to consider that no alternatives had presented themselves and

that my father, who had generously provided me with what he thought was

a good education, could not reasonably be expected to look longer after

my welfare. I accepted, therefore, the offer of my friend and engaged

in the pursuit of the cloak and suit business.

During this discourse, Harold’s eyes dilated with horror, but, obeying

his father’s expressed command, he refrained from making any comment.

We made a great many mistakes in the beginning, as was but natural,

Prewett senior continued, but one grows accustomed to anything, and it

was not long before we found ourselves quite capable of running our

plant in a satisfactory manner. Had it not been for my sister Sadie,

however, the aunt who has brought you up, I doubt if I should have

been in a position to marry or to liberally provide for your whims. My

sister, who was our head designer, invented the famous Ninon de Lenclos

cloak, the sensation of the season of 1897. The fame of this garment

swept the country. We sent a model to Mrs. Potter Palmer and, after she

had appeared in public in the cloak, its success was made. Our limited

capacity proved insufficient to meet the flood of orders and we erected

a larger plant. Since then the business has moved ahead triumphantly.

Never, however, has this success seemed to me to be deserved; never has

it interested me.

Had I not been educated in college, doubtless I should have slipped

automatically into my proper niche. I might have been a brakeman on

a railroad or a sailor before the mast, but at any rate there would

have been some intention or meaning in my occupation. All that college

did for me was to unfit me for decision. It unwilled me and threw me

forward into the first opportunity that presented itself.

The gloom on the elderly gentleman’s face was apparently ineffaceable.

Realizing, he went on after a moment’s pause, that with the advent of

a boy, my difficulties would be repeated in his life, I wished with

all my heart that my dear wife would present me with a little girl.

Through no fault of hers, she failed me. Immediately the news of your

birth was brought to me, I began to conceive ways by which I might

spare you the agony of my own experience. I will never send him to

college, I promised myself, never. My wife, who was acquainted with my

opinions on this subject, had always pooh-poohed my sentiments. Have

you not been successful? she would ask. What more do you wish? You have

made plenty of money and your college education has made it possible

for you to enjoy the best books, to travel with pleasure, even to

marry me. There was, beyond doubt, some logic in this reasoning, but

it did not appeal to me. I could not dispel from my mind the memory

of that horrible summer of perplexity and its obvious cause. All I

could remember was that a college education had thrown me into the

cloak and suit business, which was not, I felt certain, my predestined

field. I determined to spare my son, if possible, a repetition of

this experience. Aware of my intentions, my wife took advantage of my

emotional weakness and made me promise, over her deathbed, that I would

send you to college. I gave her the promise. She died, and I closed her

eyes.

During the relation of this remarkable history George Prewett had

several times permitted his gaze to wander about the room, but now he

fastened his eyes securely on his son.

The fact that you were not a girl did not endear you in my eyes;

the further fact that you had caused the death of your mother made

it impossible for me to entertain the thought of seeing you. The

reflection that she had christened you Harold made the alienation

complete. I arranged at once for your care. You were brought up first

by a wet-nurse, later by my sister, who, amply rewarded for her skill

in designing the Ninon de Lenclos cloak, had retired to a life of

peace in the country. I have kept my promise. You have been sent to

college. And, latterly, I have grown less bitter. After all, it is not

your fault that you are a boy, not your fault that you killed your

mother, not your fault, even, that you were named Harold. I determined,

therefore, to assume the usual paternal relationship towards you, and I

began to consider ways and means by which I might possibly counteract

the dangerous effects of your education. I believe I have hit upon a

method.

There now fell a complete silence, and the young man gathered from the

extended pause that his father would raise no further objections to his

speaking.

Father, he began, when I told you that I had an aversion for the cloak

and suit business I had no idea....

Of course, you hadn’t! That’s why your remarks delighted me so much. I

was expecting opposition, he added, rather ambiguously.

Opposition! But, father, you have provided for me thus far and I

understand very well, after what you have told me, how repugnant the

idea of meeting me must have been to you. I can see no reason for

opposing you, father, especially since you assure me that you have no

desire for me to enter the cloak--your business.

Enter it! I would see you dead first! I would give the business away!

However, we need not speak of that, since no such contingency has

arisen. Our conversation has fortified and delighted me beyond measure.

I am relieved to find you so tractable and I have the highest hopes for

your future. It had been my original intention to spin this interview

out over several meetings, two weeks or a month, perhaps, but it has

been so simple to go thus far that I can see no reason for hesitating

to go farther. I think I am completely justified in believing that I

can make you acquainted with my plans for you at once.

I am waiting to hear them, father.

Know then that I have reasoned that you may be only prepared to

struggle with life as it exists by a certain reversal of preparation.

You have been prepared ... for what? For nothing! But, perhaps, in

spite of your present uncertainty, you are not entirely convinced of

that fact. You must be convinced. You must see more of life and learn

to live; you must learn to discount what you have been taught. In

other words, you must learn to think for yourself, and become capable

of _choosing_ an occupation which will do you credit, which will

be a reflection of your own personality and not of mine. I care not

what this occupation may be, so long as it represents the results of

experience and mature judgment. I have decided, therefore, to make

somewhat of an experiment.

If this interview had not been the expected ordeal, at least it

had held elements of surprise. This new turn again caused lines of

amazement to collect about the young man’s eyes.

I cannot, continued George Prewett, throw you out into the world to

gain your own experience. You would be as helpless, in that case,

as if you were asked at once to choose your future occupation. You

have been unfitted for going out into the world. I have determined,

therefore, to provide you with a tutor.

Am I to study longer, then?

Study is not the word. You are, as a matter of fact, to do exactly what

you please. Your tutor will guide you, however, guide you carefully

into the ways of life, and some of its byways. There may be hours for

reflection and what you call study. He may conceivably suggest certain

courses of reading. I have left him a more or less free hand in this

respect, for the young man I have discovered is so uncannily like the

ideal I set before myself that I think I am justified in permitting him

almost unlimited discretion.

May I ask...?

Certainly, certainly, I am coming to that. Harold’s father betrayed a

touch of impatience at this point. This young man is no old and valued

friend. I secured him through an advertisement.

An advertisement!

An advertisement. I shall have no further secrets from you. Here it is.

Mr. Prewett picked a clipping from the clutter on his desk and began to

read:

Wanted: Young man of good character but no moral sense. Must know

three languages and possess a sense of humour. Autodidact preferred,

one whose experience has led him to whatever books he has read. It is

absolutely essential that he should have been the central figure in

some public scandal. Age, not above thirty. Right person will receive

suitable emolument. Answer BCX.

Harold’s stupefaction had merged into terror again; this time something

very like panic had seized him.

And you found one ... like that? he stammered.

A dozen. At least a dozen. Two hundred replied to my advertisement.

With the aid of my very competent attorney, who has succeeded in

baffling you in regard to your parentage for twenty-one years, I

selected twenty-five of the most promising letters. The writers of

these I interviewed personally. Twelve were singled out for future

investigation. Many knew the languages and had at least a limited sense

of humour, a few were lacking, I am quite certain, in a moral sense,

but only one qualified completely as to the public scandal.

But I cannot imagine the advantage....

No more you can, of course. Your education has unfitted your mind for

the reception of such ideas. I shall, therefore, make no effort to

explain them to you. It will suffice, perhaps, if I inform you that I

regard this young man as the apple of my eye. I have conversed with him

on several occasions. He has been interrogated by my lawyer, who has

made the most minute inquiries into his life. In every respect I find

myself entirely satisfied in regard to his manner of living, his past

and his present. He is a delightfully irresponsible and unmoral person

and I place you in his care without any reservations whatever.

There were several points in these remarks that astounded the young

man. He wished to ask many questions, but he judged from his father’s

expression that he had better limit himself to one, which was:

What is his name, father?

Paul Moody.

The man who went to Ludlow for refusing to pay his wife alimony?

The same.

The papers were full of him a month or two ago!

They were. And now, I think it would be unwise to prolong this

interview. You are not as yet prepared to fully comprehend its purport

and further conversation might lead us into emotional relations which

would be very unfortunate at the present stage of our acquaintanceship.

I like you very well to begin with, and I might grow fond enough of you

to quarrel with you. I have judged it best, therefore, that for the

present we continue to live apart.

The young man opened his mouth to speak again.

Do not interrupt me. To live apart. George Prewett was staring hard at

the ceiling. To this end, I have leased an apartment for you on East

Eighteenth Street. Moody lives in Gramercy Park. Here is your key.

The address is on the attached tag. You will find the apartment ready

for occupancy, and there is a man there who will attend to your wants

which, I hope, will not be modest. If you feel inclined to move about,

to lease larger quarters, you are your own master. Sanderson will

confer with you in regard to such matters, but I may assure you that

your means are practically unlimited. Mr. Moody will doubtless inspire

you, but when you have ideas of your own, you will discover that he

will be only too ready to assist you to carry them out.

In the meantime, we shall resume our former status. A year from today

you are to return to tell me what you have learned. Then, having

established a proper foundation for mutual intercourse, it will be

possible to begin to discuss your future. Thereafter, I have every hope

that you will not only be a man of the world but an excellent companion

for me as well. That is all. Good-bye, young man.

There was a certain sense of relief in these last words as if this

interview had taxed his powers almost to the limits of his endurance.

Good-bye, father, echoed the bewildered Harold.

_Chapter II_

Harold had been brought up among the flutter of petticoats. That fact

had established his character more conclusively than the subsequent

college years. His aunt, born Prewett, had never married. Christened

Sarah, she was soon dubbed Sadie; after a trip to Europe she herself

had altered this to Sadi. The trip to Europe was responsible for other

phenomena: one was the aforementioned Ninon de Lenclos cloak, which

was a modification of a model she had observed at a famous Parisian

couturière’s; another was a passion for the method of Delsarte, which,

for a time, she had contemplated imparting to New York débutantes; a

third was an obsession for the Anna Song from Nanon, which had caught

her fancy at a performance of the opera she had heard in Munich and

which had held it to the present day. Nearly every morning, indeed, it

was her custom to seat herself before her old rosewood square piano,

with its thin metallic tone, and perform this waltz, somewhat woodenly,

singing the words in her bedizened German and, latterly, in a voice

which frequently cracked:

Anna, zu Dir ist mein liebster Gang,

Mein liebster Gang,

Mein liebster Gang;

Anna, Dir tönet mein bester Sang,

Mein bester Sang,

Mein bester Sang;

Anna, Annettchen, welch’ holder Klang,

Welch’ holder Klang,

Welch’ holder Klang;

Anna, Dir sing’ ich mein Lebelang!

Ja, mein Lebelang!

Long after her visit to Paris, Sadi had succumbed to one more foreign

influence. Visiting a New York shop, she had seen a Fortuny gown, one

of those crinkly crêpe robes, knotted at the shoulders with cords of

gold, hanging straight like a Mother Hubbard, but belted at the waist

with an ornate girdle. She had purchased this garment, and since that

date she had never worn anything else. For ten years, two or three

times a year, a box arrived with a new Fortuny gown; there had been red

ones, blue ones, green ones, and brown ones, old gold and old rose, but

the model was always exactly the same. Wearing one of these dresses,

Sadi drove along the dusty roads in her surrey, as Louise de la Ramé,

in white velvet costumes designed by Worth, had driven along the roads

of Tuscany.

Sadi was a large woman, with large bones, large hands, large feet, a

large nose, and large eyes. She had a large mole on her throat under

her large left ear. Her hair remained a deep, glossy black, and

probably would so remain until the day of her death, unless she stopped

sending to Buffalo for certain bottles. Every morning she curled it,

parted it in the centre, and tied it in a knot at the back of her head.

She had no taste for the kind of New York social life which was open

to her; she was too exclusive and eccentric a person for that. Her

friends were few, and those few were all women. Consequently, after

the success of the Ninon de Lenclos cloak, she had retired to one of

those old Connecticut farmhouses, boarded with oiled but unpainted and

now weather-beaten shingles. The rooms were all on different levels,

and the ceilings were so low that, in the ascension and descension of

the slight flights of stairs between the chambers, tall people, like

Harold and Sadi, familiar though they were with the contours of the

place, frequently bumped their heads. There were stone fireplaces in

this house, wide enough to burn four-foot logs, and provided with ovens

and cranes, and Sadi had scoured the surrounding country, attending

auction sales and persuading indigent country-folk that they were tired

of their chairs and tables, in order to furnish her home appropriately.

Ever since Harold could remember, Persia Blaine, an old Negress, had

been a constant servitor. Other servants, all women, had come and gone,

but Persia was a fixture.

Sadi professed a love for children and she was not unkind to them,

but it cannot be said that she understood them. She was apparently

delighted when fate placed Harold in her hands. After he had learned to

speak she lavished affection on him in her own way. She talked to him,

as she imagined children should be talked to, very deliberately, and

in words of one syllable, when she could think of them, but solemnly,

and often in the third person. Good little boys, etc. Bad little boys,

etc. Bad little boys, it seemed, played with neighbouring farmers’

sons. Good little boys stayed at home. Sadi never kept a watch-dog:

her mere appearance would have frightened a tramp away, but there were

pigs and chickens, and Harold was permitted occasionally to visit the

pens and scratch the old sow’s back with a corn-cob or a stick. Sadi

kept a hired man to look after the live stock, but he was never allowed

to come into the house--his meals were all delivered to him in the

barn where he lived--and Harold was instructed never to talk with him.

This and similar prohibitions might have infuriated another boy, might

have stimulated a taste for secret disobedience, but in the make-up

of Harold’s character there was no curiosity, and little initiative.

Further, he was conspicuously lacking in imagination. He was proud, and

like most unimaginative people, could be disagreeably obstinate. Auntie

Persia, as he called her, was his favourite companion. She told him

stories which she had heard as a child on a southern plantation, and

she sang him old darkey folksongs. They had a game which they played

with a song which began, Come on! It’s Sat’day night! Auntie Persia,

indeed, understood children....

Meanwhile, Sadi Prewett continued to live her life, which consisted

in rising, dressing, eating a hearty country breakfast, playing the

Anna Song from Nanon, eating lunch, taking her afternoon drive, taking

her tea, eating dinner, sitting for an hour or so before the fire in

the winter, or on the lawn in the summer, and then retiring. These

habits were invariable. Other unimportant incidents might be added to

her day, however. Sometimes, she read a little, almost always from

two little books of poems by Mrs. Hemans and Adah Isaacs Menken. The

pale and fragile passion of Mrs. Hemans seemed very moving to her.

Tears, indeed, consistently obscured her vision, as she read the lyric

narrative of Gertrude von der Wart:

And bid me not depart, she cried,

My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side;

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for _me_ to fear,

When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it--_mine_ is _here_--

I will not leave thee now.

In Miss Menken’s Infelicia, she preferred the opening poem, Resurgam,

and it was a very easy matter to persuade her to declaim it aloud:

Yes, yes, dear love! I am dead!

Dead to you!

Dead to the world!

Dead for ever!

It was one young night in May.

The stars were strangled, and the moon was blind with the flying

clouds of a black despair.

Years and years the songless soul waited to drift out beyond the sea

of pain where the shapeless life was wrecked.

The red mouth closed down the breath that was hard and fierce.

The mad pulse beat back the baffled life with a low sob.

And so the stark and naked soul unfolded its wings to the dimness

of Death!

A lonely, unknown Death.

A Death that left this dumb living body as his endless mark.

And left these golden billows of hair to drown the whiteness of my

bosom.

Left these crimson roses gleaming on my forehead to hide the dust of

the grave.

And Death left an old light in my eyes, and old music for my tongue,

to deceive the crawling worms that would seek my warm flesh.

But the purple wine that I quaff sends no thrill of Love and Song

through my empty veins.

Yet my red lips are not pallid and horrified.

Thy kisses are doubtless sweet that throb out an eternal passion

for me!

But I feel neither pleasure, passion nor pain.

So I am certainly dead.

Dead in this beauty!

Dead in this velvet and lace!

Dead in these jewels of light!

Dead in the music!

Dead in the dance!

etc.

Occasionally, some acquaintance or friend of an earlier day would

spend a few days or a week with her. One lady, especially, who, at

the time when Delsarte was fashionable, had taught his method, was

often favoured with an invitation, and Sadi would converse with her by

the hour about the French Master and his Message, as she called it.

Then, if it were summer, robed in Grecian garments cut from pale-green

cheese-cloth, they would stand on the grass underneath a spreading

crab-apple tree, to avoid the direct rays of the sun, and wave their

arms and sway their bodies in a manner calculated to give the butcher’s

boy fits, whenever he passed the gate and saw them. This picture of his

large-boned aunt, formidable in appearance but gentle at heart, and the

stout Miss Perkins, who reached about to Sadi’s arm-pit, delsarting on

the lawn was one of Harold’s earliest memories.

Until Harold was seven Sadi had kept him in kilts, although the boys

of his epoch were usually put into baby-trousers at the age of two.

These kilts and his long curls were frequently the object of attention

and scorn from passing lads, who, though not over five, sported long

and ragged trousers and flannel shirts and wore their hair clipped and

frowzy. These boys went by the house with fishing-rods or, in the fall,

with baskets to gather hickory-nuts. When they saw Harold in the yard

they yelled, Sissy! and Baby girl! at him until he retreated sobbing to

the shelter of Auntie Persia’s skirts.

When he was seven, Elliot Sanderson, George Prewett’s attorney,

arrived, and engaged in a long conference with his aunt, the immediate

result of which was the purchase of a few suits proper for a small boy,

and a hair-cut. Another result was the subsequent arrival of a tall

young man with glasses, solemner, on the whole, than his Aunt Sadi, who

was to act, Harold learned, as his tutor. At the age of ten, Harold

could read and write and do his sums, and knew something of geography,

although it cannot be said that he held imaginatively any real sense of

this big world. He himself had never been farther than a neighbouring

village, whither he was occasionally permitted to drive with his aunt.

There were piles of old bound magazines in the house, Harper’s and

Godey’s and Putnam’s, and a few other books besides, left behind by

an earlier occupant, Thaddeus of Warsaw and The Scottish Chiefs,

Pride and Prejudice, Cranford, Ivanhoe, Pendennis, David Copperfield,

The Woman in White, the Poems of Ossian, the Poems of Owen Meredith,

The Initials, Charles Auchester, Nothing to Wear, Felix Holt, The

Alhambra, Our Old Home, Little Women, Emerson’s Essays, the works

of Margaret Fuller, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, The Pilot, Under Two Flags,

Redburn, Two Years Before the Mast, Neighbour Jackwood, and the Poems

of James Whitcomb Riley. Harold read all these books, some of them

twice.

He suffered from the usual slight childish illnesses, but his

constitution was good and he was seldom really sick. When he was

twelve, a new tutor arrived. He was slightly older than his predecessor

and slightly more solemn. These tutors, it is to be inferred,

represented the rather sedate taste of Elliot Sanderson, Esq. Mr.

Sanderson had strict orders never to mention Harold’s name in his

father’s presence. See that the boy is educated and keep him out of

my sight, were his full instructions. With his new tutor Harold began

to study algebra, English literature, history, physics, and botany.

It was also during this epoch that he learned to swim. The tutor,

unaccountably, was an adept at this art and in a small pond near the

house, discreetly screened by hazel-brush and cat-tails, he imparted

his knowledge to Harold, who never took more than a languid interest

in study of any kind. Harold also began to ride a kind old horse named

President McKinley.

When Harold was fifteen a tailor was sent from New York to take his

measurements, and this visit was repeated thereafter at regular

intervals. From this time on Harold was much too well-dressed for his

environment. When, at last, the boy went to college, he had only come

in contact with his Aunt Sadi, Persia Blaine, and the other servants,

a few female guests, Elliot Sanderson, his two solemn tutors, and

his tailor. It is not astonishing, therefore, that his college years

were somewhat of a trial. If Sanderson had sent him to one of the big

universities, Yale or Harvard or Princeton, it is possible that the

lad might have rubbed up against somebody sufficiently sympathetic or

altruistic or merely meddlesome to teach him something of the world.

The lawyer, however, uncertain how long his rich client’s animosity

towards his offspring might continue, thought it wise to seclude

the boy in a small and rather poor sectarian college where he would

scarcely be likely to meet any one who could establish communication

or connections with the outside world. In this respect Sanderson’s

foresight was splendidly justified.

The boy’s obviously superior style of dressing, his diffident

manner, his rather obstinate pride, natural enough, considering the

circumstances of his bringing-up, almost completely isolated him during

his freshman year. He attended his classes and studied. Afternoons, he

sometimes went horseback riding. He lived in a poor professor’s house

where there were no other boys. In his sophomore year he made a friend

or two, because in any community, however small, complete isolation

is well-nigh impossible. The boys who gravitated towards him, however,

were solemn souls, semi-ostracized, like himself. This little group

discussed and settled many of life’s greatest problems.

That sex had something to do with life Harold had vaguely gleaned

from the naïve books in his aunt’s library. His relations with his

new friends were too formal and his curiosity too small for him to

add anything very tangible to this knowledge. Presently, however,

even among the indigent young students about him, he noted signs

of depravity. A grocer’s daughter became pregnant and a student

disappeared. Bottles were smuggled into respectable boarding-houses

in defiance of both college rules and United States laws. Once, out

riding, he passed a barn and was horrified at the strident sounds of

blasphemy and obscene verse which issued from therein.

In his senior year he had achieved a slender philosophy. He accepted,

in his modest fashion, the fact that there were unknown sins in the

world. He even became a trifle cynical in an humble and apologetic

way: he seemed to be so separated from others by his temperament and

breeding. More and more he was alone.

There remains to be told one horrible detail which left its scars.

I have noted how as a freshman his clothes by themselves would have

prevented any successful intercourse with his fellow students. A

raucous junior crystallized the feeling of the college when he

shouted at Harold one day, Hello, Cloaks and Suits! The badge seemed

appropriate: it had a tremendous vogue. He never, indeed, lost it. It

covered him. It labelled him. Later, another boy added a refinement to

the insult: His father must be in the business! Harold heard it as he

passed, cowered and blushed.

_Chapter III_

If Harold had entered his father’s house cringing, it cannot be said

that he left it with his head high. To most boys the promise of a

year’s freedom under such exceptional circumstances would have opened

up a prospect of unbounded bliss, the security of an irresponsible

existence. But Harold was not like most boys. He had entertained, it

seems probable, some vague expectation that he would be invited to

remain.

It was, therefore, a very dazed young man who fairly tottered down the

stairs and almost jumped when the servant emerged from the darkness to

present him with his hat and usher him through the open doorway. Out in

the bright June glare of Eighty-second Street he thought for a moment

that he was going to be sick, but he managed to summon enough force to

hail a passing taxi-cab, and to give the address of his new home.

Sinking well back into the seat of the cab, he removed his hat and

wiped the perspiration from his temples. Freed from the cloak and suit

business by this extraordinary father, so much more extraordinary even

than he had suspected, Harold seemed committed to a new life which was

still more out of his line. He was decidedly alarmed at the prospect

before him. This Paul Moody assumed in his eyes a somewhat libidinous

character. Even with his limited imagination he could not entirely

efface visions of a troubled future from his mind. It was not fair,

he began to argue with himself, that he should be dependent on such a

singular parent. I am more like my mother, he assured himself. I must

be like my mother, and he thought of the pretty miniature of that lady

which he possessed. But the possibility of disobedience did not occur

to him. All his life he had lived according to the desires of others,

and it seemed natural enough to go on living that way.

Suddenly, and for the first time, Harold became aware of his

surroundings, for the taxi had come to a full stop. At Broadway,

near Twenty-eighth Street, a heavy truck had become entangled with

a taxi-cab in so intimate a manner as to completely obstruct the

street. A great crowd had already collected. Out of the window of the

taxi--for the occupants of neither vehicle appeared to have suffered

injury--peeped the frightened and beautiful head of a maiden, a maiden

with golden hair and velvet, violet eyes. She wore a blue turban and

a simple, blue frock. Out of the violet eyes tears were streaming. A

policeman was taking the names of the drivers. The young lady emerged

and Harold caught himself staring at her. She approached the policeman.

Is it necessary for me to remain? she asked.

You must give me your name, he replied. We’ll need you as a witness.

They were standing directly outside the window of Harold’s taxi. He

could plainly hear the questions and answers.

But my man was not to blame. The truck-driver turned to the left.

That’s what you can tell the judge.

The judge!

The young lady began to cry in earnest.

Your name, miss, and then you can go.

She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. She was so pitiful and so

appealing: Harold felt very sorry for her.

Alice Blake.

Address?

56 East Thirty-seventh Street.

Thank you, miss. You will get a summons. You must be in court tomorrow

at nine o’clock.

Isn’t there some way...?

No, miss, no other way.

She turned to depart, hoping, doubtless, to find another cab. In the

meantime, observing that it would take some moments to clear the

street, Harold’s driver was attempting to turn about and escape by way

of Twenty-ninth Street. At last he succeeded. On the corner stood Miss

Blake, timidly bidding for a taxi, but every one that passed seemed to

be occupied.

The situation inspired Harold with a hitherto unrealized degree of

initiative.

You are going my way.... Can I take you home? he leaned out of the cab,

not without embarrassment, to call to her.

I don’t know you, sir.

This rejoinder was made quite simply, without rudeness, but it caused

Harold to turn red to the full height of his forehead.

I beg your pardon. I thought....

His confusion seemed to reassure her.

You are very good, she said, as she stepped into his cab. I look such a

fright crying, I hate to be seen on the street ... I’ve been arrested.

She sobbed aloud now ... Father will never forgive me.

But you weren’t driving the car.

The chauffeur, as he turned into Fifth Avenue, asked for orders, and

Harold gave Alice’s address.

You know where I live! she exclaimed with amazement.

I heard you tell the policeman.

You know my name, too?

Yes.... Mine is Harold Prewett.

You see, my father says, she resumed, without seeming to have heard

him, that a lady will avoid accidents.

It wasn’t your fault. He would be a brute to scold you.

I have disobeyed him. He has told me always to take a cherry taxi. He

is very particular about that. I was in such a hurry ... I was late for

my piano lesson ... I took a pistache taxi. There was no other about.

It is my fault. Father says that the cherry taxis never have accidents.

That’s nonsense. The truck ran into you; you didn’t run into it. What

happened might just as easily have happened to a Rolls-Royce.

Her manner did not indicate that she was ungrateful for his sympathy;

nevertheless, she appeared to be inconsolable, and continued to sob

intermittently. Nor did she speak again until they reached her door,

when with a muttered, Thank you, and the slight flutter of a gloved

hand, she descended and disappeared in a brown-stone house, before the

diffident Harold had time to give utterance to even one of the hundred

different remarks that were surging inarticulately in his brain. He

gazed at the closed door. Something seemed to have come into his life

and to have gone out of it again. As the taxi drove away he leaned back

against the cushions and wiped his temples for the second time that

warm June afternoon. He was, indeed, so bewildered by the events of the

day that his head began to ache violently.

Presently, his taxi stopped before an apartment house on East

Eighteenth Street, and he remembered that he had one more ordeal to go

through. The boy in the elevator, a Spaniard, was most obsequious. He

had quite evidently been warned of an important arrival. Harold was

carried up to the fourth floor, and Pedro ran on ahead to ring the bell

of apartment B. The door was opened by a properly uniformed English

servant, very tall, very thin, with searching grey eyes, clean-cut,

sharp features, a pointed nose, a cleft chin, and very thin hair,

embellished with brilliantine and plastered severely over a dome-like

head. Harold almost trembled at the sight of him.

Mr. Prewett, I believe, sir. My name is Oliver Drains.

He bowed.

Your trunks and bags have arrived, sir. Mr. Sanderson saw to that.

Harold walked into his new home, not without interest. It was a suite

of four rooms and bath. There was a living-room, which was also a

library, a dining-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bath. An alcove,

leading from the living-room, held a couch which could be used for a

guest. Harold also noted presently that there were twin beds in the

bedroom. The walls were painted, deep blue in the living-room and

dining-room, rose in the bedroom. The curtains were of coarse brown

linen, bordered with a narrow band of chocolate tape, and heavily lined

so that when they were drawn they excluded the daylight. The furniture

had slip-covers of the same linen, but such articles as tables, which

remained uncovered, were of mahogany, modern-antique in style, but not

disagreeable to the eye. Persian rugs made pleasant splashes on the

polished oak floors. On the walls were photographs of subjects not

unknown to the world: Veronese’s Marriage at Cana, Watteau’s Pierrot,

Ingres’s La Source.... The selector evidently had been prejudiced in

favour of the Louvre.

There were also a few books in a case and on the centre-table in the

living-room: Alice in Wonderland, The Way of All Flesh, Ethan Frome,

Daughters of the Rich, The Spoon River Anthology, Crome Yellow, The

Three Black Pennys, Three Soldiers, Figures of Earth, Gentle Julia,

Memoirs of a Midget, and a book of poems by Witter Bynner. There

were a few magazines: current numbers of the Atlantic Monthly, the

Saturday Evening Post, the Dial, Harper’s Bazar, the London Mercury,

the Nation, the Cosmopolitan, and the Police Gazette. Harold fingered

these periodicals, without much more than taking in their titles. Only

the Police Gazette was strange to him, and caused him to wonder why his

father had chosen that. For, apparently, every object in the apartment

had been carefully chosen.

Drains interrupted his revery.

Will you have a bath, sir? I have laid out your dinner clothes.

What time is it, Oliver?

It is a quarter to six, sir.

And where do I dine?

With Mr. Moody if you like, sir. I was to telephone.

Not tonight, Harold replied in haste, acting by instinct. Telephone Mr.

Moody that I will call on him tomorrow afternoon.

Very good, sir. Will you dine at home, sir?

Rapidly Harold was made aware of how much his own master he had become.

It gave him size.

Is there anything to eat in the house?

Certainly, sir. What there is not I can get. The markets are open. May

I suggest a chop, sir?

A chop? Yes, and....

And green peas, sir; a salad, a sweet, and coffee, sir.

I think that will be all right, Harold replied, awkwardly fingering the

Police Gazette.

Thank you, sir, and now will you have your bath?

Drains led the way into the white-tiled bathroom and helped Harold

divest himself of his clothing. Water already poured from the faucets

and the tub was nearly full. Plunged therein, Harold recalled the

events of the day with some confusion, a vague alarm, and yet not

altogether without pleasure. After all, his father had been kind: he

had permitted him, even requested him, to live as he pleased for a

year, and he had already met Alice. He wondered when he would see her

again.... But this Paul Moody! Evidently a strange bird.

Ugh! Harold was blushing again. Drains was scrubbing his back.

Am I scrubbing too hard, sir?

N-n-no.

Now, step out on the mat, sir, and I will dry you.

Drains enveloped Harold in a vast towel, patting him a few times; then,

taking the two ends of the towel, he walked a few feet away and began

fanning the bather with the folds. To conclude the adventure he brought

Harold a handsome silk dressing-gown with a figured Persian design, and

a copy of the Evening Globe.

Would you prefer another paper, sir? I am not yet acquainted with your

tastes.

It doesn’t matter. This will do.

Very good, sir. Now will you dress for dinner, or dine in your

dressing-gown?

I think.... Did my father say?

Your father’s orders were that you were to do exactly as you pleased,

sir.

Harold remembered.

I will stay as I am.

Very good, sir. Now, after I have telephoned Mr. Moody, I will prepare

your dinner, sir.

Listening to Drains at the telephone in the bedroom, Harold had an

inspiration.

Will you bring me the telephone-book, please, Oliver, he said, as the

man hung up the receiver.

Certainly, sir.

Starting to thumb the edges nervously, he was aware that the man still

stood before him.

Anything else, sir?

No, that’s all.

He watched Drains retreat into the kitchen, and then he boldly opened

the book at B and began to look for Blake. There, beyond doubt, was

the number: Beckford Blake, 56 East Thirty-seventh Street--Murray Hill

0007. Drains entered the dining-room. Pretending to lose all interest

in the book, Harold waited until Drains returned to the kitchen.

Finally, he mustered the courage to approach the telephone.

Murray Hill 0007, please, he whispered.

Asked to repeat the number, he looked around; Drains seemed very

distant. He ventured to raise his voice slightly. This time the

operator caught the number. There was a slight noise in the kitchen.

Harold dropped the receiver and hastened back to his chair in the

living-room, propping himself up behind the Globe. Presently Drains,

on his way to market, slammed the front door. Harold returned to the

telephone.

Which Miss Blake? queried a woman’s voice at the other end of the wire.

Miss Alice Blake.

Just a moment. I will see.

A short silence.

Yes, this is Miss Blake. Who is this?

Miss _Alice_ Blake?

Yes. Who is this?

Harold, Harold Prewett. You know, I took you home today.

Oh!

I wanted to know, I wanted to ask ... that is, I wanted to inquire if

it was all right!

All right?

All right with your father.

Yes.

Well, I just wanted to know.

Yes.

Well--Harold vainly sought for words to continue--, well, good-bye.

Wait ... a minute. The voice was faint but desperate.

He waited, much too embarrassed to speak.

A long silence.

I wish.... Well....

Is somebody listening?

Yes.

You want me to ask questions?

Yes.

Overjoyed, his mind began to work faster.

Do you want me to go to court with you in the morning?

Yes.

Where shall I meet you?

Silence. Harold groaned. He was entirely unacquainted with New York.

Must I say?

The outside door slammed.

The same thing, Harold ejaculated, almost in a whisper.

What?

You know what you just told me?

Oh!

I’ll call you tomorrow.

No, you can’t do that! This was positive.

He racked his brain; suddenly a sky-rocket shot up and burst, painting

Paul Moody’s address in fire against the sky.

Gramercy Park!

Yes.

Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.

Yes. Good-bye.

Good-bye.

Drains was in the kitchen. Had he heard? Harold wondered. He returned

to his paper and apparently was buried in the stock reports, but a pair

of violet eyes obtruded themselves between his vision and the print.

His heart was beating violently. For the third time that day he wiped

his temples with his handkerchief.

Drains entered, bearing a tray on which reposed a cocktail.

Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Try this, sir.

Must I? I do-do-don’t drink.

You don’t drink? Certainly, sir, you are not obliged to.

Drains appeared to be astonished and a little hurt.

Would my father ...? Harold began, and faltered.

Certainly not, sir. Your father demands nothing of you. Only he asked

me to see that you had a good cellar.

But it’s against the law, protested Harold.

I think, sir, that your father hopes that you will break a few.

Drains was very solemn, but there was a maliciously ironic twinkle in

his eyes.

Break the law!

Well, some of them. Everybody does.

I never have.... Then, impulsively, Let me taste it. He sipped the

concoction in a gingerly manner. Ugh! It’s very bitter.

* * * * *

Drains made something of a ceremony of the dinner. It was served

precisely as if there had been eleven guests present, at least one

of whom was entitled to a crest on his stationery. There were little

attentions. Is your chop too well done, sir? What kind of dressing

do you prefer on your salad, sir? Do you drink black coffee, sir?

Nevertheless, Harold did not eat much. He was conscious of a growing

perturbation in his mind and a continued acceleration in the beating of

his heart. When, at length, he had finished--and it had seemed a very

long dinner--, he returned to his comfortable chair. He was through

with the Globe. He picked up the Nation and read an editorial which

seemed very radical to him. What was the world coming to? Anarchists

and Socialists. Reds. Bolsheviki. The ex-soldiers seemed dissatisfied.

Why didn’t they go to work in the cloak and suit business? No one else

wanted to. There should be plenty of room for them there. He wasn’t

sleepy, but he could think of nothing else to do but go to bed. Drains

was in the kitchen. Harold retreated to the bedroom where he found a

pair of silk pyjamas, striped in two shades of grey, with the name of

an English firm embroidered on a label in the collar, lying on the bed.

Drawing off his clothes, he donned them, and was just ready to retire

when Drains came in. Drains was beaming.

Can I do anything more for you, sir, before I leave?

Leave?

For the night, sir. There is no place for me to sleep here. I shall be

in very early in the morning. What time will you have your breakfast,

sir?

Seven-thirty ... Harold hesitated. Would that be too early?

Not at all, sir. But Drains looked distinctly disapproving. Very good,

sir, he added. Breakfast for two?

Two? Certainly not. Breakfast for one. Why two?

You will excuse me, sir, but I heard you telephoning to a young lady

and I thought perhaps you had asked her to spend the night with you.

Harold almost fell out of bed.

I was not telephoning that kind of young lady!

I beg your pardon, sir.

Can one.... Is this that sort of house?

Your father owns this house, sir. You are at home.

Then ... he.... This was very difficult for Harold ... he wouldn’t

object if I, if I.... He achieved the end in a rush and a gulp ... had

women here?

Object, sir? Drains raised his eyebrows. Object? Certainly not.

The tone of Drains’s reply was profoundly lacking in doubt.

Would he then.... The horror of the idea almost stifled speech....

Would he then be willing?

I can vouch for that, sir. Drains’s tone was now both deferential and

parental.

Is it ... Harold was sitting bolt upright in bed.... Is it what he

wants?

I can only repeat my orders, sir. They are definite. You are to do

anything you please. I have had considerable experience, sir, in

observing young men do what they please. In London, sir--Drains drew

himself up with considerable side--, I was in the employ of the Duke of

Middlebottom. That is why your father engaged me.

Harold’s face was a blank.

I perceive, sir, that the name of the Duke of Middlebottom has no

associations for you. The name is not unknown in London, sir,

especially in certain circles. I left the Duke’s service, I may say,

sir, for good reasons. I am not a snob; nor am I a puritan. I take

great delight in the society of ladies, sir. I like to see a young man

surround himself with attractive ladies. I enjoy arranging the pipes

for the opium, sir, sterilizing the needles, and running for the doctor

when a young lady has overdosed herself with vodka. It is very pleasant

to serve breakfast for a numerous party that has forgotten to go home

the night before, but I have my personal dignity, sir, and I left the

Duke of Middlebottom.

Oliver, _why_ did you leave the Duke?

One of his young ladies wished to whip me, sir. The incident aroused

the Duke. He forgot himself, sir. May I say good-night, sir?

Good-night, Oliver.

Harold fell back against the pillow, his aching head throbbing with

horror. Not that he fully understood all that Drains had intended to

imply. Needles baffled him, and pipes. Didn’t people _eat_ opium

and wasn’t it a Chinese vice? Obviously, however, Drains had lived

with a man of the lowest type, no matter how many points there were

in his coronet. And this was the fellow his father had chosen to be

his servant! A man who began by offering him cocktails and ended by

asking if a young lady would share his breakfast in bed! What were his

father’s intentions? What would Aunt Sadi think of all this? What

would _Alice_ think? It was a long time before he felt calm enough

to press the button at his side which extinguished the lights; it was

very much longer before he was able to go to sleep.

* * * * *

At a quarter after eight the next morning, Harold stood before the

Players’ Club in Gramercy Park. He was amazed to discover that the

park itself was enclosed by a high iron fence, the gates of which were

locked, although several people, principally nursemaids and their

charges, were enjoying the warm June air under the trees within the

enclosure. Presently, he observed an elderly lady open one of the gates

with a great brass key. So, it appeared, he must encircle the iron

fence until he found Alice. He walked on past the Players’, turning

up the west side of the park; then east, and down the north side. He

circled the fence, indeed, three times. As he was striding up the west

side for the fourth time, he observed a furtive figure hurrying towards

him from Lexington Avenue, a trim little figure in blue serge. He

advanced rapidly to meet her.

I’ve had such a time! She was almost in tears again, but it must be

admitted that tears were becoming to her.

Poor child.

I had to stand in the library near the door until the man arrived

with the summons. Then, this morning I have no lessons and I am not

supposed to go out. I asked papa if I might do some shopping, but there

seemed to be no occasion for it, at least I was too nervous to think of

any. Finally, I told him that I had a dreadful headache and must go for

a walk.

Poor child! Harold unquestionably was sympathetic but he could think of

nothing else to say.

We must hasten! The policeman told me to be in court at nine o’clock.

We must find a taxi.

They walked towards Fourth Avenue and Harold hailed a passing cab.

But it isn’t a cherry cab.

It’s too late to be particular, Harold muttered as he helped her in.

I suppose so ... but papa says....

* * * * *

Ascending to the court-room at the Jefferson Market Police Court,

they passed, on the stairs, a motley crowd of bondsmen, witnesses,

shyster lawyers, friends of prostitutes, and hangers-on. Court, they

noted, on entering, had already opened. A frowzy female was telling

the judge how a neighbour’s child had stuck pins into her little girl.

The little girl, according to the testimony of the defence, had begun

the sticking. The judge, a slender, elderly man with a great beak like

that of a parrot, on which was fastened a pince-nez, did not appear to

be listening. He examined papers with one hand while, with the other,

he ceaselessly tapped the desk with a silver paper-cutter. A row of

dingy witnesses fidgeted on the front benches, waiting for the cases

in which they were interested to be called. The clock ticked. Some one

whispered. A clerk pounded for order. Case followed case. The heat was

stifling and the odour unspeakable. It was nearly twelve o’clock before

the driver of the truck, a burly Irishman, was called to the stand. The

chauffeur of the taxi in which Alice had been driving began his story

in so low a tone that Harold and Alice could not catch a single word.

The judge never looked up. He continued to fuss with his papers and to

tap the desk with his silver paper-cutter. The policeman was called

before the bench and corroborated the testimony of the taxi-driver. He,

too, spoke in a low monotone, but it was possible to hear a part of

what he said: the truck-driver had turned to the left.

Miss Blake! called the clerk.

Alice, blushing furiously, rose, stumbled, tottered to the

witness-stand. She could have felt no worse had she been on trial for

murder. Her eyes were shut tight, and she held a handkerchief to her

dry lips.

Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

I do.

Name?

Alice Blake, she scarcely whispered.

The judge looked up for the first time; nor, it should be noted, did he

look down again.

Address?

56 East Thirty-seventh Street: this in a considerably lower tone.

What do you know about this case?

I was driving in the taxi-cab....

Go on, Miss Blake, put in the judge in a manner which was kindly but

certainly not paternal. Tell us your story in your own way.

That man--she pointed to the Irishman--ran into my car.... He turned to

the left.

The prisoner was sworn.

Your honour....

Don’t lie now! Tell the truth! The judge was stern. His eyes were on

Alice.

Your honour, I.... Yer see, it wern’t my fault. There wern’t no signal

at that corner.... I was turnin’....

To the left, interjected the lawyer for the taxi-driver.

Were you drunk?

No, your honour: with great indignation.

Was he drunk? This to the policeman.

I don’t think so, your honour.

I’m tired of these cases. You truck-drivers think you can run the

streets. This little girl--he beamed through his pince-nez at the

shrinking Miss Blake--has been thoroughly shaken up as a result of your

wanton behaviour. I cannot have the little girls on the streets in

danger of their lives on account of such men as you. I’m going to make

an example of you. One hundred dollars or ten days in the work-house.

The judge smiled at Alice, and Alice began to cry.

The truck-driver stood before the bar. No, he couldn’t pay the fine.

Alice turned quickly to Harold.

Have you a hundred dollars?

I don’t ... I’ll see.

He looked in his pocket-book and to his great astonishment found nearly

five hundred. Drains must have put it there while he was asleep.

Yes, I have.

Will you lend it to me?

I’ll pay the man’s fine.

No, this is my affair. If you will lend it to me, I will pay the fine.

I can get the money.

Let me....

Please.... Alice began to cry again. Harold was certain he had never

seen any one so adorable, never imagined that any one so adorable could

come into his life. He pressed the money into her little hand, and she

rushed to the bar, almost breathless.

I’ll pay his fine.

The judge glanced down the extensive length of his nose at her. He said

nothing, but his face was more expressive than usual.

The clerk took the money.

The Irishman turned to Alice.

I couldn’t bear to think, she stammered, that you had been sentenced

because I appeared against you. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to

come. They made me. I had to tell the truth. You _will_ be more

careful, won’t you?

Shure, mum. The Irishman scratched his red-thatched head.

The judge leaned over the bar.

Miss Blake, he began.

Alice looked up.

Won’t you come and sit beside me and listen to the other cases?

She declined with thanks.

Let’s get out of this horrid place, she adjured Harold.

You are adorable, he muttered, as they descended the stairs.

I couldn’t bear to think of that man going to jail. He may have

children. I’d always feel it was my fault he was there. Oh! if papa

hears about this!

I don’t think he will.

It might get into the newspapers.

The horror of this idea expanded. Harold was innocent enough to believe

that it might, but he kept his opinion to himself.

It’s over now anyway, but if papa finds out!

Please, don’t cry again. I can’t bear it!

I won’t if I can help it.... She tried to straighten her lip. We must

find another taxi.

Two taxis stood by the kerb but both were silver grey.

We _must_ find a cherry cab....

They walked towards Fifth Avenue. Several cabs passed them but all the

cherry cabs were occupied. They always were, Alice explained drearily.

We may as well walk home, Alice conceded.

When may I see you again?

Of course, I must pay you the hundred dollars.

I’d forgotten all about that. I don’t want the money. I want to see you.

It is a debt. I’ll send it to you.... I don’t know your address.

Harold wrote it out on a card.

I want to see you, he pleaded. Won’t you write me that I may call?

Oh! no, no! She was positive. Papa would question me. He would want to

know where I had met you.

What shall we do?

I don’t know. I can’t meet you again. I can’t invite you to the

house.... Don’t think me ungrateful ... I simply can’t. And you mustn’t

telephone me again. I was so afraid last night. Nobody heard ... but if

they had!

Harold’s expression was rueful. I must see you, he urged. Don’t you

want to see me?

You have been very kind to me.

I have done nothing I didn’t want to do. I....

Alice seemed to have an idea: Haven’t you any friends?

Friends?

Somebody I know, for instance.... Can’t we be introduced properly?

Harold shook his head. I don’t know anybody except--I don’t know

anybody at all in New York.

Nobody! Alice’s tone was slightly one of alarm.

Nobody.

Oh! You mustn’t walk with me any farther. Somebody might see us. I can

go home alone. I’ll send you the money. Good-bye.

Harold held out his hand, but Alice was gone, almost running, indeed,

ahead of him up the Avenue.

_Chapter IV_

In a room, the walls of which were lined with pale-green taffeta, a man

and a woman were sitting in the late June afternoon. It was a charming

room with orange and gold lacquer screens, escritoires and tables of

a severe Directoire pattern, needle-point chairs, and a chaste marble

fireplace. Stalks of indigo larkspurs and salmon snapdragons emerged

from tall crystal vases. A few books bound in gaily coloured boards lay

on one of the tables, and the others were cluttered, hugger-mugger,

with a variety of picturesque and valuable objects. A bright Manila

shawl, embroidered in vermilion and lemon flowers, was thrown over

the piano, and was held in place by a blue Canton china pitcher full

of magenta roses. A copper bowl, heaped with ripe figs, stood on a

console-table. Sanguines by Boucher and Fragonard, with indelicate

subjects, hung on the walls. The broad windows looked down on Gramercy

Park. This was the living-room of an apartment which included two small

bedrooms, and an alcove, which served as a kitchen.

A young man in white flannels, a young man with curly golden hair

and blue eyes and a profile that resembled somewhat Sherril Schell’s

photograph of Rupert Brooke, a young man with slender, graceful hands

which he was inclined to wave rather excessively in punctuation of his

verbal effects, reclined on a divan upholstered with green taffeta,

smoking a cigarette in a jade holder of a green so dark and so nearly

translucent that it paraphrased emerald.

In one of the heavier and easier chairs sat a lady, with a face which,

perhaps, you would not call beautiful, but which would assuredly awaken

your interest. The forehead was almost entirely obscured by a wave

of chestnut hair, bobbed at the back. The eyes were grey, the nose

retroussé. She had a good artificial colour and her rather sensual

lips were enamelled a vivid carmine. Her jaw was square but it was

the square jaw of character, by no means detracting from her charm.

She, too, wore white, a robe of Chinese brocaded crêpe, with a girdle

of uncut chalcedony, into which she had inserted a cluster of scarlet

geraniums. These flowers bloomed also on her small white French hat, a

creation of Evelyne Varon.

Campaspe Lorillard was about thirty, intensely feminine, intensely

feline, in the most seductive sense of the word. She was addicted to

chain-smoking, that is she lighted one cigarette from the other as fast

as it burned too near the end of her amethyst holder. She was regarding

Paul Moody with some intensity and was obviously interested in what he

was about to say.

Out with it! she commanded, and her voice, clear and soft and

sympathetic, although it contained a suggestion of mockery, was not

lacking in force or intention.

Yes, I must tell you.... He’ll be here in a few minutes, Paul groaned.

Campaspe remained silent, blowing delicate and wistful rings of smoke

into the air.

Do you remember the poet who was too proud to die and who sent his

servant out into the street to beg for him?... I had to do something;

you will admit that?

Campaspe did not help him.

I couldn’t go on. Father won’t send me another dollar.

If you are going to give Mrs. Whittaker the honour of keeping you, tell

me this instant, Campaspe interpolated.

It’s not quite as bad as that. It isn’t marriage.

I never had any such idea.

Oh! It isn’t that either!

Well, Paulet, what is it?

Campaspe regarded her sheer white stockings with some interest; her

eyes followed on down to her trim shoes of white suède, which fastened

across the ankles with a curious arrangement of straps with chalcedony

buttons.

I may as well tell you.... An unintimate observer would have been

puzzled to decide how much of Paul’s misery was feigned.... I’m going

to become a tutor, ’paspe.

A tutor! She smiled. A tutor! A guide to fast life! How to smoke opium

in three lessons?

Not so bad for a guess, Paul grinned. He began to feel more

comfortable. You’ve more or less hit it.

Who wants to learn?

That’s the strange part. I answered an advertisement. It’s here

somewhere....

He rose and fumbled about in an escritoire until he found the clipping.

What kind of jest is this? Campaspe’s interest was not on the wane.

That’s just what I thought. I went to see him ... an old man, in

earnest. It’s his son, a milksop, I take it. I don’t know. I’ve never

seen him. He’s coming in today. You’ve got to help.... Everybody’s got

to help....

Teach him the vices?

I really don’t know. It’s all queer. The old fellow didn’t tell me

much. He asked questions. He seemed particularly pleased when he

learned that my wife had supported me. That appeared to settle the

matter for him.

But Amy doesn’t any more. She even made a quite violent effort to get

you to return the compliment.

He liked that too.... He seemed to like everything about me.

Swank!

Perhaps, but my new income begins today. I don’t have to do anything

for it, so far as I can see, except introduce the--the--the offspring

to my friends. The old gentleman stipulated, though, that I should

never mention business. He doesn’t want ideas of that nature put into

the boy’s head.

What is the name of this horrid old man?

Prewett, George Prewett.

We don’t know him, do we?

God, no! He belongs to one of the 1870-90 families, I should gather

from the house. Stained-glass and wainscoting. I’m sure they give

turkey dinners on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

And you don’t have to teach the boy anything definite?

No. Nothing was said about reading or study.... I rely on you, the old

’un said, to introduce my son to existence. I don’t know exactly where

it is to be found, but you look as if you do. You know, at least, the

things I want my son to know.... The old boy was abrupt and brusque,

not at all hesitant or indecisive. He signed a cheque at our last

interview yesterday morning and passed it over to me.

Paul removed a leather money-case from his coat-pocket, extracted a

pink slip of paper therefrom, and handed it over to Campaspe.

As much as that! Are you feeding the boy?

No, he has his own money.

This is all?

Another cheque in a month.... Sooner, if I want it. There are no limits

set to my rapacity. Oh! he’s rich!

Well, Paulet, you’re in luck again. You’re always lucky, she commented,

rather pensively.

I don’t do anything about it: his answer was not uncomplacent.

Nothing unpleasant ever happens to you, she continued to muse aloud, or

if it does, like Amy’s divorce, it serves to make something pleasant

happen. Even when you were in Ludlow Street Jail you ate hot-house

grapes and pickled walnuts and read Turgenieff. I sometimes regret that

I didn’t marry you myself.

I wish you had.

God forbid! It’s better for us to be friends.

Alive to the cozenage, Paulet’s face assumed the rather silly but

extremely sympathetic expression of a chow puppy having its belly

massaged by a friendly hand.

I haven’t given you a cocktail, he remembered. Ki!

A diminutive Jap in a white linen uniform appeared from the alcove.

Make some of your best Bacardi cocktails.

Yessir.

Campaspe was thinking. When, exactly, do you expect him? she asked.

Harold? He telephoned, or a man named Drains, _his_ man,

telephoned that he would come in this afternoon.

So he’s named Harold. Prewett--she rolled it over--, no, I don’t

remember _that_.

The glass that held the cocktail was Venetian. Campaspe regarded its

crumpled and gold-flecked convolutions before she began to sip the

contents.

Ki makes good cocktails. I’m glad you’re not going to lose him, glad

you’re not going to lose the green taffeta. Oh! I suppose you wouldn’t

anyway. You are lucky, Paulet. Hundreds of people would give you a dime

a week to keep you from going under. You are cheerful and amusing and

decorative. I’m glad I didn’t marry you. No husband can be cheerful

and amusing and decorative to his wife, and a man who is cheerful and

amusing and decorative to the world, but who ceases to be so to his

wife, soon loses his self-confidence, and fails to interest anybody.

Paul sipped his cocktail. The clock struck five. Ki opened the door for

John Armstrong, a young stock-broker, who suggested something of the

prize-fighter in his good-natured virility.

Hello, Mrs. Lorillard.... Hello, Paul. Drinks?

Just in time. Ki!

Surprised to find you in town, Mrs. Lorillard.

I’ve been away for two days. I scarcely ever go to the country, never

for long. It’s dull and lonely and hot; a convention, this going to the

country. New York is an ideal summer-resort. I like it better in the

summer than I do in the winter. Only one detail I deplore: the straight

streets. The cow-paths, the lanes, the byways, and the turnings exist

only in quarters I never visit.

But don’t you go to Europe?

Europe! Why all this racing over Europe? I did the museums when I

was seventeen. Paris is provincial, démodé. Nothing remains but the

dressmakers, and they work only for American women. As for the people

... people are the same everywhere. If you have imagination, you don’t

need to travel.

Hadn’t thought of it. Guess you’re right. I’ve got to stick. It’s a

good idea to have reasons. I’ll use yours. May I?

I expect you to.

Paul, Campaspe noted, was beginning to look a trifle perturbed. He

dreaded, she said to herself, the coming encounter, but Harold’s

entrance proved a happy surprise for both of them. He was so young, so

entirely adequate in appearance. Even with the ideas of an adolescent

he would do, would pass. He did resemble a frightened dormouse, but he

was very handsome. And Campaspe’s instinct told her at once that this

boy was the opposite of Paul in everything.

Come over here and sit down, young man, she ordered, although in a

kindly enough tone. Ki will give you a cocktail.

Harold said nothing this time about his previous temperate habits, but

the size of the drink alarmed him. Ki was not penurious with alcohol.

After Harold had drunk half his cocktail, he even attempted a little

sally.

You will pardon me for speaking of it, he said, but I am admiring your

flowers. I never saw any one wear geraniums before. I didn’t know they

were worn. They seem to belong in boxes outside windows, or in pots, or

in parks, but they are just right on you.

’paspe always wears geraniums, said Paul, probably because Cupid

doesn’t like them.

Cupid? queried Harold, more comfortable, a trifle bolder.

Mr. Lorillard. Madame’s husband. We always call him that. Cupid and my

Campaspe played for kisses; Cupid paid, you know. He pays all right,

but he doesn’t get the kisses.... Hello, Bunny.

Paul rose to greet the newcomer, Mr. Titus Hugg, a very short man,

shorter even than Ki, inclined towards rotundity, but young and rosy

and extremely affable.

I’ve been composing, Bunny remarked, a wonderful thing, and I was

getting along splendidly until the telephone set me off by ringing in

the identical key as that in which I was writing. I couldn’t think of

another dissonance. I quit!

Noises usually inspire you, suggested Campaspe.

Always, until today. I wrote a queer, strange thing, created after a

creaking door. The maid broke china. I used the crash. Even the sound

of soapy suds, rubbed up and down, up and down, was good for a little

piece.

What are you writing now, Bunny, a symphony? queried John Armstrong.

Mr. Titus Hugg looked at the stock-broker with disgust.

A symphony! Say, don’t you know this is the twentieth century? A

symphony! Does your firm sell spinning-wheel stock? Music has got to be

less tenuous; all this going on and going over is finished. Brevity,

that’s what we want now. All the old stuff is too long. My new pieces

are over in five or six bars, one of them in only two. Do you want to

hear it?

I could stand two bars, John Armstrong replied.

Bunny disregarded the insult; Paul, Harold, and Campaspe all urged him

to play. He sat down before the Steinway grand, looking portentous.

La pavane pour une Infante défunte, he read the title of the piece of

music on the rack in front of him. One sees that everywhere now, just

as in the eighties, I have been told, it was always La prière d’une

vierge.

He did not make a tentative attack on the key-board, as is the bad

habit of amateurs. Instead, he plunged at once into a conglomeration of

harsh seconds. After a few raucous but brilliant wrestlings with the

keys, he ceased.

What do you call it? Campaspe demanded.

Fourteenth Street. It’s part of my Manhattan Suite.

Play Fifteenth Street, suggested Harold.

I haven’t written all the streets, only twenty-five of them, and not

consecutively.

Sheridan Square! was Paul’s idea.

Certainly not.... I’ll play you Sutton Place if you like.

Not that! cried Campaspe. We must have some reservations.

I’ll play you Albéniz’s Triana, said the intransigent musician, and he

did play a few bars, but he broke off in the middle of one with the

cry, J’en ai marre!

Play _that_!

J’en ai marre! J’en ai marre!

After a cocktail, Bunny was more complaisant.

I’ll play Columbus Circle.

Childs’ by moonlight?

The Maine Monument in the late afternoon?

The Columbus statue?

Well, judge for yourselves!

This time, with one finger, Bunny picked out a tune which wandered from

the top to the bottom of the piano.

I can’t play the accompaniment to that melody until I get the right

kind of piano. It’s not written for the tempered scale. I must have

quarter and sixteenth tones. Moses played it for me on his violin....

You heard it, Paul.

Like a cat singing to the discoverer of America.... You saw him sailing

on and you listened to the cat.

In spite of himself, Harold smiled.

Bunny played his Bowery Ballet in two bars.

I’m tired. He wheeled around. ’paspe, sing for us, one of those nice,

old-fashioned songs your mother used to sing.

Do! Do! from John Armstrong and Paul. Even Harold caught the infection

of their enthusiasm.

Fannie’s so adorable when she sings them, Campaspe said, as she went

to the piano. She settled herself, preluded with a few bars, and then

began:

Bedelia! Prends garde aux faux pas!

Bedelia! Ne tombe pas!

En France, on est connaisseur;

Va z-y donc sans avoir peur!

Soutiens l’honneur national--

Le cak’ walk sans égal,

Oh! Bedelia, elia, elia,

Tiens bien haut et ferme le drapeau

Des enfants de Chicago!

It’s lovely, cried Harold.

It is nice, Campaspe admitted. Time makes tunes classic.

She had a talent for singing popular airs, and the boys were delighted

when she attacked another, broken by, harmonized and syncopated with,

the shaking of cocktails.

A la Mâtiniqu’, Mâtiniqu’, Mâtiniqu’!

C’i ça qu’est chic!

C’i ça qu’est chic!

Pas d’veston, de col, de pantalon,

Simplement un tout pitit cal’çon.

Y’en a du plaisir, du plaisir, du plaisir,

Jamais malad’, jamais mourir;

On ôt le cal’çon pour diner l’soir,

Et tout le monde est en noir!

In spite of the French words they sound so American, was Harold’s

comment.

They _are_ American, affirmed Campaspe, by Stephen Foster, or

Edward MacDowell, or one of those dead composers. They are almost

folksongs now, and what a quaint old-fashioned air they have, like the

names of absinthe frappé, or sherry flip, or pousse café. You should

hear Fannie sing them; she’s so young, so indecently young. You know

my mother, don’t you, Bunny?

Never had the pleasure.

She looks younger than ’paspe, Paul explained. Always going to

fortune-tellers. One told her last summer that she would fall in love

at the age of thirty-two!

Dear Fannie, I’d like to see her again, Campaspe mused.

Where is your mother? asked Paul.

Fannie’s in Paris.

Have you read about the Siamese twins? John Armstrong interpolated.

What? from Bunny.

One of them died!

Oh! from Campaspe.

One of them had a son, put in Paul.

If the public were more imaginative, the newspapers could not print

such things, commented Campaspe.

Ki brought in a trayful of cocktails.

Why do Japs always smile? asked John Armstrong, as Ki retired to his

little kitchen.

It’s their mask, a perfect one, Campaspe replied. You never know what

they are really thinking. I have a harder one. Why do Greek bootblacks

always have such wonderful hair?

I suppose it’s the essential oils, Paul began.... And then, with a

swift transition, Let’s go junketing; let’s go to Coney Island!

Just the thing, assented John Armstrong, and Bunny and Campaspe

approved. Nobody asked Harold for his opinion of the projected

excursion.

Have you got your car? Bunny demanded of Campaspe.

It should be outside.

Ki! Paul shouted.

Flurry and rush began, preparation for excitement and adventure, a

swift appraisal of boxes of cigarettes. Ki poured whiskey and gin and

rum into tube-containers enclosed in field-glass cases.

Hats! Hats! cried John Armstrong.

The little Jap ran about, smiling, executing commands, bearing hats,

ridding the apartment of guests. They walked out into the bright

sunglare of Gramercy Park. Inside the railing, a half-dozen children,

watched by their nursemaids, were attempting to pretend to enjoy

themselves in the little forest of shrubbery under the melancholy

statue of Edwin Booth.

Have you heard about Amy? asked Paul.

Has Amy married again? Bunny queried.

That I don’t know, but she smoked a cigarette in Gramercy Park the

other evening and the pious trustees have taken her key away from her.

Poor Amy! Campaspe mused aloud. She doesn’t understand how to enjoy her

freedom. She doesn’t understand her world. She wants to live her own

life, as she sees us live ours, and she doesn’t know how. She’s always

having keys taken away from her. Everything will be locked to her soon.

Would you smoke a cigarette in Gramercy Park? asked Harold, as they

stepped into the car.

Sit in front with the chauffeur, Harold, she directed. John, you and

Paul sit with me. Bunny, take the strapontin.

They followed her instructions, and the Rolls-Royce swung out into the

street and turned down Irving Place.

I wouldn’t want to: Campaspe at last found time to reply to Harold’s

question. Amy is trying too hard to fight the world, to soften the

world’s corners, instead of softening her own. In the end, of course,

martyrdom is waiting for her. I have no respect for martyrs. Any one

who is strong enough shapes the world to his own purposes, but he

doesn’t do it roughly; he accomplishes his object in just the way

that any woman you know gets anything she wants out of her husband

... by appearing to be in sympathy with those who oppose him. Conform

externally with the world’s demands and you will get anything you

desire in life. By a process of erosion you can dig a hole in two years

through public opinion that it would take you two centuries to knock

through. It is just as great a mistake to reject violently ideas that

do not appeal to us. Rejection implies labour, interest, even fear.

Indifference is the purer method. Indifference rids one of cause and

effect simultaneously.... The world--she appeared to be in a kind of

revery--is a very pleasant place for people who know how to live. We

are the few. The rest are fools, and all we have to do to persuade the

fools to permit us to live our own lives is to make them believe that

we, too, are fools. It’s so simple, once you understand. But what does

the martyr gain? He has lost the suffrage of public opinion and he has

done nothing to advance his own cause, for unless he has made the world

believe in it he cannot carry it through. Bah! she repeated, I have no

respect for martyrs. Give me an intelligent hypocrite every time!

What an extraordinary woman! thought Harold, and it occurred to him

that he was learning more from her than he was from Paul. It was she

who was giving him his first lessons in worldliness and he did not

sense anything tangible in the manner of these lessons which he could

resent. He found himself less aggressive, less inclined to obstinacy,

chip more off shoulder, and back more flexible, than he had found

himself with Drains. Paul seemed decent enough, he admitted, but he did

not feel quite natural with Paul, quite ready to relax in his presence.

With Campaspe, on the other hand, he already seemed acquainted; she

awakened his sympathy. Part of this readier acceptance was doubtless

due to his early environment. He knew women and trusted them. In spite

of his college years, perhaps because of them, he never felt quite

comfortable with men.... He was left to himself. The four in the back

of the car were conversing in an animated manner about matters with

which he had no concern. There was, however, he perceived, no rudeness

in connection with this exclusion. He did not have the feeling, which

had come to him so many times at college, that he was being ignored.

It was rather as though these people considered him already enough of

a friend so that they might talk freely in his presence without making

any mechanical attempt to draw him in. Presently, he discovered that

the motor of a Rolls-Royce heats the feet mercilessly. He spoke of

this to the chauffeur, who opened an aperture near Harold’s ankles,

permitting a draught to blow across them.

There is something pathetic about the young, the suffering of a young

man trying to adjust himself to circumstances which he does not

understand. Harold presently began to miss the compassion assuredly

due him, and his mood shifted. In spite of the friendly attitude

of his companions, he began to pity himself, as he sat silent and

alone on the little seat beside the driver of the Rolls-Royce, which

was breaking all the speed laws, as it burst forward down the Long

Island turnpike. Houses, farms, trees, Socony signs: a monotonous

prospect. Harold, saddened a little, it is presumable, by Bacardi rum,

thought of himself as helplessly immeshed in a kind of life which he

certainly did not understand and which he felt sure he never could

like. Helpless! From his earliest childhood he had been accustomed

to accepting, unquestioningly, the arrangements others had made for

him. He remembered how he had been brought up like a girl, with long

curls which had not been clipped until he was nearly seven years old.

He recalled, with shame, the day on which he had been permitted to

discard his kilts for a boy’s proper apparel, and how at the time,

he had been ashamed, rather, to make the change. He thought of his

college days, one long struggle at hopeless compromise. He had not

been a particularly good student, and the external activities of his

fellow-students had proved utterly alien to his taste. How many times

he had walked alone across the campus! How many nights he had remained

alone in his room! His vacations were a repetition of his childhood:

Aunt Sadi, _dear_ Aunt Sadi, he thought today, Persia Blaine, Miss

Perkins; riding, swimming, reading, the quiet, easy security of farm

life, safe but unrevealing.... That extraordinary interview with his

father: whatever happened he could never forget that. Then Alice Blake,

who reminded him of Persia Blaine and Aunt Sadi, and who was young and

beautiful besides, had passed his way, had been swept from his vision,

and nothing remained but this new life, this incomprehensible and silly

life, compounded of cocktails and chatter and music, which in its

dissonances sounded almost obscene to him. In spite of Campaspe, he

felt that he would never be able to cope with it. Why didn’t he break

away and find himself? That seemed to be the most impossible procedure

of all.

At last the towers and minarets and wheels and scenic railways of Coney

Island came into view in the sonorous light; then, the wide strip of

ocean, the beach strewn with refuse and bathers, fat Jewesses, and

flashy young clerks from Broadway shops. There was a curious confusion

of artificial and natural odours: the fishy, salty smell of the sea;

the aroma of cooking-food, steaming clams, sausages, frying pork. A

mechanical piano wailed out Say it with music a quarter tone off key.

Barkers everywhere: Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to

present this afternoon this little lady here on my right, the Princess

Sesame, considered by many to be the GREATEST LIVING EXPONENT of

oriental harem dancing. The little lady will perform for you here this

afternoon, INSIDE THIS TENT, a feat hitherto unattempted by any of the

world’s great terpsichorean marvels, NAMELY, the Sicilian shimmy dagger

dance!... Balloons, captive and toy, elongated and round, purple,

green, and red. Ferris wheels, airplane swings, merry-go-rounds, tinsel

and marabou, hula dolls, trap-drummers, giant coasters, gyroplanes,

dodge ’ems, maelstroms, frolics, wonderlands, poses plastiques, pig

slides, barbecues, captive aeros, witching waves, whirlpools, whips,

chute the chutes, Venetian canals, fun houses, targets, shooting

galleries, popcorn, cracker-jack, pretzels, soft drinks, eskimo pies,

ice-cream cones: all the delights of the greatest of American amusement

parks.

Campaspe clapped her hands. It’s superb! she cried. Just what I

imagined. I’ll never have to see anything again. It’s all of life

and most of death: sordid splendour with a touch of immortality and

middle-class ecstasy. This is Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and Thomas Hardy,

and Max Beerbohm, and Bret Harte, and even James Joyce. It’s a parable;

it’s an allegory; it’s the pagan idea of heaven, and the Christian

conception of hell. It burns and it freezes. It is clamour and it is

silence. It is both home and the house of prostitution. It is what you

want and what you want to escape. It is--she turned to Harold--complete

experience. It is your education.

Harold was dazzled by her enthusiasm, but he certainly had no idea what

she was talking about.

What shall we do first? asked Paul, rather languidly. They had

descended from the motor and were walking along the beach.

I’m hungry, struck up Bunny.

Get Bunny a hot dog, suggested John Armstrong.

I could eat a smoked Pom, was Bunny’s riposte.

Presently, they were all munching sausages laid in between two strips

of bun, larded with mustard.