She had a sweet, bell-like soprano, which commanded great applause; but
Wilfred disliked to hear her sing. A little too bell-like perhaps; a
suggestion of the metal, however silvery. He was reminded of huskier and
less admirable voices, which nevertheless had the power to bring tears
to his eyes. But of course he applauded Daisy with the rest. He had met
her three times on the occasions of Ladies’ nights at the dinners of a
little club to which he belonged. She sang for her dinner. He was not in
the least attracted to her; but in a circle of serious-minded men,
mostly married, it was up to him to prove his mettle. He could not have
allowed one of the dull fellows to carry off the only girl in their
midst. She was a girl; but not a particularly young one; fully Wilfred’s
own age. So he had taken her home each time.
She was pretty enough to gratify his fastidiousness, especially as it
was not an obvious prettiness. She wore glasses, which gave her rather
the air of a young school-ma’am; and it was only after reaching a
certain degree of intimacy, that you discovered there were lovely blue
eyes behind the glass. She had too, an admirable straight, short nose,
and a sweet-lipped mouth, a thought too small. Her body was well enough.
She gave an impression of thinness which was illusory. She was a
coquette, and a great fool; and conversation with her was a weariness to
a young man who had a good conceit of himself, owing to her ridiculous
assumptions. But old men and unattractive men crowded around her.
Wilfred had always found a certain stimulus in the society of a
coquette. It would make him a little indignant to see other men willing
to subserve their pretensions; and when opportunity offered, he was
eager to undertake the rehabilitation of his sex. Moreover, it was
amusing to observe the astonishment of a coquette when her queenship was
coolly questioned. Derision was devastating to coquettes. Unfortunately,
the game was too easy. There was no glory in making a conquest of a
coquette. Dethroned, she forthwith grovelled.
Daisy lived far up-town. She shared a tiny flat with a girl who was a
trained nurse. To-night in order to make the long journey tolerable,
Wilfred set about provoking Daisy to wrath.
“What a pretty little wife Dexter has!” he remarked.
“Do you think so?” said Daisy melodiously.
“Such eyes, such teeth, such hair! I don’t blame him for keeping her
close.”
“That is just what you would do, isn’t it?”
“You bet I would! . . . Sweet enough to eat! Think of having _that_ to
fetch your slippers!”
“Yes, she looked like a slipper-fetcher,” said Daisy.
“You wouldn’t fetch a man’s slippers, would you?”
“You are merely being fatuous!” she said.
“. . . Like a delicious kitten!” said Wilfred. “All soft and downy!”
“They live in the Bronx, don’t they?” enquired Daisy, feeling of her
back hair. “She looks as if she had her clothes made near home.”
Wilfred hooted. “You can’t bear to hear another woman praised!”
“Not at all!” said Daisy with dignity. “I enjoy looking at a pretty
woman as much as a man does. I have always said so. Women are nicer to
look at than men, any day. And a woman is a far better judge of another
woman’s looks than any man is!”
“Maybe so,” said Wilfred. “But a pretty woman isn’t pretty for women.”
“No, only for the lords of creation, I suppose.”
“You’re rather pretty yourself,” he said casually appraising her.
“_Merci, monsieur!_”
“But you give yourself such airs!”
This line served very well for half a dozen stations on the elevated.
Daisy stiffened her back as if she had swallowed the poker; and her eyes
shot sparks of pure anger through the glasses. All very well; good fun
as long as the sparks flew; but when, at last, she began to pull down
the corners of her babyish mouth, Wilfred suddenly sickened.
Turning her blue eyes reproachfully on him, she murmured: “Why are you
so hateful to me?”
His eyes bolted. Why can’t she play the game? he thought ill-temperedly.
Lord! if she turned soft, she would be quite unendurable. He cast
hastily about in his mind for some expedient to tide him over the
remaining stations. He happened to remember that the trained nurse was
engaged on night duty at the time. Affecting to yawn, he said:
“Gosh! I hate to think of the long trip back again!”
“It’s not my fault that you live so far down-town,” she said.
“Believe I’ll stay all night with you,” he said, very offhand.
Daisy was electrified. “How dare you say such a thing to me!” she cried.
“How dare you . . . !”
This was splendid! It produced the briskest quarrel they had ever had;
and the rest of the stations passed unnoticed. It carried them down the
stairs, along Columbus avenue, and around the corner to the door of the
apartment house where she lived. Wilfred was tired of it by this time;
and hailed his approaching deliverance with relief. Never again! he
promised himself. She wasn’t amusing even in her anger. What an unworthy
and trumped-up business this girl-chasing was, anyhow!
“In all my life I have never been so insulted!” she was saying. “I never
want to see you again until you are prepared to apologize. . . .”
This brought them to the steps of her house. They discovered that the
darkened vestibule was already occupied by a couple engaged in the
business of saying good-night. Daisy quickly caught hold of Wilfred’s
sleeve, and pulled him by. A light broke upon him. She intended that he
should stay! He trembled with internal laughter. His heart began to beat
faster. They walked on a little way in silence. Wilfred, grinning,
studied Daisy’s face in the light of a street lamp. It still bore an
expression of ferocious outraged virtue. What somersaults women could
perform without losing their faces!
When they got back, the vestibule was empty. He followed Daisy into the
house without anything further being said; and into her own little place
on the first floor above. She closed the door, and turning around, began
in pathetic accents:
“Now that you’ve forced your way in here, I hope. . . .”
Wilfred laughed; and seized her rudely in his arms. An instinct told him
that she adored being treated rudely. He carefully removed her glasses,
and put them on a table. There was light enough for him to see her
charming, vague, shy eyes. He discovered that he clasped within the too
artful clothes, the body of a very nymph with slim, boyish legs, round
arms, and small firm breasts.
“Ah, you pretty thing! you pretty thing!” he murmured, heartily enough.
“Oh, Wilfred, spare me!” she pleaded. “Not that . . . Wilfred!”
“What did you expect?” he asked, between his kisses. “That we’d sit here
and hold hands?”
“But Wilfred, I’ve never . . . I’ve never. . . .”
“Then it’s high time you did!” he said, laughing and kissing her.
“Oh, you’re so masterful!” she breathed.
Wilfred’s arms relaxed. Startled, he tossed his head up, and stared into
the dark. _Masterful!_ Of course, when one didn’t give a damn! What a
horrid joke this business . . . !
However, there she waited, expectant. And after all she was very sweet.
One couldn’t be wretched all the time. Here was a drug for wretchedness.
He kissed her again.
“What was the matter?” she whispered.
“I thought I heard something,” he said with a lip that curled in
self-mockery.
“We are quite safe,” she whispered, wreathing her white arms around his
neck.