* * * * *

After that Sunday Milly saw Ernestine Geyer almost every day and often

on Sundays for the whole day. Ernestine was fertile in clumsy ways of

wooing the new-found friends. She brought Virgie fruit and candies and

toys and insisted upon thrusting flowers and dainties on Milly. The

latter heartily liked the "queer" lady, as Virginia still called

Ernestine, and invited her cordially to come in whenever she would. In

Milly's busier, more social days, Ernestine's devotion might have proved

a bore. But this was a lonely winter. Very few friends came to see her,

and Milly had many idle hours.

Hazel Fredericks had not been offended by Milly's neglect to take

advantage of her opportunities the night of the suffrage meeting,--at

least she showed no pique when Milly finally got around to telephoning

her friend and congratulating her on her successful speech. But Hazel

had become so involved in the movement by this time, especially so

intimate with the fascinating young married agitator, that she had less

time and less interest to spare for Milly's small affairs. She was

planning with her new friend, so she told Milly when she did get out to

the flat, a serious campaign that promised to be immensely

exciting,--nothing less than a series of drawing-room meetings in some

western cities, especially Chicago, where "Society" had shown a

lamentable indifference hitherto to the Cause. Presently this mission

took Hazel Fredericks altogether beyond Milly's narrow sphere for the

remainder of the winter. From time to time Milly received newspaper

clippings and an occasional hurried note from Hazel, recounting the

social flutter that they had created by their meetings, and the progress

the Cause was making in the most fashionable circles of the middle west.

Milly envied Hazel this new and exciting experience, and wished she

might be in Chicago to witness the triumphs of the two missionaries. But

she realized, nevertheless, more than ever before, her unfitness for the

work. She no longer had a very fervent faith in it....

So in her loneliness she came to accept Ernestine Geyer's companionship

and devotion, at first passively, then gratefully. Together they took

Virginia on holiday sprees to the theatre, and the three had many of

their meals together, usually in Milly's apartment, as she had found

Ernestine's home "impossible," a "barracks," and the food,--"just food."

Virginia had gotten used to the withered hand and no longer found

Ernestine so "queer." Like the little egotist she was, as most children,

she valued this new friend for all the good things that came from her,

and found she could "work" Ernestine much easier than her mother.

"We make a pretty cosey family," Ernestine said happily, summing it up

one day at dinner.

"Mama, papa, daughter," Virgie added, pointing demurely to Ernestine as

"Papa." After that the Laundryman was known as "Pa" by the trio.

Milly was occasionally embarrassed by Ernestine,--and she was ashamed of

her feeling,--as when Clive Reinhard came in on them one evening without

warning. Reinhard glanced at the squat figure of the Laundryman, and

tried to make her talk. Fortunately for Milly's feelings, Ernestine sat

bolt upright and tongue-tied in the novelist's presence and thus did not

betray her ungrammatical self. But she stayed on relentlessly until the

visitor went, and observed afterwards,--

"So that's the Johnnie that writes the books I see in the windows? And

the girls are crazy about 'em--humph!" All of which would have amused

the popular novelist.

It was inevitable, of course, that sooner or later Ernestine should meet

all of Milly's friends who still sought her out. And she always sat

through these occasions, quiet and sharp-eyed; when she trusted herself

to speak, her harsh, positive voice had the effect of dropping a piece

of china on the floor. Milly was often mortified at first, though by

this time she cared for Ernestine so genuinely that she would not let

her suspect or hurt her feelings. She convinced herself that Ernestine's

grammar was an accident of the slightest importance, and that as a

person she compared quite favorably with all the people she knew.

Ernestine's fondness for Milly's visitors was not due to any vulgar

desire to push herself into superior circles, merely a human curiosity

about these members of another world and a pathetic admiration for their

refinement. With the same attitude she was painstakingly, if shyly,

improving her table manners and her speech. To Virginia's relief she had

largely suppressed "ain't" already, and occasionally bestowed a final

syllable on the participles.

* * * * *

But Milly had many more real worries than these trifling social

maladjustments between her old friends and her new one. Her small funds

were dwindling rapidly, as usual, even with the practice of a greater

economy than she had ever before attempted. All her feeble efforts to

find employment and earn money had failed. She felt herself slipping

down, and with all her courageous determination to save herself from

social chaos she was like a bird fluttering at the brink of a chasm,

unable to wing itself steadily out of danger. The Reddons, she knew,

would soon need their apartment, for Marion was coming north in the

first warm weather. Then there would be for herself and Virginia nothing

but a boarding-house, from which she shrank. And after that, what?

Mornings she woke to consciousness with a start of terror, realizing

that the weeks were melting to days,--days of grace as for a criminal!

What should she do? What _could_ she do? She envied Ernestine as she had

never envied any one in her life, when she saw her striding off in the

morning, her head in the air, a serious scowl on her plain face,

competent and equipped in the face of life....

Ernestine found her one evening at a low point in her depression over

her fate. Milly had told far less of her circumstances to the

working-woman than Ernestine had told of hers in their mutual

confidences. Social pride--a sense of caste--had prevented Milly from

confessing her miserable situation. But now she unfolded the whole

story, with a few tears.

"If it wasn't for Virgie," she sobbed, "I'd walk into the river

to-night--I'd do anything to end it. I'm no good."

"Don't you talk like that, dearie!" Ernestine said, getting up

impulsively and with her heavy tread crossing the room. She took Milly

in her strong arms and held her tight. "Don't ever say those things

again!" she murmured in an uncertain voice, hugging the yielding figure

to her. "Don't I know how you feel?... I guessed things weren't very

rosy with you, but I didn't like to ask you until you were ready to

say.... Now we'll straighten this thing out."

Her robust, confident manner cheered Milly as much as her embrace. She

trusted Ernestine's strength as she had once that of her husband.

Ernestine went at things like a man in more ways than one. Releasing

Milly, she stood over her frowningly, her hands on her hips, and looked

steadily, intently at the pitiful face of the other woman.

"Couldn't I do something in the laundry?" Milly suggested timidly. "You

employ so many women there," she faltered. It had taken a struggle with

her pride to contemplate this work. "I'm pretty strong."

Ernestine smiled and shook her head very positively.

"No, that's one thing that _wouldn't_ do. You'd be no good as a

working-woman now, dearie!"

"But I _must_ do something!" Milly wailed, "or starve and let Virgie go

to her father's people. Isn't there _anything_ I can do in the world?"

She had reached the ultimate bottom of life, she felt, and her demand

had a tragic pathos in it. She waited for her answer.

"Yes!" Ernestine exclaimed, a smile of successful thinking on her broad

face. "You can make a home for me--a real one--that's what you can

do--fine! Now listen," she insisted, as she saw the look of

disappointment on Milly's expectant face. "Listen to me--it ain't bad at

all."

And she unfolded her plan, recounting again her longing for her own

hearth, and proving to Milly that she could do a real, useful thing in

the world, if she would make life pleasanter and happier for one who was

able to earn money for three.

"Don't wait for your friends to come back," she urged. "Just pack right

up as soon as you can and move downstairs. Do you suppose Virgie's

asleep? We'll tell her to-morrer any way.... And you do with my shack

what you want,--any old thing, so's you let me sleep there. It'll be

fine, fine!"

And so it was agreed, although Milly was not greatly pleased with the

prospect of becoming homemaker and companion to the Laundryman. It was

not very different in essentials from her marriage with Jack, and she

recognized now that she had not made a success of that on the economic

side. In short, it was like so much else in her life, practically all

her life, she felt bitterly,--it was a shift, a compromise, a

_pis-aller_, and this time it was a social descent also. What would her

friends say? But Milly courageously put that cheap thought out of her

mind. If this was all that she could find to do to support herself and

her child,--if it was all that she was good for in this world,--she

would do it and swallow her pride with her tears.

And she was sincerely grateful to Ernestine for the warm-hearted way in

which she had put her proposal, as if it were a real favor to her. She

made this one mental reservation to herself,--it should last only until

she found "something better" as a solution. When Milly told the little

girl of the new move, Virgie was delighted. "It'll be like having a real

man in the house again," she said. "We'll have to teach her how to speak

like we do, shan't we, mama?"

* * * * *

Ernestine came bubbling in the next day with a new inspiration.

"Been thinking of our scheme all night," she announced breathlessly,

"and couldn't attend to business I was so excited. Now this is the

conclusion I got to. You can't make a home in one of these flat-boxes,

can you?"

Milly agreed listlessly that they were a poor compromise for the real

thing.

"Well, I said to myself,--'Why not a real house?' So this morning I quit

work and took a taxi so's I could get over ground faster and went

down--"

"I know," Milly interrupted with a laugh,--"to number 232!"

"Yes! And they're there still, and I've got number 236! What do you

think of that? It don't take me long to do business when I got an

idea.... Of course there is that loft building opposite, but it's thin

and don't take much light.... So to-morrow, Mrs. Bragdon, you meet me at

luncheon and we'll go down and look over our new home!"

How could any one be doleful under so much joy? Milly kissed Ernestine

with genuine emotion.

"It will be splendid. Virgie will like a house so much more than this."

"Of course, of course--it's the only proper thing for a

family.... You'll have to do the whole thing, Madam." (Ernestine had

a curious shyness about using Milly's name.) "I'll give you 'Carter

Blanch' as they say.... Only one thing!"

She shook her thick finger at Milly solemnly.

"What's that?"

"Muslin curtains at all the front windows, and a real fireplace in the

livin'-room--"

"And window boxes at the windows and real oil lamps on the table, Mr.

Geyer!" Milly completed, entering into Ernestine's spirit.

"We'll be comfy and homelike, don't you think so?" Ernestine shouted

gleefully, putting an arm around Milly's soft figure. "Now I've got what

I want," she said almost solemnly.

"Don't be too sure--I'm a pretty bad housekeeper."

"I know you're not."

"Careless and horribly extravagant--every one says so."

"I won't let you break _me_!... Say, you'd ought to be married to a real

man--that's what you are made for."

"Thanks!" Milly said a little sadly. "I've had all of _that_ I

want.... This suits me far better."

"Well, it does me, anyway!"

* * * * *

Thus Milly's second marriage came off. In another month she and Virginia

were living quite happily in Ernestine Geyer's establishment at "number

236," with muslin curtains behind the windows, and flower-boxes.

PART FIVE

THE CAKE SHOP

I

"NUMBER 236"

Milly was content. At least she felt that she ought to be, and she

really was--for a time. Thanks to Ernestine's "Carter Blanch," she had

made a comfortable, homelike interior out of the little old house, in

which she installed her own furniture and almost nothing of Ernestine's.

Sam Reddon helped her make the alterations and decorate afresh "number

236," as the new home came to be known among Milly's friends. Reddon was

explosively enthusiastic over the Laundryman, whom he described as a

"regular old sport," "one of the finest," "the right sort," and the

climax of praise--"one first-class man." He took a mischievous delight

in drawing her out, especially on the æsthetic side, where she was

wildest, and he revelled in her idiom, which reminded him of the dear

_argot_ of his beloved city, and which he declared was "the language of

the future." Clive Reinhard, also, who came to dinner at the new house

very soon, approved warmly of Ernestine. In his more conventional

vocabulary she was "a character," "a true type," and "a trump." He liked

her all the better, perhaps, because he did not feel obliged to study

her professionally, and relaxed in her company.

Indeed, all the men Milly knew liked Ernestine Geyer and quickly got the

habit of dropping in at "number 236" at all hours,--it was so

conveniently near their offices and clubs, they said. They came for

breakfast and luncheon and tea, and even for whiskey and cigarettes

after the theatre. With the blunted sense of fine proprieties

characteristic of their sex, they approved unreservedly of Milly's new

marriage. In Reddon's frank phrase it was "an extraordinary fit." "You

two are complements--which is more than one can say of most regular

marriages."

(It was more than Milly could say of her union with Jack, alas!)

"I wonder more women don't do the same thing," the architect continued

in a vein of philosophical speculation; "get married to other women. Now

Ernestine has every good quality of a man, and she can't deceive you

with a chorus girl! It cuts out all the sex business, which is a horrid

nuisance--see the newspapers."

"Sam!" Milly warned, and then ventured,--"How about the children--where

would they come in?"

"That _is_ a difficulty," Reddon admitted, stretching his feet to the

fire.

"You see I had mine already,--bless her little heart!"

"One of 'em would have to do as you did," Sam mused, "get the children

on the side."

At this point Milly with a "Sam, don't be horrid" shut off further

social theorizing. Ernestine grinned and chuckled over Sam's sallies. As

Reddon said,--"You can say anything to her! She has a man's sense of

humor,--the only woman I ever saw except Marion who has."

* * * * *

With the exception of Marion, Milly's women friends were much more

dubious than the men about the new household. Mrs. Bunker and Mrs.

Billman, of course, had long since lost sight of Milly in the course of

her migrations. Although Hazel Fredericks looked her up soon after her

return from the suffrage tour and praised the little house and said of

the domestic arrangement,--"How interesting!... Miss Geyer must be a

woman of remarkable force of character.... It is a wise experiment,"

etc., yet Milly knew that to others Hazel would shrug expressive

shoulders and drop eyelids over muddy eyes and in other feminine ways

indicate her sense of Milly's social descent. And from this time the

friendship between them declined swiftly. Hazel explained, "They were

interested in different things," and "Milly doesn't care for ideas, you

know." Mrs. Fredericks, who considered herself to be in the flood-tide

of the modern intellectual movement, had few moments to spare for her

insignificant friend. Milly realized this with a touch of bitterness. "I

can't do anything for her in any way. I can't help on her game." She

knew that these ambitious, modern, intellectual women, with whom she had

been thrown, had no use for people "out of the game."

It was that really, more than the fact that she had lost caste by

keeping house for a business woman, that cost her women's friendship.

Milly no longer in the least "counted." She had done something rather

"queer" from the feminine point of view, however sensible a solution of

her own problem it might be. She had confessed herself without ambition

and "aim," as Hazel would put it; had no social sense or wish "to be

Somebody," as Mrs. Billman would put it. She had become just plain Mrs.

Nobody. Of course she could not entertain in any but the most informal,

simple fashion as she entertained the men who came to the house, and

women find no distinction in that sort of hospitality and do not like to

offer it. All this Milly realized more and more, as any woman would

have, when the house had settled into its groove. She bravely put the

thoughts aside, although they rankled and later manifested themselves,

as such things must. For the first time her own sex dropped Milly, and

it cut.

Meantime there was much that was pleasant and comforting in her new life

in pretty little "number 236," and Milly got what joy there was out of

Virginia's delight in having a real home and Ernestine's beaming

happiness all the time she was in the house. The little girl could

return now to that "very nice school" where other nice little girls

went. She departed every morning beside the Laundryman, tugging at her

arm, skipping and chattering like a blackbird in June. Ernestine saw her

safely up the school steps and then took the car to her business. Milly,

after the housekeeping and her morning duties, walked up town for her

daughter and spent most of the afternoons with her, as she had not much

else to do. She had suggested at the beginning helping Ernestine in some

way in the business, but the Laundryman had not encouraged that. In

fact, she showed a curious reluctance in even having Milly visit the

office or call for her there.

"It ain't any place for you, dearie," she said. "You just stick to your

end of the business, the house--and that's enough."

Milly paid much more attention to the details of their simple

housekeeping than she had ever cared to do for herself and Jack. It may

have been from a sense of obligation in spending Ernestine's money, for

after all the Laundryman was not her legal husband. Or it may have been

due to the fact that Ernestine, being another woman, knew and could not

be easily bluffed with, "Everybody does that," "You can't get along with

less and live, anyhow," etc., as a mere man could. Nor did she like to

wheedle a woman. Whatever the cause, Milly gave up her lazy habit of

telephoning to the dearest stores for supplies or letting the servants

do the ordering, and went forth herself each morning to market. She

accepted Ernestine's suggestions about where things could be bought

cheaply, and even condescended to enter the large department stores

where groceries were sold for cash at wholesale rates. The Laundryman

purchased all the supplies for her business, and she knew that buying

was a science and a game combined,--a very ancient game which is the

basis of "trade." She took it for granted that Milly would play the game

to the best advantage for all of them, and after a few attempts at the

old slovenly, wasteful method of providing, Milly accepted the situation

and did the best she knew how to meet Ernestine's idea. "Number 236" was

to be well stocked with an abundance of wholesome food, but there was to

be no waste and no "flummery." In a word, "efficiency."

There was almost no friction between them. It would seem that the

Laundryman knew how to be both gentle and firm,--the requisites, so the

sages say, for successful domesticity. Jack had often been not gentle

with Milly, and almost never firm. Milly did not take seriously his

constant complaint over bills, and in some way sooner or later got what

she wanted. With Ernestine it was quite different: she did not dare let

the accounts run on or run over. After the first few equivocations she

had her bills ready for examination by the first of the month, and they

were reasonably near the figures agreed upon. So, as Ernestine put it,

slapping her knee with the cheque-book, "it all goes as slick as paint."

* * * * *

And so, to sum it up in conventional terms, one might call Milly's new

marriage a success and expect that the modest little household of

"number 236" would go its peaceful way uneventfully to nature's

fulfilment of a comfortable middle age--and thus interest us no more.

For a time both Ernestine and Milly so believed it would be. But they

were deceived. Human affairs, even of the humblest, rarely arrange

themselves thus easily and logically.

Milly, in spite of her sincere resolve to be contented with what she

had, was growing restless. Once this orderly domestic life of the three

in the small house was running smoothly, she began to feel cramped, full

of unexpended energies. She would have spent them naturally in

entertaining and the usual social activity, to which she had become

accustomed as the fit expression of woman's life, but that obviously

could not be in the present circumstances. Milly recognized this and did

not attempt the impossible. Even if she had had the money, Ernestine was

not one who could be made a social figure, nor could she be ignored in

her own house. The situation, as has been described, had a flavor of

social irregularity, like an unauthorized union, and the social penalty

must be paid. With Milly's lean purse there was not much shopping to be

done, beyond the daily marketing, and it was dreary to walk the New York

streets and gaze into tempting shop windows, though Milly did a good

deal of that in her idle hours. She had never cared to read, except as

an occasional diversion, or to "improve her mind," as Grandma Ridge

might have put it, by lectures such as Hazel Fredericks had once

patronized. Lectures bored her, she admitted frankly, unless she knew

the lecturer personally. Perhaps Hazel and her set were justified in

condemning Milly's general lack of purpose and aim in life. But it

should be remembered that the generation with which Milly began had

never recognized the desirability of such ideals for women, and Milly,

like many of her sisters in the middle walk of life, always resented the

assumption that every human being, including women, should have a plan

and a purpose in this life. She liked to think of herself as an

irresponsible, instinctive vessel of divine fire to bless and inspire.

But such vessels very often go on the reefs of passion, and if Milly had

not been so thoroughly normal in her instincts, she might have suffered

shipwreck before this. Otherwise, they float out at middle age more or

less derelict in the human sea, unless they have been captured and

converted willy-nilly to some other's purpose. Now Milly was drifting

towards that dead sea of purposeless middle age, and instinctively

feared her fate.

She felt that her present life with the Laundryman offered her no outlet

for her powers, and this was the period when she became fertile in

launching schemes for which she displayed a few weeks' intense

enthusiasm that gradually died out before Ernestine's chilly good sense.

One of the first of these enthusiasms was "Squabs." She tried to

interest Ernestine in the business of raising squabs for the market. She

had read in some country-life magazine of a woman who had made a very

good income by breeding this delicacy for the New York market. Ernestine

had talked of buying a farm somewhere near the city for the summers, and

Milly thought this could be made into a productive enterprise. "With a

man and his wife to run it," they could raise squabs by the thousands.

But Ernestine, who had all the business she could attend to with her

laundry, was apathetic. She averred that any man and his wife who could

make money in the poultry business would be exploiting it for

themselves, not for "two green-horn women."

The next proposal was "Violets," and then "Mushrooms," to which

Ernestine was equally indifferent. You had to get your market in every

case, she suspected. "You don't know how to sell violets or mushrooms,

dearie, any more than you know how to raise 'em."

"But I could learn!" Milly pouted. She thought Ernestine was

unenterprising and also underrated her ability, just because she had not

been a working-woman.

"'Twould cost too much for you to learn," Ernestine replied dryly.

Milly's little schemes were oddly always of the luxury order,--to cater

to the luxury-class,--squabs, violets, mushrooms. Her ideas revolved

about the parasitic occupations because they seemed to promise large,

immediate returns. Rebuffed in these first attempts she brought forth no

new scheme for a time, but she was seeking. She envied Ernestine her

manlike independence, her Bank-Account aspect, and wanted to become a

Business Woman.

One invariable objection that Ernestine had made to all Milly's

proposals was:--

"I don't know anything about that business. I know the laundry business

from the skin to the clothes-line and home again--and that's all! It's a

good enough business for me. Everybody has to get washed sometimes!" She

was for the fundamental, basic occupations that dealt in universal human

necessities, and once said to Sam Reddon, who had banteringly offered

her the job of running his new office, "No, thank you! If I ever make a

change from the laundry, I'm going into the liquor business. Every man

seems to need his drink the same as he has to be washed." (This retort

had immensely pleased Reddon, and he was always asking Ernestine when

she would be ready to start a saloon with him.)

At last Milly thought she had cornered Ernestine's favorite objection by

a new scheme, which was nothing less than starting a model "Ideal

Laundry" in some pretty country spot near the city, "where the water is

clean and soft," and there were green lawns and hedges on which to

spread the clothes, "as they do abroad." It was to be manned by a force

of tidy, white-clothed laundresses, who might do their washing

bare-legged in the running brook. (She described to Ernestine the

picturesque, if primitive, laundry customs of the south of Europe.)

"They do such nice work over there: their linen is as soft and white as

snow," she said.

"And whose goin' to pay for all that gilt?" Ernestine demanded in

conclusion. For Milly had expatiated on the fortune they might

confidently expect from the new laundry. Milly was sure that all nice,

well-to-do families would be only too thankful to pay large prices for

their laundry work, if they could be assured that it would be done in

such sanitary, picturesque fashion by expert laundresses. And she had

thought of another plan which combined philanthropy with æstheticism and

business. They might employ "fallen women" as laundresses and teach them

also expert mending of linen. To all of which Ernestine smiled as one

would at the fancies of an engaging child. She said at the end in her

heavy-voiced way:--

"I don't know how it is in Europe, but in this country you don't make

money that way. You've got to do things cheap and do 'em for a whole lot

of people to get big money in anything. It's the little people with

their nickels and tens and quarters as pile up the fortunes."

Milly felt that Ernestine betrayed in this the limitations of her

plebeian origin.

"S'pose now you c'd get all the capital you need for your Ideal

Laundry--who'd patronize it? The swells, the families with easy money to

spend? There ain't so many of them, take the whole bunch, and I can tell

you, so far as I know, the rich want to get somethin' for nothin' as bad

as the little fellers--I don't know but worse! I guess that's why they

get rich."

Thus Ernestine would have nothing of any business that catered solely to

the rich and exclusive classes. A sure democratic and business instinct

made her rely for steady profits upon the multitude, who "must all get

washed sometime," in her favorite axiom, and as cheaply as possible.

"You never take any of my ideas seriously," Milly complained after this

rebuff.

* * * * *

It happened to be a stormy winter's evening when the Ideal Laundry had

been up for discussion. They could hear occasional spats of snow against

the window-panes behind the long red curtains, which had been drawn. A

wood fire was crumbling into glowing coals on the hearth. Virginia had

long since gone to bed, and Sam Reddon, who had dropped in for dinner in

the absence of his wife from the city, had left after an evening of

banter and chit-chat.... At Milly's despairing exclamation, Ernestine

squatted down on a footstool at her feet and looked up at her mate with

the pained expression of a faithful dog, who wants to understand his

Idol's desires, but can't.

"What's the matter with _this_, dearie?" she grumbled, taking one of

Milly's hands in her powerful grip. "Can't you be satisfied just as it

is? Seems to me--" and she broke off to look around the cheerful room

with a glance of appreciation--"seems to me we're pretty comfortable, we

three, just as we are, without worrying 'bout making a lot more money

and trying things that would be a bother and might turn out badly in the

end."

As Milly's face still gloomed, unresponsive, she added contritely,--

"I know it's small. It ain't what you--"

"Oh, it isn't that!" Milly interrupted hastily. "You don't understand,

Ernestine; I want to do something for myself just to show I can. I'm so

useless--always have been, I suppose.... Well." She rose from her chair,

disengaging herself from the Laundryman's embrace, and stood musingly

with one foot on the fender, the firelight playing softly over the silk

of her gown. (The favorite attitude, by the way, of the heroine in

Jack's illustrations of Clive Reinhard's stories.)

"You ain't one mite useless to _me_!" Ernestine protested. (In her

emotional moments she lapsed into her native idiom in spite of herself.)

"You're kind, Ernestine," Milly replied almost coldly. "But I really

_am_ nearly useless. Can't you see why I want to do something for myself

and my child, as you have done for yourself? And not be always a

dependent!"

Ernestine threw herself on the lounge, looking quite miserable. The worm

in her swelling bud of happiness had already appeared.

"I'm content," she sighed, "just as it is."

"I'm not!" Milly retorted, rather unfeelingly.

"It suits me to a T, if it could only last."

For a time neither added anything to the subject. Milly, who was never

hard for more than a few moments, went over to the lounge and caressed

the Laundryman's face.

"That was horrid of me," she said. "It's going to last--forever, I

guess."

But in spite of herself she could not keep the droop from her voice at

this statement of the irrevocable, and Ernestine shook her head sadly.

"No, it ain't. You'll marry again sometime."

"I'll never do that!" Milly exclaimed impatiently.

"I s'pose it would really be the best thing for you," Ernestine

admitted, looking at Milly thoughtfully. Milly was now barely

thirty-four and more seductive as a woman than ever before. Ernestine's

jealous heart could understand why men would desire her mate. "And this

time," she continued more cheerfully, "you'll know enough to pick a good

provider."

"Don't talk such nonsense."

Nevertheless Milly was pleased at this proof that she was still

desirable, merely as a woman. What woman wouldn't, be? Her early

romantic notion that second marriages were impure had completely changed

since the failure of her marriage with Jack. Now she had merely a

feeling of disgust with the married state in general and with husbands

as a class.

"They ain't all bad, I expect," Ernestine remarked in a spirit of

fairness. "There must be exceptions among husbands the same as in

everything else in life."

"I don't care to take the risk."

"But I expect if you'd happened to marry one of those others who

wanted you to you'd felt different. You'd be on easy street to-day,

anyhow!... The trouble was, my dear, you trusted to your feelin' too

much, and not enough to your head."

She nodded her own large head sagely.

"Perhaps," Milly agreed vaguely.... "Well, will you shut the house up?"

Ernestine went downstairs to lock the doors and see that the lights were

out in the servants' quarters.

II

AT LAST, THE REAL RIGHT SCHEME

Whenever Eleanor Kemp came to New York--which happened usually at least

twice a year, on her way to and from Europe--she always endeavored to

see her old friend, if for only a few minutes. So when she landed this

spring, she went almost immediately from her hotel to number 236, and

Milly found her waiting in the little reception room on her return from

her marketing.

"You see I didn't forget the number, and just came over!" Mrs. Kemp said

gayly. "We docked at ten, and Walter has already disappeared to see some

pictures.... How are you, dear?"

The two friends had kissed, and then still holding each other by the

arms drew off for the preliminary scrutiny. Eleanor Kemp's black hair

showed gray about the temples, and there were lines around the trembling

mouth. "She's getting old, really," Milly thought in a flash. "But it

doesn't make so much difference to her, they are so rich!"

"Milly, you are prettier than ever--you always are when I see you--how

do you keep so young?" the older woman exclaimed admiringly, and drew

Milly's smiling face closer for another kiss. "And you have been through

so much since I saw you last--so much sadness."

"Yes," Milly admitted flatly.

Somehow she did not want to talk of her marriage and Jack's death with

Eleanor Kemp, who had been so near her during the ecstatic inception of

that passion.

"How pretty your house is!" Eleanor said, divining Milly's reluctance to

intimacy. "I've been peeking into the next room while I waited."

"Yes, it's pleasant," Milly replied unenthusiastically. "It's small and

the street is rather noisy. But it does well enough. You know it isn't

my house. It belongs to a friend,--Ernestine Geyer."

"Yes, you wrote me."

"She's in business, away all day, and I keep house for her," Milly

explained, as if she were eager not to have her position misunderstood.

"It must be much pleasanter for you and Virginia than being alone."

"Yes," Milly agreed, in the same negative voice, and then showed her

friend over the house, which Mrs. Kemp pronounced "sweet" and "cunning."

As Milly's manner remained listless, Eleanor Kemp suggested their

lunching at the hotel, and they walked over to the large hostelry on the

Avenue, where the Kemps usually stayed in New York.

Walter Kemp not having returned from his picture quest, the women had

luncheon by themselves at a little table near a window in the ornate

dining-room of the hotel. Milly grew more cheerful away from her home.

It always lightened her mind of its burdens to eat in a public place.

She liked the movement about her, the strange faces, the unaccustomed

food, and her opportunities of restaurant life had not been numerous of

late. It was pleasant to be again with her old friend and revive their

common memories of Chicago days. They discussed half the people they

knew. Milly told Eleanor of Vivie Norton's engagement finally to the

divorced man and the marriage, "a week after he got his decree." And

Eleanor told Milly of the approaching marriage of Nettie Gilbert's

daughter to a very attractive youth, etc.

"You must come to visit me this summer," she declared. "Your friends are

all dying to see you."

"Do you think they remember me still?"

"Remember you! My dear, they still talk about your engagement to

Clarence Parker."

Milly laughed gayly.

"That!"... She added quite unexpectedly, "I suppose I ought to have

married him really."

"Milly!"

"Why not?" Milly persisted in a would-be indifferent tone. "Then I

shouldn't be keeping house for somebody else for my living."

Mrs. Kemp gave her a quick look, and then turned it off with,--

"You should have stayed in Chicago, whatever you did. We all miss you

so!..."

In her glances about the crowded room Milly's eyes had rested upon a

little woman seated at a table not far away,--a blond, fluffy-haired,

much-dressed and much-jewelled creature, who was scrutinizing the long

menu with close attention.

"Do you know who she is, Nelly?" Milly asked, indicating the little

blond person. "It seems to me she's some one I ought to know."

Mrs. Kemp glanced out of her lowered eyes; then as the other looked up

both bowed. She said in a whisper to Milly,--

"You ought to know her, Milly! She was Annie Dove."

"Who is she now?"

Eleanor Kemp paused to laugh before replying and then whispered,--

"She's who you might have been--Mrs. Clarence Parker!"

"Oh!" Milly murmured and looked again with more curiosity at the

fluffy-haired little woman. "She dresses a good deal," she observed. "I

wonder how Clarence likes to pay the bills."

"We saw them at Wiesbaden this spring. They seemed quite happy. He was

taking the cure."

"Did it do him any good?" Milly inquired amiably....

Presently a short, bald-headed man took the place opposite their

neighbor, and Milly examined him with much care. Clarence Albert was

balder and whiter than ever, and his cold gray eyes were now concealed

by glasses which gave him the look of an eminent financier. His wife

coached him evidently about the menu. Milly thought she could hear his

squeaky voice saying, "Well, now, I don't know about that." A queer

little smile came around her lips as she considered that she might have

occupied the seat the richly dressed, bejewelled little lady had, and be

listening at that moment to Clarence Albert's observations on the

luncheon menu. Just then Parker looked over, recognized Mrs. Kemp, and

hurried across with outstretched hand. He did not see Milly until he

reached the table, and then he stopped as if he did not know what to do

next. Milly smiled and extended a hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Parker!" she said gayly. "Eleanor has just pointed

out your wife to me--such a pretty woman! How are you?"

"Very well now Miss--Mrs.--"

"Bragdon," Milly supplied.

"Very well indeed, Mrs. Bragdon, and I see you are the same."

He retreated at once, and Milly glancing roguishly at Eleanor Kemp

murmured,--

"I take it back.... No, I couldn't! Not even with all the clothes and

jewels."

"Of course you couldn't!"

"It's fate--it's all fate!" Milly sighed. That was her way of saying

that everything in this world depended upon the individual soul, and she

couldn't manage her soul differently. She felt relieved.

The dessert arriving just then, Milly's attention was distracted from

the Clarence Alberts and from her soul. She took much time and care in

selecting a piece of _patisserie_. French pastry, which had become a

common article in New York hotels by that time, always interested Milly.

She liked the sweet, seductive cakes, and they brought back to memory

happy times in Paris and her visits to Gagé's with Jack.

"I am afraid they aren't very good," her hostess remarked, observing

that Milly after all her research into the dish merely tasted her cake

and pushed it away. "They don't seem able to make the nice French ones

over here--they're usually as heavy as lead."

"No, they're not a bit like those we used to get at Gagé's. I wonder why

they don't find somebody who can make real French pastry.... Now there's

an idea!" she exclaimed with sudden illumination. "A cake shop like

Gagé's with real cakes and a real _Madame_ in black at the desk!"

She gave Eleanor a vivid description of the charms of Gagé's. Her friend

laughed indulgently.

"You funny child, to remember that all this time!"

"But why not?" Milly persisted. "Everybody likes French pastry. I

believe you could make heaps of money from a good cake shop in America."

"Well, when you are ready to open your cake shop, come to

Chicago!... And anyway you are coming to visit me next month."

Milly readily promised to make the visit when Virginia's school closed,

and shortly afterwards the friends parted.

* * * * *

Milly strolled home in a revery of Eleanor Kemp, who always brought back

her past, of Clarence Albert and Clarence Albert's expensive wife. "If I

had--" she mused. If somehow she had done differently and instead of

being a penniless widow she were happily married with ample means; if

the world was this or that or the other!... But back of all her

thoughts, beneath all her revery, simmered the idea of the Cake Shop. In

telling Ernestine of her day's adventure, however, she made no reference

to the New Idea. This time she would not expose her conception to the

chilling blast of the Laundryman's criticism until she had perfected it.

She nursed it like an artist within her own breast.

III

CHICAGO AGAIN

A month later Milly and Virginia went to Chicago to visit the Kemps.

Milly's heart leaped as the miles westward were covered by the rapid

train. Old friends, she thought, are nearest, warmest, dearest to us,

and again and again during the joyous weeks of her visit to the bustling

city by the Lake, Milly felt the truth of this platitude. Everybody

seemed delighted to see "Milly Ridge," as half the people she met still

called her. She could not go a block without some more or less familiar

figure stopping, and throwing up hands exclaiming, "Why, Milly! not

_you_--I'm _so_ glad." And they stopped to talk, obstructing traffic.

Milly was conscious of being at her very best. She had decided to

discard her mourning altogether on going back to Chicago, and had some

attractive new gowns to wear. Instead of a forlorn and weary widow, she

presented herself to her Chicago public fresher and prettier than ever,

beaming with delight over everything and very much alive. That is the

way Chicago likes.

"Chicago _is_ different," she repeated a dozen times a day, meaning by

that vague comment that Chicago was more generous, kindly, hospitable,

warmer and bigger-hearted than New York. Which was perfectly true, and

which Chicago liked to hear as often as possible. The purely human

virtues still nourished there, it seemed to Milly, in their primal

bloom, while they had become somewhat faded in the more hectic air of

the Atlantic seaboard. There was a feeling of frank good-fellowship and

an optimistic belief in everybody and in the world as well as in

yourself that was spoken of as the Spirit of the West. "In New York,"

Milly said to Eleanor Kemp, "unless you make a great noise all the time,

nobody knows you are there. And when you fail, it's like a stone dropped

into the ocean: nobody knows that you have gone under! I want to live

the rest of my life in Chicago," she concluded positively.

"Yes," all her friends assented with one voice, "you must come back to

us--you belong here!" (With the future, the setting sun, and all the

rest of it.)

And they laid their little plans to entrap her and hold her in their

midst for good,--obvious plans in which men, of course, were designedly

included. They said a great many nice things about her behind her back

as well as to her face.

"Milly has shown such pluck.... Her marriage was unfortunate--he left

her without a cent.... And treated her quite badly, I hear," etc., etc.

Her two weeks' visit to the Kemps stretched to a month; there were many

little parties and engagements made for her, and then she went to

several suburban places to visit. Unlike other American cities summer is

almost the liveliest season in and around Chicago, for having its own

refrigerating plant at its door Chicago prefers to stay at home during

the hot weather and take its vacation in the raw spring. So Milly found

life very full and gay. And she perceived after a time a new spirit in

her old home,--the metropolitan spirit, which was funnily self-conscious

and proud of itself. "We too," every one seemed to be saying, "are

natives of no mean city." Milly heartily approved of this spirit. She

liked to think and to say that after all, in spite of her husband's

errancy, Chicago was also _her_ city.

So she had the best of times the ten weeks she spent in the strong young

metropolis, and saw a great many people new and old, and was more

popular than ever. She was well enough aware of those little plans kind

friends were making for her, matrimonially, but her heart seemed dead to

all men. She looked at them critically, and her heart gave no sign.

"I'm going to be a business woman," she announced to the Kemps one day.

"Milly in business! What do you think of that now?" the banker responded

with a good-natured laugh that covered the jeer. "What next?"

But his wife, with jealous promptitude, added,--

"Milly, you are a wonder!"

"Yes," Milly affirmed stoutly. "Wait, and you will see."

For in spite of all the good times, the flattery, and the social

pleasures, the great New Idea still simmered in her head. She would do

something "unusual," and "in Chicago too," which was the place for

originality and venture,--this big-hearted, hopeful city whose breath of

life was business, always business, and where people believed in one

another and looked favorably at "the new thing."

One day Milly stepped into the shop of the smart man-milliner, where in

her opulent maiden days she had got her hats,--"just to see what Bamberg

has this season." After chatting with the amiable proprietor, who, like

every one who had dealings with Milly, was fond of her (even if she did

not pay him promptly), Bamberg called to one of his young ladies to

bring Mrs. Bragdon a certain hat he wished her to try on. "One of my

last Paris things," he explained, "an absolutely new creation," and he

whispered, "It was ordered for Mrs. Pelham--the young one, you know, but

it didn't suit her." He whispered still more confidentially, "She was

too old!"

After that how could Milly help "just trying it on"?

The girl who brought the hat exclaimed with a charming smile and a

decided French accent, "It cannot be--but it is--it _is_ Madame

Brag-donne!"

"Jeanne--Jeanine!" and they almost embraced, to the scandal of Bamberg.

It was one of the girls Milly had known at Gagé's, the chief

_demoiselle_ of the pastry shop. And how was Madame Catteau, the

_patronne_, and when did Jeanne come to America? The hat was forgotten

while the two chattered half in French and half in English about Gagé's,

Paris, and Chicago....

Of course Milly bought the hat in the end,--it was such a "jewel" and

became her as if "it were made for Madame Brag-donne," who, Jeanne

averred, was really more than half French. (Bamberg generously cut the

price to "nothing,--$35," and Milly promised to "pay when I can, you

know." Which perfectly contented the man-milliner. "We know _you_, Mrs.

Bragdon," he said, conducting her himself to the Kemps' motor in which

she had come.)

The negotiations over the hat, which had to be altered several times,

gave Milly a chance to confide in her old friend Jeanne the New Idea. A

Cake Shop--a real Paris _patisserie_, _chic_, and with French pastry,

here in this Chicago! The idea thrilled the pretty French woman, and

they discussed many of the details. "I must have a real French pastry

cook, and girls, Paris girls like you," Milly said with sudden

inspiration, "and a _madame_, of course, and the little marble-topped

tables and all the rest" as nearly as possible like the adorable Gagé's.

Jeanne thought that it would be "furiously successful." There would be

nothing like it in Chicago or anywhere else in the new world, where

Madame Brag-donne would admit the eating was not all that it might be in

quality. Oh, yes, it was a brilliant idea and Jean remembered a

sister-in-law who would make a remarkable _dame de comptoir_. She was

living in strict retirement at Grenoble, the fault of a wretched man she

had been feeble enough to marry....

Thus by the time the hat was hers Milly's scheme had taken definite

form, and it was also time for her to return to New York. "But I shall

be back soon," she told all her friends confidently, with a mysterious

nod of her pretty head.

* * * * *

She had seen Horatio, of course, had taken Virginia to spend a Sunday

with her unknown grandfather in the little Elm Park cottage. Josephine

received her husband's daughter and granddaughter with a carefully

guarded cordiality, which expanded as soon as she saw that Milly had

nothing to ask for. Horatio was very happy over the brief visit. He was

an old man now, Milly realized, but a chirping and contented old man,

who still went faithfully every working day in the year to his humble

desk in Hoppers' great establishment, on Sundays to the Second

Presbyterian, and in season watered the twenty-six square feet of turf

before his front door. He talked a great deal about Hoppers', which had

been growing with astounding rapidity, like everything in Chicago, and

now covered three entire city blocks. That and the church and Josephine

quite filled all the corners of Horatio's simple being. Milly promised

her father another, longer visit, but with her many engagements could

not "get it in." Horatio wrote her "a beautiful letter" and sent her on

the eve of her departure a box of flowers from his own garden.

Milly carried the flowers back to New York with her. She had much to

think over on that brief journey. Life seemed larger, much larger, than

it had ten weeks before, and her appetite for it had grown wonderfully

keener in the Chicago air. That was the virtue of the West, Milly

decided. It put vigor and hope into one. She also felt more mature and

independent. It had been a good thing for her to get away from New York,

out from under Ernestine's protecting wings, which closed uncomfortably

tight at times. She realized now that "she could do things for herself,"

and need not be so "dependent."

That, it must be observed, was the prevailing desire in Milly's new

ambitions. Like all poor mortals who have not either triumphed

indubitably in the world's eyes or sunk irretrievably into the mire, she

hungered for some definite self-accomplishment, something that would

give meaning and dignity to her own little life. All of her varied

experience,--all the phases and "ideas" through which she had lived from

her eager, unconscious girlhood to the present, were resolved and summed

up in this at last,--the desire to have some meaning to her life, some

dignity of purpose,--no longer to be the jetsam on the stream that so

many women are, buffeted by storms beyond their ken, the sport of men

and fate. She looked at her little daughter, who was absorbed in the

pictures of a magazine, and said to herself that she was doing it all

for her child, more than for herself. Virginia must have a very

different kind of life from hers! Parentlike she yearned to graft upon

the young tree the heavy branch of her own worldly experience. And

perhaps Milly realized, also, that the world into which little Virginia

was rapidly growing would be a very different sort of place--especially

for women--from the one in which Milly Ridge had fluttered about with

untutored instincts and a dominating determination "to have a good

time...."

Tired at last with so much meditation, Milly bought a novel from the

newsboy,--"Clive Reinhard's Latest and Best"--_A Woman's Will_, and

buried herself in its pages.

IV

GOING INTO BUSINESS

"Ernestine," Milly announced gravely that first night after Virginia was

tucked in bed, "I've something important to say to you."

"What is it, dearie?" Ernestine inquired apprehensively.

The Laundryman had taken a half holiday to welcome her family home after

their prolonged vacation. She and the old colored cook--a great admirer

of Milly's--had decorated the dining-room with wild flowers and

contrived a birthday cake with eight candles for Virginia, who had

celebrated her nativity a few days previously. Ernestine had also

indulged in a quart of champagne, a wine of which Milly was very fond.

But like poor Ernestine, in whom thrift usually fought a losing battle

with generosity, she had compromised upon a native brand that the dealer

had said was "just as good as the imported kind," but which Milly had

tasted and left undrunk.... She had also put on her best dress, a much

grander affair of black silk than the rose-pink negligee, which Milly

had compelled her to bestow upon Amelia. And she had lighted the fire in

the living-room and all the wax candles, though it was still warm

outdoors and they had to open the street windows and endure the thunder

of the traffic.

Milly, although she had received all Ernestine's efforts graciously, had

been wearied by the noise,--the fierce song of New York,--and had been

serious and non-communicative since her arrival. Virginia, however, had

been eloquently happy to return to her own home, her own things, her own

bed, and her own Amelia and Ernestine, which had somewhat made up to the

Laundryman for Milly's indifference.

Now Milly stood in the middle of the room, looking straight before her,

but seeing nothing. Ernestine, with hands clasped around her knees, sat

in a low chair and anxiously watched her friend,--

"Well, what is it?" she demanded, as Milly's silence continued after her

first announcement. Milly turned and looked at Ernestine, then said

slowly,--

"I'm going into business--in Chicago."

Ernestine gave a little gasp, of relief.

"What is it this time?" she asked.

Then Milly explained her project at great length, growing more eloquent

as she got deeper into the details of her conception, painting glowingly

the opportunities of providing hungry Chicagoans with toothsome

delicacies, and exhibiting a much more practical notion of the scheme

than she had had of her other ideas.

"Chicago is the place," she asserted with conviction. "I'm known there,

for one thing," she added with a touch of pride. "And it is the natural

home of enterprise. They do things out there, instead of talking about

them. You ought to know Chicago, Ernestine--I'm sure you'd like it."

The Laundryman asked in a dull tone:--

"Where'll you get the money to start your cake shop? For it will take

money, a sight of money, to do all those things you talk about."

Milly hesitated a moment before this question.

"I don't know yet," she said thoughtfully, "but I think I shan't have

much trouble in getting what capital I need. I have friends in Chicago,

who promised to help me."

(It was perfectly true that Walter Kemp had said half jestingly to Milly

when he last saw her,--"When you get ready to go into business, Milly,

you must let me be your banker!")

"But," Milly continued meaningly, "I wanted to talk it over with you

first. That's why I came back now."

Ernestine went over and closed the windows. It was a crisis. She

recognized it, indeed she had felt it coming for a long time. She would

have to choose some day between Milly and her own life--the laundry

business--and the day had come.

"Will you go in with me, Ernestine?" Milly asked directly...

They talked far into the night until the traffic had died to a distant

rumble. Probably in any case Ernestine would have yielded to Milly's

desires. Her heart was too deeply involved with Milly and Virginia--"her

family"--for her to allow them to take themselves out of her life, as

she saw that this time Milly would do should she refuse to share in the

new move. And as it happened the choice came when a crisis in her own

business was on the way. The two young men who owned all but a few

shares of the Twentieth Century Laundry stock had been bitten by the

trustifying germ and had agreed to go into a "laundry combine" with

several other large laundries. It was one thing, Ernestine realized, to

be the practical boss of a small business, and quite another to be a

subordinate in a large stock-gambling venture with an unknown crew of

masters.

This complication had come up in definite form since Milly's departure,

and Ernestine, after much consideration, had already resolved to sell to

the new company the few shares she owned in the Twentieth Century

Laundry, and look about for another opening in the business she knew.

But she hesitated with a woman's timidity before embarking alone in a

small independent business. She did not want the responsibility of being

the head of a business, especially in these days when, as she was well

aware, the little pots usually get smashed by the big kettles in the

stream.

So Milly's scheme happened to come at the right moment. As far as the

move to Chicago was concerned, Ernestine rather welcomed the change:

hers had been a monotonous treadmill in one environment. She was ready

for a venture in a new city, and curious about Chicago, of which Milly

had talked a great deal. But above all, the conclusive reason for her

consent was Milly--her affections. She could not lose her family, cost

what it might to keep them. She had no clear idea of Milly's soaring

ambition to transplant a French _patisserie_ to the alien soil of

Chicago. A cake shop, Ernestine supposed, was some sort of retail food

business like a bakeshop or delicatessen stand, and cake seemed to her

almost as elementally necessary to mankind as washing or liquor. But

even if the venture failed and took with it all her savings from

industrious years of toil, she would do it "like a sport," as Sam Reddon

had called her, and when the time came, face life anew....

"I'll go, Milly!" she said at the end, with a thump of her fist on her

knee. "And I'll put my own money into the thing. With what my stock will

bring and the cash in the bank, I'll have pretty nearly ten thousand

dollars. That ought to be enough to start a cake shop, I should think.

You won't have to go to any of your rich friends for help."

Milly thought so, too, and was surprised at the amount of Ernestine's

savings. She felt relieved not to have to go to the Kemps for money and

genuinely delighted to have Ernestine a partner in her venture.

"Now we must start at once!" she said gayly. "Mustn't lose a day, so

that we can open before the fall season is over."

She went to bed very happy and very confident. Ernestine, if less

confident, had sufficient self-reliance not to worry about the future.

Thanks to her eighteen years of successful self-support, she knew that

she could meet life anywhere any time, and get the best of it.

From the very next day there began for Milly the most active and the

happiest period of her existence. They packed hurriedly, and moved to

Chicago, Milly going on ahead to engage a house where they could live

and also have their cakes baked. With Eleanor's Kemp's advice Milly

wisely selected a large, old-fashioned brick house on the south side,

not far from the business district. Once the handsome residence of a

prosperous merchant, it had been abandoned in the movement outward from

the crowded city and was surrounded by lofty office buildings and

automobile shops. Its large rooms were cool and comfortable, and the

heavy cornices and woodwork gave an air of stately substantiality to the

old house that pleased Milly.

When Ernestine arrived the two partners went hunting for a suitable

shop. Milly wanted a location in the very centre of the fashionable

retail district on the avenue, somewhere between the Institute and the

Auditorium, the two most stable landmarks in the city. But the rents,

even at that time, were prohibitive, and they found they must content

themselves with one of the cross streets. There at last they found a

grimy little old building tucked in, as if forgotten, between two more

modern structures, which could be had entire for a rental that they

might (with a burst of courage) contemplate. It was only a few steps

from the great north and south thoroughfare and within the woman's zone.

Ernestine, indeed, was for going farther away after something more

modest in rental, so that they should not have to sink so much of their

capital at the start. But Milly argued cogently that for the special

clientèle which they wished to attract they must be in the quarter such

people frequented, near the haberdashers and milliners and beauty

parlors, and Ernestine yielded the point because she did not know about

cake shops. When they came to the business of the lease, the good

services of Walter Kemp were enlisted. After he had met Ernestine in the

course of the negotiations with the agent of the property, he reported

more hopefully to his wife of Milly's new undertaking.

"Anyway, she's got a good partner," he declared. "The Geyer woman is not

much on looks, but she's solid--and if I'm not mistaken, she knows her

business."

In this last the banker was mistaken. Ernestine was being carried along

passively in the whirl of Milly's enterprise and hardly knew what she

was about, it was all so unfamiliar; but she kept her mouth shut and her

eyes open and was learning all the time. She had already found out that

their cake shop was not to be a plebeian provision business, but an

affair of fashion and taste--or, as she called it,--for the "swells,"

and had her first instinctive misgivings on that score. And that ten

thousand dollars, which had seemed to her a substantial sum, she saw

would look very small indeed by the time the doors of their shop were

opened to "trade." But Milly's spirits were never higher: she sparkled

with confidence and ideas. On the signing of the lease, which Walter

Kemp guaranteed, they had a very jolly luncheon at the large hotel near

by.

As soon as the lease had been signed Milly telegraphed--she never wrote

letters any more, it was so much more businesslike to telegraph--to Sam

Reddon to come on at once and superintend the rehabilitation of the

premises. Ernestine would have intrusted this important detail to a

scrub woman, and the agent's Chicago decorator, but Milly said

promptly,--"That would spoil everything!"

Reddon responded to "Milly's Macedonian cry," as he described her

telegram, with an admirable promptness, arriving the next day "with one

clean shirt and no collars," he confessed. Milly took him at once to the

dingy shop.

"Now, Sam," she said to him in her persuasive way, "I want you to make

this into the nicest little _patisserie_ you ever saw in Paris. _Vrai

chic_, you know!"

"Some stunt," he replied, looking at the grimy squalor of the abandoned

shop, with its ugly plate-glass windows and forbidding walls. "Don't you

want me to get you a frieze for those bare walls--some Chicago nymphs

taking a bath in the Lake with a company of leading citizens observing

them from the steps of the Art Institute, in the manner of the sainted

Puvis?"

"Don't be silly, Sam!" Milly replied in reproof. "This is business."

And Sam put it through for her. They had a good time over the

transformation of the Chicago shop to something "elegant and

spirituelle," as Sam called it. He entered into the spirit of the thing,

as Milly knew he would, and turned out a creditable imitation of a Paris

shop, with stucco marbles, black woodwork, and glass everywhere, even to

red plush sofas along the walls and a row of little tables and chairs in

front. It had a very gay appearance--"distinguished" in its sombre

setting. "No one could help walking in to buy a cake, could they?" Sam

appealed to Ernestine.

"Hope they'll have the price for more than one," the former Laundryman

observed.

"Oh, you'll do a big business," Sam rejoined encouragingly. "Mostly on

tick, if Milly runs the cash drawer."

"She won't!" Ernestine retorted.

The last touch was the sign,--a long, thin black board on which was

traced in a delicate gilt script,--_The Cake Shop--Madame Millernine_.

The firm name was Sam's personal contribution to the business. "You must

have a suitable name, and who ever heard of a Bragdon or a Geyer keeping

a cake shop? There are proprieties in all these things."

But long before the sign was in place, Milly had sailed away from New

York for Paris. It had been discovered that a good French pastry cook

was not to be found in Chicago. A few were said to exist in America,

chiefly in New York hotels, but their handiwork was not up to Milly's

standard and their demands for wages were exorbitant. Also real _chic_

French _dames des comptoirs_ were exceedingly rare. Jeanne's Grenoble

sister-in-law proved to be, in Reddon's words,--"so infernally homely

that she would scare the customers from the door." So it was agreed that

while Ernestine attended to the numerous details of the preparations in

Chicago, Milly should make a hurried trip abroad consult with her

friend, Madame Catteau, and secure among other things a competent

pastry-cook and a few good-looking girls for waitresses.

Milly enjoyed her trip immensely. She had an air of importance about her

that Sam Reddon described as "diplomatic." She was a woman of affairs

now--large affairs and getting larger all the time. She spent two

rapturous weeks, so breathlessly absorbed in consulting with Madame

Catteau (who was ravished by Milly's scheme and deplored almost

tearfully her fate in having a husband and two children to keep her from

returning with Madame Brag-donne) and in interviewing men cooks and

young Frenchwomen, that she had no time for memories or sentimental

griefs of any sort. Once, flitting through the rue Gallilée in a cab,

she saw the hotel-pension where she and Jack had spent their first

winter, and she conjured up a vivid picture of the chilly salon, the

table of elderly English women, and the long, dull hours in her close,

back room. How long ago all that was, and how young and stupid she had

been then! She felt very much more alive now, an altogether new person,

with her business on her hands,--but not old, oh, not that!...

An ideal man pastry-cook was finally engaged, one highly recommended by

Madame Catteau as _vrai Parisien_, skilful in every sort of pastry, and

also three young women were induced, for love of Madame Brag-donne, to

try their fortune in the great city of Chicago. Also, Milly bought

quantities of bonbons, liquors, sirops, and other specialities of the

business, which she knew could not be had "really, truly French" in

America. With a feeling of having accomplished much, Milly gathered her

flock and set sail from Havre on the French steamer. M. Paul--the

pastry-cook--insisted on having a first-class passage, and would

converse with Milly whenever he found her on deck. The girls were sick

in the second cabin. Milly was indulgent with them all by sympathy as

well as by policy, but she was glad to see Sandy Hook. She decided that

the French temperament needed occupation, and she hustled her conscripts

across the city and into the Chicago train without an hour's delay.

Ernestine, Virginia, and Sam Reddon met the party at the Chicago station

and escorted the exclamatory laborers to their new home on the upper

floor of the old mansion. Then Milly and Sam went to see the Cake Shop,

which was now ready for its sweet merchandise. Milly, though she was

fresh from Paris, was much pleased with Sam's results, and praised him

warmly.

"It's cost an awful sight of money," Ernestine observed lugubriously.

Milly waved one hand negligently. Ernestine was almost as bad as Grandma

had been. Would she never rise to the conception of modern business? It

was not the outgo that counted, but the receipts. Milly knew that

already.

"I'll do you a better one next time," Sam promised, "when you open your

first _succursale_, Milly."

"That will be next autumn--in New York," Milly announced.

"My stars!" said Ernestine.

V

MILLY'S SECOND TRIUMPH

They opened the Cake Shop just before the holidays, with a great party.

Milly was positive that was the right procedure, though Ernestine could

see no point to giving away so much "trade." Nearly a thousand finely

engraved cards were sent out to Milly's friends, the friends of Milly's

friends, and their friends and acquaintances, to meet "Mrs. John Bragdon

and Miss Ernestine Geyer at the Cake Shop on Saturday, December the

fifteenth, from two until eight o'clock." (Ernestine, to be sure, could

not be "met," because she was in the cellar most of the time attending

to many essential details of the occasion. But Milly was there in the

shop above, prettily gowned in a costume she had managed to capture,

incidentally, on her flying visit to the French capital.)

* * * * *

It was a tremendous, resounding, thrilling success! Nearly everybody out

of the thousand must have come, they reckoned afterwards, and several

more besides who knew they had not been intentionally omitted from the

list of the invited. The guests began coming shortly after the doors

were thrown open (by a small colored boy, habited in Turkish costume),

and no sooner did any tear themselves away from the shop than twice as

many squeezed their way in somehow. At first the pretty French girls in

silk aprons and coquettish caps tried to execute the orders, but soon

their trays were seized by enthusiastic young men and the waitresses

took refuge behind the marble table beside the Madame and helped to hand

out the tempting cakes and bonbons and sorbets and sirops and liqueurs.

Even Milly pulled off her long white gloves, got in line with her

employees, and tried to appease her hungry guests. As a final touch a

dainty, gold-printed souvenir menu, with the list of delicacies to be

had at the Cake Shop, was handed to every comer, as long as they lasted.

There was one long glad chorus of praise for the Cake Shop and

everything it contained, from the mirrors, the fetching decoration, the

tables, the cakes (such as never had been dreamed of) to the pretty

girls, who were surrounded always by a cluster of men, trying with their

Chicago French to get attention.... And Milly, of course, was the

heroine of the occasion. Her health was drunk, and she had to get on a

chair to make a little speech of thanks and invitation to the Cake Shop

as a new Chicago Institution.

Many of the women who came knew their Paris better than New York, and

"adored" "this _chic_ little place." It recalled to them all most

delightful moments. And even in Paris they had never eaten anything so

delicious as M. Paul's cakes. Henceforth they should buy all their

desserts of "Madame Millernine," and there was a spatter of French

phrases all over the place.

"It was a wonder!" they declared, "this idea of creating a little of

Paris here in old Chicago. A touch of genius really--just like that

astonishing Milly Ridge to have thought of the one thing--and the cakes

were so good," etc., etc.

Milly's ears burned with the winged words, and she smiled all the time.

If Ernestine only could hear this, it would cure her of doubting. She

should hear! Milly felt that at last she had demonstrated herself. It

was like that other occasion so many, many years ago, when she had

surmounted all the difficulties and entertained her friends at "tea."

Then her triumph had been indubitable. But this time it was more

significant, for the affair was less childish: it meant money, Milly was

sure,--much money. So every one said.

At eight Milly was rescued by a party of friends and borne to a hotel in

triumph for a dinner which lasted long after midnight. Her health was

drunk again in real champagne; speeches were made to impromptu toasts of

"The New Woman in Business--God Bless Her." "The Poetry of the Palate,"

"The Creative Cake," etc.... At ten Ernestine and her aides, having

succeeded in gathering the débris and straightening out the place for

the public opening the next morning, went wearily home to bed. She was

told that it had been a great success; she hoped that the enthusiasm

would last; but all these people had eaten "a mighty sight of expensive

stuff" without paying for it, which seemed to the prosaic Ernestine "bad

business."

* * * * *

But Milly knew. She was right. Those cakes cast upon the waters of

fashionable Chicago brought in a hundredfold return. The indulgent

newspapers, always patriotically loud over local enterprise, noted the

opening of the Cake Shop as a minor social event and so in the

succeeding days all those who hadn't been invited and couldn't talk

French with the waitresses crowded into the store. It was a

Novelty,--the New Thing,--and became overnight a popular fad. M. Paul

was hard pressed to turn off enough of his delectable tid-bits--they had

to employ assistants for him almost at once, and one may suspect that

the fairylike melt-in-the-mouth quality of his best work began to

deteriorate from the second day. He had never baked cakes on this

wholesale scale. Did these gluttonous barbarians devour them by the

platterful?... Telephone orders were numerous, and Ernestine must

organize an efficient delivery system, in which she was at home. Milly

spent her days at the shop, where it became the fashion for men as well

as women to drop in late in the afternoon, to eat a cake or six and chat

with one's friends, to sip an anisette or grenadine, and maybe carry

away a bagful of cakes for the little ones at home or to eke out Mary's

thick-crusted New England pie.

So it was a Success! Milly and Ernestine worked like willing

galley-slaves, getting things to run smoothly, fitting into all the

corners that their excitable French assistants created daily. Milly was

one broad beam these days, and went happily to bed so tired that she was

asleep before she touched her pillow. Even Ernestine's heavy brows

relaxed their tension, for the "queer" business seemed to be making good

beyond her expectations. Milly had been right. They charged outrageous

prices for their delicacies, which scandalized Ernestine, who could not

believe that people would be foolish enough to pay twice and three times

what things were worth. But Milly insisted. "The people we are after,"

she said, "like it all the better the more they have to pay." And to

Ernestine's astonishment she seemed to be right again, for the present.

That, Ernestine concluded, must be another freak of this "rich trade";

the "swells" expected to be done and would be disdainful if they

weren't. Ernestine had a good deal of contempt for their patrons. But

the glowing proof of their business success lay in the cash drawer,

which literally overflowed with money, and they had accounts with half

the families in Chicago who pretended to be "in society."

Business men began to compliment Milly upon her shrewdness and predicted

a marvellous growth for the business. One broker seriously suggested

incorporating the Cake Shop, as certain candy manufacturers had

incorporated, and offered to boom the stock on the local exchange, Milly

talked of opening a summer branch in Newport or Bar Harbor, she could

not decide which. But she was a little timid about the east. She felt

that she had been right in starting in Chicago. The west was less

accustomed to Paris and had a lustier appetite for cake than New York,

and the charm of their Gallic interior was more of a novelty beside Lake

Michigan than it would be on Fifth Avenue. A branch in St. Louis or

Omaha might pay: her mind was nimble with schemes.... She was also going

out more or less all the time, to dinners and theatre parties, which

with her long day's work took every ounce of her strength and more.

Virginia had to get along these days the best she could. But was her

mother not building up a fortune for her future?

* * * * *

Of course they had their troubles from the very start. M. Paul's

Parisian morals, it was quickly found, could not be domesticated in a

Chicago home, and quarters had to be found for him outside the house.

Then the prettiest of the girls suddenly disappeared, much to Milly's

grief and anxiety. The men had been specially attentive to Lulu, and it

was found that she had taken a trip to the Pacific Coast with a young

broker. Then in the midst of their harvest the receipts began to fall

mysteriously, and Ernestine discovered an unauthorized trail from the

cash drawer to the large pocket of their _dame de comptoir_. Ernestine

resolutely handed her over to the police, which proved to be a very bad

move indeed, for no good French substitute could be found immediately

and her Nebraska successor spoke no French and twanged her English in

the good Omaha way. She gave the Cake Shop the air of a Childs'

Restaurant. Milly cabled her ally in Paris, Madame Catteau, for a new

Queen of the Counter, but she did not arrive until their first season

was drawing to a close.

There were other difficulties, new ones almost every day, but the two

partners met them all pluckily,--Ernestine with a determined look and a

heavy hand; Milly, with smiles and tactful suggestions. Ernestine

admired the wonderful way in which Milly managed "the French help,"

talking to them in their own language, flattering them, finding

companions and ways of forgetting their loneliness. And through their

troubles both were buoyed up by the stimulating sense of success and

prosperity. They were making money,--how much they did not know because

the business was complex and they hadn't time to figure it all out,--but

a good, deal they were sure. As the winter season came to a close there

was a lull naturally because many of their patrons left the city for

California and the south. It was a convenient breathing time in which

they could straighten out their affairs and plan the future campaign.

Trade revived at the end of May and held pretty well into July, then

dropped as the country season got into swing. Ernestine was for turning

the Cake Shop into a glorified ice-cream stand for the summer, but Milly

would not hear of this desecration of her Vision; they were both tired

and had earned a vacation. So while Ernestine took Virginia to one of

the lake resorts, Milly rested in the big, cool, empty house and played

around Chicago with her numerous friends.

She felt that she deserved a reward, and she took it.

VI

COMING DOWN

The Cake Shop started the autumn season rather dully. Some of its éclat

had evaporated by the second year, and M. Paul was decidedly getting

spoiled in the New World. His cakes were inferior in both quality and

variety, and he demanded a sixty per cent rise in wages, which they felt

obliged to give him. Another girl had drifted away during the summer, so

that one lone Parisian maiden--and the homeliest of the trio--remained

to "give an air" to the Cake Shop, and she, already corrupted by the

free air of the west, gave it sullenly and with a Chicago heaviness. The

shop itself was, of course, less fresh and dainty, having suffered from

ten months of smoke, although they had spent a good deal in having it

largely redecorated. Just as the cakes became heavier, tougher, more

ordinary, as the months passed, so the whole enterprise suffered

gradually from that coarsening and griming which seems an inevitable

result of Chicago use. Much of the fine artistic flavor of Milly's

conception had already been lost. It was becoming commercialized.

Ernestine did not perceive these changes, to be sure, though Milly did

in her less buoyant moments. What troubled Ernestine was the fact that

the receipts were falling off, and the accounts were hard to collect.

She suspected that Milly had lost something of her enthusiasm for the

Cake Shop. Milly certainly devoted less ardor to the enterprise. She

continued to go out a good deal, more than Ernestine felt was good for

her health or good for the business, and she often required the use of

the house and the servants for elaborate luncheons or dinner-parties.

This invariably put the machine out of order, although Milly always feed

the employees liberally for their extra service. Ernestine did not like

to complain, because it seemed selfish to deprive Milly of the social

relaxation she craved. So she took her supper with Virgie in the

latter's nursery. When she did demur finally, Milly, without a word,

transferred her party to an expensive new hotel, which was not good for

Milly's all-too-open purse.

Business picked up at the holiday season, but fell off again thereafter.

They were not making much money this second winter, and Ernestine was

becoming anxious.

"You're always worrying about something," Milly said, when Ernestine

pointed out this fact to her. "If the Cake Shop fails, I'll think up

something else that will put us right," she added lightly, in the rôle

of the fertile creator, and tripped off to the theatre.

But that wasn't Ernestine's idea of business. She got out the books and

went through them again.

The play proved to be entertaining, and Milly returned home in good

spirits. From the hall she heard the sounds of voices in altercation in

the rear room where Ernestine had her desk. M. Paul's excited accent

could be distinguished playing arpeggios all over Ernestine's grumbling

bass. "Oh, dear!" thought Milly, "Paul's off the hooks again and I'll

have to straighten him out...."

"See here, my man--" Ernestine growled, but what she was going to say

was cut off by a flood of Gallic impertinence.

"Your man! Ah, non, non, non! Indeed not the man of such a woman as you!

I call you 'my voman'? Not by--"

Here Milly intervened to prevent a more explicit illustration of M.

Paul's contempt for Ernestine's femininity.

"She call me her 'man'!" the pastry-cook flamed, pointing disdainfully

at Ernestine.

"The fellow's been thieving from us for months," Ernestine said angrily,

and pointing to the door she said,--"Get out!"

"Oh, Ernestine!" Milly protested.

But M. Paul had "got out" with a few further remarks uncomplimentary to

American women, and the damage was done. Ernestine could not be made to

see that with the departure of the pastry-cook, the last substantial

prop to Milly's fairy structure was gone.

"The beast has been selling our sugar and supplies," Ernestine

explained.

"It makes no difference what he has done!" Milly replied with

justifiable asperity.

The next morning she set forth to track the fugitive pastry-cook and

wile him back to their service. She found him after a time at one of the

new hotels, where he had already been engaged as pastry-cook. To Milly's

plea that he return to his old allegiance, he orated dramatically upon

Ernestine and _la femme_ in general.

"You, Madame Brag-donne, are _du vrai monde_," he testified tearfully.

"But that thing--bah! 'Her man'--_canaille du peuple_,"--etc.

Milly, touched by the compliment, tried to make him understand the

meaning of her partner's remark. But he shook his head wrathfully, and

she was forced to depart, defeated. It was some consolation to reflect

that this time it had been Ernestine's fault. Milly thought there might

be something in the Frenchman's criticism of Ernestine. Her good partner

lacked tact, and she was indisputably "of the people." Milly

philosophized,--"Servants always feel those things."

She walked across the city from the hotel in a depressed frame of

mind,--not so much crushed by approaching disaster as numbed. She had

something of the famous "artistic temperament," which is fervid and

buoyant in creation, but apt to lose interest and become cold when the

gauzy fabric of fancy's weaving fails to work out as it should. She

passed the Cake Shop, where through the long front windows she could see

the girls idling over the marble counter, and instead of turning in, as

she had meant to do, she kept on towards the Avenue. The place gave her

a chill these days. All the dazzling gilt was dropping from the creature

of her imagination, and it was becoming smudged, like the sign, by

reality. Ernestine had seriously suggested converting the Cake Shop into

a lunch-counter for the employees of the neighboring office buildings!

Milly saw a horrible vision of coarse sandwiches, machine-made pies, and

Bismarcks (a succulent western variety of doughnut) on the marble tables

instead of Paul's dainty confections; coffee and "soft drinks" in place

of the rainbow-hued "sirops." Her soul shuddered. No, they would take

down the pretty sign and close the doors of the Cake Shop before

admitting such desecration into the temple of her dreams....

People seemed to be hurrying towards the Avenue, their heads tilted

upwards, and a crowd had gathered on the steps of the Art Institute.

Milly, whose mind fortunately was easily distracted from her troubles,

joined the pushing, good-natured throng of men and women, who were

staring open-mouthed into the heavens. It was the opening day of

Chicago's first "Air Meet," which Milly had forgotten in the anxiety

caused by M. Paul. Far above the smoky haze of the city, in the dim,

distant depths of the blue sky there was a tiny object floating,

circling waywardly, as free apparently as a lark in the high heavens, on

which the eyes of the multitude were fastened in fascination. Milly

uttered a little, unconscious sigh of satisfaction. Ah, that would be to

live,--to soar above the murk and the roar of the city, free as a bird

in the vast, wind-swept spaces of the sky! It filled her, as it did the

eager crowd, with delight and yearning aspiration. She sighed again....

"It's a pretty sight, isn't it?" a familiar voice observed close behind

her. With a start Milly turned and perceived, on the step below,--Edgar

Duncan. His long face had an eager, wistful expression, also, caused

perhaps by the aerial phenomenon above, as much as by the sight of his

lost love; but the expression took Milly back immediately to the little

front room on Acacia Street, when Duncan had stood before her to receive

his blow.

"There!" Duncan exclaimed quickly, before Milly could collect an

appropriate remark. "He's coming down!" Speechless they both craned

their heads backwards to follow the aeroplane. The airman, tired of his

lofty wandering, or having done the day's stunt required of him, had

begun to descend and shot rapidly towards the spectators out of the sky.

As he came nearer the earth, he executed the reckless corkscrew

man[oe]uvre: the great winged machine seemed to be rushing, tumbling in

a perpendicular line just above the heads of the gazing crowd. There was

an agonized murmur, a prolonged,--"Ah!" It gave Milly delicious thrills

up and down her body. When the airman took another leap towards earth,

her heart stopped beating altogether. With only a few hundred feet

between him and the earth the airman turned his planes and began

circling in slow curves over the adjacent strip of park, as if he were

judiciously selecting the best spot for alighting.

"It doesn't take 'em long to come down!" Duncan remarked, and Milly,

with a swift mental comparison of the aeroplane flight and her own

little fate, replied,--

"It never takes long to come down, does it?"

She looked more closely now at her former lover. Apparently his blow had

not seriously damaged him. His figure was fuller and his face tanned to

a healthier color than she remembered. He seemed to be in good spirits,

and not perceptibly older than he was ten years before. They descended

the steps with the moving throng and strolled slowly up the crowded

boulevard, watching the distant flights and talking.

Edgar Duncan, she learned, had not spent the ten years nursing a wounded

heart. He had doubled the acreage of his ranch, he told her, and thanks

to the fatherly government at Washington, which had trebled the duty on

foreign lemons, he was doing very well indeed. The big yellow balls

among the glossy leaves were fast becoming golden balls. He was now on

his way east to see his people and also to look after the interests of a

fruit-growers' association in the matter of a railroad rate on lemons.

He seemed very much alive. The blow had probably done him good, Milly

concluded,--had waked him up.

There were a few hours between his trains, he explained to Milly, and so

he had wandered over to the park to watch the aeroplanes, which were the

first of the bird machines he had ever seen. It was almost time now for

him to leave. But he lost that Washington train. For he walked home with

Milly to see her little girl, stayed to luncheon, and was still at the

house telling Virginia about real oranges on real orange trees when

Ernestine came in. She was hot and tired, evidently much disturbed, and

more than usually short with Milly's guest. Duncan left soon afterwards,

and then Milly asked,--

"What's the matter, Ernestine?"

"I'd think you'd know!... If we can't get a cook, we might as well shut

up the shop to-morrow."

Milly had forgotten all about the loss of the pastry-cook and the

business in her surprise at meeting Edgar Duncan again and all the

memories he had revived.

"All right!" she said promptly. "Do it."

"Give up the business?" Ernestine asked in amazement. She could not

believe Milly meant to take her testy remark seriously. What had come

over Milly!

"We might try it in Pasadena," Milly remarked after a time. "There are a

lot of rich people out there."

This went beyond the bounds of Ernestine's patience.

"Pasadena!... Last time it was Palm Beach, and before that it was

Newport. What's the matter with staying right here and making good?"

Milly did not reply. Ernestine's pent-up irritation overflowed still

more.

"You ain't any business woman, Milly!"

"I never said I was."

"You always want to get in some society work--social pull! Rich folks!"

Ernestine groaned with disgust. "That kind of furor don't last. They're

too flighty in their notions."

"Like me," Milly interposed bitterly.

"Well, it ain't business to quit."

"Oh, business!" Milly exclaimed disgustedly. She felt like an artist

whose great work has been scorned by the philistines.

"Yes, business!" Ernestine asserted hotly. "If you're going into

business, you've got to play the game and play it _hard_ all the time,

too. Or you'd better marry and do the other thing."

"Perhaps I'll marry," Milly retorted with an enigmatical smile.

Ernestine stared at her agape. Was that what was the trouble with Milly?

She had not meant to go so far.

VII

CAPITULATIONS

They found another pastry-cook,--a French-Canadian woman. But if her

ancestors had ever seen the Isle de France, it must have been centuries

ago, and the family had become fatally corrupted since by British

gastronomic ideals. Her pastry was thicker and heavier than Paul's

worst, and she had "no more imagination than a cow" according to Milly.

How could one make fine cakes without imagination? "They make better

ones at the Auditorium Hotel even," Milly observed disgustedly. The Cake

Shop had gone down another peg. Now it served afternoon tea with English

wafers instead of the exotic "sirops" and "liqueurs," and advertised

"Dainty Luncheons for Suburban Shoppers." (That was Ernestine's

phrasing.) Milly almost never went near the place, and acted as if she

wanted to forget it altogether.

In her efforts to revive her partner's waning interest Ernestine even

suggested Milly's going again to Paris to engage a fresh crew, but Milly

only shrugged her shoulders. "What's the use? You know we haven't the

money."

"Borrow it!" Ernestine said desperately.

"When a thing is dead, it's dead," Milly pronounced, and added

oracularly, "Better to let the dead past bury its dead," and murmured

the lines from a celebrated new play, "Smashed to hell is smashed to

hell!" If she were willing to see her creation die, Ernestine ought to

be. But that was not Ernestine's nature: she was not artistic nor

temperamental, as Milly often proved to her. In her dumb, heavy fashion

she still tried to prop up the ill-fated Cake Shop and make it pay

expenses at least, in one way or another.

The time came, as it must come, when even this was more than Ernestine

could compass. She had tried every device she could think of, but, as

she reflected sadly, she had not been brought up to the "food business."

It was a peculiar business, like all businesses, especially the

delicatessen end, and needed an expert to diagnose its cure. So the

doors were closed, and a "To Rent" sign plastered on the front panes.

Ernestine acknowledged defeat.

Milly was outwardly unmoved. She had divined the outcome so much sooner

than her partner that she had already passed through the agonies of

failure and come to that other side where one looks about for the next

engagement with life. Possibly she had already in view what this was to

be. She assented indifferently to Ernestine's proposal that they should

meet Mr. Kemp and the agent at the Shop and decide what was to be done

about the lease, which had more than a year to run.

"They'll be there shortly after noon," Ernestine reminded Milly, as the

latter was about to leave the house that day.

"All right," she said evasively. "I'll try to be there, but it won't

make any difference if I'm not--you know about everything."

She was not there. Ernestine knew well enough that Milly would not come

to the funeral of their enterprise at the Cake Shop, and though she felt

hurt she said nothing to the men and went through with the last

formalities in the dusty, dismantled temple of cakes. At the end the

banker asked Ernestine kindly what she meant to do. He knew that the

Laundryman's capital had gone--all her savings--and that "the firm" was

in debt to his bank for a loan of several hundred dollars, which he

expected to pay himself and also to take care of the lease.

"I don't know yet," Ernestine replied. "I'll find some place.... And it

won't be in any fancy kind of business like this, you can bet," and she

cast a malevolent glance over the tarnished glories of the Cake Shop. "I

got my experience and I paid for it--with every cent I had in the world.

I ain't goin' to buy any more of that!"

The banker laughed sympathetically.

"What's Mrs. Bragdon going to do?" he inquired.

"I don't know--she hasn't told me yet."

Her answer was evasive because Ernestine suspected very well what Milly

was likely to do.... She turned the key in the lock, handed it over to

the agent, and with a curt nod to the two men strode away from the Cake

Shop for the last time. (That evening the banker, reporting the

occurrence to his wife, said,--"I feel sorry for that woman! She's lost

every cent she had--our Milly has milked her clean." "Walter, how can

you say that?" his wife replied indignantly. "It wasn't Milly's fault if

the business failed, any more than hers." "Well, I'd like to bet it's a

good big part the fault of our pretty friend." "Miss Geyer ought not to

have gone into something she knew nothing about." "Milly bewitched her,

I expect. The best thing she can do is to shake her and go back to the

laundry business.")

It was not Ernestine, however, who was to "shake" Milly. That lady

herself was busily evading their partnership, as Ernestine suspected.

While the short obsequies were being transacted at the Cake Shop, Milly

was lunching in the one good new hotel Chicago boasts with Edgar Duncan,

who had returned from Washington sooner than expected and had asked

Milly by telegraph to lunch with him. Seated in the spacious, cool room

overlooking the Boulevard and the Lake, at a little table cosily placed

beside the open window, Milly might easily have looked through the

fragrant plants in the flower-box and descried Ernestine doggedly

tramping homeward from her final task at the Cake Shop. Milly preferred

to study the menu through her little gold lorgnette, and when that

important matter had been settled to her satisfaction, she sat back

contentedly and smiled upon the man opposite her, who, after a

successful hearing before the Commerce Commission, had more than ever

the alert air of a man who knows his own business. Outside in the summer

sunlight, above the blue water of the Lake and over the dingy sward of

the Park, the airmen were man[oe]uvring their winged ships, casting

great shadows as they dipped and soared above the admiring throngs.

"See," Milly pointed excitedly through the open window. "He's going up

now!" And she twisted her neck to get the last glimpse of the mounting

machine.

"Yes," Duncan remarked indifferently, "they're doing a lot of stunts."

But he hadn't come back from Washington by the first train that left

after the hearing to talk aeroplanes. And Milly let him do the talking,

as she always had, listening with a childlike interest to what he had to

say.

By this time the reader must know Milly well enough to be able to divine

for himself what was passing in her mind as she daintily excavated the

lobster shell on her plate and listened to the plea of her rejected

lover. Probably this was no more able to stir her pulses to a mad rhythm

to-day than it had been ten years before. Edgar Duncan was somewhat

nearer being her Ideal,--not much. But Milly was ten years older and

"had had her throbs," as she once expressed it. She knew their meaning

now, their relative value, and she knew other values.

The value of a home and a stable position among her fellows, for

instance, no matter how small, and so she listens demurely while the man

talks hungrily of the Joy of Home and the Beauty of Woman in the Home,

"where they belong, not in business." (How Ernestine would give it to

him for that, and Hazel, too, Milly thought!)

"You are such a woman, Milly!" he exclaims.--"Just a woman!" and in his

voice the expression has a tender, reverential sound that falls

pleasantly on Milly's ears. But she says nothing: she does not mean to

be "soft" this time. Yet in reply to another compliment, she admits,

smiling delphically,--"Yes, I _am_ a woman!"

The man takes up another verse of his song, for he has planned this

attack carefully while the swift wheels were turning off the miles

between Washington and Chicago.

"You want your little girl to have a home, too, don't you? A real home,

_your_ home, where she can get the right sort of start in life?"

"Yes," Milly assents quickly. "The proper kind of home means so much

more to a girl than to a boy. If I myself had had--" But she stops

before this baseness to poor old Horatio. "I want Virgie's life to be

different from mine--so utterly different!"

A wave of self-pity for her loneliness after all her struggle sweeps

over her and casts a cloud on her face.

"You can't be a business woman and make that kind of home for your

daughter," Duncan persists, pushing forward his point.

Milly shakes her head.

"I'm afraid a woman can't!" she sighs.

(She doesn't feel it necessary to tell him that for almost one hour by

the clock she has not been a "business woman," even in the legal sense

of the term.)

"Oh," she murmurs, as if convinced by his logic, "I'm good for

nothing--I can't even be a good mother!"

"You are good for everything--for me!"

But Milly is not ready yet. In this sort of transaction she has grown to

be a more expert trader than she was once.

"It must be the right man," she observes impersonally.

And the Ranchman takes another start. He paints glowingly the freedom

and the beauty of that outdoors life on the Pacific Coast,--the fragrant

lemon orchard with its golden harvest of yellow balls, the velvety

heavens spangled with stars each night, the blooming roses, etc., etc.

But he cannot keep long off the personal note.

"I've sat there nights on my veranda, and thought and thought of you,

Milly, until it seemed as though you were really there by my side and I

could almost touch you."

"Really!" Milly is becoming moved in spite of herself. Somehow Duncan's

words have a genuine ring to them. "I believe," she muses, "that you

_are_ the sort of man who could care always for a woman."

"I always have cared for one woman!"

"You are good, Edgar."

"I don't know about that. Good hasn't much to do between men and women

when they love.... It's always love that counts, isn't it?"

(Milly is not as sure of that doctrine as she was once, but she is

content that the man should feel that way. She does not argue the

point.)

"Can't you sit there with me, Milly, and watch the stars for the rest of

our lives?"

Milly evades. She must have the terms set forth more explicitly.

"It wouldn't be right to keep Virgie out there away from people all the

time, would it?"

He sees the point and yields.

"We'll come here every year for the fall and see your friends."

"That would be nice," she accepts graciously. But Chicago doesn't appeal

to Milly as strongly as it had on her first return to its breezy, hearty

life.

"I should like to have Virgie study music," she suggests, "and

travel--have advantages."

"Of course!" he assents eagerly, and bids again, more daringly,--"We'll

take her to Europe."

"That would be pleasant."

"In a year or two," he explains, "the ranch will almost run itself and

be making big money--with the right rate on lemons and the tariff as it

is. Then we can do almost anything we please--live any place you like."

A pause here. So far it is wholly satisfactory, Milly is thinking, and

she wonders what more she wants. Then,--

"Milly?"

She looks at him with kind eyes.

"You won't make me wait--much longer?"

Milly slowly shakes her head, acceptingly.

"God, how I have longed for you!"

"Silly man!"

But she is pleased. She is thinking,--

"I'm doing it for Virginia. It's her only chance--I must do it."

Which was not altogether a falsehood, and she repeats this self-defence

to herself again when later on Duncan kisses her for the first

time,--"It's for _her_ sake--I would do anything for her." And with a

sigh of unconquerable sentimentalism she seals her bargain on the man's

lips. She has found a new sentimental faith,--a mother's sacrifice for

her child.... But she is really very glad, and quite tender with him.

* * * * *

In this mood she bade her lover good-by at the door and went back into

the house to meet her partner. Ernestine, who was not too obtuse to

recognize what had happened without the need of many words, listened to

Milly's announcement dumbly. At the end she put her hand on Milly's

shoulder and looked steadily at her for several moments. She was well

enough aware how false Milly had been to her, how careless of her stupid

heart, how she had betrayed her in the final hour of their tribulations.

Nevertheless, she said quite honestly,--"I'm so glad, dearie, for you!"

and kissed her.

VIII

THE SUNSHINE SPECIAL

A few weeks later a little party gathered in the murky railroad station

from which the California trains depart from Chicago. As they approached

the waiting train, which bore on its observation platform the brass

sign, "Sunshine Special," the negro porters showed their gleaming teeth

and the conductor muttered with an appropriate smile,--"Another of them

bridal parties!" At the head of the little procession the Ranchman

walked, conversing with Walter Kemp. Duncan had an air of apparent

detachment, but one eye usually rested on Milly, who was walking with

her father and was followed by a laughing group. Eleanor Kemp was not

among them. Somehow since the last evolution of Milly's affairs there

had been a coolness between these two old friends, and Mrs. Kemp had not

taken the trouble to leave her summer home "to see Milly off" again. She

had sent her instead a very pretty dressing-case with real

gold-stoppered bottles, which the new husband now handed over to the

porter.

Milly's arm was caressingly placed on her father's. Horatio was older,

more wizened, than when we first met him, but he was genial and happy,

with a boyish light in his eyes.

"You'll be sure to come, papa!" Milly said, squeezing his arm.

"I won't miss it this time, daughter," Horatio replied slyly,--"my

long-delayed trip to California." He chuckled reminiscently.

"You must bring Josephine with you, of course," Milly added hastily.

Mrs. Horatio, still stern behind her spectacles, even in the midst of a

merry bridal party, relented sufficiently to say,--

"I ain't much on travelling about in cars myself."

Milly, with the amiability of one who has at last "made good," remarked

patronizingly,--

"You'll get used to the cars in three days, my dear."

Horatio meanwhile was playing with little Virginia, teasing her about

her "new Papa." The little girl smiled rather dubiously. She had the

animal-like loyalty of childhood, and glanced suspiciously at the "New

Papa." However, she had already learned from the constant mutations of

her brief life to accept the New and the Unexpected without complaint.

At last perceiving Ernestine, who was hurrying breathlessly down the

long platform in search of the party, a huge bunch of long-stemmed roses

hugged close in her arms, Virginia ran to meet her old friend and clung

tight to the Laundryman.

"Take 'em!" Ernestine said, breathing hard and thrusting the prickly

flowers into Milly's arms. "My! I thought I'd miss the train."

"Oh, Ernestine! why did you do that, dear?" Milly exclaimed in a pleased

voice.

"It's the last of the Cake Shop!" Ernestine replied with a grim smile.

And the roses were almost literally the sole remains of that defunct

enterprise, having taken the last of Ernestine's dollars.

"They're perfectly gorgeous--it was lovely of you to think of bringing

them for me. I'll cut the stems and put them in water and they will keep

all the way to the Coast--and remind me of you," Milly said, who had

formed the habit of receiving floral offerings.

She handed the awkward bunch over to "Husband," who hastened dutifully

to place them in their compartment.

"He's on his job," Ernestine grinned. The banker laughed.

"That's what we men are made for, isn't it, Milly?"

"Of course!"

She was in her right element once more, the centre of the

picture,--becomingly dressed in a gray travelling suit, "younger than

ever," about to start on a wonderful three days' journey to a strange

new land, with her faithful and adoring knight. What more was there in

life?

* * * * *

"All aboard!" the conductor droned.

Exclamations and final embraces. Milly came to Ernestine Geyer last.

"Good-by, dear! You've been awfully good to me--I can never forget it!"

"Yes, you will--that's all right," Ernestine replied gruffly, not

knowing exactly what she was saying.

"I hope you'll make a fortune in your new business--"

"Him and me," Ernestine interrupted, nodding jocularly towards the

banker, "are going into the laundry business together."

"You must write me all about it!"

"I will."

In a last confidential whisper Milly said,--"And some day marry a good

man, dear!"

"Marry!!" Ernestine hooted, so that all could hear. "Me, marry! Not

much--I'll leave the matrimony business to you."

Then they kissed.

There were tears in Ernestine's eyes as she stood waving a

pocket-handkerchief after the receding train. Milly was at the rail of

the observation platform, leaning on the brass sign and waving both

hands to her old friends, Chicago, her past. Little Virginia at her side

waved an inch or two of white also, while the smiling ranchman stood

over them benignantly, protectingly, one hand on his wife's shoulder to

keep her from falling over the rail.

* * * * *

When the train had swept out into the yards, the little party broke up.

Horatio, who was choky, turned to his wife. Mrs. Horatio was already

studying through her spectacles a suburban time-card to ascertain the

next "local" for Elm Park. Ernestine and Walter Kemp slowly strolled up

the train-shed together. The banker was the first to break the

silence:--

"Guess they'll have a comfortable journey, not too dusty.... He seems to

be a good fellow, and he must have a fine place out there."

Ernestine said nothing.

"Well," the banker remarked, "Milly is settled now anyway--hope she'll

be happy! She wasn't much of a business woman, eh?" He looked at

Ernestine, who smiled grimly, but made no reply. "She's better off

married, I expect--most women are," he philosophized, "whether they like

it or not.... That's what a woman like Milly is meant for.... She's the

kind that men have run after from the beginning of the world, I

guess--the woman with beauty and charm, you know."

Ernestine nodded. She knew better than the banker.

"She'll never do much anywhere, but she'll always find some man crazy to

do for her," and he added something in German about the eternal

feminine, which Ernestine failed to get.

There was a steady drizzle from a lowering, greasy sky outside of the

train-shed, and the two paused at the door. With a long sigh Ernestine

emitted,--

"I only hope she'll be happy now!"

As if he had not heard this heartfelt prayer, the banker mused aloud,--

"She's Woman,--the old-fashioned kind,--just Woman!"

Ernestine looked steadily into the drizzle. Neither commented on what

both understood to be the banker's meaning,--that Milly was the type of

what men through the ages, in their paramount desire for exclusive sex

possession, had made of women, what civilization had made of her, and

society still encouraged her to become when she could,--an

adventuress,--in the banker's more sophisticated phrase,--a fortuitous,

somewhat parasitic creature. In Ernestine's more vulgar idiom, if she

had permitted herself to express her conviction, "Milly was a little

grafter." But Ernestine would not have let hot iron force the words

through her lips....

"And I suppose," the banker concluded, "that's the kind of women men

will always desire and want to work for."

"I guess so," Ernestine mumbled.

Had she not worked for Milly? She would have slaved for her cheerfully

all her life and felt it a privilege. Milly had stripped her to the

bone, and wounded her heart in addition,--but Ernestine loved her still.

* * * * *

"Can I put you down anywhere?" Kemp asked, as his car came up to the

curb.

"No, thanks--I'll walk."

"Remember when you want some money for your new business to come and see

me!"

"I owe you too much now."

"Oh," he said good-naturedly, "that account is wiped off. The

partnership's been dissolved."

"That ain't the way I do business."

"I wish more of my men customers felt like _you_," the banker laughed as

the car drove away.

Ernestine plunged into the drizzle, and while the Sunshine Special was

hurrying the old-fashioned woman westward to the golden slopes of

California, with her pretty

"face that burned the topless towers of Ilium,"

the new woman plodded sturdily through the mucky Chicago streets on her

way to the eternal Job.

Milly was settled at last, and, let us assume, "lived happily ever

after."

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE HEALER

"Distinctly unusual--and distinctly interesting."--_Chicago

Inter-Ocean._

"Mr. Herrick's finest."--_Omaha Herald._

"Had Ibsen been a novelist, and had he chosen Mr. Herrick's theme in

'The Healer,' he might have written much the same sort of a

novel."--_The Dial._

"Of extraordinary vividness--a book of power."--_Chicago Tribune._

"Mr. Herrick has written a novel in which every page has sustained

interest, though we think he does not intend the reader to grasp the

full moral purport of his story until he reveals it himself in the last

paragraph. We credit the writer not only with possessing a high ideal,

but also with having carried out his object with great artistic

success--two things which are unhappily not often found between the same

covers."--_London Athenæum._

"...exceedingly well done."--_Bookman._

"...bears directly upon great evils in society to-day."--_N.Y. Times._

TOGETHER

"Scarce a page but is tense and strong."--_Record-Herald._

"A masterpiece of keen vision and vivid depiction."--_Mail._

"An absorbing story ... likely to make a sensation."--_New York Evening

Post._

"A book of the first magnitude, that handles a momentous theme boldly,

wisely, sympathetically, and with insight."--_The Forum._

A LIFE FOR A LIFE

"A serious attempt to treat a big living question in a new

way."--_Record-Herald._

THE GOSPEL OF FREEDOM

"A novel that may be truly called the greatest study of social life that

has ever been contributed to American fiction."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

THE WEB OF LIFE

"It is strong in that it faithfully depicts many phases of American

life, and uses them to strengthen a web of fiction, which is most

artistically wrought out."--_Buffalo Express._

THE COMMON LOT

Is a strong, virile picture of modern business life, with all its

temptations to "graft" and its fight for privilege.

"A novel which it would be difficult to overpraise."--_Philadelphia

Ledger._

"It is by long odds the greatest novel of the autumn."--_The New York

American._

THE REAL WORLD

"Unusually satisfying.... The hero steadily approaches the dividing line

between safety and ruin and you are kept in agitated suspense until the

dramatic climax. A number of powerful scenes add color and forcefulness

to a story in the main eminently satisfactory."--_Record-Herald_,

Chicago.