"Dja? Glad to hear it. Will you go again--next week? I guess I can work
som'other show, all right."
Compunction smote as memory reminded her. "But--Ben--didn't you have to
pay for those tickets?"
"Oh, that's all right. I couldn't find the fella I was lookin' for,
round back."
"I'm so sorry--"
"Gwan! It wasn't nothin'. Cheap at the price, if you liked it, little
girl."
"I liked it _awfully_! But I won't go again, unless you show me the pass
first."
"Wel-l, we'll see about that." He edged a pace nearer.
Suddenly self-conscious, Joan drew back and offered her hand. "Good
night and--thank you so much, Ben."
He took the hand, but retained it. "Ah, say! is this all I get? I
thought you kinda liked me...."
"I do, Ben, but--"
"Well, a kiss won't cost you nothin'. It's your turn now."
"But, Ben--but, Ben--"
"Oh, well, if that's the way you feel about it--"
He made as if to relinquish her hand. But to be thought lacking in
generosity had stung her beyond endurance. Without stopping to
think--blindly and quickly, so that she might not think--she gave
herself to his arms.
"Well," she breathed in a soft voice, "just one...."
"Just one, eh?" He pressed his lips to hers. "Oh, I don't know about
that!"
He tightened his embrace. Her heart was hammering madly. His mouth hurt
her lips, his beard rasped her tender skin. She wanted frantically to
get away, to regain possession of herself; and wanted it the more
because, dimly through the tumult of thought and emotion, she was
conscious of the fact that she rather liked it.
"Joan...." Austin murmured in a tone that, soft with the note of wooing,
was yet vibrant with the elation of the conqueror, "Joan...."
One arm shifted up from her waist and his big hand rested heavily over
her heart.
For a breath she seemed numb and helpless, suffocating with the tempest
of her senses. Then like lightning there pierced her confusion the
memory of the knee that had driven her from the car, only that
afternoon: symbolic of the bedrock beastliness of man. With a quick
twist and wrench she freed herself and reeled a pace or two away.
"Ben!" she cried, in a voice hoarse with anger. "You--you brute--!"
"Why, what's the matter?"
"What right had you to--to touch me like that?" she panted, retreating
as he advanced.
He paused, realizing that he had made a false move which bade fair to
lose him his prey entirely. Only by elaborate diplomacy would he ever be
able to reëstablish a footing of friendship; weeks must elapse now
before he would gain the advantage of another kiss from her lips. He
swore beneath his breath.
"I didn't mean nothin'," he said in a surly voice. "I don't see as you
got any call to make such a fuss."
"Oh, don't you?... _Don't_ you!" She felt as if she must choke if she
continued to parley with him. "Well, I do!" she flashed; and turning,
ran up the fourth flight of steps.
He swung on his heel, muttering; and she heard him slam the door to his
flat.
She continued more slowly, panting and struggling to subdue the signs of
her emotion. But she was poisoned to the deeps of her being with her
reawakened loathing of Man. On the top landing she paused, blinking back
her tears, digging her nails into her palms while she fought down a
tendency to sob, then drew herself up, took a deep breath, and advancing
to the dining-room, turned the knob with stealth, to avoid disturbing
her family.
To her surprise and dismay, as the first crack widened between the door
and jamb, she saw that the room was lighted.
Wondering, she walked boldly in.
Her father was seated at the dining-table, a cheap pipe gripped between
his teeth. Contrary to his custom, when he sat up late, he was not
thumbing his dope. His fat, hairy arms were folded upon the oilcloth,
his face turned squarely to the door. Instinctively Joan understood that
he had waited up for her, that inexplicably a crisis was about to occur
in her relations with her family.
In a chair tilted back against the wall, near the window opening upon
the air-shaft, Butch sat, his feet drawn up on the lower rung, purple
lisle-thread socks luridly displayed, hands in his trouser-pockets, a
cigarette drooping from his cynical mouth, a straw hat with brilliant
ribbon tilted forward over his eyes.
Closing the door, Joan put her back to it, eyes questioning her parent.
Butch did not move. Thursby sagged his chin lower on his chest.
"Where have you been?" he demanded in deep accents, with the incisive
and precise enunciation which she had learned to associate only with his
phases of bad temper.
"Where've I been?" she repeated, stammering. "Where.... Why--out
walking--"
"Street-walking?" he suggested with an ugly snarl.
She sank, a limp, frightened figure, into a chair near the door.
"Why, pa--what do you mean?"
"I mean I'm going to find out the why and wherefore of the way you're
behaving yourself. You're my daughter, and not of age yet, and I have a
right to know what you do and where you go. Keep still!" he snapped, as
she started to interrupt. "Speak when you're spoken to.... I'm going to
have a serious talk with you, young woman.... What's all this I hear
about your losing your job and going on the stage?"