When the doorbell rang the maid of all work pushed the button and stood
waiting at the top of the stairs. There was a pause, a moment's
whispering, then light footsteps flying through the corridor, and:
"Where on earth have you been for a week?" asked Cynthia Lessler, coming
into Jacqueline's little parlour, where the latter sat knitting a white
wool skating jacket for herself.
Jacqueline laid aside the knitting and greeted her visitor with a warm,
quick embrace.
"Oh, I've been everywhere," she said. "Out in Westchester, mostly.
To-day being Sunday, I'm at home."
"What were you doing in the country, sweetness?"
"Business."
"What kind?"
"Oh, cataloguing a collection. Take the armchair and sit near the stove,
dear. And here are the chocolates. Put your feet on the fender as I do.
It was frightfully cold in Westchester yesterday--everything frozen
solid--and we--I skated all over the flooded fields and swamps. It was
simply glorious, Cynthia----"
"I thought you were out there on business," remarked Cynthia dryly.
"I was. I merely took an hour at noon for luncheon."
"Did you?"
"Certainly. Even a bricklayer has an hour at noon to himself."
"Whose collection are you cataloguing?"
"It belongs to a Mr. Desboro," said Jacqueline carelessly.
"Where is it?"
"In his house--a big, old house about five miles from the station----"
"How do you get there?"
"They send a car for me----"
"Who?"
"They--Mr. Desboro."
"They? Is he plural?"
"Don't be foolish," said Jacqueline. "It is his car and his collection,
and I'm having a perfectly good time with both."
"And with him, too? Yes?"
"If you knew him you wouldn't talk that way."
"I know who he is."
"Do you?" said Jacqueline calmly.
"Yes, I do. He's the 'Jim' Desboro whose name you see in the fashionable
columns. I know something about _that_ young man," she added
emphatically.
Jacqueline looked up at her with dawning displeasure. Cynthia,
undisturbed, bit into a chocolate and waved one pretty hand:
"Read the _Tattler_, as I do, and you'll see what sort of a man your
young man is."
"I don't care to read such a----"
"I do. It tells you funny things about society. Every week or two
there's something about him. You can't exactly understand it--they put
it in a funny way--but you can guess. Besides, he's always going around
town with Reggie Ledyard, and Stuyve Van Alstyne, and--Jack Cairns----"
"_Don't_ speak that way--as though you usually lunched with them. I hate
it."
"How do you know I don't lunch with some of them? Besides everybody
calls them Reggie, and Stuyve, and Jack----"
"Everybody except their mothers, probably. I don't want to hear about
them, anyway."
"Why not, darling?"
"Because you and I don't know them and never will----"
Cynthia said maliciously: "You may meet them through your friend, Jimmy
Desboro----"
"_That_ is the limit!" exclaimed Jacqueline, flushing; and her pretty
companion leaned back in her armchair and laughed until Jacqueline's
unwilling smile began to glimmer in her wrath-darkened eyes.
"Don't torment me, Cynthia," she said. "You know quite well that it's a
business matter with me entirely."
"Was it a business matter with that Dawley man? You had to get me to go
with you into that den of his whenever you went at all."
Jacqueline shrugged and resumed her knitting: "What a horrid thing he
was," she murmured.
Cynthia assented philosophically: "But most men bother a girl sooner or
later," she concluded. "You don't read about it in novels, but it's
true. Go down town and take dictation for a living. It's an education in
how to look out for yourself."
"It's a rotten state of things," said Jacqueline under her breath.
"Yes. It's funny, too. So many men _are_ that way. What do they care? Do
you suppose we'd be that way, too, if we were men?"
[Illustration: "'There are nice men, too'"]
"No. There are nice men, too."
"Yes--dead ones."
"Nonsense!"
"With very few exceptions, Jacqueline. There are horrid, _horrid_ ones,
and _nice_, horrid ones, and dead ones and _dead_ ones--but only a few
nice, _nice_ ones. I've known some. You think your Mr. Desboro is one,
don't you?"
"I haven't thought about him----"
"Honestly, Jacqueline?"
"I tell you I haven't! He's nice to _me_. That's all I know."
"Is he _too_ nice?"
"No. Besides, he's under his own roof. And it depends on a girl,
anyway."
"Not always. If we behave ourselves we're dead ones; if we don't we'd
better be. Isn't it a rotten deal, Jacqueline! Just one fresh man after
another dropped into the discards because he gets too gay. And being
employed by the kind who'd never marry us spoils us for the others.
_You_ could marry one of your clients, I suppose, but I never could in a
million years."
"You and I will never marry such men," said Jacqueline coolly. "Perhaps
we wouldn't if they asked us."
"_You_ might. You're educated and bright, and--you _look_ the part, with
all the things you know--and your trips to Europe--and the kind of
beauty yours is. Why not? If I were you," she added, "I'd kill a man who
thought me good enough to hold hands with, but not good enough to
marry."
"I don't hold hands," observed Jacqueline scornfully.
"I do. I've done it when it was all right; and I've done it when I had
no business to; and the chances are I'll do it again without getting
hurt. And then I'll finally marry the sort of man you call Ed," she
added disgustedly.
Jacqueline laughed, and looked intently at her: "You're _so_ pretty,
Cynthia--and so silly sometimes."
Cynthia stretched her young figure full length in the chair, yawning and
crooking both arms back under her curly brown head. Her eyes, too, were
brown, and had in them always a half-veiled languor that few men could
encounter undisturbed.
"A week ago," she said, "you told me over the telephone that you would
be at the dance. _I_ never laid eyes on you."
"I came home too tired. It was my first day at Silverwood. I overdid it,
I suppose."
"Silverwood?"
"Where I go to business in Westchester," she explained patiently.
"Oh, Mr. Desboro's place!" with laughing malice.
"Yes, Mr. Desboro's place."
The hint of latent impatience in Jacqueline's voice was not lost on
Cynthia; and she resumed her tormenting inquisition:
"How long is it going to take you to catalogue Mr. Desboro's
collection?"
"I have several weeks' work, I think--I don't know exactly."
"All winter, perhaps?"
"Possibly."
"Is _he_ always there, darling?"
Jacqueline was visibly annoyed: "He has happened to be, so far. I
believe he is going South very soon--if that interests you."
"'Phone me when he goes," retorted Cynthia, unbelievingly.
"What makes you say such things!" exclaimed Jacqueline. "I tell you he
isn't that kind of a man."
"Read the _Tattler_, dearest!"
"I won't."
"Don't you ever read it?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Curiosity."
"I haven't any."
Cynthia laughed incredulously:
"People who have no curiosity are either idiots or they have already
found out. Now, you are not an idiot."
Jacqueline smiled: "And I haven't found out, either."
"Then you're just as full of curiosity as the rest of us."
"Not of unworthy curiosity----"
"I never knew a good person who wasn't. I'm good, am I not, Jacqueline?"
"Of course."
"Well, then, I'm full of all kinds of curiosities--worthy and unworthy.
I want to know about everything!"
"Everything good."
"Good and bad. God lets both exist. I want to know about them."
"Why be curious about what is bad? It doesn't concern us."
"If you know what concerns you only, you'll never know anything. Now,
when I read a newspaper I read about fashionable weddings, millionaires,
shows, murders--I read everything--not because I'm going to be
fashionably married, or become a millionaire or a murderer, but because
all these things exist and happen, and I want to know all about them
because I'm not an idiot, and I haven't already found out. And so that's
why I buy the _Tattler_ whenever I have five cents to spend on it!"
"It's a pity you're not more curious about things worth while,"
commented Jacqueline serenely.
Cynthia reddened: "Dear, I haven't the education or brain to be
interested in the things that occupy you."
"I didn't mean that," protested Jacqueline, embarrassed. "I only----"
"I know, dear. You are too sweet to say it; but it's true. The bunch you
play with knows it. We all realise that you are way ahead of us--that
you're different----"
"Please don't say that--or think it."
"But it's true. You really belong with the others--" she made a gay
little gesture--"over there in the Fifth Avenue district, where art gets
gay with fashion; where lady highbrows wear tiaras; where the Jims and
Jacks and Reggies float about and hand each other new ones between
quarts; where you belong, darling--wherever you finally land!"
Jacqueline was laughing: "But I don't wish to land _there_! I never
wanted to."
"All girls do! We all dream about it!"
"Here is one girl who really doesn't. Of course, I'd like to have a few
friends of that kind. I'd rather like to visit houses where nobody has
to think of money, and where young people are jolly, and educated, and
dress well, and talk about interesting things----"
"Dear, we all would like it. That's what I'm saying. Only there's a
chance for you because you know something--but none for us. We
understand that perfectly well--and we dream on all the same. We'd miss
a lot if we didn't dream."
Jacqueline said mockingly: "I'll invite you to my Fifth Avenue
residence the minute I marry what you call a Reggie."
"I'll come if you'll stand for me. I'm not afraid of any Reggie in the
bench show!"
They laughed; Cynthia stretched out a lazy hand for another chocolate;
Jacqueline knitted, the smile still hovering on her scarlet lips.
Bending over her work, she said: "You won't misunderstand when I tell
you how much I enjoy being at Silverwood, and how nice Mr. Desboro has
been."
"_Has_ been."
"Is, and surely will continue to be," insisted Jacqueline tranquilly.
"Shall I tell you about Silverwood?"
Cynthia nodded.
"Well, then, Mr. Desboro has such a funny old housekeeper there, who
gives me 'magic drops' on lumps of sugar. The drops are aromatic and
harmless, so I take them to please her. And he has an old, old butler,
who is too feeble to be very useful; and an old, old armourer, who comes
once a week and potters about with a bit of chamois; and a parlour maid
who is sixty and wears glasses; and a laundress still older. And a whole
troop of dogs and cats come to luncheon with us. Sometimes the butler
goes to sleep in the pantry, and Mr. Desboro and I sit and talk. And if
he doesn't wake up, Mr. Desboro hunts about for somebody to wait on us.
Of course there are other servants there, and farmers and gardeners,
too. Mr. Desboro has a great deal of land. And so," she chattered on
quite happily and irrelevantly, "we go skating for half an hour after
lunch before I resume my cataloguing. He skates very well; we are
learning to waltz on skates----"
"Who does the teaching?"
"He does. I don't skate very well; and unless it were for him I'd have
_such_ tumbles! And once we went sleighing--that is, he drove me to the
station--in rather a roundabout way. And the country was _so_ beautiful!
And the stars--oh, millions and millions, Cynthia! It was as cold as the
North Pole, but I loved it--and I had on his other fur coat and gloves.
He is very nice to me. I wanted you to understand the sort of man he
is."
"Perhaps he is the original hundredth man," remarked Cynthia
skeptically.
"Most men are hundredth men when the nine and ninety girls behave
themselves. It's the hundredth girl who makes the nine and ninety men
horrid."
"That's what you believe, is it?"
"I do."
"Dream on, dear." She went to a glass, pinned her pretty hat, slipped
into the smart fur coat that Jacqueline held for her, and began to draw
on her gloves.
"Can't you stay to dinner," asked Jacqueline.
"Thank you, sweetness, but I'm dining at the Beaux Arts."
"With any people I know?"
"You don't know that particular 'people'," said Cynthia, smiling, "but
you know a friend of his."
"Who?"
"Mr. Desboro."
"Really!" she said, colouring.
Cynthia frowned at her: "Don't become sentimental over that young man!"
"No, of course not."
"Because I don't think he's very much good."
"He _is_--but I _won't_," explained Jacqueline laughing. "I know quite
well how to take care of myself."
"Do you?"
"Yes; don't you?"
"I--don't--know."
"Cynthia! Of course you know!"
"Do I? Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps all girls know how to take care of
themselves. But sometimes--especially when their home life is the
limit----" She hesitated, slowly twisting a hairpin through the
buttonhole of one glove. Then she buttoned it decisively. "When things
got so bad at home two years ago, and I went with that show--you didn't
see it--you were in mourning--but it ran on Broadway all winter. And I
met one or two Reggies at suppers, and another man--the same sort--only
his name happened to be Jack--and I want to tell you it was hard work
not to like him."
Jacqueline stood, slim and straight, and silent, listening unsmilingly.
Cynthia went on leisurely:
"He was a friend of Mr. Desboro--the same kind of man, I suppose.
_That's_ why I read the _Tattler_--to see what they say about him."
"Wh-what do they say?"
"Oh, things--funny sorts of things, about his being attentive to this
girl, and being seen frequently with that girl. I don't know what they
mean exactly--they always make it sound queer--as though all the men and
women in society are fast. And this man, too--perhaps he is."
"But what do you care, dear?"
"Nothing. It was hard work not to like him. You don't understand how it
was; you've always lived at home. But home was hell for me; and I was
getting fifteen per; and it grew horribly cold that winter. I had no
fire. Besides--it was so hard not to like him. I used to come to see
you. Do you remember how I used to come here and cry?"
"I--I thought it was because you had been so unhappy at home."
"Partly. The rest was--the other thing."
"You _did_ like him, then!"
"Not--too much."
"I understand that. But it's over now, isn't it?"
Cynthia stood idly turning her muff between her white-gloved hands.
"Oh, yes," she said, after a moment, "it's over. But I'm thinking how
nearly over it was with me, once or twice that winter. I thought I knew
how to take care of myself. But a girl never knows, Jacqueline. Cold,
hunger, debt, shabby clothes are bad enough; loneliness is worse. Yet,
these are not enough, by themselves. But if we like a man, with all that
to worry over--then it's pretty hard on us."
"How _could_ you care for a bad man?"
"Bad? Did I say he was? I meant he was like other men. A girl becomes
accustomed to men."
"And likes them, notwithstanding?"
"Some of them. It depends. If you like a man you seem to like him
anyhow. You may get angry, too, and still like him. There's so much of
the child in them. I've learned that. They're bad; but when you like one
of them, he seems to belong to you, somehow--badness and all. I must be
going, dear."
Still, neither moved; Cynthia idly twirled her muff; Jacqueline, her
slender hands clasped behind her, stood gazing silently at the floor.
Cynthia said: "That's the trouble with us all. I'm afraid you like this
man, Desboro. I tell you that he isn't much good; but if you already
like him, you'll go on liking him, no matter what I say or what he does.
For it's that way with us, Jacqueline. And where in the world would men
find a living soul to excuse them if it were not for us? That seems to
be about all we're for--to forgive men what they are--and what they do."
"_I_ don't forgive them," said Jacqueline fiercely; "--or women,
either."
"Oh, nobody forgives women! But you will find excuses for some man some
day--if you like him. I guess even the best of them require it. But the
general run of them have got to have excuses made for them, or no woman
would stand for her own honeymoon, and marriages would last about a
week. Good-bye, dear."
They kissed.
At the head of the stairs outside, Jacqueline kissed her again.
"How is the play going?" she inquired.
"Oh, it's going."
"Is there any chance for you to get a better part?"
"No chance I care to take. Max Schindler is like all the rest of them."
Jacqueline's features betrayed her wonder and disgust, but she said
nothing; and presently Cynthia turned and started down the stairs.
"Good-night, dear," she called back, with a gay little flourish of her
muff. "They're all alike--only we always forgive the one we care for!"