Chapter VII: Part THREE: I (2)

Wilfred went east on Fourteenth street. That stretch of Fourth avenue between Union Square and Cooper Square was devoted after nightfall to the traffic in which he was resolved to share. He turned into Fourth avenue with a wildly beating heart. It was not crowded here; just a few figures furtively veering and hauling on their way. The shop windows were dark, except those of the dazzling saloons on every corner.

Wilfred’s tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. How can I choose when I’m so shaky? he thought. What do you say to them at first, anyway? What a pitiful fool I should appear if I tried to address one with a thick tongue! I’ll never be able to go through with it! . . . You _shall_ go through with it! Wilfred perceived a young woman approaching, with her eyes fixed on him. In blind panic he stopped, and made believe to be attracted by something in a shop window. It was a cobbler’s window, quite dark, with nothing in it but a row of run-over shoes to be mended.

An arm was slipped through Wilfred’s arm, and a voice murmured in his ear: “Hello, sweetheart!” Wilfred turned a pair of terrified eyes. She was not bad-looking; a Greek girl perhaps; dark and opulent. Her face was not painted. Her glance was fairly open—at least she had not the leer that Wilfred so dreaded. He felt himself like putty in her experienced hands, and was relieved. This is not as bad as I expected; he thought. A price was named, and certain conditions laid down. This part seemed very unreal.

The next thing Wilfred knew, he was being shepherded up a steep straight flight of stairs over a saloon. There was a red carpet on the stairs, sooty on the edges, and worn threadbare in the middle. At the top of the steps stood a desk; a dog-eared hotel register lay upon it. A young waiter appeared from somewhere; and collecting a dollar from Wilfred, shoved the register towards him to be signed. Wilfred wondered about the waiter. A fellow his own age. Though his white suit was much soiled, he was not uncomely, with his stiff blond hair sticking up on his crown like a schoolboy’s.

The waiter whisked them into a bedroom close at hand, and shut the door. Wilfred drew a long breath to steady himself. There he was alone in a bedroom with a woman he had never seen until five minutes before, and who was already preparing to reveal herself. How amazing! One swift glance around, and the common room was photographed on his brain forever. The cheap yellow bureau just inside the door, where Wilfred stood frozen, one hand resting upon it. He could see himself from the outside as if the eyes of his soul were suspended under the ceiling. Stretched across under the window, the bed, because there was no other possible place for it; in the corner behind Wilfred, the washstand; two chairs—all of the same ugly yellow wood. The bed was covered with a soiled white spread which still bore a significant impress in the middle. Wilfred wondered if the impress was still warm.

Wishing to do the thing in good style, he had ordered drinks; and they were now brought; cocktails with a red cherry in the bottom of each glass. Wilfred looked at the young waiter again. He put the tray on the bureau, and departed without looking at Wilfred. He had an extraordinarily inscrutable air; he had taught himself to see nothing; to give nothing away. What a queer job for a lad, popping in and out of the bedrooms! Wilfred wondered if he had ever been out in the country. How many rooms were there in the place? All occupied no doubt. He listened.

He indicated one of the drinks to his companion. He would not carry it to her, for fear of betraying the trembling of his hand.

“Much obliged, fella,” she said politely, “but I don’t indulge. Drink ’em both yourself. You kin understand if I drank with every fella, I’d be paralyzed before morning.”

Good God! thought Wilfred. “How many?” he asked involuntarily.

“Aah, fergit it!” she said, perfectly good-tempered. “What do you look at me like that for?”

Wilfred, abashed, schooled his eyes, and started slowly to undress. He had no feeling of shame; but only of strangeness.

His companion chattered away. She was rather a likeable sort. “It’s the drink that does for girls. So I keep away from it. The rest don’t do you no harm, if you take care of yourself. You kin depend upon me, fella. My name’s Angela. I ain’t been at this long. I started it so’s I could help me mutter out, and keep me young sister in school. She’s smart. We’re gonna send her to college. You’re a nice lookin’ fella. Is this the first time?”

“No,” said Wilfred quickly.

“Bet it is, though I kin tell. None of them wants to admit it. Well, you might do worse than begin wit’ me. You look somepin like my fella. He’s blond, too. But he’s got twenty pounds on you.”

Wilfred had heard that these girls always had a lover. That seemed strange to him.

“He’s a deckhand on the steamboat _Albertina_. . . .”

I share with a deckhand! thought Wilfred.

“He gimme this ruby ring I wear. If you come to see me at my place I’ll show you his pitcher. Me and him’s gonna git married when I kin save enough to furnish wit’.”

Good God! thought Wilfred again. “Does he know?” he asked.

Angela’s big, good-humored face was momentarily disfigured by a scowl. “What the hell is it to you? . . . Aw, . . . fergit it! . . . What you look at me like that for? Come on.”

But Wilfred stood still. His feet were weighted down.

“What you waiting for? What’s the matter wit’ me, you look like that? Come on. . . .”

Wilfred went towards the bed like an automaton. He looked at her. After all there was nothing astounding in her unveiling. It was just a human body, the complement to his own; one was instinctively familiar with it. He recognized dispassionately that it was a generous, comely woman’s body, without blemish. He was reminded of fruitfulness; it was a body fit for Ceres, for Eve. What lovely, dimpling hollows! what a magical texture in woman’s skin!—But it didn’t seem to matter. What mattered terribly, and made him tremble, was the strangeness of the soul that inhabited this woman’s body, sending him such queer intimations through her eyes, all the while her tongue was so glib and matter-of-fact. Their bodies might press together as one, but their souls were sundered by an immensity of space. . . . How piteous!

“What you look at me like that for, fella?”

* * * * *

Once more Wilfred stood in front of the bureau with one hand upon it, his head lowered. Angela was busy in the corner behind him. He did not feel that anything of moment had happened to him. He was not changed. . . . Was _that_ all? . . . But, no! He had failed; that’s what it meant. He was not human enough to take fire and burn in the beautiful human way. He was just a sort of figment of a man; an hallucination. He fulfilled himself only in imagination. Faced with reality, he dissolved. A dreadful fear gripped him. It was like falling through space. His hand tightened hard on the edge of the bureau, as if to convince himself that here was a real flesh and blood hand gripping palpable matter. . . . The edge of the bureau was blackened by many cigarette burns. The men who had laid those cigarettes down, _their_ bodies had burned!

The girl came, and passed an arm around his shoulders. “You’re a wonderful fella!” she murmured. “I like you.”

Oh, yes! thought Wilfred. Flattery is a part of her business.

On the hand that lay on the bureau, Wilfred sported an antique ring of no great value. She turned it round on his finger. “Give it to me for a keepsake, fella,” she whispered cajolingly.

Wilfred thought: She knows that normal men have a moment of tenderness now. But not me. I feel nothing. He shook his head, and drew away from her.

“Don’t you like me?”

“You’re all right!” said Wilfred.

She tried to wheedle more money out of him. Wilfred shook his head.

“Well, will you come to see me again?”

“Sure!” said Wilfred.

She slipped a card into his hand. “That’s my home address. It’s nicer there than these Raines Law joints. If you come in the afternoon I can give you more time. . . .”

Wilfred walked home, musing. His brain was active and cool. From a point at a little distance outside himself, he surveyed the scene in the hotel bedroom, and grinned. The girl’s attitude had been absolutely right of course. Matter-of-fact was the only thing to be under those circumstances. It was he, who had played the mountebank. . . . What comical little insects human beings were! . . . Well, it had been a richly humorous experience, and it had taught him a lot. He was glad it had happened. . . . But never again! Might as well make up his mind to it, that he was different in that respect from other men.

Inside the door of his own room, another mood was lying in wait for him. He loved that room; everything in it had been chosen by himself. It was on the ground floor at the back of what had been a fine dwelling in its day. There was a noble fireplace with a mantel of black marble. The fire, burning low, filled the room with comfortable warm shadows. Desire struck into Wilfred’s breast like a dagger.

Ah! if there was a dear girl waiting _here_ for me! he thought. One whose heart I knew, and who knew my heart! How sweet before the fire to take her in my arms and kiss her neck; to . . . .

Wilfred’s veins were full of molten fire then; his head whirled giddily. He burst out laughing. Here you are at your imaginings again . . . !

V

Joe Kaplan was walking up lower Broadway, hugging himself within an expensive overcoat. Catching sight of his shining eyes and wreathed lips in a mirror, he thought: Picture of a man who enjoys life! Well, everything was going fine with him. He put down his feet deliberately, for it suited his humor to affect the solid air of an established man of thirty-five—but his heels were light.

Passing the Union Trust Building, his attention was attracted by a slender figure, who, with self-consciously averted head, sought to hurry by him unseen. Joe caught the man’s shoulder and swung him around.

“Bristed!” he cried. “How are you!”

The other, held in Joe’s grip, showed his teeth painfully; scowled; turned red; said nothing. Joe saw that he would have liked to strike him, but was too civilized. Six or seven years older than me, thought Joe; but a child in my hands! One of those white-headed boys with rich blue eyes like a picture—and like a picture, with nothing behind it. But this pup had one merit; he had not yelped when he was held up by his tail.

“Come and have lunch with me,” said Joe.

“Thanks, I don’t care to,” said Bristed stiffly.

“What the hell!” said Joe. “That’s ancient history. . . . I was just thinking about you. Or rather, I was casting about in my mind for somebody like you. You lost out through me once; well, now you got a chance to make through me.”

“I’ve had quite enough of you,” said Bristed bitterly.

“Don’t be a fool. Come and have a good lunch with me at the Savarin. That commits you to nothing.”

Bristed’s blue eyes sought out Joe’s black ones. “You know I think you’re a scoundrel,” he said quietly.

Joe was not in the least put out. “That’s all right,” he said laughing. “Now you’ve put yourself on record, there’s no reason you shouldn’t take a lunch off me.”

“All right. I’ll come,” said Bristed.

They continued up the street together. Joe warmed on the outside by the overcoat; and inside, by the sense of well-being, discussed the morning’s news of the Street. Bristed said nothing. Joe, without ever looking at him, was aware how he was biting his lip, and darting painful and envious looks like adders’ tongues at Joe’s profile. Joe had that effect on young men. It stimulated him. This young man gave Joe no concern. A slack-twisted skein, he was thinking; I could sell him out twice over, and still he wouldn’t be able to stand out against me, if I wanted to use him again.

Once inside the expensive restaurant, Bristed began to lose something of his pinched air. This is like coming home to him, thought Joe. The _maître-d’hotel_ remembered him. “How do you do, Mr. Bristed. It is a long time since we have had the pleasure of seeing you.”

“Yes, I’ve been travelling,” said Bristed carelessly.

Joe rubbed his upper lip to hide a grin.

Joe ordered a choice little meal, and a bottle of Johannisberger. Bristed was impressed, but would not show it. Joe was becoming an adept in menu cards; and was prouder of this accomplishment than of his greatest coup on the Street. He himself, never over-ate; there were too many swollen paunches surrounding him down-town. He liked too well, the feeling of being twenty-three and on his toes. Besides, he went in for other pleasures.

When at last they lighted up their Eden perfectos, Joe said: “Gosh! when I was a brat in Sussex street, I never expected to be burning these!”

Bristed betrayed no interest in his reminiscences. “What do you want of me this time?” he asked bluntly.

“Keep your shirt on,” said Joe coolly. “This is not financial. I’m already making money faster than I can hire safety-deposit boxes.”

“What is it then?”

“I’m going into society.”

Bristed laughed unpleasantly.

Joe did not mind, because it was not assured laughter. Bristed knew quite well that Joe _could_ go into society if he wanted to. “There’s plenty of society already open to me,” Joe went on; “but I’ll have nothing short of the best. The real top-notch. I’ve got money enough already to support the position; and in a few years, if I live, I’ll be one of the big half dozen of this burg.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Bristed bitterly. “You’re marked for it. . . . Do you think I am able to help you get into society?”

“None better,” said Joe. “Your father, and his father before him were in the forefront.”

“Sure!” said Bristed. “My grandfather had the distinction of making money, and my father of spending it. But what have I got?”

“The family name,” suggested Joe.

“Sure! And an old house on Thirty-sixth street that we can’t afford to heat properly in the winter; and where my mother and sister do their own housework.”

“But the best society in New York is open to you, if you had the money to take your place in it. The old society. That’s what I have my eye on.”

“And where are we going to get the money?” asked Bristed.

“From me.”

“No! by God!” said Bristed. “We haven’t fallen as low as that!”

“Go ahead!” said Joe smiling. “Shoot off your fine sentiments, and then we’ll get down to business.”

Bristed became incoherent in his indignation. “What do you think I am? Do you think I’d lend my mother and sister to. . . . There are some things you don’t understand smart as you are. Ah! I’m not going to talk to you. . . !” He stood up.

“Sit down,” said Joe quietly. “You can always turn me down, you know. Only a fool turns down a proposition before he hears it.”

Bristed sat down looking rather like a fool.

“Now, briefly,” said Joe, “without any skyrockets or red fire, what is the objection?”

“Do you think we’re going to foist you off on our friends . . . ?”

“Easy!” said Joe. “There’s not going to be any foisting. You ought to know me. Wherever I go, I stand on my own bottom. I say to everybody: Eight years ago I was a dirty little ragamuffin on Sussex street. My father and mother made their living sewing on pants for a contractor. When I was hungry I stole things off the pushcarts to get me a meal.”

“It pays to tell that, eh?” sneered Bristed.

“You’re dead right, it pays,” said Joe. “The idea it suggests to the other person is: Look how far he’s risen! I never made any pretences. Don’t have to. That’s how I get along. People think it’s original. Everybody likes me except those who have lost money through me. If you could only see it, it’s your fine sentiments that keep you down. Bet your grandfather wasn’t troubled with them.

“Take this scheme that I propose—you wouldn’t exactly have to beat the drum for me, you know. I’m fairly notorious. The Boy Wonder of the Street. Folks high and low are curious to have a look at me. I’d be a social asset instead of a liability. I’ve noticed that family, blue blood and all that, don’t cut as much ice as they used to. Those people, having bored each other stiff, are now beginning to look around for a little outside entertainment . . . Of course I could climb up anyhow. But I don’t care to take the trouble to lay a regular campaign. Prefer to begin at the top . . . I like the girls up there,” he added grinning; “they’re so damned independent. Like me!”

“Damn you!” said Bristed under his breath.

“Keep the change!” said Joe cheerfully . . . “How much would it take to keep up your house in good style?”

“It’s not a big house,” muttered Bristed. “Ten thousand a year.”

“I’ll make it twelve thousand,” said Joe. “And what’s more, I’ll settle a good round sum on your mother in the beginning, so that when I no longer need you, she wont be left flat.”

“And what would we have to do, exactly, to earn it?” asked Bristed, sneering.

“Just have me to your house, and have your friends there to meet me. After that I stand or fall by my own efforts.”

“Everybody would know where the money came from.”

“And why the Deuce shouldn’t they know? That’s what people like you can’t see! Tell the truth about the whole affair. Tell everybody. Then they’d begin to respect you . . . There’d be a lot of benefits to you in addition to the twelve thou. If you and your folks took your rightful place, you’d have a chance to look around yourself, eh? and . . .”

“No thanks!” said Bristed violently.

“Oh, of course you wouldn’t sell yourself,” said Joe dryly. “But she might be a damn fine girl, though rich. It _has_ happened. I tell you straight, Bristed, it’s your only chance. You haven’t got the guts to make good in the rough and tumble of the Street. You’re too gentlemanly. Then there’s your sister . . .”

“By God . . . !” said Bristed with burning eyes.

“Keep your hair on,” said Joe coolly. “That is not a part of my plans.”

“Don’t you mean to marry?” sneered Bristed.

“If I do, I shall look higher,” said Joe, facing him down. “. . . However, I mean to thoroughly canvass the field first. I don’t want money of course. I mean to marry a girl of the very highest position who hasn’t got too much. But she’s got to be a regular top-notcher!”

“I won’t have anything to do with it!” said Bristed.

“Put it before your family,” said Joe, undisturbed. “You owe them that. Tell them the worst you know about me. If they want to look me over before committing themselves, all right. Then if they turn me down, why that’s all right, too. I can easy find somebody else.”

“Well, I’ll tell them,” said Bristed. “But I’ll advise them against it.”

“That’s all right, old man,” said Joe. “I have confidence in the ladies. They are always realists.”

VI

Wilfred was washing himself at the basin in his little dressing-room. He bit his lip to keep back the whistle that naturally issued at such a moment, because he had found that if he kept quiet in there, the girl in front would sometimes come into her dressing-room which adjoined. In the old house there had been a pantry running across between the two rooms, and this had been divided by the flimsiest of partitions. When he was on his side and she was on hers, it was almost as though he were in her company. She was a little brown girl, delicately rounded, with an innocent, gentle, provoking air, and a skin like peaches and cream. How delicious it was to picture her washing at her basin while he was washing at his!

Wilfred had never spoken to her. She had a husband. The pair of them excited a warm interest in Wilfred because they were so young. A mere boy and girl and they initiated so much further than he was! Once he had had a glimpse into their room as he passed the door. It was distressingly bare; nothing but a bed. Evidently one of these imprudent runaway matches. He, considering himself a prudent person, was charmed by imprudence in others. Yet Bella Billings the landlady, hinted that already things were not going well in the front room. The husband, a sulky-looking blond lad with an unwholesome complexion, was a telegrapher who worked all night, and slept in the daytime. Thus the little wife was thrown much into Bella’s company. A well-meaning creature, Bella, but rabid in her emotions; hardly the best advisor for a discontented girl wife.

Thus Wilfred’s thoughts as he held his head close to the water to avoid a noisy splashing. As he straightened up, groping for his towel, a murmur of voices from the front room reached his ears. It came from the direction of the bed. Wilfred became very still, and his heart beat faster. What did a boy-husband and a girl wife say to each other in bed?

No words reached his ears; but the sense of the murmuring was very clear; the girl beseeching, the lad’s surly voice denying.

Wilfred, blushing all over, retreated into his main room with the towel about his head. He was filled with a delighted astonishment. He had never guessed that the sort of girl a man aches for might in turn ask. He had supposed that such a one merely suffered a man to love her out of her kindness. The discovery that a woman might be both desirable and desiring seemed to change the color of life. He silently addressed the front room: “Oh, if you were mine!”

That was all. A day or two later, as Bella had foretold, the establishment in the front room suddenly broke up. The young telegrapher went off to take a job in the Southwest, while his wife returned to live with her mother in a Connecticut town. Wilfred did not forget her. In his dreams he invited her. The fact that she had been married lent her an added seductiveness. He led Bella on to talk of her. It transpired that they kept up a correspondence. Her name was Mildred.

* * * * *

Bella Billings was draping herself ungracefully in the doorway of Wilfred’s room. For reasons of propriety she would never come all the way in. His room, being on the ground floor, was convenient to stop at. She liked Wilfred, perhaps because he allowed her to talk as long as she pleased. Few of her lodgers would. Wilfred found her conversation no less tiresome than the others did, but kept himself up with the reminder that he was a literary man, and Bella undoubtedly a character. She talked with a wasteful expenditure of breath that left her gasping halfway through a sentence, but unsilenced; and a display of pale gums that slightly shocked Wilfred. It seemed to him that he had never seen anything so naked as Bella Billings’ gums.

She was an institution on the South side of Washington Square. Everybody had lodged with her one time or another. In addition to letting rooms unfurnished without service, she conducted a manufacturing business in a rear extension to her house. “Stella Shoulder-Brace Co.” the brass plate at the door announced; but “shoulderbrace” was a euphemism; what she made were various artificial contours for the female form. These objects were shaped on strange machines in the back premises like parts of iron women, polished. Bella—everybody south of Fourteenth street called her Bella behind her back—also painted Newfoundland dogs and cupids after Bouguereau in oils upon red velvet panels.

Her subject at the moment was pernicious anæmia from which she had been a sufferer. She was describing to Wilfred how her fingernails and toenails had dropped off. Wilfred had heard it before; but was rendered patient by a design of using Bella for his own ends. As soon as an opening presented itself, he said carelessly:

“Only six days to Christmas! What are you going to do to celebrate, Miss Billings?”

Deprived of the support of her discourse, Bella blinked uncertainly. “Well . . . I don’t know,” she said with a giggle. “I suppose I’ll do nothing as usual.”

“Everybody ought to have a big time, Christmas,” suggested Wilfred.

Bella took a fresh pose in the doorway. “I’ve kinda got out of the way of social life,” she said. “Being so devoted to my art, and all.”

“Why don’t you give a party?”

“Ohh!” said Bella breathlessly, “I don’t know people well enough to give a party.”

“You would before the party was over,” said Wilfred. “That’s what a party’s for.”

“I don’t know enough people to ask.”

“Small parties are the best. You know some girls.”

“Oh, there wouldn’t be any fun in a hen party.”

“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” said Wilfred; “let’s give a joint party during Christmas week, you and I. You ask the girls and I’ll bring the fellows.”

Bella’s eyes widened, and she uncovered the pale gums. Then she nodded until Wilfred thought her head must snap off. “All right!” she said panting. “But why bother about any more girls? I’d love to entertain your friends.”

“Oh, we must have enough girls,” said Wilfred quickly. “If there was only one, the fellows would get to quarrelling.”

“Will Stanny come?” she asked breathless and giggling.

“Sure!”

“He’s my favorite. He’s so wistful. I always wonder what he’s thinking about when he looks so wistful.”

“Maybe his corns hurt,” said Wilfred. This was the line to take with Bella.

“Oh, Mr. Pell, you’re so cynical! . . . Who else will you bring?”

“Just Stanny and Jasper; the others will be out of town.”

“I must ask the two boys from the top floor.”

“Oh, them!” said Wilfred. “How about the girls?”

“Well, there’s Hattie Putzel,” said Bella. “Her brother’s on’y a bootblack, but you would never know it from her. A real stylish girl. And there are the two Scotch lassies I met in the restaurant where I eat sometimes. Regular little ladies, they are. Name of McElderry.”

“That’s four, counting yourself,” said Wilfred, “against five fellows. Must have another girl.”

“Well, let me see . . .” said Bella.

He waited breathlessly.

“There’s that Maud Morrison who used to be my forelady in the shop . . .”

Wilfred was obliged to show his hand. “Do you think that Mildred would come?” he suggested offhand.

“Now that’s a good idea!” said Bella. “The poor little thing must be having a dull time living at home. A wife who is no wife! I might keep her here with me a couple of days Christmas. I’ll write to-night.”

Wilfred started to brush his coat, whistling softly. He was aware that he must be looking exceedingly self-conscious. Fortunately Bella was not perspicacious; her mind was busy with plans.

“I’ll get a gallon of Marsala wine from the Eyetalian in Thompson street. You and me can go halves on it. I’ll get the girls to bring sandwiches. Charley works for a commission merchant; he can bring apples . . .”

* * * * *

Wilfred, Stanny and Jasper, having dined at Ceccina’s, made their way across Washington Square. Stanny and Jasper were calm and anticipatory; Wilfred was tormented by an anxiety that he did not confide in his friends. Up to that morning Mildred had left Bella in doubt as to her coming. Wilfred had staked everything on her. Suppose she did not come? Cinders; ashes; dust!

They went into Wilfred’s room to leave their hats and brush their hair. From Bella’s room in the rear extension, came the sounds of a discreet little company. When they entered Wilfred could scarcely bear to raise his eyes to look. Ten people crowded the room to suffocation. Yes! and there she was, sitting in the farthest corner, her lashes sweeping her flower petal cheeks. A great wave of relief and laughter surged in Wilfred’s breast. What a joke that she should look so virginal! You darling! if you knew what I know about you! he thought. He could not meet her eyes.

It was a squeeze in Bella’s room which was crowded before anybody entered it; and at first an awful constraint settled upon them. No one said anything except the nervous Bella, whose occasional squalls of talk seemed to be lost in a vacuum. The girls just sat, looking aggravatingly refined; and the young men stood holding up the walls with their backs. Wilfred began to sweat gently; he felt responsible. Neither Jasper nor Stanny was disposed to help him out. Jasper squinted down his nose; and Stanny looked obstinately mournful. Wilfred blamed the two men from up-stairs. They didn’t belong. Charley was a lean and sprawling youth; Dave a dark and solid one. Boors, thought Wilfred.

Finally in desperation, Wilfred said: “Let’s go into my room. It’s bigger.”

The girls decorously shook out their skirts and prepared to follow.

Things began to go a little better. Wilfred had a bottle of cherry brandy that he circulated with trembling hands. There was but one liqueur glass to each two persons, and that helped to break the ice. The guests began to circulate and pair off. Hattie Putzel and Jasper found each other out. Hattie was a handsome, dark girl with a great deal of manner. It was impossible to believe that her brother was a bootblack. During the whole evening, Jasper kept his arm around Hattie’s waist without, so far as Wilfred could see, ever exchanging a word with her. However they seemed to understand each other. Stanny got one of the little Scotch girls, but Bella was continually organizing cutting-out expeditions.

Mildred sat by herself shy and demure. Wilfred, electrically conscious of her, had not yet dared to approach. Nevertheless there were mute exchanges. Wilfred was aware that her demureness was addressed to him. It seemed to be clear to everybody present that this was a case; and no other fellow tried to interfere.

When the cherry brandy was finished, the hospitable Bella produced her gigantic demijohn of Marsala. During the rest of the evening the demijohn never left the crook of her arm. “_La Vivandière_” Stanny dubbed her. Bella was wearing a dress made by herself of red flannel with black crescents printed on it. Half beside herself with giggling, panting excitement she was such a ludicrous figure as to make them all self-conscious. They scarcely liked to look at her. However, by degrees the party became animated and noisy; and Wilfred felt no further concern for the outcome. Wilfred and Mildred kept apart, glancing at each other with sidelong eyes.

Bye and bye Charley invited the crowd up to his room. As they swept up-stairs, Wilfred and Mildred came together at the tail of the procession. In the semi-darkness of the hall, out of sight of the others, Wilfred felt more confidence.

“Hello!” he whispered.

“Hello yourself,” she whispered back.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come to-night!”

“Bella told me you wanted me to come.”

“Funny we shouldn’t meet until after you had moved away.”

“I used to wonder about you.”

The darling! She had wondered about him!

She slipped her arm through his like a little girl, and Wilfred pressed it. Something broke loose in his breast. He roared up through the house: “Clear the track for we are coming!” And galloped up the stairs, dragging the laughing and protesting Mildred after. Only once or twice in his life had Wilfred found his whole voice like that.

On the last dark landing she pulled back a little. He got it. His eager arms went around her with a will. He crushed the slender delicious body against his own. Ah! what a moment! To close his arms about his dream, and find them full! To be assured that he was no sprite, but a man like other men! Their lips hungrily sought each other in the dark. Again and again! Never should he get enough! Oh woman! Oh mystery of delight! Oh terrifying feast to be halved with a hungry stranger!

They entered the lighted room carefully apart from each other; subdued and highly self-conscious. A roar of laughter greeted them. They blushed scarlet, but rather enjoyed it. Mildred made haste to lose herself amongst the girls. The dignified Stanny tempted Wilfred. Seizing his hands, Wilfred whirled him about like a dervish.

“Have you gone crazy?” said Stanny, affronted.

Stanny was not having a good time. He desired to shine in the eyes of the little Scotch girl, and that ridiculous, ogling Bella was making him look like a fool! In some sort of hand-holding game that they all played, Bella, pretending to be insulted, accused Stanny of having tickled her palm. Stanny’s sense of humor was not equal to it. Pure hatred glittered in his eyes, as he denied the charge. Wilfred will never forget the picture made by Bella in the red flannel dress, sitting in the middle of the floor with her toes sticking up, embracing the mighty demijohn, and coyly expressing a hope that no gentleman would take advantage of her condition. None did.

Hunger set them all cascading down the stairs. Supper was served in Bella’s shop at the rear, amidst the queer polished forms on which the “shoulderbraces” were made. A difference arose between Jasper and Charley, upon the latter’s expressing a desire to share the society of the aristocratic Hattie. For a moment a row threatened; but Wilfred had the happy idea of suggesting that they settle it by seeing which could first pitch an apple into a stove pipe hole near the ceiling. After sundry apples had been squashed against the wall, Jasper won.

Wilfred and Mildred, sitting a little apart from the others, ate largely, while they gazed at each other, no longer ashamed.

“Funny, how it makes you hungry,” said Wilfred, grinning.

“How what does?” asked Mildred, with an innocent air.

“Well . . . you know!”

Mildred giggled.

While Wilfred laughed with her, the sweetness of her struck through his body like a dagger. She exercised at once the charm of a child and of a woman. If she had been really grown-up, he would have been terrified of her, but she was a child at heart, and Wilfred was all right with children. At the same time, notwithstanding her dawn-freshness, she was a woman more experienced than himself. He did not have to remember to spare her.

Something set the crowd rampaging up the stairs again. Perhaps there were others who took advantage of the dark halls. Wilfred detained Mildred at the bottom.

“Let them go,” he whispered; “they’re so noisy. Let’s you and I go into my room where it’s quiet.”

“Oh, no!” said Mildred. “Not in there with you alone!”

“Oh,” said Wilfred, immediately cast down.

They hung unhappily at the bottom step.

“_Please_ come,” he begged.

“I will if you promise to be good.”

“I’ll be as good as I can.”

They ran into Wilfred’s room. He closed the door, and slid the bolt.

“Oh, you mustn’t do that!” cried Mildred.

He told himself that her words didn’t signify anything. He believed that her lips were hungry for his. Wine had turned them crimson. So he merely looked at her, and walked away from the door. She avoided his look. They drifted to the worn bearskin in front of the fire, and sat down upon it, not touching each other. Now that they were alone together, behind the bolted door, constraint afflicted them again. They stared into the fire. Wilfred had a sense that precious moments were being wasted.

Finally Mildred said primly: “You have a nice room.”

“Like it?” said Wilfred. “It’s nice to have your own place.”

“I came in here once with Bella, when you were out,” she confessed.

“Did you?” he said delighted.

“I wanted to see if there were any pictures of girls about.”

“What did you care?”

“Oh, girls are always curious about a boy like you. You never give yourself away.”

Delicious flattery! “Well, there are no pictures.”

“Oh, I expect you’ve got them put away.”

“No. I don’t know any girls.”

“Well all I can say is, you’re pretty cheeky for a beginner!”

Wilfred felt bold and masterful again. “That is because you sweep me off my feet,” he said. He leaned towards her, bringing his face very close to hers. How enchanting it was to remain like that, without actually touching her. What a strange, strong current passed into him from her!

“You have put a spell on me!” he faltered.

“Promise me to stay quite still for a minute,” she whispered.

“What for?”

“Just because I ask you to.”

“Well . . . I promise.”

She caught his face between her two hands. “I want to kiss you all by myself,” she murmured. “In my way.”

Wilfred closed his eyes. “I’ll try to endure it,” he whispered.

“Lots of times. . . . Lots of times!” she crooned. “Ah, you’re so sweet! You’re as sweet as a baby!”

Wilfred received this with mixed feelings. “I don’t want to be kissed like a baby . . . !”

Between kisses she giggled. “Well, I’m not! . . . I just said you were as sweet as a baby. . . . I’d like to kiss you a hundred times without stopping!” Moving her head from side to side that her lips brushed his, she whispered: “I’m so glad you’re new at this . . . !”

“Time’s up!” cried Wilfred, flinging his arms around her. Deprived of any prop, they toppled over on the rug. “You weren’t good!” he murmured accusingly. “You began it! That lets me out! What do you think a man is made of? . . . Oh, you darling . . . !”

“Oh, Wilfred, don’t!” she begged in a panic. “Please, _please_ darling Wilfred! You’re so much stronger than I! _Please_ let me up! Let me out of this room . . . !”

Gathering her up in his arms, Wilfred carried her to the couch.

Clinging to him, she continued to protest. “Please, _please_ Wilfred! Let me up . . . ! I demand that you open that door! . . . Oh, Wilfred, I’m so ashamed. I can’t bear to look at you . . . !”

“That’s easy fixed,” he said, laughing. He reached over their heads, and turned out the light.

* * * * *

In the small hours the three friends were making their way back across Washington Square arm in arm, Wilfred in the middle. Wilfred was too much excited to seek his bed; he had offered to see his two friends home. Jasper’s face wore a sleepy smile; but Stanny looked disgruntled. On this night he had had no luck.

Wilfred’s turgid feelings almost strangled utterance. “By God! but you fellows are dear to me!” he cried, pressing their arms against his ribs. “What would I do without you? I suppose I’m drunk. When I froth up like this I know I make a fool of myself. I don’t care. I’ve got to tell you how I feel. . . . I’ve been as miserable as hell lately. Well, that’s over. I’ve made a stage. . . . You think and think and get nowhere. No fixed point! Like a squirrel in a revolving cage! Like a nebula in the ether!—That’s damn good, you fellows. . . . Nebula in the ether! . . . For once I have forgotten myself! It’s astonishing. By letting everything go I caught hold of something solid. There is such a thing as joy! Oh, Heaven, it makes up for everything! There is beauty. . . . Oh my God! but life is good! I wouldn’t change with God to-night . . . !”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Stanny. “One would think you were the first male!”

So comic was this explosion of disgust, that Jasper and Wilfred stood still and roared with laughter. Stanny punched them, laughing, too. A tension was relieved. They continued skylarking on their way.

PART FOUR: LOVERS