Chapter II: Part 2

And green peas, sir; a salad, a sweet, and coffee, sir.

I think that will be all right, Harold replied, awkwardly fingering the Police Gazette.

Thank you, sir, and now will you have your bath?

Drains led the way into the white-tiled bathroom and helped Harold divest himself of his clothing. Water already poured from the faucets and the tub was nearly full. Plunged therein, Harold recalled the events of the day with some confusion, a vague alarm, and yet not altogether without pleasure. After all, his father had been kind: he had permitted him, even requested him, to live as he pleased for a year, and he had already met Alice. He wondered when he would see her again.... But this Paul Moody! Evidently a strange bird.

Ugh! Harold was blushing again. Drains was scrubbing his back.

Am I scrubbing too hard, sir?

N-n-no.

Now, step out on the mat, sir, and I will dry you.

Drains enveloped Harold in a vast towel, patting him a few times; then, taking the two ends of the towel, he walked a few feet away and began fanning the bather with the folds. To conclude the adventure he brought Harold a handsome silk dressing-gown with a figured Persian design, and a copy of the Evening Globe.

Would you prefer another paper, sir? I am not yet acquainted with your tastes.

It doesn’t matter. This will do.

Very good, sir. Now will you dress for dinner, or dine in your dressing-gown?

I think.... Did my father say?

Your father’s orders were that you were to do exactly as you pleased, sir.

Harold remembered.

I will stay as I am.

Very good, sir. Now, after I have telephoned Mr. Moody, I will prepare your dinner, sir.

Listening to Drains at the telephone in the bedroom, Harold had an inspiration.

Will you bring me the telephone-book, please, Oliver, he said, as the man hung up the receiver.

Certainly, sir.

Starting to thumb the edges nervously, he was aware that the man still stood before him.

Anything else, sir?

No, that’s all.

He watched Drains retreat into the kitchen, and then he boldly opened the book at B and began to look for Blake. There, beyond doubt, was the number: Beckford Blake, 56 East Thirty-seventh Street--Murray Hill 0007. Drains entered the dining-room. Pretending to lose all interest in the book, Harold waited until Drains returned to the kitchen. Finally, he mustered the courage to approach the telephone.

Murray Hill 0007, please, he whispered.

Asked to repeat the number, he looked around; Drains seemed very distant. He ventured to raise his voice slightly. This time the operator caught the number. There was a slight noise in the kitchen. Harold dropped the receiver and hastened back to his chair in the living-room, propping himself up behind the Globe. Presently Drains, on his way to market, slammed the front door. Harold returned to the telephone.

Which Miss Blake? queried a woman’s voice at the other end of the wire.

Miss Alice Blake.

Just a moment. I will see.

A short silence.

Yes, this is Miss Blake. Who is this?

Miss _Alice_ Blake?

Yes. Who is this?

Harold, Harold Prewett. You know, I took you home today.

Oh!

I wanted to know, I wanted to ask ... that is, I wanted to inquire if it was all right!

All right?

All right with your father.

Yes.

Well, I just wanted to know.

Yes.

Well--Harold vainly sought for words to continue--, well, good-bye.

Wait ... a minute. The voice was faint but desperate.

He waited, much too embarrassed to speak.

A long silence.

I wish.... Well....

Is somebody listening?

Yes.

You want me to ask questions?

Yes.

Overjoyed, his mind began to work faster.

Do you want me to go to court with you in the morning?

Yes.

Where shall I meet you?

Silence. Harold groaned. He was entirely unacquainted with New York.

Must I say?

The outside door slammed.

The same thing, Harold ejaculated, almost in a whisper.

What?

You know what you just told me?

Oh!

I’ll call you tomorrow.

No, you can’t do that! This was positive.

He racked his brain; suddenly a sky-rocket shot up and burst, painting Paul Moody’s address in fire against the sky.

Gramercy Park!

Yes.

Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.

Yes. Good-bye.

Good-bye.

Drains was in the kitchen. Had he heard? Harold wondered. He returned to his paper and apparently was buried in the stock reports, but a pair of violet eyes obtruded themselves between his vision and the print. His heart was beating violently. For the third time that day he wiped his temples with his handkerchief.

Drains entered, bearing a tray on which reposed a cocktail.

Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Try this, sir.

Must I? I do-do-don’t drink.

You don’t drink? Certainly, sir, you are not obliged to.

Drains appeared to be astonished and a little hurt.

Would my father ...? Harold began, and faltered.

Certainly not, sir. Your father demands nothing of you. Only he asked me to see that you had a good cellar.

But it’s against the law, protested Harold.

I think, sir, that your father hopes that you will break a few.

Drains was very solemn, but there was a maliciously ironic twinkle in his eyes.

Break the law!

Well, some of them. Everybody does.

I never have.... Then, impulsively, Let me taste it. He sipped the concoction in a gingerly manner. Ugh! It’s very bitter.

* * * * *

Drains made something of a ceremony of the dinner. It was served precisely as if there had been eleven guests present, at least one of whom was entitled to a crest on his stationery. There were little attentions. Is your chop too well done, sir? What kind of dressing do you prefer on your salad, sir? Do you drink black coffee, sir? Nevertheless, Harold did not eat much. He was conscious of a growing perturbation in his mind and a continued acceleration in the beating of his heart. When, at length, he had finished--and it had seemed a very long dinner--, he returned to his comfortable chair. He was through with the Globe. He picked up the Nation and read an editorial which seemed very radical to him. What was the world coming to? Anarchists and Socialists. Reds. Bolsheviki. The ex-soldiers seemed dissatisfied. Why didn’t they go to work in the cloak and suit business? No one else wanted to. There should be plenty of room for them there. He wasn’t sleepy, but he could think of nothing else to do but go to bed. Drains was in the kitchen. Harold retreated to the bedroom where he found a pair of silk pyjamas, striped in two shades of grey, with the name of an English firm embroidered on a label in the collar, lying on the bed. Drawing off his clothes, he donned them, and was just ready to retire when Drains came in. Drains was beaming.

Can I do anything more for you, sir, before I leave?

Leave?

For the night, sir. There is no place for me to sleep here. I shall be in very early in the morning. What time will you have your breakfast, sir?

Seven-thirty ... Harold hesitated. Would that be too early?

Not at all, sir. But Drains looked distinctly disapproving. Very good, sir, he added. Breakfast for two?

Two? Certainly not. Breakfast for one. Why two?

You will excuse me, sir, but I heard you telephoning to a young lady and I thought perhaps you had asked her to spend the night with you.

Harold almost fell out of bed.

I was not telephoning that kind of young lady!

I beg your pardon, sir.

Can one.... Is this that sort of house?

Your father owns this house, sir. You are at home.

Then ... he.... This was very difficult for Harold ... he wouldn’t object if I, if I.... He achieved the end in a rush and a gulp ... had women here?

Object, sir? Drains raised his eyebrows. Object? Certainly not.

The tone of Drains’s reply was profoundly lacking in doubt.

Would he then.... The horror of the idea almost stifled speech.... Would he then be willing?

I can vouch for that, sir. Drains’s tone was now both deferential and parental.

Is it ... Harold was sitting bolt upright in bed.... Is it what he wants?

I can only repeat my orders, sir. They are definite. You are to do anything you please. I have had considerable experience, sir, in observing young men do what they please. In London, sir--Drains drew himself up with considerable side--, I was in the employ of the Duke of Middlebottom. That is why your father engaged me.

Harold’s face was a blank.

I perceive, sir, that the name of the Duke of Middlebottom has no associations for you. The name is not unknown in London, sir, especially in certain circles. I left the Duke’s service, I may say, sir, for good reasons. I am not a snob; nor am I a puritan. I take great delight in the society of ladies, sir. I like to see a young man surround himself with attractive ladies. I enjoy arranging the pipes for the opium, sir, sterilizing the needles, and running for the doctor when a young lady has overdosed herself with vodka. It is very pleasant to serve breakfast for a numerous party that has forgotten to go home the night before, but I have my personal dignity, sir, and I left the Duke of Middlebottom.

Oliver, _why_ did you leave the Duke?

One of his young ladies wished to whip me, sir. The incident aroused the Duke. He forgot himself, sir. May I say good-night, sir?

Good-night, Oliver.

Harold fell back against the pillow, his aching head throbbing with horror. Not that he fully understood all that Drains had intended to imply. Needles baffled him, and pipes. Didn’t people _eat_ opium and wasn’t it a Chinese vice? Obviously, however, Drains had lived with a man of the lowest type, no matter how many points there were in his coronet. And this was the fellow his father had chosen to be his servant! A man who began by offering him cocktails and ended by asking if a young lady would share his breakfast in bed! What were his father’s intentions? What would Aunt Sadi think of all this? What would _Alice_ think? It was a long time before he felt calm enough to press the button at his side which extinguished the lights; it was very much longer before he was able to go to sleep.

* * * * *

At a quarter after eight the next morning, Harold stood before the Players’ Club in Gramercy Park. He was amazed to discover that the park itself was enclosed by a high iron fence, the gates of which were locked, although several people, principally nursemaids and their charges, were enjoying the warm June air under the trees within the enclosure. Presently, he observed an elderly lady open one of the gates with a great brass key. So, it appeared, he must encircle the iron fence until he found Alice. He walked on past the Players’, turning up the west side of the park; then east, and down the north side. He circled the fence, indeed, three times. As he was striding up the west side for the fourth time, he observed a furtive figure hurrying towards him from Lexington Avenue, a trim little figure in blue serge. He advanced rapidly to meet her.

I’ve had such a time! She was almost in tears again, but it must be admitted that tears were becoming to her.

Poor child.

I had to stand in the library near the door until the man arrived with the summons. Then, this morning I have no lessons and I am not supposed to go out. I asked papa if I might do some shopping, but there seemed to be no occasion for it, at least I was too nervous to think of any. Finally, I told him that I had a dreadful headache and must go for a walk.

Poor child! Harold unquestionably was sympathetic but he could think of nothing else to say.

We must hasten! The policeman told me to be in court at nine o’clock. We must find a taxi.

They walked towards Fourth Avenue and Harold hailed a passing cab.

But it isn’t a cherry cab.

It’s too late to be particular, Harold muttered as he helped her in.

I suppose so ... but papa says....

* * * * *

Ascending to the court-room at the Jefferson Market Police Court, they passed, on the stairs, a motley crowd of bondsmen, witnesses, shyster lawyers, friends of prostitutes, and hangers-on. Court, they noted, on entering, had already opened. A frowzy female was telling the judge how a neighbour’s child had stuck pins into her little girl. The little girl, according to the testimony of the defence, had begun the sticking. The judge, a slender, elderly man with a great beak like that of a parrot, on which was fastened a pince-nez, did not appear to be listening. He examined papers with one hand while, with the other, he ceaselessly tapped the desk with a silver paper-cutter. A row of dingy witnesses fidgeted on the front benches, waiting for the cases in which they were interested to be called. The clock ticked. Some one whispered. A clerk pounded for order. Case followed case. The heat was stifling and the odour unspeakable. It was nearly twelve o’clock before the driver of the truck, a burly Irishman, was called to the stand. The chauffeur of the taxi in which Alice had been driving began his story in so low a tone that Harold and Alice could not catch a single word. The judge never looked up. He continued to fuss with his papers and to tap the desk with his silver paper-cutter. The policeman was called before the bench and corroborated the testimony of the taxi-driver. He, too, spoke in a low monotone, but it was possible to hear a part of what he said: the truck-driver had turned to the left.

Miss Blake! called the clerk.

Alice, blushing furiously, rose, stumbled, tottered to the witness-stand. She could have felt no worse had she been on trial for murder. Her eyes were shut tight, and she held a handkerchief to her dry lips.

Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

I do.

Name?

Alice Blake, she scarcely whispered.

The judge looked up for the first time; nor, it should be noted, did he look down again.

Address?

56 East Thirty-seventh Street: this in a considerably lower tone.

What do you know about this case?

I was driving in the taxi-cab....

Go on, Miss Blake, put in the judge in a manner which was kindly but certainly not paternal. Tell us your story in your own way.

That man--she pointed to the Irishman--ran into my car.... He turned to the left.

The prisoner was sworn.

Your honour....

Don’t lie now! Tell the truth! The judge was stern. His eyes were on Alice.

Your honour, I.... Yer see, it wern’t my fault. There wern’t no signal at that corner.... I was turnin’....

To the left, interjected the lawyer for the taxi-driver.

Were you drunk?

No, your honour: with great indignation.

Was he drunk? This to the policeman.

I don’t think so, your honour.

I’m tired of these cases. You truck-drivers think you can run the streets. This little girl--he beamed through his pince-nez at the shrinking Miss Blake--has been thoroughly shaken up as a result of your wanton behaviour. I cannot have the little girls on the streets in danger of their lives on account of such men as you. I’m going to make an example of you. One hundred dollars or ten days in the work-house.

The judge smiled at Alice, and Alice began to cry.

The truck-driver stood before the bar. No, he couldn’t pay the fine.

Alice turned quickly to Harold.

Have you a hundred dollars?

I don’t ... I’ll see.

He looked in his pocket-book and to his great astonishment found nearly five hundred. Drains must have put it there while he was asleep.

Yes, I have.

Will you lend it to me?

I’ll pay the man’s fine.

No, this is my affair. If you will lend it to me, I will pay the fine. I can get the money.

Let me....

Please.... Alice began to cry again. Harold was certain he had never seen any one so adorable, never imagined that any one so adorable could come into his life. He pressed the money into her little hand, and she rushed to the bar, almost breathless.

I’ll pay his fine.

The judge glanced down the extensive length of his nose at her. He said nothing, but his face was more expressive than usual.

The clerk took the money.

The Irishman turned to Alice.

I couldn’t bear to think, she stammered, that you had been sentenced because I appeared against you. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to come. They made me. I had to tell the truth. You _will_ be more careful, won’t you?

Shure, mum. The Irishman scratched his red-thatched head.

The judge leaned over the bar.

Miss Blake, he began.

Alice looked up.

Won’t you come and sit beside me and listen to the other cases?

She declined with thanks.

Let’s get out of this horrid place, she adjured Harold.

You are adorable, he muttered, as they descended the stairs.

I couldn’t bear to think of that man going to jail. He may have children. I’d always feel it was my fault he was there. Oh! if papa hears about this!

I don’t think he will.

It might get into the newspapers.

The horror of this idea expanded. Harold was innocent enough to believe that it might, but he kept his opinion to himself.

It’s over now anyway, but if papa finds out!

Please, don’t cry again. I can’t bear it!

I won’t if I can help it.... She tried to straighten her lip. We must find another taxi.

Two taxis stood by the kerb but both were silver grey.

We _must_ find a cherry cab....

They walked towards Fifth Avenue. Several cabs passed them but all the cherry cabs were occupied. They always were, Alice explained drearily.

We may as well walk home, Alice conceded.

When may I see you again?

Of course, I must pay you the hundred dollars.

I’d forgotten all about that. I don’t want the money. I want to see you.

It is a debt. I’ll send it to you.... I don’t know your address.

Harold wrote it out on a card.

I want to see you, he pleaded. Won’t you write me that I may call?

Oh! no, no! She was positive. Papa would question me. He would want to know where I had met you.

What shall we do?

I don’t know. I can’t meet you again. I can’t invite you to the house.... Don’t think me ungrateful ... I simply can’t. And you mustn’t telephone me again. I was so afraid last night. Nobody heard ... but if they had!

Harold’s expression was rueful. I must see you, he urged. Don’t you want to see me?

You have been very kind to me.

I have done nothing I didn’t want to do. I....

Alice seemed to have an idea: Haven’t you any friends?

Friends?

Somebody I know, for instance.... Can’t we be introduced properly?

Harold shook his head. I don’t know anybody except--I don’t know anybody at all in New York.

Nobody! Alice’s tone was slightly one of alarm.

Nobody.

Oh! You mustn’t walk with me any farther. Somebody might see us. I can go home alone. I’ll send you the money. Good-bye.

Harold held out his hand, but Alice was gone, almost running, indeed, ahead of him up the Avenue.

_Chapter IV_

In a room, the walls of which were lined with pale-green taffeta, a man and a woman were sitting in the late June afternoon. It was a charming room with orange and gold lacquer screens, escritoires and tables of a severe Directoire pattern, needle-point chairs, and a chaste marble fireplace. Stalks of indigo larkspurs and salmon snapdragons emerged from tall crystal vases. A few books bound in gaily coloured boards lay on one of the tables, and the others were cluttered, hugger-mugger, with a variety of picturesque and valuable objects. A bright Manila shawl, embroidered in vermilion and lemon flowers, was thrown over the piano, and was held in place by a blue Canton china pitcher full of magenta roses. A copper bowl, heaped with ripe figs, stood on a console-table. Sanguines by Boucher and Fragonard, with indelicate subjects, hung on the walls. The broad windows looked down on Gramercy Park. This was the living-room of an apartment which included two small bedrooms, and an alcove, which served as a kitchen.

A young man in white flannels, a young man with curly golden hair and blue eyes and a profile that resembled somewhat Sherril Schell’s photograph of Rupert Brooke, a young man with slender, graceful hands which he was inclined to wave rather excessively in punctuation of his verbal effects, reclined on a divan upholstered with green taffeta, smoking a cigarette in a jade holder of a green so dark and so nearly translucent that it paraphrased emerald.

In one of the heavier and easier chairs sat a lady, with a face which, perhaps, you would not call beautiful, but which would assuredly awaken your interest. The forehead was almost entirely obscured by a wave of chestnut hair, bobbed at the back. The eyes were grey, the nose retroussé. She had a good artificial colour and her rather sensual lips were enamelled a vivid carmine. Her jaw was square but it was the square jaw of character, by no means detracting from her charm. She, too, wore white, a robe of Chinese brocaded crêpe, with a girdle of uncut chalcedony, into which she had inserted a cluster of scarlet geraniums. These flowers bloomed also on her small white French hat, a creation of Evelyne Varon.

Campaspe Lorillard was about thirty, intensely feminine, intensely feline, in the most seductive sense of the word. She was addicted to chain-smoking, that is she lighted one cigarette from the other as fast as it burned too near the end of her amethyst holder. She was regarding Paul Moody with some intensity and was obviously interested in what he was about to say.

Out with it! she commanded, and her voice, clear and soft and sympathetic, although it contained a suggestion of mockery, was not lacking in force or intention.

Yes, I must tell you.... He’ll be here in a few minutes, Paul groaned.

Campaspe remained silent, blowing delicate and wistful rings of smoke into the air.

Do you remember the poet who was too proud to die and who sent his servant out into the street to beg for him?... I had to do something; you will admit that?

Campaspe did not help him.

I couldn’t go on. Father won’t send me another dollar.

If you are going to give Mrs. Whittaker the honour of keeping you, tell me this instant, Campaspe interpolated.

It’s not quite as bad as that. It isn’t marriage.

I never had any such idea.

Oh! It isn’t that either!

Well, Paulet, what is it?

Campaspe regarded her sheer white stockings with some interest; her eyes followed on down to her trim shoes of white suède, which fastened across the ankles with a curious arrangement of straps with chalcedony buttons.

I may as well tell you.... An unintimate observer would have been puzzled to decide how much of Paul’s misery was feigned.... I’m going to become a tutor, ’paspe.

A tutor! She smiled. A tutor! A guide to fast life! How to smoke opium in three lessons?

Not so bad for a guess, Paul grinned. He began to feel more comfortable. You’ve more or less hit it.

Who wants to learn?

That’s the strange part. I answered an advertisement. It’s here somewhere....

He rose and fumbled about in an escritoire until he found the clipping.

What kind of jest is this? Campaspe’s interest was not on the wane.

That’s just what I thought. I went to see him ... an old man, in earnest. It’s his son, a milksop, I take it. I don’t know. I’ve never seen him. He’s coming in today. You’ve got to help.... Everybody’s got to help....

Teach him the vices?

I really don’t know. It’s all queer. The old fellow didn’t tell me much. He asked questions. He seemed particularly pleased when he learned that my wife had supported me. That appeared to settle the matter for him.

But Amy doesn’t any more. She even made a quite violent effort to get you to return the compliment.

He liked that too.... He seemed to like everything about me.

Swank!

Perhaps, but my new income begins today. I don’t have to do anything for it, so far as I can see, except introduce the--the--the offspring to my friends. The old gentleman stipulated, though, that I should never mention business. He doesn’t want ideas of that nature put into the boy’s head.

What is the name of this horrid old man?

Prewett, George Prewett.

We don’t know him, do we?

God, no! He belongs to one of the 1870-90 families, I should gather from the house. Stained-glass and wainscoting. I’m sure they give turkey dinners on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

And you don’t have to teach the boy anything definite?

No. Nothing was said about reading or study.... I rely on you, the old ’un said, to introduce my son to existence. I don’t know exactly where it is to be found, but you look as if you do. You know, at least, the things I want my son to know.... The old boy was abrupt and brusque, not at all hesitant or indecisive. He signed a cheque at our last interview yesterday morning and passed it over to me.

Paul removed a leather money-case from his coat-pocket, extracted a pink slip of paper therefrom, and handed it over to Campaspe.

As much as that! Are you feeding the boy?

No, he has his own money.

This is all?

Another cheque in a month.... Sooner, if I want it. There are no limits set to my rapacity. Oh! he’s rich!

Well, Paulet, you’re in luck again. You’re always lucky, she commented, rather pensively.

I don’t do anything about it: his answer was not uncomplacent.

Nothing unpleasant ever happens to you, she continued to muse aloud, or if it does, like Amy’s divorce, it serves to make something pleasant happen. Even when you were in Ludlow Street Jail you ate hot-house grapes and pickled walnuts and read Turgenieff. I sometimes regret that I didn’t marry you myself.

I wish you had.

God forbid! It’s better for us to be friends.

Alive to the cozenage, Paulet’s face assumed the rather silly but extremely sympathetic expression of a chow puppy having its belly massaged by a friendly hand.

I haven’t given you a cocktail, he remembered. Ki!

A diminutive Jap in a white linen uniform appeared from the alcove.

Make some of your best Bacardi cocktails.

Yessir.

Campaspe was thinking. When, exactly, do you expect him? she asked.

Harold? He telephoned, or a man named Drains, _his_ man, telephoned that he would come in this afternoon.

So he’s named Harold. Prewett--she rolled it over--, no, I don’t remember _that_.

The glass that held the cocktail was Venetian. Campaspe regarded its crumpled and gold-flecked convolutions before she began to sip the contents.

Ki makes good cocktails. I’m glad you’re not going to lose him, glad you’re not going to lose the green taffeta. Oh! I suppose you wouldn’t anyway. You are lucky, Paulet. Hundreds of people would give you a dime a week to keep you from going under. You are cheerful and amusing and decorative. I’m glad I didn’t marry you. No husband can be cheerful and amusing and decorative to his wife, and a man who is cheerful and amusing and decorative to the world, but who ceases to be so to his wife, soon loses his self-confidence, and fails to interest anybody.

Paul sipped his cocktail. The clock struck five. Ki opened the door for John Armstrong, a young stock-broker, who suggested something of the prize-fighter in his good-natured virility.

Hello, Mrs. Lorillard.... Hello, Paul. Drinks?

Just in time. Ki!

Surprised to find you in town, Mrs. Lorillard.

I’ve been away for two days. I scarcely ever go to the country, never for long. It’s dull and lonely and hot; a convention, this going to the country. New York is an ideal summer-resort. I like it better in the summer than I do in the winter. Only one detail I deplore: the straight streets. The cow-paths, the lanes, the byways, and the turnings exist only in quarters I never visit.

But don’t you go to Europe?

Europe! Why all this racing over Europe? I did the museums when I was seventeen. Paris is provincial, démodé. Nothing remains but the dressmakers, and they work only for American women. As for the people ... people are the same everywhere. If you have imagination, you don’t need to travel.

Hadn’t thought of it. Guess you’re right. I’ve got to stick. It’s a good idea to have reasons. I’ll use yours. May I?

I expect you to.

Paul, Campaspe noted, was beginning to look a trifle perturbed. He dreaded, she said to herself, the coming encounter, but Harold’s entrance proved a happy surprise for both of them. He was so young, so entirely adequate in appearance. Even with the ideas of an adolescent he would do, would pass. He did resemble a frightened dormouse, but he was very handsome. And Campaspe’s instinct told her at once that this boy was the opposite of Paul in everything.

Come over here and sit down, young man, she ordered, although in a kindly enough tone. Ki will give you a cocktail.

Harold said nothing this time about his previous temperate habits, but the size of the drink alarmed him. Ki was not penurious with alcohol.

After Harold had drunk half his cocktail, he even attempted a little sally.

You will pardon me for speaking of it, he said, but I am admiring your flowers. I never saw any one wear geraniums before. I didn’t know they were worn. They seem to belong in boxes outside windows, or in pots, or in parks, but they are just right on you.

’paspe always wears geraniums, said Paul, probably because Cupid doesn’t like them.

Cupid? queried Harold, more comfortable, a trifle bolder.

Mr. Lorillard. Madame’s husband. We always call him that. Cupid and my Campaspe played for kisses; Cupid paid, you know. He pays all right, but he doesn’t get the kisses.... Hello, Bunny.

Paul rose to greet the newcomer, Mr. Titus Hugg, a very short man, shorter even than Ki, inclined towards rotundity, but young and rosy and extremely affable.

I’ve been composing, Bunny remarked, a wonderful thing, and I was getting along splendidly until the telephone set me off by ringing in the identical key as that in which I was writing. I couldn’t think of another dissonance. I quit!

Noises usually inspire you, suggested Campaspe.

Always, until today. I wrote a queer, strange thing, created after a creaking door. The maid broke china. I used the crash. Even the sound of soapy suds, rubbed up and down, up and down, was good for a little piece.

What are you writing now, Bunny, a symphony? queried John Armstrong.

Mr. Titus Hugg looked at the stock-broker with disgust.

A symphony! Say, don’t you know this is the twentieth century? A symphony! Does your firm sell spinning-wheel stock? Music has got to be less tenuous; all this going on and going over is finished. Brevity, that’s what we want now. All the old stuff is too long. My new pieces are over in five or six bars, one of them in only two. Do you want to hear it?

I could stand two bars, John Armstrong replied.

Bunny disregarded the insult; Paul, Harold, and Campaspe all urged him to play. He sat down before the Steinway grand, looking portentous.

La pavane pour une Infante défunte, he read the title of the piece of music on the rack in front of him. One sees that everywhere now, just as in the eighties, I have been told, it was always La prière d’une vierge.

He did not make a tentative attack on the key-board, as is the bad habit of amateurs. Instead, he plunged at once into a conglomeration of harsh seconds. After a few raucous but brilliant wrestlings with the keys, he ceased.

What do you call it? Campaspe demanded.

Fourteenth Street. It’s part of my Manhattan Suite.

Play Fifteenth Street, suggested Harold.

I haven’t written all the streets, only twenty-five of them, and not consecutively.

Sheridan Square! was Paul’s idea.

Certainly not.... I’ll play you Sutton Place if you like.

Not that! cried Campaspe. We must have some reservations.

I’ll play you Albéniz’s Triana, said the intransigent musician, and he did play a few bars, but he broke off in the middle of one with the cry, J’en ai marre!

Play _that_!

J’en ai marre! J’en ai marre!

After a cocktail, Bunny was more complaisant.

I’ll play Columbus Circle.

Childs’ by moonlight?

The Maine Monument in the late afternoon?

The Columbus statue?

Well, judge for yourselves!

This time, with one finger, Bunny picked out a tune which wandered from the top to the bottom of the piano.

I can’t play the accompaniment to that melody until I get the right kind of piano. It’s not written for the tempered scale. I must have quarter and sixteenth tones. Moses played it for me on his violin.... You heard it, Paul.

Like a cat singing to the discoverer of America.... You saw him sailing on and you listened to the cat.

In spite of himself, Harold smiled.

Bunny played his Bowery Ballet in two bars.

I’m tired. He wheeled around. ’paspe, sing for us, one of those nice, old-fashioned songs your mother used to sing.

Do! Do! from John Armstrong and Paul. Even Harold caught the infection of their enthusiasm.

Fannie’s so adorable when she sings them, Campaspe said, as she went to the piano. She settled herself, preluded with a few bars, and then began:

Bedelia! Prends garde aux faux pas!
Bedelia! Ne tombe pas!
En France, on est connaisseur;
Va z-y donc sans avoir peur!
Soutiens l’honneur national--
Le cak’ walk sans égal,
Oh! Bedelia, elia, elia,
Tiens bien haut et ferme le drapeau
Des enfants de Chicago!

It’s lovely, cried Harold.

It is nice, Campaspe admitted. Time makes tunes classic.

She had a talent for singing popular airs, and the boys were delighted when she attacked another, broken by, harmonized and syncopated with, the shaking of cocktails.

A la Mâtiniqu’, Mâtiniqu’, Mâtiniqu’!
C’i ça qu’est chic!
C’i ça qu’est chic!
Pas d’veston, de col, de pantalon,
Simplement un tout pitit cal’çon.
Y’en a du plaisir, du plaisir, du plaisir,
Jamais malad’, jamais mourir;
On ôt le cal’çon pour diner l’soir,
Et tout le monde est en noir!

In spite of the French words they sound so American, was Harold’s comment.

They _are_ American, affirmed Campaspe, by Stephen Foster, or Edward MacDowell, or one of those dead composers. They are almost folksongs now, and what a quaint old-fashioned air they have, like the names of absinthe frappé, or sherry flip, or pousse café. You should hear Fannie sing them; she’s so young, so indecently young. You know my mother, don’t you, Bunny?

Never had the pleasure.

She looks younger than ’paspe, Paul explained. Always going to fortune-tellers. One told her last summer that she would fall in love at the age of thirty-two!

Dear Fannie, I’d like to see her again, Campaspe mused.

Where is your mother? asked Paul.

Fannie’s in Paris.

Have you read about the Siamese twins? John Armstrong interpolated.

What? from Bunny.

One of them died!

Oh! from Campaspe.

One of them had a son, put in Paul.

If the public were more imaginative, the newspapers could not print such things, commented Campaspe.

Ki brought in a trayful of cocktails.

Why do Japs always smile? asked John Armstrong, as Ki retired to his little kitchen.

It’s their mask, a perfect one, Campaspe replied. You never know what they are really thinking. I have a harder one. Why do Greek bootblacks always have such wonderful hair?

I suppose it’s the essential oils, Paul began.... And then, with a swift transition, Let’s go junketing; let’s go to Coney Island!

Just the thing, assented John Armstrong, and Bunny and Campaspe approved. Nobody asked Harold for his opinion of the projected excursion.

Have you got your car? Bunny demanded of Campaspe.

It should be outside.

Ki! Paul shouted.

Flurry and rush began, preparation for excitement and adventure, a swift appraisal of boxes of cigarettes. Ki poured whiskey and gin and rum into tube-containers enclosed in field-glass cases.

Hats! Hats! cried John Armstrong.

The little Jap ran about, smiling, executing commands, bearing hats, ridding the apartment of guests. They walked out into the bright sunglare of Gramercy Park. Inside the railing, a half-dozen children, watched by their nursemaids, were attempting to pretend to enjoy themselves in the little forest of shrubbery under the melancholy statue of Edwin Booth.

Have you heard about Amy? asked Paul.

Has Amy married again? Bunny queried.

That I don’t know, but she smoked a cigarette in Gramercy Park the other evening and the pious trustees have taken her key away from her.

Poor Amy! Campaspe mused aloud. She doesn’t understand how to enjoy her freedom. She doesn’t understand her world. She wants to live her own life, as she sees us live ours, and she doesn’t know how. She’s always having keys taken away from her. Everything will be locked to her soon.

Would you smoke a cigarette in Gramercy Park? asked Harold, as they stepped into the car.

Sit in front with the chauffeur, Harold, she directed. John, you and Paul sit with me. Bunny, take the strapontin.

They followed her instructions, and the Rolls-Royce swung out into the street and turned down Irving Place.

I wouldn’t want to: Campaspe at last found time to reply to Harold’s question. Amy is trying too hard to fight the world, to soften the world’s corners, instead of softening her own. In the end, of course, martyrdom is waiting for her. I have no respect for martyrs. Any one who is strong enough shapes the world to his own purposes, but he doesn’t do it roughly; he accomplishes his object in just the way that any woman you know gets anything she wants out of her husband ... by appearing to be in sympathy with those who oppose him. Conform externally with the world’s demands and you will get anything you desire in life. By a process of erosion you can dig a hole in two years through public opinion that it would take you two centuries to knock through. It is just as great a mistake to reject violently ideas that do not appeal to us. Rejection implies labour, interest, even fear. Indifference is the purer method. Indifference rids one of cause and effect simultaneously.... The world--she appeared to be in a kind of revery--is a very pleasant place for people who know how to live. We are the few. The rest are fools, and all we have to do to persuade the fools to permit us to live our own lives is to make them believe that we, too, are fools. It’s so simple, once you understand. But what does the martyr gain? He has lost the suffrage of public opinion and he has done nothing to advance his own cause, for unless he has made the world believe in it he cannot carry it through. Bah! she repeated, I have no respect for martyrs. Give me an intelligent hypocrite every time!

What an extraordinary woman! thought Harold, and it occurred to him that he was learning more from her than he was from Paul. It was she who was giving him his first lessons in worldliness and he did not sense anything tangible in the manner of these lessons which he could resent. He found himself less aggressive, less inclined to obstinacy, chip more off shoulder, and back more flexible, than he had found himself with Drains. Paul seemed decent enough, he admitted, but he did not feel quite natural with Paul, quite ready to relax in his presence. With Campaspe, on the other hand, he already seemed acquainted; she awakened his sympathy. Part of this readier acceptance was doubtless due to his early environment. He knew women and trusted them. In spite of his college years, perhaps because of them, he never felt quite comfortable with men.... He was left to himself. The four in the back of the car were conversing in an animated manner about matters with which he had no concern. There was, however, he perceived, no rudeness in connection with this exclusion. He did not have the feeling, which had come to him so many times at college, that he was being ignored. It was rather as though these people considered him already enough of a friend so that they might talk freely in his presence without making any mechanical attempt to draw him in. Presently, he discovered that the motor of a Rolls-Royce heats the feet mercilessly. He spoke of this to the chauffeur, who opened an aperture near Harold’s ankles, permitting a draught to blow across them.

There is something pathetic about the young, the suffering of a young man trying to adjust himself to circumstances which he does not understand. Harold presently began to miss the compassion assuredly due him, and his mood shifted. In spite of the friendly attitude of his companions, he began to pity himself, as he sat silent and alone on the little seat beside the driver of the Rolls-Royce, which was breaking all the speed laws, as it burst forward down the Long Island turnpike. Houses, farms, trees, Socony signs: a monotonous prospect. Harold, saddened a little, it is presumable, by Bacardi rum, thought of himself as helplessly immeshed in a kind of life which he certainly did not understand and which he felt sure he never could like. Helpless! From his earliest childhood he had been accustomed to accepting, unquestioningly, the arrangements others had made for him. He remembered how he had been brought up like a girl, with long curls which had not been clipped until he was nearly seven years old. He recalled, with shame, the day on which he had been permitted to discard his kilts for a boy’s proper apparel, and how at the time, he had been ashamed, rather, to make the change. He thought of his college days, one long struggle at hopeless compromise. He had not been a particularly good student, and the external activities of his fellow-students had proved utterly alien to his taste. How many times he had walked alone across the campus! How many nights he had remained alone in his room! His vacations were a repetition of his childhood: Aunt Sadi, _dear_ Aunt Sadi, he thought today, Persia Blaine, Miss Perkins; riding, swimming, reading, the quiet, easy security of farm life, safe but unrevealing.... That extraordinary interview with his father: whatever happened he could never forget that. Then Alice Blake, who reminded him of Persia Blaine and Aunt Sadi, and who was young and beautiful besides, had passed his way, had been swept from his vision, and nothing remained but this new life, this incomprehensible and silly life, compounded of cocktails and chatter and music, which in its dissonances sounded almost obscene to him. In spite of Campaspe, he felt that he would never be able to cope with it. Why didn’t he break away and find himself? That seemed to be the most impossible procedure of all.

At last the towers and minarets and wheels and scenic railways of Coney Island came into view in the sonorous light; then, the wide strip of ocean, the beach strewn with refuse and bathers, fat Jewesses, and flashy young clerks from Broadway shops. There was a curious confusion of artificial and natural odours: the fishy, salty smell of the sea; the aroma of cooking-food, steaming clams, sausages, frying pork. A mechanical piano wailed out Say it with music a quarter tone off key. Barkers everywhere: Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to present this afternoon this little lady here on my right, the Princess Sesame, considered by many to be the GREATEST LIVING EXPONENT of oriental harem dancing. The little lady will perform for you here this afternoon, INSIDE THIS TENT, a feat hitherto unattempted by any of the world’s great terpsichorean marvels, NAMELY, the Sicilian shimmy dagger dance!... Balloons, captive and toy, elongated and round, purple, green, and red. Ferris wheels, airplane swings, merry-go-rounds, tinsel and marabou, hula dolls, trap-drummers, giant coasters, gyroplanes, dodge ’ems, maelstroms, frolics, wonderlands, poses plastiques, pig slides, barbecues, captive aeros, witching waves, whirlpools, whips, chute the chutes, Venetian canals, fun houses, targets, shooting galleries, popcorn, cracker-jack, pretzels, soft drinks, eskimo pies, ice-cream cones: all the delights of the greatest of American amusement parks.

Campaspe clapped her hands. It’s superb! she cried. Just what I imagined. I’ll never have to see anything again. It’s all of life and most of death: sordid splendour with a touch of immortality and middle-class ecstasy. This is Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and Thomas Hardy, and Max Beerbohm, and Bret Harte, and even James Joyce. It’s a parable; it’s an allegory; it’s the pagan idea of heaven, and the Christian conception of hell. It burns and it freezes. It is clamour and it is silence. It is both home and the house of prostitution. It is what you want and what you want to escape. It is--she turned to Harold--complete experience. It is your education.

Harold was dazzled by her enthusiasm, but he certainly had no idea what she was talking about.

What shall we do first? asked Paul, rather languidly. They had descended from the motor and were walking along the beach.

I’m hungry, struck up Bunny.

Get Bunny a hot dog, suggested John Armstrong.

I could eat a smoked Pom, was Bunny’s riposte.

Presently, they were all munching sausages laid in between two strips of bun, larded with mustard.

Buy me a balloon and a kewpie, John, cried the ravished Campaspe. Can you find me a geranium balloon?... No, they’re all off-colour. I’ll take a blue one. Harold, come here! Stay with me and you’ll enjoy yourself. John, the other side for you. I find you charming, John. There’s something so fresh and wholesome about you Wall Street men after a week-end in the country. The country is so perverse, nothing normal about it at all. The boy who took care of the cows had jaundice.

You’re a duck, Cam--Mrs. Lorillard, John laughed. Let’s do a scenic railway in the same seat.

Game! This long one. She pointed to a great structure, waving up and down cross country on incredibly tall stilts. They entered the gateway and booked places. As they swung and pitched down the headlong descents, she grasped him first by the arms, then round the shoulders, leaning against him, and, while he was only mildly thrilled by the motion--he had been an ace in the army--, her magnetic propinquity proved more unsettling. At the end of the ride, she removed the withered geraniums from her belt and tossed them away.

I’ll get you some more: Harold was beside her again.

No more flowers today, she announced decisively, but thank you, Harold.... She turned to John: With you next to me, I’d like to do that over.

Game! he echoed her earlier refrain.

She laughed. We’ll try another sport.

They stood before a small, brightly decorated wooden structure, in front of which, stretched on ropes, a dozen rudely painted banners informed passers-by of the nature of the attractions to be viewed within. It was a sideshow, a congress of freaks, an assemblage of strange people. There were, the posters promised, a sword-swallower, a tattooed lady, giants and pigmies, a three-legged man, a bearded gentlewoman, a man with an iron tongue, a fellow with a revolving head, a wild man of Borneo, an armless man; in short, an auspicious miscellany. The barker, standing on a low platform, was functioning, waving his hands and shouting to the curious crowd which had assembled.

Within, he declared, we have the greatest collection of abnormal human beings ever exhibited together under one roof. Where else can you see the little lady only two feet high, who is ninety years of age? Where else can you gaze upon a death-defying demon who eats sharp knives and thrives on fire? He swallows the burning flames as you and I swallow our bread and meat. His throat is the wonder of science. See the Rrrrrrrrussian cossack who carries thousands of pounds in weights on a hook passed through his tongue! The man with the iron tongue! See the little lady with her snakes. This little lady, a picture of female beauty, is only sixteen years old, and yet she wraps a forty-pound boa constrictor around her waist and defies him to crrrrrush her. The most terrifying spectacle you can observe on the entire island.

That settles it, exclaimed Campaspe. I adore snakes, and so they passed the entrance. A few others followed them in, but the greater part of the crowd lingered outside to stare at the huge, crudely painted banners, and to listen to the gifted barker.

Inside, a series of platforms circled the small room, and on these platforms were ranged the strange people, the midgets, the tall men, the sword-swallowers, and ladies bearded and tattooed. Some of them looked merely bored, but most of them wore a superior expression of conscious pride, considering themselves, indubitably, of some importance in the world, contemptuous of that part of the public which did not share their peculiar perfections. Their costumes ran to red and blue and gold and pink, tricked out with tinsel and machine-made lace. All were retailing photographs of their strange selves, and a few sold booklets. Occasionally, these favoured folk conversed with one another, spoke a few words, casual and solemn at best, for it could be seen that they had nothing of importance to say to one another or to the world, nothing, save: Here I am; look at me; I am a brilliant exception on this sphere where you are conspicuously and defectively normal. You have only two legs, the three-legged man seemed to assert sneeringly, while the lady with The Last Supper tattooed on her back and Rock of Ages on her belly was obviously a trifle impatient with such women as were forced to wear mere clothes by way of decorating their bodies.

Campaspe noted these impressions, while the barker was introducing the little ladies and the wild men. Now he stood before a platform on which was seated a girl who immediately drew the attention of Campaspe’s group. She was assuredly an exception, a special jewel. She had the delicate features of a beauty from the Caucasus or an aristocratic Levantine Jewess. Her fragile nose, her exquisitely formed lips, her high cheek-bones had been modelled by an artist. She was a girl, evidently, for whom God had determined to do his best. Short and slender, her body was rhythmic and full of grace. Her head was set above her shoulders in a piquant, bird-like way, while a mass of fluffy brown hair surrounded her pale face and her great green eyes with a delicious shadow. She wore a costume of spangled crimson, cut off at the knees, with a low neck and no sleeves, and on her head a skull-cap fashioned entirely of purple sequins, and surmounted by a feather almost as tall as herself. Her stockings were the colour of the blue-jay’s feathers.

What a lovely creature! cried Campaspe.

She’s beautiful, said Paul.

Even Harold regarded the girl with curiosity, as she stood up to go through with her act without any of the abandon of the other performers. Ill at ease in her costume and out of place in the show, still it could be seen that she was lacking in self-consciousness. There was no rouge on her face, no paint on her lips.

This little lady to the right, announced the barker, is the bravest little lady in the show. Only sixteen years of age, she handles the fiercest and most dangerous rrreptiles with the carelessness of a farmhand petting a tame calf. She has visited the jungle and brought back with her vipers with fangs so deadly that one dart would kill a buffalo, boa constrictors who could fold a full-grown African lion in their coils and crrrush him to death, the deadly poisonous Indian cobra, more dreaded by the natives than the man-eating tiger! And to make her act more dangerous, it is our custom to feed these venomous reptiles only once a month. They are hungry now. They have not been fed for three weeks. Show the ladies and gentlemen what you can do, Zimbule.