Chapter VI: Part 6

“My name is Stevens,” he said. “Carol Stevens.” Rio pulled his hand away but Carol continued. “I know why you boys look like sailors.” He glanced at Martin, then back at Rio. “You both do, you know. You get so nice and tan. My goodness!—but you travel so! It’s simply romantic, isn’t it, Deane?” he added, still staring at Rio.

“Yes,” Deane answered, preoccupied, her hand to her hair. “It is romantic, Carol.” She turned to Drew who was standing patiently by his chair, a rather vacant expression on his face.

Rio looked at the immaculate, slender fellow sourly when he was introduced. Drew, however, gestured in mild acknowledgment, maintaining his appearance of abstraction. Then deliberately he stepped forward and reached for a short, thick cigarette on the small end-table where Rio, partly leaning, had placed his hand. The cigarette glowed unnaturally as Drew touched a match to it, and he looked straight into the eyes of the sailor which were now even with his own. Then, as the two men stood there face to face, Drew’s lips parted slightly and the smoke curled in a heavy roll from his mouth. When the dense vapor disappeared, he smiled unevenly, and with eyes lowered, returned to his chair where he leaned upon it gracefully, one slim hand upon its back.

Martin watched the fantastic play in a stolid, philosophic mood, coldly regarding Rio’s frightened look.

Deane became uneasy.... “What was Drew’s secret action that had accomplished such an unthinkable expression upon Rio’s face. Was it,” she reminded herself, “the smoke?—or Drew’s protective anger based on his uncanny knowledge of her own affair beyond the door?—or was his melancholy fury a safekeeping just for Martin!”

Roberts had begun to cough violently. With each paroxysm he held a handkerchief closely to his lips. Deane went to him but he waved at her with petulance.

“I’m all right,” he answered in reply to her question of concern. “It’s this strangulation! Damn such an affair!” he said irritably and sat down. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to,” he added, and immediately went off into another seizure of coughing. The others stood around him anxiously, not knowing what to do.

“Oh, please sit down,” said Deane, throwing herself on the divan and waving her pretty arms in little, indecisive movements.

Rio and Carol obeyed her, but Martin hurried into the kitchen and Drew, still pensive, continued to lean upon the back of his chair, watching Roberts as though but vaguely aware of his predicament. Martin returned with a glass of water and putting his arm around the adviser’s shoulders, held the glass to his lips, trying to get him to swallow between spasms. Gradually the spell quieted and Roberts looked up at his friend. Then he took the glass from the other’s hand and gulped the rest of the water.

“I’d like another,” he said, wiping his eyes.

Martin nodded, took the glass and returned to the kitchen. When he came back Roberts accepted the drink more slowly.

“Will you please hold your arm the way it supported me before?” he asked, looking again at Martin, this time with a rather contemptuous smile.

Martin put his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window, his eyes the color of the gray, low-sweeping clouds.

The adviser watched him for a moment, then put down the tumbler of water almost untouched. With a half suspicious expression he now looked around at the others.

“No,” he said distinctly, “I’m not afflicted. And Drew, this isn’t hysteria, so stop thinking of that.”

“I know,” agreed Drew, nodding his head.

“Let me make some tea,” suggested Deane, as spiritedly as she could.

For a moment the adviser was gentle.

“No, Deane,” he said. “You shouldn’t bother. You see,” he smiled somewhat wanly, “everything is stimulated enough.”

“Of course,” said Drew. “It’s getting too late anyway.”

Across from them, Carol’s head seemed to pivot around the side of his chair like the brass plate of a revolving door.

“Of course, dear,” he repeated. “It’s getting too late.” Then with a slithering movement, his head spun slowly round again and he could be heard faintly whispering, “It will soon be cocktail time ... cocktail time.”

Roberts shuddered.

“That should settle it,” said Martin. He lit a cigarette and looked at Rio. “But it won’t. Do you have anything to add about tea, sailor?”

“No, by heaven!” exclaimed Rio. “What I have to say ain’t about tea. Of all the people and talk I ever seen—” He had started to rise when Deane stopped him.

“Tell us about your trip, Rio,” she said. “Where did you go?”

He hesitated, but finally sat down on the edge of his chair, looking sullen.

“A little banana town. In South America,” he answered at last.

“Santa de Marina?” asked Martin, looking interested.

“Yeah,” said Rio.

Martin turned to the others and spoke proudly.

“Rio took his own ship into that harbor once.”

“So Rio was a master!” observed Roberts. Then, staring at the floor, he said with a cruel abstractness, “Yes, the sea is relentless. Many derelicts seek my aid on land when they find deep water too deep.”

“That’s true,” declared Martin instantly. “And many landlubbers are drowned because _they_ can’t step a mudpuddle. But they are not even derelicts. They’re just old bags. Of course,” he said, turning round, “you’re a derelict, Rio. But Mr. Roberts wasn’t thinking of you. I’m sure of that.”

Rio was watching Roberts with such dreadful intensity that when Martin finished, the adviser’s head snapped back like that of a toy.

Carol shifted about in his chair and stretched his legs. He felt the confused streams in the room, and it made him restless.

“That’s right,” said Rio, still watching Roberts intently. “He didn’t mean me. Once he made a mistake and I saved him from a derelict. Maybe the fellow let him go just so he could try it again some time. That thing you said about the mudpuddle is right, too, Martin. I’d think Mr. Roberts would be afraid. But he ain’t, Martin.”

Roberts did not hear all of this. He remembered those bitter eyes and hands too clearly.

Carol broke in.

“I wish I could talk like _you_ talk,” he said, addressing Martin. “I think you have the most—well, the most _exciting_ things to say.” His face was pink and moist.

Rio grinned wickedly.

“He’s an exciting man, Carol. That’s why he says exciting things,” he declared, emphasizing his words with a sly nod of approval.

Roberts looked distastefully about him. “My God! This!—all over again!” he thought.

But Carol continued, beaming, “I knew a boy in Chicago that was almost the same way as you, Martin. Every one of us boys said it must have been a trick. He could just turn everything into the best time. And my!—he was handsome! I think he was a bouncer at some cafe. And strong—Oooooh!” Carol adjusted his yellow tie and his eyelids fluttered.

Martin felt increasing annoyance at Rio’s persistent grin.

Still Carol went on blindly. “I’d like to work the way you do, Martin, and get oil and things on me from those machines. And that linotype you operate!” he continued. “I’d just _love_ that!” He put his hands flat on his trousers. “Imagine,” he said, turning to Deane at last, “having one of those big things to play with!”

Rio laughed openly, and Roberts turned away in disgust; but Martin said, “That’s right, Carol. We’ll have a talk one day, all by ourselves.” He went over to Rio. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say anything. But he cursed him with his eyes, and with a vagrant motion of his lips.

“What is it?” Rio asked him.

Martin replied coldly, “You’re a fundamentalist. I can tell it from the expression on your face.” Then he went to the door. Before he closed it behind him he looked back. “It’s taken me nearly thirty years to get this picture,” he said, and he was gone.

Rio stared at the door where Martin had left.

“There goes a clever lad,” he said. “He knows us well.” He turned to Roberts and glared at him. “He knows you well, indeed. I’d hate to be you. I can see the black days. And,” he added, laughing, “he knows me, all right—but, he don’t know himself. He’ll whip himself to death.” At the word “whip,” Rio had hesitated. Although the room was cool, he started sweating. Without even saying good-by to Deane, he put on his cap, quickly went outside and slammed the door so hard that the floor shook.

“Thank heaven,” said Roberts quietly. “Humanity is maintained—the anthropoids have gone—civilization stands. Let them yell into space and beat their knuckles on drums made of their own skins. But pray God, they yell in the forest and not here. Thank heaven for Society!—even if it is covered by a fool’s cap,” he continued, watching Carol. Turning his eyes to the ceiling and then to Deane, he added incoherently, “We have been shown our destiny. Our portraits, painted by savages, hang on Olympus.... I hope, Deane, that you are not disturbed by the painting, or,” he said, bowing, “by your destiny.” He breathed deeply, painfully. His shoulders were bowed, his face whiter. “You must excuse me,” he said. He walked to the door, opened it, walked out and closed it gently.

Drew also went to Deane and spoke so that Carol could not hear.

“A strange afternoon, little sister,” he said, bending over her affectionately. Then he turned around. “I’m holding a drag to-morrow night, Carol. I’d like to have you come.”

Carol’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh, Drew, I’d love it! To think!—I can come in drag!”

Drew restrained an impulse to pet the boy who was regarding him delightedly, as in some glorious enchantment.

“There is a sort of radiance about him,” he thought, half smiling at himself for thinking it. But as he left, Drew took Deane’s hand once more. “Don’t see Roberts until I talk with you,” he whispered. Deane nodded her head and Drew went into the hall.

Carol twisted his cigarette holder, put in a cigarette and lit it grandly.

“Isn’t he sweet?” he said. “Martin’s sweeter, though.... But the others!” he added with disdain. “Of course, you have your own life, Deane, so I won’t ask you why you tolerate such people about.” He sighed gratefully. “But isn’t it nice, dear, to be alone? I never could stand vulgarness. I’m really quite surprised at Mr. Roberts to let himself be upset by—” Carol thought hard, but couldn’t quite understand what he was talking about. He smiled gently though, and continued, “—to be upset by—well—just everything.” He leaned back against his chair and put his feet up on another. That was well said. He could tell from the way Deane looked that it had affected her.

Deane regarded the smiling, piggish face.

“Sometimes, Carol,” she said, thoughtfully, “I don’t understand, either.”

The night became darker and the lamps inside softened Carol’s features. Deane tried to rest. It was good to be away from men for awhile. Even Drew was difficult at times. She unfastened one of her stockings. Carol smoked and smiled and nodded his head at the wall. This was as it should be.

Suddenly, to Deane, came the sickening realization that both Carol and herself were thinking of the same man.

_CHAPTER XVI_

After the maids had cleaned the apartment and had left, Drew went to the dressing room, removed his white shirt and collar, handed them to a small Chinese boy and seated himself before the vanity, observing the strain on his features which had come so suddenly.

“Your father was a wise man, little Tai,” he said to the child. “Place your hand on my shoulder. Do you find it hot?”

The child bowed and went to Drew, acting as he had been bidden. He avoided Drew’s eyes in the mirror and his voice trembled.

“Yes, Master,” he said, but he could not keep back his tears; so cupping his tiny hand, the little, hot gems were caught before they fell upon Drew’s head, which now rested upon the edge of the vanity.

“We will go away very soon, Tai,” Drew said at last.

The Chinese boy did not answer, still fearful of betraying his emotion; but for an instant he hovered over Drew with the same patient love of his own distant gods.

“Master,” he whispered finally, “I have some secret petals from my father. He told—he told me—” Little Tai burst into open tears and kneeling, placed his head upon the floor.

Drew turned around in surprise and seeing the lad prostrated before him, bent his own shoulders lower, the Orient in his eyes. Then, scorning in his tenderness all laws of blood and caste, he picked up the boy and laid him upon the ottoman. Still weeping, Tai lay in a tiny curl, his golden tunic tight against his back. Drew quickly knelt down and whispered to him.

“Were the petals for my bath, little one?” he asked.

“Yes,” sobbed the child.

“Tai,” said Drew gently, his soft fingers brushing the tears away, “they were given to you for a time when I should be very sick. Is that not so?”

“It is so, Master,” whispered the child. He sat up with a cat-like movement. “I have a little golden whip, Master. Will you strike me?”

Drew looked at him strangely. Rio had mentioned that word in a curious fashion only the day before. Could it be that by coincidence?—Drew stopped the course of his reflections and arose. The symbol of the whip was ridiculous!

“Bring me the scourge!” he said.

Tai ran to a wall-cabinet, and from the vase which held his father’s ashes he pulled, coil by coil, a gilded whip and handed it to Drew who took it by its handle looking with intensity at the cruel barbs at the end, and wondering if they were poisonous.

“I shall not beat you, Tai,” he said finally. He looked now at the handle and thong which held his wrist. “Tai,” he said, “are the petals a secret, really?”

“Yes, Master,” said the boy, smiling shyly.

Drew held out his delicate fingers.

Blushing, and timidly approaching, Tai bowed over his master’s hand; and in his moment of adoration murmured a little prayer his mother had taught him. Then taking a small, scented package from the breast of his tunic, he ran toward the bathroom, turning once in the doorway to bow his devotion.

When he had gone, Drew replaced the whip and laid his arms across his face. And as he heard the sound of small feet on the tile and the water running for his bath, he looked again into the vanity and cried out in a high, soft voice an unintelligible name....

* * * * *

Tai twisted a white satin robe about Drew’s slender form as Floyd, the hairdresser, was announced.

“Is everything in readiness for Madame’s coiffure?” asked the expert, mincing forward.

“Yes, Florabelle,” said Drew, standing once more before the vanity.

Tai withdrew with backward steps.

“Florabelle” took a small silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently dusted the bench upon which he suggested that “Madame” rest her slender form. With much bowing and curtsying, Floyd was now ready to proceed with his masterful art of transforming this man into a charming hostess.

The beautician was slight, with tiny features. Although he was well on in years, he looked no more than fifty. “A half century plant,” he had once called himself. He wore his hair long and dyed it periodically, according to the fashion. On his feet were patent leather pumps of shining black, with medium heels. With his frock coat of gray he wore dark trousers. While engaged in his profession, he affected a long white smock with a lavender lace handkerchief in the pocket over his heart. His cheeks, having been recently paraffined, were now symmetrical and would remain that way for weeks to come, when their contour would again have to be remodeled.

He fingered Drew’s hair, combing it straight back from the head. The short locks fell gracefully between his fingers as they discussed the different styles—dismissing this, then that one until the matter was decided. Then quickly Floyd began his craft.

“Madame,” he said, “as a privileged acquaintance of long standing, do I know any of your guests of this evening?”

“Yes, Florabelle,” said Drew, in a soft and gracious tone. “You recall Beulah. She has been suffering lately with acute indigestion and general complications. But she’s coming.”

“My _dear_ Madame!” The artist raised his eyes to the ceiling. “_That_ one! _She_ should have retired from society years ago! She is very well fixed financially, you know, but oh!—she is so tight! I’ll wager she’s home now dressing her own hair! Imagine! The ends will all be burned, and there’ll probably be some burns on her neck. It simply makes me shiver! And she’ll wait until she gets here to-night to use _your_ powder! It’s not that I care—but I could transform her into a beautiful person. Her taste is vile—simply vile! And dearie, with _that_ face!—I’d have to work for hours and hours! As I’ve said before, I don’t care what she does, but she _could_ be made ravishing!”

Florabelle’s dainty white fingers had been busy at work—shampooing and rinsing—and were now in the act of combing the hair and turning the soft ends under.

“What gown has Madame selected to enhance her singular beauty, if I may ask?” questioned the little hairdresser.

“White velvet, ’Belle. I feel nostalgic this evening,” answered Drew.

“Ah!” cried Florabelle in delight. “Then indeed I have a gorgeous surprise for you! I have an amazing lotion, greaseless, odorless, which tints the hair an incredibly lovely white. I used it on Monsieur—” he bent down and whispered a name into Drew’s ear. “She insisted upon it. Madame was _very gay_ that evening. It was the first time I had tried the preparation on any of my exclusive clientele. Madame was wearing a short velvet jacquette of green over her white velvet gown; and she wore green rouge on her cheeks and lips in the current Parisian fashion. Dearie,” the hairdresser put one finger to his lips and took a step backward, “would you like to be the first to use these tints in America?”

“I should love white hair with the dress,” said Drew thoughtfully. “But not the green. I prefer to wear a small jacquette of black velvet lined with red. Make my lips the same shade as the lining.”

“Oh!” cried Florabelle. “You shall be a dream!” And he set to work.

Drew sat quietly, continually admiring himself in the mirror—an occasional turn of the lip or a raised eyebrow showing approval—amazed with each glance at the artistry of the man who was transforming him.

Florabelle talked incessantly, constantly gesturing until Madame’s coiffure was finished.

“Ah, Drewena!” now cried the little hairdresser. “You are complete—so perfect!” he exclaimed delightedly, finishing off with a touch of perfume upon the eyebrows and behind the lobes of Drew’s ears.

* * * * *

Drewena walked slowly through the drawing room and critically observed the fold of the draperies. It was just before twilight and through a high, oval window crested with stained glass, she idly watched the towers below her. There were tears in her eyes. The light became softer, barely touching now the throats of the doves which nested in the eaveless pinnacles, subduing the irregular flash against their wings. Their silent, ever-changing motion somehow caused her to think of Martin; and the recollection of the mannerisms of her friend—that isolate, strange night in the cocktail lounge—his actions there, sometimes gentle, but more times cruel, made Drewena close her eyes. Why these tears?—like those of a younger passion—full of the same anxiety, the same dull anger at enslavement and desire to escape! She looked into the east, formed her lips into a smile and turned away. Tying her white satin robe more closely about her waist, Drewena sat down at the piano, one slim, white leg against the casing of deep ivory. On each end of the piano was a tall cathedral taper, lighted. The irradiance was vague under her hands as she improvised. The melody was reminiscent of Chopin, and again of Debussy. Drewena consciously built a theme upon their lovely chords, and smiled to herself as she thought of the semblance of originality attained by other contemporary plagiarists. As she continued to improvise, Patsy, known as “Pat” on more sober days, entered the drawing room.

An “English” butler, whose father had been Irish, Patsy was carrying a small bouquet of black lilies brought from the Malay peninsula at great trouble by Drew’s florist. Devoid of her usual attire, Patsy was somewhat ridiculous. Her concave nose and forehead where the toupee failed to hide the round, bald skull, gave her a strange type of “swish.” Her upper teeth sagged in the back when she talked, and her bulbous lips had the appearance of an aging tomato. She wore a little “how-de-do!” of white lace upon her wig which had become entwined in it. A single wart of considerable size pushed through the tiny cap which fell at intervals over her nose for lack of better support. Her black silk skirt was short, showing the bony protuberance of her knee where once, in a moment of folly, she had mounted a horse and was promptly unseated, bruised and flattened. Her blouse was full, barely concealing two lemons she had taken from the icebox. Altogether, with her wide grin and unhappy form she was seemingly the most pathetic of creatures. But when Drewena languidly motioned for silence while she played on, there was an amused understanding between the servant and mistress as Patsy adjusted the flowers on one corner of a table where they would catch the reflection of their darkness in a tall mirror whose frame was a wreath of golden doves in flight.

* * * * *

In Deane’s living room, Martin stood by the divan examining a long-trained evening gown of canary yellow. Its pale satin sheen in the lamplight was unusually luminous against the blur of the couch. Martin spoke earnestly.

“But I don’t understand, Deane. A guest can’t be just an observer at one of these private affairs. I’d be clumsy. I wouldn’t fit in and I don’t see why you want me to go.”

There was a perverse light in Deane’s eyes. She was thinking strangely. She wondered: _Is he sure, really sure he won’t fit in?_ But aloud she said, “Drew invited you and that is sufficient reason.”

Martin looked at the dress again.

“Am I supposed to wear that fantastic rig just to satisfy a whim of yours and Drew’s? I tell you, Deane, the entire situation is repellant to me.”

Again Deane thought in the same odd manner: _It isn’t like him to shy away from anything. He knows himself so well—is it that he’s afraid?_—she stopped these thoughts. “It only seems repellant, Martin,” she observed. “Drew will make things easy.” She bit her lip. “And Carol and Roberts will be there, too. Why don’t you take it as a joke?” She tried to laugh, but the effect was so hollow and unusual that Martin turned and put his arms around her.

“What is really behind this, Deane?” he asked her gently. “Is Drew attempting a new type of drama, and are you in on it? If it’s a game, I’ll go along with you.”

“It isn’t a game,” said Deane insistently. “There isn’t anything dark or mysterious about it. It’s just a costume party—a stag affair, that’s all.” She avoided his searching gaze.

Martin laughed brutally, the hurt and sickness inside him manifested. Then he sobered, looked at her steadily for a moment, a faint shine in his eyes.

“All right,” he said quietly. “What do I do first?...”

After he had taken a bath, he shaved as closely as possible and rubbed his glowing body with a scent not unpleasant, although he imagined that he detected the impossible effluvium of man-oil as its base. Next he pulled on long stockings of a light sun-tan, his lip curling. But the curious feel of silken underwear and all the intricacies of the garter belt intrigued him, and he laughed aloud as he fastened his stockings to it. The artificial breasts were made of soft rubber fiber, of medium size and cup-shaped in appearance. It was with considerable trouble that he hooked these objects on, the elastic and stays acting contrary. The dress went over his head with difficulty, also; but he twisted and pulled it until it came into place. After he had smoothed out the wrinkles with his hands and set it square with a few quick jerks he felt more comfortable—the gown was even cool and good against his belly. So he sat down with relief and put on the pale yellow satin slippers set aside for him. When he stood up, however, one ankle bent under the strain of the high heel. After that he moved more cautiously, trying to remember the principles of navigation on an icy, rolling deck, and although he lacked a certain naturalness, he soon walked easily enough.

Deane laughed and clapped her hands when she saw him and seemed herself again; but in a moment she returned to the grim abstruseness of her former attitude. She narrowed her eyes, put on an apron, then draped a towel around his neck to keep from spilling the make-up on his shoulders. Martin leaned back, closing his eyes in silent despair; while Deane, testing each shade of lipstick on her hand until she found the right one, realized that she had never tried so hard with herself. She gave his lips, which seemed carved, a brilliant color for the artificial light.

“Damn it,” he said.

Deane did not reply. It was unlikely that she heard him, for the same antagonistic attitude surrounded her; and, too, she was absorbed by her painstaking job. The blue line of underbeard around the jaw and chin had to be blocked out; for this, she used a flesh-colored paste, rubbing it in gently. The rice powder was rachel in shade, made almost the color of Martin’s skin by the addition of a pinch of ocher. This was carefully smoothed away. She used no rouge. And so she continued, blending and examining, until she stepped aside to view her finished handiwork and exclaimed rather sharply, “Sit up!”

Which Martin did, looking at her with a kind of agitated wonder. But Deane, seeing only his face—with his gray eyes now turned to green, and his somewhat melancholy expression softened by women’s devices, ran to him, fell on her knees and began to weep deeply. At this, Martin lifted her to him, holding her, trying to kiss her cheeks. But she slipped away and dried her tears and blew her nose, saying, “It would spoil your looks and I’ve worked too hard for that.”

He started to put his hand to his head but Deane cried out, “Oh, no!” For his hair, parted in the middle, had been combed back of the ears to a point at the base of his neck, where a braid, similar in shade and texture, had been cleverly attached, wrapped and pinned. His hair was now the same wheat-like color as his skin; and the cold, precise line from his head to his shoulders had the essence of that deliberate, calculated passion which so often appeals to the sensitized, yet physical individual. When at last he stood up and lit a cigarette, leaning with a conscious gracefulness upon the piano, Deane went to him and looked up at him uncertainly. Seeing him stand there in such elegance and strength, she bitterly regretted the perversity which had driven her to push him toward this mad adventure. And though her pride rebelled at calling it off at this late moment, she said rather timidly, “Of course, Martin, you don’t have to go if you really dislike it so much.”

“What?” he almost shouted, looking at her incredulously. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Oh, hush!” said Deane nervously. “Of course you’re going! I was just teasing.” But she looked at this man in woman’s clothing and she realized she had never been so attracted. She watched the long muscles flex in his arm as he moved his cigarette. A furious desire struck her.

“You must hurry,” she whispered, gritting her teeth. “You will be late.” Again Martin looked at her steadily, the green glaze covering his eyes.

“I’ll return immediately after the party,” he said, picking up the wrap she had chosen for him. “Read this—” and he pressed a letter into her hands and left, unsmiling.

When he had gone, Deane opened the letter with feverish haste and read it swiftly. Still standing, she threw it across the room, removed her hairpins and mussed her hair until it was wild. With a sob she flung herself face down on the divan and worked her body on the pillows until she screamed. Then she wept until she fell asleep.

* * * * *

Carol arrived at the drag wearing a leopard cape with a high, stiff collar. There was a single stone in his triple-peaked tiara, filigree work coiling around the gem. Patsy helped him off with his wrap, glanced slyly at his rather buxom figure, and announced him in the drawing room in a falsetto voice.

“Miss Stevens,” cried Patsy, in her unusual pitch.

Drewena hurried forward and put her arms around her guest.

“Carrie!” she exclaimed. “You look simply gorgeous!”

Carrie’s cheeks deepened with pleasure. Her saucer-like eyes gave out a wet, blue happiness.

“I’m _so_ glad you like me,” she said. “I didn’t want to look tacky.”

“‘Tacky,’ indeed!” said Drewena, for the beauty of Carrie’s gown astonished her. “_That_,” she continued, looking at the dress, “_is_ a creation! Where did you find it?”

Carrie’s eyes shone with pride, though at the same time there was delicacy in the way she modeled the skirt with her hands.

“I didn’t find it, Drewena. I designed it. I made it for next spring, thinking perhaps I _might_ be a June bride. I planned to do it in white if the style was attractive.” Carrie looked a little anxious. “Is the severe line too much for my hips?—they are rather large.”

“Of course not, dear,” answered Drewena. “It is very becoming.”

“Then,” said Carrie, “you _do_ prefer the material to taffeta or crepe. I’m _so_ glad,” she continued. “Those flouncy things always make me feel like a middle-aged matron.” She pushed the blonde hair of her transformation more firmly behind her ears and touched the roll at the back of her neck.

Drewena marveled at the change in her young friend. How awkward and lonely Carol had appeared in the stilted, formalized trousers styled for men! And how charming was this lovely Carrie, away from the stiff tailoring of masculine attire!

Drewena studied the gown. As she saw it, the waist-line—the Grecian fashion in which the garment fell into the imperceptible folds of the long train, had the artless symmetry of certain sculpture. The dress was without sleeves, close-fitting, with high, pointed breasts, and with its back cut low, to the waist. Its color was a gentle pink of shaded salmon that blended into Carrie’s smooth bare arms. There were two golden bracelets on her wrists and two small bells on the ring-finger of her left hand. Following the soft curve of her throat was an exquisite, golden necklace. As she stood and turned in such a manner that her white back, with a tiny mole on the shoulder could be seen, Drewena put her arm around her waist, and pulled her aside, where they could talk alone.

Out in the hall, Carrie grasped the arm of her hostess.

“Will Martin be here to-night?” she asked almost shyly.

Drewena frowned.

“I don’t know, my dear,” she said at last, noting the child-like look of disappointment which appeared on Carrie’s face.

Inside the dressing room, which had been transformed into a powder room for the guests, a pompous creature was seated at the vanity. “Beulah” was a retired manufacturer with a great deal of money in the bank, but no penchant for spending it. In fact, she was known to drive the sharpest bargain for “trade” of any of her sisters, never carrying more than a quarter in her pocket when she cruised. Nor did her pick-up have to be presentable, for she worked the doughnut shift. “They’re all the same,” she used to say sententiously. “Just throw a sack over it, and shoo it out before dawn.... And never give them breakfast,” she would caution, if permitted. “It spoils them.” Whenever the fleet was in, she would go into retirement. She would lock all her doors and keep her butler on a kind of sentry duty, not even admitting a hallboy who might have an idle moment. As far as the fleet was concerned, no one quite understood Beulah’s strange reaction. But it was established fact that once, avoiding her usual care, she had sneaked away to the drugstore for a soda. Intent upon her guzzling, she had failed to notice a sailor who had sat down close beside her. But upon turning her head and seeing the man in uniform, Beulah had let out a shriek, her eyeballs had rolled upward and she had fainted dead away. Some said that doubtless it had been some frightful experience which had given her this strange allergy. “It must _simply_ have put her in stitches!” one of her friends had observed.... As for the hallboys, it was true, she never paid them well; but there were always things to be picked up, and Beulah’s eyes were failing. The hallboys loved her for this little infirmity, and never took anything more than they felt was honestly due. Altogether, Beulah was regarded as a rather queer, but decidedly powerful person in her set; and no young debutante could expect a successful coming out unless Beulah was behind her—which she usually was.

Thus Drewena realized the value of this social contact for Carrie if the young girl was to spend much time in New York.

“You look awfully nice this evening, Beulah,” she said. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

“Powdering my face like _mad_,” Beulah answered, daintily packing the rich powder into the sore jaw and chin where she had shaved too closely. “Those faggots outside are dishing me to death. Just wait till I go in, though. They’ll stop their cackling!”

Drewena led Carrie to her by the hand.

“Beulah,” she said, “I want you to take Carrie under your wing to-night. She may not be in New York long and I want her to have a grand evening. I’ll want her part of the time, when I’m not going the rounds.”

Beulah lifted her sagging, experienced face to Carrie, who stood there, fluttering slightly. Then the dowager graciously held out both her hands.

“I’ll show you the _best_ people, dearie,” she said. “Just hold on to your old auntie’s arm and we’ll see if there isn’t some trade in sheep’s clothing. And by the way,” she added, smiling shrewdly in the sunless room, “is that little bitch, Kate, going to be here? I’ve made a vow to do that one! She can’t fool these old professional eyes—tired though they may be.”

Drewena laughed.

“Yes, Beulah, she’s here. And quite beautiful too, in green. She just got back from Chili—some kind of an electrical engineering project.”

“‘Project,’ my grandmother!—rest her bones.” Beulah sniffed. “Doing the Indians again—what she sees in _them_ is beyond me! But the hussy _is_ interesting.” Beulah swished the bow at her back, spread the wide skirts of her lavender gown and opened a long black ostrich feather fan. Breathing deeply, so that her large bust swelled out, she followed Drewena out of the room, taking Carrie on her arm.

“There she is,” she whispered hoarsely, and the old lady stopped to glance covetously at Kate.

Kate was dressed in a green velvet gown of a deep jade cast. Her necklace was of intercircled loops of jade as was her linked green bracelet. The earrings were slender pendants of the same hue and stone. With this ensemble she was bound to use a cautious make-up—her skin, tanned by the flat sun of the Andes, being almost enough. Only a dark red splash across her lips, as though she had been recklessly eating cherries, seemed a necessary cosmetic. Her black hair was curled bewitchingly, up from the forehead and sides. When she saw Beulah, she beckoned wildly and the green purse which hung from her arm banged against a punchbowl which was near the tiny bar.

“Common!” someone said in a stage whisper, but Kate only laughed and crooked her finger at Beulah again, who strode forward with aggressive, formidable steps, half dragging Carrie.

“Have a drink, darlin’?” asked Kate, looking up at the dowager.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Beulah, in an affected voice. “It’s _so_ sweet of you to ask me.”

Kate ladled out two drinks. As she handed one to Carrie, she said, “That’s a lovely gown, honey. Drewena told me you made it yourself. Why don’t you drop around at my place some time next week and show me how you do it?”

Beulah coughed slightly and pinched Carrie’s arm.

Kate turned to her with another glassful of punch.

“Here you are, dear,” she said. “It will be good for you.” But she was thinking, “I’ll bet it’s the first free drink she’s had in months!” Aloud, Kate spoke again. “And now, darlin’, _do_ have another.”

Beulah nodded graciously, her eyes a little brighter.

Kate thought once more, “You old bitch! I hope you choke on it and get as blue as blue can be!”

“Kate, dearie,” said Beulah, after her fourth, “there’s just the right touch of bitters to the bottle—it makes one have a feeling of heavenly bliss!”

Kate smiled and thought, “You don’t know a good drink from a bad one. You just take all you can get, and that’s all you know. You might have been pretty in your day—but your blooming days are past forever.”

At this moment, a splendid creature bore down upon them, all sails set. She was a broad-shouldered fellow, whose snappy skirts and impudent coiffure failed to cover her intention.

“Mercy!” she exclaimed. “Just dishing it!”

Kate took a whisky straight and smiled at the “debbie” in a tantalizing fashion.

“To think,” said Kate, “a moment ago there wasn’t a piece of trade in sight! I was just hoping.”

The big girl turned around and looked back over her shoulder.

“Oh!” she cried in an obligato, “you New Yorkers _can_ be so bitchy!” Then she sailed on and rounded the turn to the powder-room.

“Dirt!” said Beulah.

“Tawdry!” exclaimed Carrie.

“From Boston?” asked Beulah.

“No, Baltimore,” answered Kate. “Working up from the bottom in her father’s steel mill, I believe. That’s where she got the muscles. The thick head came naturally though.” Kate opened her purse and took out a small bottle of perfume from which she removed the stopper. Shaking a few drops of the scent on her fingers, she touched them to her ears and throat, patting the remaining moisture on the imperceptible beard around her chin.

Just then, Patsy’s familiar voice announced “Miss Roberts.”

Drewena was standing by the door as the newcomer, somber of face even through her high, natural coloring, and as Drewena thought, all the more beautiful because of her stone-like gravity, entered the drawing room; for, dressed in a cunningly fashioned gown of silver cloth, she looked more like an impassioned Joan of Arc in mailed armor than a modern executive of lives. Around her throat lay her mother’s string of black pearls, and her hands were encased in an unusual muff of blue fox.

“I’m so glad you came after all, Roberta,” said the hostess quietly. “You have been keeping too much to yourself, and I’m sure that you’ll have a little fun to-night. Carrie is here—she’s the most amusing camp! And Kate, and Beulah, and Docky——”

“Damn them all!” interrupted Roberta. “Take me to that corner over there where no one is standing.”

Drewena saw the painful expression on her face and nodded agreement, sitting down with her for a moment.

“Is Martin coming to-night?” asked Roberta nervously.

“Why, yes,” said Drewena. “That is, I think so. I sent him a note, urging him to be here. I have such a pretty name for him.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” answered Roberta, a little absently, tapping her silver slipper against the side of her chair. “Is Rio coming?”

“Indeed not,” said Drewena, amazed at the question. “Ask that man up?—I should say not!”

“‘Man’—my petticoat!” observed Roberta. “What’s the matter with you, Drewena? _That_ one is dashed for fair! Her hard-boiled act doesn’t fool me a bit. She’s a damned _poseur_ and as full of bitchery as——”

“Stop shaking,” broke in Drewena. “For heaven’s sake! All the cats are beginning to gossip about the way you’re acting. See old Docky talking with her hand over her mouth? She knows perfectly well that I can read lips. If she hadn’t been a splendid surgeon in her day and attended my father years ago, I should never have invited her.”

And Docky was saying to the more elderly group clustered around her at this moment, “It’s shameful the way Roberta monopolizes Drewena’s time. In a way though, one can’t blame her. For dearies, Roberta hasn’t long to be a queen at the rate _she’s_ going!” Docky pulled her shawl more tightly about her neck.

“What _is_ wrong with her, Docky?” asked one rather vapid, sweet-faced auntie. “Is she sick?”

At this, Docky raised her lorgnette and looked at the speaker, a quiver of amusement lacing her cheeks back and forth until it seemed they would have met if her nose hadn’t kept them apart.

“Precious!” She lifted her hand. Enormous jewels sparkled and flickered on every finger. “_I_ wouldn’t know. I haven’t been out with her since she was a child—ah!” Docky breathed. “Those halcyon days!”

Back in the corner Drewena sighed.

“If you won’t, you won’t, Roberta; but it looks like intrigue, and I hate intrigue. You’re positive you won’t give even a short number? I wish you’d read one of your own lovely poems. You did, last year, and they’ll expect it. Of course, if you won’t, I’ll send Carrie over to keep you company during the program.”

“Not unless you want a murder at your drag,” said Roberta in such a menacing voice that Drewena started, then watched her guest for a moment until the fire was out of Roberta’s eyes, and some of the hatred expressed on her face had dissipated.

“Roberta,” she said at last, “if you are ill, you should go home. It would be doing both of us a kindness.”

“I’m not sick,” said Roberta evenly.

“Why do you hate Carrie so much?” persisted Drewena.

“Don’t talk like that,” said Roberta, in despair. “It’s just that she _thinks_ of Martin. She thinks of him in a terrible way. Please don’t question me further.” Roberta opened her compact, studied herself in the tiny mirror and powdered her face lightly, smoothing away the lines from her forehead and looking with detachment at the shadows under her eyes. Drewena took her hand for an instant and held it tightly before she left. But as she walked toward the punchbowl with its merry company, there was an intimate, definite foreboding and a striking glance of prescience from her heavy-lidded eyes. Her appearance was so exotic, so provocative, that when Kate offered her a drink, she wanted to offer her a kiss as well.

The widows around Docky, however, were still discussing Roberta.

“Look at her,” said Daisy, the pretty one. “Holding her jaws down at the side in that manner. If I were half so pretty as she, I wouldn’t hide in the corner like that.”

“I’ll _bet_ you wouldn’t,” yawned Docky, grasping her upper plate, as she had a horror of swallowing it.

Again Patsy’s high voice rang out, this time against the music of the orchestra.

“Miss Devaud,” she bawled.

Drewena’s face grew whiter as she went gracefully but swiftly to the arch-like entrance to greet the new arrival, whose perfect casting—the unusual make-up against the wheat-colored hair, against the long, pale yellow dress, against the turquoise of her eyes, and the strong, uneven modeling of her features brought the hostess to a stop before she reached her guest.

“Beautiful Miriam,” she whispered.

Miriam contemplated Drewena without expression, though enjoying her beauty far more than she liked to admit. While Drewena was thinking in confusion how and where to get her friend alone—away from the others who would spoil her with their eyes—yes, with their thoughts, as Roberta had said. If she, Drewena, could only touch her once—could only hold her.... So taking her guest by the hand, she quickly pulled her back into the hall.

“Come upstairs for a moment, Miriam,” she whispered hoarsely. “You must have earrings to make you perfect. I have some of jet that will make you lovelier than ever!” They ascended the wide spiral staircase.

Carrie ran after them. On the bottom step she paused. As they disappeared around a bend in the stairs, Carrie clung tightly to the newel post. Then turning, her eyes wide, she stepped down and hurried to Beulah.

Roberta, sitting in her corner, saw all this, and the rapidity with which she changed coloring caused old Docky to chuckle something about adrenalin. But Roberta was really acting strangely. She seemed ready to leave her chair, then at intervals would pull something halfway out of her muff. Docky could not quite see, for Roberta covered the object cleverly. Each movement, however, was hesitant, until finally, with a certain air of fatalism, Roberta settled down in a rigid posture which she maintained for some time.

Upstairs, Drewena opened a door beyond the staircase, and led Miriam out on the terrace. Saturn was in conjunction with the frozen moon. Midway between the zenith and the horizon, the moon, as if by some prearrangement lightened Drewena’s white face until her beauty would have been nebulous had she not been pressed so closely to her friend. Miriam’s face, however, had caught the amber tone of the planet, and her cheeks seemed flushed as though by moonburn. Drewena pulled her inside again and sat beside her on the bed. She turned out the indirect lights and lay down, her head on Miriam’s lap. The moon shone upon them brightly.

“Miriam,” she said, “is that a halo around your head, dearest?”

“It’s the moon in the fuzz of my wig,” answered Miriam seriously.

Drewena sighed. “How I wish,” she said, “that we could have stayed out on the terrace!—Perhaps we can come up here after the guests have gone.... This bed is so deep and wide, we’ll cool off quickly.... And to-morrow we can go to a little cottage I have up on the coast near Cape Cod.... We’ll listen to the wind—and there’ll be snow, and the surf breaking on the rocks under our doorstep.... You’ll carry a lamp to help me to my bed. I want to be dependent on you—oh! you understand!” Drewena put her gentle hands on Miriam’s cheeks. “They’re hot, Miriam. Perhaps you are excited, too—perhaps I won’t have to go away as I told Tai! He’s my little protegé! I’ll send him to France with his tutor.... My dearest, tell me that I needn’t go!”

Miriam petted her gently and explained quite simply that of course she didn’t have to leave; but when that was said, she kept repeating, “Go!—go!—go!—” continuing to blend the words until they became untranslatable.

Drewena looked at her in astonishment.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Those words—they have a cadence that makes me feel insane—Please don’t talk like that!... Dear God!—All I ask is that you bear with me. I’d never cheat Deane. It’s on a different plane. Quite different. Kiss my lips, Miriam—I’m tired—so tired.”

“Aye,” said Miriam gently, “that I _can_ do! For you’re as sweet a little maiden as I’ve ever seen, lying so in the moonlight.” And bending over, she pressed her lips upon Drewena’s. The white-tinted hair fell over her shoulders and Drewena shuddered as Deane had shuddered. There was no distaste, for Drewena lay quietly now in Miriam’s arms, only a slight, convulsive movement betraying her passion. Then Miriam sat up and leaned away as though into the moon; for a feeling had come over her during that kiss that she could not interpret. It was a half sick, half desirous mood of great intensity. And so, unaccustomed to tempering her emotions, she threw Drewena back upon the bed and held her tightly, her mouth pressing on her throat. Drewena did not resist until the desire had grown and Miriam groped blindly. Then quickly Drewena struggled away and as quickly turned on the lamps.

“Not now,” she laughed, a splendid light in her eyes. “Later—after the party. Oh,” she exclaimed, bending toward her friend, “it’s the heaven I thought I’d never find—the soul, the mind, the body.... But now, we must hurry and touch ourselves up.” And she hung the long, jet pendants from Miriam’s ears. So the gowns were smoothed out, the hair recombed and pinned, the make-up applied anew.

When at last they entered the drawing room there was only the faintest buzzing of interest among the more intrepid of the gossipers. Even this ceased as Drewena, her arm linked closely in Miriam’s, stopped at various groups to introduce her friend. Docky stopped chattering just long enough to size up Miriam’s figure.

“Miriam, my dear,” she said at once, “if I’d known _you_ were coming, I’d have worn my new gown of cardinal red. To think!—you see me in the faded splendor of this musty blue! You must come and chat with us this evening.” She looked at Miriam intently and pulled her shawl even tighter. Then she smiled, a good deal of understanding and more than that, compassion, expressed in her face. When Drewena took Miriam with her to the punchbowl, Beulah turned on Docky in a fury.

“Only past sixty, and you’re back to childhood! I could scratch your eyes out! Miriam is simply lovely, and now you’ve driven her away!”

“There, there,” Docky said, in her best professional tone. “It’s just as well—Drewena loves him.”

“‘Him’?” screeched Daisy, fascinated.

“Don’t get so excited, Daisy. Remember your blood pressure,” said Docky calmly. “Of course, ‘him’! The boy’s as jam as the preserves you used to steal off your mother’s shelf!”

“Absurd!” said Beulah. “She has a _grand_ dash!”

“On the edge, dearie, but he’s never fallen off, and I doubt if he ever will. The habit pattern has unfortunately fixated him for women. Ah!—if I could have had him to mold some years ago!”

“_‘Jam’!_” cried Daisy once more, her hands to her ears.

Docky pushed back the wisps of gray hair from her forehead and took out her left eye, wiping it carefully.

“Mercy!” said Beulah. “_Must_ you do that in company?” She tossed her head angrily. “And don’t tell us how you lost your real one at Ypres! There!” She pointed swiftly toward the punchbowl. “I _knew_ it! Kate is trying to snitch Miriam from Drewena!”

“Common!” said the same sepulchral voice that had uttered this word before.

Everyone turned around to see who had repeated it, but there was no one in sight. Docky chuckled.

Kate was speaking vivaciously to Miriam until she caught Drewena’s eye, whereupon she merely shrugged her strong bare shoulders and turned petulantly away. The moment of ensuing silence was broken by Patsy’s high-pitched tremulo, which seemed to be growing weaker.

“Miss Murphy!” she shouted feebly.

Miss Murphy did not wait for Drewena’s welcome. She flew into the room in a state of deshabille, her black lace dress torn slightly on the shoulder, her corsage of gardenias darkening around the edges as though they had been crushed in a heavy fist.

“Oh, my God!” she said, breathing heavily as Drewena comforted her.

Kate stole a glance at Miriam and whispered, “Doing the taxis again!” Then she took a glass to the newcomer.

“Drink this, Sophie,” she began, when the other turned on her, stamping her foot and pulling the torn lace back over her shoulder.

“Don’t you _dare_ offer me any of that sickening, frothy slop!” she cried. “I want a straight one, or I’ll just _die_!”

Kate lifted the glass and drained it.

“‘It was good enough for mother, and it’s good enough for me,’” she quoted sweetly. But Drewena called for a glassful of whisky and handed it to Sophie who began to drink it greedily.

Docky had her hand over her mouth again and was leaning toward Beulah.

“Don’t look now,” she said. “Sophie’s watching us like _mad_. I’ll bet she thinks we’re dishing her.”

“Well, dearie,” said Beulah, her hand covering her lips also, “she’s right. But I won’t smile, and don’t you _dare_ look now.”

But Docky went on, the rest of the group straining toward her, for no one could dish like Docky.

“My God, Beulah,” she said, “they speak of _courage_ in history. But she has a _nerve_ to come here in _that_ lace!”