Part 4

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!