The Beautiful and Damned
"Midnight Frolic" and "Justine Johnson's Little Club," he began nodding
his head slowly, then faster and faster, until, as she finished on a
staccato note, it was bobbing briskly up and down, absurdly like a
doll's wired head, expressing--almost anything.
In a sense Gloria's past was an old story to him. He had followed it
with the eyes of a journalist, for he was going to write a book about
her some day. But his interests, just at present, were family interests.
He wanted to know, in particular, who was this Joseph Bloeckman that he
had seen her with several times; and those two girls she was with
constantly, "this" Rachael Jerryl and "this" Miss Kane--surely Miss Kane
wasn't exactly the sort one would associate with Gloria!
But the moment had passed. Mrs. Gilbert having climbed the hill of
exposition was about to glide swiftly down the ski-jump of collapse. Her
eyes were like a blue sky seen through two round, red window-casements.
The flesh about her mouth was trembling.
And at the moment the door opened, admitting into the room Gloria and
the two young ladies lately mentioned.
TWO YOUNG WOMEN
"Well!"
"How do you do, Mrs. Gilbert!"
Miss Kane and Miss Jerryl are presented to Mr. Richard Caramel. "This is
Dick" (laughter).
"I've heard so much about you," says Miss Kane between a giggle and a
shout.
"How do you do," says Miss Jerryl shyly.
Richard Caramel tries to move about as if his figure were better. He is
torn between his innate cordiality and the fact that he considers these
girls rather common--not at all the Farmover type.
Gloria has disappeared into the bedroom.
"Do sit down," beams Mrs. Gilbert, who is by now quite herself. "Take
off your things." Dick is afraid she will make some remark about the age
of his soul, but he forgets his qualms in completing a conscientious,
novelist's examination of the two young women.
Muriel Kane had originated in a rising family of East Orange. She was
short rather than small, and hovered audaciously between plumpness and
width. Her hair was black and elaborately arranged. This, in conjunction
with her handsome, rather bovine eyes, and her over-red lips, combined
to make her resemble Theda Bara, the prominent motion picture actress.
People told her constantly that she was a "vampire," and she believed
them. She suspected hopefully that they were afraid of her, and she did
her utmost under all circumstances to give the impression of danger. An
imaginative man could see the red flag that she constantly carried,
waving it wildly, beseechingly--and, alas, to little spectacular avail.
She was also tremendously timely: she knew the latest songs, all the
latest songs--when one of them was played on the phonograph she would
rise to her feet and rock her shoulders back and forth and snap her
fingers, and if there was no music she would accompany herself
by humming.
Her conversation was also timely: "I don't care," she would say, "I
should worry and lose my figure"--and again: "I can't make my feet
behave when I hear that tune. Oh, baby!"
Her finger-nails were too long and ornate, polished to a pink and
unnatural fever. Her clothes were too tight, too stylish, too vivid, her
eyes too roguish, her smile too coy. She was almost pitifully
overemphasized from head to foot.
The other girl was obviously a more subtle personality. She was an
exquisitely dressed Jewess with dark hair and a lovely milky pallor. She
seemed shy and vague, and these two qualities accentuated a rather
delicate charm that floated about her. Her family were "Episcopalians,"
owned three smart women's shops along Fifth Avenue, and lived in a
magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive. It seemed to Dick, after a few
moments, that she was attempting to imitate Gloria--he wondered that
people invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.
"We had the most _hectic_ time!" Muriel was exclaiming enthusiastically.
"There was a crazy woman behind us on the bus. She was absitively,
posolutely _nutty_! She kept talking to herself about something she'd
like to do to somebody or something. I was _pet_rified, but Gloria
simply _wouldn't_ get off."
Mrs. Gilbert opened her mouth, properly awed.
"Really?"
"Oh, she was crazy. But we should worry, she didn't hurt us. Ugly!
Gracious! The man across from us said her face ought to be on a
night-nurse in a home for the blind, and we all _howled_, naturally, so
the man tried to pick us up."
Presently Gloria emerged from her bedroom and in unison every eye turned
on her. The two girls receded into a shadowy background,
unperceived, unmissed.
"We've been talking about you," said Dick quickly, "--your mother and
I."
"Well," said Gloria.
A pause--Muriel turned to Dick.
"You're a great writer, aren't you?"
"I'm a writer," he confessed sheepishly.
"I always say," said Muriel earnestly, "that if I ever had time to write
down all my experiences it'd make a wonderful book."
Rachael giggled sympathetically; Richard Caramel's bow was almost
stately. Muriel continued:
"But I don't see how you can sit down and do it. And poetry! Lordy, I
can't make two lines rhyme. Well, I should worry!"
Richard Caramel with difficulty restrained a shout of laughter. Gloria
was chewing an amazing gum-drop and staring moodily out the window. Mrs.
Gilbert cleared her throat and beamed.
"But you see," she said in a sort of universal exposition, "you're not
an ancient soul--like Richard."
The Ancient Soul breathed a gasp of relief--it was out at last.
Then as if she had been considering it for five minutes, Gloria made a
sudden announcement:
"I'm going to give a party."
"Oh, can I come?" cried Muriel with facetious daring.
"A dinner. Seven people: Muriel and Rachael and I, and you, Dick, and
Anthony, and that man named Noble--I liked him--and Bloeckman."
Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies of enthusiasm.
Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed. With an air of casualness Dick broke in
with a question:
"Who is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?"
Scenting a faint hostility, Gloria turned to him.
"Joseph Bloeckman? He's the moving picture man. Vice-president of 'Films
Par Excellence.' He and father do a lot of business."
"Oh!"
"Well, will you all come?"
They would all come. A date was arranged within the week. Dick rose,
adjusted hat, coat, and muffler, and gave out a general smile.
"By-by," said Muriel, waving her hand gaily, "call me up some time."
Richard Caramel blushed for her.
DEPLORABLE END OF THE CHEVALIER O'KEEFE
It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon at the Beaux
Arts--afterward they went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the
little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth,
gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant.
Geraldine Burke, usher at Keith's, had been an amusement of several
months. She demanded so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable
affair with a débutante the preceding summer, when he had discovered
that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary
of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye
on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of
personal delicacy--but a girl who was usher at Keith's was approached
with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate
valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on one's
social level.
Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with
narrow slanting eyes.
"You drink all the time, don't you?" she said suddenly.
"Why, I suppose so," replied Anthony in some surprise. "Don't you?"
"Nope. I go on parties sometimes--you know, about once a week, but I
only take two or three drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking all
the time. I should think you'd ruin your health."
Anthony was somewhat touched.
"Why, aren't you sweet to worry about me!"
"Well, I do."
"I don't drink so very much," he declared. "Last month I didn't touch a
drop for three weeks. And I only get really tight about once a week."
"But you have something to drink every day and you're only twenty-five.
Haven't you any ambition? Think what you'll be at forty?"
"I sincerely trust that I won't live that long."
She clicked her tongue with her teeth.
"You cra-azy!" she said as he mixed another cocktail--and then: "Are you
any relation to Adam Patch?"
"Yes, he's my grandfather."
"Really?" She was obviously thrilled.
"Absolutely."
"That's funny. My daddy used to work for him."
"He's a queer old man."
"Is he nice?" she demanded.
"Well, in private life he's seldom unnecessarily disagreeable."
"Tell us about him."
"Why," Anthony considered "--he's all shrunken up and he's got the
remains of some gray hair that always looks as though the wind were in
it. He's very moral."
"He's done a lot of good," said Geraldine with intense gravity.
"Rot!" scoffed Anthony. "He's a pious ass--a chickenbrain."
Her mind left the subject and flitted on.
"Why don't you live with him?"
"Why don't I board in a Methodist parsonage?"
"You cra-azy!"
Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval. Anthony
thought how moral was this little waif at heart--how completely moral
she would still be after the inevitable wave came that would wash her
off the sands of respectability.
"Do you hate him?"
"I wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for
you."
"Does he hate you?"
"My dear Geraldine," protested Anthony, frowning humorously, "do have
another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the
room sniffing. He's a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I
probably wouldn't be telling you this if I hadn't had a few drinks, but
I don't suppose it matters."
Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted,
between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a
touch of awe.
"How do you mean a hypocrite?"
"Well," said Anthony impatiently, "maybe he's not. But he doesn't like
the things that I like, and so, as far as I'm concerned, he's
uninteresting."
"Hm." Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the
sofa and sipped her cocktail.
"You're a funny one," she commented thoughtfully. "Does everybody want
to marry you because your grandfather is rich?"
"They don't--but I shouldn't blame them if they did. Still, you see, I
never intend to marry."
She scorned this.
"You'll fall in love someday. Oh, you will--I know." She nodded wisely.
"It'd be idiotic to be overconfident. That's what ruined the Chevalier
O'Keefe."
"Who was he?"
"A creature of my splendid mind. He's my one creation, the Chevalier."
"Cra-a-azy!" she murmured pleasantly, using the clumsy rope ladder with
which she bridged all gaps and climbed after her mental superiors.
Subconsciously she felt that it eliminated distances and brought the
person whose imagination had eluded her back within range.
"Oh, no!" objected Anthony, "oh, no, Geraldine. You mustn't play the
alienist upon the Chevalier. If you feel yourself unable to understand
him I won't bring him in. Besides, I should feel a certain uneasiness
because of his regrettable reputation."
"I guess I can understand anything that's got any sense to it," answered
Geraldine a bit testily.
"In that case there are various episodes in the life of the Chevalier
which might prove diverting."
"Well?"
"It was his untimely end that caused me to think of him and made him
apropos in the conversation. I hate to introduce him end foremost, but
it seems inevitable that the Chevalier must back into your life."
"Well, what about him? Did he die?"