CHAPTER III

“Gracie deah—will you gaze!”

Miss Mallard’s wide, wondering orbs, accompanied by Grace’s, turned toward the door. Sallie MacMahon had just entered, resplendent in spring outfit. Above slim ankles billowed a skirt of silk the color of her eyes. The ankles ended in slippers mounted with buckles of cut steel. Her arms gleamed white through transparent clinging sleeves. A necklace of pearls clasped her throat and over the golden head brimmed a wide hat weighted with roses.

She disrobed nonchalantly, hanging her garments against the sheet that ran round the wall for their protection. She pretended not to see the nudges of the girls but her heart sang a paean of triumph.

Now they would stop laughing at her!

Now they would treat her with respect!

Yea—weep for her, ye wise ones! Sallie’s day had come. She had fallen from grace. Worse, actually reveled in her downfall! That very morning, without a struggle, she had gone to the bank and wantonly depleted her little horde. There had followed a wild debauch of spending such as her own mother had indulged in years before. Silks, laces, chiffons, feathers! Shades of Scotland, the Irish had won out!

And having recklessly started at high speed, she could not stop. She had no desire to. Ridicule she might have endured indefinitely, but nightly to sit opposite to Mr. James Fowler Patterson in his perfectly tailored clothes, conscious of the variety and extent of them, _that_ had been the straw that broke the backbone of resistance.

Once and once only had Mr. Jimmie essayed the rôle of godfather. Reaching home one evening after a long drive in the moonlight, he had followed her up the ladder-like steps to the dim vestibule. Standing there, he had clasped quickly round her wrist a narrow glittering bracelet.

“To match the ring,” he had whispered.

Sallie’s gaze had fastened on the jewels that laughed up through semi-darkness.

“Oh—I—couldn’t!” she breathed at last. And don’t imagine it was easy.

“Please! Just because I want you to.”

“But I—I couldn’t, Jimmie.”

“But if I ask you? I’m crazy about you, Baby. Never was so keen on a girl in my life.”

Sallie gulped hard and, without looking at it, unclasped the clinging circlet.

“Please,” he protested as she handed it back. “Please—dear!”

She shook her head decisively.

“But I want to see you in pretty things. I want you to have them.”

“Thanks, Jimmie,—for wanting to give it to me. But you mustn’t—ever do that again. It wouldn’t be right for me to take it.”

And Jimmie had been forced to content himself with flowers and kid gloves and perfume—French stuff at eight-eighty an ounce.

That phrase of his, however—“I want to see you in pretty things”—clung to her consciousness. She wanted him to see her in them. She wanted to see herself in them. She wanted those girls to see her in them.

After which the savings bank simply flew to meet her.

“Well,” observed Miss Mallard, still devouring the new costume, “I’m glad you’re learning how to handle him.”

Sallie slipped into her chair.

“May we inspect the dog collar, my deah?” Miss Mallard pursued.

With large indifference Sallie handed over the necklace and watched the blue eyes widen. Not hers to inform the lady that it had been purchased at a near-pearl establishment, guaranteeing that “Our pearls rival the real.”

Miss Mariette fingered it lovingly, even to the tiny barrel of brilliants that formed the clasp. “Atta boy!” she breathed and let fall upon its possessor a look approaching homage.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Sallie found herself saying, drunk with the dazzle of scoring at last against her enemies, “I’m going to get a car of my own soon.” And promptly wondered _how_ she was going to get it.

But feminine imagination, given full rein, took the bit between its teeth and galloped beyond Sallie’s control. She spoke of champagne supper parties and a house on Long Island and sables, with the largesse of an “Arabian Nights.” She tasted the sweets of seeing baby blue eyes and impudent black ones dilate with envy as the other girls gathered round. She swept on, heedless of sharp turns ahead, and not until the callboy shouted the half hour did she halt.

At the curb that night she found a gray roadster barking its haste to be off like a pert pomeranian. Mr. J. F. Patterson stepped out, then stopped short with a gasp as he took in the glory of her. She gave him her hand—and waited. To her amazement he said not a word, merely helped her into the car. It snorted and raced up Broadway. Still not a word! She snuggled into the low seat, turned to look up at him. He was frowning.

“What’s the matter, Jimmie?”

“Nothing.”

“Something is.”

“Nothing, I tell you.” His tone was brusque. The frown settled deeper, bringing brows together.

Sallie’s eyes filled. She had pictured something so different—Jimmie bounding with delight when he saw her! Jimmie covering her with admiration!

But his mood did not change. Throughout the ride he brooded, silent, absorbed—though she tried desperately to make conversation.

“Is this a new car, Jimmie?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you ever come in it before?”

“In the repair shop.”

“Oh!”

Silence.

“I like it, Jimmie.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. It’s so—so cozy.”

“Is it?”

Silence.

“Montgomery’s laid up, Jimmie. And the new lead’s made a big hit.”

“Has he?”

Silence—a long one.

“Jimmie—I—I don’t want any supper.”

“Why?”

“I—I think I want to go home.”

“Just as you say.”

“Jimmie—what—what’s wrong?”

His eyes scanned the beauty of her, steel buckles, silken dress, rose-laden hat. They ended on the glossy pearls and his lips which had opened for speech snapped shut.

He drove her home, without a word lifted his cap.

“Jimmie—please—please don’t act that way.”

“What way?”

“So—so queer.”

He gave a short laugh.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, stared at him, eyes swimming, then fled up the steps.

The following night Mr. Patterson was late for the first time. He swung round the corner just as Sallie appeared. She was wearing a violet suit, fluffy lace collar and cuffs, and a hat of violets. They made her eyes the same color. During a night of tearful and bewildered groping she had arrived at a conclusion. Jimmie hadn’t liked the way she looked! He wasn’t pleased with her dress or hat or something. Maybe he didn’t think they were becoming and hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. A lighter color, perhaps, something gayer! After which she rolled over with relief, stole a few hours’ sleep, and later embarked on another shopping tour.

But the violet, apparently, made no more satisfactory impression than the blue. He handed her almost roughly into the car. They shot like a cannon ball into the darkness.

There were no stars. The moon had reached the full, dwindled and slipped round to smile upon the other side of the world.

Sallie gulped, groped for a fitting subject and finally burst out:

“Jimmie, tell me about yourself. You never have told me much.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“How does it feel to have so much money?” she proceeded for want of something better to say.

The effect was electric. He turned on her. The car jerked to the other side of the road. “You ought to know!”

“I? Stop kidding!”

“Yes, you!”

“But—”

“Look as if you’d come into a Rockefeller income!”

“Well, I haven’t.”

“No?”

“You know it.”

“I don’t know anything about women.”

“Well, you ought to know all about me.”

“Yes—I ought to.” He gave the same ugly laugh of the night before but in his eyes was real pain. “But who knows what to expect of a chorus queen.”

“Jimmie!”

“Oh, what’s the use?” came in husky desperation. “Let’s be merry!”

Sallie stared, choked and bewildered, into the darkness. She didn’t know how to answer, how to act. This new Jimmie, this—this nasty one! He was a stranger. Small teeth settled into her lower lip. She felt like slipping to the floor of the car and crying her eyes out.

For three nights they followed the same program—Sallie bewitching in a new costume chosen tearfully to conciliate the mysterious male—he taciturn, unresponsive, answering her labored conversation with husky monosyllables or hard cynicism that hurt without enlightening. Twice during those three days it drizzled and, instead of suggesting supper in the neighborhood as was their habit in bad weather, he drove the short ten blocks to the weary brownstone house and left her there.

“As if he was anxious to get rid of me,” sobbed Sallie into her pillow.

To dust and ashes in her mouth turned the sweets of her triumph over the girls. Though she continued to weave stories for their benefit, to elaborate on gifts in the past and the car in the future, to flash her diamond and twirl her pearls, the tang had gone out of it.

By Friday she felt she couldn’t stand it another minute. What had she done? Under the glimmering stars she gazed up first in mute pleading, then—

“Jimmie,” she choked, “take me home. I—I—guess I’d better—”

The roadster snarled at the tug that sent it round the corner.

“Oh—another date!”

“Maybe!” His tone had brought defiance into hers.

“H’m! Thought so!”

“You—you’re horrid!”

“And he’s all to the good—what?”

“Who?”

“Well—can’t blame you! What chance has a mean little bracelet against a string of oyster tears like that?” The volcano which had been rumbling all week sent up a sudden blinding glare. “Gad, what an ass I’ve been!” it spat out.

“Don’t talk like that—don’t!”

“I mean it,—a saphead! Swallowed that diamond yarn whole—hook, line and sinker.”

“It wasn’t a yarn.”

“You’ll tell me next your mother bought the pearls, too.”

“No—I did.”

The volcano roared a warning. “God!” A pause while his breath caught.

“It’s true, I tell you! I bought them myself—they’re imitation.”

He flung back his head. His laugh frightened her.

“Oh—won’t you believe me?”

“No!”

“Won’t you—please?”

“And I put you above them—way on top.” The volcano erupted with thunderous crash. “But you’re like the rest of them! Price—a string of pearls—a diamond! Rotten—that’s what—! Sit down! Sit down, I say!! I’ll get you home quick enough!”

White and terrified, she subsided. Words rushed to her lips, clung there.

He crashed on.

“But you did put it over! Had me going so that I’d have staked my life on you. Got me with the baby stare stuff. ‘Baby’—huh! It’s a lesson—I won’t be such a damn fool next time!”

“Jimmie,” the voice struggled to keep steady—“I swear to you—!”

“I wouldn’t believe you on a stack of Bibles! Down on your luck—thought you had an easy mark! Then something better—pearls!—came along—”

“I—I’ll never forgive—you!”

“That’s right! Injured innocence—”

“I—I could die this minute!”

“It’s tough, though, when the first time a man really—cares—more than he ever thought—” The words halted painfully.

“Oh, _won’t_ you listen? Jimmie—you—you had _so_ much—”

“But the other fellow’s got more! Like all the rest—”

They stopped with a jump that made the roadster snort in protest.

“You—you don’t understand.” The sobs clamored to her lips. “To-morrow—please—please listen—”

She sprang out of the car and up the steps, clinging to the iron rail.

But to-morrow when she hurried out of the stage entrance, eyes darting to the curb, Mr. James Fowler Patterson was not there.