Part 12

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.