CHAPTER TEN

Like others who belonged to it, Grace was wont to excuse herself for attending the weekly luncheons of the Three Cheers Club on the ground that it was good business. One made contacts there. One exchanged the gossip of the day. The club ate in a private dining room at a Park Avenue hotel. This noon, as Grace walked into the small antechamber where the members were gathering, her face was strained with resolution. The girl she searched for stood in a corner, a large bouncing girl, visible and audible. Grace marched up to her.

"How are you, Madge?" she said, widening her eyes and spacing her words with an acute gentleness. "I hear--you had--quite a discussion--about me at your house one night."

The buxom girl stepped back. "Why, no!" she said. "Why, Grace, I hope you don't think I'd say anything unkind about you or let anyone in my house say a word against you."

Grace looked at her with a sweet, unbelieving smile.

"Why, no, Grace," she repeated in alarm under that smile. "I don't know what you heard but I give you my word all that happened was--we were discussing a lot of things and someone remarked wasn't it a coincidence that Grace Kline's friend had the same name as the man who used to be married to a college classmate, Edith Woolever, in St. Louis. Honestly that's every word that was said."

Wearing the same sweet smile and continuing to fix Madge with her eyes, Grace replied, "Then perhaps it might--interest you to know--that he not only used to be married to Edith Woolever, but still is." She swept past.

An "oh" dropped from Madge's lips and she babbled after Grace scared phrases at random: "... think the world and all of you ... wouldn't want you to think otherwise."

Grace betook herself to the shelter of one of her friends who had witnessed the encounter. Her skin was white but under it the blood burned in her cheeks. She removed a glove and tried to soothe them with chilly hands.

"I think I've stopped her," she said. She continued conversationally, halting now and then for composure. "I've discovered a swell method, Jeannette, of dealing with people who talk about you. You just walk up to them very sweet and ruthless and naïve and ask them did they really say that? It frightens them to death."

Her friend, a little woman like a little bird, teetering on very tiny feet and very high heels, patted her arm with a sympathy that was none the less for being highly spiced with curiosity. She herself was a tactful, orderly little soul, a good manager, but she was very broadminded, as she often told people, and regarded Grace with an admiring and interested wonder. "I wouldn't have told you if I'd known it would upset you so," she said in real concern.

"Oh, it doesn't upset me any more," said Grace. "I'm getting hardened."

After a moment she remembered what else had brought her to the club.

"You know Mrs. Whitten, don't you?" she said, now quite alert. "Introduce me, will you? I'd like to sit next to her--if it can be arranged."

"Of course, dear. Why? Have you anything in mind for her? I didn't know you were writing."

"Oh, it's--just an idea," said Grace vaguely. Her eyes wandered afresh over the room, choosing friends, recording herself again on the minds of those she knew, and permitting them to record themselves on her mind; seeing who was present and who was not.

The girls (not women, but distinctly girls) disposed themselves at three long tables arranged in the form of an ell. Originally the Three Cheers Club had unfurled its banner with a provision that members be self-supporting and a dedication of encouragement to "women of all professions." But it had become increasingly difficult to judge the exact extent of their self-support and, though there might have been members of other professions, they went unnoticed. Nearly all these women (so distinctly girls) acted, wrote, drew, sang, clutched the skirts of the various arts in varying capacities and with varying success and took much credit to themselves for so doing.

Grace usually sat by Diana Reece in her own coterie that formed one of the groups within the group. To-day she found herself in a somewhat different atmosphere between Mrs. Whitten and Jeannette Croak, looking attentively across the table at a woman who bore well the dignity of black crêpe de chine and pearl earrings. She was Rachel Dorf, the one who got two thousand dollars a short story. And how well she knew it, thought Grace, with a certain detachment in consequence of her own slight acquaintance in this circle. The two thousand dollars was apparent in every costly fold of silk, in the full, massaged texture of her authoritative face, in the commanding movements of her thick, white hands. She and Mrs. Whitten were discussing short-story prices. Grace listened with a perfect demeanor, a blend between that of a novice hearkening to elders and that of a personage incognito, secure in his own secret status. The glow shed by her skin and eyes, like the soft, swooning light shed by the moon, the delicate synthesis of her clothes drew involuntary glances from Mrs. Dorf and Mrs. Whitten. Each had noticed her in the past and remembered her and would remember her, wondering why. When she spoke each looked at her, following the motions of her long, tender lips and her widening eyes, following each word dropped after her curious pauses, as if these might furnish the clue to that glowing mystery which her eyes and her skin had the power to suggest. Mrs. Dorf was the first to turn her glances away, chafing under the spell. When Grace spoke she would attempt instinctively to interrupt, only to hear the low, penetrating contralto superimpose itself on her voice without effort, continue, and finish the sentence which Grace had begun.

Mrs. Whitten, who was a small, dowdy person dressed in brown, with generous brown eyes, frankly allowed herself to be engrossed by Grace. It gave her pleasure to watch Grace. She answered her warmly, assuring her that it would be a good idea to do a story about the movie star, Carolyn Hale.

"I thought," said Grace, "since she had made--such a hit in comedy, it might be interesting to get her to talk on the feminine sense of humor."

"N-no," said Mrs. Whitten thoughtfully. "That's a little too--too--intellectual, I believe, for our readers. Something more personal is what they would like--for instance, Love: 'What I Think of Love.' Or perhaps, 'Why I Have Never Married,' if you can get her to sign it."

Grace looked at Mrs. Whitten with a smile. "Isn't that--a little obvious?" she hinted. "After all----"

"Yes. After all, everyone knows why she hasn't married. She finds it more profitable the other way," finished Mrs. Whitten, sharing Grace's amusement. "But an article on Love, if you can get her to sign it, would go, I think. Of course, I haven't the final say."

"Oh, I can get her to sign it," said Grace, and sniggered within herself. She had her own opinion of what Carolyn Hale thought of Love. Becoming serious, she said intently, "Then--if I get it written--shall I bring it in to you?"

"Yes, indeed. It's a good idea."

The luncheon was rapidly climbing to its predestined heights. The president rapped for order; the bubbles of chatter evaporated and the real business of the session began. She started to announce the announcements. Grace was sure that this president, a matronly girl, who conducted an Advice to the Lovelorn column, could hardly wait to breathe her touching sentiments, with a little comical twist at the end, anent the arrivals of new babies to club members. Perhaps she even practised before a glass so as to obtain the exact cloying simper with which these sentiments emerged from her lips. At this point, Anita, who had once been present at a luncheon, had caused a hushed commotion of disapproval by shifting, in her agony, tapping her plate, shuffling her feet, overturning her water glass, and muttering comments to Grace. Anita was far too impatient. As for Grace, she sat in ladylike calm, as others did about the tables, only permitting herself a small smile when she caught Dee's eye.

"And, girls, I have a _great_ surprise for you. Mary Covill. Can you guess? Yes, girls, she's been married for _two_ months, and the lucky man's name you will all like to know is Howard Higgins, in the advertising business. So now Mary can add the Lucy Stone League to her list of clubs."

Laughter and applause and a general turning of heads toward where Mary Covill sat, somewhat flushed but triumphant.

Grace noticed that Mrs. Dorf and Mrs. Whitten and Jeannette were all applauding quite seriously. Dee sent her an ironic wink across tables. But Dee was patting her hands too. She made one or two perfunctory claps.

The president had not yet done. She took another sheet of paper from her table. She grew sober.

"Now girls," she said, "before I introduce the guests of honor, who to-day are Mr. and Mrs. Reuben Barnes, the big-game hunters, of whom you have all heard [applause], I am sure you will all be interested to know what your co-members have been accomplishing."

She cleared her throat. She said, "I don't want to boast, girls, but I thought you'd all be pleased to know that your president has at last entered--oh, very timidly, you may be sure--the Halls of the Bards. Your president has had a poem accepted by _Home Life_!" (Applause).

She called prettily through the applause, "Yes, and if you don't like it, you have only the editor of _Home Life_ to blame. He assures me it's fine!"

After the excitement had bubbled down there followed a list of stories sold, sketches placed, designs ordered, jobs changed. The president sat down, releasing a swarm of chatter.

Immediately she bounced up again. She raised one hand for silence. "There has just come to my hand," she said impressively, "a belated announcement which I am sure you will want to have repeated at once. Girls, Bessie Firestone has--just--sold--her first short story--to _True Stories_!"

The guests of honor had been brought by their press agent. Grace was among the first to escape. Meeting Dee in the anteroom, she agreed that the club was growing "more terrible by the minute," and listened to a collection of fresh gossip, while her eyes followed the people she wished to speak with presently. They arranged to sit together at the next luncheon.

Afterward she taxied across town to the Algonquin and, making her way through the patronizing groups in the lobby, she reconnoitered over the ropes of the small dining room. It was easy to pick out Carolyn Hale from among all the sleekly hatted women. For the sake of her public, which was accustomed to see her curls unbound in the dramatic sequences, Carolyn Hale had not yet dared to cut her hair. It was really golden and really heavy. Great braided loops of it weighted her head so much that she was always removing her hat. So lovely a girl on the screen, so frail and wistful, she looked extraordinarily matter-of-fact in real life. The Publicity Department stressed the point that she made her own clothes. After seeing them, Grace thought this likely but saw no reason for pride. She had been in attendance on Carolyn for several weeks, arranging appointments for her with the fan writers, taking Carolyn to teas and luncheons, and ingratiating herself with Carolyn in many ways. They now called each other by their first names.

Carolyn Hale was lunching with her "girl friend," another movie actress, a study in ebony, sepia, and scarlet beside Carolyn's fairness. Pushing a chair out for Grace, she continued to regale them with an account of an afternoon spent with L. L. Farissey. It seemed that he had swept her from auctions of antiques to auctions of pictures to auctions of manuscripts, she "standing on my feet and perishing from my corns--you can imagine. And that damned old furniture, you ought to see it. What anybody wants to buy the stuff for! I just touched a table and I give you my word it jumped apart! And those pictures! They're enough to give anyone the willies! And here I had to get blue in the face admiring all that junk. When I got home I swear my mouth was sore from making ohs.

"And I was out all night," she wailed, "and I had to shop all morning--and now I have to go see L. L. again. I bet he drags me to more junk shops this afternoon. Oh, my Gawd! Girls, come on along with me. I can't see that big bozo alone again; last night was enough."

Stepping from the cloistered dimness of the Algonquin, they straightway entered the luxuriant dimness of Carolyn Hale's limousine, while she wailed comically and did imitations of L. L. She had a strange voice to come from a creature so heavenly on the screen--thin, flat, nasal. It made one want to laugh in her face at its incongruity.

The moment did not seem propitious to speak of Love, but Grace managed to ask if Carolyn would sign an article for a woman's magazine.

"Sure, I'll sign anything you say," declared Carolyn. "That would be swell. Only just don't mention names. I gotta think of my Goddamn public."

Her friend, Lily, inquired with interest what the article would be about.

"It's to be called, 'What I Think of Love,'" said Grace hesitantly. But neither appeared to notice any untoward significance.

Carolyn nodded. "That'll be fine," she said. "The fans will eat that up."

And, "I wish my press agent would put something like that over for me," remarked Lily. "I sometimes wonder if he's any good. I notice you're getting so much for Carolyn."

"Oh, yes, Grace is swell," said Carolyn generously. Lily was a free lance who earned a great deal and no doubt paid well for publicity services. But Grace thought it best to keep silent and let Lily make her own comparisons.

In a great pink and gilt room in a great pink and gilt hotel they found the great man, L. L. Farissey. He was an automobile magnate who had got into so many front-page scrapes that it was impossible not to have heard of him. He was assisting Carolyn Hale to maintain her position at that special moment in her career. Fat and tousled, he sat in a suit of fiercely striped pajamas in a mild pink armchair, looking ill-tempered and eating a meal of sauerkraut, frankfurters, olives, cheese, and tomatoes. The three girls stood astounded at this meal. Raising small bloodshot eyes, the great man glanced at them and grunted. He knew Lily and disregarded her. Being introduced to Grace, he grunted and disregarded her also. He muttered to Carolyn Hale in a surly voice, "Havin' my breakfast. Want some?"

"Oh, L. L. I've just had an _enormous_ lunch," pleaded Carolyn.

He grunted. His silence became stony.

Lily and Grace took chairs by the door and remained quiet, quiet as little mice, not daring to look at each other and trying not to look at Carolyn Hale. She had perched herself on the arm of the great man's chair. Whenever she caught their glances she opened her mouth and gawped without sound and rolled her eyes over the great man's shoulder. For her pains with him, she received a series of grunts.

Finally, leaning her face close to his, she said meekly, "L. L., could Carolyn have one of these lovely little teeny-weeny olives? Just _one_ little teeny-weeny olive?"

"Have 'em all!" mumbled the great man magnificently. He took a plate and piled it high with olives, sauerkraut, tomatoes. "Bet' have some cheese--" "Well then, I will have a little, teeny-weeny piece. It looks so good." He added a hunk of cheese. Over his shoulder Carolyn put her hand to her heart and made a huge gawp with her mouth and rolled her eyes in extreme despair. She began to pick at the food, now and then glancing at the two girls and going through the motions of inaudible signs. The great man's frown seemed to be moderating. Carolyn, peering around at him, signaled such an enormous silent gawp of relief behind him that the two girls thought she would fall backward off the chair.

She leaned her face closer to his. "L. L.," she coaxed, "couldn't we go to see that lovely picture again this afternoon? You know, the beautiful, beautiful one that Carolyn liked so much, the one with the woman on horseback and all the lovely dogs?"

"Hm. Worst one of the whole collection!" grumbled the great man. But his face had relaxed into some semblance of pleasure.

"Might take a look in the Bitterman Galleries," he murmured, as if to himself.

Behind his bent head Carolyn raised her hands and twirled her fingers in the air and let her chin fall and her mouth droop to resemble the aspect of a half-wit. The two girls simultaneously took out their handkerchiefs, patted their noses, and hid their giggles.

Carolyn winked and nodded at them and pointed to the door. They understood. They rose and said farewells which the great man did not acknowledge.

Out in the lobby Grace at once found her way to a telephone booth. She had been on the trail of Susanna Beddes all morning. It was most important that Susanna Beddes should be notified of the lunch for Nola Winter and should promise to attend. She was a personage. She wrote a widely syndicated motion-picture column. Press agents might mimic Susanna Beddes' coy habit of speaking of herself in the third person ("Susanna is feeling thus and so"--"Susanna is doing this and that"--"Susanna is very busy just now") but in her presence they trembled. At least, Susanna did everything in her power to cause them to tremble. Grace finally traced Susanna to her home.

"Oh, Susanna has such a headache to-day," she moaned over the telephone. "Don't speak to Susanna about business! She's desperate."

A lengthy conversation followed, soothing, apologetic, consoling on Grace's part, bored and reluctant on Susanna's. Susanna really could not think. Susanna really did not know what engagements she had. Susanna did not care about these group interviews. She preferred tête-à-têtes.

"Oh, I'm certain--Miss Winter would be delighted to have you take lunch with her," Grace assured her. "I was--just about to ask you. But we--would like you to be present at the formal reception too."

Susanna said that she would see.

"Shall I--call you at the office then--to-morrow?"

Susanna said that she might do so.

Grace had spent almost half an hour in the stifling booth. She staggered into the pink and gilt lobby, rested for a few minutes, inhaled a few pink and gilt breaths. She supposed it might be good policy to send Susanna Beddes flowers--from the M.A.N.--or some such touching recognition of her headache.

When Grace at last stepped out of the hotel she paused, startled, she could not say why, to see the sky so blue. A faint breeze stirred the blazing, dust-moted air. The interiors of the serene shops along Madison Avenue looked limpid as water to a parched throat. A great breath melted in her lungs and gave a special luster to her face. A trolley clattered by with open sides. The tops of all the taxis were down; their black upholsteries glistened between smears of dust. The heavy sidewalks bloomed here and there unexpectedly with the dresses of girls, yellow silks and green silks, and rose and lavender, slimly conforming to their bodies. Of course. It was summer, a season that she loved, and the middle of the afternoon.