CHAPTER SEVEN

The Club Miraflore was below sidewalk level; a few steps down, an office by the window, very wide, carpeted stairs leading farther down to the cloakroom and the dance floor. The owner, a tall and handsome Irishman, approved of Grace's looks, of the sort of plaintive simplicity with which she accepted orders then, when she was not yet habituated to these people. He did not sling her about as he slung Al. All the same, she understood why even Al disliked to work with night clubs. From the man at the desk, who noted reservations, to the proprietor, everyone's eyes had a hard gleam; everyone had a suspicious, calculating hospitality; everyone watched to see in whose back it would be easiest to plunge a knife.

Grace had been asked to come early Thursday night to receive the newspaper guests, so, still literal, she was the first to arrive. She entered nervous and worn.

Since Monday she and Al had been buying all the morning papers and all the evening papers (Harry Strauss wouldn't order or pay for papers) frantically scanning them, clipping and hoarding scraps of newsprint, little notices, and exhibiting them to Mr. Strauss. The "breaks" had been good, Al said. They had got in one journal a front-page story about the insurance of Annabella's legs. The five-column layout had appeared. But she could never tell whether Mr. Strauss was pleased or not. He sniffed at the small items and looked down his nose, cautiously, at the large ones. That morning Mr. Strauss had called them both in. On his desk lay the New York _Times_. He pointed to a box, front page, top column.

As they were not handling the publicity for Annabella's partner, they had carefully omitted his name from the announcements, but they had nevertheless, been obliged to attach it to the photographs of the new dance step. An evening paper, remarking that he had the same name as the son of a millionaire banker, had, without further ado, printed a half column about the banker's son acting as Annabella's partner. Al and Grace had seen this and congratulated themselves on the "break." Both Annabella's name and the name of the club held prominent places in the story. But the _Times_, which they had not yet examined, had taken the trouble to verify. The banker's son would _not_ appear with Annabella; he had, in fact, changed his given name to avoid constant confusion with the partner.

There it was in a front-page box of the New York _Times_--acme of publicity. Annabella's name was mentioned once. The name of the club was not. The partner's name, however, was given several times.

Al and Grace drew a deep breath. They were about to burst with elation. Al, hushed, with eyes that bulged as at some act of God, read the notice over Mr. Strauss's shoulder, "Gee! Front-page box!"

"Who's responsible for this?" snapped Mr. Strauss. Grace and Al glanced at each other. Both would have liked to take the credit. Neither wished to admit that they were not responsible at all. It was just an accident--a glorious accident.

Mr. Strauss said quietly, cuttingly, "Puffed up with yourselves, aren't you?"

Al made excited gestures. "Jesus Christ! What the hell d'y'want us to do, Harry? Here we get a box in the _Times_----"

"Yeh. You get a box in the _Times_ for that bastard," sneered Mr. Strauss. "Who's paying for this, the Miraflore or that lousy hoofer?"

"But what the hell d'y'expect us to do?" cried Al in despair. "Did we plant that story, Grace? You tell Harry. See! The _Times_ got it themselves. What the hell can _we_ do about it?"

"What the hell am I paying you for?" inquired Mr. Strauss. "To get publicity for Annabella and the Miraflore, or for a bum hoofer?"

They had walked out much subdued.

"We're all right," Al muttered. "Harry always expects the world. He promises the world. Gee! A front-page box with Annabella's name! I wish we were working for that partner, too. He's good--better'n she is. Who's Annabella anyhow? Just a dizzy blonde hoofer, that's all she is."

Publicity, Grace had noticed, had its first and fullest effect on Al. On the days when Annabella "got" little or nothing in the papers, his opinion of her sank; on the days when she "got a break," she rose in his esteem.

Grace and her mother were still barely speaking so she had not dared to ask Mrs. Kline to make a new dress. She wore to the opening an old dark brown lace, the color of her eyes, with a trailing orange sash. It was becoming enough, but, as usual, there was a wrong note to cause unease. Her short sealskin coat was not really an evening wrap, merely very obviously masquerading as one. When she had checked it she felt better.

Then, the five tables for the newspapers developed into one long table almost against the orchestra. And she and Al had invited so many people! Ought she to speak about that? She didn't know what to do. The orchestra was tuning up, squawking and piping. The round rows of tables were glassy white, ghastly; the waiters stood against the wall. Mr. Larchmont, the owner, came over and inspected her in one sharp glance from bare shoulders to tapered ankles.

"Everything all right?" he said. She nodded. "Now, all I ask of you is this--if any of these newspaper fellas show up not in evening clothes, please see that they sit away from the dance floor. This is an exclusive club, you know. Lots of society people will be here to-night. I don't want them to get the idea we let _anybody_ in."

He snorted at the very thought. "Do you understand?" Again she nodded. "And if they want anything--a little--" he made a wide open motion of his hand--"just ask the waiter. They can't have the whole cellar, y'understand--but there's plenty of it." He gave her a brisk, charming smile, a smile of approval, and went away.

The next to arrive were Letty and Harold Moses. Grace had begged them to hurry. They were not newspaper people, of course, but whenever Grace could find a loophole to drag Letty in, to share anything with her, she did so.

Letty was giggling.

"Gee, we're the acrobats, we're opening the show. Harold almost died when he saw the empty tables. I couldn't get him in, almost. Where's Blake?"

"He wouldn't come so early."

"He's right," grumbled Harold. He was a man of thirty, dark, clean-shaven, well dressed. He looked steady. The idea of making himself conspicuous in any way, even as the first to arrive at a night club, bothered him.

Letty caught the eye of the orchestra leader and would have signaled. Harold put down her hand.

"I know he'd play for us if we asked him," said Letty, tapping a small, light foot. "Oh, Gee! Harold, the old spoil-sport. Is Blake really coming?"

"Yes. We--arranged _that_," said Grace. Letty always gave her composure and a feeling of maturity.

"Wife hasn't gone yet?"

"Not till next week."

Harold smoked and looked away. This business of running around with a married man. He disapproved of both Blake and Grace, but of Grace most. Letty never considered Blake's wife at all, but Harold, strangely enough, did. He felt sorry for her and in accord with her, as if, though he had never seen the woman, he realized that they shared a mutual trouble, that they were both on the side of the easily overlooked.

"Blake'll dance with me anyhow--if Harold won't."

Harold couldn't help looking alarmed.

"Who do you think called me up the other day? Paul! Yop. And I can't even see him, Harold's so mean about it."

Harold's lips shut in an unhappy line. He was determined at any rate not to be on the side of the deceived.

"He _did_! Can't keep away, can he?" said Grace, who knew very well that Letty would manage to see Paul. Probably her aid would be enlisted in the arrangement. At the same time, she sympathized with Harold and changed the subject. "My Gawd! Isn't anyone ever coming to this night club?"

People were straggling in, though very slowly. The orchestra played once or twice, the sad, calling notes of orchestras on empty dance floors. Without a human response, dance music was the loneliest music on earth, Grace thought.

After theater time, after eleven, the club began to seem appreciably warmer and warmer, gayer and gayer; there was talk now and the waiters flew, and the orchestra became cheerful with appreciation. Lovely dresses and lovely faces bloomed about them. Letty and Grace envied the corsages of orchids. Their table was rather silent. A newspaperman had appeared with a large wife, pathetically pleasant. The newspaperman drank. There was the photographer, Al's friend, with a girl from the _Telegraph_.

At midnight Blake walked in, very pale under the lights, and sat mutely by Letty, dancing only when she asked him. Grace knew that he disliked this environment. It made him feel poorer and shabbier than ever. He did not smoke and turned the water glass with his highball round and round in his hand. But Grace could not give him any attention. Two newspapermen, acquaintances of hers, had also come. She danced with one, then the other, then brought them to Letty. Letty rose to dance and Grace slipped into her chair. She had no time to talk to Blake, however; the wife of the newspaperman leaned over the table and preëmpted her. With her eyes, Grace beseeched Blake to dance with this woman, knowing it would be useless. He was comfortable, sitting there silent, and would be oblivious to all else.

At the same time, she had a glimpse of Miss Vestry with a quite presentable man in tow. They were weaving their way between tables and among dancers going and coming. Miss Vestry looked better than Grace had expected. She had pretty, short hair, reddish brown. Grace introduced her to Blake. She had to rise then to dance and, watching from the floor, she saw, over and under heads, that Miss Vestry was actually talking to Blake, very brightly. She brushed by Letty.

"Who is _that_ girl?" said Letty.

"Go over and see if Blake needs rescuing," said Grace over her shoulder.

"He doesn't look it," said Letty swiftly, and tripped away in her partner's arms.

When Grace returned to the table Miss Vestry was on the opposite side, at the other end. Grace made a moment to lean over Blake and whisper, "Was it terrible? I'm sorry."

"Oh, she was telling me a funny story about a taxi driver," said Blake with a smile.

So Grace contemplated Miss Vestry across the table with a new curiosity. What was there to her? Blake was usually annoyed by strangers.

The fusion of the group no longer depended on Grace. The separate elements had been welded for the moment, in some way, into one note of enjoyment. Even the talk was unrecognizable by individual voices. The party had a voice of its own, confused and gay. Harry Strauss walked over from his table, his shock of hair more vigorously silver than ever, and patted her arm. "Everything all right? All the liquor you want?" Then Al burst upon them, holding tight by the elbow a lady in an orchid gown, expansive so that there seemed to be dozens of Als, whacking all the men on their backs and bending close to the bare shoulders of all the girls. He didn't know Blake but he slapped him on the back too. Blake flushed and sat up straighter.

"That fella on a paper?" said Al to Grace. "No? Gee, I thought I knew him. Oh, he came with you, huh?" he said with a knowing intonation. Grace had to remind herself that that tone of voice was habit. Al knew nothing, could know nothing whatever. "So only three showed up. Well, that don't mean a thing. All the fellas say they'll come and then nobody shows up. We--we're _all right_," he cried, putting his arm about the back of her chair in the excess of his spirits. "We'll make it. This is a good party." He spread the palm of his hand emphatically before her nose. "Wait till you see Annabella. Say, that baby's got something up her sleeve. She'll be a knockout."

"Where did you see her?" said Grace.

"I saw her. I saw her," shouted Al, and frisked away. Blake and Letty moved across several vacant chairs to her side. Everyone else was dancing. Directly opposite, Anita Vestry and Harold were in close conversation.

"I don't want to pry, but may I know what you and Harold can find to discuss so earnestly for half an hour?" called Letty above the noise of the orchestra.

Harold looked up and Miss Vestry reddened a little.

"We're talking about Trenton," she said. "I come from Trenton."

"Oh, my Gosh!" said Letty. "He's telling you about lace mills, then. I never knew anyone who talked more about _lace_ mills."

Miss Vestry laughed. "No. We're talking about potteries."

"_Potteries_! Do I get _potteries_ for breakfasts and dinners now?" It was a comic wail of despair.

Everybody laughed. And then, as she was talking, Miss Vestry noticed that everyone had been eliminated, everyone but Grace and Blake. Strange how, as she chatted with Letty Moses, she had also to be aware of what those two said. Perhaps it was the penetrating character of Grace's voice, the pause between phrases, which kept the ear subconsciously waiting, watching for the continuing phrase. Perhaps it was a curious tenseness of atmosphere. The pair seemed to gather the air around them and raise and hold it to some higher point where they alone sat. Or perhaps it was only because they seemed so utterly unaware of other people, looked and spoke and acted at and for each other. Anita Vestry could feel the three-cornered conversation waning, dying of its unimportance, as if the ears and attention of the others were also fixed elsewhere upon something more dominant. Yet Grace and Blake were saying little.

"When--must you leave?" Grace was asking.

"Two. I'm supposed to be working at Bill's house."

"Does Bill know it?"

"Mmm."

"Is she really going next week then?"

There was no answer. Grace desisted. She always knew just the moment to stop, had learned it patiently and profited by her experience. She said, "Anyhow, you'll have time to see our Annabella perform."

All the dancers were returning to their tables. The floor was cleared. A woman sang. Al had moved a chair between tables, regardless of the frowns of Mr. Larchmont and of the waiters, and sat at ease with his feet spread in front of him. When he caught Grace's eye ne winked and made violent, jovial signals.

Annabella appeared in a white, downy dress, with her partner, sliding like a large swan through the motions of a formal waltz. This was a tribute to Gene Arden, who had been a ballroom dancer. A few people pattered their hands. The next number belonged to Annabella alone; then she met her partner and the two performed some pretty, jigging steps. Alone again, she was better but not very exciting. There was light applause--and intermission.

Al rushed over.

"This is just the beginning. Wait, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Grace glanced toward Harry Strauss's table and felt depressed. Mr. Strauss was looking down his long nose, tapping a glass with his fingernail.

"He doesn't seem pleased," she said. "If she's no better than this----"

"Say, don't you worry!" cried Al. "That kid has the stuff. This is just a starter. She's a little scared, see? But she's got something up her sleeve you don't know nothin' about." The music began. "Watch this now. You'll see." He scurried away.

"He always knows so much," she murmured to Blake.

"Mmm. That's the Broadway act," said Blake.

Suddenly the circle of dance floor was flooded with a light that made it waver in long lines as if it were not wood but water. Annabella entered. Was it Annabella? Everyone sat up. The baby face was gone. This woman had no face--her face couldn't be noticed or recollected. She wore a short skirt of green grass apparently, and a band of grass lightly confined her breasts. The middle of her torso was bare, gracious, wide, and white. It was flat but not thin; the softness of the flesh was evident. She took a few steps directly within the light. She turned and sang, kicked out, danced. All at once she stood still. Her hips swayed. The audience breathed heavily. She was no longer Annabella Arden or anybody. She had completely, unconsciously visualized herself into a symbol. She was a woman--the woman. Holding herself still, the woman moved her body from the hips. The woman's white flesh rippled as a ray of white light ripples on a clear stream, and she threw up one white arm like a call. As she pranced, she sang, and it was as if she whinnied. "Well," cried Al, hollering above the thud of feet and hands, the applause, the calls, and mopping his brow. "Wha'd I tell you? Look at Harry now."

Harry Strauss was clapping and nodding his head slowly and definitely. Variations of the shimmy were still novel that year.

"She's a knockout! I bet Harry's glad now he tied her up."

"Do you mean to say Mr. Strauss didn't know about--this?"

"Oh, he knew. But he didn't know how this belly-dancing, what-you-call-it, would go in a ritzy club like the Miraflore. Larchmont didn't want to try it."

"It would go anywhere, from a honky-tonk up," said Blake. He had to raise his voice. There was still applause.

"You in show business?" cried Al.

Blake rose and spoke to Grace. "I'd better run along now before the encore."

"Don't--mind about me. I'm staying with Let to-night anyhow."

It hadn't occurred to Blake to mind about her, she saw. Once this would have hurt her, now she was resigned. That was just Blake's way. He was sorry and took her hand gently, in front of Al, to make up for his remissness.

"Hey, ain't he taking you home?" cried Al. "Say, there's a chance for _me_ now!"

Blake went at once.

After the encore Grace dragged Letty off the dance floor to go home. Miss Vestry was just leaving, too. Letty said to her with enthusiasm, "Come and see us sometime, call me up, won't you?"

Harold yawned widely in the taxi and Letty, animated as ever, gave him a push and a kiss. "The tired old business man. Well, your evening wasn't lost, was it? Just think of all the great big potteries you discussed with Miss--Miss--what was that girl's name?"

"Vestry. She seems to be all right. Blake liked her," said Grace.

"And so do I," declared Letty. "I asked her to call me up. Why don't you bring her along, Gracie, some Sunday maybe? I mean it. That's a nice girl, intelligent."

"Sunday? Oh. That--reminds me. What are--your plans--Sunday after next? I--was going to borrow your apartment."

"Uh-huh." By a direct look Letty signified that they had best discuss this when they were alone. Harold had turned away his face, twisted with irritation and embarrassment.