Chapter 16 At The Flower Garden

    "And after all I've done for her," said Mr. Reginald Cracknell, hisvoice tremulous with self-pity and his eyes moist with the combinedeffects of anguish and over-indulgence in his celebrated private stock,"after all I've done for her she throws me down."Sally did not reply. The orchestra of the Flower Garden was of acalibre that discouraged vocal competition; and she was having,moreover, too much difficulty in adjusting her feet to Mr. Cracknell'serratic dance-steps to employ her attention elsewhere. They manoeuvredjerkily past the table where Miss Mabel Hobson, the Flower Garden'snewest "hostess," sat watching the revels with a distant hauteur. MissHobson was looking her most regal in old gold and black, and a sorrowfulgulp escaped the stricken Mr. Cracknell as he shambled beneath her eye.

　　"If I told you," he moaned in Sally's ear, "what... was that your ankle?

　　Sorry! Don't know what I'm doing to-night... If I told you what I hadspent on that woman, you wouldn't believe it. And then she throws medown. And all because I said I didn't like her in that hat. She hasn'tspoken to me for a week, and won't answer when I call up on the 'phone.

　　And I was right, too. It was a rotten hat. Didn't suit her a bit. Butthat," said Mr. Cracknell, morosely, "is a woman all over!"Sally uttered a stifled exclamation as his wandering foot descended onhers before she could get it out of the way. Mr. Cracknell interpretedthe ejaculation as a protest against the sweeping harshness of his lastremark, and gallantly tried to make amends.

　　"I don't mean you're like that," he said. "You're different. I couldsee that directly I saw you. You have a sympathetic nature. That's whyI'm telling you all this. You're a sensible and broad-minded girl andcan understand. I've done everything for that woman. I got her this jobas hostess here--you wouldn't believe what they pay her. I starred herin a show once. Did you see those pearls she was wearing? I gave herthose. And she won't speak to me. Just because I didn't like her hat. Iwish you could have seen that hat. You would agree with me, I know,because you're a sensible, broad-minded girl and understand hats. Idon't know what to do. I come here every night." Sally was aware ofthis. She had seen him often, but this was the first time that LeeSchoenstein, the gentlemanly master of ceremonies, had inflicted him onher. "I come here every night and dance past her table, but she won'tlook at me. What," asked Mr. Cracknell, tears welling in his pale eyes,"would you do about it?""I don't know," said Sally, frankly.

　　"Nor do I. I thought you wouldn't, because you're a sensible,broad-minded... I mean, nor do I. I'm having one last try to-night, ifyou can keep a secret. You won't tell anyone, will you?" pleaded Mr.

　　Cracknell, urgently. "But I know you won't because you're a sensible...

　　I'm giving her a little present. Having it brought here to-night. Littlepresent. That ought to soften her, don't you think?""A big one would do it better."Mr. Cracknell kicked her on the shin in a dismayed sort of way.

　　"I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right. But it's too late now.

　　Still, it might. Or wouldn't it? Which do you think?""Yes," said Sally.

　　"I thought as much," said Mr. Cracknell.

　　The orchestra stopped with a thump and a bang, leaving Mr. Cracknellclapping feebly in the middle of the floor. Sally slipped back to hertable. Her late partner, after an uncertain glance about him, as if hehad mislaid something but could not remember what, zigzagged off insearch of his own seat. The noise of many conversations, drowned by themusic, broke out with renewed vigour. The hot, close air was full ofvoices; and Sally, pressing her hands on her closed eyes, was remindedonce more that she had a headache.

　　Nearly a month had passed since her return to Mr. Abrahams' employment.

　　It had been a dull, leaden month, a monotonous succession of lifelessdays during which life had become a bad dream. In some strange nightmarefashion, she seemed nowadays to be cut off from her kind. It was weekssince she had seen a familiar face. None of the companions of her oldboarding-house days had crossed her path. Fillmore, no doubt fromuneasiness of conscience, had not sought her out, and Ginger was workingout his destiny on the south shore of Long Island.

　　She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and looked at the room. Itwas crowded, as always. The Flower Garden was one of the manyestablishments of the same kind which had swum to popularity on therising flood of New York's dancing craze; and doubtless because, as itsproprietor had claimed, it was a nice place and run nice, it hadcontinued, unlike many of its rivals, to enjoy unvarying prosperity. Inits advertisement, it described itself as "a supper-club forafter-theatre dining and dancing," adding that "large and spacious, andsumptuously appointed," it was "one of the town's wonder-places, withits incomparable dance-floor, enchanting music, cuisine, and service deluxe." From which it may be gathered, even without his personalstatements to that effect, that Isadore Abrahams thought well of theplace.

　　There had been a time when Sally had liked it, too. In her first periodof employment there she had found it diverting, stimulating and full ofentertainment. But in those days she had never had headaches or, whatwas worse, this dreadful listless depression which weighed her down andmade her nightly work a burden.

　　"Miss Nicholas."The orchestra, never silent for long at the Flower Garden, had startedagain, and Lee Schoenstein, the master of ceremonies, was presenting anew partner. She got up mechanically.

　　"This is the first time I have been in this place," said the man, asthey bumped over the crowded floor. He was big and clumsy, of course.

　　To-night it seemed to Sally that the whole world was big and clumsy.

　　"It's a swell place. I come from up-state myself. We got nothing likethis where I come from." He cleared a space before him, using Sally as abattering-ram, and Sally, though she had not enjoyed her recentexcursion with Mr. Cracknell, now began to look back to it almost withwistfulness. This man was undoubtedly the worst dancer in America.

　　"Give me li'l old New York," said the man from up-state,unpatriotically. "It's good enough for me. I been to some swell showssince I got to town. You seen this year's 'Follies'?""No.""You go," said the man earnestly. "You go! Take it from me, it's aswell show. You seen 'Myrtle takes a Turkish Bath'?""I don't go to many theatres.""You go! It's a scream. I been to a show every night since I got here.

　　Every night regular. Swell shows all of 'em, except this last one. Icert'nly picked a lemon to-night all right. I was taking a chance,y'see, because it was an opening. Thought it would be something to say,when I got home, that I'd been to a New York opening. Set me backtwo-seventy-five, including tax, and I wish I'd got it in my kick rightnow. 'The Wild Rose,' they called it," he said satirically, as ifexposing a low subterfuge on the part of the management. "'The WildRose!' It sure made me wild all right. Two dollars seventy-five tossedaway, just like that."Something stirred in Sally's memory. Why did that title seem sofamiliar? Then, with a shock, she remembered. It was Gerald's new play.

　　For some time after her return to New York, she had been haunted by thefear lest, coming out other apartment, she might meet him coming out ofhis; and then she had seen a paragraph in her morning paper which hadrelieved her of this apprehension. Gerald was out on the road with a newplay, and "The Wild Rose," she was almost sure, was the name of it.

　　"Is that Gerald Foster's play?" she asked quickly.

　　"I don't know who wrote it," said her partner, "but let me tell you he'sone lucky guy to get away alive. There's fellows breaking stones on theOssining Road that's done a lot less to deserve a sentence. Wild Rose!

　　I'll tell the world it made me go good and wild," said the man fromup-state, an economical soul who disliked waste and was accustomed tospread out his humorous efforts so as to give them every chance. "Why,before the second act was over, the people were beating it for theexits, and if it hadn't been for someone shouting 'Women and childrenfirst' there'd have been a panic."Sally found herself back at her table without knowing clearly how shehad got there.

　　"Miss Nicholas."She started to rise, and was aware suddenly that this was not the voiceof duty calling her once more through the gold teeth of Mr. Schoenstein.

　　The man who had spoken her name had seated himself beside her, and wastalking in precise, clipped accents, oddly familiar. The mist clearedfrom her eyes and she recognized Bruce Carmyle.

　　"I called at your place," Mr. Carmyle was saying, "and the hall portertold me that you were here, so I ventured to follow you. I hope you donot mind? May I smoke?"He lit a cigarette with something of an air. His fingers trembled as heraised the match, but he flattered himself that there was nothing elsein his demeanour to indicate that he was violently excited. BruceCarmyle's ideal was the strong man who can rise superior to hisemotions. He was alive to the fact that this was an embarrassing moment,but he was determined not to show that he appreciated it. He cast asideways glance at Sally, and thought that never, not even in the gardenat Monk's Crofton on a certain momentous occasion, had he seen herlooking prettier. Her face was flushed and her eyes aflame. The stoutwraith of Uncle Donald, which had accompanied Mr. Carmyle on thisexpedition of his, faded into nothingness as he gazed.

　　There was a pause. Mr. Carmyle, having lighted his cigarette, puffedvigorously.

　　"When did you land?" asked Sally, feeling the need of saying something.

　　Her mind was confused. She could not have said whether she was glad orsorry that he was there. Glad, she thought, on the whole. There wassomething in his dark, cool, stiff English aspect that gave her acurious feeling of relief. He was so unlike Mr. Cracknell and the manfrom up-state and so calmly remote from the feverish atmosphere inwhich she lived her nights that it was restful to look at him.

　　"I landed to-night," said Bruce Carmyle, turning and faced her squarely.

　　"To-night!""We docked at ten."He turned away again. He had made his effect, and was content to leaveher to think it over.

　　Sally was silent. The significance of his words had not escaped her.

　　She realized that his presence there was a challenge which she mustanswer. And yet it hardly stirred her. She had been fighting so long,and she felt utterly inert. She was like a swimmer who can battle nolonger and prepares to yield to the numbness of exhaustion. The heat ofthe room pressed down on her like a smothering blanket. Her tired nervescried out under the blare of music and the clatter of voices.

　　"Shall we dance this?" he asked.

　　The orchestra had started to play again, a sensuous, creamy melody whichwas making the most of its brief reign as Broadway's leading song-hit,overfamiliar to her from a hundred repetitions.

　　"If you like."Efficiency was Bruce Carmyle's gospel. He was one of these men who donot attempt anything which they cannot accomplish to perfection.

　　Dancing, he had decided early in his life, was a part of a gentleman'seducation, and he had seen to it that he was educated thoroughly. Sally,who, as they swept out on to the floor, had braced herself automaticallyfor a repetition of the usual bumping struggle which dancing at theFlower Garden had come to mean for her, found herself in the arms of amasterful expert, a man who danced better than she did, and suddenlythere came to her a feeling that was almost gratitude, a miraculousslackening of her taut nerves, a delicious peace. Soothed andcontented, she yielded herself with eyes half closed to the rhythm ofthe melody, finding it now robbed in some mysterious manner of all itsstale cheapness, and in that moment her-whole attitude towards BruceCarmyle underwent a complete change.

　　She had never troubled to examine with any minuteness her feelingstowards him: but one thing she had known clearly since their firstmeeting--that he was physically distasteful to her. For all his goodlooks, and in his rather sinister way he was a handsome man, she hadshrunk from him. Now, spirited away by the magic of the dance, thatrepugnance had left her. It was as if some barrier had been broken downbetween them.

　　"Sally!"She felt his arm tighten about her, the muscles quivering. She caughtsight of his face. His dark eyes suddenly blazed into hers and shestumbled with an odd feeling of helplessness; realizing with a shockthat brought her with a jerk out of the half-dream into which she hadbeen lulled that this dance had not postponed the moment of decision, asshe had looked to it to do. In a hot whisper, the words swept away onthe flood of the music which had suddenly become raucous and blaringonce more, he was repeating what he had said under the trees at Monk'sCrofton on that far-off morning in the English springtime. Dizzily sheknew that she was resenting the unfairness of the attack at such amoment, but her mind seemed numbed.

　　The music stopped abruptly. Insistent clapping started it again, butSally moved away to her table, and he followed her like a shadow.

　　Neither spoke. Bruce Carmyle had said his say, and Sally was sittingstaring before her, trying to think. She was tired, tired. Her eyes wereburning. She tried to force herself to face the situation squarely. Wasit worth struggling? Was anything in the world worth a struggle? Sheonly knew that she was tired, desperately tired, tired to the verydepths of her soul.

　　The music stopped. There was more clapping, but this time the orchestradid not respond. Gradually the floor emptied. The shuffling of feetceased. The Flower Garden was as quiet as it was ever able to be. Eventhe voices of the babblers seemed strangely hushed. Sally closed hereyes, and as she did so from somewhere up near the roof there came thesong of a bird.

　　Isadore Abrahams was a man of his word. He advertised a Flower Garden,and he had tried to give the public something as closely resembling aflower-garden as it was possible for an overcrowded, overheated,overnoisy Broadway dancing-resort to achieve. Paper roses festooned thewalls; genuine tulips bloomed in tubs by every pillar; and from the roofhung cages with birds in them. One of these, stirred by the suddencessation of the tumult below, had began to sing.

　　Sally had often pitied these birds, and more than once had pleaded invain with Abrahams for a remission of their sentence, but somehow atthis moment it did not occur to her that this one was merely praying inits own language, as she often had prayed in her thoughts, to be takenout of this place. To her, sitting there wrestling with Fate, the songseemed cheerful. It soothed her. It healed her to listen to it. Andsuddenly before her eyes there rose a vision of Monk's Crofton, cool,green, and peaceful under the mild English sun, luring her as an oasisseen in the distance lures the desert traveller ...

　　She became aware that the master of Monk's Crofton had placed his handon hers and was holding it in a tightening grip. She looked down andgave a little shiver. She had always disliked Bruce Carmyle's hands.

　　They were strong and bony and black hair grew on the back of them. Oneof the earliest feelings regarding him had been that she would hate tohave those hands touching her. But she did not move. Again that visionof the old garden had flickered across her mind... a haven where shecould rest...

　　He was leaning towards her, whispering in her ear. The room was hotterthan it had ever been, noisier than it had ever been, fuller than it hadever been. The bird on the roof was singing again and now she understoodwhat it said. "Take me out of this!" Did anything matter except that?

　　What did it matter how one was taken, or where, or by whom, so that onewas taken.

　　Monk's Crofton was looking cool and green and peaceful...

　　"Very well," said Sally.

　　Bruce Carmyle, in the capacity of accepted suitor, found himself atsomething of a loss. He had a dissatisfied feeling. It was not themanner of Sally's acceptance that caused this. It would, of course, havepleased him better if she had shown more warmth, but he was prepared towait for warmth. What did trouble him was the fact that his correct mindperceived now for the first time that he had chosen an unsuitablemoment and place for his outburst of emotion. He belonged to theorthodox school of thought which looks on moonlight and solitude as theproper setting for a proposal of marriage; and the surroundings of theFlower Garden, for all its nice-ness and the nice manner in which it wasconducted, jarred upon him profoundly.

　　Music had begun again, but it was not the soft music such as a loverdemands if he is to give of his best. It was a brassy, clashy renderingof a ribald one-step, enough to choke the eloquence of the most ardent.

　　Couples were dipping and swaying and bumping into one another as far asthe eye could reach; while just behind him two waiters had halted inorder to thrash out one of those voluble arguments in which waiters loveto indulge. To continue the scene at the proper emotional level wasimpossible, and Bruce Carmyle began his career as an engaged man bydropping into Smalltalk.

　　"Deuce of a lot of noise," he said querulously.

　　"Yes," agreed Sally.

　　"Is it always like this?""Oh, yes.""Infernal racket!""Yes."The romantic side of Mr. Carmyle's nature could have cried aloud at thehideous unworthiness of these banalities. In the visions which he hadhad of himself as a successful wooer, it had always been in the momentsimmediately succeeding the all-important question and its whisperedreply that he had come out particularly strong. He had been accustomedto picture himself bending with a proud tenderness over his partner inthe scene and murmuring some notably good things to her bowed head. Howcould any man murmur in a pandemonium like this. From tenderness BruceCarmyle descended with a sharp swoop to irritability.

　　"Do you often come here?""Yes.""What for?""To dance."Mr. Carmyle chafed helplessly. The scene, which should be so romantic,had suddenly reminded him of the occasion when, at the age of twenty, hehad attended his first ball and had sat in a corner behind a potted palmperspiring shyly and endeavouring to make conversation to a formidablenymph in pink. It was one of the few occasions in his life at which hehad ever been at a complete disadvantage. He could still remember theclammy discomfort of his too high collar as it melted on him. Mostcertainly it was not a scene which he enjoyed recalling; and that heshould be forced to recall it now, at what ought to have been thesupreme moment of his life, annoyed him intensely. Almost angrily heendeavoured to jerk the conversation to a higher level.

　　"Darling," he murmured, for by moving his chair two feet to the rightand bending sideways he found that he was in a position to murmur, "youhave made me so...""Batti, batti! I presto ravioli hollandaise," cried one of the disputingwaiters at his back--or to Bruce Carmyle's prejudiced hearing itsounded like that.

　　"La Donna e mobile spaghetti napoli Tettrazina," rejoined the secondwaiter with spirit.

　　"... you have made me so...""Infanta Isabella lope de Vegas mulligatawny Toronto," said the firstwaiter, weak but coming back pluckily.

　　"... so happy...""Funiculi funicula Vincente y Blasco Ibanez vermicelli sul campo dellagloria risotto!" said the second waiter clinchingly, and scored atechnical knockout.

　　Bruce Carmyle gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressedby that feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it wasall wrong.

　　The music stopped. The two leading citizens of Little Italy vanishedand went their way, probably to start a vendetta. There followedcomparative calm. But Bruce Carmyle's emotions, like sweet bellsjangled, were out of tune, and he could not recapture the first finecareless rapture. He found nothing within him but small-talk.

　　"What has become of your party?" he asked.

　　"My party?""The people you are with," said Mr. Carmyle. Even in the stress of hisemotion this problem had been exercising him. In his correctly orderedworld girls did not go to restaurants alone.

　　"I'm not with anybody.""You came here by yourself?" exclaimed Bruce Carmyle, frankly aghast.

　　And, as he spoke, the wraith of Uncle Donald, banished till now,returned as large as ever, puffing disapproval through a walrusmoustache.

　　"I am employed here," said Sally.

　　Mr. Carmyle started violently.

　　"Employed here?""As a dancer, you know. I..."Sally broke off, her attention abruptly diverted to something which hadjust caught her eye at a table on the other side of the room. Thatsomething was a red-headed young man of sturdy build who had justappeared beside the chair in which Mr. Reginald Cracknell was sitting inhuddled gloom. In one hand he carried a basket, and from this basket,rising above the din of conversation, there came a sudden sharp yapping.

　　Mr. Cracknell roused himself from his stupor, took the basket, raisedthe lid. The yapping increased in volume.

　　Mr. Cracknell rose, the basket in his arms. With uncertain steps and alook on his face like that of those who lead forlorn hopes he crossedthe floor to where Miss Mabel Hobson sat, proud and aloof. The nextmoment that haughty lady, the centre of an admiring and curious crowd,was hugging to her bosom a protesting Pekingese puppy, and Mr.

　　Cracknell, seizing his opportunity like a good general, had depositedhimself in a chair at her side. The course of true love was runningsmooth again.

　　The red-headed young man was gazing fixedly at Sally.

　　"As a dancer!" ejaculated Mr. Carmyle. Of all those within sight of themoving drama which had just taken place, he alone had paid no attentionto it. Replete as it was with human interest, sex-appeal, the punch, andall the other qualities which a drama should possess, it had failed togrip him. His thoughts had been elsewhere. The accusing figure of UncleDonald refused to vanish from his mental eye. The stern voice of UncleDonald seemed still to ring in his ear.

　　A dancer! A professional dancer at a Broadway restaurant! Hideous doubtsbegan to creep like snakes into Bruce Carmyle's mind. What, he askedhimself, did he really know of this girl on whom he had bestowed thepriceless boon of his society for life? How did he know what she was--hecould not find the exact adjective to express his meaning, but he knewwhat he meant. Was she worthy of the boon? That was what it amounted to.

　　All his life he had had a prim shrinking from the section of thefeminine world which is connected with the light-life of large cities.

　　Club acquaintances of his in London had from time to time married intothe Gaiety Chorus, and Mr. Carmyle, though he had no objection to theGaiety Chorus in its proper place--on the other side of thefootlights--had always looked on these young men after as socialoutcasts. The fine dashing frenzy which had brought him all the way fromSouth Audley Street to win Sally was ebbing fast.

　　Sally, hearing him speak, had turned. And there was a candid honesty inher gaze which for a moment sent all those creeping doubts scuttlingaway into the darkness whence they had come. He had not made a fool ofhimself, he protested to the lowering phantom of Uncle Donald. Who, hedemanded, could look at Sally and think for an instant that she was notall that was perfect and lovable? A warm revulsion of feeling swept overBruce Carmyle like a returning tide.

　　"You see, I lost my money and had to do something," said Sally.

　　"I see, I see," murmured Mr. Carmyle; and if only Fate had left himalone who knows to what heights of tenderness he might not have soared?

　　But at this moment Fate, being no respecter of persons, sent into hislife the disturbing personality of George Washington Williams.

　　George Washington Williams was the talented coloured gentleman who hadbeen extracted from small-time vaudeville by Mr. Abrahams to do anightly speciality at the Flower Garden. He was, in fact, atrap-drummer: and it was his amiable practice, after he had done a fewminutes trap-drumming, to rise from his seat and make a circular tour ofthe tables on the edge of the dancing-floor, whimsically pretending toclip the locks of the male patrons with a pair of drumsticks heldscissor-wise. And so it came about that, just as Mr. Carmyle was bendingtowards Sally in an access of manly sentiment, and was on the very vergeof pouring out his soul in a series of well-phrased remarks, he wassurprised and annoyed to find an Ethiopian to whom he had never beenintroduced leaning over him and taking quite unpardonable liberties withhis back hair.

　　One says that Mr. Carmyle was annoyed. The word is weak. Theinterruption coming at such a moment jarred every ganglion in his body.

　　The clicking noise of the drumsticks maddened him. And the gleamingwhiteness of Mr. Williams' friendly and benignant smile was the laststraw. His dignity writhed beneath this abominable infliction. People atother tables were laughing. At him. A loathing for the Flower Gardenflowed over Bruce Carmyle, and with it a feeling of suspicion anddisapproval of everyone connected with the establishment. He sprang tohis feet.

　　"I think I will be going," he said.

　　Sally did not reply. She was watching Ginger, who still stood besidethe table recently vacated by Reginald Cracknell .

　　"Good night," said Mr. Carmyle between his teeth.

　　"Oh, are you going?" said Sally with a start. She felt embarrassed.

　　Try as she would, she was unable to find words of any intimacy. Shetried to realize that she had promised to marry this man, but neverbefore had he seemed so much a stranger to her, so little a part of herlife. It came to her with a sensation of the incredible that she haddone this thing, taken this irrevocable step.

　　The sudden sight of Ginger had shaken her. It was as though in the lasthalf-hour she had forgotten him and only now realized what marriage withBruce Carmyle would mean to their comradeship. From now on he was deadto her. If anything in this world was certain that was. Sally Nicholaswas Ginger's pal, but Mrs. Carmyle, she realized, would never be allowedto see him again. A devastating feeling of loss smote her like a blow.

　　"Yes, I've had enough of this place," Bruce Carmyle was saying.

　　"Good night," said Sally. She hesitated. "When shall I see you?" sheasked awkwardly.

　　It occurred to Bruce Carmyle that he was not showing himself at hisbest. He had, he perceived, allowed his nerves to run away with him.

　　"You don't mind if I go?" he said more amiably. "The fact is, I can'tstand this place any longer. I'll tell you one thing, I'm going to takeyou out of here quick.""I'm afraid I can't leave at a moment's notice," said Sally, loyal toher obligations.

　　"We'll talk over that to-morrow. I'll call for you in the morning andtake you for a drive somewhere in a car. You want some fresh air afterthis." Mr. Carmyle looked about him in stiff disgust, and expressed hisunalterable sentiments concerning the Flower Garden, that apple ofIsadore Abrahams' eye, in a snort of loathing. "My God! What a place!"He walked quickly away and disappeared. And Ginger, beaming happily,swooped on Sally's table like a homing pigeon.

　　"Good Lord, I say, what ho!" cried Ginger. "Fancy meeting you here.

　　What a bit of luck!" He glanced over his shoulder warily. "Has thatblighter pipped?""Pipped?""Popped," explained Ginger. "I mean to say, he isn't coming back or anyrot like that, is he?""Mr. Carmyle? No, he has gone.""Sound egg!" said Ginger with satisfaction. "For a moment, when I sawyou yarning away together, I thought he might be with your party. Whaton earth is he doing over here at all, confound him? He's got all Europeto play about in, why should he come infesting New York? I say, itreally is ripping, seeing you again. It seems years... Of course, oneget's a certain amount of satisfaction writing letters, but it's not thesame. Besides, I write such rotten letters. I say, this really is ratherpriceless. Can't I get you something? A cup of coffee, I mean, or an eggor something? By jove! this really is top-hole."His homely, honest face glowed with pleasure, and it seemed to Sally asthough she had come out of a winter's night into a warm friendly room.

　　Her mercurial spirits soared.

　　"Oh, Ginger! If you knew what it's like seeing you!""No, really? Do you mean, honestly, you're braced?""I should say I am braced.""Well, isn't that fine! I was afraid you might have forgotten me.""Forgotten you!"With something of the effect of a revelation it suddenly struck Sallyhow far she had been from forgetting him, how large was the place he hadoccupied in her thoughts.

　　"I've missed you dreadfully," she said, and felt the words inadequate asshe uttered them.

　　"What ho!" said Ginger, also internally condemning the poverty of speechas a vehicle for conveying thought.

　　There was a brief silence. The first exhilaration of the reunion over,Sally deep down in her heart was aware of a troubled feeling as thoughthe world were out of joint. She forced herself to ignore it, but itwould not be ignored. It grew. Dimly she was beginning to realize whatGinger meant to her, and she fought to keep herself from realizing it.

　　Strange things were happening to her to-night, strange emotions stirringher. Ginger seemed somehow different, as if she were really seeing himfor the first time.

　　"You're looking wonderfully well," she said trying to keep theconversation on a pedestrian level.

　　"I am well," said Ginger. "Never felt fitter in my life. Been out inthe open all day long... simple life and all that... working likeblazes. I say, business is booming. Did you see me just now, handingover Percy the Pup to what's-his-name? Five hundred dollars on that onedeal. Got the cheque in my pocket. But what an extraordinarily rummything that I should have come to this place to deliver the goods justwhen you happened to be here. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. Isay, I hope the people you're with won't think I'm butting in. You'llhave to explain that we're old pals and that you started me in businessand all that sort of thing. Look here," he said lowering his voice, "Iknow how you hate being thanked, but I simply must say how terrificallydecent...""Miss Nicholas."Lee Schoenstein was standing at the table, and by his side an expectantyouth with a small moustache and pince-nez. Sally got up, and the nextmoment Ginger was alone, gaping perplexedly after her as she vanishedand reappeared in the jogging throng on the dancing floor. It was thenearest thing Ginger had seen to a conjuring trick, and at that momenthe was ill-attuned to conjuring tricks. He brooded, fuming, at whatseemed to him the supremest exhibition of pure cheek, of monumentalnerve, and of undiluted crust that had ever come within his notice. Tocome and charge into a private conversation like that and whisk her awaywithout a word...

　　"Who was that blighter?" he demanded with heat, when the music ceasedand Sally limped back.

　　"That was Mr. Schoenstein.""And who was the other?""The one I danced with? I don't know.""You don't know?"Sally perceived that the conversation had arrived at an embarrassingpoint. There was nothing for it but candour.

　　"Ginger," she said, "you remember my telling you when we first met thatI used to dance in a Broadway place? This is the place. I'm workingagain."Complete unintelligence showed itself on Ginger's every feature.

　　"I don't understand," he said--unnecessarily, for his face revealed thefact.

　　"I've got my old job back.""But why?""Well, I had to do something." She went on rapidly. Already a lightdimly resembling the light of understanding was beginning to appear inGinger's eyes. "Fillmore went smash, you know--it wasn't his fault, poordear. He had the worst kind of luck--and most of my money was tied up inhis business, so you see..."She broke off confused by the look in his eyes, conscious of an absurdfeeling of guilt. There was amazement in that look and a sort ofincredulous horror.

　　"Do you mean to say..." Ginger gulped and started again. "Do you meanto tell me that you let me have... all that money... for thedog-business... when you were broke? Do you mean to say..."Sally stole a glance at his crimson face and looked away again quickly.

　　There was an electric silence.

　　"Look here," exploded Ginger with sudden violence, "you've got to marryme. You've jolly well got to marry me! I don't mean that," he addedquickly. "I mean to say I know you're going to marry whoever youplease... but won't you marry me? Sally, for God's sake have a dash atit! I've been keeping it in all this time because it seemed ratherrotten to bother you about it, but now... .Oh, dammit, I wish I couldput it into words. I always was rotten at talking. But... well, lookhere, what I mean is, I know I'm not much of a chap, but it seems to meyou must care for me a bit to do a thing like that for a fellow...

　　and... I've loved you like the dickens ever since I met you... I do wishyou'd have a stab at it, Sally. At least I could look after you, youknow, and all that... I mean to say, work like the deuce and try to giveyou a good time... I'm not such an ass as to think a girl like you couldever really... er... love a blighter like me, but..."Sally laid her hand oh his.

　　"Ginger, dear," she said, "I do love you. I ought to have known it allalong, but I seem to be understanding myself to-night for the firsttime." She got up and bent over him for a swift moment, whispering inhis ear, "I shall never love anyone but you, Ginger. Will you try toremember that." She was moving away, but he caught at her arm andstopped her.

　　"Sally..."She pulled her arm away, her face working as she fought against thetears that would not keep back.

　　"I've made a fool of myself," she said. "Ginger, your cousin... Mr.

　　Carmyle... just now he asked me to marry him, and I said I would."She was gone, flitting among the tables like some wild creature runningto its home: and Ginger, motionless, watched her go.

　　The telephone-bell in Sally's little sitting-room was ringing jerkily asshe let herself in at the front door. She guessed who it was at theother end of the wire, and the noise of the bell sounded to her like thevoice of a friend in distress crying for help. Without stopping to closethe door, she ran to the table and unhooked the receiver. Muffled,plaintive sounds were coining over the wire.

　　"Hullo... Hullo... I say... Hullo...""Hullo, Ginger," said Sally quietly.

　　An ejaculation that was half a shout and half gurgle answered her.

　　"Sally! Is that you?""Yes, here I am, Ginger.""I've been trying to get you for ages.""I've only just come in. I walked home."There was a pause.

　　"Hullo.""Yes?""Well, I mean..." Ginger seemed to be finding his usual difficulty inexpressing himself. "About that, you know. What you said.""Yes?" said Sally, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

　　"You said..." Again Ginger's vocabulary failed him. "You said you lovedme.""Yes," said Sally simply.

　　Another odd sound floated over the wire, and there was a moment ofsilence before Ginger found himself able to resume.

　　"I... I... Well, we can talk about that when we meet. I mean, it's nogood trying to say what I think over the 'phone, I'm sort of knockedout. I never dreamed... But, I say, what did you mean about Bruce?""I told you, I told you." Sally's face was twisted and the receivershook in her hand. "I've made a fool of myself. I never realized... Andnow it's too late.""Good God!" Ginger's voice rose in a sharp wail. "You can't mean youreally... You don't seriously intend to marry the man?""I must. I've promised.""But, good heavens...""It's no good. I must.""But the man's a blighter!""I can't break my word.""I never heard such rot," said Ginger vehemently. "Of course you can.

　　A girl isn't expected...""I can't, Ginger dear, I really can't.""But look here...""It's really no good talking about it any more, really it isn't... Whereare you staying to-night?""Staying? Me? At the Plaza. But look here..."Sally found herself laughing weakly.

　　"At the Plaza! Oh, Ginger, you really do want somebody to look afteryou. Squandering your pennies like that... Well, don't talk any morenow. It's so late and I'm so tired. I'll come and see you to-morrow.

　　Good night."She hung up the receiver quickly, to cut short a fresh outburst ofprotest. And as she turned away a voice spoke behind her.

　　"Sally!"Gerald Foster was standing in the doorway.