"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 a calibrethat discouraged vocal competition; and she was having, moreover,too much difficulty in adjusting her feet to Mr. Cracknell's erraticdance-steps to employ her attention elsewhere. They manoeuvred jerkilypast the table where Miss Mabel Hobson, the Flower Garden's newest"hostess," sat watching the revels with a distant hauteur. Miss Hobsonwas looking her most regal in old gold and black, and a sorrowful gulpescaped 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 could seethat directly I saw you. You have a sympathetic nature. That's why I'mtelling you all this. You're a sensible and broad-minded girl and canunderstand. I've done everything for that woman. I got her this job ashostess here--you wouldn't believe what they pay her. I starred her ina show once. Did you see those pearls she was wearing? I gave her those.And she won't speak to me. Just because I didn't like her hat. I wishyou could have seen that hat. You would agree with me, I know, becauseyou're a sensible, broad-minded girl and understand hats. I don't knowwhat to do. I come here every night." Sally was aware of this. She hadseen him often, but this was the first time that Lee Schoenstein, thegentlemanly master of ceremonies, had inflicted him on her. "I come hereevery night and dance past her table, but she won't look at me. What,"asked Mr. Cracknell, tears welling in his pale eyes, "would you do aboutit?"
"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 ifhe had 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 herold boarding-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. It wascrowded, as always. The Flower Garden was one of the many establishmentsof the same kind which had swum to popularity on the rising flood ofNew York's dancing craze; and doubtless because, as its proprietor hadclaimed, it was a nice place and run nice, it had continued, unlike manyof its rivals, to enjoy unvarying prosperity. In its advertisement,it described itself as "a supper-club for after-theatre dining anddancing," adding that "large and spacious, and sumptuously appointed,"it was "one of the town's wonder-places, with its incomparabledance-floor, enchanting music, cuisine, and service de luxe." From whichit may be gathered, even without his personal statements to that effect,that Isadore Abrahams thought well of the place.
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 asa battering-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 a swellshow. 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.I cert'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 tosay, 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 kickright now. 'The Wild Rose,' they called it," he said satirically, asif exposing 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 of her 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 vo
iceof 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.
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