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My Actor-Husband

<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> BY this time I had my own little coterie and I prided myself it was a cosmopolitan gathering which graced our little apartment on the second and third Sundays of the month. There was so much to learn, the interests were so diversified that I eagerly welcomed members of other professions than our own—if they were worth while. Our sculptor friend brought men who had travelled in remote parts of the world; they in turn brought others. We numbered several army and navy officers, a German scientist, men and women journalists, a cartoonist and an artist, women engaged in Settlement work and the quaint old French professor who taught me the language. When we could overcome his diffidence he was a mine of information. He had witnessed the Commune of Paris and was working on a book on that subject. It is an interesting study to divide the pastiche from the real. The time-killers and the curious soon dropped out. It was not difficult to limit our coterie to the dimensions of our home. I could not but contrast my simple "at homes" with those of the Dingleys. We had received several cards for their Sundays and Will said we must go to at least one of them. The Dingleys had sprung from humble beginnings. They were jocosely referred to as the "ten, twent' and thirt's." When I was a little girl in short skirts they were members of a répertoire company which played our town during County Fair week. The répertoire comprised such good old timers as The Two Orphans, the Danites, East Lynne, the Silver King, Streets of New York, Camille and The Ticket-of-Leave Man. Mrs. Dingley was the leading lady and her husband the utility man. She was my ideal of a heroine—in those days. Her hair was very golden, and as the weepy heroine she wore a black velvet dress with a long train. That black velvet (later experience told me it was velveteen) played many parts. It was a princess, and for evening wear the guimpe had only to be removed. Or, when the heroine was ailing, as becomes a persecuted woman, the princess, with the help of a full front panel, was converted into a tea-gown. Again, it was used as a riding habit, draped up on one side and topped by husband's silk hat wound round with a veil. With a good deal of crêpe drapery from the bonnet, the same gown passed muster as widow's weeds. Mentally, I resolved that when I became an actress I should have just such a prestidigital gown in my wardrobe. By dint of hard work on Mrs. Dingley's part and unmitigated nerve on the part of her husband they had finally arrived on Broadway. They had recently acquired a large house in the older part of the city and I understood it was Mrs. Dingley's idea to establish a salon. Certainly she was successful in drawing a crowd. The house was strikingly furnished. There was much gold furniture and antique bric-à-brac; canopied beds and monogrammed counterpanes. After a personally conducted tour of the house and an enlightening dissertation upon the real worth of and prices paid for the fittings, one retained a confusing sense of having had an exercise in mental arithmetic. It seemed rather catty of the women to make fun of the Dingleys behind their back and at the same time accept their hospitality. Two smart looking women whom I recognized as members of Mrs. D's. company appeared to get no little amusement out of the coat of arms on Mrs. Dingley's bed. "Why didn't they purloin a beer-stein, quiescent on a japanned tray?" I heard one say. "Or a Holstein bull rampant on a field of cotton," the other giggled. I failed to grasp the significance of their remarks, though I saw the humour in their allusion to the empty book-shelves which lined the walls of the library. "Why not buy several hundred feet of red-backed books, like a certain politician who wanted to fill up the wall space in his library?" "Pshaw! It would be cheaper to use props," scoffed the other. I myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning, as Mrs. Dingley was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop. Later I committed a faux pas, though I meant no offense. In my effort to say something nice to my hostess I remarked that I had seen her years ago during the early days of her struggle and that I had been one of her ardent admirers. The way she said, "Yes?" with the frosty inflection made me understand she did not care to remember her beginnings. While we were drinking tea out of priceless cups—the history of which was being retailed by our host—there was a commotion and a craning of necks toward the stairs. The hostess hurried forward to greet the late arrival. There was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a small pleasant-faced man with a Van Dyke beard entered the room. Our host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. "Here comes the king—here comes the king!" hummed the two actresses, winking significantly at me. There was a buzz of voices while Mrs. Dingley paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful proprietorship. The little man had a penchant for pretty girls and flattery. He got both. Everybody fawned on him, Mr. Dingley laboured heroically to be witty. My curiosity finally drove me to ask my neighbours who the little man was. "Is he a manager, or a producer, or?—?" I whispered. There was a peal of laughter before I was answered. "O, he's a producer, all right! Why, don't you know who he is? He's the goose that laid the golden egg!" taking in the gold furniture with a comprehensive sweep of her hand. She lowered her voice and leaned toward me. "He's Mr. ——!" I recognized the name of the multi-millionaire. "Is he?" I queried, trying to get another look at him. The women relapsed into their confidences. "How do you suppose she explains it to ——?" calling Mr. Dingley by his first name. The other woman shrugged her shoulders. "She doesn't have to explain; money talks." On the way home I asked Will what they meant. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "They do say that the little man is an 'angel.'" "Well, suppose he is?" I began indignantly. "There is such a thing as clean-minded men of the world: patrons of art without ulterior motives. All art needs fostering, and who better able to help the climbers than——?" Will laid his hand on mine, a little way he had when he wanted to reassure me. "I haven't a doubt in the world that there are clean-minded men of means without 'ulterior motives,' as you express it. I also believe that hen's teeth are rare." * * * * There were other near-salons to which we were invited. Some of them were highly temperamental gatherings. Every large city has its artistic set, but New York may safely claim the medal for the half-baked neurotics who wallow in illicit cults which they sanctify in the name of art. One of the most typical and, by the same token, the most amusing of these esoteric feasts was presided over by a lady-like creature who had spent some time in the Far East. We were met at the outer portal by a jet black, down-South negro done up in full Eastern regalia. An air of mysticism permeated even the box couches against the wall. They had a peculiar "feel" to them and one sank into their enfolding depths as one is taught to sink into the arms of Nirvana. It must have been awful for short, fat persons to scramble to their feet, after once being beguiled into sitting on these couches. The mysticism was enhanced by burning incense, shaded lights, draperies, and the host himself, who received us in Eastern garb, resplendent with the famous jewels, a gift from some potentate or other. We were conducted to a dais where the guest of honour—an oily, complacent Swami—received us. If we were pretty, the Swami held our hands longer than the amenities of good society demand. Some of the guests were highly sensitized beings. Some were lean like Cassius; perhaps they "thought too much." There was a preponderance of Greek and other classic dresses, over un-classic figures. (Why will doctors condemn the corset?) Hair-dressing was simplicity itself; in fact, the simplicity suggested a lick and a promise. Sometimes there were beads woven in the scrambled mess. The sockless damsel was in evidence and nobility was represented by a certain antique Baroness with a penchant for baby blonde hair. Affinity hunters abounded. By the dreamy longing of their watery eyes shall ye know them. Some there were who had made several excursions into the realms of free and easy love, but all, all had returned empty-handed, unsatisfied. O cruel Fate! And so they go, hunting, hunting.... After a call to silence, the Swami with the ingratiating smile and good front teeth made an address. It was a mystical, tortuous, rambling discourse which sounded to me a good deal like an advocation of free love. He told what ailed us; he said we didn't love enough. He assured us it was O, so easy to get our slice of the wonderful, all-pervading ether with which we were saturated. We simply didn't know how to use it. He had come to teach us: his the mission to prescribe for us. Electricity had been harnessed, why not love? I shuddered when I thought of the possibilities of a love-trust. Of course it would be cornered by some of the millionaires. After the address everybody clustered around the dispenser of Oriental pearls. The Swami slipped little printed matters into the palms of the neophytes. They told how farther enlightenment could be attained, on given days at given hours and given prices. Later our brute element was fortified by wafers and a mysterious punch. I felt sorry for the late-comers who missed the intellectual feed and arrived just in time for the refreshments. Wafers are not very sustaining. The punch was a mysterious and subtle concoction with a tendency to promulgate the tenets of the Swami's new religion. Before we took our leave I thought the eyes of the new disciples had grown more languishing and were considerably lit up. It may have been, of course, that the Swami had taken the lid off a few vats of his cerulean ether which was too highly rarefied for those present. As we closed the door and stepped out into the winter night, we instinctively inhaled the cold air, which, though it may not be full of love, is full of common-sense ozone. "When Boston people want to be naughty they go to New York." Our hostess nodded sententiously across the table as she made the statement. "Why confine it to Boston? Why not Philadelphia, Washington or ——?" "Because I don't know anything about those cities, and I do know my home city," interrupted his wife. "I guess you're right," Mr. Mollett answered. "It's the same spirit which keeps alive Le Rat Mort, or Maxim's, or any of those resorts in Paris. You rarely meet a Parisian at these show-places. If it were not for the foreigners—principally Americans and English—they'd have to shut up shop." "That's precisely my contention. One does things in Paris or New York one would never think of in Boston." Will had met Mr. Mollett at a Lambs' Gambol one Sunday night during the recent season in New York. They had taken a shine to each other, to use Mr. Mollett's expression, and had exchanged cards. "I liked your husband from the start," Mr. Mollett once said to me. "He's not a bit like an actor; he's natural and not a bit of a poseur." It appears that when anyone wants to pay an actor a particularly high compliment he tells him he is not a bit like an actor! This is not flattering to the rank and file of players, who labour under the misapprehension that to be effective they must act on and off the stage. On the opening night of the following season in Boston Will was pleased to find a card from Mr. Mollett and a note from his wife, asking whether I was in town; if so, would I waive the formality of a call and join them at "beans" on Saturday night after the performance. Mrs. Mollett's Saturday suppers were as much of an institution as the beans themselves. Our hostess was a bright, intelligent little woman without the pretense of the intellectual. Externally, she had all the ear-marks of a Boston woman. She wore the practical but disfiguring goloshes of a Boston winter and she carried a reticule. Her dress might have been made in Paris, but it had a true New England hang to it. It wasn't a component part of her; it was a thing apart. Her skin was rough and fretted with pin-wrinkles. I never saw a jar of cold cream on her dressing-table. The Molletts enjoyed a comfortable income which they appeared to use judiciously. Their home was comfortable and in good taste. Their library was a treat; not merely fine bindings and rare editions. The volumes showed an intimate acquaintance with the owner. By the process of elimination they had formed a selected chain of the better class of actors, who found a warm welcome awaiting them whenever they played Boston. The Molletts' leaning toward the artistic had no taint of the free-and-easy predilection. The element of illusion furnished by their player friends was precisely the variety needed to counteract the monotony of their daily routine. Both sides benefited by the exchange. Boston was the first stand on tour. The second season had opened with a six weeks' engagement in New York and one, two or more weeks were booked in the larger cities. The original company was advertised and—rare integrity—maintained. Will decided that it was cheaper to carry the boy and me on the road than to keep up two establishments. Luckily we sublet our apartment. I was for sending Experience back to her home, though I had become sincerely attached to her and so had Boy. Will declared we could not manage without a nurse. I assured him we could. "You don't suppose you can carry that Buster around in your arms, do you? And wouldn't I look nice climbing on and off trains, and coming into hotels with a baby in my arms? Pretty picture for a matinée idol! No, ma'am, Experience remains. Besides," he smiled at me, "a nurse and a valet help to make a good front. It'll keep the management guessing." Unfortunately the management were not the only ones kept guessing. Good hotels were expensive and Will's position did not permit him to stop at any other kind. It worried me a great deal to see Will's envelope come in on Tuesday and scarcely anything left on Wednesday when we had paid the bills. I suspected, too, that Will had some debts hanging over from last season. I knew he had drawn on the management during the summer. We foolishly took a cottage at Allenhurst on the sea, where we spent our holidays. The week-end parties proved expensive. It was easily accessible to New York and I never knew how popular Will was with the profession until that summer. I regretted we had not gone back to the farm in the Catskills. I saw a great deal more of Will on the road than I had in New York. There was no Lambs' Club and, though Will had guest-cards to clubs in various cities, there was not the lure of intimate association. We took long walks together, browsed in the book-shops, visited public buildings such as the library in Boston, and sometimes lunched or "tead" with friends. Will did not care to accept invitations to dinner; he said it made him "logey" to dine late and interfered with his evening performances. Altogether we came nearer to the old intimacy and comradeship than we had known for several years. At Christmas time we planned the boy's first tree. We believed he was now old enough to appreciate it. Santa Claus now became a name to conjure with; it acted as a bribe to good behaviour or a threat of punishment. Will and I went shopping together. The big toy-shops proved the most fascinating things in the world. We spent hours looking at the wonders of toy-land which the present-day child enjoys. Will said it made him feel like a boy and surely it brought out all the youth in his nature. His eyes would snap and sparkle with delight over a miniature railway with practicable engine and carriages, electric head-lights, block signals and the like. "Gee! What wouldn't I have given for an outfit like that when I was a kid!" he would exclaim. As for me, I couldn't make up my mind which I enjoyed the most; the pretty children who crowded the shop or the toys they came to see. We made several visits to Santa Claus land without being able to decide what would best please Boy. Experience advised us to have him make his own choice. When Experience took him for a tour of the shops he decided upon everything in the place. Suddenly the whole world faded into insignificance: "Senyder!" he stuttered, pointing imperiously to a dog whose breed seemed as indeterminate as the prototype. All dogs were Snyders to Boy, but perhaps the perpetual motion of the tail which wagged automatically reminded him most strongly of the original. It did no good to tell him that Santa Claus would bring Snyder down the chimney. Boy had his own ideas about fairies and their ilk. He refused to leave the shop without the dog. Needless to say the dog went home with us. Will never could endure Boy's shrieks. But, in extenuation, let it be said that not one of the toys Boy found grouped about his tree on Christmas morning—and their name was legion—gave him the joy he found in the mongrel pup. Miss Burton sent a box from far-off San Francisco, where she was playing. The Chinese dolls interested him for a moment, but his heart was true to Snyder. He slept with him, shared his food with him, sobbed out his childish grief with Snyder in his arms, and refused to part with his faithful friend even when old age robbed him of his woolly coat and shiny eyes. The star gave a party on Christmas Eve. When the curtain went down on the last act, the applause was choked off by the flashing on of the house lights. The stage-manager gave the order to strike, and in a short time the stage was clear. The carpenters then put together the improvised banquet board—great long planks of lumber resting upon saw-horses. From the iron landing of the first tier of spiral stairs upon which Will's dressing-room gave I watched the caterer's men lay the table. I had spent the latter part of the evening in the cubby hole—a rare occurrence, since I seldom went behind the scenes except with friends of Will's who had attended the performance and who wanted to see what the back of the stage looked like. Shortly before twelve o'clock the members of the company and a few outside guests assembled on the stage—where they were received by the star-hostess. In the midst of the chatter the lights went out. At first everyone thought it an accident until a bell in the distance chimed the witching hour. As the last stroke died away a faint jingle of sleigh bells wafted across the air. Nearer and louder they came, interspersed with the snap of a whip. A great shaft of light from above shot obliquely across the stage. From out of the clouds, as it seemed, a full-fledged Santa Claus descended like a flying machine. With the aid of a little "sneaky" music furnished by the orchestra and the faithful spot-light which dogged his very footsteps, Santy placed the huge tree in the centre of the table and unloaded his pack. With many a grotesque antic he surveyed his labour of love and finally, having sampled the contents of a decanter which graced the table, he rubbed his much padded pouch in satisfaction, laughed merrily, shouted a "merry Christmas to you all," and disappeared into the clouds. The effect was so bewitching and so eerie that old Kris received a spontaneous "hand" on his exit. I thought of Boy and how much he would have enjoyed the scene. Myriad little lights twinkled like stars upon the wonderful trees. A warm, red glow poured from imaginary fireplaces off stage. To the accompaniment of ohs! and ahs! and a merry potpourri from the orchestra we took our seats at table. I am sure any audience would gladly have paid a premium for tickets to this special performance. The supper proved to be an eight-course dinner. There was everything from nut-brown turkey to hot mince pie. The drinkables were varied and plentiful. I noticed that after the third or fourth course everybody was telling everybody else what a good actor he or she was. It developed into a veritable mutual admiration society. Will kicked me under the table several times when the character man told him what a good actor he was; it was common property that the character man "knocked" Will behind his back. The tall, good-looking girl I had noticed at rehearsals passed around a new diamond pendant she had just received from her friend in New York. "He's just crazy about you, ain't he?" chaffed one of the actors. The good-looking girl laughed and winked. "He sure is," she answered, "and I never even gave him as much as that," measuring off an infinitesimal speck of her thumb nail. A shout of laughter greeted her remark. A little later when she got warmed up she made eyes at Will across the table and threw him violets from her huge corsage bouquet. "Ev'ry matinée day I send thee violets," she paraphrased in song, the significance of which was lost on me until some days later. Toward the end of the dinner the packages were opened. Each memento was accompanied by a limerick hitting off the idiosyncrasies of the recipient, who was asked to read it aloud. Whoever composed the limericks was well paid for sitting up o' nights, for they caused a deal of merriment even if they were not entirely free from sting. After dinner there was vaudeville. The star gave some imitations of a café chantant which brought down the house. The musical director had composed a skit which he called "Very Grand Opera." The theme hinged on a leave-taking of one or more characters from the other. The book consisted of one word; farewell. I had never realized how long-winded the farewells of opera are until I heard the parody. The humour of it quite spoiled the tender duos, trios and choruses of the genuine article. Dear old Mr. and Mrs. —— contributed a cake-walk. No one suspected the grumpy old gentleman to have so much ginger in him. A good old Virginia reel and "Tucker" limbered everybody into action. Before we dispersed, old Santa Claus—impersonated by one of the walking gentlemen—again donned his beard and buckskin and accompanied by a noisy crew carried the great tree to the boarding-house where the child-actress of the company was staying. At the street end of the alley which led from the stage-entrance a big burly policeman stopped them; they were noisy to be sure. But even the officer laughed when Santy touched him on the arm and in a "tough" dialect asked him, "Say Bill, do youse believe in fairies?" If Will had any experiences in Boston only one came under my notice; rather, it was forced upon me. It was during the second week of the engagement that Will began to bring me violets. Now, he had not shown me this attention for several years. I was too much flattered at the time to notice that the flowers always came on matinée days, after the performance. Will generally took a walk after a matinée. He said it refreshed him for the evening performance. He would come in, glowing from the exercise, simply radiating health and energy. I knew what time to expect him and I would sit listening for the elevator to stop on our floor. I knew Will's step the minute he came down the hall. When he opened the door I instinctively sniffed the fresh air he brought in with him. I liked to feel his cold cheek against mine ... and to hear him puff and growl to amuse Boy as he pulled off his heavy coat. He was irresistible. The violets came in a purple box with the imprint of the florist in gold letters. The first time he brought them he set the box on the table without handing them to me. One of my weaknesses is flowers. "What's this?" I asked, pouncing upon the box. "Open it and see," he answered with one of his quizzical sidelong glances. "For me?" I asked a little dubiously. I lost no time in opening the box. If the shadow of a thought that an admirer of Will's had sent him the flowers flitted across my mind it was lost in Will's smile as he answered, "For my best girl." I buried my face in their cool depths. "Violets! O, the beauties! I like the single variety best, don't you, Will? They're so fresh and woodsy." Then my conscience smote me. Violets are expensive this time of year. "Will—weren't they horribly expensive?" Just the same I was pleased to death—as I had heard matinée girls say—and I made up my mind to forego something I needed to offset Will's flattering extravagance. I nursed and tended those violets until the next matinée day came round. When they faded I pressed them between blotting paper, intending when I got back home to put them away with other flowers Will had given me.... It was on Tuesday, the day after Christmas. I had gone out with Mrs. Mollett to tea at a woman's club. The violets Will had brought me after the Christmas matinée were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. The huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. Mrs. Mollett and I were late in getting back. I felt sure I should miss Will, who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. As I passed through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. He told me there was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. I asked for a card but none had been sent. Wondering who could be calling on me—I had so few acquaintances in Boston—and anticipating a pleasant surprise I followed the boy to the parlour on the second floor. It was a large room and I stopped in the portièred doorway half expectantly. The only occupant of the room was a tall person—whether woman or girl I could not discern. She stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. As she glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition I turned to go. The bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. "That's the lady who asked for you over there." He approached the girl, who turned timidly. "You wanted to see Mrs. Hartley, didn't you? This is she." It was probably the surprise of hearing correct English from the lips of a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. When I looked at the visitor I saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion. "There is—there appears to be some mistake," she stammered, addressing herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. "I asked to see Mr. Hartley—Mr. William Hartley," she called after the boy, though her voice was scarcely audible. She looked toward the door in a bewildered manner as if her only desire was to get away. There was something so distressing, so pathetic about her embarrassment; not a modicum of savoir faire or bluff to help her out. I found myself saying in a kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: "I am Mrs. Hartley; Mrs. William Hartley. Is there anything I can do?" For a full minute we stood and looked at each other. Under the full light, which the boy had switched on as he went out, her face and figure were sharply limned. A tall woman has always the best of it in any controversy, though I am sure my vis-à-vis did not realize her advantage. If her mind was as confused as her face indicated she was to be pitied. She was not merely a plain woman; she was the epitome of plainness. Nature had not given her a single redeeming feature; there was not even a hint of sauciness to the upturned nose; not a speculative quirk to the corner of the mouth or a fetching droop to the eyelids which sometimes illuminates the plainest of faces. Perhaps she realized the niggardliness of her gifts. There was an evident attempt at primping. Her hat sat uneasily upon a head unaccustomed to the hair-dresser's art. The shoes, too, I felt, were painful: they were so new and the heels so high, and unstable—a radical departure from the common-sense last which was as much a component part of her as the feet themselves. I visualized her home, her life and her commonplace associates ... the eternal illusion of the stage ... Will's magnetism, combined with the perfections and never-failing nobility of the stage hero.... I saw it all as clearly as I saw the strained, vari-expressioned face before me. All this in a brief fleeting moment. I smiled encouragingly. Her eyes met mine, then wavered and drooped, and drooping rested upon the violets—and we both understood.... "Won't you sit down?" I said, leading the way to a divan with the idea of easing the situation. "Do have a pillow!—there, is that more comfortable? These sofas seem never to fit in to one's back.... I'm sorry Mr. Hartley is not in. Usually he is in at this hour, but to-night he is dining out. I know he will be sorry to have missed you, for I am sure he wants to thank you in person for the lovely flowers. Yes, he told me all about it and we both appreciated your sweetness in sending them. I hope Mr. Hartley wrote and properly thanked you,"—I rattled on, hoping to give her time to recover herself. "He is, as a rule, quite punctilious in these matters, but with the holidays and the extra matinées—" I finished with an expressive shrug. There was a disheartening silence. "I think I must be going," she faltered at last, waiting for me to rise. "I'm afraid I've kept you too long.... You've been very kind.... I hope you haven't been shocked by ... by ... the unconventional way I...." Her speech came in jerks. "Not at all," I answered, jumping in and anticipating my cue. "Not at all!" I reiterated, injecting more warmth in the confirmation than I intended. I walked with her to the elevator. "I'm sorry it is so late or I would ask you to stop for a cup of tea. But you will come again, won't you?—perhaps you'll telephone me one morning—not too early——" I laughed a little as I pressed the button—"we're not early risers, and we'll arrange a time when Mr. Hartley can be with us. I want you to meet the boy—O, yes, we've got a baby, too! Of course, we think him the most wonderful baby in the world. Aren't parents a conceited lot?" ... I pressed her limp hand and smiled good-byes as the lift bore her out of sight. Then the smile went out of me. I felt angry with myself: I felt I had overdone it. What was the woman to me that I should exert myself to put her at ease with herself? She was but one of the silly creatures who "chase" the actor and pander to his vanity. I regretted the impulse which prompted me to ask her to tea. Truly, I had made a fool of myself.... At least, I had prevented her from making a farther fool of herself—and of me.... I went to my room but did not turn on the light for fear of attracting Experience, whose room was across the court. She was probably waiting for me. I wanted to be alone. I removed the violets from my coat. My first impulse was to throw them out the window; then I thought better of it—and of her. They represented a woman's illusions—no, two women's illusions.... Will had deliberately fooled me; even Miss Merdell, the tall good-looker, knew he was fooling me. That was what she meant when she chaffed him about the violets at the Christmas party. Perhaps it was not of great consequence, but, does a woman ever forgive a man for wounding her self-respect?... I did not look at Will when I told him of the visitor. He extricated himself gracefully. He said he thought my perspicacity would have made me tumble to the truth and when I didn't he concluded it was a shame to put me wise. And, after all, what did it matter? He had brought the flowers home to me when it was an easy matter to have turned them over to the extra girls.... Miss Gorr—that was her name—came to tea; in fact, she came several times. Will declared she was in a fair way of becoming a bore. "For Heaven's sake, don't turn her loose on me," he expostulated. "I'm willing to give her photographs and advice but I don't want to be seen about with a freak like that!" I caught myself wondering—and I was ashamed of the thought—whether Will would have been bored were Miss Gorr not so hopelessly plain. Alice was smart and there had been others and would probably be more to come. I reached the point where I could shrug my shoulders indifferently. It was all a part of the game and I was learning to play it.... <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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