The talkers

At the office one afternoon Stuart discovered among his letters a note from Gilda Greenway:

“Dear Mr. Sutton:

Gilda.”

He really hadn’t missed her, except when he chanced to remember her. Romance abhors a busy man.

But her note stirred him. He went to the inner office and called her.

“Is it really you?” she asked in the gayest of voices.

“Certainly. Are you all right?”

“Certainly,” she mimicked him; “are you?”

“You sound very frivolous.”

“I am—being no longer in dread of that threatened eye.”

“Have you been going to parties?”

“Now and then.”

“Have you seen Sadoul?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“I supposed you weren’t going to.”

“Why did you suppose that?”

“On account of his—influence——”

“Oh,” she said carelessly, “that is of no use to him. Besides, it’s worn out. I’ve grown up. On one of my minds he has no longer any influence; and he’s afraid of my other mind.”

“I suppose you know what you mean,” he said curtly.

“Isn’t that a trifle impertinent, Mr. Sutton?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“So am I.... But it’s over now. What a wonderful day it is—the bluest sky and the air like champagne. I’m riding this afternoon. I wish you were.”

“Have you a horse?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, just an Academy nag. Could you ride with me?”

“I’m nailed down here at the office until six.”

She waited. He said no more.

“Well,” she said, “if you care to see me, sometime, you’ll do it, I suppose.”

“Do you care?”

“I do. But I’ve concluded that your Guardian Eye is otherwise occupied. There are so many girls in the world! To keep watch on all his friends, a modern young man ought to have more eyes than Argus——”

“Are you going home after your gallop?”

“Veronica Weld asked me to tea.”

“I didn’t know you knew her.”

“I met her at Katherine Ashley’s.”

“The devil! Do you know her, too?”

“You speak as though you didn’t consider me presentable.”

“Nonsense. I didn’t know you went about with those people; that’s all.”

“One must go where one is asked or remain a recluse.”

“I suppose Derring and Warne and Fairless—all that crowd—will be there.”

“Where?”

“At your confounded tea.”

“Will you come and get me?—unless you are otherwise engaged——”

“I’ll be there at six-thirty to keep an eye on you, as I threatened.”

“Shall we dine—at—home?”

Her charming yet diffident acknowledgment of intimacy surprised and touched him. He began to realise how impatient he was becoming to see her again.

“That will be fine!” he exclaimed, with all his former enthusiasm. “I have missed you, Gilda.”

“You’re not obliged to say that merely because I have happened to miss you.”

“Have you really? What an engaging child you can be——”

“Very full of engagements this afternoon. I’ve a taxi, now, spinning money down in the street. Will you really come to Veronica Weld’s for me at six-thirty?”

“You bet——”

“Au revoir, donc—-”

At six he left the office and departed for home in the family limousine. All the way uptown he thought of Gilda, sentimentally.

In high spirits, he took a red-hot bath and then an icy one; got into fresh linen and a dinner coat, and drove to Central Park, West, where dwelt Veronica Weld in a studio apartment overlooking the park.

Veronica, always fair, and now becoming plump, had stepped from the Winter Garden to the hymeneal altar with the button-headed scion of a wealthy New York family.

Scion lasted three months; then Family bought him back. And Veronica maintained herself agreeably upon the net profit of the transaction.

She always had a penchant for intellectuals—which cast a raw light upon the scion episode—and she preferred mind to matter when she could afford it.

A tarnished residue of Talkers was apparent when Stuart entered the salon of Veronica Weld. Fashion, too, was represented in a few chicken-headed youths, a few rickety old sports of the Derring type, a woman or two who haunted the outer edges of things. As for Beauty, it was there, also—Katharine Ashley of the Filmy Films Studios; Eve Ferral (born O’Farrel), made famous overnight as Godiva in the great spectacle of that name at the Palisades Palace; and there were Gilda Greenway, and Frances Hazlet, the brown-eyed dancer, and other specimens of pulchritude, all enveloped in cigarette smoke, intellectual atmosphere, and pretty gowns.

Cups clattered, glasses tinkled accenting the tumult of The Talkers; Derring’s falsetto titter added tintinabulation to the general jingle, in the midst of which Stuart made his bow to Veronica and received her tapering hand heavy with rings.

“Toujours rondelette?” he murmured with debonaire impudence, saluting the most expensive ring.

“Old stuff, my dear,” returned Veronica, unruffled; “the squelette is démodé.”

“You’re prettier than ever, Nika; the struggle with mighty intellects agrees with you.”

She opened her fan and said confidentially: “Take it from me, Stuart, it’s the baby-doll that’s crazy for knowledge, not the girl born to Miss Spence’s. No Johnny believes that, but it’s true seven times in ten.”

He smiled incredulously, declined the offered tea-cup, spoke to one or two people near him, stepped aside and gazed about him to discover Gilda.

There she was, cornered by Stayr with a plate of cake, and otherwise hemmed in by Pockman and Fairless, with Sadoul looming darkly in the background.

She wore black and white and her silver fox with somebody’s orchids. She caught his eye, smiled and made a slight gesture of recognition.

When he came up and spoke to her, Stayr said: “You’re as popular as a rattlesnake, Stuart. Aren’t there any other girls in the room?”

Pockman said to Gilda: “Good-bye, then, and don’t forget your promise. It means a lot to a poor devil of a doctor.”

Frances Hazlet drifted by, shook hands vigorously with Stuart, and drifted on with Stayr and Julian Fairless in tow.

As Pockman left, Sadoul crossed over, nodded to Stuart and said to Gilda in a low voice: “I’ve a table at the Palais des Miroirs and theatre tickets—if you are free, Gilda.”

“I’m sorry——”

“You’re busy?”

“Yes.”

He stood a moment, then turned on his heel without a glance at Stuart. The latter followed him with his eyes and saw him seat himself near the door, beside Katharine Ashley, where departing guests were within his range of vision.

Stuart shrugged and looked at Gilda, who understood his glance:

“Does it matter?” she said carelessly.

“Not to me.”

They smiled.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful you are,” he said, “——or do you really grow more lovely during my absence?”

This commonplace seemed to make her happy; she gave him one of those shy, disconcerted little laughs, but managed to sustain his gaze.

“Advanced thinkers,” she ventured, “say that beauty is a necessity.... You don’t seem to agree.”

“Because I’ve remained away from you, and you are Beauty?”

“It was my deduction from your premises.”

They laughed.

“Do you want more tea, more atmosphere, more talk,” he inquired, “——or shall we go?”

“Don’t you desire to converse with some of these interesting people?” She adjusted her furs as she spoke, seeming to expect no answer. There was a slight flush on her face as she went with Stuart to make adieux to Veronica.

“Don’t forget you’re dining with me Thursday,” said the latter to Gilda, as they turned away.

Sadoul’s sombre eyes avoided them as they passed him.

Stuart wondered whether he really might turn unpleasant some day, and the surmise aroused a vague anger in him.

His car was waiting.

“Oh, is it yours?” asked Gilda curiously.

“The family bus,” he nodded; gave directions to the chauffeur, got in and pulled the fur robe over Gilda.

Probably the Sutton bus had never had so lovely an occupant since its ponderous wheels first turned on Gotham asphalt.