Book I

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

CHAPTER ONE

Even during the latter hour of lunch time the editorial room of the Dress Daily could never be quiet. The feel of the presses stayed like audible dust in the air and now and then heavy trucks, passing by, seemed to jar the building. But the desks of the Fashion Department were void of life; a solitary man pecked at a machine in the Woolens Department. All the stenographers except one were gossiping in the dressing room.

When the entrance door opened a draught made this one girl at the typewriter scowl and clutch her papers, and a piece of paper in the Fashion Department blew up and fell listlessly to the floor. Such vagrant sheets strewed the ground in poor imitation of autumn leaves.

The girl looked up. Because of a way of carrying her head, all her features, which were regular, seemed to tilt upward, even her small, cruelly firm mouth. She saw a man from the Advertising Department followed by a young woman in a sealskin coat. At once she made her shoulders uncompromising and began to click her typewriter. Her desk was first from the entrance; people insisted on stopping at it for directions.

The story about an exhibition of blouses—which, as a great favor, Mr. Milford had permitted her to visit during lunch time and write about herself—sprang into being willy-nilly. All the same, she had noticed the other girl.

"We might—wait—over there, Joe," this girl said, with a pause before and after the word "wait" that emphasized it slightly.

They sat down in the Fashion Department, facing the girl at the typewriter, and she heard a low murmur of conversation. She finished a page, busily rolled it from the machine and put it on the desk. She inserted another sheet and sat gazing at it, conscious in spite of herself of the voices, especially the low, deliberate, penetrating voice of the girl. Somebody looking for a job, she thought. All sorts of girls came to Mr. Milford for jobs. Then she shrugged, and wondered why she was bothering her head about this particular girl. "Anyhow, it can't be my job she's after. Nobody would want this lousy job."

Her fingers were still moving almost subconsciously on the keys when she heard the voice of the advertising man behind her, a bit deferential, for she had frightened him with coldness once before. "Can you tell me when Mr. Milford will be in?"

She glanced at him. "He never tells me," she said, with a slight smile to remove the pertness. The man smiled back, a little humbly, and she relented. "He usually comes in about this time."

The man seemed to take this as an entering wedge. He beckoned to the girl in the sealskin coat. She walked over, her enormous eyes, deep brown pools, so wide open, so steadily focused, that they appeared to cling to whatever was in the range of vision, fastening themselves ahead of her on the other girl's face. Her head was bent forward, as if with the weight of her eyes, and so were her shoulders.

"Miss Vestry," said the advertising man, "I want you to meet Miss Kline. Miss Vestry is Mr. Milford's secretary—and assistant," he concluded with unction.

Miss Kline made a move to draw her right hand out of its sealskin cuff. Miss Vestry only smiled briefly.

"Now I have to go downstairs for a while, Grace," said the advertising man. "Miss Vestry will take care of you."

The large eyes moved slowly toward him and clung to him.

"But—you'll be back, Joe? You know—I want you—to introduce me."

There was a curious halt between groups of her words which Anita Vestry had noticed.

"Sure, I'll be back."

The two girls faced each other only for a second. Miss Vestry turned to her machine. She could feel the eyes of this Miss Kline lingering on the back of her head, but she could not think of anything to say to her, even if she had wished to speak. She felt impatient, as if she wanted to shake her off. "Why doesn't she go and sit down?" Miss Kline took a few steps and stood by the side of the desk. The first page of the story lay face up. Her eyes immediately attached themselves to it. She picked up the page casually. Holding it at arm's length, with her head cocked to one side, she looked it over. When she was through she put the page down without comment, glanced at the continuation in the typewriter, then sauntered over to a chair by Mr. Milford's desk.

The breath that Miss Vestry had been holding in was expelled through her wide nostrils, distended to reject it. She seemed to rise several inches in her chair as, grabbing the sheet of paper on her desk, she turned it face down with a distinct, hard, angry thud as her hand fiercely struck the wood. She did not look at Miss Kline but she had a glimpse of eyes startled and wider than ever.

Miss Kline touched her on the arm. "I—didn't mean to be rude. I didn't think you'd mind. I'm—awfully sorry," she said hurriedly.

"Oh, very well," said Miss Vestry with a curl of her lip. At this moment Mr. Milford opened the door, followed by the advertising man. "There's Mr. Milford now," she said coldly, and went back to her work.

She heard the introductions, Mr. Milford's admiring voice. They had grouped themselves near her and, though she would not look up and pounded hard, taking pleasure in making as much noise as she could, she had glimpses of Mr. Milford's soggy cheeks, painfully shaven in that effort at spruce youthfulness which she so disliked about him; of the girl's tenacious eyes that, while she smiled at Mr. Milford, now and then cast a baffled glance in her direction. Finally they seated themselves around Mr. Milford's desk, and his shaking hands of an old man, which he tried to keep so firm and gallant, began to fuss with little disquiet motions among his papers. That was always his preliminary to dictation. Miss Vestry heard him say:

"I'll send you to Harry. He's an old friend of mine—great chap. He'll find work for a bright girl like you."

He called, in the tone of special dignity which he kept for her, "Miss Vestry, bring your book, please."

She picked up the notebook, opened it with a swift, professional gesture, and set her face in stony abstraction, as if she were on another planet, with words reaching her through the air from no one and nothing in particular—her special defense against that flow of easy inanities which fell from the lips of people in dictation and which she had to collect like so many choice pearls. The other girl's head was bent, her eyes intent on her lap. "That'll be all, Miss Vestry."

She put the book on her desk and walked by into the dressing room, to get away from them—from the girl's low voice, from the two men who now listened to her with attention and looked at her with a soothed softening of their faces and let their minds be filled for the while with her needs. The girls who came to Mr. Milford Anita Vestry disliked because of the nuisance of taking down and writing the letters of introduction, and then forgot. But this girl filled her with such an intense nervous dissatisfaction—was it envy?—that she sat and clenched her hands to control the loosened odds and ends of nerves that whirled within her. It was a state of discontent not uncommon with her, but this Miss Kline—not altogether by the inadvertent rudeness—had managed to make her lot seem so poor, so mean, so inferior, that it became a state beyond what she could bear.

CHAPTER TWO

The Dress Daily building stood a few steps from Fifth Avenue. It was a part of Fifth Avenue, however—the section of the clothing workers—which Grace Kline always wished to eliminate from her consciousness as soon as possible. These gloomy structures that shed almost a sour odor, these hurrying foreign feet brought thoughts that were not like the thoughts one had after crossing Madison Square and pausing before Brentano's. There was not in this air the sudden, resilient thoughtlessness, the expectant quiver, that made the heart beat faster, the walk more swift and alert after Thirty-fourth Street. Once, after some discussion about the atmosphere of Paris, it had occurred to her to wonder at the power which the light feet, the insubstantial minds of men and women had to impress themselves far, far beneath heavy pavements, high, high above in the intangible ether, to shape slabs of stone and sections of air so that, years after, centuries after, other people would thrill like hounds to the sense of old, permeating moods. At some times she caught with a stab of elation the feeling of being one of the persons who, alive to-day, were adding their slight memories to the store of memory which New York had from the past and would have to draw on in the future. This was such a day. It was cold, but the sky was a boundless blue, the wind raced with a stirring energy, and the air had that liquefied-diamond quality of the New York autumn.

As she waited for a bus, she turned her mind, by an effort of will which was becoming necessary to her in the state of harassment in which she lived, away from the wide-open, limitless blue. It frightened her, one could so easily get lost there. She turned her mind away and into herself and shut it within tightly. It was equivalent to closing the windows in a room. All the draperies that had been flying about, all her ideas, came to rest in smooth order. In the first place, it was two-thirty, so Harry Strauss, to whom she had the letter of introduction, would probably be in. In the second place, did she look well to see him? She opened her purse and consulted its mirror—not surreptitiously, for a beautiful girl need feel no shame to gaze in a glass. Her dark hair, under the black satin hat, perfectly softened the fine, regular curve of her brows. Her eyes, by their purely physical depth and width, possessed an irresistible suction, like the dark waters of deep wells. Her cheeks were long and too thin. They became hollow under the least strain. But the even, warm hue of her skin, to which the wind never brought color or the sun heat, which lay lightly over her face like a pearly, glowing cloud, concealed the thinness. There was a composed power in her face, in the lips which were softly put together. She was quite aware of the eyes of every man who turned without hope but in spite of himself to glance at her.

By one of those extravagant economies of people who have to make a prosperous appearance on small means, she had been forced to wear a fur coat a little early in the season. This fact bothered her for she was as scrupulous in the choice of her clothes as if they had been irreplaceable parts of her body. But her spring coat was too shabby and childish to go job hunting in and she could not afford a special autumn wrap. The hint of pale orange between the black of the sealskin and the black of the hat pleased her. That, at least, was perfect.

Harry Strauss's office was at Forty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue. She coveted a job and could not help her heart's beating a little faster. But Grace Kline never felt really nervous about meeting new people, even prospective employers. Her face, she knew, served her as sufficient passport, assured her a certain welcome anywhere. As she watched the streets sidle by, she thought that she had not done badly for one day of job hunting. The acquaintances she had collected with this end in view had been kind to her. She already had one offer in case she found nothing better. If she really got work with Harry Strauss she would earn a good salary. How much? She ought to think of how much to ask. To keep her mind still shut—away from that boundless contingency which was ever before her like a landscape, luring her to wander in it without plan and only for the warm joy of the moment—she began hastily to design the clothes she would get, her winter's wardrobe, if Harry Strauss really hired her. The shop windows, passing by on both sides of the street, helped her. She scanned them with concentration and they assured her that these things could be sufficient, that these things could fill a mind. They called to her eagerly to trust them and they would tell her what to do and where to buy.

Just before she entered Harry Strauss's office she paused again and touched her lips into a faint orange splendor. Then, her eyes marching ahead of her, her head slightly bent forward, as if with their weight—her usual carriage—she walked into the office. The stenographer thought she was haughty and looked at her with an admiring fear. She had her chair just outside the inner office and she opened the door to it without getting up.

"Mr. Strauss isn't busy. You can go right in."

Fortunately, it was a small office, for Mr. Strauss, who sat at his desk rolling a cigar between his teeth, watched each step she took. He did not rise but waved to her to sit down. Her eyes fixed themselves on his face, in which appeared the vague, almost wistful relaxation that she had come to expect as a due tribute to her appearance.

"Well—er—what's your trouble?" It was kindly, even courteously said, despite the keen, clever, stabbing gleam in Mr. Strauss's bright eyes. In spite of all she had heard about him, she liked him at sight. He was about forty, dressed in a gray suit. A silver mane of hair, crisp, shining like strong steel wire in the sun, stood back from his forehead. He had an aquiline nose and his decisive voice had a note in it as if it were aquiline too.

"I have—a letter—for you from Mr. Milford," she said softly.

"M—m—m." After he had read the letter, his very bright eyes glanced over it at her, considering her. They halted at her brief skirt and slid over her legs and ankles. She felt them and was amused, gratified, strictly within herself. There was nothing wrong with her legs.

"I've a man working for me now," he said.

She kept quiet.

"I might be able to use a bright girl. Something just came up——"

Her eyes, that had been gazing at the air to the side of him, moved to his face, stayed there. Although she knew all about her eyes, this was never an entirely calculated gesture on her part. As soon as she placed her eyes anywhere, they clung of themselves.

"Just what have you done?" asked Mr. Strauss suddenly. "Milford says you're just out of college, but you've had some experience."

"I—Mr. McTavish of the Brooklyn Press is a good friend of mine, and the last two years of college I did movie criticisms for him and theatrical interviews."

"You know McTavish, hmm. Who else do you know? Know any of the theatrical and movie crowd on the New York papers? It's your contacts that count in publicity, you know."

"Yes. I know Hugh Coleman very well—and Tommy Manship——"

"Not Deering? Don't know Deering, do you?" he interrupted.

"No. I don't know him," she said, and her eyes fell with concern. She had no idea who Deering was.

"Have you got any friends on any of the other papers? Know anyone down at the World?"

"Well, Mildred Nelson is a very good friend of mine," she said with assurance. She had at least met Mildred Nelson many times.

Mr. Strauss lit his cigar and took up one of the telephones on his desk. "So you know McTavish, huh?" he repeated. He said to his stenographer through the phone, "Get me McTavish of the Brooklyn Press." Then he sat back and watched her. There was that in his face, serious though he kept it, which purred at her discomfort, at her inability to protest against the rudeness of questioning another person about her capacities in her presence. She had nothing to fear from McTavish. Yet she could not help but feel the turmoil of awaiting the signing of her own reprieve or death warrant there, before her eyes, against her ears. And Mr. Strauss knew this. She saw that he enjoyed it, enjoyed her suspense, enjoyed his own shrewdness, the idea of making an unexpected move, stealing a march on her poise.

In a few minutes the bell tinkled. She heard Mr. Strauss say, "Hello, McTavish. Harry Strauss speaking. There's a girl here—Grace Kline—who says she worked for you. What do you know about her?" And he kept his eyes, with that malicious twinkle, on her. But as he listened he took them away and his face grew grave, respectful. He was handing her the palm of victory. He was saying, "I see. That's fine. I'm glad to hear that." And, in fact, he seemed pleased. When he had hung up the receiver he spoke to her with a note of apology, as if he begged pardon for his suspicion that she might be cheating him. But wouldn't he have been even better pleased if the conversation had been unfavorable, if his suspicions had been justified and he had caught her?

"Well," he said, "McTavish thinks very highly of you. He says you're a smart girl, doesn't hesitate to recommend you for any job."

She smiled nervously.

"Now, how much would you work for?"

She lowered her eyes. When she raised them again they were frank and they pleaded.

"I—don't know anything about publicity salaries."

"This job wouldn't pay more than forty to start," said Mr. Strauss, tapping his cigar against the ash tray. He flashed his stabbing glance at her but he could tell nothing by her face, whether it was more than she expected or less. Then he remembered that she was just out of college and felt annoyed that he had not made it lower. "I could get plenty of people to work for less," he added. Her expression grew remote, cool. "But we won't quarrel over a couple of dollars," he said with a wave of his hand. "There's a good opening here, and you look like the kind of a girl I want. If you make good, it may run to as much as seventy-five—a hundred—after awhile. Depends on you. Well, is that fair?"

"I think so. Yes." She seemed quite composed.

"All right, then, come in to-morrow around nine. Now, you've probably heard that press agents don't begin work till noon. Forget all that. This office opens at nine like any other, and I expect you on time." He was leaning over the desk, his eyes alert and intent, and after each remark he jerked his chin down for emphasis. "Don't be nervous. You do your work and I'll be fair to you. Ask anyone you like. They'll tell you that Harry Strauss is fair." His eyes seemed to argue with her to believe. "The man I have is out now. You come in here to-morrow, and you'll meet him. You'll work together. He'll show you around till you catch on." He dismissed her.

Just as she was opening the door he called sharply, "Miss Kline!" She turned and found him facing her, his eyes still more alert.

"Don't tell anyone you're working for me."

He swung away from her, back to his desk, and became very busy.

CHAPTER THREE

Learning from the elevator starter that it was half-past three, Grace faced Fifth Avenue again with a sort of sigh, not of sadness, but of anticipation that was almost too stifling. This—this was the part of the day when she ungirded her mind, set it free, let it wander among the dark woods and bright flowers of her bitter happiness. This—this was the part of the day for which she was so tautened, so wound up that she could hardly wait for the moment of relaxation. All the elements of her day, all the little notes, arranged themselves as accompaniment, as an undercurrent, to this hour from four to five, and she strained toward it as one's ears strain expectantly toward the melodious, recurrent theme of a symphony.

She hurried across town to Broadway. The sunshine glimmered and trembled in an ecstasy of autumn fulfillment. Finding no autumn leaves, each separate ray of sunshine yet put itself to use, twinkling and rippling on the sides of buildings as if to stir each separate mote of the shades of ancient foliage. She felt as if the sun placed a carpet of the cropped fall grass beneath her feet, as if she proceeded, not between lines of stone, but between rows of ordered, wine-red trees, bending to the wind.

These city blocks were becoming specially near to her. Even as her life was rooting itself in them, so they were being buried in her to form part of the soil of nourishing memory. Already she could meet shades of herself going and returning along these streets, going at four o'clock, returning at five. There were shop windows into which she had stared, not knowing what they showed, so as to hide her tears from passers-by, cryptic brownstone houses at which she had turned and glanced so as to conceal an idiotic happiness from the prying eyes of other people. They were like no other shop windows and no other houses on earth, and these streets seemed specially stained for her; they smelled differently, they had a tingling odor.

Before the jazz band of Broadway, with all its tin-pan clamor and hoots, the irregular lines of buildings and billboards forming a perfect continuation of the discord, she marked time impatiently. She had to wait for the traffic to cross to the Astor, and she couldn't wait and, like a true New Yorker, made up her mind at the most inopportune moment and began to dodge between. She didn't hurry. Her feet made the perfect feints and maneuvers for her while she looked at the motor cars aggressively and put up her hand now and then to warn them to beware.

The ladies' room of the Astor was almost like a club-room. Grace often saw the same faces here at the same hour, absorbed like her in the same purpose, pushing their way between other girls at the mirrors, unaware of them almost entirely, as they glued their eyes to their own faces and made them, with a sober, a sacred concentration, clear and fresh and individual for someone, some one person to meet.

A nun before the altar could not have told her beads with more piety than Grace Kline attended to her face. Although it needed little help, there were numerous delicate motions necessary almost to magnetize it into perfection. Her hair had to be done over with the exact slender part at the side, the smooth silken widening over the ears, and a tiny half-bang lying gently under that portion which was brought somewhat over her forehead. When she was ready to draw on her gloves, she bestowed a customary sigh on her hands (they were awkwardly jointed—"washerwoman's hands", she called them), then turned from all angles before the glass.

She would be just in time. Already the first strain of the melody, the note of yearning in loneliness, began to sing in her. It had been a good day, but by herself, the goodness, though she knew it was there, had no words or point. When she had shared it with someone, given it to someone to taste, when she had been able to see by someone else's eyes that it was good, then she would realize its excellence. And now was the time when the note of yearning would draw its answering harmony.

At Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, as she crossed, she saw Blake already turning down the block. The line of his shoulders was obstinate, each step unhurried. She walked behind him, smiling, waiting for the moment when she would take a few extra steps and place herself by his side. He would never turn and see her, he never by any chance made extra movements. He was an only child, used to being surrounded by other people's care and thought, and this was apparent even in his gait, that took no account of any other pedestrian, never swerved, as if he were sure the others would notice his direction and clear a path for him. Grace walked just behind his shoulder, almost touching him, and still, as she expected, he was unconscious of her. Her smile grew amused, lenient. She stretched out her hand and put it on his shoulder.

At the same time he stopped and said, "Hello." It was not spoken to her but to a man in a fur-collared coat whom she had not seen approaching. Simultaneously, he glanced at Grace. His face flushed an awkward beet-red, paled. He looked straight at the man, talking to him, seeming as if he did not feel the hand on his shoulder, did not know the girl who so obviously knew him. The man, after the first curious glint in his eyes, pretended not to notice.

For a few seconds Grace stood in confusion on the outskirts of the little circle of intimacy the two made. The pang which these little intimate groupings, in which she had no place, in which she might never have a place, sent through her! The whole world, all its rules and customs, were bent on pushing her outside of them, keeping her there in the cold, while the two men spoke of mutual relatives, drew the warm fibers of their mutual background about them to form a rope beyond which she stood alone, without anything to tie her to the group. Her face was white—but not with anger, for she well knew the ever-present reason which might explain—as she walked around them, into the tearoom, and waited by the door. Sometimes there were people in the place whom she knew—it was frequented by what Mr. Strauss called the theatrical and movie crowd—and whose light, understanding, inquiring consideration she had to bear. The eyes of the woman at the desk admired her. She called, "Hello, Miss Kline." And Grace answered with a certain pity, a certain pride, even in her present state. Dull women like that had nothing better to do than to approve of her and ask for her attention.

When Blake came in she saw that he would volunteer no excuse. He was as pale as she, ashamed, distant. The note of answering harmony was not there to-day. They were both alone, she outside, he within something. In silence, they sat down at a table in the farthest corner; in silence looked at the china plates and bric-a-brac loading down shelves below the ceiling, at the prints of English hunting scenes and framed old theater programs which covered the walls. They always had tea and toast, the cheapest things on the menu, and their waitress was bringing it without question.

Grace said, feeling along each possible path of approach, "I ought to celebrate. I've got a job—with Harry Strauss."

He answered with little interest. "Harry Strauss. You'll learn a lot of tricks from him. That's good."

So the chief episode of the day, which she had waited for him to taste of, to show her its excellence, was not good after all. What difference did it make to get a job, to do her hair over, to be glanced at on the street? She tried again.

"He told me not to tell anyone I was working for him. Why, do you suppose?"

This time he smiled. "He's pulled a good many raw press stunts. The papers are supposed to be down on him. I hear he works through a man named Al Epstein."

"I'm to meet him to-morrow."

"You start to-morrow?" And now his face was smoothing out of its tight, preoccupied lines. He began to tell her of Harry Strauss's exploits. He had a memory for all kinds of information, liked to sort it in his mind, which was very orderly, and produce it with a faint touch of irony. The anecdotes which he picked up along Broadway lent themselves especially to this irony. They laughed over a story of how Harry Strauss had managed to find his way at night to the electric advertisement of a movie which he was press-agenting and had arranged the letters to form a word that stopped traffic. He had hidden the key which unlocked the entrance office to the sign, so that it was a long time before the letters could be corrected, the crowds below dispersed. The papers had been forced to print accounts of the traffic block and to mention his picture as the cause.

When they had done laughing he was ready to regard her fully for the first time that day.

"You're so lovely to-day, Grace," he said, with his own note of yearning and looked down at his teacup.

"As ever?" she said.

He nodded emphatically and flushed the violent, almost tearful flush of sandy-haired people. It was the signal for the recurrent harmony between them. Now they were close again, now all other fibers had been cut for awhile and only their own fibers remained, growing together. Now they could say anything to each other, what he had been meaning and hating to tell her.

"That was my uncle." He jerked the words out.

Her eyes grew harassed. "Did he—say something? Will he——"

"No, he wouldn't say anything. I—only—well—I didn't——"

"I know." She did know. She had forced herself to understand as quickly as possible that men—that Blake anyhow—were hideously awkward in personal relationships. It saved much pain. Blake might have introduced her as some acquaintance who had come up to him on the street. There was no law against his knowing girls, no law against some girl, in casual amusement, putting her hand on his shoulder. He might have spared her that horrible moment. But, of course, that would never occur to him.

There was another silence. It was, however, a silence which they shared. They were both thinking the same thoughts.

"How are things—at home?" she said softly.

"Same. She's going away next month." He never called his wife by name, and he didn't dare to say "my wife." Grace could say "your wife" sometimes with a bitter emphasis, but it was forbidden to him.

"Home?"

"No. On a visit."

They exchanged a long look.

"Haven't quarreled, by any chance?" inquired Grace, raising her eyebrows in pointed archness.

"We never quarrel," he said with a smile. This was their little joke.

"Have you been working?"

"Bill and I finished one act."

"Oh. That's fine."

She was questioning him with her eyes. He knew what that question meant. Was there any chance—was there—would there—be money? There were hopes connected with the making of money, which smooths over many things, which is a good panacea to apply to other people's heartaches. He turned his teacup round and round in the saucer. Tea slopped over.

"Well," said Grace, "that's fine about your act. You'll finish the play soon, won't you? And, by the way, if I start work to-morrow, I can't tell where I'll be at four. I may be late. Can I call you anywhere?"

"You might call me at Fred's office. I could drop in there around four, and if we miss connections you might leave word."

"I hate to call there. They're not very nice to me." Her eyes pleaded with him. But he looked down and she saw his face hardening into its so familiar sullen lines. Why should she fuss about such a little thing? After all, he remembered that he had a good deal to bear himself. She stretched her arm hastily across and touched his hand, lying by the plate. He returned a hard pressure. Their hands lay one within the other on the table. "All right. Then I'll call you at Fred's around four. And do I see you Saturday?"

"You do," he said.

They got up. Before they rose, she slipped her share of the check into his palm. He flushed again. He hated this. But at the very beginning of their afternoon teas she had insisted and made a habit of it. He couldn't afford to take her to tea every day. He was very poor. Very well, so was she. They would be poor together. The dull woman at the desk nodded and looked after them. Together they walked out, holding their heads somewhat belligerently, in case any acquaintance should see them and think they had no business to be together, and twining their arms one within the other.

They walked slowly down to Sixth Avenue. The final chord with all its fused, attuned, contrasting notes, its gathering of all into one, was sounding in different ways for each of them. They wished it to go on and on. When the final chord dies, the symphony is over, people clatter their seats, the hall grows bare, and ghosts of dead music wail without noise and cling in the air and will not leave go. At the corner he put his arms about her and they kissed each other for a moment. Blake hated embraces on street corners, but there was no other place for them to kiss.

CHAPTER FOUR

The sunshine was gone. Lights were being turned on in office buildings. The crowds were beginning to rush home. Before dinner time in late fall—a windy, hurrying, desolate interval on city streets when everyone's thoughts fly to an enclosure, some enclosure. Grace continued to walk aimlessly along Sixth Avenue. After she left Blake it was always hard for her to button her mind anew against the cold, lone air. When people leave a warm room the bleak outer air can penetrate them subtly and thoroughly in a moment until they find themselves colder than they ever were before, they find themselves freezing. At such times Grace had some certain recourses, minute hinges which she used to swing her mood from the unbearable, the unknowable, to the composed routine of every day. Looking in shop windows was such a hinge, buying a new pair of stockings, a new handkerchief, dropping into a movie, ordering a soda. But the best hinge was a visit with Letty, even a telephone call to her.

Letty and Grace had grown up together and for many years their families had lived close by in lower Washington Heights, Grace on St. Nicholas Avenue, Letty in a poorer house just around the corner. Letty had been a stenographer while Grace had gone to college, but this had not disturbed their friendship. There was something so fresh and gay, so frank, about Letty, with her round little face, her round little suits, and her fresh, greedy little mouth. She had married soon and well, moving from the house around the corner and leaving Grace in the apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue. An Irish-American, she had married a man of Grace's racial background, German-Jewish-American, and was adapting herself, not too entirely and with many pert remarks, to his accustomed home-and-family existence. They lived on Riverside Drive in the Eighties. Often Grace stopped by on her way home.

As soon as she heard Letty's lively "Hello," Grace felt a sense of relief. There, very close, were people who cared about her, who were concerned with her doings, small sheds to huddle into for warmth. No need to say who it was. The two girls knew all the inflections of each other's voices.

"What are you doing? I thought I'd come in for a minute," said Grace.

"Oh-h——" Letty's voice dropped. "Harry and I thought we'd eat out and go to the theater. Why? Anything happened?"

"Oh, no. Nothing special. I got a job." Grace smiled. Even if something had happened, it would be hard to drag Letty away from an evening out and at the theater. It was proof of her friendship for Grace that, once in a while, she had given up a promise of gayety for her sake—but even so, with a pout, unwillingly.

"That's grand. Oh, Grace, that's wonderful! Where? How? Did you tell Blake?" Letty's voice was twice as happy, happy for Grace and happy that she could go on to her party.

Grace giggled. "What're you going to see that you're so excited about?"

"Oh, just the Follies. You know Harold, the Tired Business Man. He's under a bed right now—looking for a collar button. I don't have to look. I'm speaking over the phone. Ha-ha! Gosh, he found it! But tell me about the job, Grace. Where——"

Grace explained.

"Gee, I'm glad. I'm awf'ly glad! What're you doing to-night?"

"Nothing, I guess."

Letty's voice became lower, sympathizing. "Want to stay over here to-night?" Another voice made itself heard but not clear enough for the words to get through. "That's only Harold," said Letty impatiently. "He thinks we'll be home too late. Don't mind him."

"I don't," replied Grace, laughing. Letty laughed too. "But I suppose I might as well go home and tell Ma-a-a. And, listen, I can't have lunch with you to-morrow. I don't know where I'll be."

"Oh, that's all right. Only call me, will you? And come up to-morrow night, if you can manage, and tell me all about it."

"I'll call you anyway."

"I'm awf'ly glad! And don't forget to call me. Good-bye, Gracie."

"Good-bye, Let. Have a good time."

Grace went out of the booth, feeling cheerful again. After all, it had been a successful day. Letty had looked at it and found it successful. She hated to spoil her mood by crowding into the Elevated or the Subway. Time enough for that when she got home to Ma. All the busses would be full now. She searched in her purse. If she walked on a little farther, along the park, she would have just enough to pay for keeping her mood intact, safe from being brushed away by the clumsy hands of the home-going crowds, in a cab to One Hundred Thirty-seventh Street. Anyhow, she made up her mind rebelliously, she ought to celebrate to-day in spite of what Ma would say. Their parlor windows faced the street and Mrs. Kline never seemed to miss the stoppage of a taxi before the door if that taxi contained Grace.

The click of Grace's key brought Ma trampling down the long hall of the apartment. Mrs. Kline's feet always sounded, at least to Grace's ears, as if they trampled. Clamp, clamp, clack.

She couldn't help looking Grace over with pride and couldn't help saying suspiciously, "Came up in a taxi, didn'cha?"

"It's all right, Ma," said Grace, going past her. "I got a job."

Mrs. Kline followed into Grace's room. She followed everywhere physically. She was always looking for some loophole through which to squeeze herself to follow into Grace's mind, into Grace's heart, into Grace's soul, trying to trample down barrier after barrier as it was inevitably erected against her. A conversation between Grace and her mother was like an encounter between a peaceable, besieged city and its attackers. At first Grace withdrew, like the city, far within walls and lay low, resigned, merely attempting to ward off invasion. Then, suddenly, there would come one sally too much. In desperation, she, like the city, would turn and rise and strike.

Mrs. Kline could not help it. She would do anything for Grace, give anything to Grace. Mr. Kline had been divorced when Grace was a child and, to supplement small and irregular alimony, Mrs. Kline had become dressmaker to her friends so as to send Grace through college and keep up appearances. She still made dresses. But Grace wasn't grateful, could not be forced to show gratitude. In truth Grace felt that she had done her share. As a child, she had delivered gowns to the mothers of playmates, had cleaned and cooked after school. During the last years of college she had been able to add to the family income, and now there devolved on her most of the burden of supporting her mother. What more did Ma want? Why couldn't she let her, Grace, alone?

Mother and daughter resembled each other in the contours of their faces and in a certain insistence which both had. Grace clung with her eyes. Mrs. Kline clung with her strident voice, with her hands, by constant assertion. Otherwise, her eyes were china blue and she had a lot of coarsening, once-golden hair.

"So you got a job. That's good. It's time. How much money are they giving you? What kind of work? The same kind you did on the paper?"

"Forty to start."

"That's pretty good for a beginner," cried Mrs. Kline, brightening. "I must tell Mrs. Mendelsohn. Betty Mendelsohn's been working a month but she only makes twenty-five. You'd think she was the Queen of Sheba the way Mrs. Mendelsohn acts. I told her if he hadn't wanted you to make that trip with him you'd have got a job the minute you graduated too——"

"Oh, all right, Ma. I'm hungry." Grace had taken off her hat and now, with a sigh, she shook out of her coat.

Mrs. Kline felt it, as usual, between thumb and forefinger. "Well, it was cold enough for sealskin to-day, in spite of all the fuss you made. Let me tell you a lot of girls would be glad to have a sealskin coat, too early or not. The coat's a good buy, too. It's like I told you. You gotta get money off him while he's got it." "He" referred to Mr. Kline.

Without answering, Grace walked up the hall into the dining room. She wore a long pale-orange blouse with loose sleeves and a black skirt. She seemed taller and slimmer than she actually was, and her back was a little rounded, but unnoticeably. Behind her trampled Mrs. Kline, following. She sat down at the table. It was a middle-class dining room, with every part of a dining-room "set" righteously in place and with Mrs. Kline's wedding present cutglass shining icily through the door of the china closet. It was chilly there. Grace shivered.

"You ought to put something around you," said Mrs. Kline. "Go get yourself a sweater. First thing you know, you'll catch pneumonia and you'll be laid up. When do you start work, anyhow?"

"To-morrow."

"So soon? What've you got to wear? I don't know a thing you got. I'll have to get busy. I'm busy enough as it is. I got a dress for Mrs. Michaels and another ordered to-day——"

"Ma, please bring in the soup."

"—and I got bridge with the Ladies' Circle to-morrow. And what do you think? All of a sudden that Mrs. Levine—Levin they call themselves now—takes notice of me in Temple, and she asks me to come to tea. Charlie Bintner wants me to have lunch with him, too, this week. I don't know if that's proper. Of course, I got my divorce and all, but still... You know Charlie Bintner—I told you he was always after me. I'll never forget his face when I told him I was going to get married. But he had only himself to blame. You can't go around with a girl and go around with her and never make your intentions known and expect her to wait for you——"

Grace swore under her breath.

Then Mrs. Kline brought in the soup. She was a poor cook and praised her own cooking. She began to suck in great spoonfuls. Meal times, when her mother sat opposite and talked in her harsh voice and ate soup or devoured with gusto oranges out of their rinds, were most dreaded by Grace. Then she was most at the point of exploding. She sat tautened over the soup which she had tasted and would not eat.

"Why don't you eat? What's the matter with you?" said Mrs. Kline sharply.

"Nothing. What's the meat?"

"I got some lamb chops. That's what you like, isn't it? There's no suiting you ever. Or is something wrong with you?"

No answer from Grace. Mrs. Kline dragged out the soup and trampled in with plates of chops and weak vegetables which she slammed on the table. She went back for the coffee. Grace picked at her food and drank black coffee.

"What's wrong with you?" insisted Mrs. Kline. "You haven't been eating hardly anything for I don't know how long. What's wrong, I want to know?"

Grace merely gritted her teeth.

There fell a silence, a bad omen.

When Mrs. Kline spoke again her voice was low and accusing.

"Mara Goldenberg told me she saw you having tea with that same man the other day."

Grace dug her fork into the chop.

"Now listen, Grace, God knows I don't want to be like some mothers, prying and snooping. But I'm your mother and I have a right to know who you go around with. Your other friends call on you here. Why can't this man come? What's wrong with him that Mara Goldenberg sees you having tea with him all the time and your own mother don't know who he is? He looks Gentile, Mara says, and you hold hands with him on the table—right in front of everybody. Well, all right, so he's Gentile. Myself, I'm proud to be Jewish, but I'm not a person that has prejudices. My own brother's married to a Gentile woman as nice as you could find anywhere, and there's Letty Moses, a Catholic, too, married to a man whose own mother goes to Temple with me, and nobody thinks the worse of the Moseses. Do I care who you go around with, so long as they're decent people? But I want to know who this man is that Mara Goldenberg sees you with."

"Mara Goldenberg ought to mind her own business. So should all your friends, for that matter," muttered Grace.

"What's that you said? Mara Goldenberg is a good friend to me and what she tells me I got a right to know—you should tell me yourself. I got a right to know. Don't you forget that, young lady! I want to know who this man is."

The besieged city turned suddenly.

"Well, you won't know," shouted Grace. "It's nothing and it's no one's business and it's none of Mara Goldenberg's business."

She fled down the long corridor to her room, hearing her mother's voice as it followed her. She closed the door with infinite caution. If her mother heard a door shut she would bear down on her privacy on the instant. But it was no use. Mrs. Kline's feet trampled down the hall, her hands rapped on the door. Grace placed herself against it on the inside, held it to. There was no key.

"Let me in, Grace. Don't you dare to shut the door on me," cried her mother.

"I won't let you in. I'm undressing. Let me alone!"

With all her force Grace held the door to. Mrs. Kline rattled the knob. Then she was still. Finally, Grace heard her feet making their raucous journey back up the hall. For a long time she kept her place by the door, taut, putting her hand to her heart unconsciously to try to ease its racking beat.

The room was dark. When she sat down before her dresser she saw her eyes in the glass—so huge—the whites distended and gleaming. She sat there, watching herself, motionless, while the beat of her heart swung back and forth like a pendulum. Now it waned, now it rose mercilessly, filling her till she thought she would be torn apart. It wouldn't stop. It would never stop. She muttered to herself, to her heart, to her mother, to the whole world—over and over: "Let me alone. Oh, let me alone! Why can't you let me alone?"

CHAPTER FIVE

It was not long before Grace learned to disregard time in all connections with Broadway, but this first morning she took Harry Strauss's warnings to heart and saw with astonishment that, in spite of them, the office was closed. It stayed closed till nine-thirty. Then the stenographer sauntered in. Grace was still afraid to leave even for a moment to get herself a cup of coffee (she had avoided breakfast with her mother), but she used the chance to throw a little light on her job through the stenographer. She knew that Mr. Strauss publicized an occasional movie for one of the big motion-picture companies, and an occasional show; that he had, usually, theatrical clients. What sort of accounts was Mr. Strauss handling now? The stenographer thought that the office would be busy with the young widow of a famous dancer who was about to "stage a comeback" in a night club. Grace also wished to find out whether any girl had had her job previously. Miss MacAlister, who showed that she admired Grace's face and clothes, said that only Mr. Epstein had worked for Mr. Strauss, so far as she knew. This encouraged Grace; there would be no standard of comparison to live up to.

Mr. Strauss made his appearance at ten o'clock and did not seem to be in the least impressed to find her waiting. What a fascinating crop of silver hair he had! She felt at home with him. She knew he liked her looks and she liked his. He said without prelude, "Now Annabella Arden is to be at Ontalvo's at ten-thirty to take new pictures. Go over there and wait for her, and when you're through, both of you come back here. Know where Ontalvo's is, my dear?" He took it for granted that she knew who Annabella Arden was.

This time she understood that she had not to hurry. She enjoyed the luxury of breakfast alone in a restaurant. She called up Letty to bolster her courage, and even so, when she got to Ontalvo's, Annabella Arden was absent. Learning that she came from Mr. Strauss's office, the girl at the desk made herself extraordinarily pleasant. The photographer left the studio for a moment to shake her hand. Grace realized that it would be good policy to put herself on cordial terms with these people from the start. She liked them too. It was all being very nice.

She waited an hour. Still no Annabella Arden. She chanced a telephone call to Mr. Strauss's stenographer to learn where Miss Arden lived.

A sweet, blonde voice, infinitely naïve, spoke to her over the wire. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry you had to wait. But I told Harry I didn't want any more pictures. I have loads and loads, dear." The voice grew a whit sharper. "Harry didn't tell me how much the pictures would cost, dear. Can you find out?"

The girl at the desk evaded. "We make special prices for Mr. Strauss." And Grace understood that Mr. Strauss got his percentage from them. She was amused. He certainly didn't miss a thing!

"I believe—Mr. Strauss arranges that," she said carefully through the phone. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Oh, then I think I'll talk to Harry first. Don't you think that would be wise, dear?"

"Then will you be at the office soon?" said Grace.

"I'm leaving this very minute, honey."

Grace hurried back, worrying. Did Mr. Strauss expect her to insist on new pictures? Was that part of her job? Mr. Strauss's door was shut and a new air hung over the office, a business air, at once abstracted and intent. The stenographer was typing with such speed that she did not even pause to look up at Grace.

"Mr. Epstein's in with him now," she said over her shoulder.

Feeling very much out of it, Grace took a chair and waited again.

Mr. Strauss's office opened simultaneously with the appearance of Annabella Arden. She carried out the promise of her voice. She was a blonde with round eyes, a sharp, pretty little face, the flat, charming torso and long legs of a dancer. About her neck she had flung a scarf made up of innumerable tails of animals.

"Come in, both of you," called Mr. Strauss. By his desk sat a short, sloppy young man, chewing gum with wide motions of his lips, round and round. Mr. Epstein. Harry Strauss made the introductions suavely and Grace noticed, as he questioned her and she answered, how well in hand he had Annabella. He treated her like an employee, not a client.

"Now, let's get down to business. Where's Russell?" Russell was Miss Arden's new dancing partner.

"Why, Russell didn't think he could afford you, Harry," said Miss Arden with great pathos.

Mr. Strauss sneered.

"All right. Now, Al, you and Miss Kline get together and plan your campaign. Break the story Monday. We must get a lot of space before the opening. Now, you can have five tables Thursday night for the newspapers. Now, Al," he said sharply, "you and Miss Kline work together but don't get in each other's way. You let her take the Times. She knows the people there."

"Does she know Deering?" said Al quickly.

"No, but she knows Tommy Manship and all that gang."

Al glanced at Grace but kept quiet and chewed his gum. He took a sheet of paper and wrote "Times" in pencil. He added slowly a "K."

"Al, you take the American and the Journal. Let Miss Kline have the World, too. She's a friend of Mildred Nelson. Divide the other papers between you."

"Yeh," said Al. He chewed gum omnisciently. Nothing was beyond him.

"Now, what have you got planned?" demanded Mr. Strauss. Grace made a nervous contraction of her throat. Al said to her at once, as if taking a cue, "Now, we gotta get pictures taken right away. Go out and plant 'em in the roto sections for next Sunday."

"This Sunday. What about this Sunday?" rapped out Mr. Strauss.

And Miss Arden piped up, "Oh, but I think I ought to have my picture in this Sunday."

A slight look passed between Al and Harry.

Al said, "All right. I might be able to make the Times this Sunday."

Grace knew he couldn't. It was Thursday and the Times weekly picture section was sure to be already made up. She thought she might as well help in the propitiation of Annabella. "I know—Hector Valley," she said. "I'll go right over and see him."

Al interposed, "I know him very well, too. Very good friendamine, Heck Valley. I was out on a drunk with him till two in the morning yesterday."

He went back to his gum and his paper. "Now we'll give a tea for her," he added. "Ask all the newspapermen. I got a great stunt for her."

"All right." Mr. Strauss raised a finger. "Now—you—Al," he said with emphasis, "don't get in Miss Kline's way. Miss Kline, you stick to your papers." He turned to Miss Arden. "Now, Annabella, one thing more. These people are working for you, Mr. Epstein and Miss Kline. Now, I want you above all never to break any appointments they make for you with newspaper people. Make the appointments at your convenience; their time is yours. But once you've made an appointment, don't break it, or you'll get them in wrong with the papers. They'll work for you faithfully if you keep up your end. But if you get them in wrong with the papers, they'll lose interest and you'll lose publicity. Isn't that so?"

Grace and Al said together, "Yes, that's so."

Al turned to Miss Arden. "Where you gonna be this afternoon? I'm gonna have some pictures made."

"Oh, and Miss Arden said something about the dresses she used to wear with Gene Arden," interrupted Grace. "I thought—there would be a good feature story in her giving a few away to girls who need new evening dresses and can't afford them." She went on nervously. "I mean—the idea would be that they held too many memories now that Mr. Arden was—dead."

"But I gave them away already, honey. I sold them," said Annabella hastily.

"Well, you don't really have to give them away. We—can manage that."

Mr. Strauss nodded at Grace as if to say, "You're learning." He handed her a folder full of pictures.

As Al rose, Grace rose too and followed him into the outer office. At once Al took the folder of pictures away from her. There wasn't a consecutive thought in her mind, nothing but a jumble of feverish beginnings. By an effort of will she kept her voice, at least, from trembling. They sat down on chairs near the door, and Al began to scrawl on his piece of paper.

"We better figure out who we're gonna ask to the tea. And the opening, too. I thought of an old stunt," said Al. "Old, but it always works. I'm gonna have her legs insured."

Grace began: "How about——" and he snatched the words from her lips: "How about a new dance step?" Feverishly, "New dance step" was written on the sheet of paper.

Al bit his pencil and said thoughtfully, "I don't know what we'll do about a typewriter for you. I use Miss MacAlister's. I wanted Harry to get one for you this morning, but he won't. I never liked to work with a night club," he added, sighing. "It's hard to get stuff in—and then the late hours. I had the Gaga Club when it opened and I gave it to Benny Best. You know Benny Best, nice fella? Now we gotta figure out all the people we're gonna ask to the opening."

The door opened for Annabella.

"Say, where you gonna be practising this afternoon?" called Al.

Annabella gave them the address. "I'll be there till four o'clock, honey. We're going over the routine." Her eyes lingered on Grace. It was part of Grace's luck that women were attracted by her looks as well as men. They wondered at her skin and at the suction of her eyes; couldn't keep their glances away, wishing to find the secret. Annabella bestowed a special smile on Grace.

"She likes you," said Al suspiciously. "Know her before?"

"No."

Al looked at his watch. It was nearly two. "Well, let's go out and grab some lunch. Let's see now, I gotta call the photographer and I gotta go to the bank. And, say, I gotta get ahold of an insurance man I know who'll stand for the fake policy. I'm gonna insure her legs for half a million. Come on."

So many small errands which Al had to do developed on the way that it was three o'clock before they finally sat down at a lunch counter and swallowed a sandwich and a cup of coffee apiece. Two nervous spots burned on Grace's cheeks, under her skin.

"Now listen," said Al. "You run over to the Times and see if you can plant a picture. I'll go on to the studio. Show up there at four, will ya? Listen, are those pictures backed? Harry said she opens Thursday, didn't he? What's her name, Annabelle or Annabella?"

Al insisted on "backing" all the pictures himself—that is, writing a description on the back. She let him take the lead. With many frowns and chewings of his pencil he composed at last a paragraph ornate enough to suit him.

"We don't have to bother with her partner—that's one good thing," said Al. "Harry isn't working for him. It's no cinch getting space for a girl dancer in a night club, but a man—Jesus Christ!"

Whatever he said Grace listened to intently and absorbed.

She hurried over to the Times. The head of the rotogravure section was, as she expected, in the composing room. She left a picture without much hope, then went into the Dramatic Department to see Tommy Manship. When she had had her job on the Brooklyn Press, she had been very careful to meet and make friends with as many people on the New York papers as possible. She had gotten the press agents of the shows whose openings she sometimes covered to point out and introduce her to dramatic editors and critics. Sometimes she had been invited by the press agents to parties where these might be present. Her foresight was now rewarded. Tommy Manship, the assistant dramatic editor, knew and liked her. He placed a chair by his desk for her, heard her story, and puckered his lips.

"I'd help you if I could, Grace," he said. "But you know how much space we have for dramatic notes week days. We haven't got enough for the regular shows, let alone night clubs. I might try to slip in something next Sunday. Send me a note and I'll see."

Watching her big disappointed eyes, he added, "They're running a dance column now on Sundays. I'll find out who does it and you get in touch with him. Maybe he'll do something for you."

He telephoned about and wrote down a name and number for her. It was nice to have her sitting there, such a pretty girl. Not pretty exactly. Both less and more than pretty. He had been a press agent himself and he told her when various people on the papers were apt to be in and advised her how to proceed.

In return she took him into her confidence, with grave eyes fixed on him.

"I'm—really working for Harry Strauss. But I'm supposed to be working by myself because Mr. Strauss isn't so well liked by the papers."

He nodded and grinned.

"I'll see you around now, Grace, won't I?"

"Very—pos-sibly." She always halted in this way between words and sometimes syllables. People thought it an affectation, but really there was a catch in her throat that made it necessary.

She went down into the street, soothed by admiration, not feeling so much of a petitioner. Walking past a window with a clock, she realized suddenly that it was four. For the first time in a year she had forgotten to anticipate this hour. For the first time in a year, an affair of her own—this job—had to take precedence of Blake's affairs. Always, heretofore, she had attuned herself to his wishes, arranged her day to suit the convenience of the hour between four and five for him. It did not occur to her even to question the fact that her job must come first now. She did not dare not to appear at the studio. And, although she ached to see Blake, she felt with a start that she was smiling a little, not hurrying to the telephone. The air seemed to widen a bit in front of her; she had a returning taste of freedom, the old freedom she had known and lost. It was the merest taste and gone on the instant. But it was pleasant.

She was even more pleased to find Blake waiting for her call in Fred's office, to hear the disappointed droop of his voice. And he couldn't blame her. It did not occur to him either to question the inevitable precedence of a job.

"Then I won't see you to-day?" he repeated, as if he must have time to let this sink in, down into the slow depths of his mind. "I won't see you to-day.... What're you doing to-night?" he asked suddenly.

"I thought I might go to Let's for dinner."

"Well, I—I'll try to get away. Don't count on it. But I'll try to get up there."

She was smiling so widely that a man followed her out of the cigar store. He soon saw the smile was not for him. For the first time in twelve months Blake had, of his own free will and not by her exaction, planned to make room in his life, in his wife's life, to permit her to get in. All these months it had been her sole efforts, almost, which had nourished the hope between them. Now the hope sprang up greener, stronger. Blake was helping to cherish it of his own accord.

She took a street car to the dance studio. Small duties, moods, comments, questions beat on her exhausted mind as soon as she entered. Annabella, in a skimpy chiffon practise dress, was posing with bad temper. She had expected a string of cameras. There was only one—hired, though Annabella didn't know this. The partner, a keen, slick-haired youth, tried to insinuate himself into all the pictures.

"Aw, there you are," cried Al. "Look, Annabella don't understand that this man's from the I.N.S. that supplies pictures to all the papers. That's better than getting all the papers up here, Annabella. This man sees that they all get prints and they have to use 'em, don't they? They pay for 'em, don't they, Grace?"

Grace added her fervent assurances. "We must get pictures of her legs," she said. "Hasn't she stunning legs, Al?"

"That's just what I was going to do," said Al.

And, "Your own legs aren't so bad, honey," said Annabella with a gratified smile.

Between them, they got her on a table and pulled her practise dress even farther up. They shoved the partner away. They sat her on another table before the insurance man, pretending to sign a policy for her legs. They posed her with the partner in a presumably new dance step—Annabella, however, well to the fore. The photographer called, "Ready." There were flashes. The long bare room was filled with smoke. The studio instructor gave a lesson in one corner and growled at them, about the smoke, about the time they took. A piano tinkled.

"Now, one—two—three—— Say, you people have got to get out. Your time's up."

"Now, what'll we call this dance?" cried Al. "We got to get a name for it. What do you say, Grace?"

"The New Yorker, maybe," suggested Grace after a weary pause.

"Naw, that's too high-tone, too highbrow. Something snappy. Gee, I don't know about dancing."

"How about the Ritz?" said Annabella's partner.

"The Ritzy Ritz! That's what we'll call it! That's swell. Say, when I get a hunch, Grace——"

"Now listen, when'll these pictures be ready? Now listen, Grace, you go down to his office and call for them to-morrow early. Nine o'clock. See? Good-bye, Annabella. The pictures'll be knockouts. I bet we make the front page. Now, I'll get in touch with you to-morrow morning. Good-bye, Annabella. I'll see you get your break, Karston. Say, you'll be the best-known insurance man in America to-morrow. See, Grace, you remember Karston. He insures all the actors and actresses, don't you, Karston? So long. Yeh, we won't forget to use your name."

Al was everywhere.

"Now listen, Grace, we got time to go down to the office and pound out some stories—just a short one, see?—so we'll have 'em on hand in the morning when we start making the rounds. I gotta go down to the American now myself. Gee, I got that show to see about yet."

It was nearly six. Grace protested.

"Oh, we don't have to do the stories to-night. We have loads of time. I'll do them first thing—in the morning. Aren't you—tired?"

"Tired! Say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Wait till we start trotting around to the papers. You gotta hop, I tell you, when you work for Harry. But I'll get everything fixed up. Leave it to Friend Al."

He squeezed her arm. He seemed much jollier and not so suspicious, so she assumed that he was satisfied with her. They hadn't done a thing, it seemed to her, and she couldn't grasp any of it yet. She started out, with relief, for Letty's house. She was utterly tired—so tired. Her cheeks were lengthened; her eyes were holes. Her heart reached across a city to Blake, to feel him near her. But anyhow, at least for this day, the prospect looked bright.