Halfway between Sixth Avenue and Fifth, on the 61 north side of the street, an enterprising architect had purchased half a dozen squatty, three-storied houses, set back from the sidewalk behind grass-plots. These had been lavishly stuccoed and transformed into abodes for those irregulars in the army of life known as artists.
In the rear the back fences had been levelled; six corresponding houses on the next street had been purchased; a sort of inner court established, with a common grass-plot planted with trees and embellished by a number of concrete works of art, battered statues, sundials, and well-curbs.
Always the army of civilisation trudges along screened, flanked, and tagged after by lifes irregulars, who cannot or will not conform to routine. And these are always roaming around seeking their own cantonments, where, for a while, they seem content to dwell at the end of one more aimless étape through the world not in regulation barracks, but in regions too unconventional, too inconvenient to attract others.
Of this sort was the collection of squatty houses, forming a community, where, in the neighbourhood of other irregulars, Garret Barres dwelt; and into the lighted entrance of which he now turned, still exhilarated by his meeting with Thessalie Dunois.
The architectural agglomeration was known as Dragon Court a faïence Fu-dog above the electric light over the green entrance door furnishing that priceless idea a Fu-dog now veiled by mesh-wire to provide against the indiscretions of sparrows lured thither by housekeeping possibilities lurking among the dense screens of Japanese ivy covering the façade.
Larry Soane, the irresponsible superintendent, always turned gardener with Aprils advent in Dragon Court, contributions from its denizens enabling him to 62 pepper a few flower-beds with hyacinths and tulips, and later with geraniums. These former bulbs had now gratefully appeared in promising thickets, and Barres saw the dark form of the handsome, reckless-looking Irishman fussing over them in the lantern-lit dusk, while his little daughter, Dulcie, kneeling on the dim grass, caressed the first blue hyacinth blossom with thin, childish fingers.
Barres glanced into his letter-box behind the desk, above which a drop-light threw more shadows than illumination. Little Dulcie Soane was supposed to sit under it and emit information, deliver and receive letters, pay charges on packages, and generally supervise things when she was not attending school.
There were no letters for the young man. He examined a package, found it contained his collars from the laundry, tucked them under his left arm, and walked to the door looking out upon the dusky interior court.
Soane, he said, your garden begins to look very fine. He nodded pleasantly to Dulcie, and the child responded to his friendly greeting with the tired but dauntless smile of the young who are missing those golden years to which all childhood has a claim.
Dulcies three cats came strolling out of the dusk across the lamplit grass a coal black one with sea-green eyes, known as The Prophet, and his platonic mate, white as snow, and with magnificent azure-blue eyes which, in white cats, usually betokens total deafness. She was known as The Houri to the irregulars of Dragon Court. The third cat, unanimously but misleadingly christened Strindberg by the dwellers in Dragon Court, has already crooked her tortoise-shell tail and was tearing around in eccentric circles or darting halfway up trees in a manner characteristic, and, 63 possibly accounting for the name, if not for the sex.
Thim cats of the kids, observed Soane, do be scratchin up the plants all night long bad cess to thim! Barrin thim three omadhauns yonder, Id show ye a purty bed o poisies, Misther Barres. But Sthrinberg, God help her, is fr diggin through to China.
Dulcie impulsively caressed the Prophet, who turned his solemn, incandescent eyes on Barres. The Houri also looked at him, then, intoxicated by the soft spring evening, rolled lithely upon the new grass and lay there twitching her snowy tail and challenging the stars out of eyes that matched their brilliance.
Dulcie got up and walked slowly across the grass to where Barres stood:
May I come to see you this evening? she asked, diffidently, and with a swift, sidelong glance toward her father.
Ah, then, dont be worritin him! grumbled Soane. Hasnt Misther Barres enough to do, what with all thim idees he has slitherin in his head, an all the books an learnin an picters he has to think of whithout the likes of you at his heels every blessed minute, day an night!
But he always lets me she remonstrated.
Gwan, now, and lave the poor gentleman be! Quit your futtherin an muttherin. Gwan in the house, ye little scut, an see what there is fr ye to do!
Whats the matter with you, Soane? interrupted Barres good-humouredly. Of course she can come up if she wants to. Do you feel like paying me a visit, Dulcie, before you go to bed?
Yes, she nodded diffidently.
Well, come ahead then, Sweetness! And whenever you want to come you say so. Your father knows well enough I like to have you.
He smiled at Dulcie; the childs shy preference for his society always had amused him. Besides, she was always docile and obedient; and she was very sensitive, too, never outwearing her welcome in his studio, and always leaving without a murmur when, looking up from book or drawing he would exclaim cheerfully: Now, Sweetness! Times up! Bed for yours, little lady!
It had been a very gradual acquaintance between them more than two years in developing. From his first pleasant nod to her when he first came to live in Dragon Court, it had progressed for a few months, conservatively on her part, and on his with a detached but kindly interest born of easy sympathy for youth and loneliness.
But he had no idea of the passionate response he was stirring in the motherless, neglected child of what hunger he was carelessly stimulating, what latent qualities and dormant characteristics he was arousing.
Her appearance, one evening, in her night-dress at his studio doorway, accompanied by her three cats, began to enlighten him in regard to her mental starvation. Tremulous, almost at the point of tears, she had asked for a book and permission to remain for a few moments in the studio. He had rung for Selinda, ordered fruit, cake, and a glass of milk, and had installed Dulcie upon the sofa with a lapful of books. That was the beginning.
But Barres still did not entirely understand what particular magnet drew the child to his studio. The place was full of beautiful things, books, rugs, pictures, fine old furniture, cabinets glimmering with porcelains, ivories, jades, Chinese crystals. These all, in minutest detail, seemed to fascinate the girl. Yet, after giving her permission to enter whenever she desired, often 65 while reading or absorbed in other affairs, he became conscious of being watched; and, glancing up, would frequently surprise her sitting there very silently, with an open book on her knees, and her strange grey eyes intently fixed on him.
Then he would always smile and say something friendly; and usually forget her the next moment in his absorption of whatever work he had under way.
Only one other man inhabiting Dragon Court ever took the trouble to notice or speak to the child James Westmore, the sculptor. And he was very friendly in his vigorous, jolly, rather boisterous way, catching her up and tossing her about as gaily and irresponsibly as though she were a rag doll; and always telling her he was her adopted godfather and would have to chastise her if she ever deserved it. Also, he was always urging her to hurry and grow up, because he had a wedding present for her. And though Dulcies smile was friendly, and Westmores nonsense pleased the shy child, she merely submitted, never made any advance.
Barress ménage was accomplished by two specimens of mankind, totally opposite in sex and colour; Selinda, a blonde, slant-eyed, and very trim Finn, doing duty as maid; and Aristocrates W. Johnson, lately employed in the capacity of waiter on a dining-car by the New York Central Railroad tall, dignified, graceful, and Ethiopian who cooked as daintily as a débutante trifling with culinary duty, and served at table with the languid condescension of a dilettante and wealthy amateur of domestic arts.
Barres ascended the two low, easy flights of stairs and unlocked his door. Aristocrates, setting the table 66 in the dining-room, approached gracefully and relieved his master of hat, coat, and stick.
Half an hour later, a bath and fresh linen keyed up his already lively spirits; he whistled while he tied his tie, took a critical look at himself, and, dropping both hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket, walked out into the big studio, which also was his living-room.
There was a piano there; he sat down and rattled off a rollicking air from the most recent spring production, beginning to realise that he was keyed up for something livelier than a solitary dinner at home.
His hands fell from the keys and he swung around on the piano stool and looked into the dining-room rather doubtfully.
Aristocrates! he called.
The tall pullman butler sauntered gracefully in.
Barres gave him a telephone number to call. Aristocrates returned presently with the information that the lady was not at home.
All right. Try Amsterdam 6703. Ask for Miss Souval.
But Miss Souval, also, was out.
Barres possessed a red-leather covered note-book; he went to his desk and got it; and under his direction Aristocrates called up several numbers, reporting adversely in every case.
It was a fine evening; ladies were abroad or preparing to fulfil engagements wisely made on such a day as this had been. And the more numbers he called up the lonelier the young man began to feel.
Thessalie had not given him either her address or telephone number. It would have been charming to have her dine with him. He was now thoroughly inclined for company. He glanced at the empty dining-room with aversion.
All right; never mind, he said, dismissing Aristocrates, who receded as lithely as though leading a cake-walk.
The devil, muttered the young fellow. Im not going to dine here alone. Ive had too happy a day of it.
He got up restlessly and began to pace the studio. He knew he could get some man, but he didnt want one. However, it began to look like that or a solitary dinner.
So after a few more moments scowling cogitation he went out and down the stairs, with the vague idea of inviting some brother painter any one of the regular irregulars who inhabited Dragon Court.
Dulcie sat behind the little desk near the door, head bowed, her thin hands clasped over the closed ledger, and in her pallid face the expressionless dullness of a child forgotten.
Hello, Sweetness! he said cheerfully.
She looked up; a slight colour tinted her cheeks, and she smiled.
Whats the matter, Dulcie?
Nothing.
Nothing? Thats a very dreary malady nothing. You look lonely. Are you?
I dont know.
You dont know whether you are lonely or not? he demanded.
I suppose I am, she ventured, with a shy smile.
Where is your father?
He went out.
Any letters for me or messages?
A man he had one eye came. He asked who you are.
What?
I think he was German. He had only one eye. He asked your name.
What did you say?
I told him. Then he went away.
Barres shrugged:
Somebody who wants to sell artists materials, he concluded. Then he looked at the girl: So youre lonely, are you? Where are your three cats? Arent they company for you?
Yes
Well, then, he said gaily, why not give a party for them? That ought to amuse you, Dulcie.
The child still smiled; Barres walked on past her a pace or two, halted, turned irresolutely, arrived at some swift decision, and came back, suddenly understanding that he need seek no further that he had discovered his guest of the evening at his very elbow.
Did you and your father have your supper, Dulcie?
My father went out to eat at Grogans.
How about you?
I can find something.
Why not dine with me? he suggested.
The child stared, bewildered, then went a little pale.
Shall we have a dinner party for two you and I, Dulcie? What do you say?
She said nothing, but her big grey eyes were fixed on him in a passion of inquiry.
A real party, he repeated. Let the people get their own mail and packages until your father returns. Nobodys going to sneak in, anyway. Or, if that wont do, Ill call up Grogans and tell your father to come back because you are going to dine in my studio with me. Do you know the telephone number? Very well; get Grogans for me. Ill speak to your father.
Dulcies hand trembled on the receiver as she called up Grogans; Barres bent over the transmitter:
Soane, Dulcie is going to take dinner in my studio with me. Youll have to come back on duty, when youve eaten. He hung up, looked at Dulcie and laughed.
I wanted company as much as you did, he confessed. Now, go and put on your prettiest frock, and well be very grand and magnificent. And afterward well talk and look at books and pretty things and maybe well turn on the Victrola and Ill teach you to dance He had already begun to ascend the stairs:
In half an hour, Dulcie! he called back; and you may bring the Prophet if you like Shall I ask Mr. Westmore to join us?
Id rather be all alone with you, she said shyly.
He laughed and ran on up the stairs.
In half an hour the electric bell rang very timidly. Aristocrates, having been instructed and rehearsed, and, loftily condescending to his rôle in a kindly comedy to be played seriously, announced: Miss Soane! in his most courtly manner.
Barres threw aside the evening paper and came forward, taking both hands of the white and slightly frightened child.
Aristocrates ought to have announced the Prophet, too, he said gaily, breaking the ice and swinging Dulcie around to face the open door again.
The Prophet entered, perfectly at ease, his eyes of living jade shining, his tail urbanely hoisted.
Dulcie ventured to smile; Barres laughed outright; Aristocrates surveyed the Prophet with toleration mingled with a certain respect. For a black cat is never without occult significance to a gentleman of colour.
With Dulcies hand still in his, Barres led her into the living-room, where, presently, Aristocrates brought a silver tray upon which was a glass of iced orange juice for Dulcie, and a Bronnix, as Aristocrates called it, for the master.
To your health and good fortune in life, Dulcie, he said politely.
The child gazed mutely at him over her glass, then, blushing, ventured to taste her orange juice.
When she finished, Barres drew her frail arm through his and took her out, seating her. Ceremonies began in silence, and the master of the place was not quite sure whether the flush on Dulcies face indicated unhappy embarrassment or pleasure.
He need not have worried: the child adored it all. The Prophet came in and gravely seated himself on a neighbouring chair, whence he could survey the table and seriously inspect each course.