“I don’t want to if it bores you. I mean you needn’t do it as a favor.”
Anthony protested:
“Bore me? I say no!”
“I’ve got a cousin,” began Dick, but Anthony interrupted.
“Good weather!” he exclaimed, “isn’t it? It makes me feel about ten. Murderous! Oh, God!”
“I’ve got a cousin at the Plaza. A nice girl. We can meet her. She lives there in the winter – with her mother and father.”
“I didn’t know you had cousins in New York.”
“Her name’s Gloria. She’s from Kansas City. Gloria Gilbert. She goes to dances at colleges.”
“I’ve heard her name.”
“Good-looking – in fact attractive.”
They reached Fiftieth Street and turned over toward the Avenue.
“I don’t care for young girls as a rule,” said Anthony, frowning.
This was not true. Any nice girl interested him enormously.
“Gloria is nice – and not a brain in her head.”
Anthony laughed.
“You mean that she can’t talk about literature.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Dick, you like earnest young women who sit with you in a corner and talk earnestly about life. When they were sixteen they argued with grave faces as to whether kissing was right or wrong – and whether it was immoral to drink beer.”
Richard Caramel was offended.
“No,” he began, but Anthony interrupted ruthlessly.
“Oh, yes; who sit in corners talk about the latest Scandinavian Dante available in English translation.”
Dick turned to him.
“What’s the matter with you and Maury? You talk sometimes as though I am a fool.”
Anthony was confused.
“Dick,” said Anthony, changing his tone, “I want to beg your pardon.”
“Why?”
“I’m honestly sorry. I was talking just for fun.”
Mollified, Dick rejoined:
“I’ve often said you’re a boaster.”
A clerk announced them over the phone, and ascending to the tenth floor they followed a winding corridor and knocked at 1088. The door was answered by a middle-aged lady – Mrs. Gilbert herself.
“How do you do? Well, I’m awfully glad to see you. Mr. Pats? Well, do come in, and leave your coat there.”
She pointed to a chair.
“This is really lovely – lovely. Why, Richard, you haven’t been here for so long! Well, do sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing. Are you a writer too, Mr. Pats? Gloria’s out,” she said. “She’s dancing somewhere. Gloria goes, goes, goes. She dances all afternoon and all night. Her father is very worried about her.”
She smiled from one to the other. They both smiled.
“I always say,” she remarked to Anthony, “that Richard is an ancient soul. We all have souls of different ages, at least that’s what I say.”
“Perhaps so,” agreed Anthony.
“Gloria has a very young soul – irresponsible, as much as anything else. She has no sense of responsibility.”
“Aunt Catherine,” said Richard pleasantly. “A sense of responsibility would spoil her. She’s too pretty.”
“Well,” confessed Mrs. Gilbert, “all I know is that she goes and goes and goes.”
Mr. Gilbert entered. He was a short man with a mustache resting like a small white cloud beneath his nose. His ideas were popular twenty years ago. After graduating from a small Western university, he had entered the celluloid business, and he did well for several years.
He disapproved of Gloria: she stayed out late, she never ate her meals. His wife was easier. After fifteen years of war he had conquered her. Mrs. Gilbert introduced him to Anthony.
“This is Mr. Pats,” she said.
The young man and the old shook hands. Then husband and wife exchanged greetings-he told her it had grown colder out; he said he had walked down to a news-stand on Forty-fourth Street for a Kansas City paper. He had intended to ride back in the bus but he had found it too cold, yes, yes, yes, yes, too cold.
“Well, you are the hero!” she exclaimed admiringly. “I wouldn’t have gone out for anything.”
Mr. Gilbert He turned to the two young men and began to talk to them on the subject of the weather. Then he rather abruptly changed the subject.
“Where’s Gloria?”
“She will be here any minute.”
“Have you met my daughter, Mr…?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure. But Dick spoke of her often.”
“She and Richard are cousins.”
“Yes?” Anthony smiled with some effort.
Richard Caramel was afraid they’d have to leave.
Mrs. Gilbert was tremendously sorry.
Mr. Gilbert thought it was too bad.
Would they come again soon?
“Oh, yes.”
Gloria would be awfully sorry!
“Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
Smiles!
Smiles!
Two disconsolate young men are walking down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza in the direction of the elevator.
A Lady’s Legs
Maury Noble was purposeful. His intention, as he stated it in college was: to use three years in travel, three years in leisure – and then to become immensely rich as quickly as possible.
His three years of travel were over. Back in America, he was searching for amusement. He taught himself to drink as he taught himself Greek – like Greek it would be the gateway to new sensations, new psychical states, new reactions.
He had three rooms in a bachelor apartment on Forty-forth street, but he was there. The telephone girl[13] had a list of half a dozen people to whom he was never at home, and of the same number to whom he was always at home. Foremost on the latter list were Anthony Patch and Richard Caramel.
Maury’s mother lived in Philadelphia, and there Maury went usually for the week-ends, so one Saturday night Anthony was overjoyed to find that Mr. Noble was at home.
There he was! The room warmed Anthony. Maury filled the room, tigerlike, godlike. The winds outside were stilled.
“What keeps you here today?” Anthony asked.
“I was at a tea-party. I missed my train to Philadelphia. And you?”
“Geraldine[14]. I told you about her.”
“Oh!”
“She called me about three and stayed till five. She’s so utterly stupid.”
Maury was silent.
Anthony had known her a month. He considered her amusing and rather liked the chaste and fairylike kisses she had given him on the third night of their acquaintance, when they had driven in a taxi through the Park. She had a shadowy aunt and uncle who shared with her an apartment. She familiar and intimate and restful.
“She gets her hair over her eyes some way and then blow it out,” he informed Maury; “and she likes to say ‘You cra-a-azy!’ when some one makes a remark that she does not understand. It fascinates me.”
Maury spoke.
“Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such a complex civilization.”
“Our Richard could write about her.”
“Anthony, surely you don’t think she’s worth writing about.”
“As much as anybody,” he answered, yawning. “You know I was thinking today that I have a great confidence in Dick. If he sticks to people and not to ideas, I believe he’ll be a big man.”
Anthony raised himself.
“He tries to go to life. So does every author except the very worst. The incident or character may be from life, but the writer usually interprets it in terms of the last book he read. For instance, suppose he meets a captain. He already knows how to set this sea captain on paper…Whose tea was it?”
“People named Abercrombie[15].”
“Why did you stay late? Did you meet a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you really?” Anthony’s voice lifted in surprise.
“Yes. She seemed the youngest person there.”
“Not too young to make you miss a train.”
“Young enough. Beautiful child.”
Anthony chuckled.
“Oh, Maury, what do you mean by beautiful?”
Maury gazed helplessly into space.
“Well, I can’t describe her exactly – except to say that she was beautiful. She was tremendously alive.”
“What!”
“Mostly we talked about legs.”
“My God! Whose legs?”
“Hers. She talked a lot about hers.”
“What is she – a dancer?”
“No, she was a cousin of Dick’s.”
Anthony sat upright suddenly
“Her name is Gloria Gilbert!” he cried.
“Yes. Isn’t she remarkable?”
“I don’t know – but her father…”
“Well,” interrupted Maury, “her family may be as sad as professional mourners but I’m think that she’s a quite authentic and original character.”
“Go on, go on!” urged Anthony. “Soon as[16] Dick told me she didn’t have a brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes,” said Anthony with snorting laugh.
“Well, this girl talked about legs. She talked about skin too – her own skin. Always her own. And her tan”
“You sat enraptured by her voice?”
“No, by tan! I began thinking about tan. I began to think what color I turned about two years ago.”
Anthony was shaken with laughter.
“Oh, Maury!”
Maury sighed; rising he walked to the window and raised the shade.
“Snowing hard.”
Anthony, still laughing quietly to himself, made no answer.
“Another winter.” Maury’s voice from the window was almost a whisper. “We’re growing old, Anthony. I’m twenty-seven, by God! Three years to thirty, and then I’m a middle-aged man.”
Anthony was silent for a moment.
“You are old, Maury,” he agreed at length. “The first sign – you have spent the afternoon talking about tan and a lady’s legs.”
“Idiot!” cried Maury, “that from you! Here I sit, young Anthony, as I’ll sit for years and watch such souls as you and Dick and Gloria Gilbert go past me, dancing and singing and loving and hating one another. And I shall sit and the snow will come – and another winter and I shall be thirty and you and Dick and Gloria will eternally move and dance by me and sing.”
Maury left the window, stirred the blaze with a poker, and dropped a log upon the andirons. Then he sat back in his chair.
“After all, Anthony, it’s you who are very romantic and young. And it’s me who tries again and again to move – and I’m always me. Nothing stirs me.”
Turbulence
Anthony turned over sleepily in his bed. Bounds was close to the bed, his dark-brown eyes fixed imperturbably upon his master.
Anthony blinked.
“Bounds.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Can you come around about four and serve some tea and sandwiches or something?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some sandwiches,” Anthony repeated helplessly, “oh, some cheese sandwiches and chicken and olive, I guess.”
He shut his eyes wearily, let his head roll to rest inertly, and quickly relaxed. Richard Caramel had called on him[17] at midnight; they had drunk four bottles of beer.
Suddenly he was awake, saying: “What?”
“For how many, sir?” It was still Bounds, standing patient and motionless.
“How many what?”
“I think, sir, I’d better know how many are coming. I’ll have to plan for the sandwiches, sir.”
“Two,” muttered Anthony huskily; “lady and a gentleman.”
Bounds said, “Thank you, sir,” and moved away.
After a long time Anthony arose. With a last yawn he went into the bathroom. Then he lit a cigarette and glanced through several letters and the morning Tribune.
An hour later, shaven and dressed, he was sitting at his desk looking at a small piece of paper he had taken out of his wallet. “Dick and Gloria Gilbert for tea.”
These words brought him obvious satisfaction. In justification of his manner of living there was first, of course, The Meaninglessness of Life. From a world fraught with the stupidity of many Geraldines he was thankfully delivered.
But he found in himself a growing horror and loneliness. The idea of eating alone frightened him; in preference he dined often with men he detested. Travel, which had once charmed him, seemed unendurable.
And yet he wanted something, something. After cocktails and luncheon at the University Club Anthony felt better. He was Anthony Patch, brilliant, magnetic, the heir of many years and many men. With his grandfather’s money he might build his own pedestal. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence. He tried to imagine himself in Congress. Little men with copy-book ambitions, the lustreless and unromantic heaven of a government.
Back in his apartment the grayness returned. His thoughts were bitter. Anthony Patch with no achievement, without courage, without strength. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making careers out of cocktails. He was empty, it seemed, empty as an old bottle.
The buzzer rang at the door. Anthony sprang up and lifted the tube to his ear. It was Richard Caramel’s voice, stilted and facetious:
“Announcing Miss Gloria Gilbert.”
The Lady
“How do you do?” he said, smiling and holding the door ajar.
Dick bowed.
“Gloria, this is Anthony.”
“Well!” she cried.
“Let me take your things.”
Anthony stretched out his arms and the brown mass of fur tumbled into them.
“Thanks.”
“What do you think of her, Anthony?” Richard Caramel demanded barbarously. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Well!” cried the girl defiantly.
She was dazzling.
“I’m a solid block of ice,” murmured Gloria, glancing around. “We found a place where you could stand on an iron-bar grating, and it blew warm air up at you – but Dick wouldn’t wait there with me. I told him to go on alone and let me be happy.”
She seemed talking for her own pleasure, without effort. Anthony, sitting at one end of the sofa, examined her profile: the exquisite regularity of nose and upper lip, the chin, balanced beautifully on a rather short neck.
“I think you’ve got the best name I’ve heard,” she was saying, still apparently to herself. “Anthony Patch. You look like Anthony, rather majestic and solemn.”
Anthony smiled.
“My name is too flamboyant,” she went on, “I used to know two girls named Jinks, though, and just think what they were named – Judy Jinks and Jerry Jinks. Cute, what? Don’t you think?”
“Everybody in the next generation,” suggested Dick, “will be named Peter or Barbara – because at present all the piquant literary characters are named Peter or Barbara.”
Anthony continued the prophecy:
“Of course Gladys and Eleanor.”
“Displacing Ella and Stella,” interrupted Dick.
“And Pearl and Jewel,” Gloria added cordially, “and Earl and Elmer and Minnie.”
“Where are you from?” inquired Anthony.
“Kansas City, Missouri.”
“I must confess,” said Anthony gravely, “that even I’ve heard one thing about you.”
She sat up straight.
“Tell me. I’ll believe it. I always believe anything any one tells me about myself.”
“I’m not sure that I ought to,” said Anthony. She was so obviously interested.
“He means your nickname,” said her cousin.
“What name?” inquired Anthony, politely puzzled.
Instantly she was shy – then she laughed, and turned her eyes up as she spoke:
“Coast-to-Coast Gloria.” Her voice was full of laughter. “O Lord!”
Still Anthony was puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Me, I mean. That’s what some silly boys called me.”
“Don’t you see, Anthony,” explained Dick, “a great traveler? Isn’t that what you’ve heard? She’s been called that for years – since she was seventeen.”
“What have you heard of me?” asked she.
“Something about your tan.”
“My tan?” She was puzzled. Her hand rose to her throat.
“Do you remember Maury Noble? Man you met about a month ago. You made a great impression.”
She thought a moment.
“I remember – but he didn’t call me up.”
“He was afraid to, I don’t doubt.”
Dissatisfaction
On Thursday afternoon Gloria and Anthony had tea together in the grill room at the Plaza. She seemed so young, scarcely eighteen; her form was amazingly supple and slender, and her hands were small as a child’s hands should be.
Gloria considered several locations, and rather to Anthony’s annoyance paraded him to a table for two at the far side of the room. Would she sit on the right or on the left? Anthony thought again how naïve was her every gesture.
She watched the dancers, commenting murmurously.
“There’s a pretty girl in blue, there! No. Behind you – there!”
“Yes,” he agreed helplessly.
“You didn’t see her.”
“I’d rather look at you.”
“I know, but she was pretty. Except that she had big ankles.”
“Did she?” he said indifferently.
A girl’s salutation came from a couple dancing close to them.
“Hello, Gloria! O Gloria!”
“Hello there.”
“Who’s that?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Somebody.” She caught sight of another face. “Hello, Muriel!” Then to Anthony: “There’s Muriel Kane[18]. Now I think she’s attractive, but not very.”
Anthony chuckled.
“Attractive, but not very,” he repeated.
She smiled.
“Why is that funny? Do you want to dance?”