I was rather glad of the commission Kennedy had given me. Belle Balcom had a keen and sprightly mind. She was the typical newspaper woman, it is true, who often would sacrifice accuracy to cleverness. Yet there was not much to condemn her in that, for she was so undeniably clever. Contact with her was stimulating. Besides, it was just on such a quest as this that a girl of her type was invaluable.

Accordingly, I set out immediately down-town for The Star. Fortunately, I found Belle finishing her stint of society gossip for the day.

I made a quick explanation of what Kennedy wanted and was pleased to see that she was interested.

"I think it\'s a good idea to visit the tea-room," I explained, then added, doubtfully, "but how are you going to find out whether our people are remembered there—if they don\'t happen to be remembered by name?"

"Nothing simpler," Belle replied. "Some one [170] there will surely remember faces. We\'ll settle that in the art department."

Thus, armed with photographs of Shattuck, Vina, Honora, and Wilford which The Star already possessed in its files, Belle and I set out on our quest.

The Orange and Blue Tea-room was not easy to find by one unfamiliar with the Village and its queer twists of streets. But Belle knew it well and I had some slight recollection of it.

It was originally a low-ceilinged basement in an old house not far from Washington Square. The upper floors were now "studios." In the former basement, almost a cellar, were three rows of tables extending the length of the place and overrunning out into the little back yard where one dined in summer al fresco.

At the far end, on one side, was a little raised platform, and on it was a piano strummed by a blind player. Opposite was the entrance to the kitchen, which was subterranean.

Belle and I entered, and immediately the highbrow hold-up began, just as up-town, with a coat-and-hat check-boy. We made our way to one of the tables along the wall and seated ourselves. Everywhere orange and blue decorations, true to the name, smote the eye, on walls, on ceiling, on chintzes, on the floor, on everything, it seemed, but the table-cloths and the silverware.

"You know, orange stands for temperament," chatted Belle, as she saw me marveling at the color riot. "New art, I guess."
[171]

"Insanity art," I replied, with a smile. "Don\'t mistake me, I enjoy it, though. It\'s atmosphere—especially when that kitchen door is open."

Belle looked about, as a woman will, at once attentive to our conversation, taking in whatever was happening within the range of two ordinary men\'s vision, now and then nodding to some acquaintance, sweeping a glance at the menu and tucking in a stray wisp of black hair, all at once and each without in the least interfering with the other.

"I suppose the \'Villagers\' are here in force," I suggested, noting as best I could all her simultaneous actions and probably missing the other half which I have not recorded.

Belle smiled. "Villagers don\'t come here much. The place is too well known. Besides, there are not so many \'Villagers\' as you would think. No doubt most of them are up-town. No, most of these people are skirmishers from the highbrow and curious up-town and out-of-town. You see, there\'s a sort of reciprocity about it."

However that might have been, there was enough that was picturesque and one felt sure that one was really in an environment of the bobbed hair and maiden names for wives—that is, assuming that the words maiden and wives were still in the vocabulary.

"All parlor socialists?" I inquired, looking about.

"Have your little joke," frowned Belle. "We all have to, I suppose. But really, down here, after all, there are people who think, who do things."
[172]

I had been waiting for that expression, "do things." They all "do things" down in Greenwich Village, even if it is only to compose music for the zither or publish one\'s own amateur magazine on butcher paper from hand-set type. Evidently Belle took the Village more or less seriously, after all.

"Besides," she faltered, "there are no parlor socialists, any more, anyhow. That belongs to the old muck-raking magazine days."

"I see—limousine liberals now—or boudoir Bolsheviki."

"Maybe you\'d better eat," suggested Belle, sarcastically.

"It\'s a tea-room," I parried, glancing down at the menu. "I suppose it\'s orange pekoe—although they don\'t seem to be drinking it. Perhaps they\'re all smoking it. Now that we\'re all supposed to be so good, I hear that tobacco will be replaced by dried powdered tea leaves and coffee grounds. They say a caffein jag or a thein jag has merits. Passing by the paraldehyde cocktail, what\'s good?"

Belle\'s good humor was restored, and with her help I managed to order everything from soup to nuts—and I am sure that there were a good many fugitives from the squirrels in the room, whether from up or down town.

I was really enjoying myself, so much so that for the moment I almost forgot the purpose of our visit, when it was recalled to me by Belle, who [173] spoke in French to the waiter, rather gross and greasy but answering to the compensating name of Hyacinthe.

"Où est Ma\'m\'selle Zona?" she asked.

The waiter actually understood, and, though it would have been so much easier in English, Belle conveyed the idea that she would like to talk to Miss Dare and the waiter agreed to get her, though I felt he restrained himself with difficulty from replying in good Manhattanite, "Sure, miss, I\'ll dig her up"—meaning from the olfactory Hades beneath us.

Zona Dare proved to be a slender youngish lady, with the conventional shock of dark bobbed hair—with a dilettante exterior but a very practical secret self, I am sure. Even a mere introduction to her told me she was a member of that curious "third sex" that evolution is giving us. I can\'t exactly describe it. It is not "she" or "he" exactly, neither he-woman nor she-man. Certainly it is not neuter. Maybe when nature, or whatever it is that is operating, gets through we may be able to classify it.

Belle knew her, of course. Belle knew everybody. In fact she knew her so well that Zona, on urging, consented to sit down with us awhile and actually ordered tea—in a pot, too, though whether Russian, English or Scotch or Rye I am not sure. At any rate, it seemed to promote conversation and confidence and I covered my raillery with protective coloring.
[174]

What I enjoyed was the utter freedom of the conversation. We had soon progressed to bolshevism and the government ownership and operation of women. Finally the conversation put into the ultimate port of the "new morality."

"One must live one\'s life," seemed to be the burden of the philosophy, and I did not quarrel with the 1919 model of hedonism, for by this time I began to see a ray of hope that finally I might learn something about those whom Kennedy and I had been studying. I recalled Vina\'s remark to us over her contemplated divorce, "I believe every woman should live her own life as she sees fit." Doubtless she had absorbed it here.

It was evident, however, that there could only be so many triangles a week—and besides, "the eternal triangle" was in itself condemned by its mere ancient origin. What next? I guessed right—bolshevism, of course.

I found I had dropped right into the intelligenzia—the very sovietment of society, where The Nation and The New Republic were considered hide-bound conservatives. I did not quarrel even at the addition of red to the orange-and-blue color scheme, though I adopted the attitude of one mildly seeking the truth.

"Perhaps Freud can explain," I suggested, after one passage at arms with Zona, ably seconded by Belle, "why it is that a prosperous aristocratic feminist should enjoy contemplating casting her rope of pearls before the proletariat. What do these [175] comfortable nibblers at anarchy expect to get out of it?"

There was an answer. I have forgotten it, but it was clever and convincing. It always is, just as glib sophistry and specious phrases are. The gist was that all psychology, science, the history of the human race, had been superseded by some quite indefinite idea originated in a land with problems about as much related to us as the dredging of Martian canals would relate to Suez and Panama.

However, the purpose was accomplished, and Belle, with her human point of view, which one gets from seeing this corrupt old world from a newspaper office, saw it. Gradually, the conversation had drifted about to Freud.

I was glad that I had learned so much about him from Kennedy, for I was surprised at the knowledge that Zona really had of him. Was it superficial—as so much of that little world into which Kennedy had plunged me? I am not sure. At least, Zona posed as a Freudian interpreter. I was sorry Kennedy was not present, for I was inclined to accept her as such. The fact was that it set me thinking that perhaps she had educated in the theory many to whom a little knowledge is dynamite.

Belle\'s keen mind seemed to read my thoughts, even to leap ahead of me. She reached into her bag and drew forth some photographs.

"Oh, Zona, by the way," she rattled on, "that [176] reminds me. Did you ever see this man here—or this woman?"

Zona took the photographs of Shattuck and Vina, and with just a glance answered, "Indeed I have!"

"Do you recall a night when there was a scene here—another woman?" went on Belle, producing the photograph of Honora.

"Yes—I remember her. I know them all. They\'re in this case that\'s in the papers now. The lawyer who was killed was that woman\'s husband," she added, pointing to Honora. "Why? Are you writing them into your column?"

"Yes," confessed Belle. "That is, if I can get a good enough story out of the incident here."

At once Zona\'s keen, practical mind leaped to the bait of publicity held out by Belle. What could be better advertising than for the celebrated case in the news to be connected with the tea-room? It would crowd the place.

"What is it you want to know?"

"Just what happened."

"I didn\'t see it all. As nearly as I can recall that man—Mr. Shattuck, his name is—was at a table with Mrs. Lathrop when Mrs. Wilford approached. You see, I knew them all slightly. I know so many people who come here from up-town. It flatters them—and I have a good memory for names. I had seen Mrs. Wilford here several times before with Mr. Shattuck—and once I think with Mr. Wilford—I\'m not sure. Anyhow, I knew her—I think I sold her a box for our Freud play last year—I\'m [177] not sure. I\'d have to look that up. Well, there was quite a scene when Mrs. Wilford stopped and faced Mrs. Lathrop at her table. But here\'s the strange part of it. I don\'t know whether you know it or not. But just before that, while Mrs. Wilford was sitting at the table just back of us—the two were down there near the piano—Mr. Wilford himself came in. He was about to give his hat and stick to the check-boy when he caught sight of the back of his wife\'s head. She was alone—right there—then. He spoke a few words to a man near the street door. I don\'t know him. He never came here before and I haven\'t seen him since. But, at any rate, Mr. Wilford spoke to him, then turned and left in a great hurry. I wasn\'t here through it all. Just a moment, Pedro!" she called to a waiter who was passing at the moment.

Pedro completed his service at another table, then came over to Zona.

"Did you ever see these people here?" asked Zona, tur............