The next day was Saturday, and Félicie returned around noon just as Jerry left Joy in a whirlwind of breathless anticipation. Félicie was pale and sulky from dancing all night and having to come back to New York the next morning. “I missed a dance this afternoon and a wonderful one this evening,” she crabbed, taking off her outer raiment and donning a kimono, before lying on the bed to recuperate. At Joy’s question of why she hadn’t stayed the house-party through, she batted an injured brown velvet orb. “How could I, with Greg here and acting so awfully just because I wanted to go to Princeton for one day. He needn’t think I’d give up every evening to him—especially after the way he talked Thursday. I tell you, Joy, it’s awful to be in love. I never did such an inconvenient thing as I did when I fell in love with Greg.”
Joy stifled her laughter. “Did you have a good time?”
“Marvelous—simply marvelous. Princeton is the house-party girl’s Mecca. It’s mean of Greg to act so—it isn’t as if I could be asked to Princeton for many more years.”
Joy ran a scale, poising it neatly through the air and listening to the smoothness of tone. In the morning sun, music was more alive and satisfactory, even with no piano near. It was part of her—and little fluctuations of feeling were to be ignored, when she knew that all her being was absorbed in one great purpose. It had been silly of her to grow sentimental just because she had been doused in the atmosphere of sentiment. Inconsistently, she felt angry at Félicie.
“I can’t imagine being in love with a man and going off skating with a dozen others.”
“Oh, Joy, if you’re going to take Jerry’s side I shall just pass out!” wailed the lovely thing on the bed. “Being in love doesn’t stop you from wanting something new once in awhile.”
“Nothing seems to prevent anyone nowadays from going after a new sensation! Excitement-chasing! That’s what everyone’s doing!”
“It’s all very well for those who aren’t in love to theorize about what those who are in love should do. For all Jerry’s talk, I can’t see her giving up her ‘excitement-chasing’ for any man. Can you?”
The thought was a new one. What would happen if Jerry was given the opportunity to know this man so that the novelty would wear off? How would the Excitement-Eater stand a sustained love? She was silent in conjecture, and Félicie, too lazy to voice the triumph she felt, closed her eyes and worked her face down into the pillow.
Joy and Jerry had tickets for an ?olian Hall concert that afternoon, and now Joy went alone. The throngs always pressing ahead on the streets, exhilarated her, and she watched the faces of the people that urged themselves along; faces with success or failure written more or less plainly upon them. Most women, she supposed, succeeded or failed by proxy, as their husbands rose or fell in the foaming rapids of struggle. But there would be no such vicarious state for her! She was plunging directly into the rapids for herself, and some day she would walk in her own success.
She returned to the hotel in a fine enthusiasm, humming under her breath; the concert had been perfect. Her spirits were dashed, however, by the empty room. Félicie had gone out with Greg; Jerry had not returned. She would probably be alone until they assembled to take the midnight; they had decided when they came over, to go back Saturday night. To eat dinner all alone in New York! She was doing her hair without enthusiasm when the telephone bell rang. It was Jerry’s voice, eager and exultant: “That you, Joy? I’m downstairs—— Thought I was going to desert you for dinner, did you? Just wanted to see if you were back yet. Be right up.”
She finished setting in her hairpins with a lightening of spirits, as the door rattled open and Jerry came dancing in.
“Was the concert good?” she cried. Spots of colour flaunted joy from either cheek; her lips were tremulous, crinkled into softness; her eyes were a battlefield of colour.
“Very good,” said Joy, and waited.
Jerry pulled off her hat and suit, and in her customary whirlwind was making preparations for an evening toilette. “Put on your best calico, Joy; we’re dining in state. Phil’s gone to get into his cocktail-and-demitasse, too.”
“Phil!”
“Yes, of course, Phil. Do you want to hear what happened, or don’t you? Are you keeping still because I’m shooting off my mouth, or——”
“I want to hear,” Joy said; “and when people want to hear, they generally keep still.”
And then it came, with the generosity that was Jerry’s.
“Well, it seems I always tell you everything from the pop of the pistol on through. When we went down in the lobby, he asked me where I wanted to go; and I said, ‘Hanley’s.’ He looked at me queerly on that. ‘What made you pick that out?’ he wanted to know.”
She was caressing her hair with the military brushes, not raking it as was her custom.
“‘Let’s walk over,’ I said. ‘I want to stop at a place on the Avenue.’ As we went down Forty-Second Street, I rained a loose line of chatter along. I told you to-day would be my turn to talk. We got to Charlette’s before I had stuck in any background. When I saw the good old grey-silk-curtained windows, I began to get a bit shaky. But I turned to him and said: ‘We got to the end—rather sudden, last night. Men don’t like to work back, but you know—and intimated as much—that women are different that way.’ He opened the door for me, looking sort of at sea, and we came in. ‘All I ask of you,’ I said, ‘is to stand here and watch me.’ ‘The last part is something I can never omit,’ he said.
“You know Charlette’s—never many customers floating around, but oh, how they do bleed ’em when they come! I breezed forward, and the first person I ran into was Fanchon O’Brien. She tucked me into her flesh Georgette waist with a few motherly kisses, and the next minute somebody had passed the glad word and cutters, basters, fitters and designers came out and fell around me. I won’t go into details of Old Home Week at Charlette’s. When I broke away, Phil followed me to the door and on the other side I didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“‘Did you see all the poor little rats hailing me as a kindred soul?’ I said. ‘I worked in that place from twelve years old up, from messenger-girl to designer. I was a poor little rat when I started—but when I finished, I was pretty proud of myself.’ I looked up at him, and he was looking at me, sort of scowling, as if to make everything add up right,—but not one bit changed. ‘I should think you would be proud,’ he said. ‘I am proud of you—I shall be prouder when I can realise it more fully.’ He didn’t say anything till we got over to Hanley’s. Then he took in the name again as we went in. ‘Hanley’s!’ he said. ‘Funny——’ He didn’t say anything more and I let him look at me till we got put in our places by a waiter. Then I said: ‘You’ve forgotten what was to me one of the most important points in the Brushwood Boy. The little kid he met in the theatre who supplied the foundation of his dreams—was the same person as the woman he found. The girl had grown up; but she was the same one; she had been the kid.’
“Joy, he said nothing for two or three minutes steady, till the waiter came and he told him to bring anything, but get out. Then he said—‘I—see now! The valiance and potential beauty I saw in the spirit of the little girl who brought me back to myself—the shining hardness of the cabaret singer, whom I pitied as drawn in and around by her past and inevitable future environment—I discarded that hardness, and all that went with it, and built on the valiance and beauty. And you were discarding and building in reality—as I, with all the idiotic finality of a man, never thought you could!’
“Joy—I didn’t think I’d built. Before—he t............