and nothing had come of it. Neither of his brothers nor any other relative had by now the least faith in him. He was through. Most of his one-time friends in New York society were inclined to agree. He was too much a victim of his desires. He had too little respect for his social worth or position. And so they had long since reached the point where they would lend him nothing more.
Yet there were still others, men and women, old and young, who, on meeting him occasionally when he was sober and perfectly groomed, could not help regretting that he had not married a fortune and so restored himself to the groups which he could so well adorn. His warm southern accent, when he chose to employ it, was so delightful, and his smile so winsome.
The present affair with Rosalie Harrigan was but eight weeks old, yet bidding fair not to endure much longer. She was merely a chorus girl, earning thirty-five dollars a week. She was gay and sweet and affectionate, but, as he felt, not forceful enough to get anywhere. It was her body, her lust, and her love that held him for the time being.
And now, on this particular morning, Rosalie surveyed his ruffled black hair and his finely modeled mouth and chin with a delight that was wholly pathetic, since it was tinged by the all too desperate fear that he would be taken from her by another. It might be, as she well knew, that he would awaken with growls and savage oaths and orders. Just the same, she wished that she might remain with him for hours, if only to touch his hair.
On the other hand, the mind of Tollifer, half in dreams and half in wakefulness, was contemplating the ills with which his daily life was streaked. For at present, other than the money he took from Rosalie, he had nothing. And now his interest in her was already dulled. If only he could find a woman of wealth, with whom he might splurge financially, even marry, and so show a lot of these local upstarts who now looked down on him what it meant to be a Tollifer, and a rich Tollifer!
Soon after he had come to New York, he had attempted to elope with a lovesick heiress, but her parents had spirited her abroad. And he found himself denounced in the public press as a fortune-hunter, one who should and would be guarded against by all respectable families of wealth who wished their daughters to marry happily and well. And that failure, or mistake, along with drink, lust, gambling, had closed to him for all of these years the doors he wished to enter.
On fully awakening this morning, and while dressing, he began growling at Rosalie about a party of the night before into which she had inveigled him, and at which he had become intoxicated and belittled and ridiculed those around him until they were heartily glad to be rid of him.
“Such people! Such bounders!” he cried. “Why didn’t you tell me those newspapermen were going to be there? Actors are bad enough, God knows, but those newspaper snoops, and those publicity hounds who came with your actress friends! Bah!”
“But I didn’t know they were coming, Bruce,” pleaded Rosalie, who, pale and picturesque, was doing her best to toast a slice of bread over a gas jet. “I thought it was just for the stars of the show.”
“Stars! You call those people stars! If they’re stars, then I’m a whole sidereal system!” (A comparison entirely lost on Rosalie, who had no notion of what he was talking about.) “Those bums! You wouldn’t know a star from an oil lamp!”
Then he yawned, wondering how long before he would find nerve enough to brace up and quit this. How low was he going to fall? Sharing with girls who earned no more than enough for themselves, and then drinking and gambling with men with whom he couldn’t share and share alike!
“God, I can’t stand this!” he cried. “I’ll have to quit. I just can’t hang around here any longer. It’s too damned degrading!”
He walked the length of the room and back again, his hands thrust angrily into his pockets, while Rosalie stood silently near him. Fear would not permit her to speak.
“Well, do you hear me?” he demanded. “Are you going to stand there like a dummy? Oh, you women! You either fight like cats, or lie down and say nothing! God, if I could find one woman, just one, with a little sense in her nut, I’d . . . I’d . . .”
Rosalie looked up at him, her mouth twisted into a tortured smile. “Well, what would you do?” she said, quietly.
“I’d hang on to her! I might even love her! But, my God, what’s the use? Here I am, fiddling around in this hole, and accomplishing what? I belong to another world, and I’m going to get back into it! You and I are going to have to separate. It can’t be otherwise. I can’t go on like this a day longer!”
And so saying he went to the closet, and taking out his hat and overcoat, moved toward the door. Rosalie, however, edged in before him, throwing her arms around him and pressing her face to his. She was weeping.
“Oh, Bruce, oh, please! What have I done? Don’t you love me any more? Isn’t it enough that I’ll do anything you want? I don’t ask anything of you, do I? Please, Bruce, you won’t leave me, will you, Bruce?”
But Tollifer, pushing her aside, broke away.
“Don’t, Rosalie, don’t,” he went on. “I won’t stand for it! You can’t hold me this way. I’m getting out because I have to!”
He opened the door, but as he moved, Rosalie threw herself between him and the stairs.
“Oh, Bruce,” she cried, “for God’s sake, you can’t go! Listen, you can’t leave me this way! I’ll do anything, anything at all, I tell you! Oh, Bruce, I’ll get more money, I’ll get a better job. I know I can. We can move to another apartment. I’ll fix it all. Bruce, please sit down, and don’t carry on this way. I’ll kill myself if you leave me!”
But Tollifer was adamant by this time. “Oh, cut that, Rosie! Don’t be a damn fool! I know you’re not going to kill yourself, and you know it, too. Brace up! Just be calm, and I’ll see you tonight or tomorrow, maybe, but I’ve got to make a new deal, that’s all there is to it. Do you get that?”
Rosalie weakened under his gaze. She realized now that the inevitable was not to be avoided. She knew she could not hold him if he wished to go.
“Oh, Bruce,” she pleaded once more, pressing close to him. “I won’t let you go! I won’t! I won’t! You can’t go this way!”
“Can’t I?” he demanded. “Well, just watch me!” And he pulled her away from the door and went out, hurrying down the stairs. Rosalie, breathless and filled with terror, stood staring as the house door slammed, then turned wearily and re-entered the room, closing the door and leaning against it.
It was nearly time to go to rehearsal, but she shuddered as she thought of it. She didn’t care now. There was nothing . . . unless, maybe, he would come back . . . he would have to come back for his clothes . . .
Chapter 9
The thought which Tollifer was cherishing at this time was that he might get a job in a brokerage house or trust company dealing with the affairs, or, more particularly, the fortunes, of widows or daughters of men of wealth. His difficulty, however, was that he had passed out of the group of society handy men that flourished not only on the fringe, but in the very heart, of New York society of that day. Such men were not only useful, but at times absolutely essential, to those with money but no background who sought to enter society, as well as to pass'e d'ebutantes who, because of encroaching years, wished to maintain a conspicuous place.
The qualifications were considerable, including the best American descent, appearance, social flair, and a sophisticated interest in yachting, racing, polo, tennis, riding, driving—especially the four-in-hand coach—the opera, the theater,
