mother and I.”
“Well,” said Gloria.
A pause—Muriel turned to Dick.
“You’re a great writer, aren’t you?”
“I’m a writer,” he confessed sheepishly.
“I always say,” said Muriel earnestly, “that if I ever had time to write down all my experiences it’d make a wonderful book.”
Rachael giggled sympathetically; Richard Caramel’s bow was almost stately. Muriel continued:
“But I don’t see how you can sit down and do it. And poetry! Lordy, I can’t make two lines rhyme. Well, I should worry!”
Richard Caramel with difficulty restrained a shout of laughter. Gloria was chewing an amazing gum-drop and staring moodily out the window. Mrs. Gilbert cleared her throat and beamed.
“But you see,” she said in a sort of universal exposition, “you’re not an ancient soul—like Richard.”
The Ancient Soul breathed a gasp of relief—it was out at last.
Then as if she had been considering it for five minutes, Gloria made a sudden announcement:
“I’m going to give a party.”
“Oh, can I come?” cried Muriel with facetious daring.
“A dinner. Seven people: Muriel and Rachael and I, and you, Dick, and Anthony, and that man named Noble—I liked him—and Bloeckman.”
Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies of enthusiasm. Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed. With an air of casualness Dick broke in with a question:
“Who is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?”
Scenting a faint hostility, Gloria turned to him.
“Joseph Bloeckman? He’s the moving picture man. Vice-president of ‘Films Par Excellence.’ He and father do a lot of business.”
“Oh!”
“Well, will you all come?”
They would all come. A date was arranged within the week. Dick rose, adjusted hat, coat, and muffler, and gave out a general smile.
“By-by,” said Muriel, waving her hand gaily, “call me up some time.”
Richard Caramel blushed for her.
Deplorable End of the Chevalier O’Keefe.
It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon at the Beaux Arts—afterward they went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant.
Geraldine Burke, usher at Keith’s, had been an amusement of several months. She demanded so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable affair with a débutante the preceding summer, when he had discovered that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of personal delicacy—but a girl who was usher at Keith’s was approached with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on one’s social level.
Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with narrow slanting eyes.
“You drink all the time, don’t you?” she said suddenly.
“Why, I suppose so,” replied Anthony in some surprise. “Don’t you?”
“Nope. I go on parties sometimes—you know, about once a week, but I only take two or three drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking all the time. I should think you’d ruin your health.”
Anthony was somewhat touched.
“Why, aren’t you sweet to worry about me!”
“Well, I do.”
“I don’t drink so very much,” he declared. “Last month I didn’t touch a drop for three weeks. And I only get really tight about once a week.”
“But you have something to drink every day and you’re only twenty-five. Haven’t you any ambition? Think what you’ll be at forty?”
“I sincerely trust that I won’t live that long.”
She clicked her tongue with her teeth.
“You cra-azy!” she said as he mixed another cocktail—and then: “Are you any relation to Adam Patch?”
“Yes, he’s my grandfather.”
“Really?” She was obviously thrilled.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s funny. My daddy used to work for him.”
“He’s a queer old man.”
“Is he nice?” she demanded.
“Well, in private life he’s seldom unnecessarily disagreeable.”
“Tell us about him.”
“Why,” Anthony considered “—he’s all shrunken up and he’s got the remains of some gray hair that always looks as though the wind were in it. He’s very moral.”
“He’s done a lot of good,” said Geraldine with intense gravity.
“Rot!” scoffed Anthony. “He’s a pious ass—a chickenbrain.”
Her mind left the subject and flitted on.
“Why don’t you live with him?”
“Why don’t I board in a Methodist parsonage?”
“You cra-azy!”
Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval. Anthony thought how moral was this little waif at heart—how completely moral she would still be after the inevitable wave came that would wash her off the sands of respectability.
“Do you hate him?”
“I wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for you.”
“Does he hate you?”
“My dear Geraldine,” protested Anthony, frowning humorously, “do have another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the room sniffing. He’s a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I probably wouldn’t be telling you this if I hadn’t had a few drinks, but I don’t suppose it matters.”
Geraldine
