two men passed. Anthony heard a snatch of their conversation:
“There’s the Astor, mama!”
“Look! See the chariot race sign!”
“There’s where we were today. No, there!”
“Good gracious!”
He turned down the hush, passed a bakery-restaurant. From the door came a smell that was hot, and doughy. Then a Chinese laundry, still open, steamy and stifling. All these depressed him; reaching Sixth Avenue he stopped at a corner cigar store.
Once in his apartment he smoked a last cigarette, sitting in the dark by his open front window. For the first time he thought New York was not bad. A lonesome town, though. Oh, there was a loneliness here.
Chapter II
Portrait Of A Siren
Crispness folded down upon New York a month later, bringing November and the three big football games. Anthony, walking along Forty-second Street one afternoon under a steel-gray sky, met unexpectedly Richard Caramel emerging from the Manhattan Hotel barber shop. It was a cold day, the first definitely cold day, and Caramel stopped Anthony enthusiastically, and, after his inevitable hand shake, said:
“Cold as the devil, I’ve been working like the deuce all day till my room got so cold I thought I’d get pneumonia. That darn landlady is economizing on coal.”
He had seized Anthony’s arm and drawn him briskly up Madison Avenue.
“Where to?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Well, then why?” demanded Anthony.
They stopped and stared at each other. After a moment they began walking again.
“You know,” Dick was looking and talking emphatically at the sidewalk. “I have to talk to someone.”
He glanced at Anthony apologetically.
“I have to talk. I do my thinking in writing or conversation.”
Anthony grunted and withdrew his arm gently.
“I mean,” continued Richard Caramel gravely, “that on paper your first paragraph contains the idea you’re going to enlarge.”
They passed Forty-fifth Street. Both of them lit cigarettes and blew tremendous clouds of smoke into the air.
“Let’s walk up to the Plaza,” suggested Anthony. “Come on – I’ll let you talk about your book all the way.”
“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
