AT lunch, well toward the middle of the following afternoon, Fatty--his proper name was August Gulick--said: "John and Idon't start for Ann Arbor until a week from today.That means seven clear days.A lot can be done in that time, with a little intelligent hustling.What do you say, girls? Do you stick to us?""As long as you'll let us," said Etta, who was delighting Gulick with her frank and wondering and grateful appreciation of his munificence.Never before had his own private opinion of himself received such a flatteringly sweeping indorsement--from anyone who happened to impress him as worth while.In the last phrase lies the explanation of her success through a policy that is always dangerous and usually a failure.
So it was settled that with the quiet little hotel as headquarters the four would spend a week in exploring Cincinnati as a pleasure ground.Gulick knew the town thoroughly.His father was a brewer whose name was on many a huge beer wagon drawn about those streets by showy Clydesdales.Also he had plenty of money; and, while Redmond--for his friend was the son of Redmond, well known as a lawyer-politician in Chicago--had nothing like so much as Gulick, still he had enough to make a passable pretense at keeping up his end.For Etta and Susan the city had meant shabby to filthy tenements, toil and weariness and sorrow.There was opened to their ravished young eyes "the city"--what reveals itself to the pleasure-seeker with pocket well filled--what we usually think of when we pronounce its name, forgetting what its reality is for all but a favored few of those within its borders.It was a week of music and of laughter--music especially--music whenever they ate or drank, music to dance by, music in the beer gardens where they spent the early evenings, music at the road houses where they arrived in sleighs after the dances to have supper--unless you choose to call it breakfast.You would have said that Susan had slipped out of the tenement life as she had out of its garments, that she had retained not a trace of it even in memory.But--in those days began her habit of never passing a beggar without giving something.
Within three or four days this life brought a truly amazing transformation in the two girls.You would not have recognized in them the pale and wan and ragged outcasts of only the Saturday night before."Aren't you happy?" said Etta to Susan, in one of the few moments they were alone."But I don't need to ask.I didn't know you could be so gay.""I had forgotten how to laugh," replied Susan.
"I suppose I ought to be ashamed," pursued Etta.
"Why?" inquired Susan.
"Oh, you know why.You know how people'd talk if they knew.""What people?" said Susan."Anyone who's willing to give you anything?""No," admitted Etta."But----" There she halted.
Susan went on: "I don't propose to be bothered by the other kind.They wouldn't do anything for me if they could except sneer and condemn.""Still, you know it isn't right, what we're doing.""I know it isn't cold--or hunger--or rags and dirt--and bugs,"replied Susan.
Those few words were enough to conjure even to Etta's duller fancy the whole picture to its last detail of loathsome squalor.
Into Etta's face came a dazed expression."Was that really _us_, Lorna?""No," said Susan with a certain fierceness."It was a dream.But we must take care not to have that dream again.""I'd forgotten how cold I was," said Etta; "hadn't you?""No," said Susan, "I hadn't forgotten anything.""Yes, I suppose it was all worse for you than for me._You_ used to be a lady.""Don't talk nonsense," said Susan.
"I don't regret what I'm doing," Etta now declared."It was Gus that made me think about it." She looked somewhat sheepish as she went on to explain."I had a little too much to drink last night.And when Gus and I were alone, I cried--for no reason except the drink.He asked me why and I had to say something, and it popped into my head to say I was ashamed of the life Iwas leading.As things turned out, I'm glad I said it.He was awfully impressed.""Of course," said Susan.
"You never saw anything like it," continued Etta with an expression suggesting a feeling that she ought to be ashamed but could not help being amused."He acted differently right away.
Why don't you try it on John?"
"What for?"
"Oh, it'll make him--make him have more--more respect for you.""Perhaps," said Susan indifferently.
"Don't you want John to--to respect you?"
"I've been too busy having a good time to think much about him--or about anything.I'm tired of thinking.I want to rest.
Last night was the first time in my life I danced as much as Iwanted to."
"Don't you like John?"
"Certainly."
"He does know a lot, doesn't he? He's like you.He reads and and thinks--and---- He's away ahead of Fatty except---- You don't mind my having the man with the most money?""Not in the least," laughed Susan."Money's another thing I'm glad to rest from thinking about.""But this'll last only a few days longer.And--If you managed John Redmond right, Lorna----""Now--you must not try to make me think."
"Lorna--are you _really_ happy?"
"Can't you see I am?"
"Yes--when we're all together.But when--when you're alone with him----"Susan's expression stopped her.It was a laughing expression;and yet--Said Susan: "I am happy, dear--very happy.I eat and drink and sleep--and I am, oh, so glad to be alive.""_Isn't_ it good to be alive!--if you've got plenty," exclaimed Etta."I never knew before._This_ is the dream, Lorna--and Ithink I'll kill myself if I have to wake."
On Saturday afternoon the four were in one of the rooms discussing where the farewell dinner should be held and what they would eat and drink.Etta called Susan into the other room and shut the door between.
"Fatty wants me to go along with him and live in Detroit," said she, blurting it out as if confessing a crime.
