AT the corner of Twenty-sixth Street a man put himself squarely across her path.She was attracted by the twinkle in his good-natured eyes.He was a youngish man, had the stoutness of indulgence in a fondness for eating and drinking--but the stoutness was still well within the bounds of decency.His clothing bore out the suggestion of his self-assured way of stopping her--the suggestion of a confidence-giving prosperity.
"You look as if you needed a drink, too," said he."How about it, lady with the lovely feet?"For the first time in her life she was feeling on an equality with man.She gave him the same candidly measuring glance that man gives man.She saw good-nature, audacity without impudence--at least not the common sort of impudence.She smiled merrily, glad of the chance to show her delight that she was once more back in civilization after the long sojourn in the prison workshops where it is manufactured.She said:
"A drink? Thank you--yes."
"That's a superior quality of smile you've got there," said he.
"That, and those nice slim feet of yours ought to win for you anywhere.Let's go to the Martin.""Down University Place?"
The stout young man pointed his slender cane across the street.
"You must have been away."
"Yes," said the girl."I've been--dead."
"I'd like to try that myself--if I could be sure of coming to life in little old New York." And he looked round with laughing eyes as if the lights, the crowds, the champagne-like air intoxicated him.
At the first break in the thunderous torrent of traffic they crossed Broadway and went in at the Twenty-sixth Street entrance.The restaurant, to the left, was empty.Its little tables were ready, however, for the throng of diners soon to come.Susan had difficulty in restraining herself.She was almost delirious with delight.She was agitated almost to tears by the freshness, the sparkle in the glow of the red-shaded candles, in the colors and odors of the flowers decorating every table.While she had been down there all this had been up here--waiting for her! Why had she stayed down there? But then, why had she gone? What folly, what madness!
To suffer such horrors for no reason--beyond some vague, clinging remnant of a superstition--or had it been just plain insanity? "Yes, I've been crazy--out of my head.The break with--Rod--upset my mind."Her companion took her into the cafe to the right.He seated her on one of the leather benches not far from the door, seated himself in a chair opposite; there was a narrow marble-topped table between them.On Susan's right sat a too conspicuously dressed but somehow important looking actress; on her left, a shopkeeper's fat wife.Opposite each woman sat the sort of man one would expect to find with her.The face of the actress's man interested her.It was a long pale face, the mouth weary, in the eyes a strange hot fire of intense enthusiasm.He was young--and old--and neither.Evidently he had lived every minute of every year of his perhaps forty years.He was wearing a quiet suit of blue and his necktie was of a darker shade of the same color.His clothes were draped upon his good figure with a certain fascinating distinction.He was smoking an unusually long and thick cigarette.The slender strong white hand he raised and lowered was the hand of an artist.He might be a bad man, a very bad man--his face had an expression of freedom, of experience, that made such an idea as conventionality in connection with him ridiculous.But however bad he might be, Susan felt sure it would be an artistic kind of badness, without vulgarity.He might have reached the stage at which morality ceases to be a conviction, a matter of conscience, and becomes a matter of preference, of tastes--and he surely had good taste in conduct no less than in dress and manner.The woman with him evidently wished to convince him that she loved him, to convince those about her that they were lovers; the man evidently knew exactly what she had in mind--for he was polite, attentive, indifferent, and--Susan suspected--secretly amused.
Susan's escort leaned toward her and said in a low tone, "The two at the next table--the woman's Mary Rigsdall, the actress, and the man's Brent, the fellow who writes plays." Then in a less cautious tone, "What are you drinking?""What are _you_ drinking?" asked Susan, still covertly watching Brent.
"You are going to dine with me?"
"I've no engagement."
"Then let's have Martinis--and I'll go get a table and order dinner while the waiter's bringing them."When Susan was alone, she gazed round the crowded cafe, at the scores of interesting faces--thrillingly interesting to her after her long sojourn among countenances merely expressing crude elemental appetites if anything at all beyond toil, anxiety, privation, and bad health.These were the faces of the triumphant class--of those who had wealth or were getting it, fame or were striving for it, of those born to or acquiring position of some sort among the few thousands who lord it over the millions.These were the people among whom she belonged.
Why was she having such a savage struggle to attain it? Then, all in an instant the truth she had been so long groping for in vain flung itself at her.None of these women, none of the women of the prosperous classes would be there but for the assistance and protection of the men.She marveled at her stupidity in not having seen the obvious thing clearly long ago.The successful women won their success by disposing of their persons to advantage--by getting the favor of some man of ability.Therefore, she, a woman, must adopt that same policy if she was to have a chance at the things worth while in life.
