TWO WRONGS

TWO WRONGS

  

"LOOK AT those shoes," said Bill "twenty-eight dollars."

Mr. Brancusi looked. "Purty."

"Made to order."

"I knew you were a great swell. You didn't get me up here to

show me those shoes, did you?"

"I am not a great swell. Who said I was a great swell?" demanded

Bill. "Just because I've got more education than most people in

show business."

"And then, you know, you're a handsome young fellow," said

Brancusi dryly.

"Sure I am compared to you anyhow. The girls think I must be

an actor, till they find out. . . . Got a cigarette? What's more, I

look like a man which is more than most of these pretty boys round

Times Square do."

"Good-looking. Gentleman. Good shoes. Shot with luck."

"You're wrong there," objected Bill. "Brains. Three years nine

shows four big hits only one flop. Where do you see any luck in

that?"

A little bored, Brancusi just gazed. What he would have seen

had he not made his eyes opaque and taken to thinking about some-

thing else was a fresh-faced young Irishman exuding aggressive-

ness and self-confidence until the air of his office was thick with it.

Presently, Brancusi knew, Bill would hear the sound of his own

voice and be ashamed and retire into his other humor the quietly

superior, sensitive one, the patron of the arts, modelled on the in-

tellectuals of the Theatre Guild. Bill McChesney had not quite de-

cided between the two, such blends are seldom complete before

thirty.

"Take Ames, take Hopkins, take Harris take any of them," Bill

insisted. "What have they got on me? What's the matter? Do you

want a drink?" seeing Brancusi's glance wander toward the cabinet

on the opposite wall.

"I never drink in the morning. I just wondered who was it keeps

on knocking. You ought to make it stop it. I get a nervous fidgets,

kind of half crazy, with that kind of thing."

Bill went quickly to the door and threw it open.

"Nobody," he said. . . . "Hello! What do you want?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," a voice answered; "I'm terribly sorry. I got

so excited and I didn't realize I had this pencil in my hand."

"What is it you want?"

"I want to see you, and the clerk said you were busy. I have a

letter for you from Alan Rogers, the playwright and I wanted to

give it to you personally."

"I'm busy," said Bill. "See Mr. Cadorna."

"I did, but he wasn't very encouraging, and Mr. Rogers said "

Brancusi, edging over restlessly, took a quick look at her. She

was very young, with beautiful red hair, and more character in her

face than her chatter would indicate ; it did not occur to Mr. Bran-

cusi that this was due to her origin in Delaney, South Carolina.

"What shall I do?" she inquired, quietly laying her future in

Bill's hands. "I had a letter to Mr. Rogers, and he just gave me this

one to you."

"Well, what do you want me to do marry you?" exploded Bill.

"I'd like to get a part in one of your plays."

"Then sit down and wait. I'm busy. . . . Where's Miss Cohalan?"

He rang a bell, looked once more, crossly, at the girl and closed the

door of his office. But during the interruption his other mood had

come over him, and he resumed his conversation with Brancusi in

the key of one who was hand in glove with Reinhardt for the artistic

future of the theatre.

By 12:30 he had forgotten everything except that he was going

to be the greatest producer in the world and that he had an engage-

ment to tell Sol Lincoln about it at lunch. Emerging from his office,

he looked expectantly at Miss Cohalan.

"Mr. Lincoln won't be able to meet you," she said. "He jus' 'is

minute called."

"Just this minute," repeated Bill, shocked. "All right. Just cross

him off that list for Thursday night."

Miss Cohalan drew a line on a sheet of paper before her.

"Mr. McChesney, now you haven't forgotten me, have you?

He turned to the red-headed girl.

"No," he said vaguely, and then to Miss Cohalan: "That's all

right : ask him for Thursday anyhow. To hell with him."

He did not want to lunch alone. He did not like to do anything

alone now, because contacts were too much fun when one had

prominence and power.

"If you would just let me talk to you two minutes " she began.

"Afraid I can't now." Suddenly he realized that she was the most

beautiful person he had ever seen in his life.

He stared at her.

"Mr. Rogers told me"

"Come and have a spot of lunch with me," he said, and then, with

an air of great hurry, he gave Miss Cohalan some quick and con-

tradictory instructions and held open the door.

They stood on Forty-second Street and he breathed his pre-

empted air there is only enough air there for a few people at a

time. It was November and the first exhilarating rush of the season

was over, but he could look east and see the electric sign of one of

his plays, and west and see another. Around the corner was the one

he had put on with Brancusi the last time he would produce any-

thing except alone.

They went to the Bedford, where there was a to-do of waiters and

captains as he came in.

"This is ver' tractive restaurant," she said, impressed and on com-

pany behavior.

"This is hams' paradise." He nodded to several people. "Hello,

Jimmy Bill. . . . Hello there, Jack. . . . That's Jack Dempsey.

... I don't eat here much. I usually eat up at the Harvard Club."

"Oh, did you go to Harvard? I used to know "

"Yes." He hesitated ; there were two versions about Harvard, and

he decided suddenly on the true one. "Yes, and they had me down

for a hick there, but not any more. About a week ago I was out on

Long Island at the Gouverneer Haights very fashionable people

and a couple of Gold Coast boys that never knew I was alive up in

Cambridge began pulling this 'Hello, Bill, old boy' on me."

He hesitated and suddenly decided to leave the story there.

"What do you want a job ?" he demanded. He remembered sud-

denly that she had holes in her stockings. Holes in stockings always

moved him, softened him.

"Yes, or else I've got to go home," she said. "I want to be a

dancer you know, Russian Ballet. But the lessons cost so much,

so I've got to get a job. I thought it'd give me stage presence any-

how."

"Hoofer, eh?"

"Oh, no, serious."

"Well, Pavlova's a hoofer, isn't she?"

"Oh, no." She was shocked at this profanity, but after a moment

she continued: "I took with Miss Campbell Georgia Berriman

Campbell back home maybe you know her. She took from Ned

Wayburn, and she's really wonderful. She "

"Yeah?" he said abstractedly. "Well, it's a tough business cast-

ing agencies bursting with people that can all do anything, till I

give them a try. How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"I'm twenty-six. Came here four years ago without a cent."

"My!"

"I could quit now and be comfortable the rest of my life."

"My!"

"Going to take a year off next year get married. . . . Ever

hear of Irene Rikker?"

"I should say ! She's about my favorite of all."

"We're engaged."

"My!"

When they went out into Times Square after a while he said care-

lessly, "What are you doing now?"

"Why, I'm trying to get a job.

"I mean right this minute."

"Why, nothing."

"Do you want to come up to my apartment on Forty-sixth Street

and have some coffee?"

Their eyes met, and Emmy Pinkard made up her mind she could

take care of herself.

It was a great bright studio apartment with a ten-foot divan, and

after she had coffee and he a highball, his arm dropped round her

shoulder.

"Why should I kiss you?" she demanded. "I hardly know you,

and besides, you're engaged to somebody else."

"Oh, that ! She doesn't care."

"No, really ! "

"You're a good girl."

"Well, I'm certainly not an idiot."

"All right, go on being a good girl."

She stood up, but lingered a minute, very fresh and cool, and not

upset at all.

"I suppose this means you won't give me a job?" she asked pleas-

antly.

He was already thinking about something else about an inter-

view and a rehearsal but now he looked at her again and saw that

she still had holes in her stockings. He telephoned:

"Joe, this is the Fresh Boy. . . . You didn't think I knew you

called me that, did you ? . . . It's all right. . . . Say, have you got

those three girls for the party scene ? Well, listen ; save one for a

Southern kid I'm sending around today."

He looked at her jauntily, conscious of being such a good

fellow.

Two Wrongs 291

"Well, I don't know how to thank you. And Mr. Rogers," she

added audaciously. "Good-by, Mr. McChesney."

He disdained to answer.

II

During rehearsal he used to come around a great deal and stand

watching with a wise expression, as if he knew everything in people's

minds ; but actually he was in a haze about his own good fortune

and didn't see much and didn't for the moment care. He spent most

of his week-ends on Long Island with the fashionable people who

had "taken him up." When Brancusi referred to him as the "big

social butterfly," he would answer, "Well, what about it? Didn't I

go to Harvard? You think they found me in a Grand Street apple

cart, like you?" He was well liked among his new friends for his

good looks and good nature, as well as his success.

His engagement to Irene Rikker was the most unsatisfactory

thing in his life ; they were tired of each other but unwilling to put

an end to it. Just as, often, the two richest young people in a town

are drawn together by the fact, so Bill McChesney and Irene Rikker,

borne side by side on waves of triumph, could not spare each other's

nice appreciation of what was due such success. Nevertheless, they

indulged in fiercer and more frequent quarrels, and the end was

approaching. It was embodied in one Frank Llewellen, a big, fine-

looking actor playing opposite Irene. Seeing the situation at once,

Bill became bitterly humorous about it; from the second week of

rehearsals there was tension in the air.

Meanwhile Emmy Pinkard, with enough money for crackers and

milk, and a friend who took her out to dinner, was being happy.

Her friend, Easton Hughes from Delaney, was studying at Colum-

bia to be a dentist. He sometimes brought along other lonesome

young men studying to be dentists, and at the price, if it can be

called that, of a few casual kisses in taxicabs, Emmy dined when

hungry. One afternoon she introduced Easton to Bill McChesney

at the stage door, and afterward Bill made his facetious jealousy

the basis of their relationship,

"I see that dental number has been slipping it over on me again.

Well, don't let him give you any laughing gas is my advice."

Though their encounters were few, they always looked at each

other. When Bill looked at her he stared for an instant as if he

had not seen her before, and then remembered suddenly that she

was to be teased. When she looked at him she saw many things a

bright day outside, with great crowds of people hurrying through

the streets ; a very good new limousine that waited at the curb for

two people with very good new clothes, who got in and went some-

where that was just like New York, only away, and more fun there.

Many times she had wished she had kissed him, but just as many

times she was glad she hadn't ; since, as the weeks passed he grew

less romantic, tied up, like the rest of them, to the play's laborious

evolution.

They were opening in Atlantic City. A sudden moodiness, appar-

ent to everyone, came over Bill. He was short with the director and

sarcastic with the actors. This, it was rumored, was because Irene

Rikker had come down with Frank Llewellen on a different train.

Sitting beside the author on the night of the dress rehearsal, he was

an almost sinister figure in the twilight of the auditorium ; but he

said nothing until the end of the second act, when, with Llewellen

and Irene Rikker on the stage alone, he suddenly called :

"We'll go over that again and cut out the mush ! "

Llewellen came down to the footlights.

"What do you mean cut out the mush?" he inquired. "Those

are the lines, aren't they?"

"You know what I mean stick to business."

"I don't know what you mean."

Bill stood up. "I mean all that damn whispering."

"There wasn't any whispering. I simply asked "

"That'll do take it over."

Llewellen turned away furiously and was about to proceed, when

Bill added audibly: "Even a ham has got to do his stuff."

Llewellen whipped about. "I don't have to stand that kind of talk,

Mr. McChesney."

"Why not? You're a ham, aren't you? When did you get ashamed

of being a ham? I'm putting on this play and I want you to stick

to your stuff." Bill got up and walked down the aisle. "And when

you don't do it, I'm going to call you just like anybody else."

"Well, you watch out for your tone of voice "

"What'll you do about it?"

Llewellen jumped down into the orchestra pit.

"I'm not taking anything from you 1 " he shouted.

Irene Rikker called to them from the stage, "For heaven's sake,

are you two crazy?" And then Llewellen swung at him, one short,

mighty blow. Bill pitched back across a row of seats, fell through

one, splintering it, and lay wedged there. There was a moment's

wild confusion, then people holding Llewellen, then the author, with

a white face, pulling Bill up, and the stage manager crying: "Shall

I kill him, chief? Shall I break his fat face?" and Llewellen panting

and Irene Rikker frightened.

"Get back there!" Bill cried, holding a handkerchief to his face

and teetering in the author's supporting arms. "Everybody get back !

Take that scene again, and no talk ! Get back, Llewellen ! "

Before they realized it they were all back on the stage, Irene

pulling Llewellen's arm and talking to him fast. Someone put on

the auditorium lights full and then dimmed them again hurriedly.

When Emmy came out presently for her scene, she saw in a quick

glance that Bill was sitting with a whole mask of handkerchiefs

over his bleeding face. She hated Llewellen and was afraid that

presently they would break up and go back to New York. But Bill

had saved the show from his own folly, since for Llewellen to take

the further initiative of quitting would hurt his professional stand-

ing. The act ended and the next one began without an interval.

When it was over, Bill was gone.

Next night, during the performance, he sat on a chair in the wings

in view of everyone coming on or off. His face was swollen and

bruised, but he neglected to seem conscious of the fact and there

were no comments. Once he went around in front, and when he re-

turned, word leaked out that two of the New York agencies were

making big buys. He had a hit they all had a hit.

At the sight of him to whom Emmy felt they all owed so much,

a great wave of gratitude swept over her. She went up and thanked

him.

"I'm a good picker, red-head," he agreed grimly.

"Thank you for picking me."

And suddenly Emmy was moved to a rash remark.

"You've hurt your face so badly ! " she exclaimed. "Oh, I think

it was so brave of you not to let everything go to pieces last night."

He looked at her hard for a moment and then an ironic smile

tried unsuccessfully to settle on his swollen face.

"Do you admire me, baby?"

"Yes."

"Even when I fell in the seats, did you admire me?"

"You got control of everything so quick."

"That's loyalty for you. You found something to admire in that

fool mess."

And her happiness bubbled up into, "Anyhow, you behaved just

wonderfully." She looked so fresh and young that Bill, who had had

a wretched day, wanted to rest his swollen cheek against her cheek.

He took both the bruise and the desire with him to New York

next morning ; the bruise faded, but the desire remained. And when

they opened in the city, no sooner did he see other men begin to

crowd around her beauty than she became this play for him, this

success, the thing that he came to see when he came to the theatre.

After a good run it closed just as he was drinking too much and

needed someone on the gray days of reaction. They were married

suddenly in Connecticut, early in June.

Ill

Two men sat in the Savoy Grill in London, waiting for the Fourth

of July. It was already late in May.

"Is he a nice guy?" asked Hubbel.

"Very nice," answered Brancusi ; "very nice, very handsome, very

popular." After a moment, he added: "I want to get him to come

home."

"That's what I don't get about him," said Hubbel. "Show business

over here is nothing compared to home. What does he want to stay

here for?"

"He goes around with a lot of dukes and ladies."

"Oh?"

"Last week when I met him he was with three ladies Lady this,

Lady that, Lady the other thing."

"I thought he was married."

"Married three years," said Brancusi, "got a fine child, going

to have another."

He broke off as McChesney came in, his very American face star-

ing about boldly over the collar of a box-shouldered topcoat.

"Hello, Mac ; meet my friend Mr. Hubbel."

"J'doo," said Bill. He sat down, continuing to stare around the

bar to see who was present. After a few minutes Hubbel left, and

Bill asked :

"Who's that bird?"

"He's only been here a month. He ain't got a title yet. You been

here six months, remember."

Bill grinned.

"You think I'm high-hat, don't you? Well, I'm not kidding myself

anyhow. I like it ; it gets me. I'd like to be the Marquis of McChes-

ney."

"Maybe you can drink yourself into it," suggested Brancusi.

"Shut your trap. Who said I was drinking? Is that what they

say now ? Look here ; if you can tell me any American manager in

the history of the theatre who's had the success that I've had in

London in less than eight months, I'll go back to America with you

tomorrow. If you'll just tell me "

"It was with your old shows. You had two flops in New York."

Bill stood up, his face hardening.

"Who do you think you are?" he demanded. "Did you come over

here to talk to me like that?"

"Don't get sore now, Bill. I just want you to come back. I'd say

anything for that. Put over three seasons like you had in '22 and

'23, and you're fixed for life."

"New York makes me sick," said Bill moodily. cc One minute

you're a king; then you have two flops, they go around saying

you're on the toboggan."

Brancusi shook his head.

"That wasn't why they said it. It was because you had that

quarrel with Aronstael, your best friend."

"Friend hell!"

"Your best friend in business anyhow. Then "

"I don't want to talk about it." He looked at his watch. "Look

here; Emmy's feeling bad so I'm afraid I can't have dinner with

you tonight. Come around to the office before you sail."

Five minutes later, standing by the cigar counter, Brancusi saw

Bill enter the Savoy again and descend the steps that led to the tea

room.

"Grown to be a great diplomat," thought Brancusi ; "he used to

just say when he had a date. Going with these dukes and ladies is

polishing him up even more."

Perhaps he was a little hurt, though it was not typical of him to

be hurt. At any rate he made a decision, then and there, that

McChesney was on the down grade; it was quite typical of him

that at that point he erased him from his mind forever.

There was no outward indication that Bill was on the down

grade ; a hit at the New Strand, a hit at the Prince of Wales, and

the weekly grosses pouring in almost as well as they had two or

three years before in New York. Certainly a man of action was

justified in changing his base. And the man who, an hour later,

turned into his Hyde Park house for dinner had all the vitality of

the late twenties. Emmy, very tired and clumsy, lay on a couch

in the upstairs sitting room. He held her for a moment in his

arms.

"Almost over now," he said. "You're beautiful."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true. You're always beautiful. I don't know why. Perhaps

because you've got character, and that's always in your face, even

when you're like this."

She was pleased ; she ran her hand through his hair.

"Character is the greatest thing in the world," he declared, "and

you've got more than anybody I know."

"Did you see Brancusi?"

"I did, the little louse I I decided not to bring him home to

dinner,"

"What was the matter?''

"Oh, just snooty talking about my row with Aronstael, as if it

was my fault. "

She hesitated, closed her mouth tight and then said quietly, "You

got into that fight with Aronstael because you were drinking. "

He rose impatiently.

"Are you going to start "

"No, Bill, but you're drinking too much now. You know you are."

Aware that she was right, he evaded the matter and they went

in to dinner. On the glow of a bottle of claret he decided he would

go on the wagon tomorrow till after the baby was born.

"I always stop when I want, don't I? I always do what I say.

You never saw me quit yet."

"Never yet."

They had coffee together, and afterward he got up.

"Come back early," said Emmy.

"Oh, sure. . . . What's the matter, baby?"

"I'm just crying. Don't mind me. Oh, go on ;^ don't just stand

there like a big idiot."

"But I'm worried, naturally. I don't like to see you cry."

"Oh, I don't know where you go in the evenings; I don't know

who you're with. And that Lady Sybil Combrinck who kept phon-

ing. It's all right, I suppose, but I wake up in the night and I feel

so alone, Bill. Because we've always been together, haven't we, until

recently?"

"But we're together still . . . What's happened to you, Emmy?"

"I know I'm just crazy. We'd never let each other down, would

we? We never have "

"Of course not."

"Come back early, or when you can."

He looked in for a minute at the Prince of Wales Theatre ; then

he went into the hotel next door and called a number.

"I'd like to speak to her Ladyship. Mr. McChesney calling."

It was some time before Lady Sybil answered :

"This is rather a surprise. It's been several weeks since I've been

lucky enough to hear from you."

Her voice was flip as a whip and cold as automatic refrigeration,

in the mode grown familiar since British ladies took to piecing

themselves together out of literature. It had fascinated Bill for a

while, but just for a while. He had kept his head.

"I haven't had a minute," he explained easily. "You're not sore,

are you?"

"I should scarcely say 'sore'."

"I was afraid you might be ; you didn't send me an invitation to

you party tonight. My idea was that after we talked it all over we

agreed "

"You talked a great deal/' she said; "possibly a little too much."

Suddenly, to Bill's astonishment, she hung up.

" Going British on me," he thought. "A little skit entitled The

Daughter of a Thousand Earls."

The snub roused him, the indifference revived his waning interest.

Usually women forgave his changes of heart because of his obvious

devotion to Emmy, and he was remembered by various ladies with

a not unpleasant sigh. But he had detected no such sigh upon the

phone.

"I'd like to clear up this mess," he thought. Had he been wearing

evening clothes, he might have dropped in at the dance and talked it

over with her, still he didn't want to go home. Upon considera-

tion it seemed important that the misunderstanding should be fixed

up at once, and presently he began to entertain the idea of going as

he was ; Americans were excused unconventionalities of dress. In any

case, it was not nearly time, and, in the company of several high-

balls, he considered the matter for an hour.

At midnight he walked up the steps of her Mayfair house. The

coat-room attendants scrutinized his tweeds disapprovingly and a

footman peered in vain for his name on the list of guests. Fortu-

nately his friend Sir Humphrey Dunn arrived at the same time and

convinced the footman it must be a mistake.

Inside, Bill immediately looked about for his hostess.

She was a very tall young woman, half American and all the more

intensely English. In a sense, she had discovered Bill McChesney,

vouched for his savage charms ; his retirement was one of her most

humiliating experiences since she had begun being bad.

She stood with her husband at the head of the receiving line Bill

had never seen them together before. He decided to choose a less

formal moment for presenting himself.

As the receiving went on interminably, he became increasingly

uncomfortable. He saw a few people he knew, but not many, and

he was conscious that his clothes were attracting a certain atten-

tion ; he was aware also that Lady Sybil saw him and could have

relieved his embarrassment with a wave of her hand, but she made

no sign. He was sorry he had come, but to withdraw now would be

absurd, and going to a buffet table, he took a glass of champagne.

When he turned around she was alone at last, and he was about

to approach her when the butler spoke to him :

"Pardon me, sir. Have you a card?"

"I'm a friend of Lady Sybil's," said Bill impatiently. He turned

away, but the butler followed.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to ask you to step aside with me and

straighten this up."

"There's no need. I'm just about to speak to Lady Sybil now."

"My orders are different, sir," said the butler firmly.

Then, before Bill realized what was happening, his arms were

pressed quietly to his sides and he was propelled into a little ante-

room back of the buffet.

There he faced a man in a pince-nez in whom he recognized the

Combrincks' private secretary.

The secretary nodded to the butler, saying, "This is the man";

whereupon Bill was released.

"Mr. McChesney," said the secretary, "you have seen fit to force

your way here without a card, and His Lordship requests that you

leave his house at once. Will you kindly give me the check for your

coat?"

Then Bill understood, and the single word that he found appli-

cable to Lady Sybil sprang to his lips ; whereupon the secretary gave

a sign to two footmen, and in a furious struggle Bill was carried

through a pantry where busy bus boys stared at the scene, down

a long hall, and pushed out a door into the night. The door closed ;

a moment later it was opened again to let his coat billow forth and

his cane clatter down the steps.

As he stood there, overwhelmed, stricken aghast, a taxicab stopped

beside him and the driver called:

"Feeling ill, gov'nor?"

"What?"

"I know where you can get a good pick-me-up, gov'nor. Never

too late." The door of the taxi opened on a nightmare. There

was a cabaret that broke the closing hours; there was being with

strangers he had picked up somewhere ; then there were arguments,

and trying to cash a check, and suddenly proclaiming over and over

that he was William McChesney, the producer, and convincing no

one of the fact, not even himself. It seemed important to see Lady

Sybil right away and call her to account ; but presently nothing was

important at all. He was in a taxicab whose driver had just shaken

him awake in front of his own home.

The telephone was ringing as he went in, but he walked stonily

past the maid and only heard her voice when his foot was on the

stair.

"Mr. McChesney, it's the hospital calling again. Mrs. McChes-

ney's there and they've been phoning every hour."

Still in a daze, he held the receiver up to his ear.

"We're calling from the Midland Hospital, for your wife. She was

delivered of a still-born child at nine this morning."

"Wait a minute." His voice was dry and cracking. "I don't under-

stand."

After a while he understood that Emmy's child was dead and

she wanted him. His knees sagged groggily as he walked down the

street, looking for a taxi.

The room was dark ; Emmy looked up and saw him from a rum-

pled bed.

"It's you!" she cried. "I thought you were dead! Where did

you go?"

He threw himself down on his knees beside the bed, but she

turned away.

"Oh, you smell awful," she said. "It makes me sick."

But she kept her hand in his hair, and he knelt there motionless

for a long time.

"I'm done with you," she muttered, "but it was awful when I

thought you were dead. Everybody's dead. I wish I was dead."

A curtain parted with the wind, and as he rose to arrange it, she

saw him in the full morning light, pale and terrible, with rumpled

clothes and bruises on his face. This time she hated him instead of

those who had hurt him. She could feel him slipping out of her

heart, feel the space he left, and all at once he was gone, and she

could even forgive him and be sorry for him. All this in a minute.

She had fallen down at the door of the hospital, trying to get out

of the taxicab alone.

IV

When Emmy was well, physically and mentally, her incessant idea

was to learn to dance ; the old .dream inculcated by Miss Georgia

Berriman Campbell of South Carolina persisted as a bright avenue

leading back to first youth and days of hope in New York. To her,

dancing meant that elaborate blend of tortuous attitudes and formal

pirouettes that evolved out of Italy several hundred years ago and

reached its apogee in Russia at the beginning of this century. She

wanted to use herself on something she could believe in, and it

seemed to her that the dance was woman's interpretation of music ;

instead of strong fingers, one had limbs with which to render.

Tschaikowsky and Stravinski; and feet could be as eloquent in

Chopiniana as voices in "The Ring." At the bottom, it was some-

thing sandwiched in between the acrobats and the trained seals ; at

the top it was Pavlova and art.

Once they were settled in an apartment back in New York, she

plunged into her work like a girl of sixteen four hours a day at

bar exercises, attitudes, sauts, arabesques and pirouettes. It became

the realest part of her life, and her only worry was whether or not

she was too old. At twenty-six she had ten years to make up, but

she was a natural dancer with a fine body and that lovely face.

Bill encouraged it ; when she was ready he was going to build the

first real American ballet around her. There were even times when

he envied her her absorption ; for affairs in his own line were more

difficult since they had come home. For one thing, he had made

enemies in those early days of self-confidence; there were exag-

gerated stones of his drinking and of his being hard on actors and

difficult to work with.

It was against him that he had always been unable to save money

and must beg a backing for each play. Then, too, in a curious way,

he was intelligent, as he was brave enough to prove in several un-

commercial ventures, but he had no Theatre Guild behind him, and

what money he lost was charged against him.

There were successes, too, but he worked harder for them, or it

seemed so, for he had begun to pay a price for his irregular life. He

always intended to take a rest or give up his incessant cigarettes, but

there was so much competition now new men coming up, with new

reputations for infallibility and besides, he wasn't used to regu-

larity. He liked to do his work in those great spurts, inspired by

black coffee, that seem so inevitable in show business, but which

took so much out of a man after thirty. He had come to lean, in a

way, on Emmy's fine health and vitality. They were always together,

and if he felt a vague dissatisfaction that he had grown to need her

more than she needed him, there was always the hope that things

would break better for him next month, next season.

Coming home from ballet school one November evening, Emmy

swung her little gray bag, pulled her hat far down over her still

damp hair, and gave herself up to pleasant speculation. For a month

she had been aware of people who had come to the studio especially

to watch her she was ready to dance. Once she had worked just

as hard and for as long a time on something else her relations with

Bill only to reach a climax and misery and despair, but here there

was nothing to fail her except herself. Yet even now she felt a little

rash in thinking : "Now it's come. I'm going to be happy."

She hurried, for something had come up today that she must talk

over with Bill.

Finding him in the living room, she called him to come back while

she dressed. She began to talk without looking around :

"Listen what happened!" Her voice was loud, to compete with

the water running in the tub. "Paul Makova wants me to dance

with him at the Metropolitan this season ; only it's not sure, so it's

a secret even I'm not supposed to know."

"That's great."

"The only thing is whether it wouldn't be better for me to make

a debut abroad? Anyhow Donilof says I'm ready to appear. What

do you think?"

"I don't know."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic."

"I've got something on my mind. I'll tell you about it later.

Go on."

"That's all, dear. If you still feel like going to Germany for a

month, like you said, Donilof would arrange a debut for me in Ber-

lin, but I'd rather open here and dance with Paul Makova. Just

imagine " She broke off, feeling suddenly through the thick skin

of her elation how abstracted he was. "Tell me what you've got on

your mind."

"I went to Doctor Kearns this afternoon."

"What did he say?" Her mind was still singing with her own hap-

piness. Bill's intermittent attacks of hypochondria had long ceased

to worry her.

"I told him about that blood this morning, and he said what he

said last year it was probably a little broken vein in my throat.

But since I'd been coughing and was worried, perhaps it was safer

to take an X-ray and clear the matter up. Well, we cleared it up all

right. My left lung is practically gone."

"Bill!"

"Luckily there are no spots on the other."

She waited, horribly afraid.

"It's come at a bad time for me," he went on steadily, "but it's

got to be faced. He thinks I ought to go to the Adirondacks or to

Denver for the winter, and his idea is Denver. That way it'll prob-

ably clear up in five or six months."

"Of course we'll have to " she stopped suddenly.

"I wouldn't expect you to go especially if you have this oppor-

tunity."

"Of course I'll go," she said quickly. "Your health comes first.

We've always gone everywhere together."

"Oh, no."

"Why, of course." She made her voice strong and decisive. "We've

always been together. I couldn't stay here without you. When do

you have to go?"

"As soon as possible. I went in to see Brancusi to find out if he

wanted to take over the Richmond piece, but he didn't seem enthusi-

astic." His face hardened. "Of course there won't be anything else

for the present, but I'll have enough, with what's owing "

"Oh, if I was only making some money ! " Emmy cried. "You work

so hard and here I've been spending two hundred dollars a week for

just my dancing lessons alone more than 111 be able to earn for

years."

"Of course in six months I'll be as well as ever he says."

"Sure, dearest; we'll get you well. We'll start as soon as we

can."

She put an arm around him and kissed his cheek.

"I'm just an old parasite," she said. "I should have known my

darling wasn't well,"

He reached automatically for a cigarette, and then stopped.

"I forgot I've got to start cutting down smoking." He rose to the

occasion suddenly: "No, baby, I've decided to go alone. You'd go

crazy with boredom out there, and I'd just be thinking I was keeping

you away from your dancing."

"Don't think about that. The thing is to get you well."

They discussed the matter hour after hour for the next week, each

of them saying everything except the truth that he wanted her to

go with him and that she wanted passionately to stay in New York.

She talked it over guardedly with Donilof, her ballet master, and

found that he thought any postponement would be a terrible mistake.

Seeing other girls in the ballet school making plans for the winter,

she wanted to die rather than go, and Bill saw all the involuntary

indications of her misery. For a while they talked of compromising

on the Adirondacks, whither she would commute by aeroplane for

the week-ends, but he was running a little fever now and he was

definitely ordered West.

Bill settled it all one gloomy Sunday night, with that rough,

generous justice that had first made her admire him, that made him

rather tragic in his adversity, as he had always been bearable in his

overweening success :

"It's just up to me, baby. I got into this mess because I didn't have

any self-control you seem to have all of that in this family and

now it's only me that can get me out. You've worked hard at your

stuff for three years and you deserve your chance and if you came

out there now you'd have it on me the rest of my life." He grinned.

"And I couldn't stand that. Besides, it wouldn't be good for the

kid."

Eventually she gave in, ashamed of herself, miserable and glad.

For the world of her work, where she existed without Bill, was big-

ger to her now than the world in which they existed together. There

was more room to be glad in one than to be sorry in the other.

Two days later, with his ticket bought for that afternoon at five,

they passed the last hours together, talking of everything hopeful.

She protested still, and sincerely; had he weakened for a moment

she would have gone. But the shock had done something to him,

and he showed more character under it than he had for years. Per-

haps it would be good for him to work it out alone.

"In the spring!" they said.

Then in the station with little Billy, and Bill saying: "I hate these

grave-side partings. You leave me here. I've got to make a phone

call from the train before it goes."

They had never spent more than a night apart in six years, save

when Emmy was in the hospital ; save for the time in England they

had a good record of faithfulness and of tenderness toward each

other, even though she had been alarmed and often unhappy at this

insecure bravado from the first. After he went through the gate alone,

Emmy was glad he had a phone call to make and tried to picture

him making it.

She was a good woman; she had loved him with all her heart.

When she went out into Thirty-third Street, it was just as dead as

dead for a while, and the apartment he paid for would be empty of

him, and she was here, about to do something that would make her

happy.

She stopped after a few blocks, thinking : "Why, this is terrible

what I'm doing! I'm letting him down like the worst person I ever

heard of. I'm leaving him flat and going off to dinner with Donilof

and Paul Makova, whom I like for being beautiful and for having

the same color eyes and hair. Bill's on the train alone."

She swung little Billy around suddenly as if to go back to the

station. She could see him sitting in the train, with his face so pale

and tired, and no Emmy.

"I can't let him down," she cried to herself as wave after wave of

sentiment washed over her. But only sentiment hadn't he let her

down hadn't he done what he wanted in London?

"Oh, poor Bill!"

She stood irresolute, realizing for one last honest moment how

quickly she would forget this and find excuses for what she was

doing. She had to think hard of London, and her conscience cleared.

But with Bill all alone in the train it seemed terrible to think that

way. Even now she could turn and go back to the station and tell

him that she was coming, but still she waited, with life very strong

in her, fighting for her. The sidewalk was narrow where she stood ;

presently a great wave of people, pouring out of the theatre, came

flooding along it, and she and little Billy were swept along with the

crowd.

In the train, Bill telephoned up to the last minute, postponed

going back to his stateroom, because he knew it was almost certain

that he would not find her there. After the train started he went back

and, of course, there was nothing but his bags in the rack and some

magazines on the seat.

He knew then that he had lost her. He saw the set-up without

any illusions this Paul Makova, and months of proximity, and lone-

liness afterward nothing would ever be the same. When he had

thought about it all a long time, reading Variety and Zit's in be-

tween, it began to seem, each time he came back to it, as if Emmy

somehow were dead.

"She was a fine girl one of the best. She had character." He

realized perfectly that he had brought all this on himself and that

there was some law of compensation involved. He saw, too, that by

going away he had again become as good as she was; it was all

evened up at last.

He felt beyond everything, even beyond his grief, an almost com-

fortable sensation of being in the hands of something bigger than

himself; and grown a little tired and unconfident two qualities he

could never for a moment tolerate it did not seem so terrible if he

were going West for a definite finish. He was sure that Emmy would

come at the end, no matter what she was doing or how good an en-

gagement she had