He overtook the Oglethorpe flapper and seizing her hand drew it through his arm.

"I'll take you where you can get a sandwich," he said. "But I'll not take you to a restaurant. Too likely to meet newspaper men."

"Anything to drink?"

"Ice cream soda."

"Good Lord!"

"You needn't drink it. But you'll get nothing else. Come along or I'll pick you up and carry you to the nearest garage."

She trotted obediently beside him, a fragile dainty figure; carried limply, however, and little more distinguished than flappers of inferior origin. He led her to a rather luxurious delicatessen not far from his hotel, kept by enterprising Italians who never closed their doors. They seated themselves uncomfortably at the high counter, and the sleepy attendant served them with sandwiches, then retired to the back of the shop. He was settling himself to alert repose when Miss Oglethorpe suddenly changed her mind and ordered a chocolate ice cream soda. Then she ordered another, and she ate six sandwiches, a slice of cake and two bananas.

"Great heaven!" exclaimed Clavering. "You must have the stomach of an ostrich."

"Can eat nails and drink fire water."

"Well, you won't two years hence, and you'll look it, too."

"Oh, no I won't. I'll marry when I'm nineteen and a half and settle down."

"I should say you were heading the other way. Where have you been tonight?"

"Donny Farren gave a party in his rooms and pa.s.sed out just as he was about to take me home. I loosened his collar and put a pillow under his head, but I couldn't lift him, even to the sofa. Too fat."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Returning home one night Clavering (Conway Tearle) found Janet Oglethorpe (Clara Bow), daughter of his old friend, in a semi-intoxicated condition. (_Screen version of "The Black Oxen."_)]

"I suppose you pride yourself on being a good sport."

"Rather. If Donny'd been ill I'd have stayed with him all night, but he was dead to the world."

"You say he had a party. Why didn't some of the others take you home?"

"Ever hear about three being a crowd? Donny, naturally, was all for taking me home, and didn't show any signs of collapse till the last minute."

"But I should think that for decency's sake you'd all have gone down together."

"Lord! How old-fashioned you are. I was finishing a cigarette and never thought of it." She opened a little gold mesh bag, took out a cigarette and lit it. Her cheeks were flushed under the rouge and her large black eyes glittered in her fluid little face. She was one of the beauties of the season's debutantes, but scornful of nature. Her olive complexion was thickly powdered and there was a delicate smudge of black under her lower lashes and even on her eyelids. He had never seen her quite so blatantly made up before, but then he had seen little of her since the beginning of her first season. He rarely went to parties, and she was almost as rarely in her own home or her grandmother's. Her short hair curled about her face. In spite of her paint she looked like a child--a greedy child playing with life.

"Look here!" he said. "How far do you go?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I should. Not for personal reasons, for girls of your age bore me to extinction, but you've a certain sociological interest. I wonder if you are really any worse than your predecessors?"

"I guess girls have always been human enough, but we have more opportunities. We've made 'em. This is our age and we're enjoying it to the limit. G.o.d! what stupid times girls must have had--some of them do yet. They're naturally goody-goody, or their parents are too much for them. Not many, though. Parents have taken a back seat."

"I don't quite see what you get out of it--guzzling, and smoking your nerves out by the roots, and making yourselves cheap with men little older than yourselves."

"You don't see, I suppose, why girls should have their fling, or"--her voice wavered curiously--"why youth takes naturally to youth. I suppose you think that is a cruel thing for a girl to say."

"Not in the least," he answered cheerfully. "Don't mind a bit. But what do you get out of it--that's what I'm curious to know."

She tossed her head and blew a perfect ring. "Don't you know that girls never really enjoyed life before?"

"It depends upon the point of view, I should think."

"No, there's a lot more in it than you guess. The girls used to sit round waiting for men to call and wondering if they'd condescend to show up at the next dance; while the men fairly raced after the girls with whom they could have a free and easy time--no company manners, no chaperons, no prudish affectations about kisses and things. No fear of shocking if they wanted to let go--the strain must have been awful.

You know what men are. They like to call a spade a spade and be d.a.m.ned to it. Our sort didn't have a chance. They couldn't compete. So, we made up our minds to compete in the only way possible. We leave off our corsets at dances so they can get a new thrill out of us, then sit out in an automobile and drink and have little petting parties of two.

And we slip out and have an occasional lark like tonight. We're not to be worried about, either."

"Why cryptic after your really admirable frankness? But there's always a point beyond which women never will go when confessing their souls... . I suppose you think you're as hard as nails. Do you really imagine that you will ever be able to fall in love and marry and want children?"

"Don't men?"

"Ancient standards are not annihilated in one generation."

"There's got to be a beginning to everything, hasn't there? One would think the world stood still, to hear you talk. But anything new always makes the fogies sick."

"Nothing makes _me_ as sick as your bad manners--you and all your tribe. Men, at least, don't lose their breeding if they choose to sow wild oats. But women go the whole hog or none."

"Other times, other manners. We make our own, and you have to put up with them whether you like it or not. See?"

"I see that you are even sillier than I thought. You need nothing so much as a sound spanking."

"Your own manners are none too good. You've handed me one insult after another."

"I've merely talked to you as your father would if he were not blind.

Besides, it would probably make you sick to be 'respected.' Come along. We'll go round to a garage and get a taxi. Why on earth didn't you ring for a taxi from Farren's?"

"I tried to, but it's an apartment house and there was no one downstairs to make the connection. Too late. So I footed it." She yawned prodigiously. "I'm ready at last for my little bunk. Hope you've enjoyed this more than I have. You'd be a scream at a petting party."

Clavering paid his small account and they issued into the storm once more. It was impossible to talk. In the taxi she went to sleep.

Thank Heaven! He had had enough of her. Odious brat. More than once he had had a sudden vision of Mary Zattiany during that astonishing conversation at the counter. The "past" she had suggested to his tormented mind was almost literary by contrast. She, herself, a queen granting favors, beside this little fashionable near-strumpet. They didn't breathe the same air, nor walk on the same plane. Who, even if this little fool were merely demi-vierge, would hesitate between them?

One played the game in the grand manner, the other like a glorified gutter-snipe. But he was thankful for the diversion, and when he reached his own bed he fell asleep immediately and did not turn over for seven hours.

XXI

He had informed Madame Zattiany's butler over the telephone that he would call that evening at half-past nine, but he returned to his rooms after a day at the office with lagging steps. He dreaded another evening in that library by the fire. It was beyond his imagination to foresee how she would treat him, what role she would choose to play, and although he was grimly determined to play whatever role she a.s.signed to him (for the present!), he hated the prospect. He was in no mood for a "game." This wooing was like nothing his imagination had ever prefigured. To be put on trial ... to sit with the woman in the great solitude of the house and the very air vibrating between them ... or frozen ... self-conscious as a schoolboy up for inspection ... afraid of making a false move... . What in G.o.d's name would they talk about? Politics? Books? Art? Ba.n.a.lities! ...

he'd half a mind to go to Florida after all ... or join Jim Oglethorpe in South Carolina: he had a standing invitation ... he'd return by the next train; he'd felt as if existing in a vacuum all day... .

When he reached his rooms he found his problem solved for the moment--possibly. A telephone slip informed him that Madame Zattiany would be at home, and a note from Mrs. Oglethorpe enclosed tickets for her box at the opera that night.

If she would only go!

He called the house. The butler answered and retired to summon Madame Zattiany. Her voice came clear and cool over the telephone. He invited her to go to Sherry's for dinner and to hear Farrar in _b.u.t.terfly_ afterward. "I must tell you that we shall sit in a box,"