He's weak with relief, tears streaking his face, he isn't going to die as that man who'd been his father that man who'd been the white Devil-Daddy had prophecized.

Though vowing it won't be Black Jesus who takes him home.

REVEREND DRISKUS PRICE of the United African Baptist Church . . . Right Reverend Sloc.u.m Diggs of the Free Evangelical Brotherhood . . . Father Moses of the African Methodist Episcopal Church . . . Reverend T. J. Skirm of the Mount Pisgah African Church of Christ . . . Brother Druse Mohammed of the Bethel African Fellowship . . . Doctor Willard Graver of the Lenox Avenue American-Liberian League . . . Supreme Potentate Dougla.s.s Fox of the United Negro Colonization Society . . . Brother Ebenezer King of the First Zionist Church of Christ, Harlem . . . Commander Diaz Attucks of the Consolidated Free Afro-American Christian League . . .

Some of the preachers urge Jesus onto their flocks, others urge ma.s.s migration back to Africa, others believe fervently that Jesus is to be found in Africa, in the Sovereign Free State of Liberia (founded by freed American slaves in 1847), or in the Sovereign Free State of Sierra Leone . . . .

So many preachers, and so much genuine faith: and what difference, brothers and sisters, has it ever made in your lives? . . .

"Little Moses" for all his cunning is to die a Negro death after all: shortly past midnight of 7 June 1915, in the neighborhood of Amsterdam Avenue and 140th Street. In the very street, in fact.

He will die of a savage beating by three New York City mounted policemen, "riot" police, in the midst of a six-hour uprising by Negroes occasioned by the rumor (afterward verified) that a seventeen-year-old Negro boy had earlier been beaten to death by police elsewhere in Harlem.

(The boy had been arrested on 134th "fleeing the scene of a crime" . . . manacled and beaten savagely for "resisting and threatening police officers" . . . his limp bleeding body, an arm dangling broken, carried away by a speeding police van. More than a dozen witnesses looked on in horror; the incident had taken place across the street from the Afro-American Baptist Brotherhood League.) In all, eleven Negroes will die in the rioting, nine of them men. A forty-three-year-old pregnant woman, a six-year-old girl.

And among these Little Moses . . . though there will be no official record of his death as there is no record, official or otherwise, of his life.

EXCEPT: ON THE night of 6 June 1915, less than six hours before his death, he debates with a barroom acquaintance (Marcus Caesar Smith, formerly of the Barbados) the metaphysical conundrum of whether a man's ident.i.ty lies in what he resembles to the outer eye, or what he is.

For though a man might inhabit a certain shade and texture of skin, that's hardly proof that he must be defined by that skin. And though he resembles other men who inhabit that selfsame skin, it can't be proved that he must be identified with them.

Smith responds, winking at the crowd that has gathered around them, "Brother, look here: if you is talkin' about yourself, or myself, or whoever, say so-without no further ob-fus-ca-tion. If you is claimin' not to be a n.i.g.g.e.r like the rest of us, then what is you?"

Much laughter, hooting and whistling.

Little Moses, unaccustomed to being laughed at, stiffens; but manages to smile, and winks to draw the crowd onto his side. Saying "Friends, the metaphysics of it is the secret that no ignorant imagination can grasp: some folks is only what they look like by way of their skin and others, only what they is."

"Tell it, bro-ther! Tell it!" Smith laughs.

" . . . And the two categories stand apart and never can mingle, like oil . . . " Little Moses had been drinking, his tongue slurs his smooth words, " . . . and blood."

"That so, bro-ther? How so?"

"Because it is," Little Moses says. "And some things is not."

Smith plays to the gathering of drinkers saying, "Now you come to your senses, man, and explain to me how come you know so d.a.m.n much and I that's older than you and wiser don't know nothin'."

And Little Moses drinks whatever this is he's drinking, orange flame in his throat, searing his eyes, he's confused saying, "Because it's inside, brother. It's been told in-side."

"Howso? Inside what?"

"In-side."

"Look, man-there got to be some outside, like a rind or a husk, that there's an inside of, don't there?-ain't that so?" Smith cries.

"No. There don't."

"Like there's gonna be a, say, catfish-without no skin to keep 'im in? There's gonna be a hog, a cantaloupe, a baby, a flower-and not no outside for the inside to press up against? Not hardly!"

Little Moses removes his wide-brimmed fedora, incensed.

"G.o.d-d.a.m.n don't need to fool n.o.body," Little Moses cries. "I mean-I don't need to fool you. Don't give any G.o.d d.a.m.n, that s.h.i.t you sayin'."

"Then how come you talkin' to me, brother?-how come you here, and sweatin' it?"

"Because I got to be some place."

"Yes man, but how come you got to be here?"

"Because it has come to this," Little Moses says, suddenly panicked. "Because-I don't know."

"Now you tellin' us straight, you don't know no G.o.d-d.a.m.n more than anybody else," Smith shouts happily, clapping Little Moses' back so hard Little Moses begins to cough, "-because you is the same as anybody else inside and out. Because you is me, n.i.g.g.e.r, on the inside just as on the outside, should anybody investigate innards and guts and kinda stuff. Somebody do autopsy on you, my friend, and then on me, you think they gonna find much any different? What you think they gonna find?"

Little Moses is leaning against the bar, head lowered, watery eyes squinched up tight. His mouth feels as if somebody has kicked it. "s.h.i.t, man-I don't know."

"Louder, man!"

But Little Moses shakes his head, sulky and insulted. If he could retreat somewhere, if he could have some peace and stillness he'd figure out how to reply; but these fools grinning at him, laughing and pointing-it's hopeless.

Smith persists, like a horse that can't stop trampling some poor broken-boned b.a.s.t.a.r.d under his hooves, "You think they goin' to find black guts in one, and no-color guts in the other? I seen n.i.g.g.e.r guts come spillin out and the sight ain't pretty, and I sure don't want to see it another time but I'd swear they ain't black any more'n a white man's guts is gonna be white; but maybe you got to see it, friend, like Thomas he got to poke his finger in Jesus' side before he get the point. Or you getting the point now?" Smith generously lays a hot, heavy hand on Little Moses' neck, a hand like a small furry animal. Little Moses shudders at the feel of it. "Say what," says Smith, "we have ourself one more drink and forget that 'meta-whatyoucallit-phys-cal' s.h.i.t. That stuff, my man, only get in the way."

NEXT EVENING HE'S running out into the street cursing paying no heed to a woman shouting into his face, "Go back, they killin' folks out there!"-the night sky is awash with flames, policemen on horseback swinging billy clubs, a girls' head streaming blood, about to fall beneath a horse's plunging hooves and he's shouting he's cursing not drunk but stone-cold sober making a grab at the policeman's reins, a grab at the man himself, trying to wrench him down from his saddle but a second policeman sidles his horse close and strikes him on the shoulder, on the side of the head, on the crown of the head as he falls, he's writhing on the cobblestone pavement trying to shield his bleeding head, his stomach, his groin, as the white-man billy clubs swing in wide arcs like clock-pendulums . . . and the horses whinny and froth in terror . . . bone-crushing hooves strike blindly . . . his right leg, his right arm, his backbone, his unprotected head cracked like a melon.

One of the unidentified bodies. Negro, male, casualty of Harlem uprising.

VENUS APHRODITE.

Does my hand tremble?-it does not. Do I doubt?-I do not. Am I an ordinary suitor, fearful of rejection?-I am not."

Silver-haired Albert St. Goar, a gentleman in the prime of life (for who would guess that he is nearly fifty-five?-his skin so ruddy, so flushed with good health, and free of lines and creases) regards himself critically in his full-length bedroom mirror, in his apartment overlooking Rittenhouse Square; sees with relief that the disfiguring puffiness about his eyes seems to have vanished; notes with approval the new style in which his barber fashions his hair, brushing it forward in seemingly lush little wings, rather than back, to expose an uncertain hairline; and experiments with several of his most successful smiles-the hesitant, the boyish, the amused, the half-frowning (as if overtaken by surprise), the "sly."

And the lover's spontaneous smile of fateful recognition.

(For Albert St. Goar, despite the maturity of his years, and a certain worldliness in his manner, is in love; and, in the lady's presence, obliged to display the adoration he feels . . . otherwise the lady, being a person of high degree and, perhaps, as secretly vain as he, will mistakenly gauge his feeling as less than it is. "For here we have a case-and it has often been so with me-of being required to 'a.s.sume a virtue' even when I have it," St. Goar thinks.) Slowly, with deliberation, he turns his head from left to right . . . from right to left . . . studying his profile (a just perceptible fleshiness about the jowls, and, yes, some puffiness about the eyes) while he hums Siegfried's joyous surprise at the discovery of Brnnhilde . . . Brnnhilde surrounded by her daunting tongues of flame.

"Am I like other men?-I am not. Need I fear, like other men?-I need not. Can she find the strength to resist me?-she cannot."

Smartly he slaps his cheeks-adjusts yet again his starched collar, and his black silk four-in-hand-smiles his private Licht smile (rows of strong white clenched teeth)-and declares himself ready for his evening with the wealthy young widow Mrs. Eva Clement-Stoddard.

IN THE EARLY autumn of 1915, at about the time when, in distant Europe, French and British troops were landing in Greece, and Bulgaria at last declared war on Serbia, all of Philadelphia society was abuzz: for it seemed a distinct possibility that Eva Clement-Stoddard and the cosmopolite Albert St. Goar (formerly of London and Nice, now residing in Rittenhouse Square with his lovely daughter Matilde) might soon announce their engagement . . . and this despite the fact that Eva had vowed, years before, when her husband died, never to marry again; and despite the fact that the handsome St. Goar was more or less a stranger to Philadelphia.

Why otherwise would St. Goar be so unusually attentive to Mrs. Clement-Stoddard's every word, glance, sigh, and nuance of expression? Why would his frowning gaze invariably shift in her direction, despite the presence of women (married, unmarried, widowed) of equal or superior attractions, whose fortunes rivalled hers? These were women after all who made some effort to be agreeable to men, and were not by turns capricious and icy-cold, like the unpredictable Eva; nor were they rumored to be, like her, nearly impossible for any suitor to approach. (Perhaps, it was said, Eva simply did not like men.) With her much-lauded "amateur expert's" ear for cla.s.sical music, and her taste for haute cuisine, and her eye for art, architecture, home furnishings, and the like, she took distinct pride in being an exacting hostess; and, as a guest in others' homes, didn't scruple to express her dissatisfaction when things failed to measure up to her standards. "Money cannot buy taste," Eva was known to have said, "-any more than it can buy genius."

As a consequence of the young widow's imperial, self-absorbed manner, Eva Clement-Stoddard impressed observers as taller than she was, and larger of frame; her natural reserve and shyness were mistaken for disdain. It had long been her custom to wear plainly styled (though costly) clothes of British design; and her l.u.s.treless brown hair in so simple a style it might be called "cla.s.sical." Some observers held her to be an uncommonly attractive woman, with vivid dark eyes, a small straight nose, and a finely sculpted mouth; others were harsh in their condemnation of her odd, angular, narrow face, her "ironic" eyes, her slightly faded skin, and, most of all her habit of seeming to smile yet not smiling at all.

Her husband died when she was only twenty-nine, leaving her two trust funds (worth approximately $3 million, as Albert St. Goar has learned) and various properties in and about Philadelphia, including a thirty-two-room mansion in Greek Revival style on the Main Line, and a cottage in Newport; she'd developed an enthusiasm for art of the Flemish Renaissance, and had begun to collect paintings under the tutelage of the redoubtable art dealer Duveen (a gentleman whom Albert St. Goar envied); she owned any number of extraordinary pieces of jewelry, including a famed Cartier necklace of twelve emeralds s.p.a.ced along a rope of one thousand diamonds, worth, it was said, more than $1 million . . . though such vulgar displays of wealth, such conspicuous "icons," as Eva called them, she naturally scorned to wear.

It was whispered by members of her husband's family that Eva's secret tragedy, of which she was too proud to speak, was simply the fact of her being childless; and knowing herself, for all her air of brittle self-a.s.surance and superiority, not fully a woman. How else to account for her rapid shifts of mood, her obsessive interest in an infant niece or nephew, and then, so very suddenly, her contemptuous withdrawal of interest? Though she was only in her mid-thirties she was acquiring a reputation for eccentricity: she mourned her husband for a full week each year, on the anniversary of his death in early December; she attended a different church service each Sunday, contending that "all G.o.ds are equal-equally true and equally false"; she spent a highly intense six months studying what she called Law, and another six months studying what she called Medicine; with a desperate sort of fervor she even took up spiritualism-p.r.o.nouncing it, in the end, "far too hopeful to be plausible." She commissioned portraits of the deceased Mr. Clement-Stoddard, but rejected them all; she commissioned original works of music, "symphonic poems" being her particular pa.s.sion . . . but these too failed to please. Like most members of her circle, she and her husband journeyed to Europe each summer, but following his death, and her own "appointment with destiny" as she called it (Eva Clement-Stoddard had been booked to sail on the maiden voyage of the t.i.tanic in April 1912, and cancelled her plans at the last minute because of illness), she grew fretfully superst.i.tious, vowing she'd never again leave the civilized perimeters of the United States, or even the environs of Philadelphia.

"For I had rather drown in boredom," she laughingly declared, "than in the Atlantic."

Yet more peculiar was Eva's habit of keeping to herself, like a religious recluse, for weeks at a time, in her Philadelphia house. Declining all invitations; refusing to invite visitors; neglecting her charity work, and her correspondence; steeping herself in material of an uplifting or "purgative" kind. Gibbon's great history of the Roman Empire, the rude rhapsodic lyrics of Walt Whitman, a plunging into the Upanishads one month, and into the Bhagavad Gita the next-how American women of the upper cla.s.ses hunger for enlightenment! There was a season in which Eva attempted to master, under the tutelage of an Indian sage, the ancient, lost language of Sanskrit-with what success, no one knew. And Eva "kept up" with politics and war news, and loved to debate the men: with Anglophiles she argued that England had brought disaster on herself, and that the United States should not be drawn into fighting out of sentimental ties of loyalty; with the isolationists she argued yet more fiercely that President Wilson, to whom she was related, and whom she'd never liked, was endangering the honor of the United States by trying to keep from declaring war against Germany. "It's as Teddy Roosevelt has charged-the President is a coward. He isn't a man."

When the gentleman known as Albert St. Goar, formerly of London, first set eyes upon Eva Clement-Stoddard, before even being introduced to her by Mrs. Shrikesdale at a benefit performance of Cos fan tutte at the Philadelphia Opera House, in September 1915-he murmured aloud, "It's she!"

For he seemed to know the woman already, and to know that she knew him.

For not since the years of his early manhood when he'd been fatally vulnerable to the authority of an image of Woman, had he been so struck by a woman's face and presence of being; and by his conviction that, in her, he would at last be fulfilled.

MY DREAM OF a child, a son, to take the place of those who have betrayed me. Whose names I have expunged from my heart.

Yet his dream is primarily of Woman . . . a woman. Of such exceptional qualities, possessed of such powers, he'll be drawn out of himself; he will be obliterated, and resurrected in her. Above all the woman will allow him to forget the injuries inflicted upon him by women in the past. (Heartless women. Ill-deserving of Abraham Licht's love and devotion. There were Arabella, and Morna, and Sophie, who preferred death to her life with him. These were "wives" he'd never officially married and from whom consequently he can never be divorced.) He will court this woman, overcoming her reluctance. He will marry her-this time. They will indeed have a child, an heir.

"I'm in the prime of life," he tells himself eagerly. "I've scarcely begun my life! My greatest conquests lie ahead."

FROM THE START it's noted, not without jealousy in some quarters, that Eva Clement-Stoddard and the dashing Albert St. Goar are mysteriously attracted to each other. Their conversations are quick and elliptical, like the virtuoso sparring of fencers who challenge one another less with the intent of doing injury than for the purpose of happily demonstrating their skill. St. Goar chances to mention his romantic attachment to Kensington Gardens, for instance, in the very late afternoon of an autumn day; and Mrs. Clement-Stoddard challenges him at once as to which flowers and which shrubs on which paths-for it seems she shares his fondness for the park, which is bound up with her early girlhood, when her family spent six weeks of every autumn in London. On another occasion, the lady quotes Tocqueville on the pernicious consequences of Equality ("in democratic ages that which is most fluctuating amid the fluctuation of all around is the heart of man"), and Albert St. Goar rejoins with a spirited dismissal of the bigoted French cynic, as he calls him, who did not understand the American soul; and slandered all Americans by his sweeping judgments, based, by necessity, on a false application of his principles to our condition. "How can we take seriously," St. Goar says, addressing all of the room by way of his particular attentiveness to the embarra.s.sed Mrs. Clement-Stoddard, "a man who so little understands our democracy as to say, and I quote, 'The love of wealth is to be traced, either as a princ.i.p.al or an accessory motive, at the bottom of all that the Americans do'-? It is a slander!-and indefensible."

While others listen in resigned admiration, St. Goar and Eva archly discuss the politics of the day-the follies of recent history-the current ambiguous state of the arts; whether culture has fallen into a severe decline since the turn of the century; whether war with Germany is necessary, or merely, as St. Goar ominously says, "inevitable." For weeks in Mrs. Clement-Stoddard's circle talk centers upon Henry Ford's much-publicized peace ship, Oscar II, which was being organized to set sail for Europe with $1 million in gold to be paid to anyone who could stop the war. ("Anyone," St. Goar wittily observes, "-who speaks with a German accent.") It is the wealthy automobile manufacturer's boast that he would bring the boys home for Christmas (for, by this time, a goodly number of American men had volunteered to fight for the Allied cause) where government leaders like Woodrow Wilson had failed. All of Christianity, Ford declares, must join to stop the useless slaughter. And it is fitting that he, the genius inventor of the Model A and the Model T Ford car, and the initiator of the controversial $5 daily wage, should negotiate peace. For if the first business of American businessmen is money, the second will be salvation-of others. Eva Clement-Stoddard declares she's sympathetic with Henry Ford's cause, though she considers, as do others in her circle, the Detroit billionaire a crude and socially distasteful man; she's contributed several thousand dollars to the venture; and toyed for a few days with the possibility of joining the one hundred sixty select pa.s.sengers in the Oscar II. Albert St. Goar, however, is unsparing in his ridicule of the project. "Has there ever been a human being so vain, so deluded with self-importance, as this 'Ford' of yours!" St. Goar marvels. "If we didn't know the man's wealth, we would suspect that the Oscar II is nothing but a confidence game to play upon the charitable impulses of Christian ladies-of both s.e.xes." So eloquently and wittily does St. Goar speak, Henry Ford and the quest for peace are laughed out of the room, with Eva Clement-Stoddard among the heartiest laughers.

SAYING GOOD NIGHT to her honored guest that evening, pleasantly warmed and emboldened by wine, Eva remarks, in a moment of rare girlish coquetry, "Not even a G.o.ddess of ancient times could 'put anything over' on such a skeptic as you, Albert St. Goar!" Which so takes St. Goar by surprise, the gentleman stares at the lady, his expression for once tender, and undefined; and no witty rejoinder at hand.

Strolling one Sunday afternoon in elegant Rittenhouse Square, where they are bound to encounter a familiar face, and to be taken up by persons of consequence, Albert St. Goar says causally to his striking daughter Matilde, whose arm is linked through his, "You wouldn't be upset, dear, if I asked Eva to marry me? For it's time, you know, for your father to remarry. In truth," he says, sighing, "-it's more than time." And Matilde, in a smart slope-brimmed hat of black straw, with a patterned blue ribbon tied beneath her chin and a dotted swiss veil hiding her eyes, doesn't miss a beat in her languid gait; saying in a low amused voice, "Provided Eva is as wealthy as everyone says, dear Father, why should I object? Who am I to object? As you know very well."

Albert St. Goar says, in a hurt, offended voice, "Why Matilde, it isn't for her money that I want to marry Eva, but for Eva herself; for love." "Ah, 'love,' is it, this time," Matilde says gaily. "And 'marry,' is it, this time!-the first time, I believe, in your career, Father?" And St. Goar says stiffly, keeping his voice low, "But you know I'm a widower, dear. You know I haven't wished to marry since your mother's death . . . in the south of France in July of '05." "Ah yes, I had almost forgotten poor Mother," says Matilde, with a downward twist to her mouth, " . . . murdered in her bed, was she not, by an 'unknown a.s.sailant'? Poor Mother! And so much a presence in our lives!" "Your mother died of consumption, Matilde," says St. Goar, reddening, "as you well know." "Yes, of consumption, yes surely, consumption," Matilde says hurriedly. "I had forgotten. For, you know, there are so many deaths these days, it is difficult to keep track of them." St. Goar says, "I don't care at all for your tone, Matilde, if I understand it correctly. You're behaving in a way to deliberately provoke your father." "I am not 'behaving' in any way at all," says Matilde, "-but only as your 'Matilde,' who's indeed your daughter; for she is no one else's." "You've been behaving in a childish way for weeks now-for months," St. Goar says. "Since our arrival in Philadelphia. Since your return from the Fitzmaurices', in fact. I hate the role of a scolding parent for it isn't Albert St. Goar's style at all-yet it might be said, my dear, that it has rarely been your role to provoke such scolding. You must adapt yourself to our new life; you must forget the old; indeed, I'm surprised you haven't forgotten-" "Ah but I have forgotten!" Matilde interrupts, lightly touching St. Goar's chin with her gloved fingers, "-I have forgotten, Father, far more than I have ever remembered." "In any case," St. Goar says stiffly, drawing away from his daughter, "-I don't like your tone. I don't like your arch mocking 'Matilde' manner. For it is not my 'Matilde' but a parody. For my 'Matilde' is sweet, and gracious, and always smiling, and quick to sympathize . . . yet shrewd beneath, and hardly anyone's fool. And surely that is 'Matilde,' and you are she, so why this harlequinade?-for it's done, I know, solely to provoke. I have no doubt that it shocked and displeased the Fitzmaurices, no less than it shocks and displeases me, and I do not countenance it; I do not wish it." "Yes Father," Matilde says meekly. "In Mrs. Clement-Stoddard's presence you're quiet to the point of rudeness, and in private, of late, you chatter like a magpie," St. Goar accuses. "I do not wish it." "Yes Father," Matilde says meekly-though a strange little smile hovers about her lips. "There's no reason for you to feel jealous of Eva, surely," St. Goar says. "You are an exceptionally beautiful young woman who will soon have her own life, I am certain, once things get settled. You don't, of course, dwell upon the past?-for that isn't productive." "Certainly not, Father," Matilde says. "Didn't I tell you?-I've forgotten more than I've ever remembered." "You don't, for instance, think of . . . him?" St. Goar asks. "Of 'him'? What do you mean, Father?" Matilde asks, lifting her head at a quizzical angle. "a.s.suredly not; I don't think at all." "You have admirers already in Philadelphia, dear-or would have, if you encouraged them," St. Goar says. "You need hardly concern yourself with the older generation." "Yes Father," says Matilde. "I'm a man in the prime of life, lonely after so many years for female companionship and domesticity," St. Goar says. "Eva won't be easily won and perhaps can't be won, for she's very different from-other women. She's a woman set apart from women even of her cla.s.s and station." To this, Matilde makes no reply. "Naturally it pleases me she's wealthy-I wouldn't deny that-but it pleases me that she's the very age she is, that her face is as it is, her eyes, her mouth, her hair, her superb wit-When one is in love, everything about the beloved pleases; for that is love." "Is it, Father?" Matilde murmurs. "Your mother cheated me of the happiness of domestic life," St. Goar says, "-she, and the others. But I will not remain cheated. I will claim my love before it is too late." "Yes Father," says Matilde. "And I hope you will be happy for me, when you see that I am happy," St. Goar says, "-and will not continue to displease, as you have been." "It is only 'Matilde,'" Matilde says, tying more securely the pretty blue ribbon beneath her chin, "-and what is she to you, after all? She too might be handily forgotten." "What are you saying?" St. Goar asks. "You know I'm devoted to you, dear. And I'm convinced that, out of my happiness, yours will spring." "Will it, indeed?" says Matilde. "In any case, you know, I hardly need apply to you for permission to marry," says St. Goar, "-any more than for permission to love." "Indeed not," says Matilde, laughing. "Therefore I wish you and Mrs. Clement-Stoddard well. Therefore I wish the wedding might be next week. For the more wealth to you, Father, as to our 'Roland,' the less obligation to 'Matilde,' to marry at all."

At this, St. Goar draws sharply away from his daughter; for he is offended.

"You must never speak of him in such a context, Millie," he whispers, staring at her. "What are you thinking of!-you!"

"'What am I thinking of'?-'I'?" says Matilde, smiling innocently, "-why, I scarcely know. Will you tell me?"

"Does she love me as I love her?-she does. And will she refuse me a third time?-she cannot."

Approaching eight o'clock on the evening of 30 March 1916. He must delay no longer; he must leave; for he is due very soon at Mrs. Clement-Stoddard's house, to dine (alone) with her; and to press upon her his final proposal of marriage. (For if pride won't allow the widow to acquiesce, this time, pride won't allow the widower St. Goar to humble himself and ask again.) He finishes his gla.s.s of English sherry, and, frowning, turns his head from side to side: three-quarters profile, seen from the left, is his strongest suit.

"Can she refuse me a third time?" he whispers, "-she cannot!"

He first proposed to Eva Clement-Stoddard in November 1915, scarcely two months after they were introduced: a tactical error. Naturally the lady was taken by surprise; stared at her admirer with an expression of genuine alarm. And no was her reply, thank you Mr. St. Goar but no, murmured in so low and rapid a voice, he had barely heard.

The second proposal, however, made in January 1916, had surely been expected; for during the intervening weeks Eva had given her suitor ample reason to believe that she was coming to admire him. She paid him a flattering amount of attention in company; laughed happily at his remarks; casually slipped her arm through his as they walked together; invited him frequently to her house, for small parties as well as large; and didn't seem to mind that they were beginning to be whispered of as a couple. When St. Goar told her that he loved her and wanted to marry her, she blushed painfully, and turned away, and said, stammering, that she was probably "too old and too settled" to think of such things; that, surely, he could not want her; and that she dared not deceive herself, that he did. St. Goar protested that he spoke the truth: he did love her: he did want to marry her: but Eva was too distraught to hear him out. "I must say no, Albert," she whispered, drawing away, "-for I cannot allow myself to say yes."

And now, tonight-what will be her answer, tonight?

"She dares not refuse me," St. Goar says, unconsciously lifting the empty sherry gla.s.s to his lips. "For other women have betrayed me, and cheated me of the happiness of domesticity that is my due; and now it is time for Venus Aphrodite to reward me-as the G.o.ddess well knows."

HIS NEW BLACK sateen top hat-his fine white gloves-his ebony cane with the smart gold-and-ivory handle; a quick glance at his pocket watch (ah, the hour is late!); and St. Goar is on his way.

Ever the considerate father, he calls out a hearty good night to his daughter Matilde; but sulky Matilde has locked herself away in her quarters, having refused her own invitations for the evening (one of them to the Grand Ball at the Philadelphia Academy of Music, for the benefit of the Children's Charity Hospital), that she might bathe, and lie about en deshabille, smoking her forbidden cigarettes and reading her forbidden newspapers: for the defiant young miss insists upon being knowledgeable in the follies of her time, profitless as such knowledge is.

Will you want a carriage, sir, asks the liveried doorman, on so cold and bl.u.s.tery an evening, sir?-but no: St. Goar prefers to walk: for there are grievances in his heart he would air, before meeting his beloved Eva.

"Aphrodite, hear me-it is time!"

For he's been cruelly used in his life; aroused to pa.s.sion, deceived by love, betrayed by the very women to whom he'd given his soul.