Complete Stories - Dorothy Parker Part 21

"Well, it's nearly over, darling," he said. "Sometimes I am practically convinced that there is a G.o.d."

"It was darn decent of you to bring her gardenias," Camilla said. "What made you think of it?"

"I was so crazed at the idea that she was really going," he said, "that I must have lost my head. No one was more surprised than I, buying gardenias for Horsie. Thank the Lord she didn't put them on. I couldn't have stood that sight."

"She's not really at her best in her street clothes," Camilla said. "She seems to lack a certain chic." She stretched her arms slowly above her head and let them sink slowly back. "That was a fascinating glimpse of her home life she gave us. Great fun."

"Oh, I don't suppose she minds," he said. "I'll go down now and back her into the car, and that'll finish it."

He bent again over Camilla.

"Oh, you look so lovely, sweet," he said. "So lovely."

Miss Wilmarth was coming down the hall, when Gerald left the room, managing a pasteboard hat-box, the florist's box, and a big leather purse that had known service. He took the boxes from her, against her protests, and followed her down the stairs and out to the motor at the curb. The chauffeur stood at the open door. Gerald was glad of that presence.

"Well, good luck, Miss Wilmarth," he said. "And thank you so much."

"Thank you, Mr. Cruger," she said. "I-I can't tell you how I've enjoyed it all the time I was here. I never had a pleasanter-And the flowers, and everything. I just don't know what to say. I'm the one that ought to thank you."

She held out her hand, in a brown cotton glove. Anyway, worn cotton was easier to the touch than dry, corded flesh. It was the last moment of her. He scarcely minded looking at the long face on the red, red neck.

"Well!" he said. "Well! Got everything? Well, good luck, again, Miss Wilmarth, and don't forget us."

"Oh, I won't," she said. "I-oh, I won't do that."

She turned from him and got quickly into the car, to sit upright against the pale gray cus.h.i.+ons. The chauffeur placed her hat-box at her feet and the florist's box on the seat beside her, closed the door smartly, and returned to his wheel. Gerald waved cheerily as the car slid away. Miss Wilmarth did not wave to him.

When she looked back, through the little rear window, he had already disappeared in the house. He must have run across the sidewalk-run, to get back to the fragrant room and the little yellow roses and Camilla. Their little pink baby would lie sleeping in its bed. They would be alone together; they would dine alone together by candlelight; they would be alone together in the night. Every morning and every evening Gerald would drop to his knees beside her to kiss her perfumed hand and call her sweet. Always she would be perfect, in scented chiffon and deep lace. There would be lean, easy young men, to listen to her drawl and give her their laughter. Every day there would be s.h.i.+ny white boxes for her, filled with curious blooms. It was perhaps fortunate that no one looked in the limousine. A beholder must have been startled to learn that a human face could look as much like that of a weary mare as did Miss Wilmarth's.

Presently the car swerved, in a turn of the traffic. The florist's box slipped against Miss Wilmarth's knee. She looked down at it. Then she took it on her lap, raised the lid a little and peeped at the waxy white bouquet. It would have been all fair then for a chance spectator; Miss Wilmarth's strange resemblance was not apparent, as she looked at her flowers. They were her flowers. A man had given them to her. She had been given flowers. They might not fade maybe for days. And she could keep the box.

Harper's Bazaar, December 1932.

Advice to the Little Peyton Girl.

Miss Marion's eyes were sweet and steady beneath her folded honey-colored hair, and her mouth curved gently. She looked as white and smooth as the pond-lilies she had set floating in the blue gla.s.s bowl on the low table. Her drawing-room was all pale, clear colors and dark, satiny surfaces, and low light slanted through parchment-Miss Marion's room, from the whole world, hushed for her step, dim to enhance her luminous pallor and her soft and gracious garments. It was sanctuary to the little Peyton girl; and Miss Marion's voice was soothing as running water, and Miss Marion's words were like cool hands laid on her brow.

Before she had decided to do it, the little Peyton girl had told all her trouble. It was, as you looked at it, either a girl's fool worry or the worst of human anguish. For two weeks the little Peyton girl had not seen the Barclay boy. He had become preoccupied with other little girls.

"What shall I do, Miss Marion?" the little Peyton girl said.

Miss Marion's eyes, dark with compa.s.sion, dwelt on the small, worried face.

"You like him so much, Sylvie?" she said.

"I-yes, you see, I-" the girl said, and stopped to swallow. "It's so awful without him; it's so awful. You see, we saw each other every day-every single day, all summer. And he'd always telephone me, when he got home, even if he'd left me ten minutes before. And he'd always call me as soon as he woke up, to say good morning and tell me he was coming over. Every day. Oh, Miss Marion, you don't know how lovely it was."

"Yes, I do, dear," Miss Marion said. "I know, Sylvie."

"And then it just stopped," the girl said. "It just suddenly stopped."

"Really suddenly, Sylvie?" Miss Marion said.

"Well," Sylvie said. She tried a little smile. "Why, one night, you see, he'd been over at our house-we'd been sitting on the porch. And then he went home, and he didn't telephone me. And I waited and waited. I-I can't tell you how awful it was. You wouldn't think it would matter that much, that he didn't call up, would you? But it did."

"I know it did," Miss Marion said. "It does."

"I couldn't sleep, I couldn't do anything," Sylvie said. "It-oh, it got to be half-past two. I couldn't imagine what had happened. I thought he'd smashed up in his car or something."

"I wonder if you really thought that, dear," Miss Marion said.

"Why, of course, I-" the girl said, and then she shook her head. "You know everything, Miss Marion, don't you? No, I-well, you see, there was a dance at the club and we'd sort of thought of going, only I-well, I didn't want to go to dances very much; it was much nicer just being alone with him. So I guess what I thought was he'd gone on to the dance when he left our house. And I just got so I couldn't stand it, and I called him up."

"Yes," Miss Marion said. "You called him up. How old are you, Sylvie? Nineteen, aren't you? And I've seen women of thirty-nine make just the same mistakes. It's strange. And was he home when you called him?"

"Yes," Sylvie said. "I-well, I woke him up, you see, and he wasn't very nice about it. And I asked him why he hadn't called me, and he-he said there wasn't any reason to call me, he'd been with me all evening, he didn't have anything to say. And he hadn't been to the dance, only-you see, I thought he had. I-I didn't believe him. And so I cried."

"He heard you cry?" Miss Marion said.

"Yes," Sylvie said. "He said-excuse me, Miss Marion-he said, 'Oh, for the love of G.o.d!' and he hung up. And I just couldn't bear that, not saying good night or anything, and so I-so I called him up again."

"Oh, my poor child," Miss Marion said.

"He said he was sorry he'd hung up," Sylvie said, "and everything was all right, only I asked him again wouldn't he please tell me honestly whether he'd been to the dance. And he-oh, he just talked awfully, Miss Marion. I can't tell you."

"Don't, dear," Miss Marion said.

"So after that," the girl said, "oh, I don't know-it went on, every day, for a while, and then lots of times he didn't telephone, and then there were days he didn't come over-he'd be playing tennis and things with other people. And then Kitty Grainger came back from Dark Harbor, and I-I guess he went over to her house a lot. They all do."

"Did you tell him you didn't like that?" Miss Marion said.

"Yes, I did, Miss Marion," Sylvie said. "I couldn't help it-it made me so mad. She's an awful girl; she's just awful. Why, she'd kiss anybody . She's the kind that always leaves dances and goes out on the golf course with some boy and doesn't come back for hours. It made me simply wild that he'd rather be with her than with me. Honestly, it wouldn't have been bad if it had been some terribly nice girl, some one miles more attractive than me. That wouldn't have been so bad, would it, Miss Marion?"

"I don't know, dear," Miss Marion said. "I'm afraid one never thinks a man leaves one for a finer woman. But Sylvie-one never points out the imperfections of his friends."

"Well, I couldn't help it," Sylvie said. "And so we had some terrible rows, you see. Kitty Grainger and those friends of hers-why, they're just the same kind she is! So, well, then I sort of saw him less and less, and, you see, every time he came over I was so scared it was the last time that I wasn't much fun, I guess. And I kept asking him what was the matter that he didn't come over every day the way he used to, and he said there wasn't a thing the matter. And I'd keep saying was it anything I'd done, and he said no, of course it wasn't. Honestly he did, Miss Marion. And now-well, I haven't seen him for two weeks. Two weeks. And I haven't heard a word from him. And-and I just don't think I can stand it, please, Miss Marion. Why, he said there was nothing the matter. I didn't know that you could see somebody every day, all the time, and then it would just stop. I didn't think it could stop."

"Weren't you ever afraid it would, Sylvie?" Miss Marion said.

"Oh, the last times I saw him, I was," the girl said. "And-well, I suppose I was, right from the start. It was so much fun, I thought it was too wonderful to last. He's so attractive and everything, I was always scared about other girls. I used to tell him, oh, I knew he'd throw me down. It was just fooling, of course; but it wasn't, too."

"You see, Sylvie," Miss Marion said, "men dislike dismal prophecies. I know Bunny Barclay is only twenty, but all men are the same age. And they all hate the same things."

"I wish I were like you, Miss Marion," Sylvie said. "I wish I always knew what to do. I guess I've done everything wrong. But still, he said there was nothing the matter. You don't know how awful it is not to be able to talk to him now. If we could just talk things over, if we could just get things straightened out, I think-"

"No, dear," Miss Marion said. "Men hate straightening out unpleasantness. They detest talking things over. Let the past die, my child, and go gaily on from its unmarked grave. Remember that when you see Bunny again, Sylvie. Behave as if you had been laughing together an hour before."

"But maybe I'll never see him again," the girl said. "I can't get near him. I've called him and I've called him and I've called him. Why, I telephoned him three times today! And he's never home. Well, he can't always be out, Miss Marion. Usually it's his mother that answers. And she'd say he was out, anyway. She hates me."

"Don't, child," Miss Marion said. "When one is unhappy, it is easy to think that the world is hostile; especially the part of the world that immediately surrounds the cause of one's unhappiness. Of course, Mrs. Barclay doesn't hate you, Sylvie. How could she?"

"Well, she always says he's out," Sylvie said; "and she never knows what time he'll be back. Maybe it's true. Oh, Miss Marion, do you think I'll ever see him again? Do you, truly?"

"Yes, I do," Miss Marion said, "and I believe you think so, too, dear. Of course, you will. Don't you go to the club to play tennis?"

"I haven't been for ages," the girl said. "I haven't gone anywhere. It makes Mother just frantic, but I don't want to go anywhere. I-I don't want to see him with Kitty and Elsie Taylor and all that crowd. I know he's with one or the other of them all the time-people tell me. And they say, 'What's the matter with you and Bunny, anyway? Did you have a fight?' And when I say there's nothing the matter, they look at me so queerly. But he said there wasn't anything the matter. Ah, why did he say that, Miss Marion? Didn't he mean it?"

"I'm afraid he didn't," Miss Marion said.

"Then what is it?" Sylvie said. "Oh, please tell me what to do. Tell me what you do, that every one loves you so. You must know everything, Miss Marion. I'll do anything on earth you say. It-oh, made my heart go all quick, when you said you thought I was going to see him again. Do you think-do you think maybe we could ever be the way we were?"

"Dear Sylvie," Miss Marion said, "listen. Yes, I think that you and Bunny may be close again, but it is you that must accomplish it. And it isn't going to be easy, child. It isn't going to be quick. There is no charm you can repeat to bring back love in a moment. You must have two things-patience and courage; and the first is much harder to summon than the second. You must wait, Sylvie, and it's a bad task. You must not telephone him again, no matter what happens. Men cannot admire a girl who-well, it's a hard word, but I must say it-pursues them. And you must go back to your friends, and go about with them. You are not to stay at home and pray for the telephone to ring-no, dear. Go out and make yourself gay, and gaiety will come to you. Don't be afraid that your friends will ask you questions or look at you queerly; you will give them no reason to. And people don't really say cruel things, dear; it is only in antic.i.p.ation that pride is hurt.

"And when you meet Bunny again, it must all be different. For there was something the trouble, no matter what he says; something deeply the trouble. You showed him how much you cared for him, Sylvie, showed him he was all-important to you. Men do not like that. You would think they would find it sweet, but they do not. You must be light and you must be easy, for ease is the desire of all men. Talk to him gaily and graciously when you see him, and never hint of the sorrow he has caused you. Men hate reminders of sadness. And there must never be any reproaches, and there must never, never, never be any more 'terrible rows.' Nothing so embarra.s.ses a man as to see a woman lose her dignity.

"And you must conquer your fears, dear child. A woman in fear for her love can never do right. Realize that there are times he will want to be away from you; never ask him why or where. No man will bear that. Don't predict unhappiness, nor foresee a parting; he will not slip away if you do not let him see that you are holding him. Love is like quick-silver in the hand, Sylvie. Leave the fingers open and it stays in the palm; clutch it, and it darts away. Be, above all things, always calm. Let it be peace to be with you.

"Never in this world make him feel guilty, no matter what he has done. If he does not call you when he has said he would, if he is late for an appointment with you, do not refer to it. Make him feel that all is well, always. Be sweet and gay and always, always calm.

"And trust him, Sylvie. He is not deliberately hurting you. He never will unless you suggest it. Trust yourself, too. Don't let yourself become insecure. It sounds an impudence to remind you that there are always others, when I know that it is only he you want; but it is a heartening thought. And he is not to know that he is the sun, that there is no life without him. He must never know that again.

"It is a long way, Sylvie, and a hard one, and you must watch every step you take along it. But it is the only way with a man."

"I see, Miss Marion," the girl said. She had not once taken her eyes from Miss Marion's. "I see what you must do. It-no, it isn't easy, is it? But if it will work-"

"It always has, dear," Miss Marion said.

The girl's face looked as if she beheld a rising sun. "I'm going to try, Miss Marion," she said. "I'm going to try never to do wrong things. I'm going to try-why, I'm going to try to be like you, and then he'd have to like me. It would be so wonderful to be like you: to be wise and lovely and gentle. Men must all adore you. You're-oh, you're just perfect. How do you know what is always the right thing to do?"

Miss Marion smiled. "Well, you see," she said, "I have had several more years than you in which to practice."

When the little Peyton girl had gone, Miss Marion moved slowly about the gracious room, touching a flower, moving a magazine. But her eyes did not follow her pale fingers, and her thoughts seemed absent from her small, unnecessary tasks. Once she looked at the watch on her wrist, and uttered an exclamation; and then she consulted it so frequently that the tiny minute-hand had little opportunity to move, between her glances. She lighted a cigarette, held it from her to consider the spiraling streamer of smoke, then crushed it cold. She rested in a low chair, rose from it and went to the sofa, then went back to the chair. She opened a large and glistening magazine, but turned no pages. Between the bands of honey-colored hair, her white brow was troubled.

Suddenly she rose again, put down the magazine, and with quick, firm steps that were not her habit swept across the room to the tall desk where the telephone rested. She dialed a number, with little sharp rips of sound.

"May I speak to Mr. Lawrence, please?" she said, after some seconds. "Oh, he isn't? Oh. Is this his secretary speaking? Could you tell me when he will be in, please? Oh, I see. Well, if he does come in, will you ask him please to call Miss Marion? No, Marion. No, that's all-that's the last name. Yes, he knows the number. Thank you so much."

Miss Marion replaced the receiver and sat looking at the telephone as if it offended her sight. She spoke aloud, and neither the tone nor the words seemed hers.

"d.a.m.n that woman," she said. "She knows d.a.m.ned well what my name is. Just because she hates me-"

For the next minutes, Miss Marion walked the room so rapidly that it was almost as if she ran. Her graceful gown was adapted to no such pace, and it dragged and twisted about her ankles. Her face was flushed with alien color when she went to the telephone again, and her hand shook as she turned the dial.

"May I speak to Mr. Lawrence, please?" she said. "Oh, hasn't he? Well, couldn't you please tell me where I could reach him? Oh, you don't know. I see. Have you any idea if he will be in later? I see. Thank you. Well, if he does come in, would you be good enough to ask him to telephone Miss Marion? Yes, Marion-Cynthia Marion. Thank you. Yes, I telephoned before. Please be sure to tell him to call me, will you? Thank you very much."

Slowly Miss Marion hung the receiver back in its place. Slowly her shoulders sagged, and her long, delicate body seemed to lose its bones. Then her arms were on the desk and her face buried in them, and the cool folds of her hair loosened and flew wild as she rolled her head from side to side. The room seemed to slip into shadow, as if to retreat from the sound of her sobs. Words jumbled among the moans in her throat.

"Oh, he said he'd call, he said he'd call. He said there was nothing the trouble, he said of course he'd call. Oh, he said so."

The knotted, choking noises died away presently, and she had been silent and still for some while before she raised her head and reached for the telephone. She was forced to stop twice during her turning of the dial, so that she might shake the tears from her eyes and see. When she spoke, her voice shook and soared.

"May I speak to Mr. Lawrence, please?" she said.

Harper's Bazaar, February 1933.

From the Diary of a New York Lady.

DURING DAYS OF HORROR, DESPAIR, AND WORLD CHANGE.

MONDAY. Breakfast tray about eleven; didn't want it. The champagne at the Amorys' last night was too revolting, but what can you do? You can't stay until five o'clock on just nothing. They had those divine Hungarian musicians in the green coats, and Stewie Hunter took off one of his shoes and led them with it, and it couldn't have been funnier. He is the wittiest number in the entire world; he couldn't be more perfect. Ollie Martin brought me home and we both fell asleep in the car-too screaming. Miss Rose came about noon to do my nails, simply covered with the most divine gossip. The Morrises are going to separate any minute, and Freddie Warren definitely has ulcers, and Gertie Leonard simply won't let Bill Crawford out of her sight even with Jack Leonard right there in the room, and it's all true about Sheila Phillips and Babs Deering. It couldn't have been more thrilling. Miss Rose is too marvelous; I really think that a lot of times people like that are a lot more intelligent than a lot of people. Didn't notice until after she had gone that the d.a.m.n fool had put that revolting tangerine-colored polish on my nails; couldn't have been more furious. Started to read a book, but too nervous. Called up and found I could get two tickets for the opening of "Run like a Rabbit" tonight for forty-eight dollars. Told them they had the nerve of the world, but what can you do? Think Joe said he was dining out, so telephoned some divine numbers to get someone to go to the theater with me, but they were all tied up. Finally got Ollie Martin. He couldn't have more poise, and what do I care if he is one? Can't decide whether to wear the green crepe or the red wool. Every time I look at my finger nails, I could spit. d.a.m.n Miss Rose.

TUESDAY. Joe came barging in my room this morning at practically nine o'clock. Couldn't have been more furious. Started to fight, but too dead. Know he said he wouldn't be home to dinner. Absolutely cold all day; couldn't move. Last night couldn't have been more perfect. Ollie and I dined at Thirty-Eight East, absolutely poisonous food, and not one living soul that you'd be seen dead with, and "Run like a Rabbit" was the world's worst. Took Ollie up to the Barlows' party and it couldn't have been more attractive-couldn't have been more people absolutely stinking. They had those Hungarians in the green coats, and Stewie Hunter was leading them with a fork-everybody simply died. He had yards of green toilet paper hung around his neck like a lei; he couldn't have been in better form. Met a really new number, very tall, too marvelous, and one of those people that you can really talk to them. I told him sometimes I get so nauseated I could yip, and I felt I absolutely had to do something like write or paint. He said why didn't I write or paint. Came home alone; Ollie pa.s.sed out stiff. Called up the new number three times today to get him to come to dinner and go with me to the opening of "Never Say Good Morning," but first he was out and then he was all tied up with his mother. Finally got Ollie Martin. Tried to read a book, but couldn't sit still. Can't decide whether to wear the red lace or the pink with the feathers. Feel too exhausted, but what can you do?

WEDNESDAY. The most terrible thing happened just this minute. Broke one of my finger nails right off short. Absolutely the most horrible thing I ever had happen to me in my life. Called up Miss Rose to come over and shape it for me, but she was out for the day. I do have the worst luck in the entire world. Now I'll have to go around like this all day and all night, but what can you do? d.a.m.n Miss Rose. Last night too hectic. "Never Say Good Morning" too foul, never saw more poisonous clothes on the stage. Took Ollie up to the Ballards' party; couldn't have been better. They had those Hungarians in the green coats and Stewie Hunter was leading them with a freesia-too perfect. He had on Peggy Cooper's ermine coat and Phyllis Minton's silver turban; simply unbelievable. Asked simply sheaves of divine people to come here Friday night; got the address of those Hungarians in the green coats from Betty Ballard. She says just engage them until four, and then whoever gives them another three hundred dollars, they'll stay till five. Couldn't be cheaper. Started home with Ollie, but had to drop him at his house; he couldn't have been sicker. Called up the new number today to get him to come to dinner and go to the opening of "Everybody Up" with me tonight, but he was tied up. Joe's going to be out; he didn't condescend to say where, of course. Started to read the papers, but nothing in them except that Mona Wheatley is in Reno charging intolerable cruelty. Called up Jim Wheatley to see if he had anything to do tonight, but he was tied up. Finally got Ollie Martin. Can't decide whether to wear the white satin or the black chiffon or the yellow pebble crepe. Simply wrecked to the core about my finger nail. Can't bear it. Never knew anybody to have such unbelievable things happen to them.

THURSDAY. Simply collapsing on my feet. Last night too marvelous. "Everybody Up" too divine, couldn't be filthier, and the new number was there, too celestial, only he didn't see me. He was with Florence Keeler in that loathsome gold Schiaparelli model of hers that every shopgirl has had since G.o.d knows. He must be out of his mind; she wouldn't look at a man. Took Ollie to the Watsons' party; couldn't have been more thrilling. Everybody simply blind. They had those Hungarians in the green coats and Stewie Hunter was leading them with a lamp, and, after the lamp got broken, he and Tommy Thomas did adagio dances-too wonderful. Somebody told me Tommy's doctor told him he had to absolutely get right out of town, he has the world's worst stomach, but you'd never know it. Came home alone, couldn't find Ollie anywhere. Miss Rose came at noon to shape my nail, couldn't have been more fascinating. Sylvia Eaton can't go out the door unless she's had a hypodermic, and Doris Mason knows every single word about Douggie Mason and that girl up in Harlem, and Evelyn North won't be induced to keep away from those three acrobats, and they don't dare tell Stuyvie Raymond what he's got the matter with him. Never knew anyone that had a more simply fascinating life than Miss Rose. Made her take that vile tangerine polish off my nails and put on dark red. Didn't notice until after she had gone that it's practically black in electric light; couldn't be in a worse state. d.a.m.n Miss Rose. Joe left a note saying he was going to dine out, so telephoned the new number to get him to come to dinner and go with me to that new movie tonight, but he didn't answer. Sent him three telegrams to absolutely surely come tomorrow night. Finally got Ollie Martin for tonight. Looked at the papers, but nothing in them except that the Harry Motts are throwing a tea with Hungarian music on Sunday. Think will ask the new number to go to it with me; they must have meant to invite me. Began to read a book, but too exhausted. Can't decide whether to wear the new blue with the white jacket or save it till tomorrow night and wear the ivory moire. Simply heartsick every time I think of my nails. Couldn't be wilder. Could kill Miss Rose, but what can you do?

FRIDAY. Absolutely sunk; couldn't be worse. Last night too divine, movie simply deadly. Took Ollie to the Kingslands' party, too unbelievable, everybody absolutely rolling. They had those Hungarians in the green coats, but Stewie Hunter wasn't there. He's got a complete nervous breakdown. Worried sick for fear he won't be well by tonight; will absolutely never forgive him if he doesn't come. Started home with Ollie, but dropped him at his house because he couldn't stop crying. Joe left word with the butler he's going to the country this afternoon for the week-end; of course he wouldn't stoop to say what country. Called up streams of marvelous numbers to get someone to come dine and go with me to the opening of "White Man's Folly," and then go somewhere after to dance for a while; can't bear to be the first one there at your own party. Everybody was tied up. Finally got Ollie Martin. Couldn't feel more depressed; never should have gone anywhere near champagne and Scotch together. Started to read a book, but too restless. Called up Anne Lyman to ask about the new baby and couldn't remember if it was a boy or girl-must get a secretary next week. Anne couldn't have been more of a help; she said she didn't know whether to name it Patricia or Gloria, so then of course I knew it was a girl right away. Suggested calling it Barbara; forgot she already had one. Absolutely walking the floor like a panther all day. Could spit about Stewie Hunter. Can't face deciding whether to wear the blue with the white jacket or the purple with the beige roses. Every time I look at those revolting black nails, I want to absolutely yip. I really have the most horrible things happen to me of anybody in the entire world. d.a.m.n Miss Rose.

The New Yorker, March 25, 1933.

Sentiment.

Oh, anywhere, driver, anywhere-it doesn't matter. Just keep driving.

It's better here in this taxi than it was walking. It's no good my trying to walk. There is always a glimpse through the crowd of someone who looks like him-someone with his swing of the shoulders, his slant of the hat. And I think it's he, I think he's come back. And my heart goes to scalding water and the buildings sway and bend above me. No, it's better to be here. But I wish the driver would go fast, so fast that people walking by would be a long gray blur, and I could see no swinging shoulders, no slanted hat. It's bad stopping still in the traffic like this. People pa.s.s too slowly, too clearly, and always the next one might be-No, of course it couldn't be. I know that. Of course I know it. But it might be, it might.

And people can look in and see me, here. They can see if I cry. Oh, let them-it doesn't matter. Let them look and be d.a.m.ned to them.

Yes, you look at me. Look and look and look, you poor, queer tired woman. It's a pretty hat, isn't it? It's meant to be looked at. That's why it's so big and red and new, that's why it has these great soft poppies on it. Your poor hat is all weary and done with. It looks like a dead cat, a cat that was run over and pushed out of the way against the curbstone. Don't you wish you were I and could have a new hat whenever you pleased? You could walk fast, couldn't you, and hold your head high and raise your feet from the pavement if you were on your way to a new hat, a beautiful hat, a hat that cost more than ever you had? Only I hope you wouldn't choose one like mine. For red is mourning, you know. Scarlet red for a love that's dead. Didn't you know that?