Carnival Part 36

In bed, she thought affectionately of Maurice, of his gayety and pleasant manner of speech, of his being a gentleman. He must be a gentleman because he never said so. Other girls had love affairs with gentlemen, but, with one or two exceptions, she believed they were all sw.a.n.kers. At any rate Maurice and Colonel Walpole were different from Irene's Danby (long idiot) and Madge Wilson's Berthold (dirty little "five to two!") and Elsie Crauford's Willie (him!), all examples of sw.a.n.k. Still in some ways it was a pity that Maurice was a gentleman. It would never mean a wedding. Those photographs of his mother and sisters had crushed that idea. Even if he asked her to marry him, she wouldn't.

Other girls might brag about their education, their schools in Paris, their better days and dead gentlemen fathers, but they were all ballet girls, not one of the Mrs. Bigmouths could get away from that fact.

Ballet girls! They got a laugh in comic songs. Ballet girls and mothers-in-law! They might gabble in a corner to each other and simper and giggle and pretend, but they were ballet-hoppers. And what of it?

Why not? Wasn't a ballet girl as good as anybody else? Surely as good as a stuck-up chorus girl, who couldn't dance and couldn't act and couldn't even sing sometimes. They might be fine women with ma.s.sive figures or they might have sweetly pretty Chevy Chases and not mind what they did after supper, but they weren't any better than ballet girls.

After all, Maurice did not look down on her. He did not patronize her.

He loved her. She loved him. With that thought flooding her imagination, Jenny fell asleep and lay buried in her deep white pillow like a rosebud in a snowdrift.

Chapter XVII: _Columbine Asleep_

Columbine lay sleeping on her heart. The long white hands were clasped beneath those cheeks round which tumbled the golden curls. The coverlet, thrown back in a restless dream, revealed her bent arms bare to the elbow. The nightgown allowed a dim outline of her shoulder to appear faintly, and where a pale blue bow had come untied, the dimple in her throat was visible. The gay, deep eyes were closed beneath azure lids, but the pencilled eyebrows still slanted mockingly, and round her red lips was the curve of laughter. Awake, her complexion had the fragility of rosy porcelain: in sleep the color fled, leaving it dead white as new ivory.

Columbine lay sleeping, a miniature stolen from the world's collection.

The night wore on. The wind shook the old house. Dawn broke tempestuously.

Now should Harlequin have hurried down the unreal street and, creeping in magically, have kissed her a welcome to the sweet and careless "twenties" that would contain the best of his Columbine's life.

Chapter XVIII: _Sweet and Twenty_

The studio, looking very cheerful for Jenny's birthday, had achieved a Sabbath tidiness. It was, to be sure, a tidiness more apparent than real, inasmuch as it consisted of pus.h.i.+ng every disorderly object into a corner and covering the acc.u.mulation with an old Spanish cope. Beneath this semicircle of faded velvet lay onions and sealing-wax, palette, brushes, bits of cardboard, a mixture of knives and forks, a tin of pineapple still undefeated, many unanswered letters, a tweed overcoat, and other things that gave more to utility than beauty.

The fire blazed in the big fireplace and rippled in reflection about the sloping ceiling. Chairs were set in a comfortable crescent round the tea-table, and looked as invitingly empty as the Venetian mirror. The teacups, where each one held the fire's image, showed an opal in the smooth porcelain. Antic.i.p.ation brooded upon the apartment, accentuated by the bell of a neighboring church that rang in a quick monotone. In the high deal ingle sat three young men smoking long clay pipes; and by the window facing the river Maurice stood breathing upon the gla.s.s in order to record his love's name in evanescent charactery upon the misted surface.

At last the monotonous bell ceased its jangling. Big Ben thundered the hour of four, and the host, throwing up the window, leaned out to a gray, foggy afternoon.

"Here's Jenny," he cried, drawing back so quickly into the studio that he banged his head against the frame of the window. The three young men in the ingle rose and, knocking out their pipes, stood with their backs to the fire in an att.i.tude of easy expectation. Maurice by this time was das.h.i.+ng out into the street to welcome Jenny, who was accompanied by Irene.

"Hurrah!" he said. "I was afraid you might get lost. How are you now?"

he went on, turning to Irene.

"I'm quite all right now," replied the latter.

"She's in the best of pink," said Jenny.

"Pink enough to climb all these stairs?" asked Maurice, laughing.

"I expect so," said Irene.

"Any of the others come yet?" Jenny inquired on the way up.

"Only Castleton and Cunningham and Ronnie Walker."

"I mean any of the girls?"

"No, you're the first--and fairest."

Irene, for all her optimism, was beginning to feel exhausted.

"I say, young Jenny, does your friend here--Maurice--I suppose I can call him Maurice?"

"Idiot! Of course."

"Does Maurice live much higher?"

"Yes, you may well ask," said Jenny. "What! He's Sky-sc.r.a.ping Bill, if you only knew."

"We're nearly there," said Maurice apologetically. Outside the door of the studio they paused.

"What are their unnatural names?" asked Jenny, digging Maurice as she spoke.

"Cunningham, Castleton and Walker."

"They sound like the American Comedy Trio that got the bird. You remember, Ireen. Who cares? I shall call them Swan and Edgar for short."

"That's only two."

"Oh, well, I can remember Walker."

Maurice opened the door, and Cunningham, Castleton and Walker advanced to make their bows.

"This is Miss Pearl, and this is Miss Dale."

"Pleased to meet you," said Irene.

Jenny said nothing, but shook hands silently, taking the measure of the trio with shrewd and vivid glances.

"Sit down, won't you?" said Cunningham.

"Have a chair?" Walker suggested.

Castleton looked at Jenny.

"Isn't he tall?" she commented. "Doesn't he remind you of somebody?"

"No," said Irene vaguely.

"He does me. That Russian juggler--you know--who was struck on Queenie Danvers. _You_ know--the one we used to call Fuzzy Bill."

"Oh, him?" said Irene.

"Call me Fuzzy Bill, won't you?" put in Castleton. "It's a pleasantly descriptive name. I shall answer to that." Indeed, he did, for from that moment he became "Fuz" and never heeded a summons expressed differently.