RITA 
 
 JULIAN STREET
 
 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 OP CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES
 
 Books by Julian Street 
 
 ABROAD AT HOME 
 
 AFTER THIRTY 
 
 AMERICAN ADVENTURES 
 
 THE NEED OF CHANGE 
 
 THE MOST INTERESTING AMERICAN 
 
 (A close range study of Theodore Rootevelt) 
 
 PARIS A LA CARTE 
 SHIP-BORED 
 WELCOME TO OUR CITY 
 THE GOLDFISH 
 
 (For Children) 
 
 SUNBEAMS, INC. 
 MYSTERIOUS JAPAN 
 RITA COVENTRY
 
 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 BY 
 JULIAN STREET 
 
 GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 1922
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
 JULIAN STREET 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
 INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY IN THE 
 UNITED STATES AND GREAT BRITAIN 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
 
 AT 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y 
 
 First Edition
 
 531 
 
 TO 
 
 ADA 
 
 IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 2133037
 
 RITA COVENTRY
 
 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ALONG New Yorkers it is recognized that 
 the changing seasons do not first announce 
 themselves from almanacs, nor in precocious 
 items upon menus, nor yet among the growing things 
 of Riverside Drive and Central Park. The first 
 signs make themselves apparent on the treeless, 
 grassless reaches of that hard-paved highway ex 
 tending from the Waldorf to the Plaza. And to-day, 
 though it was but mid-February according to the 
 calendar, the dense and animated crowds upon 
 Fifth Avenue, the brightening costumes worn by 
 women and exhibited in windows, and a bursting 
 golden something in the air proclaimed the spring. 
 
 To Richard Parrish the miracle was the more won 
 derful because he had not seen it come to pass. It 
 had been revealed to him, a thing accomplished, on his 
 return this morning from a brief trip to Chicago. 
 Only a week ago he had left New York plunged in its 
 miserable winter: slush swimming in the streets and 
 a solution of slush swimming in the heavy atmosphere 
 above them, mixed with the gaseous breath of 
 coughing motor cars. Chicago had been as bad or
 
 2 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 worse. The weather there, coupled with what Par- 
 rish persisted in regarding as a provincial taxi service, 
 had forced him to the purchase of a pair of rubbers- 
 things abominable alike to his bachelor fastidiousness 
 and to his feeling, as a youngish and active man, that 
 rubbers properly belonged to the equipment of de 
 crepitude. 
 
 A wet snow had been falling yesterday in Chicago. 
 He had worn the rubbers to the train, but once in 
 his Pullman had quickly slipped them off, and in 
 expression of their permanent dismissal from his life 
 had pushed them far into the recess under the op 
 posite seat. And though this renunciation implied 
 in him nothing of the ground-hog s gift of prophecy, 
 the weather in New York this morning had seemed to 
 give benignant sanction to the act. 
 
 It was a day for open windows. The windows of 
 his limousine had been open as he drove home from 
 the station, yet he had felt the weight of his winter 
 overcoat uncomfortably. Entering his apartment 
 he found the windows open there, for I to, his ser 
 vant, had seen to that. The curtains swayed gently 
 in a soft breeze; a pattern of dappled sunshine, sifting 
 through them, wavered over the fixed pattern of the 
 library rug, and from the streets, ten floors below, 
 floated up to him a medley of sounds blending into a 
 not altogether inharmonious symphony. 
 
 He had not telephoned to Alice until after bathing 
 and looking through his accumulated mail; nor did 
 the thought strike him that in the period of their
 
 RITA COVENTRY 3 
 
 close comradeship this was the first time the tele 
 phoning, on his return after an absence from New 
 York, had been thus postponed. That, however, 
 was the fact. In the course of the past year he had 
 made four of these short business trips. After the 
 first two he had telephoned her from the station. 
 Last time he had come home before telephoning. 
 This time he had not telephoned until he was ready 
 to start down to his office. 
 
 Then he had departed for Wall Street, wearing for 
 the first time this year a light overcoat and a soft 
 gray hat, and carrying a wanghee cane. The day 
 in the Street had been one of mere routine; the 
 market was dull; at the close he had come up 
 town on a leisurely Elevated train in preference to 
 the swifter Subway, and descending at Thirty-third 
 Street had walked to his apartment by way of 
 Fifth Avenue. Then and then only had he felt 
 entirely at home again, for it is not until he has 
 walked Fifth Avenue that the returned New Yorker 
 feels certain of his reinstatement. 
 
 Now, seated in his library, with the late sun 
 shining through the west windows like a rose- 
 coloured calcium in the theatre, his thoughts 
 were on the Avenue and what had happened there. 
 Not only had he seen the spring emphatically con 
 firmed, but his walk was illumined by a circumstance 
 the adventurous flavour of which seemed to him 
 exquisitely suited to the season, and left him filled with 
 a strange restlessness.
 
 4 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 The restlessness was more than merely vernal. 
 There was contrition in it; and because the contrition 
 had to do with Alice Meldrum, Parrish felt now, as 
 the time when he must go to her drew near, an ob 
 scure sense of annoyance with her. When a man is 
 about to wound the feelings of a tender-hearted 
 and adoring woman he is likely to feel a little bit an 
 noyed with her. 
 
 In a sense, he reflected, Alice would have no right 
 to feel hurt. He had made no definite engagement 
 with her for this evening. Yesterday, before de 
 parting from Chicago, he had wired her that he was 
 starting. This morning he had telephoned that he 
 was back and would be in to see her late in the after 
 noon. Specifically, that was all. But the trouble was 
 that at the time of telephoning he had planned to take 
 her out to dinner, and had known that she would un 
 derstand it so. There lay his difficulty. So many 
 things were understood between them in that way. 
 
 Of course it was not his fault that his plans were 
 changed. When he telephoned to Alice how could 
 he have foreseen that in the glory of the afternoon he 
 would meet Larry Merrick proudly escorting the 
 gorgeous Rita Coventry, or that Larry would stop 
 and present him for the purpose, Parrish suspected, 
 of exhibiting his privilege of addressing the singer by 
 her first name. By a happy chance the meeting had 
 occurred in front of Yamanaka s, which led to the 
 discovery that Rita and he had a kindred interest 
 in Japanese prints. But even so, who could have
 
 RITA COVENTRY 5 
 
 anticipated that on what was evidently a half-mis 
 chievous impulse, the prima donna would invite him 
 to a dinner party at her house that night? 
 
 Of course he had accepted. Really there had been 
 nothing to prevent his doing so, and an opportunity 
 to know Rita Coventry did not present itself every 
 day. Besides, there were her prints she had prom 
 ised to show him some Hokusais, Utamaros, and Toy- 
 okunis. Even Alice, in whom he had inculcated a 
 certain interest in Japanese prints, was aware that 
 he was particularly fond of the works of those artists. 
 Surely, under the circumstances, she could spare him.- 
 
 For more than ten years he had admired Coventry, 
 knowing her only through the press, through gossip, 
 through her voice, and through his opera glasses. At 
 the time of her sensational debut in Paris he had 
 heard her sing "Circe" at the Opera Comique, and 
 one day in the same season had seen her lunching at 
 .Larue s. She had eaten heartily, laughed heartily, 
 gestured with her hands, arms, and shoulders. That 
 was as near as he had ever been to her until this after 
 noon. The elderly man who had sat across from her 
 at the table was manifestly not the king with whom 
 her name was linked by gossip. It was her father, so 
 his waiter had informed him. The story was that her 
 father had been a postman in Rochester, New York. 
 
 Two or three years later, after she had captured 
 London, Parrish heard her there in "Tosca," "La 
 Boheme" and "Madame Butterfly," and since she 
 had left Covent Garden and become the adored of
 
 6 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 New York operagoers he had heard her in many 
 parts. Season after season he had listened and ob 
 served without detecting any change in her save that 
 her figure, displayed in certain of her roles with such 
 striking generosity, had with the passing years be 
 come if possible more perfect. 
 
 She had been dressed this afternoon as one felt a 
 beautiful opera singer ought to dress. Her costume 
 was utterly unlike that of other fashionable women ; 
 she was, so to say, elegantly noticeable. The gown 
 of gray cloth with black braid in unexpected places, 
 and a skirt rather short, somehow looked Russian, 
 though perhaps that suggestion was rather the effect 
 of her dark and lustrous furs; her rather small black 
 hat had a hedge of black feathers depending from 
 the brim in such a way as partially to conceal the 
 eyes but only partially. Glimpsing them through 
 the fringe of feathers as through heavy lace, he had 
 been conscious of an impulse to bend over and look 
 directly at them. But that had not been necessary, 
 for presently she had thrown back her head and let 
 him see her eyes. That was when she invited him 
 to dinner. It had seemed to him that an agreeable 
 vibration was set going between them when their 
 eyes met, and he even fancied he detected a little 
 note of challenge in her look as she gave the invita 
 tion something dashing, like the gesture of a cava 
 lier flinging a gauntlet. 
 
 This pleasant and stimulating picture in his mind 
 was dispersed abruptly by the striking of the grand-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 7 
 
 father s clock. Five. His car would be waiting, 
 and by going at once to Alice s he could spend two 
 hours with her before coming home to dress for 
 dinner. That would not satisfy her, but it ought to 
 help a little. 
 
 Descending in the elevator he began to think of 
 the explanation he would make. She would not re 
 proach him there was nothing of that in their 
 relationship but she would feel hurt, and though 
 pride would make her try to conceal her feelings, 
 she was too artless to be able to conceal them es 
 pecially from him. How he knew her! And all in 
 less than two years. 
 
 Of course she was sensitive. Very likely she was 
 becoming more so. That was not unnatural. To 
 a man an attachment such as theirs, running along as 
 theirs had run along, pleasantly but without a defi 
 nite objective, was an agreeable thing. It gave him 
 a deep interest without too much responsibility. 
 But to a woman, however much she might at first 
 endeavour to deceive herself into a belief in equality 
 between the sexes, such a relationship could not 
 bring permanent contentment. In the beginning he 
 had tried to point that out to her; but she had shown 
 a headlong strain, very strange, he thought, in one 
 of her temperament, and had professed herself satis 
 fied with things as they were. Thenceonward they 
 had drifted. 
 
 He had tried always to be considerate. Had he 
 not, for example, written her twice from Chicago
 
 8 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 during the past week, busy though he had been 
 Little attentions of that kind pleased her so. Whe 
 at home he telephoned her every morning. Ofte 
 he sent her flowers. For her birthday last year h 
 had given her a handsome lamp, and at Christma 
 a Chinese rug for the living room of her apartmem 
 She had been twenty-six when he first met her, an 
 in May she would be twenty-eight. Already h 
 had looked at flexible linked bracelets of platinun 
 set with square diamonds, chic and costly an 
 with stocks gone absolutely to the devil, too! 
 
 "Park Avenue," he said to his chauffeur as he gc 
 into his car. 
 
 Then, suddenly, for the first time, his mind fc 
 cused sharply on the fact that somehow it had com 
 to be understood between his chauffeur and himse 
 that Park Avenue meant Alice s address. Habil 
 He had become a habit with Alice and she a habi 
 with him. It was habit that made her expect t 
 dine with him to-night. When he had been away h 
 always took her out to dinner on the night of his re 
 turn. Moreover, they dined together three or foil 
 times a week, now at a restaurant, now at her aparl 
 ment, occasionally at his. On Thursdays and Sur 
 days he almost always took her to a restaurant, b( 
 cause her maid was out on those evenings and th: 
 was Thursday. 
 
 Their habits were so fixed that others understoo 
 them; the elevator men in the building in which sh 
 lived, for instance. Parrish knew them as well a
 
 RITA COVENTRY 9 
 
 he knew those in his own building. He even tipped 
 them. They never announced him by telephone but 
 took him right up to Alice s floor; nor had he to 
 mention the number of the floor; all that was under 
 stood. Also, it was understood that one long and two 
 short pressures on the doorbell button was his ring. 
 Alice s maid, Otillia, did not answer the doorbell 
 when she heard that ring, for it was understood that 
 Alice herself liked to let him in. Parrish thought 
 well of Otillia, though he sometimes found himself 
 wishing she would treat him more as a caller and less 
 as a member of the household. 
 
 As his car stopped before the tall apartment build 
 ing where Alice lived, Parrish was aware of a feeling 
 of rebellion against all this mass of understanding. 
 
 " You ve been away, sir," said big Henry, the door 
 man. 
 
 "Yes, yes," Parrish replied, and hastened across 
 the sidewalk. 
 
 "Back again, Mr. Parrish?" said Michael, the 
 elevator man. And as the car ascended, " Unusually 
 fine weather we re having for this time of year." 
 
 "Yes, fine." 
 
 Parrish was wishing that he knew some other ten 
 ant of the building in order that he might astonish 
 Michael by getting off at any floor other than the 
 seventh the same old seventh. 
 
 At Alice s door he allowed his feeling of perversity 
 to triumph. He pressed the button only once. But 
 even so it was Alice, not Otillia, who answered.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SHE was tall, deep bosomed, golden haired, 
 with a delicate skin which, when she flushed, 
 as she did now on seeing him, made him think 
 of an evening gown she sometimes wore a gown in 
 which a glow of cerise showed faintly through a sheer, 
 fine drapery of creamy satin. 
 
 "Dick!" 
 
 "Hello, Alice." He entered the little hall. 
 
 "Why, you rang only once!" 
 
 Then, after a moment, as he drew away from her 
 and slipped out of his overcoat Otillia appeared. 
 
 "Oh, it s Mr. Parrish!" she exclaimed, surprised 
 and a little confused. 
 
 "You didn t recognize my ring, eh?" He was 
 smiling. 
 
 "No, sir." She turned back toward the kitchen. 
 
 "There s one thing Otillia doesn t understand, at 
 any rate," he thought to himself with a certain satis 
 faction. 
 
 After taking his coat and hat and hanging them in 
 a closet Alice linked arms with him and led him to 
 the living room. 
 
 "Why didn t you ring the way you always do?" 
 she asked. "I thought it must be you, but I " 
 
 10
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,i 
 
 "Because it s spring," he answered. 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" 
 
 "Life starts anew in the spring. Everything is 
 new, even the way I ring your bell." 
 
 "Silly!" She patted his cheek. He sat down in an 
 upholstered chair "his" chair and she perched upon 
 the arm. "Did you think of me while you were 
 away?" she asked. 
 
 "Didn t I write you twice? Didn t I wire?" 
 
 "Yes, you were a good boy." She stroked back 
 a lock of his hair. " But did you think of me often?" 
 
 "Of course, of course." Then as though to dis 
 miss the topic he asked, "What have you been doing 
 with yourself?" 
 
 " I m still looking for something to do in my spare 
 time," she said. 
 
 "You haven t found anything?" It was as much 
 a statement as a question. 
 
 "Nothing I liked. You don t take much stock in 
 my job hunting, do you, Dick?" 
 
 " If you needed a job you d get one." 
 
 "Yes. But as money isn t particularly a con 
 sideration, don t you think I ought to wait for some 
 thing I d like?" 
 
 "I think you d be happier with something to do." 
 
 "Just anything?" 
 
 "Perhaps not, but 
 
 "Because," she went on, "I did have a job one 
 day. Clara and I went around and acted in a 
 movie."
 
 12 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "You did? What put that in your head?" 
 
 "Clara knew a girl who did it. We thought it 
 wouldn t hurt to try it. They used us in crowd 
 scenes. It was rather fun, just for once; but the 
 lights are hard on your eyes, and they keep you wait 
 ing around doing nothing for hours at a time, and 
 some of the people are terribly queer. I shouldn t 
 like the movies." 
 
 " I understood when I went away that you were 
 thinking of taking up dress designing." 
 
 "I asked Madame Kay about it. She says the 
 field is overcrowded. Anyway, I don t believe I 
 sketch well enough." 
 
 "Have you thought of anything else?" 
 
 "Yes. I d like to work with children. It s the 
 one thing I imagine I have a little gift for. I went 
 around to a creche and inquired, but they only 
 needed an office worker; they didn t need any help 
 with the children." 
 
 " I wonder if you ll ever find anything you do care 
 for," he said, shaking his head as though he did not 
 believe she would. 
 
 " I care for you." 
 
 "I know; but caring for someone isn t enough to 
 fill a person s life that s just the point." 
 
 "Not a man s, perhaps," she answered. 
 
 He saw his opportunity. 
 
 " But, my dear girl, it s not good for you to have 
 no outside interest. It s not fair to yourself. We 
 can t be together every evening, even when I am in
 
 RITA COVENTRY 13 
 
 New York. Take this evening, for instance. When 
 I telephoned this morning I was expecting to take 
 you out to dinner, but as things have turned out 1 
 shan t be able to." 
 
 Her eyes, which had been on him, turned to the rug. 
 
 "I m sorry," she said, drooping. 
 
 "So am I. But it can t be helped. I have to 
 dine with some friends of Larry Merrick s. I didn t 
 know until this afternoon. It s a dinner party. If 
 I didn t go it would throw things all out of joint. 
 They have some fine Japanese prints they ve been 
 wanting me to see." 
 
 " I suppose you couldn t see them any other time?" 
 Still she was looking wistfully down. 
 
 "Not very well. They re going away." 
 
 "Maybe you ll be able to come in later in the 
 evening." 
 
 " I m afraid not. I m invited for eight; that means 
 we won t be at table until eight-thirty or so. And 
 afterwards there ll be the prints to see. I don t ex 
 pect to get away much before midnight. For heaven s 
 sake, Alice, don t look like that! You make me feel 
 like a brute." 
 
 "I m sorry. You re anything but a brute. I 
 couldn t help being disappointed." 
 
 " But I ought to be able to go out to dinner and 
 look at some prints without your making a tragedy 
 of it." There was a slight note of irritation in his 
 tone. 
 
 "I know it. It was just for a minute. You ve
 
 i 4 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 been away, and I was expecting But I m all 
 over it now." She smiled as though to offer proof. 
 "It was selfish of me, and you re never selfish with 
 me. I want you to go to-night and have a fine time." 
 
 "That s a dear girl," he approved. Then he 
 added, "But don t say I m unselfish." 
 
 " But you are. You ve always done everything I 
 wanted." 
 
 "Not always." 
 
 "Yes, you have." 
 
 "What about Blenkinswood?" he reminded her. 
 Somehow it salved his conscience to remind her of 
 what he had refused her in the past. 
 
 "That s different," she said. "You had your 
 point of view about it and I had mine, but it was for 
 you to decide." 
 
 Becoming interested in the topic itself he forgot his 
 reason for having brought it up. 
 
 "Well," said he, "now that you look back, don t 
 you see that I was right?" 
 
 " I see that it was for you to decide," she repeated, 
 evading a direct answer. 
 
 "Yes; but be honest with yourself wasn t I 
 right?" 
 
 "I ve never been able to see," she said after a 
 moment s hesitation, "why you couldn t have taken 
 me to Blenkinswood if you d really wanted to." 
 
 "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. " I thought you had 
 stopped talking about it because you d come around 
 to my point of view."
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 5 
 
 "No," she answered, "I stopped because I saw it 
 was annoying you to hear what I thought. It s your 
 place. If you want to forget about it " 
 
 "And I do," he put in with a rueful little chuckle. 
 
 He did want to forget about Blenkinswood. That 
 old house in Virginia weighed upon his conscience 
 like a neglected poor relation. With its mortgaged 
 acres it had come to him as an inheritance a tumble 
 down ancestral home, symbolizing the decay of the 
 proud colonial family whose name his mother as a 
 maiden had been the last to bear. He had paid off 
 the mortgage, spent some money in putting the 
 place in better condition, brought to New York the 
 portraits, the mahogany, and such old silverware as 
 the Yankee soldiers had not found, and installed a 
 farmer to run the plantation on shares. 
 
 The farm had never paid. For a dozen years he 
 had sent annually a check to cover repairs and 
 replenishments, yet each year there was a deficit. 
 In all that time he had gone down there but once, 
 and the excursion had proved depressing a drive 
 of eleven miles through a sea of mud called by cour 
 tesy a road, and at the end the spectacle of a house 
 falling to pieces, surrounded by broken fences, neg 
 lected box trees, and undernourished cattle grazing 
 amongst weeds where gardens used to bloom. 
 
 Year after year he told himself that something 
 must be done about Blenkinswood, but the mental 
 whisper grew fainter and fainter with time. He 
 knew that the farmer and his family were a shiftless
 
 16 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 if not dishonest lot who ought to be turned out ; yet 
 the thought of going there again, of seeing the cheap 
 oak furniture in the old panelled drawing room and 
 the horrid little ornaments on the porphyry mantel 
 piece which Lafayette had sent from France as a 
 gift to that several-times-great-grandfather of his 
 who had built Blenkinswood, of smelling cabbage 
 cooking, and hearing the man s maundering excuses 
 for the years of failure was so unpleasant that he 
 continued to postpone the duty. 
 
 Alice had become interested in Blenkinswood soon 
 after becoming interested in him. She had devel 
 oped what he regarded as a mania about the place, 
 and for a time had spoken to him of what he ought 
 to do about it in a voice which was like the insistent 
 voice of conscience. 
 
 "You ought to take care of it," she would say. 
 "You ought to be proud of it. Not everybody has 
 an ancestral home. Not everybody comes from an 
 aristocratic old family. You don t appreciate what 
 it means. Take me, for instance. My father built 
 the house where I was born, in Cleveland. My 
 grandfather came out there from Connecticut when 
 he was a young man. His father was just a plain 
 farmer." 
 
 "That s all the Blenkins were," he would reply. 
 "Planters and farmers are the same thing." 
 
 Then he would tell her lightly that ancestry 
 was largely a question of bookkeeping; that everyone 
 had the same number of grandfathers; and that
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 7 
 
 whereas his aristocratic forbears had handed down 
 to him a plantation covered with weeds and mort 
 gages, her father, who had been a manufacturer, had 
 left her and her sister well provided for. And he 
 would tell her tales of his ancestors; stories of bouts 
 of drinking over cards, duels and scandals. 
 
 "They raised tobacco and slaves and Democrats 
 and hell," he would say. "Down in that part of 
 the country they still think and talk so much about 
 family that they have no time left to weed the garden. 
 They re lovable people, but I thank the Lord I had 
 sense enough to get out and come to New York when 
 I was a youngster. I m prouder of my seat on the 
 Exchange than I would be of twenty Blenkinswoods." 
 
 At first Alice had urged him only to put Blenkins- 
 wood in repair and get a capable farmer to run it, 
 but presently she began to want to see the old 
 plantation herself. This also had become a fixed 
 idea with her; nor had he been able to shake it with 
 his descriptions of the wretched roads and the dilapi 
 dation. 
 
 "Isn t it natural that I should be interested in 
 your family?" she would demand. "I ll never get 
 over wanting to see the place where they lived." 
 
 That, in effect, was her declaration now, uttered 
 with a curious gentle tenacity. 
 
 " But, you have seen all of it that s worth seeing," 
 he told her. "You ve seen the best of the portraits 
 and furniture from Blenkinswood in my apartment. 
 You d be awfully disappointed in the place itself."
 
 i8 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "And I ve told you a dozen times why I can t 
 take you there. It would make talk." 
 
 " It wouldn t if I were your sister or your cousin." 
 
 "But you aren t." 
 
 "Who d know that?" 
 
 His laugh was impatient. 
 
 "The whole country would know it inside of six 
 hours. If a man comes from Virginia the people 
 down there know more about his family than he 
 knows himself. If I were to take you it would make 
 a scandal." 
 
 "It would be my risk, wouldn t it?" 
 
 He gazed at her, amazed. 
 
 "Upon my word," he said, "you fairly paralyze me 
 when you say a thing like that ! It s so unlike you." 
 
 " If a woman has a clear conscience 
 
 He interrupted. 
 
 "In this world a clear conscience isn t sufficient. 
 You ve got to think how things look." 
 
 "Well, at the worst, how would they look? 
 They d look as if I loved you. Don t I? I m 
 proud of loving you! I m proud of the kind of love 
 it is. I have nothing to conceal. Don t you suppose 
 a good many people who know us are able to see that 
 I love you? Clara knows. I ve told her." 
 
 "What did you do that for?" 
 
 "She s the best girl friend I have in New York," 
 Alice answered. "She knew it anyhow, and I 
 wanted her to see how it was."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 19 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "That I was heading for unhappiness." 
 
 "Well," he said defensively, "I never tried to 
 conceal that possibility, did I?" 
 
 "That s what I told her. I wanted her to see the 
 beauty of an absolutely honest friendship like ours. 
 I ve never been so happy in my life. You know that. 
 It s worth any risk. I wanted her to see how fine it 
 was my never demanding anything of you; want 
 ing only as much as you are glad to give; our com 
 plete independence; your having promised to tell me 
 frankly if you ever found yourself losing interest in 
 me." 
 
 "What did Clara say to all that?" 
 
 "She said you might promise, but that you 
 wouldn t tell me when it came to the point." 
 
 "Why did she think I wouldn t?" he asked, sur 
 prised. 
 
 "She says men don t do things that way." Poor 
 Clara ! It s not unnatural that she should be cynical 
 about men after her experience." 
 
 "Just what was her experience, do you know?" 
 
 "Her husband was an absolute good-for-nothing." 
 
 " But how do you know?" 
 
 "She s told me all about it." 
 
 "Oh." He smiled faintly. 
 
 "That s another reason I wanted to tell her about 
 you. She has her Hfe to make over again, and it : 
 not good for her to be so cynical. She mustn t go 
 so much by that one bitter experience, judging all
 
 20 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 men by one. She must learn that some men aren t 
 that way." 
 
 He gave a grim little chuckle. 
 
 " I guess you didn t make much headway with 
 her, holding me up as an example." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" 
 
 "Clara doesn t approve of me." 
 
 " I don t see why you say that." 
 
 "It s all right," he said. "I m not complaining." 
 
 This difference over Clara was an old though not 
 a hard-fought difference between them. He did not 
 care to fight it hard, first because Clara was a wo 
 man, and second because so long as he was not 
 obliged to see much of her, he had no great objections 
 to Alice s friendship with her. 
 
 It was a friendship antedating his own friendship 
 with Alice. The two girls, who were of about the 
 same age, had met during the war in a Cleveland 
 hospital where they were in training as nurses aids. 
 Before they had completed their courses the war 
 had come to an end. All this Parrish knew by hear 
 say. As for him, the close of the war had found him 
 doing relief work in Poland, and it was not until 
 some months after his return that he met Alice, who 
 was paying a visit in New York. 
 
 He had first seen her at a Sunday-evening party 
 given by some people neither of them knew well- 
 one of those large, vague parties the object of which 
 seems to be to assemble and feed flocks of people who 
 have never met before, and who, having eaten and
 
 RITA COVENTRY 21 
 
 participated in the vocal din, depart upon their 
 various ways through the city, never perhaps to 
 meet again. 
 
 Sometimes, however, they do meet again. Par- 
 rish had asked to be presented to Alice, had driven 
 her home after the party, and before leaving her at 
 her door had arranged to have her as his guest for 
 dinner and the theatre a few nights later. Though 
 her beauty had been the first thing to attract him he 
 had found himself charmed, as they fell into talk, by 
 her genuineness. Moreover, there was something 
 fascinating about the expression of her mouth. At 
 first you kept thinking she was just about to smile, 
 but you presently discovered that this illusion re 
 sulted from the sweet aspect of her mouth in repose. 
 
 In the next few weeks he had seen her often. The 
 time came when according to her original plan she 
 should return to Cleveland, where she lived with 
 her married sister; but she did not go. By that time 
 he had not wanted her to go and, albeit with a certain 
 air of playful camaraderie, had told her so. An 
 orphan, financially independent, she was able to do 
 as she pleased, and now it pleased her most to do as 
 he pleased. She put of? her departure first from day 
 to day, then from week to week, moving from the 
 house where she had visited to a hotel and later to 
 this pleasant little apartment, which she had rented 
 furnished for a few months. 
 
 Before those months were ended a frankly affec 
 tionate relationship had been established between
 
 22 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 them. When her first short lease on the apartment 
 was expiring she renewed it, this time for a year, and 
 now another year was half gone. 
 
 It was shortly after Alice had first taken the apart 
 ment that Clara put in an appearance in New York. 
 She came at once to Alice s with the understanding 
 that she was to remain there for a few days while 
 seeking a boarding place. The apartment had but 
 two bedrooms, one of which was occupied by Otillia, 
 and with these facts to work from Parrish had no 
 difficulty in deducing that from the time of Clara s 
 advent the living-room couch must needs be pressed 
 into service as a bed. 
 
 Because of Alice s enthusiasm for her friend he 
 had been disposed at first to like her and had tried 
 during the first week of her stay to make things 
 pleasant for her, but when she had been there two 
 weeks, showing no sign of preparation to leave, he 
 began to wonder just how long it ought to take to 
 find a boarding place, and just how long a comfort- 
 loving girl like Clara would be content to spend her 
 nights upon a couch. Then he had discovered 
 through a chance remark dropped by Clara herself 
 that it was not she, but Alice, who was sleeping on the 
 couch, which meant of course that Clara was in 
 possession of the bedroom and the bed. It was 
 then that he first began to notice in Clara s pink 
 prettiness, particularly about the nose and eyes, the 
 hint of an expression slightly porcine. 
 
 Thenceforward, when he took Alice out, he had
 
 RITA COVENTRY 23 
 
 ceased to include her visitor, but of course Alice 
 sometimes felt she should not go, and urged him 
 to come, instead, to her apartment. However, 
 Clara s friends were generally to be found there in 
 the evenings a heterogeneous collection ranging 
 from sleek youths intent on taking the two girls out 
 to jazz restaurants where they could dance, to Sam 
 Burke (a broker of a type Parrish did not approve), 
 and his effulgent, jewel-incrusted, paradise-plume- 
 sprouting wife. 
 
 After a few evenings with Clara s friends, Parrish 
 had begun to stay away from the apartment, a fact 
 that seemed to disturb Alice far more than it had 
 disturbed her to sleep upon the couch, and there 
 after the situation did not long endure. Precisely 
 how it came to be terminated he was never certain. 
 He only knew that after the third week of her visit, 
 Clara had moved to a boarding house round the 
 corner. 
 
 There she had ever since resided, and though she 
 continued to be with Alice a great deal, lunching 
 with her either at home or at a restaurant several 
 times a week, spending many of her daytime hours 
 at the apartment, and even coming there to do her 
 dressmaking, she now avoided, as though by tacit 
 understanding, the hours at which he was likely to 
 come in. 
 
 Clara s chief source of revenue, he had been given 
 to understand, was a small alimony, though some 
 thing was said also of her writing a weekly New York
 
 24 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 fashion letter to several Middle Western news 
 papers. It was to these fashion letters that Clara 
 referred when, as often happened, she spoke of "my 
 work." He had been curious to know what sort of 
 writing she could do, and had several times asked 
 Alice to get him copies of some of her friend s journal 
 istic efforts; but these had never been produced. 
 Alice herself had never been permitted to see them, 
 she told him. 
 
 "Dick," said Alice presently, "Clara is wrong 
 about that, isn t she? You would tell me, wouldn t 
 you, if you found yourself losing interest in me? 
 You promised, remember." 
 
 Why, he wondered, were her thoughts running on 
 that theme to-day? 
 
 "Did I ever break a promise to you?" 
 
 "No; but " 
 
 "Well, then, what s the use in discussing such a 
 thing?" 
 
 "You understand I wouldn t blame you if you did 
 lose interest. We can t control those things. They 
 just happen. All I ask is to be told. It would be 
 so humiliating to feel that you were " 
 
 "What on earth is all this about?" he demanded 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Nothing. But men do tire of women we all 
 know that. You tired of Josephine. You told me 
 so yourself." 
 
 "Josephine!" he exclaimed almost angrily, plac-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 25 
 
 ing one hand on the arm of the chair as if about to 
 rise. "What has Josephine got to do with it?" 
 
 "You were tremendously interested in her at 
 first; but in three years you 
 
 This time he did rise. 
 
 "Look here!" he said. "I wish you d kindly 
 drop that subject. Josephine wasn t Well, I 
 prefer not to talk about it." 
 
 "All right, dear, so long as you understand that 
 you re absolutely free. There are no strings to you. 
 You know that, don t you, Dick?" 
 
 She spoke with intensity, gazing into his face, and 
 this eager gravity of hers surprised him. It always 
 surprised him. He had a theory that blondes were 
 not intense. 
 
 "Free?" he repeated. "Why, of course! We re 
 both free. That s understood." 
 
 He tried to make his tone convincing and if he 
 failed she did not appear to notice it. It was their 
 established creed, and no one notices the tone in 
 which an established creed is pattered off; yet now 
 he was scrutinizing this creed. How free was he? 
 At the moment he felt painfully like a husband, for 
 had he been actually her husband his sense of re 
 sponsibility to her could not have been much greater. 
 She depended upon him so. 
 
 Strange how that sense of responsibility had 
 grown upon him almost unnoticed. It was the very 
 thing he had intended to avoid. From the time when 
 he and Alice had begun to be a great deal with each
 
 26 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 other he had been careful to make clear to her his 
 attitude toward life. He had told her definitely, 
 although in a manner meant to suggest casualness, 
 that he intended always to remain a bachelor, and 
 so, possessed of this knowledge, she was in position 
 to order matters as she might see fit. 
 
 But he had not stopped with that. Now and 
 then, after their relationship had become affection 
 ate, he had harked back to the topic, pointing out 
 to her, with an air of impersonality which in the 
 circumstances he considered somewhat creditable, 
 that she was young and beautiful, with domestic 
 tastes including a great love for children, and that 
 she ought to marry and have a home and family of 
 her own; and he had even intimated that, delightful 
 though the relationship was to him, he thought it 
 unfair to her, since it could lead to nothing, and 
 since other men, knowing of her interest in him, or 
 sensing it, would drift away. 
 
 "What do I care!" she said. 
 
 Since then his prophecy had been fulfilled. Other 
 men she had known had drifted away; they did not 
 come here now. Once, more recently, he had spoken 
 of that, finding his opportunity in the disappearance 
 from her living room of all masculine photographs. 
 
 "What s the use of keeping their pictures around?" 
 she had returned with a little laugh. "They ll 
 never know the difference." 
 
 "You don t see any of them any more?" 
 
 "No thank goodness!" Then as though by way
 
 RITA COVENTRY 27 
 
 of explanation she had come and kissed him, saying, 
 "I love you." 
 
 Poor Alice! She did love him. He had ample 
 proof of that. Now he found himself wishing that 
 she did not love him quite so much. It was less 
 his love for her than hers for him that bound him to 
 her. 
 
 "What are you going to do with yourself this 
 evening?" he asked when, at seven, he got up to go. 
 
 "I think I ll telephone to Clara and see if she 
 can t come over. We might go to a movie or some 
 thing." She followed him toward the hall door. 
 "Have a good time, dear, won t you, and forgive me 
 for having been silly?" 
 
 "Nonsense. There s nothing to forgive." 
 
 "Yes," she insisted, "I can t always hide my feel 
 ings as I ought to. It s because I love you so." 
 
 "You re a dear girl." 
 
 "Are you going to think of me after you go?" 
 
 "Of course I am." 
 
 And it was true. He did think of her. He 
 thought of her as he descended in the elevator, and 
 as he drove home, and as he dressed, and as he went 
 to Rita Coventry s. He thought how good she was, 
 how unselfish, how honest, how devoted, and the 
 thought of her merits weighed upon him. If only 
 she were not so fine and so devoted things might be 
 easier just now! 
 
 Women! A good woman is such a lovely, deli-
 
 28 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 cate, lofty-minded thing; but when she falls in love, 
 she falls headlong, and doesn t count costs. With a 
 man it is different. He may be in love, but even so 
 he can t think constantly of love and nothing else. 
 He has other interests and he does like variety. No 
 matter how sincerely he may care for a woman, he 
 doesn t want her draped lovingly around his neck 
 all the time. That sort of devotion wears a man 
 out. That is the trouble with women. Once in 
 love they can think of nothing else. They have no 
 outside interests. Love is their whole life. 
 
 Thus he thought as his car carried him toward 
 Rita Coventry s house.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HAVING closed the door behind Dick, Alice 
 stood there with her hand upon the knob un 
 til she heard the elevator come up to the hall 
 outside and descend again. It was as if she had 
 half expected him to return for something. 
 
 With the departure of the elevator she turned back 
 to the living room, crossed to the desk on which re 
 posed the telephone, and called up Clara Proctor. 
 
 "Have you started dinner yet?" she asked her 
 friend. 
 
 "No, I was just going in." 
 
 "Come on over here instead. It s Otillia s night 
 out, but we can pick up something for ourselves." 
 
 "I thought you were going out?" Clara put in 
 quickly. 
 
 "I had expected to, but Dick has to go some 
 where." 
 
 "All right, dear, I ll be around in a few minutes. 
 
 Alice, wearing a checked gingham apron, let her 
 friend in when she arrived. 
 
 "I have soup on," she explained, and hastened 
 back toward the kitchen. 
 
 In leisurely fashion Clara removed her coat and 
 hat, and passing into the living room paused before 
 
 29
 
 30 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 a mirror, giving a touch to her blonde hair; then 
 crossing to the table she took up a fashion magazine 
 and stood for a time looking at it. Noises coming 
 through the open pantry door presently reminded 
 her that supper was being made ready. Without 
 putting down the magazine she moved to the dining- 
 room door, where she stopped and called to Alice. 
 
 "Anything I can do, dear?" 
 
 "No, don t bother. I ll have everything ready in 
 no time." 
 
 Clara returned slowly to the table, finished her 
 cursory inspection of the magazine, laid it down, 
 glanced about the room, and wandered slowly to the 
 writing desk. There, after surveying her friend s 
 engagement pad, she took up a letter, examined the 
 handwriting and postmark, put it down again, and 
 went into the bedroom, where she paused near the 
 dressing table, upon the glass top of which a number 
 of silver toilet articles were neatly arranged. Also, 
 on the dressing table stood a large photograph of 
 Parrish in a silver frame. 
 
 Clara pushed the photograph an inch or two 
 nearer the edge, took up a pair of manicure scissors, 
 snipped a piece of cuticle at the corner of one of her 
 thumbnails, and after feeling the thumb to see that 
 it was smooth, put down the scissors and scruti 
 nized her face in the mirror, turning her head criti 
 cally from side to side. What she saw apparently 
 satisfied her, for she now gave her attention, instead, 
 to one of the dressing-table drawers, opening it and
 
 RITA COVENTRY 3 , 
 
 reviewing its contents. After examining some hand 
 kerchiefs, which she removed from a silk case, she 
 took up a pair of new white gloves and looked them 
 over as a critical purchaser might have done. Then 
 she drew forth a black net veil, and with eyes again 
 turned toward the mirror held it outstretched be 
 fore her face. Having replaced the veil she closed 
 the drawer and opened the other, finding in the 
 front of it a small bottle of perfume in a satin-lined 
 box. She removed the glass stopple and sniffed 
 the perfume appreciatively, half closing her eyes, 
 then put the bottle back, closed the drawer, and re 
 turned to the living room just as Alice appeared 
 from the kitchen with a small platter of cold chicken 
 and ham garnished with lettuce leaves. 
 
 "Can t I help carry things in?" suggested Clara, 
 stopping as she spoke. 
 
 "No, everything s ready. You sit down. I ll 
 bring the soup directly." And Alice disappeared 
 again through the pantry door. 
 
 Clara moved languidly to the dining room and 
 seated herself, and almost simultaneously Alice re 
 appeared with two steaming cups of tomato bouillon, 
 one of which she placed before her friend. 
 
 "Urn!" Clara exclaimed, sniffing, as Alice stood 
 near her. "Isn t that a new scent you re using?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you like it? I just put on a tiny 
 touch." 
 
 "I love it. What is it?" 
 
 "Fleurde Fee."
 
 32 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Awfully expensive?" 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 "Oh, a present?" 
 
 Alice, seating herself, nodded across the table. 
 
 "Look out," she warned, "the soup s hot." 
 
 "Dick?" asked the other. 
 
 "No; Margaret." 
 
 Margaret was her married sister in Cleveland. 
 
 "Oh!" said Clara. Then she asked, "What do 
 you hear from Margaret?" 
 
 Alice sighed. 
 
 "I m worried about her," she said. "She hasn t 
 been awfully well. George s business keeps him 
 tied up, and she won t go away without him. What 
 she needs is a change and a rest. I ve been trying 
 to get her to come on and visit me, but she always 
 has some reason why she can t. It s not only George 
 and the housekeeping it makes her nervous to 
 leave the children." 
 
 "She s like you," Clara said. "That s the kind 
 of wife and mother you d be, too." 
 
 " If I could be as good a wife and mother as Mar 
 garet," Alice returned, "it would make me mighty 
 happy." 
 
 Clara smiled. 
 
 "Never fear," said she, "you would. You d 
 never consider yourself any more than Margaret 
 does. You don t now, you know; and married you d 
 be that much worse." 
 
 "Worse?" repeated Alice, smiling.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 33 
 
 "Yes, worse. It doesn t pay for a woman to be 
 unselfish with a man. Men don t appreciate it. 
 They ll accept all a woman will give them, and take 
 it for granted." 
 
 "You wouldn t say George didn t appreciate Mar 
 garet, surely?" 
 
 "Of course I never saw them very much when I 
 was in Cleveland," Clara answered, "but I should 
 say he accepted her devotion pretty well, pretty 
 calmly. Not as calmly as Dick accepts yours, 
 though." 
 
 "Dick is mighty sweet to me," Alice defended. 
 "No man could be more thoughtful and kind. You 
 simply don t understand Dick, my dear." 
 
 "I understand one thing," Clara retorted, "and 
 that is, if he s so darn thoughtful and kind I should 
 think he d be saying something about marrying you." 
 
 "He has," Alice returned calmly, rising and taking 
 up her empty soup cup. 
 
 "He has?" 
 
 Alice, coming around the table to get the other 
 cup, nodded. 
 
 "I ve told you that before. Dick has been per 
 fectly square. In the beginning, when we were 
 first interested in each other, he said he was going to 
 be a bachelor always." 
 
 "Oh, that!" Clara said, disappointed and a little 
 bit contemptuous. And as Alice moved toward the 
 pantry she added, "That s when you should have 
 dropped him like a hot cake, too!"
 
 34 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Alice did not reply. When she returned from the 
 kitchen bearing plates and a bowl of lettuce-and- 
 tomato salad, Clara continued as though there had 
 been no interruption. 
 
 "You ll be twenty-eight pretty soon," she said. 
 "You ve got to think of your future. You ought to 
 have been married ages ago a girl like you, with 
 your money and your looks. It isn t right for him to 
 be driving other men away and and doing nothing 
 about it himself." 
 
 " But I keep telling you," Alice said as she began 
 to serve the salad from the bowl on the sideboard, 
 "that he made his position perfectly clear in the 
 beginning." 
 
 "Yes, but what about your position?" 
 
 "That s understood, too. We re absolutely free 
 both of us." 
 
 " Yes," said the other with an ironical nod. " He s 
 free, as he wants to be, and you re free whether you 
 want to be or not and you don t want to be!" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 Having served the salad, she had taken the plates 
 to the table, where she was now engaged in placing 
 a slice of chicken and a slice of ham on each. 
 
 "That is to say," pursued her friend, "you 
 wouldn t want to marry him?" There was a dry little 
 smile upon her lips as she gazed at the unhappy 
 Alice, awaiting a reply. 
 
 "Not if he didn t want me," Alice insisted stoutly. 
 
 "He d have wanted you if you d made him."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 35 
 
 Fork in hand, Alice paused and looked quickly 
 at her friend. 
 
 "How?" she asked. 
 
 " By chucking all this highfalutin stuff and playing 
 the game." 
 
 "There s nothing of a game about my friendship 
 with Dick." She made the reply with a show of 
 dignity, but Clara was not to be deterred. 
 
 "That s just what s the matter," she retorted. 
 " Between a man and woman it is a game. A woman 
 has to use the weapons the Lord gave her, otherwise 
 the man has all the advantage. He can come to 
 see her when he wants to or stay away when he wants 
 to, but it s up to her to keep him from knowing that. 
 Her job is to keep him on the anxious seat. That s 
 what makes men propose: they always want what 
 they re afraid they can t have. The trouble with you, 
 my dear, is that you re too square with him." 
 
 "He s square with me." 
 
 "Maybe." 
 
 "Have you any reason to suppose he isn t?" de 
 manded Alice, passing Clara s plate. 
 
 "Not except that he s a man. I wouldn t trust 
 any man." 
 
 Alice took her own plate and sat down. 
 
 "You re so awfully cynical," she said. "I can t 
 seem to make you see that my friendship with Dick 
 is " 
 
 Clara, who had begun to eat, could not wait even 
 to masticate her salad before replying.
 
 36 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "I understand this much," she put in thickly: 
 "You d marry Dick to-morrow if he d ask you." 
 "Yes. But I" 
 
 "Wait!" said Clara, holding up her fork. "You 
 wouldn t raise a finger to get him isn t that what 
 you were going to say?" 
 
 Alice, looking none too happy, nodded assent. 
 
 " 1 knew it," said her friend, shaking her head 
 hopelessly. "And that s just where you lose out." 
 
 "All right then," Alice returned in a tone gentle 
 but determined, "I ll lose out." 
 
 She looked at her plate for a moment, touched a 
 lettuce leaf with her fork, then rose and hurried to 
 the kitchen. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" Clara called after her. 
 
 "Nothing. I just forgot the cocoa." 
 
 She was a long time getting it, but her eyes were 
 dry when she returned. 
 
 After that Clara permitted her to change the sub 
 ject. 
 
 "There s just a chance," the guest announced as 
 they were finishing supper, "that I ll go to Atlantic 
 City next week sometime. Georgina Burke phoned 
 this afternoon and invited me that is, if they 
 decide to go. Sam has a cold; it depends on that. 
 If his cold gets better between now and Monday the 
 trip s off." She laughed. " I like Sam Burke. I 
 know he s a trifle loud, but he s all right, and he s 
 strong for me. I amuse him, and he s awfully gen 
 erous. Of course they d pay all my expenses. Well,
 
 RITA COVENTRY 37 
 
 I d like to get in a few miles on the Boardwalk just 
 about now so, much as I like Sam, I m rooting for his 
 cold to hang on a few days more." 
 
 "Why, Clara!" Alice was shocked but amused. 
 
 "Oh," said the other lightly, " I make no secret of 
 it. I told Georgina the same thing and asked her to 
 tell Sam. He likes that kind of talk rough stuff." 
 Then as Alice began to clear the table she, too, arose, 
 and moving some of the dishes to the sideboard 
 asked, "Shall we wash the dishes now?" 
 
 "No, don t you bother. I ll just set them in the 
 pantry and do them later." 
 
 The proposal was not protested. 
 
 Later in the evening, when she was about to go, 
 Clara spoke again of the new scent her friend was 
 using. 
 
 "Urn!" she exclaimed. "You always have such 
 nice perfumes." 
 
 "Do you like this so much?" 
 
 " It s wonderful. It has lure, my dear." 
 
 "Lure?" 
 
 "Yes. You know like expensive ladies in ele 
 vators at the Ritz." 
 
 Clara went to the bedroom and from the dressing- 
 table drawer produced the little bottle in its pretty 
 box and handed it to Clara, who drew out the stopple 
 and inhaled ecstatically. 
 
 " Urn ! " she exclaimed again. " De-lish ! 
 
 She corked the bottle, put it back, closed the box 
 and held it out to Alice. But Alice did not take it.
 
 38 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "No," she said, "I want you to have it." 
 "Oh, Alice! You dear! But I mustn t rob you!" 
 "Nonsense!" Alice gently pushed away the hand 
 containing the box. " I don t think I like it as well 
 as the kind I used before." And with a little laugh 
 she added, " I guess lure isn t exactly my style, any 
 way worse luck!
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AIGHTING from his car in front of Rita Cov 
 entry s house Parrish told his chauffeur to 
 return at half-past eleven. 
 
 "And wait/ he added. 
 
 The house, one of a block of English-basement 
 residences of red brick and white stone, stood in a 
 side street a few doors from Central Park West. 
 Through the evening dimness he saw that the win 
 dows of the floor above, now glowing with soft light 
 from within, were equipped with boxes in which low 
 shrubs grew. The front door, two steps up, was of 
 wrought iron backed by plate glass and curtains of 
 light silk, through which sifted a pleasant amber 
 radiance. 
 
 His ring was answered promptly by a blond young 
 butler, evidently a Frenchman or a Swiss, who, 
 after taking his hat, coat, and cane, led him as far as 
 the stair landing, from which point he indicated with 
 a polite gesture the drawing room at the front of the 
 house on the floor above, whence came a buzz of 
 conversation. 
 
 In his first glimpse of the room from the doorway 
 Parrish perceived that it was spacious and that the 
 walls and ceiling were of gray and cream colour, with 
 
 39
 
 40 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 low-relief moldings and embellishments in the Adam 
 style. Furnished "in the period," it would have 
 been a chamber dignified and chaste. But it was 
 not so furnished. In its heterogeneous contents he 
 seemed to read the journal of a world traveller, a 
 cosmopolitan with an ample, careless pocketbook, a 
 quick, acquisitive feeling for beautiful things, and 
 a striking disregard for the conventions at least 
 for those having to do with the furnishing and deco 
 ration of a house. 
 
 Inside the door he paused briefly. Rita, across 
 the room, was half surrounded by a group of guests. 
 Her back, which was toward him, was uncovered 
 save for two ropes of emerald beads which passed over 
 her shoulders and connected with her gown at the 
 waistline. Standing thus, she appeared to be dressed 
 only in these beads and a scant satin skirt, black and 
 lustrous like her hair. The skirt was festooned with 
 strings of beads, matching the fan of green ostrich 
 plumes that dangled from a loop of velvet ribbon 
 on her arm. She was talking and gesturing, using 
 her hands and shoulders as he had seen her use them 
 long ago in Paris, at Larue s. 
 
 As Larry Merrick, standing near her, caught sight 
 of Parrish and nodded a greeting, Rita turned with a 
 rattling of beads, and extending her hand gave him 
 a smile that made him feel as if more lights had been 
 turned on in the room. He advanced and took her 
 hand. It seemed to him that he had never seen a 
 human being so full of brilliant contrast white
 
 RITA COVENTRY 4 r 
 
 teeth contrasted with red lips, red lips against a 
 creamy skin, and a creamy skin set off in turn by 
 dark eyes and the jet black of her gown and hair. 
 
 Except Rita and Larry Merrick, Hermann Krauss, 
 the Jewish banker and patron of music, was the 
 only one of the group he knew. The others proved 
 to be Schoen the pianist, his pretty American wife, 
 and Mrs. Fernis, the novelist, who gushed and con 
 tinually spoke to Rita, and of Rita, by her first name 
 in a way to suggest that she was vain of the intimacy. 
 Hardly had he been introduced when three more 
 guests arrived Bickford, the steel millionaire, with 
 his girlishly dressed "wife of fifty-five or sixty, and 
 Luigi Busini, the great conductor of the opera, a man 
 tall and dark with a beautiful profile and the look of 
 one whose hat has been blown away and whose hair 
 and moustache have been set on end by the same high 
 wind. 
 
 Parrish, who had of course heard the gossip about 
 Rita and Busini, watched them now with interest. 
 Busini kissed her hand and looked at her ardently; 
 but as he did the same with each of the other ladies 
 one could hardly deduce anything from that. 
 
 The butler and a maid now appeared with trays of 
 cocktails and appetizing little sandwiches of caviar 
 and pate de foie gras, after which the company moved 
 in helter-skelter order to the dining room at the rear 
 of the house on the same floor. It was an unusual 
 dining room, resembling, rather, a conservatory, with 
 its many plants, its large windows facing the south,
 
 42 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 and its walls of imitation stone, stripped with green 
 lattice, through which vines climbed from marble 
 pots on the floor. 
 
 Parrish was pleasantly surprised to find himself 
 placed at Rita s right, and it amused him to notice 
 that both Krauss and Busini, seeking their seats at 
 table, looked first at his place card, as though each 
 expected to find his own name there. 
 
 "No, Luigi at the other end," said Rita, indi 
 cating to Busini his seat far down the board. 
 
 The conductor was at no pains to conceal his dis 
 appointment. He gave a little shrug as he turned 
 away. 
 
 "He is not pleased," remarked Krauss as he seated 
 himself at Rita s left. His eyes, following Busini, 
 twinkled. "He looked as if he wanted to slip a 
 stiletto under your fifth rib, Mr. Parrish." 
 
 "I have spoiled Luigi," said Rita. "See he 
 won t look at me. He s cross as a bear." And she 
 explained to Parrish, "He sulks that way if there s 
 anything he doesn t like." 
 
 " I understand his disappointment," Parrish said. 
 " You were very kind to place me here." 
 
 "No selfish," she said lightly. " I want to know 
 you. Luigi has sat here often enough. His per 
 formance reminds me of something that happened at 
 a dinner in Paris years ago just after my debut. It 
 was Vasquez s first season there. He was a sen 
 sation. They were calling him the greatest bary 
 tone that ever lived. The Russian ambassador was
 
 RITA COVENTRY 43 
 
 at this dinner but he was placed at the left of the 
 hostess and Vasquez on her right. I sat by the am 
 bassador. He was very charming, but he was an 
 noyed all the same. As he was leaving the house he 
 kissed the hostess hand, and then, so that she could 
 hear, said to Vasquez, Good-night, Monsieur. His 
 Majesty, my august sovereign, will be much flattered 
 when I tell him that this evening it was you who rep 
 resented him/ 
 
 Rita s was the sort of dinner at which people talk 
 about dinners and dining. The cuisine, that is to 
 say, was perfectly Parisian and the wines, from sherry 
 to champagne, delicious. 
 
 Schoen told of the chef of an Italian prince who 
 refused to prepare a meal for more than twelve. 
 When his employer gave large dinners the chef 
 would cook only for the dozen most prominent 
 guests, the repasts of the remainder being prepared 
 by his assistant, who sometimes made out a sepa 
 rate menu. The chef maintained that twelve was 
 the greatest number for whom one man could cook, 
 and that a smaller number was even better. He had 
 a saying, "Pas mains que les Graces, et pas plus 
 que les Graces et les Muses." At last he left because 
 his employer, who was entertaining an Archduke of 
 Austria at luncheon, demanded that he cook for 
 fourteen. 
 
 This, in turn, reminded Rita of a story about 
 Brambleton, the London critic. Besides his caustic 
 criticisms, Brambleton was famous for two things
 
 44 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 his love of food and of solitude and silence. He 
 avoided people, or if he could not avoid them refused 
 to be drawn into conversations. One day a fellow 
 critic who more than once had crossed swords with 
 him in print saw him alone in a restaurant. He 
 spoke to Brambleton, but the latter did not answer. 
 Just then the waiter put a dozen oysters on the table 
 before him. 
 
 "Look here, Brambleton," said his confrere, 
 "don t you think you had better invite me to lunch 
 with you to-day?" 
 
 Brambleton shook his head and glared. 
 
 " Because it is unlucky to do what you are doing," 
 the other persisted. "You re thirteen at table." 
 
 The dinner was all but over before Parrish realized 
 that his neglect of Mrs. Fernis, at his own right, had 
 verged upon rudeness. In the last few moments he 
 turned and talked with her, trying to make up for 
 the earlier delinquency. And yet he felt that here, 
 much more than at the average dinner party, there 
 was an excuse for what he had done; it was not 
 only he whose attention had been centred on Rita; 
 Mrs. Fernis and all the others had looked to her 
 rather than to those beside them. Eyes drawn to 
 Rita in the first instance by her beauty were held 
 not only by that beauty but by some strange ad- 
 ductive power almost entirely apart from it: a kind 
 of vividness which Parrish, watching her, explained 
 to himself as being like the vital force of two or three 
 persons combined in one. She bubbled with spirits.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 45 
 
 Her mind and tongue were quick. She was amusing. 
 Yet there was that about her which, even when the 
 things she said were of no consequence, made people 
 pause and listen. Call it personality, individuality, 
 magnetism, charm, allurement, what you will, she 
 had that gift, indefinable and priceless, that super 
 something, which is granted to a few rare beings in 
 this world, and which causes those who have it to 
 stand out from the mass of mankind like search 
 lights in the night. 
 
 As the party left the dining room he man 
 aged to keep his place at her side. "I m to see those 
 prints?" he reminded her. 
 
 "Yes, later if you don t mind waiting after the 
 others go." 
 
 "Oh, thanks!" Then he asked a question about 
 something he had wondered over: "How have you 
 found time to interest yourself in prints a woman 
 as busy as you are?" 
 
 "Ah," she replied, looking at him over her white 
 shoulder and giving him the smile, "I can say to 
 that what Mario said, I have had all the follies- 
 all. But I ll tell you more about it later." 
 
 "About the follies?" he suggested, smiling. 
 
 "No, the prints. I don t talk of my follies. It s 
 enough to commit them. I leave the talk to the 
 world, and to judge from the reports I hear, the world 
 is quite able to take care of it." 
 
 When in the drawing room coffee and cigarettes 
 were passed Rita took both. As she lighted her
 
 46 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 cigarette from the silver lamp held by the butler, 
 Busini came over to her. 
 
 " I thought you were not smoking any more?" he 
 said in Italian. 
 
 "Then, caro mio," she retorted gayly, "I have not 
 altogether lost the power to surprise you." She 
 blew smoke at him. 
 
 "Your upper register!" he said with grim signifi 
 cance, and turned away. 
 
 "Beast!" she called after him. But she was 
 not disturbed, for she winked at Parrish, ex 
 plaining, "He is trying to be as awful as he can 
 to-night. It makes him furious when he can 
 not annoy me. As a matter of fact, my upper 
 register is better than it ever was." She appealed 
 to the others: "Isn t my upper register better than 
 ever?" 
 
 "Indeed it is, Rita darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Fer- 
 nis. " It never was so rich and full." 
 
 "Isn t it, Hermann?" 
 
 "Absolutely!" declared Krauss. "Like your fig 
 ure, my dear, it continues to improve. When you 
 are sixty I shall no longer be able to resist you. We 
 shall go to Venice." 
 
 "Your voice is superb superb!" put in Schoen, 
 without waiting to be asked. " But for saying so I 
 want an orange." 
 
 "Great goose!" she said, slapping at him with the 
 green-plumed fan. 
 
 " I do want an orange," he insisted.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 47 
 
 "Really? What for? Haven t you had enough to 
 eat?" 
 
 " I do not want it to eat. I want an orange and a 
 hairbrush. I will do tricks for you." 
 
 "Very well, child, you shall have them. Ring." 
 
 She indicated a push button near the door. 
 Schoen rang and gave his peculiar order to the but 
 ler who went away and soon returned with the 
 orange and the hairbrush. 
 
 "Come and see this, Rita. Come, everybody!" 
 cried the pianist, going over to the instrument and 
 sitting down upon the bench before it. 
 
 They gathered about him. Taking the orange in 
 his right hand he began to roll it quickly back and 
 forth over the black keys, at the same time playing 
 an accompaniment with his left, producing a charm 
 ing little air. 
 
 "Something of your own?" asked Krauss as he 
 finished. 
 
 "His own?" echoed Busini with a snort. "Chop 
 in s own ! The Black Key Study. 
 
 "The orange is my part," said Schoen amiably. 
 
 " Do it again ! Do it again ! " 
 
 The artist, who was like a large, jovial boy, did it 
 again, evidently enjoying his trick greatly. 
 
 "Let me do!" cried Busini, crowding his way up 
 to the piano. 
 
 "Wait," said Rita. "What s the hairbrush for? 1 
 
 She held it up, a lovely thing of gold and enamel 
 with little wreaths of roses on the back.
 
 48 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Ah!" said Schoen, assuming the mysterious air 
 of a magician as he put down the orange and took 
 the brush from her hand. "Now you shall see! 
 This is perhaps my chef-d oeuvre." 
 
 Again his large left hand ran over the bass keys, 
 while with the brush, held in his right, he played the 
 "Ride of the Valkyries," pressing down upon the 
 keys with the bristles. His auditors were filled with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Wonderful ! " laughed Krauss, applauding. " You 
 must stop giving recitals at Carnegie Hall, where 
 your art is not perhaps fully appreciated, and go into 
 vaudeville three or four thousand dollars a week!" 
 
 Even Busini was lost in admiration, forgetting for 
 a time to sulk. 
 
 "Now let me do!" he cried, seizing the orange and 
 elbowing Schoen to the end of the piano bench. 
 
 His first effort was not entirely successful. 
 
 "No, no!" cried the originator of the trick. "Not 
 that way! You hold it too tight. Let it roll in your 
 palm." He tried to take the orange from Busini in 
 order to illustrate, but the latter clung to it as a 
 child clings to a toy. 
 
 "Aspetto! Let me have my chance. I want to 
 do!" And he began again. "There!" he ex 
 claimed, delighted, as after some practice he bega-n 
 to get it. "Now I do better! This is more like!" 
 
 "The bass! The bass!" admonished Schoen, eager 
 to help. " It isn t only the orange, Luigi. You 
 must get the bass, too!"
 
 RITA COVENTRY 49 
 
 " I don t know the bass. I play it by ear hearing 
 you." 
 
 "Look it s like this!" Schoen showed him the 
 chords and Busini attempted it again, still without 
 perfect success. 
 
 "Amateur!" said Rita. 
 
 "But this is the first time I try!" protested the 
 conductor, and made a grimace at her. Then put 
 ting down the orange he said, "Now give me the 
 hairbrush." 
 
 "It s just what you need!" Rita said with a laugh, 
 but the other did not grasp the jest at once. 
 
 "Oh," he retorted, passing his hand over his up 
 standing locks, "it is my beautiful hair you do not 
 admire this evening, carissima? And you used to 
 admire so greatly!" He shrugged. 
 
 "You misunderstand, Luigi," she said with mock 
 ardour. "To me your hair will always be beautiful. 
 It will be a beautiful memory even after it is gone. 
 For you, my dear, it is the back of the brush." 
 
 As the others laughed the face of the Italian lighted 
 with sudden comprehension. He clapped his hands. 
 
 "Ah, je comprends! C est ca! That is very droll. 
 Oh, very droll, Rita!" And to the others, who had 
 understood from the first, he began to explain: 
 " You see what she mean? She mean I am naughty 
 boy; I ought to have the bastone the sponk! 
 illustrated, hitting the palm of his hand with the 
 back of the brush. Then, to Rita, admiringly: 
 wonder everybody fall in love with you, cherie. You
 
 50 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 are beautiful. So are other women. But you have 
 esprit. That is what 
 
 Rita interrupted him, singing, 
 
 "Pourquoi serais-je belle 
 Si ce n est pour etre aimee" 
 
 "Yes, from Louise, " said Busini, "but a half 
 tone low." He struck a key several times with one 
 finger, then a chord. 
 
 "He has absolute pitch, you know," Mrs. Fernis 
 told Parrish in an awed tone. 
 
 "Absolute pitch?" 
 
 "Yes." She turned to Rita, saying, "Get him to 
 show Mr. Parrish, Rita dear." 
 
 Busini was quite willing to exhibit his strange gift. 
 Going to the other end of the room he named, one 
 after another, the notes making up each of many 
 chords struck on the piano by Schoen. As he sat 
 down afterward, amid exclamations and applause, 
 he seemed to be in better humour than at any time 
 during the evening. 
 
 The two bars from "Louise" which Rita had play 
 fully sung made Parrish eager to hear more. 
 
 "Aren t you going to sing to us?" he asked her. 
 
 He had not meant the request to be overheard by 
 the others, but the sudden silence which ensued about 
 them, and the eyes turned to her, showed him that he 
 was not alone in awaiting her answer.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 5 , 
 
 "Yes," she said, after an instant s hesitation, " I ll 
 sing." The beads on her gown rattled pleasantly as 
 she rose and moved to the piano. 
 
 " Rita must like you very much," Mrs. Fernis said 
 to him in an undertone. "She almost never sings for 
 her guests." 
 
 "But no one has asked her to," he returned. 
 "I ve been waiting, thinking someone else would do 
 it ; someone who knows her better than I do." 
 
 "We don t ask her." 
 
 "I ought not to have done it, you mean?" 
 
 "You didn t know the unwritten law." 
 
 "She could easily have said no." 
 
 "Not to you, evidently," said the lady with a 
 certain air of coy intimation. 
 
 She had made him uncomfortable, but he forgot 
 that a moment later when, after striking a chord, 
 Rita let her golden voice fill the room. 
 
 "Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 And I will pledge with mine 
 
 Her head was thrown back slightly, and her gaze 
 rested, while she sang, upon the upper part of the 
 tapestry across the room. But when at the end of 
 the song she allowed her eyes to fall he found them 
 meeting his. It was only a swift glance she gave him, 
 but it thrilled him. She had looked first at him! 
 Then, as their eyes parted, he rebuked himse If 
 "Idiot!" he thought. "She looked at you only
 
 52 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 because it happened to be you who asked her to 
 sing." 
 
 Before the applause had stopped he was at her side. 
 She had risen and closed the cover over the key 
 board. 
 
 " It was the loveliest thing I ever heard!" he said, 
 glowing with sincerity. " But I am afraid I did 
 wrong to ask you." 
 
 "Admirable!" came Busini s voice across the room. 
 "But why? Why not sing something good?" 
 
 "That is a good song," she replied indifferently. 
 Then, to Parrish, " I felt like singing to-night. This 
 sort of day makes me feel like it." 
 
 "Spring!" he answered with a sigh. "So it does 
 me!" 
 
 "And you don t sing?" 
 
 "Not a note." 
 
 " Perhaps you have some other mode of expression 
 for the springtime?" she suggested with a little 
 smile. 
 
 "Auctions," said he. "I buy all sorts of curios I 
 don t want." 
 
 "Why not the thing they call interpretative danc 
 ing? Have you tried that? Judging from pictures 
 in the magazines, spring is the season in which to 
 wrap a necktie around the brow and prance barefoot 
 through the park with a tablecloth." 
 
 "One must get up at dawn for that," he objected, 
 echoing in his tone the mock gravity of hers. 
 
 "Or stay up all night," she amended.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 53 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bickford, who had sat through the 
 evening like people entertained and a little mysti 
 fied, came up in time to catch the last words Rita 
 spoke. 
 
 "That s what we mustn t do," said the lady. 
 "Alex is at his desk every morning at nine-thirty. Ex 
 ample, you know." Whereupon she and her hus 
 band said good-night. 
 
 "Is anybody going our way?" Bickford asked, 
 pausing at the door. It was unnecessary for him to 
 say which way theirs was. The Bickford house, on a 
 Fifth Avenue corner, across the park, was celebrated 
 throughout the city for its curious tower, its arches, 
 balconies, and strange protuberances, resembling gi 
 gantic goiters carved in stone. The invitation re 
 sulted in the departure of the Schoens and Mrs. 
 Fernis. Krauss, too, said good-night. 
 
 "Perhaps I can drop you, Mr. Parrish?" he sug 
 gested. 
 
 But before he could answer, Rita replied: 
 
 "I ve asked Mr. Parrish to stay behind. I want 
 him to see my print collection." 
 
 "You, Merrick?" said the banker. "You, Busini?" 
 
 Merrick accepted, but Busini shook his head. 
 
 "Thank you, no," he replied. "I also will stay 
 and look at those print." 
 
 Parrish heard this with a feeling of disappointment, 
 which, however, Rita almost instantly dispelled. 
 
 "No, you won t!" she said to the Italian; and 
 though she said it with a smile her tone was definite
 
 54 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 enough. "You would never look at my prints be 
 fore. Now you can go home, my dear!" 
 
 "Home, Sweet Home," Busini answered, giving 
 her a slanting smile. "That is another song silly 
 like the one you sang. Home is not always attrac 
 tive." His shrug expressed a certain resignation. 
 "Good-night, beautiful Rita." He kissed her hand; 
 then, bowing formally to Parrish, he said: "Good 
 night, sirr. I believe you will enjoy those print. I 
 am inform that the collection of mademoiselle is 
 large. Some examples, I believe, have merit. Per 
 haps others not so good. But that might be due, 
 sometimes, to a selection too sudden." He looked at 
 Rita as he finished: "Mademoiselle s temperament 
 is like that. For deciding she is very quick." 
 
 Parrish was vaguely annoyed, for, although he was 
 not certain of Busini s meaning, he sensed an indi 
 rection of some kind. He bowed formally and Busini 
 walked toward the door. 
 
 "There is this about my collection, Luigi," said 
 Rita as he moved away: "When I find in it some 
 thing not so good as I had believed it to be I quickly 
 get rid of it. Good-night, mon ami." 
 
 Moving to the doorway she pressed a push button 
 causing a bell to sound faintly in a distant part of 
 the house. Then she turned to Parrish. 
 
 "Come," she said. "The prints are in the sitting 
 room on the floor above." 
 
 As she led him up the stairway they heard the 
 soft, metallic sound of the front door closing
 
 RITA COVENTRY 55 
 
 behind Busini, whereupon she paused and leaning 
 over the balustrade called the butler: 
 
 "Pierre." 
 
 "Mademoiselle?" He came running up. 
 
 "Laissez la lumiere la-bas." 
 
 "Bien, mademoiselle. Merci." 
 
 He turned and descended toward the lower hall.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 RITA S sitting room bore no resemblance to 
 the other rooms that he had seen. It was 
 smaller, and there was about it a modernity 
 that was aggressive and startling. The carpet was 
 of solid black; the panel moldings on the deep ivory 
 walls were picked out in lines of black and nastur 
 tium colour, and the same striking combination ap 
 peared again in the mantelpiece and in the hangings 
 at the doors and windows. Two deep, comfortable 
 couches standing at either side of the fireplace were 
 upholstered in black velvet, and might have given a 
 too sombre note but for the brilliant pillows of taffeta 
 in solid colours with which they were equipped. 
 
 "How do you like it?" she asked, seeing that he 
 paused and looked about, on entering. 
 
 "It is very striking." 
 
 "Be frank. I ve just had it done. I m not sure 
 I like it myself. I fell into the clutches of a deco 
 rator, a very clever and persuasive woman, who wants 
 to do the whole house." 
 
 "Don t let her." 
 
 " I don t intend to. This sort of thing seems to 
 me abnormal like Strawinsky s music. I m hav 
 ing a frightful time, though, keeping her out of my 
 
 56
 
 RITA COVENTRY 57 
 
 bedroom. She wants to give me black-and-gold 
 walls originality, you know. She says my bedroom 
 isn t original, but I tell her sleep isn t original, either." 
 
 Parrish smiled. 
 
 "How is it done now?" he asked. "Rose colour, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "French blue and gray." 
 
 "That sounds nice." 
 
 "Would you care to see it? It s just back there." 
 She indicated the door. 
 
 "Yes, I should like to." 
 
 "Come, then." 
 
 He noticed again the rattling of the beads as they 
 passed down the hall. It was a sound disturbing but 
 agreeable. 
 
 The bedroom was spacious. The French blue of 
 the velvet carpet ran up into the window hangings, 
 the portieres and the canopy and covering of the bed, 
 all which were of taffeta. The bed was large and 
 much carved, with panels of basket-work let in at 
 head and foot. All the furniture was of a cold gray 
 tone a trifle lighter than that of the walls, and the 
 only colour in the room other than blue and gray was 
 in the gold of picture frames and small articles on the 
 dressing table, in the pink roses filling a bowl upon 
 a table and the small design of rose wreaths with 
 which the silken draperies were bordered. 
 
 On a table, conspicuously placed, Parrish noticed a 
 large photograph of Busini. That, however, would 
 have seemed to him more significant had not this
 
 58 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 room, like the sitting room and the drawing room 
 downstairs, contained so many other framed photo 
 graphs. Whatever truth there might or might not 
 be in the gossip about Rita and Busini, she was evi 
 dently not in the least sensitive about it ; nor about 
 that story of her affair with a monarch, either, for 
 the picture of that potentate, with a friendly inscrip 
 tion in his handwriting, stood on the table in the 
 sitting room. 
 
 After a brief survey of the bedroom he exclaimed, 
 "Oh, don t let the decorator-lady touch it!" 
 
 "You like it as it is?" 
 
 "It s exquisite. Let the decorator do her own 
 bedroom in her own way. This room expresses 
 you." 
 
 Indeed it seemed to fit her as a jewel-case fits its 
 gem. Into his mind there came a vision of her as 
 she must look in that bed when the maid brought her 
 breakfast in that morning. He was sure she had her 
 breakfast there, and that, doing so, she made a pic 
 ture to delight the eye of an old-time French engraver. 
 She would be propped against a mountain of soft 
 pillows, and would wear a boudoir cap trimmed with 
 blue ribbons and little knots of roses from beneath 
 which locks of that dark wavy hair would escape to 
 nestle on her shoulder. She was not the sort of 
 woman who would look tired in the morning. Far 
 from it! She would be pink and lovely like a baby 
 just awake. From the moment her eyes opened 
 there would be that brightness in their depths. She
 
 RITA COVENTRY 59 
 
 would see the sun streaming through the curtains and 
 would smile. 
 
 He turned to the door again. 
 
 " You were going to tell me how you became inter 
 ested in prints," said he as they moved through the 
 hall in the direction of the sitting room. 
 
 " It was the summer before I first sang Butterfly. 
 I wanted a rest and change, and I thought a trip to 
 Japan would give me atmosphere for the part. Well, 
 it gave me a taste for lacquer and jade and prints, at 
 all events." 
 
 They were in the sitting room now, beside a table 
 on which were several large portfolios bound in Japa 
 nese silk and fastened with little pegs of ivory. 
 
 Rita opened the cover of the uppermost port 
 folio and began to turn the cardboard sheets on which 
 the prints were mounted. 
 
 "This light is poor," she said, pausing after they 
 had looked at two or three of the pictures. "Let s 
 put them on the floor under the tall lamp." 
 
 As Parrish carried the bulky volume over and laid 
 it on the rug in the lamplight Rita took a cushion 
 from the couch, tossed it to the floor and dropped 
 down upon it. 
 
 "I ll turn for you," she said. "You can stand. 
 That ought to give you about the right distance." 
 
 The first prints were primitives a Gonshiro, sev 
 eral Morinobus and early Harunobis, interesting as 
 examples of the art in its beginnings; but presently 
 she came to works by later masters Utamaro, Yei-
 
 60 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 shi, Toyokuni; superb compositions splashed with 
 rich soft colours like those of old brocades. 
 
 Rita knew about prints. The selection was gen 
 erally good; where there were imperfections she rec 
 ognized them, pointing out that this one was weak 
 in colour, that one a late impression made after the 
 wooden blocks had been trimmed at the edges, or 
 that another had been creased, or torn and mended. 
 
 But though his interest in this art was genuine 
 enough, and though many of these prints were worth 
 seeing, Parrish found it increasingly difficult to give 
 them his attention. How may a man yield his eyes 
 to minor constellations when in the sky is Venus, 
 brightest and most beautiful of stars? Continually 
 his glances wandered from the printed images to the 
 lovely living image bending over them. In the soft 
 glow of the lamp the beads on her gown shone like 
 the jewels of some fabled princess of the East ; her flesh 
 was luminous and rosy; fascinating lights gleamed 
 in the dark waves of her hair. 
 
 By the time the first portfolio had been run through 
 he was aware of strain. Carrying the portfolio back 
 to its place upon the table, and bringing the sec 
 ond, he congratulated himself on having so far been 
 coherent. But there were four portfolios! Too 
 many! 
 
 Now she was showing him Hokusais the thirty- 
 six Views of Fuji. 
 
 What a back! How flat and flexible! And as she 
 turned the pages, how beautiful the soft plav of the
 
 RITA COVENTRY 61 
 
 muscles! Other women had pretty backs, but it 
 was simply cruel to compare another back with 
 Rita s. Muttering something about Hokusai s detail, 
 he flung a cushion to the floor and dropped down be 
 side her. Yet here, without looking at her directly, 
 he continued to be disturbed. Every time she turned 
 a page he was aware of the white loveliness of her 
 arm and shoulder near him. Presently he began to 
 feel something like an electric current. It seemed to 
 emanate from her arm and jump across to his. Did 
 she feel it, too? Apparently not, for she continued 
 calmly to turn the prints, commenting upon them as 
 she went along. 
 
 Let s stop!" he heard himself exclaim in a voice 
 that sounded strange to him. 
 
 He had no sooner spoken than the critical part of 
 his mind came into play, telling him that kind of 
 talk would not do at all. Suppose she were now 
 to ask him why he wished to stop looking at the 
 prints what would he say? If he had good sense 
 he would say he had a headache and go home. 
 But would he do that? Or would he blurt out reck 
 lessly some further wildness? 
 
 But Rita did not ask him. She did not speak. 
 Dimly he was aware that she reached out and closed 
 the portfolio. She had turned her head and was 
 looking at him. She did feel that current ! Her eyes 
 told him so! He leaned, gazing into them with 
 straining eagerness like that of one who seeks to pene 
 trate the depths of some unfathomable sea.
 
 62 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Why they re blue!" he murmured huskily. 
 
 The shadow of a smile showed in them. He 
 leaned a little more. Now he could see nothing but 
 her eyes. The rest of the world was nebulous. He 
 was shipwrecked on those sweet blue seas.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RTA descended with him to the lower hall as 
 he was leaving. The butler, according to 
 her direction, had left the lights burning 
 there. On a carved Italian chest reposed his coat, 
 hat, and cane. As he started to slip into the coat she 
 stepped behind him and taking hold of the collar 
 helped him on with it. Then she gave either 
 shoulder a touch of adjustment as if she loved to 
 give it. 
 
 He turned quickly, and as they stood there silent 
 for a moment he felt her fingers working softly at the 
 edge of his lapel. How sweet to have her doing 
 that! There was a lovely fragrance in her hair 
 against his cheek. 
 
 "My beautiful !" he whispered. "Oh, my beautiful !" 
 She raised her eyes to his, and in a voice low and 
 lovely sang again in French the passage from 
 "Louise": 
 
 "Why should I be beautiful 
 If it is not to be loved?" 
 
 "Rita," he murmured, "I love you so!" 
 "It s spring," she answered, smiling. 
 " No, it s you ! I m mad about you ! 
 
 63
 
 64 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "You think so." 
 
 " Not think know ! Tell me, do you care for me 
 as I do for you?" 
 
 She patted his cheek. 
 
 "Rita, you do care, don t you?" 
 
 "Don t you know?" 
 
 That did not satisfy him. 
 
 "How much?" he demanded. 
 
 She raised her lips. Ah, that was better! 
 
 "When am I to see you again?" he asked. "Can 
 you dine with me to-morrow night?" 
 
 "To-morrow night 1 sing." 
 
 "Supper, then, afterwards?" 
 
 "I m sorry I ve promised to go to Fremecourt s 
 birthday party." 
 
 "When, then?" 
 
 She thought for a moment. 
 
 " I ll telephone," she said. 
 
 He wrote on a visiting card his address and his 
 telephone numbers uptown and down. 
 
 "When will you telephone?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 "Of course. But what time?" 
 
 " Before I go to the opera." 
 
 "That would be around six?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," he said in a low eager voice, "I ll 
 be waiting all day for that call!" 
 
 He opened the door, but paused reluctant on the 
 threshold.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 65 
 
 She gave him a gay little wave of dismissal, say 
 ing, "Good-night." 
 
 " 1 love you!" he said, and closed the heavy door 
 behind him. 
 
 In the vestibule he paused until the amber lights 
 within were extinguished. Then he walked toward 
 his limousine, which was standing at the curb. In 
 the sky to the east he saw the first pink glow of ap 
 proaching dawn. Somewhere overhead a sparrow 
 chirped as if to tell him he was not the only creature 
 in the world awake. He spoke to his chauffeur, then 
 stepped to the running board and shook him gently 
 by the shoulder until his eyes opened. 
 
 As he journeyed homeward thoughts of Rita sang 
 through his mind. Yesterday morning he had called 
 life monotonous. Yesterday morning! He had not 
 even met her then ! He had come to her house a few 
 hours since, all but a stranger. Of those who were 
 there he had known her least. How long ago that 
 seemed ! 
 
 Life monotonous? Life s little periods of dullness 
 were nothing but a background, like the gray wall of 
 a gallery against which splendid pictures show more 
 splendid still. In the gallery of his life there hung 
 but one picture now. Rita! Rita of the golden 
 voice! Rita, young, brilliant, famous, beautiful, all 
 that was desirable ! Rita, who in one splendid blind 
 ing flash had let him know she cared for him ! For 
 him!
 
 66 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 He tried to conjure up her likeness, to visualize 
 her face, but the features at which he had so 
 lately gazed in adoration would not come into focus 
 for him now. In his mind he could see her strong 
 little hands, her tapering arms, her shoulders; and 
 he could see the colour of her: the pallor of her skin, 
 the red of her lips, the glistening white of her even 
 little teeth, the shimmering black of her hair, the 
 deep blue of her eyes; but try as he would, he could 
 not harmonize these elements and make them blend 
 into one clear and satisfying image. 
 
 The failure disappointed him. It was that way 
 sometimes, though, when one tried to think how 
 certain people looked. Why, he wondered? Why 
 was it that the likeness of one person should be 
 vague when a perfect picture of another could be 
 summoned to the mind at will? Take, for example, 
 Alice. He could always make himself see Alice. He 
 had only to think of her. He could see her now al 
 most as clearly as though she stood before him in 
 the flesh. 
 
 Alice! His heart sank. There was a situation to 
 be faced! That couldn t go on. He must find some 
 way to break with her. Cruel? Yes. But he had 
 not willed it so. It was life. Life was cruel ; crueler 
 to women than to men; it ought not to be so, but 
 it was. 
 
 How was the thing to be managed? Alice was so 
 sweet; she needed him so. What would become of 
 her? Like a black cloud the sense of his responsi-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 67 
 
 bility, the responsibility he had always striven to 
 avoid, rolled down upon him. 
 
 But this was no time to be wrestling with the 
 problem of Alice. It was a problem to be met in 
 the full light of day, when he was at his best. For 
 the present he must put Alice out of his mind. He 
 did put her out of his mind; over and over again he 
 put her out; he perspired with the effort of it. 
 But always she came back. Through mental doors 
 of which he had no knowledge until they opened at 
 her touch, she reappeared and reappeared, a silent, 
 gentle, terribly insistent ghost.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A ISING at nine next morning, Parrish felt 
 that he had visited the boundaries of sleep 
 but had not for a single moment crossed 
 them. He had lain in his bed with eyes closed, his 
 mind whirling in a wild but not unpleasant phantas 
 magoria, neither real nor dream. Having bathed, 
 dressed, and breakfasted he appraised his feelings. 
 He was not fatigued, but felt upon the contrary a 
 slight exhilaration, like that of one who in the morn 
 ing continues to be buoyed up by last night s alcohol. 
 As he was about to leave his apartment the tele 
 phone rang. Of course it would be Alice. He did 
 not want to talk with Alice now. His first impulse 
 was to have I to say he had left for the office. Yet 
 somehow he did not want to do that, either. It did 
 not seem fair, and he wished to be as fair with Alice 
 as the circumstances would permit. Besides, was 
 there not a chance of its being Rita? Only the faint 
 est shadow of a chance, to be sure, but He had 
 a vision of her sitting in that pretty bed of hers with 
 a telephone instrument in her hands. Suppose she 
 had awakened thinking of him, and was calling up 
 just to say good morning! 
 
 Quickly he turned back and answered.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 69 
 
 "Good morning, dear/ 
 
 Of course he had known it would be Alice. She 
 wanted, as usual, to chat. 
 
 " I hope you had a good time last night?" 
 "Oh, good enough." 
 "The prints were nice?" 
 
 \7 
 
 Yes. 
 
 "A large collection?" 
 
 For some curious reason he thought of Busini. 
 
 "I ll tell you about it to-night," he said. "We ll 
 go out to dinner. I must run now. I m short of 
 time." 
 
 "I ll see you about five?" 
 
 "No, I have an appointment late in the afternoon. 
 I ll not get there much before seven." 
 
 "Earlier if you can," she said in that sweet voice 
 with its faint note of wistfulness. 
 
 "Yes of course." As quickly as he could he ter 
 minated the conversation. 
 
 Ah! Now he knew what had brought Busini into 
 his mind. A phrase used by Alice had recalled the 
 parting utterance of the Italian: "A large collec 
 tion." 
 
 Last night he had sensed an indirection without 
 grasping its significance. Stupid of him! Yet in 
 fairness to himself, how could he have understood it 
 then? Busini had, at that juncture, foreseen more 
 than he himself would have dared to foresee, and had 
 prophesied in sneering parable. Not very flattering, 
 certainly, to be likened to one carelessly selected
 
 70 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 print out of a portfolio-full! And as to the double 
 meaning in that reference to Rita s "collection" that 
 only showed how far a jealous man could stoop. 
 
 Jealousy! That clearly was at the bottom of it 
 all. Perhaps there was a certain amount of truth 
 in the gossip connecting Rita s name with that of the 
 conductor, but however that might be, it was self- 
 evident that she had discarded him what other 
 meaning could one read into her retort to him as he 
 was leaving her house? She had answered his par 
 able in kind, telling him that when she found an un 
 worthy item in her collection she got rid of it at once, 
 and she had pointed the shaft with a good-night. 
 That barb must have lacerated! 
 
 What if some of these tales were true? What if it 
 were true that Rita had cruised the Mediterranean in 
 the royal yacht? What if, as they said, she had used 
 the private car of Tilghman Keppler? What of it? 
 In one sense was not all that to her credit? By her 
 gifts she had lifted herself from obscurity and made 
 herself a personage, with the prerogatives of a per 
 sonage. She was too big to play the game accord 
 ing to the rules laid down for ordinary women. She 
 could make her own rules. Moreover, these stories 
 concerning her supposed love affairs were always 
 
 based on rumour alone. It was "They say 
 
 "A friend of mine tells me "I have 
 
 heard And it was not, upon the whole, harsh 
 
 gossip, but rather amiable, or even hopeful. People 
 talked about her, but they were proud to know her
 
 RITA COVENTRY 7 , 
 
 prouder, it sometimes seemed, because of these very 
 stories. She was sought after by the aristocracy of 
 brains and achievement. 
 
 She herself was frank enough. What had she said 
 to him last night? "I have had all the follies." A 
 confession, surely, but one showing in what light she 
 looked upon the past. No sentimental adventure, 
 he took it, had ever seriously scarred her heart. 
 Just affairs follies. Busini, for instance. If she 
 had ever cared deeply for Busini she could not have 
 dismissed him last night so cavalierly. As for the 
 King, it was policy for an opera singer to be gracious 
 to a king; or for the matter of that, to any very rich 
 man who was a patron of the arts men like Her 
 mann Krauss and Tilghman Keppler. 
 
 In his own case, praise heaven, there could be no 
 such motive! He and Rita were merely man and 
 woman. It was as a woman, not as a prima donna, 
 that she had shown herself to him a woman fear 
 less, eager, glorious. More than that, they met as 
 man and woman seldom meet, on an absolutely equal 
 footing. There would be no raking up of bygones 
 on either side. Let the dead past bury its dead. 
 They had found each other. Life was all future, 
 now, for both of them. With such radiant reflections 
 his mind was filled as he headed for his office. 
 
 On his way home that afternoon, as upon the day 
 before, he found spring seething on Fifth Avenue. 
 Twice in the course of his march uptown he stopped :
 
 72 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 first at a florist s, where he selected a great sheaf of 
 roses for Rita; then at his haberdasher s for at 
 times the human, like the feathered male, is fain to 
 celebrate with brilliant plumage. 
 
 Beyond the surging sidewalk mob he saw, as he 
 left the shop, a green-and-yellow bus go lumbering 
 down the street. It was a new bus shining with 
 fresh paint, looking for all the world like a huge 
 double-decked flower box abloom with pretty faces 
 under pretty hats. A flash of blue and silver amid 
 the swifter moving traffic near the centre of the 
 street drew his eye to a bright roadster which by the 
 look of it might have emerged a moment since from 
 behind a plate-glass show window. The unaccom 
 panied young woman at the wheel, so consciously 
 debonair, had also that appearance of fashionable 
 costly freshness. 
 
 "Behold us spring models!" car and driver 
 seemed to chorus. 
 
 , There was something very nice about a roadster. 
 It occupied a place in motordom not filled by any 
 other type of car. He would have to get a roadster 
 after things picked up a little in the Street. 
 
 "Taxi?" invited the chauffeur of a prowling pub 
 lic vehicle. 
 
 Glancing up, Parrish saw that the cab, though by 
 no means new, was resplendent with varnish freshly 
 put on. 
 
 Spring! And Rita! But he would not hear from 
 Rita until six.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 73 
 
 Half-past five found him in his library sitting by 
 the desk on which the telephone reposed. There 
 wasn t any news in the papers any more. A weak 
 market was no news certainly; and for the rest there 
 was only the usual assortment of robberies, murders, 
 fires, motor accidents, divorces. He dipped into 
 several editorials, but found no interest in them. 
 Even his favourite frivolous column, Peek-a-Boo, 
 yielded him but a single smile. 
 
 He threw the paper aside. Now at any instant 
 the telephone would ring. Was Rita sitting wait 
 ing, too, he wondered? Would she call him exactly 
 at the appointed time? 
 
 Ah, six! The clock was striking. He reflected 
 that women were sometimes peculiar in these mat 
 ters. What was it about them that made them like 
 to keep men waiting? Even Alice, least artful of 
 her sex, had kept him waiting once or twice when he 
 first knew her. Woman stuff! Well, if it pleased 
 Rita to make him wait a little, by all means let 
 her do it; he could endure it, though punctuality 
 was, in his eyes, one of the high virtues. It hadn t 
 taken Alice long to find that out. Rita, too, would 
 learn better when they had known each other for a 
 while. 
 
 At brief intervals his eyes lifted to the face of the 
 grandfather s clock which had for so many years told 
 off the hours at Blenkinswood. The hands were 
 bending to a new angle now. He wondered whether, 
 on that sleepy old plantation, time had ever dragged
 
 74 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 itself away so slowly. Perhaps the clock was fast. 
 He compared it with his watch. No, it was right. 
 
 He rose and paced the rug. Something must 
 have happened to delay her. She was a busy per 
 son. Innumerable things might have come up- 
 unavoidable things. She might have callers and be 
 waiting eagerly for them to go. Or again it might 
 be that she was one of those women who are by 
 nature careless about time. He had heard it said 
 that artistic people were oftentimes that way. To 
 her, six might mean merely the general neighbourhood 
 of six. Perhaps she was now having tea she had 
 told him she never dined on evenings when she was 
 to sing. Or perhaps she was adding the last touches 
 to her toilet she had to go to Fremecourt s birthday 
 party afterward. How lovely she would look! He 
 wished that he might see her before she went to 
 the party. He wished he knew Fremecourt. He 
 had never liked that big basso. He looked so 
 gross. 
 
 Continuing to pace the rug he became engaged 
 with the pattern, following it with his feet. There 
 was a place in the corner where he had to take a short 
 step or else go over into the border. In his present 
 frame of mind this annoyed him. In the back of his 
 thoughts was an incoherent wish that the rug had 
 been a little shorter or a little longer to match the 
 length of his stride. 
 
 Could she have misunderstood the arrangement? 
 Could she have thought he was to call her? No, it
 
 RITA COVENTRY 75 
 
 had been her proposal. "I ll telephone" those were 
 her words. 
 
 A promise was a promise. What would become 
 of business his brokerage business, say if every 
 one were careless about verbal agreements? A per 
 son s word ought to be as good as a promissory note. 
 Here it was seventeen minutes after six! Some 
 thing must be the matter. If she did not telephone 
 by half-past six he would ring her up. He took the 
 telephone directory and looked for her name. Three 
 Coventrys were listed, but she was not among them. 
 
 As the half hour struck he called Information and 
 asked for Rita s number. But he did not get it. It 
 was a private wire, Information said; the number 
 could not be divulged. When he tried to argue the 
 switchboard sibyl cut him off. 
 
 Either Larry Merrick or Hermann Krauss would 
 undoubtedly be able to tell him the number, but for 
 some obscure self-conscious reason he did not wish 
 to ask them. He would do it if he had to, but would 
 try Mrs. Perm s first. 
 
 A maid answered. Mrs. Fernis was out, she said. 
 He requested her to look up Rita s number on Mrs. 
 Fernis s telephone list. 
 
 Well! At last he had found a girl who was oblig 
 ing and intelligent! She gave him the number, 
 whereupon he thanked her quickly and hung up the 
 receiver before she had a chance to ask his name. 
 Now he would find out what the matter was! 
 
 But he did not find out. Pierre, the butler, who
 
 76 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 answered Rita s telephone, informed him blandly 
 that mademoiselle was not at home. 
 
 "How long since she went out?" Parrish was 
 ashamed of the question, but he burned to know. 
 
 " I really can t say, sir. Is there any message?" 
 
 "No," growled Parrish. "Or rather yes. Ask 
 mademoiselle to call me up whenever she gets in." 
 For safety s sake he gave his number. 
 
 "Mademoiselle will be late, sir." 
 
 "I know she ll be late. It doesn t matter how 
 late she is. Kindly give her my message." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 He disliked that blond young servant. Probably 
 he did know when Rita went out. It stood to reason 
 that he knew. But trust a butler not to tell you 
 anything, whether there is anything to tell or not. 
 
 It was almost seven. He was due at Alice s, yet 
 here he was, not even dressed for dinner. He went 
 to his room. He did not feel like dressing. He did 
 not feel like going out. He did not feel like seeing 
 people. He did not feel like talking to anybody. 
 But he must hurry. If he didn t get out of here 
 pretty soon Alice would be calling up.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A RIVING at Alice s building he did not go 
 to her apartment, but had the hall man tele 
 phone to her that he was waiting. Almost 
 immediately she descended. 
 
 "Why didn t you come up?" she asked as they 
 drove away. 
 
 He made his lateness the excuse. 
 
 " I was beginning to worry," she said. 
 
 "For heaven s sake, why?" 
 
 "You re usually so punctual." 
 
 "Well, I couldn t help it. I was delayed. I m 
 sorry." His tone was almost brusque. He was gazing 
 straight ahead through the front window, but was 
 aware that she turned to look at him as she replied 
 gently: 
 
 "Of course I know that." 
 
 "Why are you finding fault then?" 
 
 "Finding fault?" she repeated, astonished and 
 hurt. "I m not finding fault, dear. It s only that 
 you mean so much to me, and with all these accidents 
 they have in the streets- 
 She gave a little shudder and left the sentence un 
 finished. He was ashamed. 
 
 " I ought to have let you know I was delayed," he 
 
 77
 
 7 8 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 said in a kinder tone, still without looking at her, 
 "but I didn t want to take the time to telephone. I 
 was thinking we could have a quick dinner and go to 
 a show. They say this new thing Gladys is pretty 
 good." 
 
 "Oh the theatre?" 
 
 " I thought it would be pleasant, yes." Then he 
 acknowledged the disappointment he detected in her 
 voice by adding, " But if you d rather not we don t 
 have to." 
 
 "No; I want to do whatever you want," she put in 
 quickly. " I just thought you ve been away, and 
 all 1 thought we could go back after dinner, and you 
 could smoke and we d talk. 1 got such a lovely pres 
 ent to-day, too. I want to show it to you. Mar*garet 
 sent me the sweetest picture of herself and the chil 
 dren. You know the little girl is named for me." 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "And it s getting on toward eight," she continued. 
 "We d be late for the theatre. But if you 
 
 "Doesn t matter how late you are for a musical 
 show." 
 
 "No, certainly not; and we needn t eat much." 
 
 "Still," he said, "if you really don t want to 
 
 
 "No, no! I m glad to, honestly. Just so we re 
 together I don t care." She touched his hand. "Oh, 
 Dick, you don t know how nice it is to see you ! " 
 
 " It s nice to see you, too," he returned, pressing 
 her fingers. Then, grateful to her for giving him his
 
 RITA COVENTRY 79 
 
 way, as he had known she would, and feeling that he 
 had not said enough, he went on apologetically: "I 
 can t imagine it s being nice to see me, though. I 
 know I m an utterly unsatisfactory person to be 
 with this evening, Alice. I m as restless as a cat. 
 That s why I thought of the theatre something 
 bright to take our minds off things." 
 
 "There s nothing the matter, is there?" she asked 
 tenderly. 
 
 "Oh, no; nothing special." He sighed. "Ap 
 parently there just isn t any bottom to this market. 
 And a lot of little things have bothered me to-day. 
 You know how it goes sometimes." 
 
 Feeling as he did, he found it pleasant, after all, to 
 be with Alice someone to whom he could grumble, 
 even though he could not grumble about the one 
 thing that was on his mind. 
 
 " I wish I could help you." Even more definitely 
 than her words, her eyes, with their expression of 
 solicitude, informed him of that wish. 
 
 "You do," he assured her honestly, looking into 
 her face with a peculiar and not too happy little 
 smile. "You help a lot, my dear. You re a mighty 
 comfortable person to be with." 
 
 And she was. She was the sort of woman who, 
 when the waiter hands her a menu, lays it down and 
 says to her escort: "You order, please." 
 
 The head coat-room boy at the Tuileries, the 
 quiet and fashionable French restaurant at which
 
 8o RITA COVENTRY 
 
 they dined, possessed a gift for obtaining, at the last 
 moment, seats for the most popular theatrical per 
 formances, the one provision being that the pur 
 chaser should be willing to pay well for the service. 
 And the mere fact that one dined at the Tuileries was 
 proof of willingness to pay. 
 
 The place was dedicated to the affluent, critical, 
 and self-indulgent. Two could dine excellently at 
 the Tuileries for approximately twenty-five dollars 
 this sum including, in this post-Volstead period, a 
 bright yellow beverage at twelve dollars a quart, 
 which was served only to guests known to the man 
 agement, and was mentioned with wise glints of the 
 eye, by the waiters, as "special cider," although it 
 tasted so precisely like sauterne that it was sometimes 
 ordered by that name by those lacking a full degree 
 of delicacy. 
 
 The dining room at the Tuileries was not too 
 large, and was decorated with a restrained ele 
 gance which knew neither red nor gold nor marble. 
 The tables stood upon soft carpet, not too close 
 together; the chairs were comfortable, and the 
 cushioned benches against the walls more com 
 fortable still; the cuisine was irreproachable, the 
 waiters sympathetic as only the most expert 
 French waiters know how to be, and among the 
 guests were always to be seen celebrities and beauti 
 fully costumed women. And best of all, one paid 
 not only for what one got but for what one was 
 spared. There was no orchestra.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 81 
 
 A few years earlier Parrish could have bought a 
 box with seats for six for what he gave to-night for 
 two seats for "Gladys." But his two seats were in 
 the third row on the aisle. No one knew better than 
 the coat-room boy where patrons of the Tuileries 
 preferred to sit. 
 
 When they arrived at the theatre the first act was 
 over, but once the curtain rose they had no difficulty 
 in picking up the thread of story. 
 
 The star, a pretty Broadway favourite, figured as 
 a Russian grand duchess who had escaped the revo 
 lution and come to New York with her guardian, a 
 middle-aged prince with comic legs. Incognito, the 
 two were working in a restaurant, he as a waiter, she 
 as a kitchen maid. Poor though they were, they had 
 brought with them elaborate wardrobes, and they 
 were thus able to lead a dual life, going at times into 
 the fashionable world to which their titles gave them 
 access. 
 
 A young man with wavy golden hair, a tenor voice, 
 and wealthy parents, fell in love with the beautiful 
 kitchen maid, but did not recognize her when he met 
 her in black velvet at a ball; nor did the lank society 
 woman recognize the prince of the night before in the 
 waiter who spilled things on her and tripped and fell 
 with trays of dishes. 
 
 These confusions of identity lasted through sev 
 eral scenes enriched with songs and specialties, but 
 were cleared up at the end when the kitchen maid, 
 having fled her sweetheart, was suddenly revealed to
 
 82 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 him standing at the head of an impressive flight of 
 stairs, up centre, in a prismatic gown which was the 
 climax of the show a gown which took the honours 
 of the evening from the girl, the librettist, the com 
 poser, and even the Italian master of melody with 
 whose famous operatic themes the composer was ap 
 parently familiar. 
 
 As the sumptuous garment descended the stairs 
 to meet the lover, the truth burst upon him. The 
 person it contained and embellished was of royal 
 blood and therefore fit to be accepted on terms of 
 social equality by any American family, howevei 
 wealthy. The young man put his arm around the 
 gown, and from the careful way he did it the audi 
 ence knew that he would cherish it as long as that 
 show should live. 
 
 At least so far as Parrish was concerned, the even 
 ing s offering had served its deadening purpose. His 
 eyes had been engaged with bright stage pictures, his 
 ears with trifling jests and melodies, his mind with 
 nothing. But as his limousine nosed its way cau 
 tiously through the glittering inferno of the after- 
 theatre streets, reverberating with the snarls of angry 
 motor horns and the shrill whistle-blasts of traffic 
 policemen, he began to think again. He did not 
 want to, but he could not help it. 
 
 "You ll come up for a little while?" Alice sug 
 gested hopefully as they turned into the lofty canon 
 of Park Avenue, with its double asphalt trail.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 83 
 
 "It s pretty late." 
 
 " How would you like me to fix you some bacon and 
 eggs?" 
 
 "No; nothing to eat, thanks." 
 
 "You look tired." 
 
 "I am, rather." 
 
 "Then you re right you d better go home and to 
 bed. I did want you to see the photograph of 
 Margaret and the children, though. It s so sweet." 
 
 "How is Margaret?" 
 
 He asked the question not so much because of in 
 terest in her married sister, whom he had never seen, 
 as to keep her talking of matters unrelated to him. 
 
 "I m worried about her. She s all run down. 
 George s business keeps him tied up so he can t take 
 long vacations, and Margaret won t go away for any 
 length of time without him. I ask her here time 
 and again I ve asked her but there s always some 
 reason why she thinks she can t come. If it isn t 
 George it s the children. Instead, she s always urg 
 ing me to come out there." 
 
 "Naturally," he said, "when she s so fond of you. 
 Of course you haven t been home often." And as 
 the car drew near her door he added: "I believe I 
 will stop in for a few minutes." 
 
 She gave a little sigh of contentment. 
 
 "I didn t want to urge you," she told him, "but 
 I d have been disappointed if you hadn t stopped in. 
 I ve felt lately as if things weren t I don t know- 
 as if you were different somehow."
 
 84 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Nonsense," he said. He was glad the car was 
 stopping. 
 
 "Well, that s the way I ve felt." 
 
 "You shouldn t get ideas like that," he said. 
 
 Going up in the elevator he made small talk about 
 the musical comedy. She gave him her latchkey, 
 and when he unlocked the door preceded him into 
 the living room, turning on the lamps. Then, as he 
 had slipped off his overcoat, she came and led him 
 to "his" chair, where she made him comfortable, 
 tucking a pillow behind him as a trained nurse might 
 for an invalid; after which she brought the photo 
 graph and, placing it in his hands, perched upon the 
 arm of the chair where she could look at it over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Very nice," said he. 
 
 " Did you ever see a sweeter picture?" 
 
 "Don t believe so." He continued to look at it. 
 " Margaret isn t so pretty as you are." 
 
 "Oh, isn t she, though! You wouldn t say that if 
 you could see her. She s a regular little madonna. 
 And did you ever see two such darling children? 
 Georgie s such a serious little thing, and little Alice 
 isn t she adorable? Just look at her hair, too 
 naturally curly." 
 
 "Yes, very pretty." 
 
 She rested her cheek against his temple, gazing at 
 the photograph. Presently he stirred a little, dislodg 
 ing her from the position, and, turning his head, 
 looked up at her asking;
 
 RITA COVENTRY 85 
 
 "You say Margaret has been urging you to come 
 out and visit?" 
 
 "Oh, she s always doing it. Even now that I have 
 my own apartment in New York, she and George 
 insist that their home is really my home the dears! 
 And of course in a way it is." 
 
 "Yes, of course," he agreed; then: "Well, why 
 don t you take a little run out there?" 
 
 " But I was out there last fall," she answered al 
 most defensively. 
 
 "For two or three days." 
 
 "A week," she corrected. "And I ve been there 
 three other times, remember I mean since I met 
 you." She had a way of dating time in that fashion. 
 
 "But," he went on, gently persistent, "if your 
 sister isn t very well He left the sentence un 
 
 finished. 
 
 Alice sighed. 
 
 "Of course I ve been thinking about that," she 
 said. " I do want to see them all, and I hate to have 
 Margaret feeling hurt because I don t come oftener. 
 And little Alice being her godmother 
 
 "Yes," he encouraged, "naturally she wants to 
 see more of her Aunc Alice." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "And Georgie s so sweet, too. They re the dearest 
 pair of youngsters! But" again she sighed 
 "well, I guess you know why I don t want to go, 
 don t you?" She straightened, looking at him with 
 eyes luminously tender.
 
 86 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "You find it dull?" he suggested, wishing to fend 
 off the declaration. 
 
 "Oh, no. It s not half bad. They have a pretty 
 house and the people are nice at least they seem so to 
 me, being a Middle Westerner. Of course they aren t 
 like New Yorkers; perhaps you d think them provin 
 cial; but they re mighty comfortable to be with." 
 
 "I m sure of it. In fact, I ve often wondered that 
 you didn t spend more time with your sister." 
 
 "You ve wondered?" She looked surprised and 
 somewhat hurt. "You think I ought to? Surely 
 you know why I haven t, Dick. Why, at first you 
 didn t want me to go! You didn t like it if I even 
 spoke of it. You said you d be so lonesome. You 
 told me 
 
 " I m afraid I ve been very selfish," he said. 
 
 "No, I wanted to be with you as much as you 
 wanted me. You know that, dear." 
 
 "Perhaps," said he sombrely, "we ve both been 
 thinking too much of what we wanted." 
 
 "Not you. It s no fault of yours if I 
 
 "Yes, it is. I have no right to come between you 
 and your only sister." 
 
 "Come between us?" she repeated, astonished. 
 "Why, you haven t done anything like that ! Marga 
 ret and I adore each other." 
 
 "She s hurt because you don t go oftener." 
 
 "Not hurt, exactly. It s just that she she misses 
 me, because after Father and Mother died we were 
 always together."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 87 
 
 " Until you came East," he added. "That s where 
 my responsibility begins." 
 
 " But I didn t have to stay East if I didn t want to." 
 
 "That s not the point." He gazed at her gravely. 
 "Alice, I think you ought to take a run out there. It 
 would probably make Margaret feel better if she 
 could just have a look at you." 
 
 "I thought I d go early in the summer." 
 
 "You ought to go right now." 
 
 "Now? Oh, I couldn t!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "A lot of things I have to do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Well, I want to clean house and I ve ordered 
 some clothes." 
 
 "Nonsense! Those things will wait." 
 
 "I don t want to leave you," she declared; "not 
 when you re feeling the way you are." 
 
 " I ? " he said, taken aback. "Why, I m all right." 
 
 But she shook her head. 
 
 "Something s been troubling you." 
 
 "Oh, business," said he, "but that s only another 
 reason why you might better go now. I can t tell 
 when I ll be called out of town again. I m going to 
 be frightfully rushed in the next few weeks. If you 
 were out there with your sister I d know you were 
 all right. I d know you weren t waiting around for 
 me." 
 
 "But, Dick dear," she interposed, "you mustn t 
 feel that way about me. That means I m a drag on
 
 88 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 you the very thing above all others that I neve 
 want to be." 
 
 "No, not a drag," he corrected. "But honestl} 
 Alice, I won t be happy until this thing is set right. 
 
 "Then I ll go, of course." 
 
 "That s the girl! Now the question is, when?" 
 
 "Next week sometime?" 
 
 "Why wait until next week? Why not now- 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 "To-morrow?" The idea seemed to take he 
 breath away. 
 
 "Yes, the sooner the better. The sooner you g 
 the sooner you ll be back." 
 
 "But I- 
 
 "To please me," he urged in a final appeal th 
 effectiveness of which he well knew. 
 
 "Well, then " 
 
 She was assenting, though a little doubtfull> 
 At once he became expansive. 
 
 "Spendid!" He threw an arm about her waist 
 "I ll stop and get your tickets on the way down i; 
 the morning. You can go in the late afternoon an< 
 be in Cleveland early next day. You d better wir 
 them to-night that you re coming. I ll be aroun< 
 to drive you to the station." Then, perhaps becaus 
 she looked a trifle dazed, causing him to fear tha 
 she was still uncertain, he added encouragingiv 
 " It s just possible that I ll be going to Chicago again 
 and if I do we might arrange to meet on the trail 
 coming back."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 89 
 
 Immediately she brightened. 
 
 "Oh, that would be lovely! Maybe you could get 
 off and come up and meet Margaret and George. 
 And I d love to have you see the children. You 
 probably think it s just because they re my niece and 
 nephew that I talk so much about them, but it s not. 
 They re really Do you think you could stop 
 of??" 
 
 "Well," he said, "we ll see." 
 
 "In about a week, you think?" 
 
 " I can t say surely yet. I ll let you know as soon 
 as I know myself. The main thing now is for you 
 to get started. We can fix up the rest later." Then 
 observing that she looked cast down again, he patted 
 her shoulder reassuringly, exclaiming in a voice in 
 tended to be stimulating, "Buck up, my dear! 
 Think how happy you re going to make them all! 
 You mustn t be looking like Grief on a monument, 
 you know!" 
 
 "I shall miss you awfully," she said. 
 
 "No, no! You re going to have a fine time. 
 You ll see! Why, you may meet some fellow out 
 there who ll make you forget all about me." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn t say things like that, Dick." 
 
 "Why be so hideously serious, dear?" 
 
 "Well, I am about you. I don t see how you 
 can joke about such things. You know that no one 
 else could ever 
 
 "Of course I know." Again he patted her shoul 
 der.
 
 90 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "I m always thinking of you," she went on. 
 " Every night of my life I pray for you the same as 
 for Margaret and George and the children." 
 
 "You sweet girl!" 
 
 He rose to his feet; she followed, standing close 
 beside him and looking up into his face as she asked, 
 "Will you miss me?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Much?" 
 
 "Lots." He kissed her lightly. "Now it s time 
 for me to be running along." 
 
 "Already?" 
 
 "It s after twelve." 
 
 She glanced at the clock. 
 
 "Only five minutes after." 
 
 " Yes, but you ve a busy day ahead of you, packing 
 and getting off. And I m tired." 
 
 She made no further effort to detain him. But in 
 the hall, just as he was leaving, she flung her arms 
 around him and for a moment clung to him like a 
 frightened child.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WITHIN the hour Parrish, in pyjamas and 
 dressing gown, was settled in a comfort 
 able position on his bed. At his back 
 were three large pillows, and a good light fell over his 
 shoulder upon the book which he hoped would keep 
 his thoughts engaged until Rita s call should come. 
 He had switched the telephone off from his study to 
 the extension instrument at his bedside, which he 
 could reach at the first sound of the bell. 
 
 But there would be a long wait before the bell 
 would ring. She had sung "Ai da" to-night and 
 "Aida" ran rather late, as he remembered it until 
 about half-past eleven. Then there was all 
 that dark make-up to be removed before she could 
 dress. That meant three quarters of an hour at 
 least. By now she was at Fremecourt s, but she 
 would hardly be leaving there before two hours 
 had passed. It would be three or four o clock in 
 the morning when she reached home and got his 
 message. 
 
 But would she get it? He had been explicit 
 enough with Pierre, certainly; but would Pierre, in 
 passing on his word, lay stress enough upon the fact 
 that he wished her to call him up regardless of the 
 
 9
 
 92 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 hour? He lacked confidence in Pierre. This busi 
 ness of communicating always through a third per 
 son, and that a butler who spoke usually in French, 
 was irritating irritating as the devil! So much de 
 pended upon Rita s understanding the messages he 
 left! It wasn t a mere case of "Call me up some 
 day." He must hear from her! He must! Worn 
 out as he was, he felt he could not sleep until he heard 
 her voice. 
 
 The large volume in his hands was admirably 
 suited for ordinary bedtime reading. It was the 
 first volume of the memoirs of a British diplomatist 
 who had spent the past half century in various capi 
 tals, and who described in an easy rambling style 
 events he had witnessed in those capitals: a book of 
 gilded gossip and anecdote which could be opened at 
 any point and closed at any point a first essential 
 in a bedtime book. 
 
 But this was not, apparently, the kind of reading 
 Parrish needed now. Time and again he found that 
 his eyes had traversed pages while his thoughts were 
 otherwise engaged. He was neither reading coher 
 ently nor thinking coherently. He would turn 
 back and reread, endeavouring to concentrate, but 
 only to find himself presently drifting again into 
 dreamlike speculations and imaginings, wherein 
 he saw himself with Rita in foreign places and 
 spectacular surroundings. Now they would be 
 strolling along the borders of some sapphire lake in 
 the North Italian hills, now dining in a brilliant res-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 93 
 
 taurant at Monte Carlo, now roaming the garden of 
 a villa at Taormina a villa sparkling white against 
 the green mountainside, with the sea spread out be 
 low, and smoke-plumed /Etna lifting its white crest 
 through a far-away blue haze. 
 
 At two the striking of the old clock in the study 
 roused him. He had been lying with closed eyes, the 
 open book propped against his knees. Once more 
 he began to read. There was a description of a ball 
 and supper at the Winter Palace, vast and beautiful 
 apartments lighted by thousands of candles a noble 
 company. He seemed to see Rita there. Constan 
 tinople, the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn a suc 
 cession of strange places, strange people, strange 
 happenings, always with Rita at his side. 
 
 Now they were on the stage at the opera. No, not 
 the opera. They were standing at the prow of a 
 great galley surging through a summer sea. Richly 
 coloured sails bellied in the soft, sweet wind. Rita 
 was dressed in trailing robes of white brocade. Her 
 glorious dark hair was hanging about her shoulders. 
 There was music. She was singing to him, but in a 
 language he did not know. The sailors, too, were 
 speaking a strange tongue. He listened, spellbound. 
 
 Then came Alice. Sailors held her roughly by the 
 wrists. They were dragging her to the ship s side. 
 They were going to throw her into the sea ! Rita was 
 not looking at them; she did not know what was 
 happening. He tried to tell her, but she could not 
 understand. She continued to sing, smiling at him,
 
 94 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 and while she sang there was a charm upon him he 
 was unable to move. 
 
 The sailors were lifting Alice now. Something 
 must be done to save her. She looked at him im 
 ploringly, but he stood horror-stricken, rooted to the 
 spot. He heard her pleading with them, but when 
 he tried to shout and stop them, he was dumb. 
 
 Now they were holding her out over the water. 
 He could see it rushing by below. In a moment 
 she would be gone. Rita still smiled and sang her 
 song. In agony he watched. What were they 
 waiting for? Ah, yes, the signal ! They were await 
 ing the signal, which, he somehow knew, was to be 
 the ringing of a bell. Then they would let her fall. 
 That bell must not ring! Oh, it must not! 
 
 But it did ring, and as he heard it the whole scene 
 faded out. In an instant he was wide awake, trem 
 bling and perspiring with the terror of that dream. 
 
 One thing, however, he knew he had not dreamed. 
 A bell had in truth rung. It had awakened him. 
 Even now he seemed to hear the echo of its last re 
 verberations. 
 
 The telephone ! Rita! 
 
 He snatched the instrument from the stand be 
 side his bed and answered. 
 
 For a moment there was a silence on the wire. 
 Then came the droning voice of the operator, "Num 
 ber, please?" 
 
 Without a word he hung up the receiver. 
 
 Through the net curtains gently swaying in his
 
 RITA COVENTRY 95 
 
 open windows he saw daylight. He squinted at the 
 little clock upon his dresser. Twenty minutes to 
 eight. He heard his servant pass down the hall, 
 open the front door, and say good morning to the 
 elevator man, who always brought the mail and 
 newspapers. It was the doorbell he had heard 
 only the doorbell. 
 
 He reached above his head and turned off the 
 reading light. As he moved, the book of memoirs 
 slipped from the bed and fell with a dull bump and 
 flap of leaves to the floor. One of the tassels of his 
 dressing gown was digging into his side where he had 
 lain upon it as he slept. The night was gone. An 
 other day had dawned; and not a word from Rita. 
 
 For a time he lay there miserable. He ached. 
 But he must get up. There was that infernal tassel 
 to encourage him, and there was so much to be done 
 to-day. He must buy Alice s tickets, go to the office, 
 and come up later to see her off. 
 
 And Rita that matter must be definitely settled. 
 The waiting, the uncertainty, were no longer to be 
 endured. He had not known a moment s peace 
 since he first laid eyes on Rita. She was driving him 
 mad. 
 
 He jumped up, hurried through his toilet, bolted his 
 breakfast, and went out. From the Grand Central 
 Station he telephoned to Alice that he had secured 
 accommodations on the Cleveland Limited and 
 that he would call at six to drive her to the train. 
 Then, anticipating her, he added, "I ll come be-
 
 96 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 fore six if I can, but there s no telling about that 
 until I get to the office." 
 
 There! That much was done. 
 
 But, oh, this question of Rita ! Why couldn t he see 
 through it? Generally, he felt, he understood women 
 and their ways. Certainly his friends, troubled over 
 their affairs of the heart, had come to him often 
 enough with their problems; and always he had been 
 able to interpret and advise. Williams, for instance, 
 when he was in love with that married woman in 
 Pawtucket ; and Sage, when he was having difficulties 
 with his wife; and poor old Goodman, who only 
 needed to be nerved up to propose to a girl who had 
 waited more than a year for him to do so. All he 
 required now was help of the kind he had so often 
 given. He must eliminate his feelings. He must 
 force himself into a state of frigid practicality. He 
 must audit his affair with Rita as impartially as an 
 accountant would audit his own books. A man of 
 his experience ought to be able to do that. 
 
 Riding downtown in the Subway, he attempted it. 
 He had a choice of two courses: Either he must ig 
 nore Rita until she should communicate with him, or 
 else he must spare no effort to get in touch with her 
 at once. The arguments in favour of the first course 
 were simple. She had broken her promise to call 
 him up, ignored his messages, failed to acknowledge 
 his flowers. He would like to punish her for all that. 
 
 But there were arguments in favour of the other 
 course. Suppose he remained silent what then?
 
 RITA COVENTRY 97 
 
 Rita was proud. She might answer silence with 
 silence. A deadlock. Everything ended. More 
 over, a card in a box of flowers was easily lost. And 
 there was absolutely no way of being sure that his 
 message, left with Pierre, had ever reached her. 
 
 To discover a plausible excuse for her failure to 
 telephone according to her pledge did not at first 
 look easy, but before he reached his office he had hit 
 upon an explanation which seemed to him a master 
 piece of feminine psychologizing. Her promise, 
 given freely as they parted, had assumed an aspect 
 altogether different when the time came for its ful 
 fillment. Twelve hours of daylight had changed the 
 look of things. She had felt self-conscious. Dif 
 fidence! That was it! He had a vision of her 
 thinking of him, wishing to telephone to him, yet 
 not wishing to; going hesitantly toward the instru 
 ment, then faltering and giving up. A charming 
 vision. 
 
 He understood her feeling. He would put away 
 false pride and keep calling her up until he got her. 
 Once they had talked, her shyness would be gone. 
 
 At eleven o clock he left his desk, where an in 
 vestor was discussing with him the advisability of 
 selling stocks and buying bonds, went to the private 
 telephone booth and called Rita s number. Pierre 
 reported that she was not yet awake. He had ex 
 pected that. But to-day he meant to be forehanded. 
 
 Returning to his desk, he resumed his conversa 
 tion with the customer who thought him over-pessi-
 
 98 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 mistic and at half-past twelve he telephoned again. 
 This time the butler asked him to hold the wire. That 
 was encouraging, but the kindling hope was quickly 
 extinguished, for Pierre returned to say that the 
 throat specialist was with mademoiselle; if Mr. 
 Parrish would leave his number mademoiselle would 
 call him in a little while. 
 
 The throat specialist! Perhaps she was ill. Per 
 haps that was why he had not heard from her. Here 
 was another contingency he should have taken into 
 his calculations. Opera singers had to be more care 
 ful of their health than ordinary mortals. But in 
 response to his quick inquiry Pierre assured him that 
 she was quite well; the doctor s visit was a matter of 
 routine. 
 
 " I m glad to hear that," said Parrish. 
 
 Yet somehow he was not quite glad to hear it. 
 Of course he did not wish Rita to be ill, but on the 
 other hand, had she been ill everything would have 
 been explained. He left his number, and then, instead 
 of going out, had lunch sent in to him and ate it 
 at his desk. The market to-day was so irregular 
 the kind of market one did not like to leave. 
 
 An hour passed an hour of suspense, punctu 
 ated by frequent excursions to the ticker, but the un 
 certainties of this fluctuating market were trifles in 
 comparison with those of his state of mind. At 
 length he ceased to make excuses for her. Her prom 
 ises were worth nothing. She had never intended to 
 call him up.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 99 
 
 Well, he would give her one more chance. As he 
 went to the booth for the third time he felt that he 
 was facing one of the crises of his life. The whole 
 future hung on what should happen now. Again he 
 heard the voice of Pierre. He asked to speak to 
 Rita. 
 
 "Mademoiselle had to go out, sir." 
 
 "All right!" 
 
 The electric contact, broken as he lowered the re 
 ceiver on the hook, would never be resumed. It 
 was over; over and done with. He stood for a mo 
 ment staring dully at the mouthpiece. 
 
 "Damn her!" he muttered. "I m through!"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HE WAS tired frightfully tired. He needed 
 rest. He needed to relax. But his nerves 
 would not let him relax. The sensible thing 
 for him to do, he knew, was to go home and have a 
 nap before taking Alice to the train, but the thought 
 was distasteful. He was too restless for that. 
 
 After the closing of the market he remained for a 
 time in the office, talking gloomily with customers 
 about the economic future of the country, the rail 
 road situation, wages, the excess-profits tax, killing 
 initiative. Had not the British tried an excess- 
 profits tax and abandoned it? But the British gen 
 erally showed some sense in these matters. A di 
 rect sales tax was the only thing. 
 
 He looked in his desk drawers for a certain pam 
 phlet giving the comparative figures, but could not 
 find it. The drawers were full of old papers and re 
 ports, most of them useless. Talk about efficiency! 
 Sixty dollars a week to a secretary who didn t even 
 clear out these desk drawers! He buzzed for the 
 young man, and in the tone of one who has suffered 
 long and patiently spoke to him about the matter. 
 Then he left for the day. 
 
 Instead of taking the Subway up to Forty-second
 
 RITA COVENTRY IOI 
 
 Street, according to his usual habit, he walked up 
 crowded Nassau Street to City Hall Park, and strik 
 ing across the park continued up Broadway. 
 
 How the city had changed within his memory! 
 Not only the buildings but the people. You never 
 saw any Americans these days. Half the time you 
 didn t even hear the English language. Swarthy 
 foreigners, stopping in the middle of the sidewalks to 
 converse, blocked the way like stupid cattle. 
 
 At Union Square he swung round its west 
 ern border. Why was Union Square always torn 
 up? It never ceased to look like a mining camp. 
 There was something sad, too, about Broadway be 
 tween Fourteenth and Twenty-third streets. All 
 the old stores gone some of them moved uptown, 
 some closed forever. He used to like those stores, 
 even in the days when he hadn t much money to 
 spend. And the Fifth Avenue Hotel one missed it; 
 it had character. The moment anything became a 
 landmark in this town it was time to get rid of it 
 unless it happened to be something ugly, like the 
 Worth Monument. That, of course, would always be 
 preserved. It hadn t looked so bad in the old days 
 when there were trees round it, but now the trees were 
 gone. 
 
 The mild weather of the last few days continued. 
 If you wore your overcoat it was too warm, but if 
 you took it off you felt a chill in the air. There was 
 a lot of pneumonia about. This premature spring 
 was enervating. As soon as everyone was accus-
 
 102 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 tomed to it there would come a blizzard. That was 
 the New York climate. 
 
 Reaching the Waldorf he thought of taking a taxi, 
 but after a moment s hesitation continued up Fifth 
 Avenue afoot. He had not intended to walk so far, 
 but as long as he had done it he might as well com 
 plete the job, tired though he was. There was just 
 about time enough to walk home and freshen up 
 before calling for Alice. After she had left he would 
 go home and bathe and rest and have some dinner. 
 Or perhaps he would go out to dinner. He could go 
 to a club. He would run into people there. He 
 didn t feel like dining alone. As a matter of fact, he 
 didn t feel like dining at all. 
 
 Curious how the looks of the crowds changed from 
 day to day without apparent reason. There ought 
 to be as many pretty, fashionably dressed women 
 out upon the Avenue this afternoon as yesterday or 
 the day before, but there were not. To-day half 
 the women looked dowdy and the other half over 
 dressed. How they piled the make-up on ! So many 
 of them had taken to dyeing their hair, too, and 
 every now and then one got a whiff of noxious scent 
 that was asphyxiating. 
 
 What a town! More and more crowded every 
 year. Business offices piled in layers, higher and 
 higher; homes piled in the same way so-called 
 homes. Nobody in New York really had a home. 
 It was all impermanence. 
 
 His car was waiting at the curb when he reached
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 03 
 
 his door, and soon he was on his way across town to 
 Alice s. It would be some time now before he took 
 this drive again, for she would be gone ten days or 
 two weeks. 
 
 Now that Rita had been definitely and finally 
 ejected from his life there was not, of course, the 
 pressing need that there had been for Alice s depart 
 ure. Still, it was just as well that she was going. 
 The experience with Rita had shaken him. Such a 
 splendid dream with such a swift and bitter awaken 
 ing. It would take him a little while to pull himself 
 together and get over it, and it was better that Alice 
 should be away while he was fighting the thing out 
 with himself. 
 
 He found her putting the last touches to her pack 
 ing. The wardrobe trunk stood in the corner of the 
 bedroom ready to be closed. He pushed the two 
 sides together and snapped the lock. The porters 
 came to get it. 
 
 " Let me " she said, fumbling at her purse, but 
 he tipped them, telling them to put the trunk on a 
 taxi and have it wait with his own car. 
 
 Her Russia-leather suitcase was lying open on the 
 bed. He saw her go to her dressing table, take the 
 large silver-framed photograph of himself, wrap it in 
 something soft and silken and place it in the bag. 
 
 "Surely you aren t going to lug that out there with 
 you?" he asked. 
 
 "I most certainly am!" 
 
 "You should have put it in the trunk, then."
 
 104 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Something might happen to it they slam trunks 
 around so. Anyway, I want it with me." 
 
 " But when you get out to your sister s you won t 
 want to put my picture up in your room, will you?" 
 
 " I d like to know why not!" 
 
 "They ll be asking about it. They ll want to 
 know if it s your young man." 
 
 "Well, it is my young man, isn t it?" 
 
 "Not so very young," he said. 
 
 She came and put her arms about his neck, looking 
 up into his face. 
 
 "Yes, young!" said she. "You don t look within 
 five years of your age, dear. And you re handsome 
 so handsome!" 
 
 "God forbid!" 
 
 "Yes, handsome the handsomest man I ever 
 saw, if you want to know! Maybe that s the only 
 reason I take your photograph with me. Did that 
 ever occur to you? Maybe I don t love you at all ! 
 Maybe it s just that I m proud of your looks!" 
 
 She seemed very sweet at that moment, in her ten 
 der playfulness. Somehow, as she stood there close to 
 him he felt happier than he had been in several days. 
 Not really happy, of course; but there was something 
 soothing about Alice; it helped him to relax. 
 
 "They won t ask about your picture," she went 
 on. "They may wonder I suppose they do wonder 
 sometimes, but that s all." 
 
 "Wonder?" 
 
 " I mean, I suppose they wonder if I m ever going
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,05 
 
 to that is, what I m going to do with my life. But 
 they aren t the prying kind. And even if they were, 
 dear, I just couldn t get along without your picture. 
 I love you too much!" 
 
 "Too much!" he said. "That s just it. You 
 really haven t had out of life anything like what 
 you re entitled to. I haven t done 
 
 She placed her hand lightly over his mouth as 
 though to stop the utterance of a sacrilege. They 
 stood thus for a moment, silent. 
 
 " It s time to go," he said. 
 
 He helped her close the bag and snap the cloth 
 cover over it. Then, when she had put on her hat 
 and coat, he carried the bag to the hall and waited 
 there while she ran to the kitchen to say good-bye to 
 Otillia. 
 
 "I told her to telephone to you if anything came 
 up while I m away," she said when she returned. 
 "That s all right, isn t it?" 
 
 "Of course. Come along." He held the door 
 open. 
 
 In the limousine he felt her hand descend softly 
 over his upon the seat. 
 
 "Are you feeling better to-day, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, I m all right." 
 
 " Be careful about sudden changes in the weather." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 As they neared the station she said, " I don t know 
 how I m going to get along without you." 
 
 "Oh, it won t be long."
 
 io6 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 The car had swung into Vanderbilt Avenue and was 
 approaching the carriage entrance of the terminal. 
 
 "Do you love me, Dick?" 
 
 "You know it." 
 
 "Darling!" she said, and pressed his hand grate 
 fully. "And you will try to arrange for us to come 
 back together, won t you?" 
 
 "If I can." 
 
 Her trunk had followed them down in a taxi; he 
 checked it, then went with her to the train-gate, where 
 an obliging gateman let him pass through with her. 
 
 "Dick," she said in a low tone as they walked 
 down the concrete platform beside the long row of 
 Pullmans, " I can t help it. I feel apprehensive." 
 
 "Why should you?" 
 
 " I don t know. I woke up last night you know 
 how weak you are when you wake up in the night 
 and begin to worry? It was a sort of nightmare. 
 Things haven t seemed just right lately. I felt al 
 most as if as if we had quarrelled. I couldn t get 
 it out of my head that you wanted to get rid of me." 
 
 "Silly girl!" 
 
 " I suppose I am silly." 
 
 "Yes. Why, I had a nightmare myself." 
 
 "About me? What did you dream about me?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know. We were on a boat. I can t 
 remember dreams. There was cheese in that salad- 
 dressing last night and cheese never agrees with me." 
 
 He boarded the sleeper, saw her to her section, and 
 tipped the redcap who had carried her bag.
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,07 
 
 "Now," he said with the air of one whose duty is 
 done, "you re all fixed. Here are your tickets." 
 
 "Thanks, dear, for seeing to everything. Can t 
 you sit down a minute?" 
 
 " I have to get home and freshen up before dinner," 
 he answered. "And I hate to wait around for a 
 train to leave." 
 
 "Yes, I remember." She rose. "I ll go to the 
 platform with you." 
 
 He followed her down the aisle and into the narrow 
 passage. At the end of the passage she paused, 
 looked out to the platform to see that no one was 
 coming, then turned quickly and placing her hands 
 upon his shoulders, gave him a swift, eager kiss. 
 
 "Not here!" he protested, disengaging himself and 
 glancing apprehensively behind him. 
 
 She was amused. 
 
 "Don t you like me when I m brazen?" 
 
 "Now you go back," he said, smiling uneasily, 
 "and we ll say good-bye through the window." 
 
 He left her, walked back beside the car, and pres 
 ently saw her sit down on the green plush seat within. 
 Bending over and looking at her through the two 
 thicknesses of glass, he formed a good-bye with his 
 lips, then paused for an instant, feeling her clinging 
 to him with her eyes. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said again, and lifted his hat. 
 
 This time her lips moved in answer. With a nod 
 and a smile he straightened up and walked away. 
 
 Coming upon a newsman some distance back
 
 io8 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 along the platform he was reminded that he had 
 failed to supply her with anything to read. He hesi 
 tated, for he did not wish to go back to her because it 
 would mean saying good-bye all over again. Mak 
 ing a quick selection from the man s supply he pen 
 cilled Alice s name and her car and section numbers 
 on the cover *of one of the periodicals. Then he 
 stopped an empty-handed redcap who was passing 
 and gave them to him for delivery. It would be a 
 little surprise for her. Trifling attentions always 
 pleased her so.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE street lamps were lighted on Fifth Avenue 
 as he drove home from the station, and the 
 traffic was much diminished. It was nearly 
 dinnertime. How should he pass the evening? The 
 sensible thing to do would be to dine at his apart 
 ment, read for a while, and go early to bed. But 
 tired as he was, he dreaded the thought of a quiet 
 evening at home thinking of Rita! 
 
 All day long he had known that the time would 
 come when he would feel as he was feeling now; that 
 he would find himself alone with nothing to do, and 
 that, left thus to himself, he would be miserable; but 
 he had lacked the initiative to plan the evening 
 otherwise. He had thought of various friends and 
 various pastimes, but had rejected them one after 
 another. There was no definite person he really 
 wished to see; there was no definite thing he really 
 wished to do; yet his desire to see someone and to do 
 something was overwhelming. He did not want to 
 plan. He wanted something to happen something 
 unexpected, extraordinary, stimulating; the kind of 
 thing that never happens when one longs for it. 
 
 He wished he were anywhere but where he was. 
 Oh. to be in Paris at this moment, with a seat at a 
 
 109
 
 no RITA COVENTRY 
 
 little table on the sidewalk terrace of some boulevard 
 cafe; or in a speedy motor boat, dashing along the 
 shores of some tropical isle, blue and silver in the 
 moonlight; or in an aeroplane soaring like a night 
 bird between the stars and the sleeping world ! But 
 in all of his imaginings he was conscious of some 
 one at his side, and though he tried to make him 
 self oblivious of the identity of that someone, he could 
 not. 
 
 How Rita haunted him! 
 
 At home he dawdled miserably over his dressing 
 and it was after eight when he started on foot for 
 the club; and when, a little later, he entered the 
 dining room he saw after-dinner coffee on many of 
 the tables. Four of his friends, Larry Merrick among 
 them, were at a table where there was no room for 
 an extra place. Two more were talking business and 
 evidently wished to be alone. Clarke was dining by 
 himself, as usual, and for the usual reason: nobody 
 wished to dine with such an ass as Clarke. 
 
 Parrish sat down alone and looked over the menu. 
 The head waiter came and recommended chicken pot- 
 pie but Parrish hated chicken potpie. His order given 
 at last, he read his second evening paper. How slow 
 the service was! 
 
 But when he was eating his dessert Larry Merrick 
 came over and joined him. "A nice party we had 
 the other night," he said. 
 
 Parrish assented briefly; then spoke of a con 
 solidation of steel companies which had been an-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 1 1 1 
 
 nounced that day, asking Merrick what he thought 
 about it. 
 
 "It ought to be a good thing," said the other. 
 "Wasn t it nice to hear her sing in those intimate 
 surroundings? It was just right, the way she modu 
 lated her voice for that room." 
 
 "Yes. It struck me as peculiar that the steels 
 didn t go up on the news though." 
 
 "You can t tell in this market. Have you seen 
 her since?" 
 
 Great Lord! Didn t the man know anything else 
 to talk about ! 
 
 "No, I haven t." 
 
 "She seemed quite taken with you." 
 
 "Rot!" 
 
 " Busini evidently didn t think it was rot." Mer 
 rick smiled. 
 
 Parrish laid down his fork. 
 
 "Waiter," he said, "bring my coffee." 
 
 "You think she was simply using you to plague 
 him?" 
 
 That possibility had not occurred to Parrish be 
 fore. "How should I know?" he demanded. "All 
 I know is that Busini is a lunatic." 
 
 "Yes. What do you suppose she sees in him?" 
 
 "The Lord only knows." 
 
 "Yet they ve been keen about each other for a 
 long time." 
 
 "So I ve heard," Parrish answered in a tone in 
 tended to dismiss the topic.
 
 H2 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "I guess it s pretty straight." Merrick paused, 
 then added ruminatively, "Women are certainly 
 queer!" 
 
 " I don t agree with that statement," the other re 
 turned crisply. "You can t make sweeping gener 
 alizations about either sex any more than you can 
 about nations or political parties or the members of 
 this club. Some men are queer, and some women 
 aren t queer at all. Where can you find a greater 
 freak than Busini, for instance? On the other hand, 
 take a high type of woman the fine, straightfor 
 ward, honest, loyal kind that you can tie to as if she 
 were the Rock of Gibraltar. Certainly you wouldn t 
 call a woman like that queer!" 
 
 He was thinking of Alice. Her train must be 
 somewhere near Albany by now. She had eaten her 
 dinner and was back in her section reading one of 
 the magazines that he had sent her; or perhaps she 
 was sitting thinking about him. He wished that 
 she had not gone away; that she were back in her 
 apartment, where he could go to her for solace. She 
 would ask no questions. She would demand noth 
 ing. 
 
 " I was talking about temperamental women," ex 
 plained Merrick; "the artistic kind." 
 
 "Why didn t you say so then?" 
 
 "Weren t we discussing Rita?" Merrick looked 
 surprised. 
 
 " We were discussing women. When you get down 
 to artistic people there s no use discussing them at
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,, 3 
 
 all. Nobody can figure them out. You can t tell 
 what they re going to do any more than you can tell 
 what a bolt of lightning is going to do. And even 
 if you could figure them out what s the use? It s a 
 waste of time. They re like a lot of animals in a 
 zoo. You may like to go and look at them once in 
 a while, but you wouldn t want to live with them, 
 because that would drive you of? your base." 
 
 The waiter brought his coffee. Parrish tasted it 
 and found it too hot. From his glass he poured 
 some ice water into the cup, then gulped down its 
 contents and rose from the table. 
 
 "Talk about generalizations!" said Merrick as 
 they moved together toward the door. "It seems 
 to me you ve dealt with artistic people pretty much 
 en bloc. Architects are artistic aren t they pretty 
 sane?" 
 
 "They ll put small windows in a house to make it 
 pretty, whether you get air or not." 
 
 "Maybe they will. But there s a big difference 
 between different kinds of artistic people. Of course, 
 poets are the worst. I don t like writers, anyhow! 
 Half of them seem to be socialists or anarchists; 
 they get too much advertising and it swells them 
 up. And painters they re a little off, too. They 
 think they have to wear beards and soft hats and 
 baggy homespun suits. But music is more universal 
 than the other arts. It reaches everyone and ex 
 presses things for them they can t express for them 
 selves, and for that reason it seems to me that musi-
 
 ii 4 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 cal people are generally more human than artists of 
 other kinds." 
 
 They were at the head of the wide stair leading 
 down from the dining-room floor to the hall below. 
 
 "Musical people!" repeated Parrish, stopping in 
 his tracks. "Musical people human? Why, musi 
 cal people are the worst of the whole outfit!" 
 
 As quickly as he could he escaped from Merrick 
 and from the club, and walking aimlessly to Broad 
 way, strolled down through the glittering, crowded 
 district of theatres, restaurants, little shops and 
 movie palaces. There came into his mind a vague 
 thought of seeing a movie, but the signs in electric 
 lights outside the movie houses repelled him: "The 
 Penalty of Passion"- "The Chains of Love" 
 "The Golden Sin!" No, no! Besides, it was Sat 
 urday night. Everything would be packed to the 
 doors. 
 
 By the time he reached Forty-second Street he 
 felt that he had enough of Broadway jostling; so 
 turning off, he cut through to Fifth Avenue and 
 thence made his way homeward. 
 
 That night he slept soundly, but he awoke in the 
 morning with a feeling of deep depression. It was 
 Sunday; he had nothing to do; the long, dismal 
 day confronted him. How long must he go on in 
 this miserable frame of mind, with his heart like a 
 lump of lead inside him? 
 
 Drinking his coffee at breakfast, with the Sunday 
 papers spread about him, he told himself that he
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,,5 
 
 ought to do something to shake off his despondency. 
 The thing for him to do, whether he felt like it or 
 not, was to pack up and get out of town for a day 
 or two. But where? He knew he would be wel 
 come at the houses of a number of his friends in 
 Westchester County and on Long Island, but he did 
 not want to see people to whom he would have to 
 talk. He did not even want to go to Roslyn and see 
 the Bements, though Stuart Bement was his partner 
 and his closest friend. In almost any other circum 
 stances the Bements would have been the very people 
 he would have wished to visit; but the thought of 
 their placid, happy, wholesome home was repellent 
 to his present mood. He had the feeling that he 
 wished to see people without associating with them. 
 
 Why not Atlantic City? He did not like Atlantic 
 City, but that, in this unnatural, bitter humour he 
 was in, seemed almost to recommend the place. If 
 he went anywhere it must be to some place he did 
 not like; not a place he hated, exactly, but one of 
 which he was contemptuous. 
 
 He directed I to to pack for him, then called up the 
 garage. His chauffeur had not yet arrived, but was 
 expected momentarily, and he left word for him to 
 ring up as soon as he should come in. Then he 
 wrote a letter to his secretary saying that he would 
 not be at the office until Tuesday or Wednesday, 
 and telling where he could be reached. 
 
 He had not yet heard from his chauffeur when 
 his bags were packed and he was ready to leave for
 
 n6 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 the train, and he was about to telephone down to 
 the door man to get him a taxi when the telephone 
 rang. But it was not his chauffeur s voice he heard 
 when he answered. It was a woman s voice asking 
 for him, and at the first sound of it his heart suddenly 
 became a thing nervously alive. 
 
 "This is Mr. Parrish," he replied, almost but not 
 quite certain of the voice. 
 
 "Where have you been all this time?" 
 
 His hands holding the instrument began to 
 tremble. 
 
 "Where have I been?" he repeated, stupefied even 
 more by the bland audacity of the question than by 
 the astounding fact that this was actually Rita 
 Rita, to whom he had never, never expected to speak 
 again. 
 
 "Yes, where have you been? Why haven t 1 
 heard from you?" 
 
 "Oh, then you haven t heard from me?" he said 
 with biting irony. 
 
 "No. Have you been ill?" 
 
 " I don t think so," he answered slowly, ominously. 
 
 "You don t think so? Then what s been the 
 matter?" 
 
 His anger, rising suddenly, seemed to choke him. 
 
 " You!" he cried. " You ve been the matter, since 
 you re so kind as to ask!" 
 
 "I?" She gave a little laugh. "How could I 
 be the matter? Why, I haven t even talked to you 
 since the night you were here!"
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,, 7 
 
 "No," he returned bitterly, "you haven t, al 
 though you promised twice to call me up. But I 
 suppose you ve forgotten about that. I suppose 
 little things like promises don t matter much with 
 you! I suppose 
 
 " Don t you think," she broke in, "that you might 
 have waited to hear what I was going to say?" 
 
 "1 might have," he retorted, "but I happened to 
 have something to say myself! I m not accustomed 
 to being kept waiting around for hours to hear from 
 people. I suppose you aren t aware that I ve called 
 you up half a dozen times. Or perhaps it s your 
 idea that I ve telephoned for the pleasure of talking 
 to your butler!" 
 
 " I called up," she answered stiffly, "to thank you 
 for the flowers you sent, and to explain. Evidently, 
 though, you don t care to hear what I have to say." 
 
 There was something very final in her voice. 
 Though he did not wish to make things easy for her, 
 he did not wish to lose her altogether; and he felt 
 that unless he quickly changed his attitude she would 
 hang up the receiver. 
 
 "I m afraid," he said in a conciliatory tone, "that 
 I spoke hastily. If I did I m sorry. But well, 
 just stop and think what you ve put me through! 
 I didn t believe I was ever going to hear from you 
 again. I had made up my mind that I 
 
 "Well, you didn t sound particularly ecstatic when 
 you did hear from me," she interrupted. "You 
 spoke as if you actually hated me."
 
 n8 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Well, I did." He gave a reminiscent little 
 laugh. 
 
 " I m ever so sorry," she said, now speaking gently. 
 " But you wouldn t have felt that way if you d only 
 understood. You can t imagine what a horrible 
 week I ve had! It s been ghastly simply ghastly. 
 You don t know how much I ve thought about you. 
 I ve tried several times to get you on the telephone, 
 too; but your wire would be busy, or there d be a 
 ring on mine just as I was going to call you, or 
 people would come in and bother me. You can t 
 dream how people bother me! They re at me all the 
 time." 
 
 "Of course I know you re busy," he admitted. 
 
 "Busy? Oh, my dear! If you hate anybody it 
 ought to be those people down at the opera for 
 calling extra rehearsals. It s all on account of that 
 frightful woman Bonata. She s a slow study, poor 
 thing. Yesterday she wasted the whole afternoon 
 for us. She knows the music and the business, but 
 she can t coordinate the two. It s maddening to 
 work with her. And the day before, my chauffeur 
 had to go to court and I was without my car 
 and" 
 
 "Why didn t you tell me? You could have had 
 mine." 
 
 "You re too kind. Well, anyway, you do forgive 
 me, don t you, now that you understand?" 
 
 "Of course," he answered in a tone so generous 
 that it took on a note of tenderness. "I m only
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,, 9 
 
 ashamed of having jumped to conclusions as I did. 
 You ll forgive me for that Rita?" 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 "Say it then. Say, I forgive you, Dick. " 
 
 She repeated the words after him. It was sweet 
 to hear his name upon her lips. 
 
 "Angel!" 
 
 "What are you doing now?" 
 
 "Talking to the loveliest creature in the world!" 
 
 "What were you doing before? What are you 
 going to do?" 
 
 "If you d called up ten minutes later," said he, 
 "you wouldn t have found me. I was just going 
 away." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To Atlantic City. That s what you were driving 
 me to." 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "that s just where I d like to go! 
 I m wild to get out of town. I ll go, too." 
 
 It did not cross his mind that she might be in 
 earnest until she added, "That is, if you want me." 
 
 "You mean it?" 
 
 "Certainly," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. 
 "Let s motor down. I ll be ready in an hour."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 NOT until her travelling bags were in the lim 
 ousine with his, and she in the seat beside him 
 driving toward the ferry, did Parrish relax 
 to the satisfying certainty that this time he was not 
 to be disappointed. Rita really was going with him 
 to Atlantic City. It was his first opportunity to 
 talk with her under conditions at once secluded and 
 tranquil, and he felt profoundly the momentousness 
 of the occasion. He and Rita were on the threshold 
 of great and beautiful beginnings. 
 
 Through the Sunday desolation of lower Manhat 
 tan they passed swiftly, and having crossed the bay 
 and Staten Island, threaded their way through the 
 nearer Jersey towns. Beyond Red Bank they swung 
 into the Rumson Road, and presently, at Seabright, 
 reached the coast. Over a vigorous sea, white 
 crested and sparkling in the sun, came a crisp in 
 shore wind which whistled shrilly at the windows of 
 the car. Save for a solitary tramp steamer, looking 
 small and lonely as it wallowed toward the Narrows 
 under a thinning plume of black smoke, there was no 
 sign of life upon the waters. Surf was breaking 
 savagely upon deserted sands. Bathhouses and 
 summer cottages, their doors and windows boarded
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 2I 
 
 up, showed faces as expressionless as those of blind 
 men. A small automobile approached from the op 
 posite direction and scurried past, as it seemed to 
 Parrish, apologetically. Then the road ahead was 
 empty an enchanted solitude. 
 
 He offered her his cigarette case. 
 
 "No, thanks, I don t smoke." 
 
 " But the other night 
 
 "That was only to annoy Luigi." 
 
 It did not displease him to know that she had 
 wished to annoy the Italian. 
 
 Turning a little in his seat he settled his back into 
 the angle of the cushions so that he could look at her 
 without turning his head, and as he looked he felt 
 anew the impact of her loveliness. He always felt 
 it thus when, having glanced away, he let his eyes 
 return to her. He wished to touch her hand, but 
 was deterred by a curious feeling of strangeness with 
 her. 
 
 "Are you happy, Rita?" 
 
 She answered with a nod and a little smile. 
 
 "Absolutely?" He had a boyish longing to hear 
 her explicit declaration. 
 
 "Of course. We couldn t have had a finer day, 
 could we?" 
 
 He was obliged to concede the fineness of the day, 
 but he wished her to understand that it was not the 
 weather that was making him happy, so he con 
 tinued: "That s far from being the best of it though. 
 The best of it is that you and I are really going to
 
 122 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 know each other now. This is going to be a day to 
 date time from. Ever since that night at your house 
 I ve had a tantalizing sense of knowing you, yet 
 paradoxically not knowing you at all. It s as if I 
 had an unfinished portrait of you very beautiful, 
 what there is of it, but with the rough canvas show 
 ing through in many places. Oh, Rita, how eager 
 I ve been to get it completed, background and all!" 
 
 " I shall be sitting for you all this afternoon," she 
 answered, giving him a little smile. 
 
 "Yes," he cried eagerly, "and to-morrow, and the 
 next day, and on and on, until " 
 
 "Evidently," she put in, "you aren t a very rapid 
 painter." 
 
 " I suppose I shall never finish really," he said 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Perhaps you ll be sorry you started." 
 
 "Never! I m only afraid that my sitter may tire." 
 
 "She s not tired yet. Is the pose all right?" 
 
 In imitation of a portrait painter s studio manner 
 he studied her, cocking his head to one side. 
 
 "Let s see the face a little more this way, if you 
 please so. And the eyes" indicating his own 
 eyes "here." 
 
 At the meeting of their eyes he felt an incandes 
 cence. They laughed together vaguely and a little 
 shyly. It made him strangely happy to laugh with 
 her like that. Again he felt the desire to touch her 
 hand, and this time he did so. She gave his fingers a 
 swift pressure, then gently drew her hand away.
 
 RITA COVENTRY I23 
 
 "You make me feel fantastically young," he told 
 her. 
 
 "Why shouldn t you feel young?" 
 
 "Because, my dear, I m not." 
 
 "Don t be absurd." 
 
 "Guess, then." 
 
 After a brief glance of appraisal she said, "You re 
 about thirty-five." 
 
 "Thirty-eight," he corrected in a sighing tone. 
 
 "Well, that s not old. You may be sure I shan t 
 let myself feel old at thirty-eight." 
 
 "Ah," he said mournfully, "when you re that age 
 I shall be old then!" 
 
 "No, you won t." 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "Do you know my age?" 
 
 "Not exactly, but I have a pretty good idea." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Judging by your looks alone," he answered, "I d 
 call you twenty-five. But I have more than your 
 looks to go by. I heard you sing in Paris the year of 
 your debut. Say you were twenty or twenty-one 
 then. Add eight years and you have it." 
 
 "Twenty-eight s my publicity age," she said gravely, 
 "but I m really thirty-one. I don t mind letting 
 you know." 
 
 Her slight stressing of the penultimate word gave 
 him extraordinary satisfaction. Gazing at her 
 fondly he laughed. 
 
 "You re amused that I shade my age?"
 
 i2 4 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " It s so unnecessary and so feminine." 
 
 "Of course it s feminine; because age is infinitely 
 more important to a woman than to a man. No one 
 cares what a man s age is, but everyone is curious 
 about a woman s. About a man they say Oh, he s 
 somewhere between thirty and forty ; but of a wo 
 man they say She s thirty-five if she s a day! 
 Even when she s young and blooming they ll tell 
 you what she s going to look like at forty. She s 
 the type that gets fat! People are always specu 
 lating about the ages of women on the stage. When 
 a woman has been before the public ten or fifteen 
 years they begin to feel they ve seen her since the 
 world began. It s bad enough when they check up, 
 but it s worse when they don t. If it s ten years 
 they call it fifteen, and if it s fifteen they say Why, 
 I heard her all of twenty years ago/ and they speak 
 of her as well preserved. Ugh!" She gave a little 
 shudder. " I don t want to be old." 
 
 At that he seized her hand in both of his and prom 
 ised that she never should be old. 
 
 "We ll stay young," he said, "together." 
 
 The afternoon s run left in his mind a patchwork of 
 pictures and of memories: Long Branch, Lakewood, 
 Toms River, Barnegat, Absecon; the sea, the pines, 
 the marshes and the sea again; Rita s profile against 
 the window; her gestures; the quick turning of her 
 head; the sudden lighting of her face; the whiteness
 
 RITA COVENTRY I25 
 
 of her teeth when she smiled; the grave look in her 
 eyes as she talked about her girlhood. 
 
 Of all their conversation that was what he re 
 membered best. He felt almost as if he had seen 
 the narrow gabled cottage in Rochester, standing in 
 its cramped yard, between two other cottages al 
 most exactly like it. There was a front porch, with 
 turned posts and a honeysuckle vine, where the 
 young people used to sit, chattering or singing, on 
 hot summer evenings. 
 
 But her father had not, as legend told, been a 
 postman. He had been an accountant. This in 
 formation, though in itself unimportant, Parrish 
 found gratifying, because it pointed to the unre 
 liability of all rumours concerning Rita. People 
 like to tell exaggerated tales of a woman beautiful 
 and famous. Such stories suited the common crav 
 ing for dramatic contrast, making a Cinderella of 
 her. As gossip painted Rita s beginnings grayer 
 than they had actually been, so it gilded her later 
 life with passionate adventures set on the private 
 cars and yachts of multimillionaires and kings. 
 
 The picture she made for him of her girlhood took 
 its place in a larger picture representing the life of a 
 happy though none too prosperous American family, 
 in which the dressing and educating of three children 
 was a chief concern. It was always a strain to make 
 both ends meet, and neither Rita nor her sister had 
 been able to dress so well as their girl friends. 
 "When I went out in my best," she said, "it was
 
 126 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 always with a haunting feeling that there might be 
 a gap somewhere or that my skirt hung badly." 
 
 She was sixteen when the choirmaster in the church 
 she attended thought he detected an unusual voice. 
 He carried her along as far as he was able, then sent 
 her to a local singing teacher, who, after a few years, 
 advised that she go to Proileau, in Paris, to be "fin 
 ished." For her father to finance such a venture was 
 quite out of the question, but some wealthy parish 
 ioners, becoming interested in her, made up a purse 
 and sent her to Paris for a year. A year was not 
 enough to bring out her voice fully, but Proileau 
 believed in her and placed her as prima donna with a 
 third-rate opera company which played through the 
 summer at Trouville, where at his summer home he 
 continued to coach her. Thus she gained her first 
 practical experience and the money for a second year 
 in Paris. In her third year she made her debut at 
 the Opera Comique, began to reimburse her bene 
 factors, and bought herself "dresses in which I 
 wasn t nervous every time I got up out of a chair." 
 
 He felt that he had made progress with the back 
 ground of his portrait of her.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DUSK was advancing over the marshes as Par- 
 rish s car traversed the last miles of the broad 
 boulevard by which Atlantic City is ap 
 proached, and by the time they turned into Atlantic 
 Avenue, daylight had all but abandoned its futile 
 rear-guard action against oncoming night. 
 
 Looking down the wide, brightly lighted yet some 
 what tawdry shopping street and into the intersect 
 ing highways with their close-set rows of cottages, 
 boarding houses, and cheap hotels, Parrish s first 
 impression was that this strange settlement had 
 changed hardly at all in the ten or dozen years that 
 had passed since his last visit. It resembled, he 
 thought, rather a town into which prosperity had 
 gushed with a flood of oil than one established on the 
 fixed flow of the Gulf Stream, the tides, and tripper- 
 laden trains. 
 
 Not until they swung round a corner and headed 
 down a short street leading toward the ocean did he 
 perceive that there had been, after all, a kind of 
 progress here; for it was then that he discovered, in 
 its new surroundings, the pleasant old clapboarded 
 hotel, four or five stories high, in which he used to 
 
 stay. 
 
 127
 
 128 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 A decade ago this hotel had been reputed the best 
 in Atlantic City; it still appeared to be kept up, and 
 might, for aught he knew, retain its old-time excel 
 lence; but its former look of size and consequence 
 was gone. By contrast with the new flamboyant 
 caravansaries towering on each side of it, facing the 
 Boardwalk and the beach, it seemed to have paled 
 and shrunk until now it made him think of a little 
 old lady standing timid and suppressed between two 
 stalwart modern girls tricked out in all the amazing 
 vulgar fashionableness of the time. 
 
 "I used to stop there," he said, looking back a 
 little wistfully as the car drew up under the porte- 
 cochere of one of the larger hostelries across the 
 way. 
 
 "Yes," said Rita, "it s a nice old place. But this 
 one will amuse you." 
 
 The entrance of bronze and glass before which 
 they had stopped was built in the form of a giant 
 spider web; and now, like a pair of ravenous black 
 spiders, there darted out two negro bell boys, who 
 seized upon their luggage. This doorway was bi 
 zarre enough, but it was not until next day, when he 
 viewed the building from the Boardwalk, that Par- 
 rish fully realized its outward splendours. Archi 
 tecturally it resembled a mammoth pipe organ of 
 tile and stucco, built after modern Germanic designs, 
 and crowned, as an afterthought, with a job lot of 
 Turkish mosques. 
 
 Entering the lobby at Rita s side, he was con-
 
 RITA COVENTRY I2g 
 
 scious of vast gilded areas above, carried on ranks 
 of massive columns of a material bearing a resem 
 blance to marble, reaching away into distances as 
 splendid as those of a motion-picture Babylon. 
 Around the bases of these columns, and between 
 them, were scattered rugs, couches, chairs, palms, 
 and people, all of opulent appearance. 
 
 One of Parrish s bags contained certain precious 
 and illegal bottles. He paused midway across the 
 lobby to warn the bell boy to handle it with care, 
 and, waiting, overheard a snatch of conversation 
 between two large, expensive-looking women whose 
 modishly short skirts revealed the plebeian bowing 
 of their legs. 
 
 "Irma s got three hats with different-coloured 
 paradise plumes on," said one. "That red one you 
 was admiring cost two hundred and sixty. She 
 showed me the receipted bill." 
 
 To which the other replied in an envious tone, 
 "Manny don t seem to kick, no matter how much 
 she spends." 
 
 The dapper clerk knew at once who Rita was. 
 "We received your wire," he declared with extreme 
 affability as he dipped the pen and handed it to her. 
 "I ve been able to hold a very choice suite for you. 
 Our managing director, Mr. Stussmann" this rev 
 erently "has had his own personal grand piano 
 placed in your parlour with his compliments." 
 
 Rita thanked him and wrote, whereupon the young 
 man turned to Parrish, assigning him a suite which,
 
 1 30 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 though it did not face the sea directly, he mentioned 
 urbanely as having a favourable position with regard 
 to the morning sun. 
 
 Before going to his own rooms Parrish saw Rita 
 to hers. Her parlour was large and elaborately fur 
 nished. French windows opened upon a sheltered 
 balcony overlooking the ocean. On the centre table 
 was a bowl of roses accompanied by the card of Mr. 
 Stussmann, with the word "Compliments" written 
 in a Spencerian hand above the name. Before 
 slipping out of her loose motor coat Rita moved over 
 to Mr. Stussmann s "own personal grand piano," 
 opened the lid, and ran a hand over the keyboard. 
 It was out of tune, but it was a gilded piano. 
 
 After seeing to the placing of her bags Parrish de 
 parted with his bell boy. 
 
 "I ll be ready in an hour," she said, giving him a 
 gay wave of dismissal. 
 
 But he did not expect her to be ready in an hour. 
 His experience of her was not such as to encourage 
 hopes of promptness. Moreover, she had not 
 brought her own maid with her. 
 
 In leisurely fashion Parrish unpacked and made 
 ready for dinner; then, as the hour was up, he took 
 the small bag about which he had cautioned the 
 bell boy, walked down the corridor, and knocked at 
 Rita s door. 
 
 "Come." 
 
 She was moving toward him as he entered. Her 
 henna-coloured evening gown was of some diaph-
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 3I 
 
 anous material that fluttered as she crossed the room 
 t was draped with infinite art, and it seemed to him 
 to fit with a kind of haughtiness. He fancied it as 
 being proud of its lines and its fabric, as a beautiful 
 woman is proud of her figure and the texture of her 
 skin. The stockings and the little satin slippers 
 being of the colour of the dress, gave a characteristic 
 look of completeness; always there was that look 
 about her; yet Parrish felt instinctively that this 
 completeness was achieved without much effort or 
 indeed much thought on Rita s part, but repre 
 sented rather the unhampered art of costly experts. 
 " I didn t think you d be ready," he said, praising 
 her appearance with his eyes. 
 " I said an hour." 
 
 " Yes, but He was thinking of the times that 
 she had disappointed him; but instead of speaking 
 the thought, shifted to a mention of the absence of 
 her maid. 
 
 "Oh," she answered, "that s easy. I ve bought 
 up one of the hotel maids. * 
 
 Parrish laid his bag carefully upon the table by the 
 bowl of roses, opened it, produced bottles and a 
 shaker, and having secured ice, orange juice, and 
 glasses, made cocktails. 
 
 " I have plenty of appetite without this," said Rita, 
 sipping. 
 
 He was glad that she was hungry. After the 
 manner of his kind, he prided himself upon a certain 
 skill in ordering, and as to-night he was for the first
 
 1 32 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 time to exercise that skill for Rita, he had given pre 
 liminary consideration to the meal. 
 
 First they would have Lynnhaven Bay oysters- 
 real Lynnhaven Bays; then green-turtle soup, pro 
 vided the green turtle was fresh he would inquire 
 about that; then a filet of flounder call it sole if 
 you like with Marguery s immortal sauce: he was 
 sure that Rita would appreciate that touch; then a 
 broiled live lobster with drawn butter, to be followed 
 by a salad chiflfonade. Sweets, he felt, might be 
 dispensed with. Crackers and cheese Roquefort or 
 port du salut would be more suitable. Then coffee. 
 
 The elevator was half full when they got in. He 
 saw a woman nudge the man with her, calling his 
 attention to Rita, and the two stared at her with 
 unblinking eyes during the descent to the main floor. 
 Clearly they recognized her. Clearly many people 
 did. Walking with her through the lobby and down 
 the corridor he thought he could tell by the faces of 
 those he saw looking at her whether they knew who 
 she was, or saw in her only a woman to be admired. 
 One man stopped and stood at gaze, inspecting her 
 as a gourmand might an appetizing dish being served at 
 another s table. He was a coarse-looking creature 
 and Parrish would have liked to kick him. Rita, how 
 ever, appeared oblivious of ocular intrusions; she 
 walked among strangers as she might have among 
 trees in a forest. 
 
 At the door of the cafe they were met by the head 
 waiter, who led them through the crowded room to
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 33 
 
 a table bearing a card marked " Reserved," and drew 
 out their chairs with an extra flourish. 
 
 " I have had the honour to serve madame at the 
 Carlton in London," he declared as he seated Rita; 
 and it was over her, not Parrish, that he leaned to 
 discuss the dinner. 
 
 This was a novelty to Parrish, who was thoroughly 
 accustomed to receive attention from head waiters. 
 He had realized, of course, that to escort Rita would 
 be a different matter from escorting a woman in 
 private life, but he had not foreseen how great the 
 difference would be. Interrupting the culinary con 
 ference across the way, he began to outline to her 
 the dinner he had contemplated, but before he could 
 finish she broke in. 
 
 " I know just what I want. I want a porterhouse 
 steak medium about three inches thick." As she 
 spoke she glanced up at the head waiter, measuring 
 with her hands in exaggerated illustration. "And 
 some hashed brown potatoes, and soup cream 
 of tomato to play with while the steak is cook 
 ing." 
 
 " Bien, madame." The man made swift notes on 
 his pad and came around the table. 
 
 "Monsieur wishes Lynnhaven Bays?" he asked, 
 his pencil poised to write. 
 
 Parrish hesitated, but only for the briefest mo 
 ment. Then he duplicated Rita s order. 
 
 "Oh, but you mustn t let my vulgar appetite spoil 
 your dinner!" she protested.
 
 134 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 He assured her that the things she had ordered 
 were the very things he wanted; nor was the state 
 ment altogether false. Steak and hashed brown 
 potatoes ordered in this place by so complete a cos 
 mopolitan as Rita constituted not a barbarity but 
 a gastronomic playfulness in which he wished to 
 join, precisely as he would have wished to join in 
 any other playfulness of hers. 
 
 The orchestra, which had been finishing a trivial 
 tune as they came in, presently began again to play, 
 but this time it was Un bel di vedremo, from 
 "Madame Butterfly." 
 
 "They ve found me out," Rita told him with a 
 sigh. 
 
 That plainly was the case. The violinist who led 
 the orchestra kept his sad, luminous eyes fixed upon 
 her as he played, and this directed to her the attention 
 of those among the diners who had not already no 
 ticed her. It was to her rather than to the musicians 
 that people looked as they applauded at the ter 
 mination of the aria, and to her that the violinist 
 bowed in acknowledging the unusual demonstration. 
 
 "They re pretty sure to keep this up until we 
 leave," she said. "It s rather awful to be stared at 
 when you re eating, isn t it? I ve always thought 
 the animals in the zoo must hate it." 
 
 " I could speak to the orchestra leader," Parrish 
 suggested. But Rita demurred. 
 
 "Oh, no! It s intended as a compliment, and I m 
 desperately sorry for a good musician who has to play
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 35 
 
 in a place like this. Probably this man used to 
 dream of becoming a Kreisler or a Heifetz. The 
 chorus of the opera is full of people like that people 
 who have dreamed and been disappointed. There s 
 so much luck about it, too. Many s the time I ve 
 looked at some woman in our chorus and thought 
 what John Bunyan thought when he saw the man 
 going to be executed." 
 
 Over the soup they fell to discussing differences 
 between the careers of artists and those in other walks 
 of life. 
 
 "The failure of an artist," said Rita, "seems to me 
 doubly tragic because the artist is not out only for a 
 living. Being poor isn t the worst of it for him. 
 He s in love. If his art jilts him it breaks his heart, 
 for of course there s no love greater than that of the 
 artist for his art." 
 
 "Oh, I don t believe that," he put in quickly, 
 jealous of her music. 
 
 "Don t you?" She inspected him with quizzical 
 eyes. "Well, it s true. Other loves come and go, 
 but the love for an art never changes. If anything, 
 I stated it too moderately. I might have said there 
 isn t any love so great." 
 
 He shook his head, but did not reply. He was 
 thinking that what she had said meant, after all, 
 only that she had never known a love beyond her love 
 for music not yet. Certainly that was nothing for 
 him to deplore. 
 
 Her prevision concerning the musical programme
 
 136 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 proved accurate. Depuis le jour, from "Louise," 
 became the entrance music for their steak, and was 
 followed by melodies from "Tosca" and "La Bo- 
 heme," while their coffee was drunk to the air of 
 Pres des Ramparts de Seville. After each number 
 there was the same applause, the same bowing of 
 the violinist to Rita, the same concentrating of eyes 
 upon her. 
 
 When, having lost no time over the simple meal, 
 she rose to leave, people at near-by tables stopped 
 talking and gazed up into her face, and as she moved 
 toward the door, Parrish, walking behind her, saw 
 that the whole room turned its head. The violinist 
 stood and made her a profound obeisance as she 
 passed the musicians platform; at the portal the 
 head waiter paid her like homage, and as she emerged 
 to the foyer the maid from the ladies cloakroom 
 hastened forward with her wrap. 
 
 But no one came running forward with Parrish s 
 hat and coat. The olive-skinned attendant at the 
 men s coat room stood entranced, gazing at Rita; 
 Parrish had to speak to him crisply before the trance 
 was broken. Had Rita been a queen, he thought to 
 himself, she could hardly have received more at 
 tention; then with a little inward smile he added the 
 reflection that had he been a prince consort he could 
 hardly have received less. 
 
 " If I should ever be a fugitive from justice," he 
 said to her as they made their way toward the exit 
 leading to the Boardwalk, "I should know exactly
 
 RITA COVENTRY 137 
 
 what to do. Instead of hiding on some obscure 
 island where they live on pineapples, bananas, and 
 rum highballs, I should conceal myself by going 
 everywhere with you." 
 
 But, as he was to learn later, that form of self- 
 concealment was not so effectual as he had supposed. 
 Some eyes, there were, alert enough to encompass 
 both Rita and her escort. By one such pair of eyes 
 a not too friendly pair he had been recognized.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 EMERGING from a revolving door and pass 
 ing by a wheel-chair stand, they moved up 
 the Boardwalk in the direction of the Inlet. 
 
 The night was dark. The moon had not yet 
 risen, and though there were stars overhead they 
 were dimmed by the Boardwalk lamps. Below them 
 the beach was a gray mystery fading away to a 
 blackness within which, as an awakened sleeper may 
 feel the presence of a silent moving something in his 
 room, they felt the presence of the sea. 
 
 A mild salt breeze blew toward them. Ahead the 
 heart of the Boardwalk was marked by an electric 
 brilliance against which wheel-chairs and prome- 
 naders were revealed in shifting silhouette. Nor was the 
 brilliance to be seen only along that way of pleasure 
 with its rows of clustered lamps and its bright shop 
 fronts; by a ladder of illuminated windows it mounted 
 to where, above the hotel roofs, the sky was rest 
 lessly alive with the changeful dotted glitter of great 
 advertising signs. 
 
 As Rita took his arm and stepped out beside him 
 he was struck by the fact that she did not amble 
 after the fashion of most women, but strode with a 
 fine swinging gait, making necessary but a slight 
 
 138
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 39 
 
 abridgment of his own normal step. It was like an 
 expression of her spirit, that free, elastic tread. 
 
 He leaned forward a little and looked down at her 
 slippers swiftly appearing and disappearing below the 
 hem of her cloak satin trifles, frail and exquisite, 
 with soles wafer thin and heels of a voluptuous 
 violinlike curvature. 
 
 "I suppose," he said wonderingly, "that those 
 slippers are fully as durable as morning-glories." 
 
 "Oh, they re stronger than they look." 
 
 "They must be." 
 
 For a time he was silent, his mind taken up with 
 the miracle of woman s dress, which is to man the 
 most baffling thing about her. For man feels that 
 even supposing he could walk in slippers such as hers 
 they would be ruined in the distance of a block or 
 two, while as for her gowns made seemingly from 
 wisps of rainbow, sunset, and the Milky Way he 
 knows that such things, worn by him, would not en 
 dure an hour. 
 
 His ruminations on this theme were interrupted 
 when she drew him over to a lighted show-window 
 containing dainty bits of feminine equipment at 
 which she wished to look. 
 
 As they moved on again he shifted the position of 
 his arm, bracing it behind hers so that her elbow 
 found a cradle in the crook of his, her wrist resting in 
 his hand. Holding her thus firmly he was more 
 than ever conscious of moving with her in delightful 
 unison.
 
 140 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 They wandered out upon a pier and back again; 
 then, having resumed their way along the Board 
 walk, were attracted by sounds of snapping rifles 
 and clanging target gongs to a shooting gallery, where 
 they stood for a time looking on. The shooting 
 gallery fascinated Rita; presently she announced a 
 wish to try her marksmanship; and when, after a 
 little coaching, her bullets began to break clay pipes, 
 ring gongs, and knock over moving models of ani 
 mals, she became enthusiastic as a child, and chal 
 lenged Parrish to a match. 
 
 "The loser to give the winner a prize," he speci 
 fied. 
 
 "All right. What shall it be?" 
 
 "That s for the loser to decide." 
 
 It was his purpose to allow himself to be defeated 
 and to make his vanquishment an excuse for giving 
 her a present. He had been wishing to give her a 
 present. What it should be he had not determined 
 beyond the fact that it should be something exquisite 
 and precious; something worthy of her and of his 
 feeling for her; a piece of jewellery, doubtless; perhaps 
 a linked bracelet of platinum and diamonds such as 
 he had thought of giving Alice for her birthday, ex 
 cept that for Rita the diamonds must be larger to 
 bear comparison with her other jewels. Not that 
 he had the least thought of overlooking Alice s birth 
 day. Of course he would get her something: some 
 thing nice, though less expensive than a diamond 
 bracelet. He simply could not afford two.
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 4 , 
 
 Rita having emptied the magazine of her rifle and 
 made a not discreditable score, Parrish began to 
 shoot. 
 
 " I must miss about every other shot," he said to 
 himself, and he commenced by doing so. Then it 
 struck him that Rita might notice the even balance 
 between the hits and misses; wherefore he began to 
 vary his programme, with the result that he lost count 
 of his score. He found it, moreover, curiously dif 
 ficult deliberately to take false aim. Two or three 
 times he said to himself, " I must miss this one," 
 yet when he fired he would not miss. The targets 
 drew his rifle barrel as the magnetic pole a needle. 
 It was easy enough to miss if you didn t want to, 
 but it was not easy to do it by intent. Trying to 
 miss was like trying to lose at cards; to bring one 
 self to do it in a competition, and against a woman 
 who had never held a gun before was absurdly dif 
 ficult, yet Parrish, as he fired his last shot, be 
 lieved that he had thrown the match to Rita. 
 
 "Well, you win," he said, laying down the little 
 rifle. 
 
 "Why, no!" 
 
 "Certainly you do!" 
 
 The attendant set him right. 
 
 "You trimmed the lady by one hit," said he. 
 
 Parrish was surprised. However, it didn t matter; 
 really he needed no excuse for giving her the bracelet. 
 
 "You shot well for a beginner," he said as they 
 proceeded up the Boardwalk.
 
 1 42 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "I m glad you think so. It s lots of fun. Now 
 you shall have your prize." 
 
 Like a child at a party he was wondering what the 
 prize would be. 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Yes. We ll go in here." She was heading him 
 up a short connecting walk leading to the door of a 
 hotel grillroom. 
 
 "For the prize?" 
 
 "Yes. The prize is an ice." 
 
 He was a little disappointed. Not that he desired 
 a handsome gift from her had she proposed such 
 a thing he would have protested, and sincerely but 
 he wished that she had thought of something more 
 personal and less trivial; something he could keep. 
 
 This grillroom was one of the gayest dancing places 
 on the Boardwalk. The half-dozen negroes who 
 supplied the music were not playing when he and 
 Rita entered, and the vacant central space with its 
 surrounding banks of tables made Parrish think of 
 the sandy bed of some drought-stricken stream. 
 Then the drum rolled and there came a burst of 
 jazz music, whereupon the empty space was inun 
 dated, becoming a whirlpool on whose surface danc 
 ing figures drifted round and round, bobbing, sway 
 ing, spinning this way and that, like flotsam at the 
 mercy of capricious currents. 
 
 "Aren t you going to ask me to dance?" she pres 
 ently demanded. 
 
 The proposal came as a mild shock to Parrish.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 143 
 
 In his twenties he had enjoyed dancing, and though 
 his interest in it had diminished with his advance 
 into the thirties, he had remained a "dancing man" un 
 til, more than a year ago, at the time of Clara 
 Proctor s protracted visit to Alice, in New York, he 
 had found it expedient to renounce the pastime. 
 
 In this renunciation Clara had been the determin 
 ing factor, for there had come to the apartment in 
 her train a following of sleek-haired, facile-footed 
 youths whose entire thought and talk was of dancing 
 places, orchestras, tunes, and steps; and though Par- 
 rish had, on Alice s account, tried at first to make 
 himself agreeable to Clara and these friends of hers, 
 taking the two girls and the young men on several 
 nocturnal jaunts to realms of jazz, he had soon per 
 ceived that Clara and the youths her troupe of 
 trained seals, she called them regarded him as 
 nothing more than a convenience: someone to pro 
 vide liquor and a limousine and settle restaurant 
 checks. Neither for Alice nor for him did they show 
 the least consideration; once they became ensconced 
 in some noisy, half-disreputable dancing place, they 
 were never ready to go home. He did not care for 
 Broadway night life and knew that Alice liked it not 
 at all; each time he took them out he saw her grow 
 ing fatigued with the din as the night wore on, and 
 himself tired and bored, would finally suggest that 
 it was time to go; but only to be overruled by Clara 
 and the youths, who under the combined spell of 
 jazz and highballs seemed to contract a mild hys-
 
 i 4 4 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 teria, a dancing frenzy which possessed them like 
 some demon that only the light of dawn could ex 
 orcise. 
 
 After several of these unsatisfactory experiments 
 Parrish ceased to invite them out. But they con 
 tinued to go, and Clara, who did not wish to be the 
 only woman in the party, was constantly tugging at 
 Alice, endeavouring to persuade her to accompany 
 them. This put Alice between two fires: she did not 
 wish to go, and knew that he did not wish her to, 
 yet sometimes she felt in duty bound to accompany 
 her visitor. 
 
 It was when he perceived Clara s persistent selfish 
 ness that Parrish put his foot down. Partly to pro 
 tect Alice from further imposition, partly to protect 
 himself from the continual intrusions of Clara and 
 the youths when he and Alice wished to be alone, 
 he declared his purpose of giving up dancing alto 
 gether and asked Alice to join him in so doing. Of 
 course she agreed; she always did as he asked her to. 
 From that day to this he had not danced; and that 
 fact of course without the details was his excuse 
 to Rita now. 
 
 " I haven t danced for a long time," he told her. 
 
 "Oh, never mind. Come on." 
 
 She had already risen and there was nothing else 
 for it. Reluctantly he accompanied her to the floor. 
 Then all at once reluctance turned into delight; the 
 flow of music caught and carried them away as 
 easily as if they were adrift on a swift stream in a
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 45 
 
 canoe. He might have known that it would be like 
 this! 
 
 "And you didn t want to!" said she in light re 
 proach. 
 
 She was all music. Her speaking voice, rich and 
 mellifluous, was like her tread in walking, while 
 her dancing ah, it was like a song expressed in 
 motion. 
 
 " I want to close my eyes," he said. 
 
 "Do, then. I ll guide." 
 
 He let his lids fall, and in that artificial darkness, 
 surcharged with melody and movement, experienced 
 an exquisite sensation as of soaring with her in a 
 perfect oneness through a vast sweet night. 
 
 "Now," he murmured, "we are far up among the 
 stars. How huge the heavens are! We must hold 
 to each other, Rita, or we may get lost." 
 
 His eyes, opening, encountered hers. Not since 
 the night of their first meeting had he looked into 
 them at this close range; and now, as then, he gazed 
 like one who seeks to penetrate the depths of some 
 unfathomable sea. 
 
 "Are you sorry we danced?" she asked with the 
 shadow of a smile as the music died away. 
 
 She knew he was not sorry, and he told her so as 
 they moved toward their table. 
 
 "And yet," he added, "I don t want to dance 
 again not now; perhaps never again. I want to 
 keep this memory." 
 
 She nodded, then suggested, "Shall we go?"
 
 146 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Yes, if you d just as soon. Let s go out and look 
 up at those stars we were among a little while ago." 
 
 But when they first emerged from that brightly 
 lighted place they could not see the stars. Above 
 the glitter of the Boardwalk lamps the sky looked 
 black. Not until they had walked halfway to their 
 hotel, accustoming their eyes to this lesser bril 
 liance, could they discern dim pinpoints of light 
 overhead. 
 
 "Let s go out on the balcony," he said when they 
 reached Rita s sitting room; and as obediently she 
 opened the French windows he switched off the 
 lights. 
 
 How different now the aspect of the heavens! 
 Half the universe seemed to be spread out before 
 them: the great dome, star-dusted, overhead; and 
 below, stretching away to a mysterious horizon, a 
 sea of blackness on which white lines of surf con 
 tinually formed and faded. 
 
 "It s our world," he said when they had stood for 
 a time by the railing looking out at the stupendous 
 spectacle. "It s all ours. No one else can look at 
 it without permission from us. We ll issue a few 
 tickets; but only to a select group, and they mustn t 
 stand where we can see them; and of course they 
 must be lovers." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 His arm stole around her. He leaned and let his 
 cheek touch hers. How cool and sweet it was; how 
 soft her hair against his brow! His arm about her
 
 RITA COVENTRY 147 
 
 trembled. He turned her toward him, closed his 
 eyes, and with that power of divination that comes 
 in the dark to lovers, found her lips. 
 
 One of her hands was resting on the sleeve of 
 his overcoat, and now he could feel it creeping up 
 ward slowly like some little animal seeking a nesting 
 place along the collar of his coat and so around his 
 neck. 
 
 "Tell me you love me, Rita!" 
 
 She moved her head as though in acquiescence. 
 
 "But tell me! Say it!" 
 
 She drew away a little. 
 
 "I love you," she said. "That is And 
 
 there she stopped. 
 
 "A lot?" 
 
 She did not answer instantly; she seemed to be 
 questioning herself; then, "Yes," she replied, "1 
 think a lot." 
 
 "But if you love me a lot," he asked her, "why 
 did you want to qualify at all?" 
 
 "Only because these things if I shouldn t love 
 you always so much as you wish me to if it should 
 end why, then I 
 
 He did not hear her out. 
 
 "But it s not going to end!" he cried savagely, 
 drawing her close to him again. " It s going to grow! 
 It s going to be the big consuming thing in both our 
 lives! You ll see! You ll see!"
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 HE WAS already thinking of Rita when early 
 next morning he awoke. Sunlight was 
 streaming into his open windows with the 
 fresh salt air. His sleep had miraculously refreshed 
 him. He leaped out of bed like a happy boy, and 
 sang to the accompaniment of his running bath water 
 and the metrical click of his razor on the strop. 
 
 Few people were in the dining room at that early 
 hour, and when, having breakfasted, he passed out 
 to the Boardwalk he was astonished at its emptiness. 
 It was like Wall Street on a Sunday, he reflected; and 
 it occurred to him that there was something as star 
 tling in the spectacle of emptiness where usually there 
 is a crowd, as in the spectacle of crowds in places 
 usually deserted. 
 
 As for a moment he leaned upon the iron railing, 
 drawing deep breaths of mild, invigorating air and 
 watching the surf break on the golden sand, it seemed 
 to him that he had never smelled a breeze so sweet 
 or seen a sun so brilliant. What a pity, he thought, as 
 he walked briskly off, that everyone was not out to 
 enjoy the morning. What a pity that Rita was not 
 up to walk with him. But she had told him that 
 eleven was her hour for rising. 
 
 148
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 4g 
 
 By half-past ten he was back at the hotel, waiting 
 in his room, and promptly at eleven he telephoned to 
 
 His good morning had the sound of a caress 
 How did you sleep?" he asked. 
 "Splendidly. And you?" 
 
 He told of his early start, his walk, the glory of 
 the day. 
 
 "You never saw such a morning. You must 
 hurry and get out." 
 
 "But you won t want to walk any more, will 
 you?" 
 
 "Just try me! When will you be ready?" 
 
 "I ll hurry all I can." 
 
 "Let me come and sit while you have breakfast." 
 
 "I ve had my breakfast." 
 
 "Then let me wait in your parlour while you re 
 getting ready." 
 
 "The piano tuner s there." 
 
 "Oh." He wanted so much to see her. It was 
 hard to wait. 
 
 "I ll meet you in the lobby in an hour," she told him. 
 This morning, however, she was not punctual. 
 Five minutes ten minutes fifteen minutes past the 
 appointed time he sat watching the elevators. There 
 began to return to him dimly, like memories of a 
 nightmare, recollections of other times when he had 
 waited for her thus in vain. Matters were, how 
 ever, on a different footing now; there would be no 
 more of that miserable uncertainty; this was the 
 merest little tardiness.
 
 1 5 o RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Still what was keeping her? She ought surely 
 to be down by now. He would go to his room and 
 ring her up again. He ascended, and alighting from 
 the elevator moved down the corridor; but instead of 
 stopping at his own door, as he had intended to, he 
 continued until he came to hers. As he drew near 
 he heard the muffled sound of a piano, and he was 
 raising his hand to knock when he realized that the 
 music was coming from within. 
 
 Ah, that, then, was the cause of the delay! Nat 
 urally. The piano tuner having completed his work, 
 Rita was trying out the instrument and, artist-like, 
 had lost account of time. 
 
 Without knocking he paused. Save on the night 
 of her dinner party in New York, when she had ac 
 companied herself in "Drink to Me Only with 
 Thine Eyes," he had never heard her play, and he 
 was astounded now by the brilliance of her virtu 
 osity. 
 
 The composition she was playing was not fa 
 miliar to him. It was a strange air, full of curious 
 melancholy cadences. He stood motionless, listen 
 ing, until the last notes had been struck. Then he 
 knocked. 
 
 "Why didn t you let me know that you were 
 playing?" he said to Rita when she opened the 
 door. " I should have loved to sit and listen." 
 
 As he took a step toward her she drew back 
 quickly, raising her hand in warning. 
 
 A young man was seated upon the piano bench.
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 5I 
 
 His back was turned and he did not look around, 
 but it was unmistakably a young back, and there 
 was something youthful, too, in the look of the brown 
 curly hair, thick and short cropped, which stood upon 
 the head like sculptured hair upon a Greek statue. 
 
 "Oh!" said Parrish vaguely, looking at the back. 
 
 "It was Mr. ah Rita paused, giving the 
 
 stranger time to announce his name; then, as he 
 neither spoke nor turned his head, but did a light 
 swift run with his left hand, she raised her voice 
 slightly to indicate to him that he was being spoken 
 to, saying, "I don t think you told me your name?" 
 
 At that the other pivoted slowly. 
 
 "Delaney," he said, looking up at her. 
 
 "This is Mr. Parrish, Mr. Delaney." 
 
 The young man seemed to see Parrish now for the 
 first time. He gave him a nod, making simultane 
 ously a slight throaty sound which the older man 
 interpreted as meaning, "How are you?" 
 
 "How do you do?" said Parrish, advancing and 
 holding out his hand. Meanwhile, he was thinking, 
 "He doesn t mean to be rude; he s shy and awk 
 ward." 
 
 Thus cornered, Mr. Delaney got up from the 
 piano bench and shook hands, hastily, as one who 
 would fain get something over with. Though his 
 hand was not large it was square and strong; there 
 was a nervous quality in the grip it gave, and in its 
 quick escape; Parrish felt as if his hand had been 
 dropped.
 
 1 52 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 The young man s glance was like his handshake. 
 The light-blue eyes, large, intelligent, and slightly 
 prominent, held a vague expression as they encoun 
 tered Parrish s, and they dropped quickly, seeming 
 first to, study the other s scarf and then his watch- 
 chain. 
 
 If Mr. Delaney s manner was unusual, so was his 
 physiognomy. His was not one of those faces that 
 fall conveniently under some everyday classification ; 
 Parrish had never known any one who looked in the 
 least like him, yet he was perplexed by a paradoxical 
 feeling that the face was familiar. It was a Celtic 
 face, although the strongly modelled features had the 
 kind of regularity we associate with the art of classic 
 Greece a fact rendered the more striking by the 
 sculptured hair growing well down upon the fore 
 head. Suddenly Parrish knew why the face had 
 seemed familiar. Mr. Delaney was a prototype of 
 the Hermes of Praxiteles a slenderer Hermes in 
 a shoddy suit of twentieth-century clothing. Of 
 course! Why, he even had the soft cheek of Hermes 
 and the look of immortal youth, albeit Parrish 
 judged his age to be twenty-five or twenty-six. 
 
 Now, wishing to put the other at his ease, the older 
 man spoke cordially. 
 
 "That was a lovely thing you were playing," he 
 said. "I waited outside the door. What was it?" 
 
 Delaney thrust his hands deep into his trousers 
 pockets, bent his head forward as though studying 
 his feet, and took a few steps down the room.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 153 
 
 " You wouldn t know it," he declared. " It s part 
 of a concerto." 
 
 "His own," Rita put in quickly. 
 
 "You don t say!" 
 
 The youth had turned and was now by the piano 
 again. 
 
 "Play it over, won t you?" she said. 
 
 He glanced at her quickly, shaking his head, then 
 looked down at his shoes again. 
 
 "No. I told you I hadn t worked it out." 
 
 "Why, yes, you have. Certainly that andantino 
 movement is 
 
 "Not andantino adagietto," he corrected. 
 
 Rita smiled. 
 
 "There s very little difference," she replied. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," returned Mr. Delaney, show 
 ing the faintest shadow of a frown and raising his 
 voice to a slightly higher tenor note, "but there is 
 every difference. There is exactly the same differ 
 ence as between andante and adagio." 
 
 Parrish looked expectantly at Rita, but she only 
 answered, "Perhaps you re right." 
 
 "Certainly I am right. Otherwise, why the 
 term?" Then, as she failed to reply, but stood gaz 
 ing curiously at him, he said, "Let me show you in 
 this song," and slipping down to the piano bench 
 again, began to play. 
 
 Rita followed him to the piano and stood behind 
 him, watching his hands closely. 
 
 "Here," he said; "when I play it this way it s
 
 154 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 andantino; but if I do it like this, then it s adagietto." 
 He looked around at her. "You see?" 
 
 She dismissed the elucidation with a little nod, 
 asking: 
 
 "Is that yours, too?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Unpublished?" 
 
 "Yes. I ve had nothing published." 
 
 "It s a folksong, isn t it?" 
 
 "An arrangement of Bonnie Doon, " said he. 
 "The familiar arrangement always irritated me. 
 It s such a silly jig-tune." 
 
 To Parrish " Bonnie Doon" was one of several folk 
 songs that were sacred. He remembered his mother s 
 singing it, long ago, at the old square piano, and did not 
 like to hear it spoken of with disrespect. Moreover, 
 he was revising his first impression of Mr. Delaney. 
 
 "Silly jig-tune?" he repeated in a tone slightly 
 hostile. 
 
 "Exactly," replied the other. "It s all chopped 
 up." Then, lifting his light voice in song he cruelly 
 burlesqued the ancient arrangement : 
 
 "Ye banks and braes o bob-bonn-nie Doo-boon, 
 How caa-hann ye bloo-hoom sae fre-hesh and fair " 
 
 "You see?" he said over his shoulder. "The mu 
 sic doesn t fit the words at all." 
 
 " For a good many years," Parrish remarked dryly, 
 "people have been under an impression that they 
 fitted."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 155 
 
 "Well, they don t," said the other. "That s only 
 one of many queer impressions people have. They re 
 full of em. Most people think that air was written 
 for Bonnie Doon, but it wasn t. Not any more 
 than my suit was made for you. It was written for 
 an entirely different song." 
 
 "Nevertheless," pursued Parrish, "I contend that 
 there is a delightful quaintness about it." 
 
 "Oh," said the other, "if you re talking of quaint- 
 ness He gave a shrug. "I m talking about 
 the fitting of music to words." 
 
 "Play your arrangement again," Rita put in 
 quickly. 
 
 Delaney did so. 
 
 " Really," she exclaimed when he had finished, "it s 
 lovely." She looked at Parrish, asking, " Isn t it?" 
 
 "Why, yes," he said; "but- 
 
 "And you mean to say," she went on, "that you 
 haven t published any of these charming things of 
 yours?" 
 
 "I ve sent them around," said he. 
 
 "And nobody would take them?" 
 
 "Nobody except one fly-by-night firm that wanted 
 me to pay to have them published." He smiled up 
 at her. 
 
 "They will take them!" Rita cried. 
 
 "Maybe some day," he returned coolly, still 
 smiling up at her, while his hands fluttered over the 
 keyboard in a light improvisation. "Some day 
 after I m dead, I guess."
 
 I5 6 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 The idea seemed genuinely to amuse him, as if it 
 were a jest, not at his own expense, but at the ex 
 pense of music publishers. His smile was infectious; 
 his face lighted with it, his eyes looked roguish, 
 dimples appeared in his cheeks, and his lips, drawn 
 back, revealed two rows of hard white teeth. 
 Though the young man had incensed him, and though 
 the smile was not for him, Parrish found himself al 
 most betrayed into an answering smile. He checked 
 the impulse. Rita, however, burst into a laugh. 
 
 " If you re planning to die before they publish 
 your arrangement of Bonnie Doon, " she said, 
 "you ll have to hurry up." 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 
 "Because it s going to be published at once!" 
 
 Unmoved, he demanded again, "What makes you 
 think so?" 
 
 "I m going to tell them to that s why!" 
 
 "And you think that when you tell them to 
 
 "Right off!" she answered, amused. Plainly she 
 was delighted with the situation. 
 
 "You just give me the manuscript of that song," 
 she went on, "and two or three other things. I ll 
 take them with me. I ll have contracts drawn. My 
 lawyer will 
 
 "There isn t any manuscript. I ve never written 
 it." 
 
 "Heavens! Make one, then." 
 
 "All right. I suppose I could do it to-night." 
 
 "Not to-night now."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 157 
 
 " I haven t any ruled paper." 
 
 Again she laughed. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I ll rule the paper for you." 
 
 "But my job I ve got four more pianos to tune 
 to-day." 
 
 "Your job!" she repeated scornfully. "Why, 
 it s ridiculous, with your gift tuning pianos! It s 
 a crime!" In her excitement she took him by 
 the shoulder and shook him gently for emphasis. 
 "Don t you ever tune another do you hear!" 
 
 "That s all very well," he answered, "but I have 
 a family to look after. I have to get a certain 
 amount of money every week." 
 
 "Oh," she said, showing mild surprise, "you re 
 married? Children?" 
 
 "No! Married? I should say not! It s my 
 mother and sister." 
 
 "You don t look married," she said. Then dis 
 missing the subject, "Well, anyway, you re coming 
 to New York right off, and I m going to 
 
 " I can t afford to go to New York." 
 
 "You can t afford not to! Don t you understand 
 there s going to be business with music publishers 
 for you to attend to?" As if at the vision of his 
 attending to business she laughed again. 
 
 "You don t seem to get it through your head," he 
 declared doggedly, "that I have my living to make. 
 It s a matter of dollars and cents." 
 
 He was playing his arrangement of " Bonnie Doon " 
 again, pianissimo.
 
 1 58 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Oh," she cried impatiently, "forget those dollars 
 and cents for a minute, won t you?" 
 
 "I can t." 
 
 "But that part is easy!" There was a note of 
 triumph in her voice. "The point is that I m going 
 to sing your songs in concert. Do you see? I ll 
 sing your Bonnie Doon at a benefit next week. 
 You ll accompany me, and when 
 
 "Not in E major," he interrupted. Hastily he 
 transposed the song a half tone lower. " E flat is 
 better for you." 
 
 "No, it isn t! Why is it?" 
 
 There was a sudden crispness in her voice, which 
 Parrish thought boded ill for the young man. But 
 Mr. Delaney was apparently unconscious of the men 
 ace. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he insisted in a matter-of-fact tone, 
 "that song in E major would bring out all the worst 
 notes in your upper register." As he spoke he 
 thumped heavily upon three successive keys. 
 
 Parrish saw Rita clench her fist. There was a mo 
 ment during which she stared speechless at the youth 
 ful back in its wretched belted coat. But though 
 the lightning played for an instant in her eyes it did 
 not strike. When she spoke her tone was calm. 
 
 "Oh, you ve heard me, then?" 
 
 "A dozen times. I worked in New York all last 
 winter. You re wonderful in Louise." 
 
 The little laugh she gave seemed to originate in 
 the region of her solar plexus.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 159 
 
 "Meaning, I suppose, that I m not much good in 
 my other roles?" 
 
 At that he turned around and looked at her ear 
 nestly. 
 
 "Oh, I don t mean that at all! I meant musically. 
 Histrionically, of course, nobody can touch you. 
 Except perhaps in Butterfly." 
 
 Rita grinned. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, "for these very few kind 
 words." 
 
 The other stared at her, puzzled. A flush like that 
 of a rosy baby spread over his face. He rose, pro 
 testing. 
 
 "Oh," he blurted, "I didn t mean to I I didn t 
 mean 
 
 "Never mind what you meant," said Rita, shaking 
 her head hopelessly. Then moving toward the 
 desk, she ordered, "Come over here and write that 
 music." 
 
 Parrish, who had been standing by the French 
 windows leading to the now sunlit balcony, turned 
 quickly. 
 
 " Look here," he said to her, " I if we re not going 
 to get that walk if you re going to write this music 
 there s no use in my hanging around any longer. 
 
 I ll just ah " Without finishing, he moved 
 
 definitely toward the door. 
 
 Leaving Delaney at the desk Rita crossed and laid 
 a detaining hand upon his arm. 
 
 "I m sorry," she said in a low tone, "but you
 
 160 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 see?" With an expressive jerk of the head she 
 indicated the musician, who was already writing 
 busily. "He won t be long. Let s lunch at half- 
 past one up here. We ll have our walk after 
 wards." 
 
 "All right," he said. But even before she pressed 
 his arm and showed him the smile, he was feeling that 
 "all right" was not enough. 
 
 "That will be fine," he added.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WHEN, after a second walk, Parn sh as 
 cended again to Rita s sitting room he 
 found Mr. Delaney all but ready to de 
 part. The young man glanced at him quickly as 
 Rita let him in, then took up his overcoat and made 
 haste to put it on. 
 
 "Let me help you," said Parrish with politeness. 
 Stepping behind the young man he lifted at the 
 collar of the overcoat. But the garment did not 
 slip on easily. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said the other after a moment s 
 struggle. "This sleeve lining is torn." 
 
 He withdrew his arm from one sleeve, then care 
 fully reinserted it and manoeuvred it through. Hav 
 ing donned the coat he turned up the collar as if that 
 were the natural way to wear it; then drawing a 
 checked cloth cap from a pocket with one hand, he 
 reached down with the other and took from the floor 
 a small tan satchel, which, though stamped in imi 
 tation of alligator skin, was plainly made of card 
 board. A muffled clink of tools came from within 
 the bag as he lifted it. 
 
 "Then it s all settled," said Rita, offering her 
 hand. 
 
 161
 
 1 62 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He snatched the hand, shook it quickly, dropped 
 it, and made for the open door, putting on his cap 
 as he went. 
 
 " Don t lose the address," she called after him. 
 
 With one hand upon the outer door knob Delaney 
 paused and turned in the aperture. 
 
 " I ve got it safe," he assured her, but finding him 
 self thus arrested he seemed to have some difficulty 
 in going on again. 
 
 "Well, then " he said in the tentative tone of 
 
 one about to depart; but he still stood there. 
 
 "Au revoir," called Rita, with a characteristically 
 gay wave. 
 
 That seemed to supply the impetus the young man 
 sought; and with a quick smile and a jerky little nod 
 he drew the door shut after him. No sooner had it 
 closed than there came from the hall without a dull 
 crash as of falling dishes. Then voices. The two 
 looked at each other. 
 
 "I m afraid," said Rita slowly "I m afraid he 
 must have run into the waiter with our luncheon." 
 
 "Of course," said Parrish with cynical indiffer 
 ence, "that s precisely what he would do." And 
 he took a few steps away from the door as if to in 
 dicate his disassociation from any disaster in which 
 Mr. Delaney might have become involved. 
 
 "I ll go and see," said Rita, and stepped rapidly 
 toward the door. 
 
 " Hold on ! " he cried, turning sharply. " Don t ! "
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,63 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "He ll come back again!" 
 
 "No, he won t; and, anyway, if it s his fault he 
 can t afford to pay for it." 
 
 Parrish gave in. 
 
 "All right," he said, moving toward the door. 
 "You stay here. I ll go out and see to it." 
 
 Two or three minutes later he came back. 
 
 "Yes, it was our lunch," he said in a fatigued tone. 
 " I fixed the waiter. He s gone down to duplicate the 
 order, and now that Delaney s gone we may get it." 
 
 Rita laughed. 
 
 "Don t you like him?" she asked mischievously. 
 
 "The young whelp!" he burst out. "Why, the 
 way he talked to you talked down to you! A piano 
 tuner! It was the worst piece of impudence I ever 
 heard in my life!" He paced the floor. " I couldn t 
 believe my ears! I wanted to kick him! One thing 
 after another! I kept saying to myself, This is 
 a little too much! Now she s going to nail him! 
 But you didn t. You just took it. Offering to help 
 him, too, after what he d said!" He stopped and 
 stood staring at her. "Think of it!" he went on. 
 "You tell him you ll sing some rotten little song of 
 his some song he had to write because Bonnie 
 Doon isn t good enough for him the same as telling 
 him you ll make him and what does he say? Does 
 he say thank you? No! He tells you you can t 
 sing!"
 
 1 64 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Oh, hardly that!" 
 
 "Practically that. Telling you what keys you 
 can t sing in! Telling you you ve got a lot of bad 
 notes in your upper register! Yes, and thumping 
 them ! Thumping them ! Rita, I can t see why you 
 stood for it. I can t get it through my head." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "He was a dog to do it," she told him, "but it s 
 true." 
 
 " No, it isn t ! And if it were, that would only make 
 it worse. Tell me just to satisfy my curiosity how 
 did you ever come to let him get away with it?" 
 
 She looked thoughtful. 
 
 "Well," she said, "in the first place he s gifted; 
 he really knows. And being gifted, he s queer; one 
 makes allowances. And there s something horribly 
 pathetic about him, so poor and so talented and 
 
 "So rude," he put in. 
 
 "Yes, but he s young. He must be very young. 
 How old do you suppose he is?" 
 
 "Old enough to know better," he answered dourly. 
 And he added, "Those pretty men always look 
 younger than they really are." 
 
 "Yes," she agreed reflectively, "he is good-look- 
 
 ing." 
 
 "Too good-looking!" Parrish mumbled as the 
 waiter knocked at the door. "He ought to have 
 been a girl." 
 
 Presently, at luncheon, he forgot about Delaney. 
 Never, it seemed to him, had Rita been quite so fasci--
 
 RITA COVENTRY 165 
 
 nating. She seasoned the repast with amusing gossip 
 the story of a dog-fight at a rehearsal, a little fight 
 between two little dogs which rapidly became a big 
 fight between two big prima donnas; stories of in 
 trigue in the struggle for fame; droll tales of tempera 
 ment, love, and jealousy, of pranks played upon one 
 another by the singers, and of misadventures during 
 performances, making, for Parrish, successive pic 
 tures of a world new and strange. 
 
 "I ve never been behind the scenes at the opera," 
 he said. 
 
 "You d like to? Come any time I m singing." 
 
 "What do you sing Wednesday night?" he asked. 
 
 " Butterfly, but you d have to come during the 
 first part of the evening. I have a business engage 
 ment later. Wouldn t you rather come Monday- 
 it s Manon and stay all evening?" 
 
 He put his hand over hers upon the table. 
 
 "What a question, when Monday is five days 
 further off than Wednesday! Besides, I love you in 
 Butterfly. You look just like a Toyokuni. I ve 
 always wished I could see you in those costumes, 
 close to." 
 
 " All right," she said. " Come a little before eight. 
 I ll leave word with the doorman." 
 
 Then she rose, passed behind him, and laid her 
 hands upon his shoulders. " My dear," she said, " I m 
 awfully disappointed about something, and like a 
 coward I ve been putting off telling you. I must 
 go back this afternoon."
 
 1 66 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 He turned quickly in his chair and looked up at 
 her, echoing stupidly: 
 
 "This afternoon?" 
 
 "Yes. They long-distanced me while you were 
 out. Isn t it disgusting? It s that idiot Bonata. 
 You remember, I told you about her. She s such a 
 slow study. It s outrageous that they keep her." 
 
 " But why do you have to go back?" he demanded, 
 rising. 
 
 "It s the new opera goes on a week from Mon 
 day. I have several scenes with her, and they ve 
 called a rehearsal for ten o clock to-morrow morn 
 ing." 
 
 "Oh, Rita!" 
 
 " I tried to get them to postpone it," she went on, 
 "but they couldn t. I saw that myself when they 
 explained." She looked disconsolate. "But there s 
 no need for you to come if 
 
 " Don t be ridiculous ! " he cried. " You know per 
 fectly well I couldn t stand it here!" 
 
 "Then," she answered, sighing, "there s nothing 
 to do but pack and order the car." 
 
 Turning away from her he walked with a slow step 
 to the French windows and looked out upon the 
 balcony and the sea as if to bid them farewell. Then 
 he faced her. 
 
 "Well," he said, "they can t take that away from 
 us, anyhow!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE Jersey pines were looming black in the 
 February twilight as the limousine slipped 
 swiftly into Lakewood, and it was dark when, 
 after a light repast, Parrish and Rita resumed their 
 way toward New York. Reaching the city before ten, 
 they drove to her house, where, because of her early 
 rehearsal next morning, they parted on the doorstep. 
 
 "Wednesday night, then, at the opera house," she 
 said in farewell as Pierre opened the outer door. 
 
 Wednesday night and this only Monday! 
 
 At Parrish s own door I to greeted him with his 
 polite Japanese smile. 
 
 "Teregram for you, sir," he said as he carried in the 
 baggage; for I to had the usual Oriental difficulty 
 with the sounds of "1" and "r." 
 
 Parrish knew what the telegram would be. Going 
 to the library he took the yellow envelope from the 
 desk, opened it, and read. Yes, it was from Alice 
 a tautological announcement that she had arrived 
 "safely" in Cleveland. Also there lay upon the 
 desk a special-delivery letter addressed in her fami 
 liar handwriting legible, slightly unformed, above 
 all, honest. 
 
 As the telegram closed with the words "much 
 
 167
 
 1 68 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 love," so the letter opened with the salutation " Dear 
 est," followed by a dash; for dashes served Alice in 
 place of periods, colons, semicolons, and commas. 
 Hurriedly he read the letter: 
 
 George met me at the station with his car and drove me out to 
 the house It was certainly fine to see them all again though 
 of course I miss you terribly dear When I was here before the 
 grading wasn t all finished but now everything looks nice and 
 settled inside and out although it is certainly what you would 
 call "suburban" looking It s a California bungalow type 
 house stucco and brown wood with a second story that you d 
 hardly notice from outside and the furniture is mostly "mis 
 sion" I can see you turn up your nose at that! I don t think 
 Margaret likes mission furniture but George the old dear 
 likes it because it s "solid looking" and all those two ever 
 think of is having everything the way the other wants it You 
 would think them very unsophisticated and they are the way 
 I used to be! but I know you d like them because they are so 
 good and devoted and you d be crazy about the children 
 They have grown so much since I last saw them that I could 
 hardly believe my eyes and they made such a fuss over "Auntie 
 Alice" that it made her cry It certainly is wonderful to have 
 children love you like that and I don t say it because they are 
 Margaret s but they really are remarkable 
 
 I think I cried partly because they are such little darlings and 
 partly because their little arms around my neck somehow made 
 my loneliness for you horribly acute Does that sound crazy 
 dear? Maybe it is but that s how I felt Oh Dick how I do love 
 you! (How Clara would scold me for writing you that and tell 
 ing it to you all the time!) She thinks men are so conceited and 
 selfish because she has never known the right kind of man and 
 that has made her cynical She says a woman is a fool to let a 
 man know she cares because a man tires of a woman when he is 
 so sure of her I don t believe you can lay down any such rule 
 to cover all cases do you ? Anyway I want you to be sure of me ! 
 And it s lucky for me I do! because if I didn t want you to be 
 you would be just the same I couldn t help letting you see
 
 RITA COVENTRY 169 
 
 Oh dearest I m so worried over Margaret! She s so miserable 
 worse than I thought The doctor says she ought to have gone 
 to the Adirondacks two or three weeks ago because though it s 
 just pleurisy she won t get over it in this lake climate at this 
 time of year and it might get worse She has been fighting going 
 because she can t bear to leave George and the children but she 
 is getting frightened about herself now and since I am here she 
 certainly has no excuse But Dick it means a month or six 
 weeks out here for me and I only reproach myself for not having 
 realized and come sooner So I can t go back with you when 
 you come through but I would give anything on earth to see 
 you Couldn t you stop over a train and come up? But if not 
 I could come down and see you for a minute at the train That 
 would help wouldn t it dear? So if you go west be sure to tele 
 graph me in plenty of time 
 
 Well dear I m afraid this epistle isn t any too cheerful sound 
 ing but I do miss you so and this is the nearest I can get to 
 talking to you 
 
 Take care of yourself for my sake dear and don t get too tired 
 You work so hard you know and there are so many germs 
 around one can t be too careful 
 
 1 will write you every day and you must write me as often as 
 you can even if it is only a line just to let me know you are well 
 And perhaps if we get so lonesome for each other we can t stand 
 it any longer we can talk on the long-distance the way we did 
 when I was here before 
 
 Oh Dick you know how I adore you don t you? 
 
 Your loving 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 P S 
 
 You haven t forgotten what the farmer wrote you about the 
 fences at Blenkinswood have you? 
 
 Parrish sighed heavily, tore the letter into small 
 pieces and dropped them into the wastebasket. Out 
 of his welter of conflicting emotions and impulses
 
 1 7 o RITA COVENTRY 
 
 emerged a thought of telephoning to her, but quickly 
 he let it slip back into the welter. He would write. 
 
 He took a sheet of paper from the rack, dipped his 
 pen, and paused. Then he wrote " Dear," and after 
 pausing again, added "est." But when he blotted 
 the word the final syllable, not having dried so long, 
 was perceptibly lighter than the first. 
 
 "Oh, damn it!" he said under his breath. 
 
 He tore up the sheet and let the fragments fall to 
 the basket, where Alice s letter already lay; then 
 rising he went to his room, and put on his bath 
 robe and slippers, whereafter he returned to the 
 desk and sat for a moment, but only to get up again. 
 This time he proceeded to the butler s pantry, where, 
 after picking savagely at the ice, he secured a suit 
 able piece which he washed and deposited in a tall 
 thin glass. Thence he went to the sideboard and, 
 after unlocking it, withdrew a bottle containing an 
 amber fluid. Hastily he poured a generous portion 
 into his glass, and adding water, drank. 
 
 But after that he went back to his desk, took up 
 the telephone, and asked for the telegraph office. 
 
 His night letter to Alice was long, sympathetic, and 
 uninforming. "Am writing," he ended. 
 
 However, he did not write that night, and next 
 morning he was pressed for time; he had been absent 
 from the office for a day; much business would be 
 awaiting him. Moreover, there were errands to be 
 done on the way down. He stopped at his jeweller s, 
 on Fifth Avenue, and was there for the better part
 
 RITA COVENTRY 171 
 
 of an hour, closeted with the head of the firm. 
 Thence he went to his florist s, where he ordered 
 flowers to be "telegraphed" to Cleveland. 
 
 That night at the club he was requisitioned to 
 make a fourth at bridge, so he put into his pocket 
 the letter he had begun, intending to finish it when 
 he got home. But it was late when he got home; 
 and on Wednesday morning there was the office call 
 ing him again, A meeting kept him downtown 
 later than usual, and when, after taking his walk up 
 the Avenue, he reached the apartment, it was practi 
 cally time to dress. Ordinarily, he would have had 
 more time, but to-night he must dine early in order 
 to be at the stage door promptly at a quarter before 
 eight.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 HE WAS even a little ahead of time, but the 
 doorman was expecting him and let him 
 through, sending a young man to pilot him. 
 Parrish had been behind scenes before, but never 
 in such a place as this. Here, as in an ordinary the 
 atre, he was aware of worn gray boards underfoot, 
 of brick walls, crude and solid, and of the pervasive 
 musty smell common to all playhouse stages. He 
 was dimly conscious, as he moved along, of innum 
 erable ropes and cables running aloft, of cyclopean 
 lighting devices to be avoided, of furniture and prop 
 erties piled in corners, and of the brutal bareness of 
 unpainted canvas. Yet this stage, because of its 
 vast size, was unlike any other. It was cosmic. In 
 its dim vistas workmen were but gnomes; beyond the 
 towering bulk of the scene set for the first act lay 
 an undiscovered country; the dark, deep spaces of 
 the fly gallery, above, had the remoteness of a mid 
 night sky. Following the young man, Parrish began 
 to feel that life itself, becoming touched with mad 
 ness, had turned its clothing wrong side out and gone 
 to masquerading. 
 
 Turning a corner and leading the way up sev 
 eral carpeted steps, the pilot knocked upon a metal 
 
 172
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 73 
 
 door, and upon receiving an answer from within, de 
 parted, leaving Parrish standing there. 
 
 Almost immediately the door was opened nar 
 rowly, showing a maid in a frilled cap. 
 
 "Monsieur Parrish?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She opened the door wider, saying "Entrez, s il 
 vous plait, monsieur," and as she relieved him of hat, 
 overcoat, and cane, continued, "Mademoiselle vous 
 demande mille pardons, monsieur, mais elle n est pas 
 encore habillee. Donnez-vous la peine de vous 
 asseoir, monsieur?" 
 
 Selecting the most comfortable of the wicker chairs 
 Parrish obediently sat down, and as the maid de 
 parted to the next room, began to entertain himself 
 by inspecting his surroundings. Long and narrow, 
 the room had the dimensions of a rather large hall 
 bedroom; there was a window of dull bevelled glass, 
 white and blind like an eye with a cataract, but Par 
 rish had a feeling that the apartment hardly knew 
 the light of day, much less the sunlight. Without 
 its mirrors, bright electric lights, and chintz, it would 
 have been a very gloomy place. The chintz, which 
 was of cream colour with a running pattern of rose 
 wreaths, dominated the place. It covered the walls 
 and the couch; the window and the door leading to 
 the dressing room were curtained with it; it had been 
 used for upholstering the chairs. A label-covered 
 wardrobe trunk standing in one corner, a small table 
 and a writing desk of cream-coloured enamel, some
 
 174 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 mirrors, photographs, and vases of flowers, half-heart 
 edly attempted to dispute the sway of the rose- 
 wreath pattern, but the mirrors reflected it and the 
 other objects were but spots against it. Even a 
 great sheaf of American Beauty roses, standing in a 
 vase resembling an enormous megaphone of brass, 
 became inconspicuous against those serpentines of 
 printed roses on the walls. 
 
 His attention was attracted by some caricatures 
 of operatic figures, and he rose to look at them. 
 They were drawn by a famous tenor whose talent for 
 distorted portraiture was often mentioned in the 
 newspapers, and among them was a wicked sketch 
 of Rita, in Melisande s trailing tresses, with her mouth 
 wide open. He was looking disapprovingly at this 
 when he heard the clink of curtain rings behind 
 him, as the portiere at the dressing-room door was 
 thrust back, and Rita s voice calling to him to come 
 in. 
 
 The maid stood aside in the doorway as he entered, 
 then withdrew, closing the door after her. 
 
 Rita was seated at a long dressing table with 
 triple mirrors strongly lighted, when, pausing in the 
 final processes of making up, she turned her head to 
 greet him. The silken kimono, brocaded obi, and 
 convoluted wig of glistening coal-black hair, were 
 those of Madame Butterfly, but richly picturesque as 
 the Japanese costume was, his glance at it was cur 
 sory. It was her face that held him. He stared at 
 it, disconcerted. For though there was a trace of
 
 RITA COVENTRY 175 
 
 Rita in the eyes, disguised with heavy make-up 
 the lashes beaded with oily black, the inner corners 
 dotted with red, the outer corners lined obliquely to 
 give an Oriental tilt and though it was her voice 
 that spoke to him from behind that mask of grease 
 paint and powder, he could not feel that this was 
 she. Like the lad in the fairy tale whose loved one 
 is transformed by witchcraft into another shape, he 
 shared memories with the extraordinary being before 
 him, yet felt that she was a stranger to him. 
 
 With an instinctive desire to overcome this sense 
 of unreality he went back to the subject of which 
 they had last spoken, asking, "How did the re 
 hearsal go yesterday?" 
 
 She was leaning toward the mirror, giving a final 
 touch of colour to her lower lip. 
 
 "Lasted all day," she said, as if speaking to her 
 own reflection. 
 
 Turning her head from side to side she inspected 
 critically the fit of her wig; then with both hands she 
 pressed it down more firmly. 
 
 Meanwhile Parrish, anxious to break through this 
 sense of remoteness, and seeking her eyes, moved be 
 hind her and looked at her in the glass. 
 
 "Did you get very tired?" he asked. 
 
 She turned quickly. 
 
 "Oh, don t do that!" she cried. "Don t look at 
 me in the glass when you re talking to me. It s un 
 lucky!" 
 
 He smiled.
 
 1 76 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 " I didn t know that you were superstitious." 
 
 " I suppose we all are. Things here depend so 
 much on luck. Don t you remember we were 
 speaking of that the other day? For instance "- 
 her laugh was a little bit apologetic "we are super 
 stitious about whistling in the dressing room. It 
 brings bad luck to whoever is nearest the door. And 
 I wouldn t dare have any shoes on a shelf higher than 
 my head. That s awful poverty, disaster, death! 
 And yesterday I didn t sing the last few measures 
 of the opera. I never do until the first night. 
 And there s an old superstition about 
 
 " I hope," he put in, "that there is none about re 
 ceiving a gift in the dressing room, because I ve 
 brought you this." 
 
 From an inside pocket he drew a flat leather- 
 covered box, and placed it before her on the table. 
 
 She seized his hand. 
 
 "Oh, you dear! How dear of you!" Then, press 
 ing the button which released the lid of the box, and 
 discovering, in its black velvet nest, a flexible linked 
 bracelet of platinum, set with square diamonds, chic 
 and costly, she cried out again, "Oh, it s lovely! 
 You extravagant boy!" 
 
 Pulling back one kimono sleeve she slipped the 
 bracelet on her arm and, holding it away from her, 
 gazed at it admiringly. Then, rising and taking 
 both his hands, she exclaimed, "I d like to hug 
 you! But I mustn t. This liquid powder rubs off." 
 
 "I ll take a chance!" he said.
 
 RITA COVENTRY i 77 
 
 " But I won t," she returned, laughing. " I have 
 to go on too soon." 
 
 As if in confirmation of her words the maid 
 knocked at the door, announcing: 
 
 " Le prelude va commencer, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Bien, Sophie." She beckoned her, and taking of? 
 the bracelet placed it in Sophie s hand, saying, "Look 
 at the beautiful thing monsieur has given me!" 
 Then, as the maid admired, she added, "Now you 
 take good care of it, Sophie!" And to Fairish, "I 
 hate to take it off, but it might be noticed from the 
 front and of course it is out of character." 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 He was disappointed. He wanted her to wear it. 
 With it on she seemed more to belong to him. 
 
 "Now come," said she, "and I ll show you where 
 to stay and watch the act," and she led the way out 
 through the anteroom, down the steps and to the 
 stage. 
 
 The scene, showing the Japanese house with its 
 terrace and garden on a hilltop overlooking the town 
 and bay of Nagasaki, was fully set, and the footlights 
 and borders were aglare. Two singers, costumed 
 for the parts of Pinkerton and Goro, were standing 
 at one side, well back, prepared to be "discovered" 
 when the curtain should rise. 
 
 This obvious readiness made Parrish nervous as 
 he walked across the stage at Rita s side. "What if 
 the curtain should suddenly ascend!" he was think 
 ing to himself. And when, just as he was thinking
 
 178 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 that, the first violins vigorously attacked the be 
 ginning of the overture he was startled to the point 
 of panic. To be caught out there in the middle of 
 the stage a nightmare! He looked anxiously at 
 Rita, but she reassured him with a smile. 
 
 When the curtain did rise they were safely off the 
 scene, seated in two gilt chairs behind the concealing 
 proscenium arch and its appendant draperies. Hith 
 erto the music had been muffled by the curtain, but 
 now there came a burst of sound from the entire choir 
 of strings, and simultaneously a feeling of air in cir 
 culation between stage and auditorium, and of a 
 great dark something out there beyond the foot 
 lights, very quiet but very much alive. 
 
 From their vantage point they watched the bus 
 tling Goro exhibiting the little house to the American 
 naval officer; the scene with Suzuki, the servant; the 
 arrival of the American consul, Sharpless. Then 
 came Pinkerton s aria, whimsically introducing a 
 snatch of "The Star-Spangled Banner," and the amus 
 ing passage with its convivial invitation the Eng 
 lish words "milk punch or whisky?" leaping out so 
 startlingly from the mellifluous Italian text. 
 
 Presently, motioning to him to remain seated, 
 Rita rose. 
 
 "My cue soon," she whispered, and left him. 
 
 Soon after, he heard the little hubbub of women s 
 voices that precedes the entrance of Butterfly; then 
 softly, in Rita s thrilling soprano, the recitative: 
 " Ancora un passo or via," with music mounting like
 
 RITA COVENTRY 179 
 
 the hillside steps she was supposed to have climbed; 
 and following immediately on this still from a 
 little distance her happy song of love. 
 
 The wistful story of this opera and the passionate 
 yearning of its melodies had always moved Parrish, 
 but now he felt a new emotion. This was not 
 Coventry in "Madame Butterfly" it was the woman 
 he loved. Breathlessly he awaited the first vision 
 of her on the brow of the hill, his heart thumping 
 thickly; but when, after repeating the plaintive, "I 
 have come at the call of love," she appeared, he 
 could see her but dimly through tears standing in 
 his eyes. Startled and chagrined at his emotion, 
 he hastily brushed them away with the back of his 
 hand. 
 
 Thenceforward he sat spellbound, listening for 
 Rita s voice, watching her every gesture. How per 
 fectly she simulated the mannerisms of a gentle 
 little Japanese! How expressive her hands! And 
 how small she looked or was it only that the tenor 
 was so big and fat? "Young lieutenant" with 
 those dimensions! There was something unmanly 
 about tenors, anyway. Come to think of it, he had 
 never known any man with a high voice to make 
 good in business. 
 
 The wedding guests arrived upon the scene, the 
 ceremony was performed and the company departed, 
 leaving Butterfly and Pinkerton alone. Their wed 
 ding night. The footlights had been growing dim 
 mer; stars began to show through the back drop.
 
 i8o RITA COVENTRY 
 
 The music! Nobody could equal Puccini as a com 
 poser of these throbbing, passionate love songs. 
 
 " Ti serro palpitante," sang the tenor, and suiting 
 the action to the word, seized her in his arms. 
 
 That was the beastly thing about a woman s being 
 on the stage: she must submit to being handled by 
 such louts! 
 
 But in spite of his aversion for the tenor he was 
 again deeply moved by the fiery surge of the big 
 duet with which the act ended, as Pinkerton led 
 Butterfly to the nuptial chamber. 
 
 Slowly, like a great cloud drifting across a moun 
 tain top, the curtain floated down, while, from the 
 space beyond, swept applause which made Parrish 
 think of the roar of rain on a tin roof. 
 
 As the magnificent footman drew back a corner of 
 the heavy tableau curtain to pass the singers out for 
 the first encore, Parrish stood up and peered through 
 the aperture. In the dim auditorium he could see 
 the people in the boxes nearest the proscenium arch 
 the men a background for the women proud 
 women with white shoulders and vivid plumed fans, 
 who, because of the blinding glare of the footlights 
 in his eyes, looked unreal to him, like paper figures 
 cut from fashion magazines. 
 
 Then, as the singers moved out before the curtain, 
 the applause rolled louder. He watched them taking 
 hands, smiling, bowing to each other and to the audi 
 ence, their faces sharply lighted from beneath, like 
 the faces of ballet girls in Degas paintings.
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,81 
 
 Finally, after many encores, Rita alone, with the 
 brilliance beating on the youthful contours of her 
 chin and throat; then suddenly, through the air, 
 flowers falling, seeming to come from nowhere, and 
 men s voices in the distance calling "Brava!" 
 
 Her arms were full of flowers when she came to 
 him. 
 
 "I must hurry!" she said. "I have to be on at 
 the beginning of the next act, you know. I don t 
 believe it s worth your staying while I change." 
 
 "Your engagement" he began interrogatively, as 
 they moved toward her dressing room "that 
 business you spoke of it hasn t by any chance 
 been 
 
 "No, I m sorry," she broke in. 
 
 "I ll run along, then," he said, still with a faint 
 tentativeness. 
 
 "I m afraid you ll have to," she agreed as they 
 reached the anteroom. She was speaking rapidly, 
 like a busy executive to whom time is everything. 
 "Why don t you go out front and hear the rest from 
 there? Here" she snatched an envelope from 
 the desk, scribbled a few words on it in pencil, and 
 thrust it into his hand. "Take that to the box 
 office. Ask for Mr. Spiegel. He ll give you a seat 
 if there s one to be had. Now I really must- 
 She turned toward the door of the inner room. 
 
 "Thanks," he said. "Shall I come back for you 
 afterwards?" 
 
 "Oh, no. I ll be very late." The words came
 
 1 82 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 over her shoulder. But from the doorway she 
 looked back, exclaiming, "Oh I almost forgot! 
 Come to dinner Sunday night." 
 
 With that she disappeared. 
 
 "Thanks, I will," he said to the chintz curtain, 
 and taking up hat, coat, and stick, left the room. 
 
 Of course she was in an awful hurry no doubt 
 about that. She just didn t have time to think. 
 And she was pleased with the bracelet he could see 
 that when she thanked him. No particular reason 
 why she should speak of it again. 
 
 She couldn t mean that he wasn t to see her until 
 Sunday. Impossible! She just wanted to be sure 
 he wouldn t make another engagement for Sunday 
 night. Yes, that must be it. 
 
 He passed through the stage door and walked up 
 the side street toward the front of the building to 
 find the lobby full of men in evening dress, smoking. 
 And when he pushed the envelope through the box- 
 office window, "There s not a single orchestra chair 
 left," said Mr. Spiegel. "Will you take the manage 
 ment s box?" 
 
 Parrish thanked him and took the coupons. 
 
 The box, which an usher unlocked for him, was 
 near the centre of the horseshoe. A brass plate on 
 the door bore the name of the impresario, and a like 
 plate on the next door informed Parrish that the ad 
 joining box was that of Hermann Krauss. If he were 
 to go in now and sit down at the front, and Krauss 
 should be in his own box, he would have to talk with
 
 RITA COVENTRY 183 
 
 him; and he was not in humour to talk. He took a 
 chair at the rear, where the high partition sheltered 
 him from view. 
 
 Just what was her business about, he wondered 
 not that it was any particular affair of his, but what 
 sort of business arrangements did opera singers 
 make? Of course they had contracts. No doubt 
 Rita s lawyer looked them over for her. He hoped 
 he was a good lawyer. But did they sign contracts 
 at night in dressing rooms? That didn t seem 
 very businesslike. You d think they d go to the 
 manager s office or to the lawyer s office or that 
 the lawyer would come to the singer s house. Artis 
 tic people were notoriously careless about business. 
 And she made so much money probably with her it 
 was easy come, easy go. What she needed was the 
 advice of a good sound business man. She might do 
 a lot worse than to consult him about some of these 
 things. 
 
 Now the house was darkened and the cur 
 tain rose. The affecting melodies, and his own 
 emotions as he saw Rita a tiny figure in that 
 great gold-framed picture and heard her voice 
 carrying through those vast spaces, combined to 
 produce in him a state of mournful intoxication in 
 which he remained until, as the opera was about to 
 end, people in the parterre boxes began to steal 
 away to get to their limousines before the rush of 
 the general exodus should begin. He decided to go, 
 too. If he waited to the very end and went out
 
 1 84 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 with the crowd he was almost certain to meet people 
 he knew. 
 
 Having told his chauffeur to keep out of the jam 
 by parking in a side street, over toward Sixth Avenue, 
 he went out through the main entrance, and headed 
 up Broadway, intending to cross at the next corner, 
 but the street was crowded and he had to wait on 
 the curb. He glanced back toward the stage door. 
 
 He supposed that she would take off her make-up 
 before seeing to that business. 
 
 A street car stopped ; a man jumped off, came dodg 
 ing through the traffic, and brushed by him as he 
 hurried down the street. Struck by something fa 
 miliar in the man s appearance Parrish turned and 
 looked after him. He was walking rapidly; the 
 collar of his overcoat was turned up, and he wore a 
 checked cloth cap. Yes, something familiar. Suddenly 
 he got it. If it wasn t that piano tuner from Atlan 
 tic City it was someone mighty like him! 
 
 He stood looking after him, but as he looked the 
 young man was lost to view in the crowd that was 
 beginning to emerge from the carriage entrance near 
 the stage door.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 EVIDENTLY Rita had not meant to put him 
 off until Sunday, for next morning she 
 called him up at his office. She wanted to 
 thank him again for the bracelet, she said; she hadn t 
 had a chance to thank him properly last night, she 
 was so rushed. She had the bracelet on now. She 
 loved it. She was going to wear it this evening to 
 dinner. It would be perfect with a black velvet 
 evening gown she had. 
 
 So she was going out to dinner! 
 
 "What are you going to do to-morrow night?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Some people are coming up to talk about a tour 
 to the Pacific Coast. But I tell you I m going to 
 the dressmaker s in the afternoon. Wouldn t it 
 amuse you to come around there? And we could go 
 out to tea after." 
 
 That day at lunch Parrish told his partner, Stuart 
 Bement, that the period of depression which had 
 so long been afflicting the country was, in his opinion, 
 about over. This was a good market to buy in. By 
 June conditions would be normal. 
 
 Yes, he was feeling optimistic. He carried his 
 optimism up town with him that evening, down in 
 
 185
 
 1 86 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 the morning, and up again when in the late afternoon 
 he went to meet Rita. 
 
 The name of her dressmaker had long been fami 
 liar to him; it was mentioned with respect by the 
 best-dressed women he knew, and he himself had 
 often found his eyes drawn to the double tier of win 
 dows, wide and sumptuous, in which its latest cos 
 tumes were exhibited to the passing Avenue; but he 
 had never entered it before; and now, as he did so, 
 he found himself a little ill at ease. Vaguely he was 
 aware of counters, showcases, and wardrobes of pol 
 ished wood and shining plate glass, holding all man 
 ner of feminine equipment; and although it was so 
 obviously put there to be looked at, he had an in 
 stinct not to look. To have looked would have seemed 
 an impropriety. Yet why? These things, which 
 suggested to the corner of his eyes that they were 
 dainty, sheer, and ribbony, belonged to an incorpor 
 ated company. Why did woman s dress seem so 
 much more personal than man s not only her under 
 dress, not only a dress belonging to some specific 
 woman, but even a frock in a shop window? 
 
 There approached him a being shapely in an 
 almost startlingly plain black dress. With her honey- 
 coloured hair she had the air of mounting toward 
 him like a sunlit breaker gracefully rising to a 
 crest. Then, her head a little to one side, she raised 
 her lined eyebrows in polite interrogation. 
 
 He answered with, "I m looking for Miss Cov 
 entry."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 187 
 
 "Oh, yes." Immediately she was smiling and 
 gracious. She undulated to the elevators, pressed 
 the button for him and, when the boy opened the 
 door, enunciated with careful elegance, "Let this 
 gentleman off at the fawth flaw, please." 
 
 The fourth floor differed from the first in that the 
 latter was a place of finished things; the former a 
 place of things not quite finished. Except for chairs 
 the room was unfurnished; there were long threads 
 on the gray-green carpet, and opposite the elevators 
 a battery of fitting-rooms, gray panelled, with lights 
 shining from within through bevelled glass. 
 
 As he emerged from the elevator two black-clad 
 women stepped toward him. 
 
 "Miss Coventry?" he asked. 
 
 Ah, yes! Like destroyers picking up a merchant 
 man they swerved and convoyed him. 
 
 "The gentleman s here, Miss Coventry," called 
 one, rapping at a fitting-room door. 
 
 "Just a minute," came Rita s voice; whereat the 
 convoy, having brought him to his anchorage, sailed 
 away. 
 
 Presently the door was opened by a middle-aged 
 woman wearing steel-rimmed spectacles. 
 
 Rita was facing him, posed like a manikin, with 
 arms slightly extended. From her shoulders hung a 
 trailing scarf of silvery fabric, very thin, which, at 
 tached to bracelets on either wrist, made a back 
 ground resembling a pair of soft, half-spread wings. 
 The gown itself was of brocade, sapphire blue and
 
 1 88 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 silver, cut to a deep V in front and held in place by 
 the slightest of shoulder-straps. 
 
 "Beautiful!" he exclaimed, looking at her white 
 arms. 
 
 The fitter, moving behind her, gave a final touch 
 to the scarf. Simultaneously a saleswoman entered. 
 
 "Here s that little frock, dearie," she said, exhibit 
 ing a handful of shell-pink chiffon over lace. "It s 
 just come in. You re the very first to see it. It s 
 lucky you re here! Mr. S. says right away Now 
 there s a creation for Miss Coventry. Put it aside 
 for her. Aren t those little rosebuds sweet, though? 
 I ve never sold you a frock like t his, dearie, and I cer 
 tainly do want you to have it. It s so sympathetic." 
 
 "This is Miss McCafferty," said Rita, introducing 
 him. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you, I m sure," said the young 
 woman. 
 
 "She s a burglar," Rita went on, "but she does 
 know how to dress me." 
 
 Miss McCafferty rolled her bright-blue Irish eyes 
 in humorous protest. 
 
 "Why, dearie! How can you say such a thing? 
 Now, just to show you, I m going to let you have 
 this little dress at a real sacrifice." 
 
 "It s too young for me," said Rita, after looking 
 at it appraisingly. 
 
 Miss McCafferty turned to Parrish with mock 
 hopelessness. 
 
 "C n you beat it?" she demanded. "With her
 
 RITA COVENTRY ,89 
 
 looks!" And to Rita: "Dearie, you know perfickly 
 well you can wear anything!" 
 
 " I haven t time to try it on to-day," said Rita. 
 
 But Miss McCafferty was prepared to work fast. 
 
 "I ll have a model slip it on for you," said she, 
 and thrusting her head out of the door she shrilled 
 "Claire!" and passed the gown out to unseen hands. 
 Then as Rita was about to change, Parrish followed 
 the fitter from the room and waited outside the door. 
 
 He had waited but a moment when there appeared 
 a youthful model, in the shell-pink gown, looking 
 like a baby cloud at sunset. She entered the fitting- 
 room where from over the partition he could hear 
 their voices and did not emerge until Rita came 
 out dressed for the street. 
 
 " You make no mistake in taking that little frock," 
 assured Miss McCafferty as they stood by the ele 
 vator. " It ll make you look like an anngenoo. It s 
 so sympathetic! Well, good-bye, dearie. Come in 
 soon again." And with a little bow to Parrish: 
 "Glad to ve met you, I m sure." 
 
 For tea they went to a neighbouring hotel, where 
 there was a dark wainscoted dining room with tables 
 not too close together, each with a softly glowing 
 lamp, red shaded, somehow suggestive of confidences. 
 Most of the tables were occupied by couples intent 
 upon their own low-voiced conversation. 
 
 "This place always amuses me," said Rita as they 
 sat. "It s known far and wide as a place where 
 people go when they don t want to be seen. So
 
 190 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 they all come here and see each other, and pretend 
 they don t." 
 
 Over the tea he found an opportunity to speak of 
 something that was on his mind. 
 
 " By the way, I thought I caught sight of that 
 young piano tuner the other night? " The statement 
 was a question. 
 
 "Yes; he came around to see me." 
 
 "At the opera, the night I was there?" 
 
 "For a minute, yes." 
 
 "Are you going to sing his songs?" 
 
 She nodded. " I told him I would, you know." 
 
 "Well," he declared emphatically, "all I ve got to 
 say is that young man ought to be mighty grateful 
 to you." 
 
 "He ought to be," she agreed, "but he doesn t 
 show any signs of it yet. I ve been wondering about 
 it. Anyway, we are working out some plans to push 
 his songs." 
 
 " In spite of his ingratitude, eh?" 
 
 "But he s a genius." 
 
 "Huh!" said Parrish. "Genius is an overworked 
 word. Nowadays any one who manufactures a dinky 
 little automobile, or paints a picture that looks as if 
 a defective child had done it, or raises the biggest 
 squash in the county, gets himself called a genius." 
 
 Since seeing Delaney so near the opera house he 
 had given the case of that young man some thought, 
 and he was prepared now to state his conclusions; 
 but Rita dismissed the topic, saying lightly, "Per-
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 9 i 
 
 haps you re right; he may not be a genius. But I 
 assure you he is a new type to me, and odd types 
 have always interested me." 
 
 "Certainly you ve seen enough of them," he said, 
 diverted. "Lord, what a lot of people you know! 
 And they seem to know you so well, too or think 
 they do. I think / do. When I m with you I think 
 so, but away from you I sometimes get the feeling 
 that I don t know you so very well, after all that 
 I ve lost you to whatever people you happen to be 
 with at the time. And who are they all? I try to 
 imagine where you are, but most of the time it s all 
 vague. I don t know enough of your life to make a 
 mental picture of it. Why don t I? That s what I 
 want to know. You don t seem to me to be a se 
 cretive person." 
 
 "No," she answered, "I m naturally frank, I 
 think." Then, smiling faintly: "But supposing I 
 were secretive would you expect me to tell you so 
 or be secretive about it?" 
 
 He laughed, but this time held firmly to his 
 point. 
 
 "I ve never felt this way before," he continued. 
 "I can t figure it out. It makes me restless. I want 
 you to know all about me, and I should think you d 
 want me to know all about you. Haven t you felt 
 that way about people you ve cared for? There was 
 a girl I cared for a great deal and I could come pretty 
 near reading every thought in her head." 
 
 "And are you still interested in her?" Rita asked.
 
 192 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "She was awfully sweet," said he. "I shall al 
 ways have a mighty tender feeling for her." 
 
 Rita looked at her jewelled wrist watch. 
 
 "It s getting late," she said. "I must be going." 
 
 As they were waiting for the check he pursued his 
 earlier thought. 
 
 " I want you to see my apartment," he told her. 
 " I have some old things that will interest you. Will 
 you come down and dine with me some night soon?" 
 
 "I d love to, sometime when I m not so rushed." 
 
 "Well, anyway," he said, knowing better than to 
 press the matter, " I ll see you Sunday night."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HOWEVER, he was not to see her on Sunday 
 night. 
 Next morning he had a protracted talk over 
 the long-distance telephone with the manager of 
 Parrish & Bement s Chicago office. 
 
 "All right," he said rather irritably at the close of 
 the conversation, "either Mr. Bement or I will be out 
 there on Monday. Probably Mr. Bement this time." 
 
 But when he went into his partner s room and sug 
 gested to him that it was his turn to make the 
 Chicago journey, he found him obdurate. The idea 
 of opening a Chicago office had originated with Par 
 rish, and that office had always been regarded in the 
 firm as Parrish s particular concern. But that was 
 not all. The journey that Bement was momentarily 
 expecting to embark upon was not to Chicago, but 
 to his home on Long Island, Mrs. Bement s doctor 
 having informed him that it was probably only a 
 matter of hours before his presence would be ur 
 gently required. 
 
 Parrish endeavoured to express a proper sympa 
 thetic interest in the approaching ordeal of parent 
 hood. Well, there was nothing else for it he would 
 have to go to Chicago himself. It was unavoidable 
 
 193
 
 194 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 He must call up Rita and let her know he couldn t 
 come. What vile luck! Who would be there Sun 
 day night? He supposed she d get some man to 
 take his place. Who would it be? Who would be 
 in his place, at her right? 
 
 He always felt uneasy about ringing Rita up, 
 since telephoning to her was connected in his mind 
 with disappointments; but this morning, rather to his 
 surprise, Pierre admitted that she was at home, and a 
 moment later he heard her voice. 
 
 "Oh, that s too bad," she said when he had broken 
 the news to her. 
 
 "Yes, and I may have to be out there a week," he 
 answered gloomily. 
 
 "Well be sure to let me hear from you when you 
 get back." 
 
 "When I get back?" he repeated. "Isn t there 
 some way of my seeing you before I go?" 
 
 "When do you leave?" 
 
 "To-morrow afternoon two forty-five." 
 
 "Wait till I look up my engagement list." She 
 began to ruminate aloud: "Urn let s see Sunday. 
 No, I don t think unless you I tell you: I 
 have to be downtown at three to-morrow afternoon. 
 How would you like me to drive you to the station?" 
 
 "That will be great!" he cried. Then his voice 
 became tender. "And there s something else I 
 want, Rita: your photograph. I want to have it 
 with me." 
 
 "I ll bring you one."
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 95 
 
 "Thanks, dear and write on it, will you?" 
 "Yes. About quarter after two, then?" 
 
 He was waiting, with his baggage, in the lower hall 
 next afternoon when her trim little French landaulet 
 stopped at the door. He was becoming nervous; 
 but she wasn t so very late; and Fifth Avenue wasn t 
 crowded on Sunday they could drive down quickly. 
 
 "You brought the photograph?" he asked eagerly 
 as they drove off. 
 
 She handed it to him. He slipped it out of the 
 glazed paper envelope. 
 
 "Oh," he exclaimed, "as the Festival Queen in 
 Louise ! Lovely!" 
 
 But secretly he was a little disappointed not with 
 the photograph, but with the inscription: "Faith 
 fully yours, Rita Coventry." He often signed his 
 letters to men friends "Faithfully yours." He 
 couldn t help wishing she had at least written "To 
 Dick" or better than that, since the picture showed 
 her as Louise, she might have written those lines 
 from the opera which would always have for him a 
 significance so tender: 
 
 Pourquoi serais-je belle 
 
 Si ce nest pour etre aim ee? 
 
 Still, when you really thought about it, that word 
 "faithfully" could mean a great deal. He opened 
 the suitcase on the floor in front of him and gently 
 placed the photograph within.
 
 196 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 " Do you know I ve never had a letter from you?" 
 he said. "Not even a little note." He slipped off 
 his glove and took her white-gloved hand, which was 
 lying in her lap. "Send me a line out to Chicago, 
 will you, Rita?" 
 
 "I ll try," she answered; but the little chuckle 
 that followed the remark disconcerted him. " I got 
 a letter from a cowboy yesterday," she explained. 
 " He said he saw my picture in a magazine, and be 
 wants me to write to him." 
 
 He smiled dimly. 
 
 Ah, what a short glimpse of her this little ride 
 gave him; already they were halfway to the sta 
 tion. 
 
 "To-night, when you are going in to dinner," he 
 said, "you can think of me sitting alone in the dining 
 car." 
 
 "It s a shame you have to go," she answered, 
 pressing his hand. 
 
 " I made a desperate effort to get out of it," he 
 told her, and with feeling added: "I simply loathe 
 to leave you. I hope you re going to miss me?" 
 
 "It s this getting away that s the hard part," she 
 sympathized. "The break of leaving. But it won t 
 be so bad when you get there. You ll be busy. 
 You ll be back before you know it." 
 
 " But your dinner " he began. 
 
 "Oh, I ll be giving other dinners." 
 
 "And don t forget that you re coming to dine 
 with me. I tell you: I ll wire you from Chicago as
 
 RITA COVENTRY i 97 
 
 soon as I know when I ll be home again. Then you 
 can save the first free evening." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "You won t mind coming alone? I thought I 
 wouldn t ask anybody else unless you think ap 
 pearances might 
 
 "Appearances?" she broke in with a little laugh. 
 "You re right you don t know me. I can t be 
 bothered with such things. I go where I please." 
 She laughed again. " I m not quite so emancipated, 
 though, as some people in the opera. Apparently 
 some of them regard gossip as an asset good ad 
 vertising." 
 
 "As soon as I get back then!" he said almost 
 gayly as the car passed under the overhanging cliffs 
 of Grand Central Station; and as a porter advanced 
 to open the door he let go her hand and exclaimed 
 in a low voice, "I love you, dear!" 
 
 The man took his bags and he alighted. 
 
 "Where shall I tell him to drive?" he asked, paus 
 ing, hat in hand, and thinking how luxurious she 
 looked against the soft upholstery. 
 
 "The Discaphone studios he knows." 
 
 "Making records on Sunday?" 
 
 "Yes; they do it for me because I m so busy 
 through the week." 
 
 "What are you singing?" 
 
 "Bonnie Doon/" she replied. 
 
 Some taxicabs had driven up behind them, and 
 now, unable to proceed, set up a hooting of horns
 
 198 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 which reverberated raucously in that cavernous 
 space. 
 
 Quickly he closed the door. The car flashed away. 
 He turned and followed the porter into the busy con 
 course of the station. 
 
 Sometime during the night he was awakened by 
 a silence. The train was creeping to a standstill. 
 Wondering where he might be, he raised the curtain, 
 looked out, and recognized the dingy Cleveland 
 station. The train stopped; the airbrakes sighed 
 wistfully. 
 
 Alice! Alice very near! The train wasn t sched 
 uled to stop at Cleveland, and even if it had been, 
 she could not have come down at such an hour. It 
 was really kinder, then, not to have let her know that 
 he was passing through. He should have written to 
 her, though. He ought to have done that. He 
 really should have finished that letter to her when he 
 came across it in his pocket a day or two ago. But 
 he would write her from Chicago. 
 
 Come to think of it, he hadn t heard from her in 
 some time. Almost a week. And she had said that 
 she was going to write to him every day. What did 
 her silence mean? He hoped her sister wasn t worse. 
 
 Vaguely, as a background to his thoughts, he was 
 aware of the metallic clanging of journal-box doors 
 being slammed shut, one after another, as an in 
 spector worked his way along beside the train: first 
 far off, then nearer, then on the front of the car he
 
 RITA COVENTRY , 99 
 
 was in. Now he could see the moving light of the 
 man s lantern. 
 
 Poor Alice! Not in the whole world was there a 
 sweeter, gentler spirit! 
 
 The inspector passed beneath the window, his 
 lantern making a revealing flare around him. The 
 light penetrated the dusty double panes, and there 
 was a moment when, for Parrish, the inner darkness 
 was dispelled. 
 
 He had treated Alice badly. He had been selfish, 
 cruel. Now for the first time he acknowledged the 
 truth. And the truth stabbed him. 
 
 The sound of the slamming of journal-box doors 
 grew faint in the distance; the train began to move; 
 it slipped out into the night. But Parrish felt it 
 now an unrelenting force, like Fate, which had him 
 in its clutches and was drawing him away. For a 
 long time he lay there in the darkness thinking of 
 Alice, his heart filled with loneliness. 
 
 His first day in Chicago was crowded with busi 
 ness; in the evening there was a dinner to attend and 
 it was late when he got back to his hotel; instead of 
 writing to Alice he sent a long explanatory telegram, 
 carefully phrased, pleading business pressure and 
 promising if possible to see her at Cleveland on the 
 return journey. 
 
 "Am worried at not hearing from you," his mes 
 sage to her ended. "How is your sister and how 
 are you? Please wire answer." 
 
 It was a little awkward to let her know he was in
 
 200 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Chicago; in one sense he would have much preferred 
 not to communicate with her until he got back; but 
 he felt better for having sent the telegram. 
 
 Her reply, which arrived early the next afternoon, 
 surprised him somewhat. Considering the length 
 of his dispatch to her, she might, he thought, have 
 been a little more communicative. Her message 
 ran: 
 
 Margaret doing nicely. Am well. Don t trouble to stop here. 
 
 Ten words exactly. How like a woman! A wo 
 man thought nothing of spending forty dollars on a 
 hat, but to save a few cents would boil a telegram to 
 its bare bones. Though it contained the information 
 he desired he found the message unsatisfactory. Her 
 telegrams usually ended with the word "love." 
 That, though, would have made eleven words. But 
 how like her, that last self-sacrificing phrase, telling 
 him not to trouble to stop at Cleveland on the way 
 back, although he well knew her eagerness to see him. 
 
 The effect upon Parrish of his wire to Alice was so 
 agreeable that, two days later, he telegraphed again. 
 This time there was no answer. Two days more 
 passed, however, before he noticed that ; and by then 
 the foreground of his mind was occupied by some 
 thing else: Why didn t that letter come from Rita? 
 
 Toward the middle of the week he had begun to 
 look for it, having his mail sent to his room with the 
 papers early in the morning, and making excuses to 
 get back to the hotel during the day. But here it
 
 RITA COVENTRY 201 
 
 was Saturday; he was going home this afternoon 
 having heard nothing of Rita beyond what he had 
 gleaned from New York newspapers, stale with the pe 
 culiar staleness of newspapers twenty-four hours old. 
 The concert had occurred on Wednesday. She 
 had sung not only a charming new arrangement of 
 "Bonnie Doon," but, as encores, two other songs by 
 Patrick Delaney, the promising young American 
 composer, who provided a sympathetic accompani 
 ment. Both the papers he saw mentioned that Rita 
 had been in unusually fine voice. 
 
 On the line that passed through Cleveland he was 
 offered only an upper berth, so he took another road. 
 Alice would understand. In New York, of course, 
 letters from her would be awaiting him, and when he 
 answered them he would explain. But when on 
 Sunday afternoon he reached his apartment, he had 
 only one thought : to see Rita. The early twilight was 
 shadowing the city as he arrived at her house. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is not well," said Pierre. " I will 
 see." 
 
 "Nothing serious, I hope?" Parrish asked, 
 alarmed. 
 
 "Only a little cold, monsieur, but she did not get 
 up to-day. Mademoiselle has to be so very careful. 
 She sings to-morrow night." 
 
 Pierre was not such a bad sort after all ! 
 
 While he was gone Parrish traced patterns on the 
 rug with his cane.
 
 202 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "This way, monsieur," said the butler when he 
 returned, and then up those two well-remembered 
 flights he led the way to Rita s bedroom door, where 
 he stood aside and motioned Parrish to enter. 
 
 The sounds coming from within were not indica 
 tive of illness; several people were talking animatedly, 
 and Parrish entered to the accompaniment of a 
 rumbling chuckle, uttered by a bearded gentleman 
 reclining upon the foot of Rita s bed, whom he at 
 once recognized as the big basso, Fremecourt. 
 
 "And what do you think she do then?" he thun 
 dered. "You think she thank me? Hah! No!" 
 He roared derisively. "No! She call me names. 
 You grea-at, beeg, clumsy bool! she say. And all 
 for what? Because I try to do her leetle service! I 
 say to her: Madame, your skirt is beautful, but it 
 ees leetle beet open in the back." He threw up his 
 hands in comic resignation. 
 
 Rita, while joining in the laughter, waved to Par 
 rish. He crossed the room, took her outstretched 
 hand, and somewhat to his surprise found himself 
 being drawn down by it. 
 
 "On the cheek," she said. "I have a cold. You 
 know Mrs. Fernis, I think, and Mr. and Mrs. Schoen? 
 And this beeg bool, sitting where I should like to put 
 my feet, is Monsieur Fremecourt Mr. Parrish." 
 
 Laughing again, they greeted him. Fremecourt 
 rose, made Parrish a brief little bow, and cried out to 
 Rita in booming protest: 
 
 "Hah! So you, too, call me bool? It is too much.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 203 
 
 I go!" He took her hand, bent over, and for a 
 moment extinguished her in his astrakhan beard. 
 Then standing erect he smacked his lips, and with a 
 grand gesture proclaimed, "You see, my darling, I 
 do not fear to kees your sweet leeps. Your leetle 
 germs have for me no terrors. On the contrary, 
 they shall have a nice nesting place in my beard." 
 
 With a flourish of farewells he departed, and had 
 hardly gone when Mrs. Fernis rose. 
 
 "Remember, dear," she warned, "the doctor 
 said you were not to talk. You ve been talking al 
 together too much. I blame myself for having 
 stayed so long." 
 
 The Schoens made this their cue for departing 
 also. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to go, too," said Parrish, left 
 alone with her, but as he spoke he drew his chair 
 close to the bed. 
 
 "Oh, not right away," she said. "Tell me about 
 your trip." 
 
 "There s nothing to tell," said he, "except that 
 I accomplished what I went for. I thought you said 
 you d write to me?" 
 
 "I did start a letter, but some people came in and 
 interrupted me and 1 didn t have time to finish it." 
 
 "Let me have it, anyway. I ve never had a letter 
 from you, you know. 
 
 "Oh," she answered, "I found it kicking around 
 my desk yesterday and tore it up. I had your tele 
 gram by then, you see."
 
 204 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 "The doctor, mademoiselle," announced Pierre. 
 
 Parrish rose as the middle-aged physician entered, 
 carrying his bag. 
 
 "What would you do with a girl like this?" he 
 began as soon as she had introduced them. "I 
 can t do anything with her. I tell her not to use 
 her voice, and I come and find a mob of people leav 
 ing the house." 
 
 "Mr. Parrish just came," defended Rita. 
 
 "And I m just going," he supplemented. 
 
 "Anyway," Rita went on, "all you doctors are 
 bullies." She turned to Parrish. "Of course you know 
 about their latest fad? Colds aren t colds any 
 more they re autointoxication, if you please. So 
 what does this brute do? He puts me on a diet: 
 Nothing fit to eat. And I love my little tummy so!" 
 
 "A lot of difference it makes what I tell you to do," 
 retorted the doctor good-humou redly. "I can t see 
 why you have me at all. Yes, I can, too to patch 
 you up in time to sing. You re too strong for your 
 own good, young lady; that s what s the matter with 
 you!" 
 
 He laid his case on a table near the bed and opened 
 it. As he did so Pierre entered, carrying a tray. 
 The doctor looked at it. 
 
 "Here!" he exclaimed. "What s that bacon do 
 ing on top of that milk toast?" 
 
 " I can t eat that soggy stuff without something to 
 flavour it," protested Rita.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 205 
 
 "But I told you," the doctor insisted, "nothing 
 smoked and nothing fried." 
 
 "Pierre," said Rita, "you must learn to time your 
 entrances. Take the tray back and bring it after 
 the doctor has gone." 
 
 "Without that bacon!" added the latter severely 
 as he screwed the top on an atomizer. 
 
 Parrish took Rita s hand. What a lovely invalid 
 she was! 
 
 "Tuesday night, then?" 
 
 "Yes, unless I m dead of starvation." 
 
 "A little before eight?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 The rosy glow of lamps fell caressingly upon her 
 face and throat. He held her hand for an instant, 
 gazing at her. Fremecourt had kissed her on the 
 lips before them all. Why couldn t he before the 
 doctor? But he knew why. It was because he 
 wanted to so much.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ON MONDAY he had men up to tune and 
 polish his miniature grand piano, and he left 
 word with I to to be sure to have the polisher 
 remove that mark on the music rack where a cigarette 
 had burned it, long ago. On his way downtown he 
 bought a piano-lamp with a carved Florentine base 
 and a shade of Burgundy-colour silk, and that even 
 ing he and I to did some rearranging in the living 
 room, turning the piano so that a person seated at 
 the instrument would face the room, with the lamp 
 light falling from behind. When the furniture was 
 settled to his liking, Parrish tried Rita s photograph, 
 in its new silver frame, in various places. It looked 
 best, he thought, upon the mantelpiece, where 
 Alice s picture, also silver framed, had so long stood 
 alone. 
 
 But where to put Alice? He carried the portrait 
 to his room and tried it on his dresser and his chif 
 fonier; then, dissatisfied, he went into the library 
 and stood it on his desk, where for some curious 
 reason it again seemed out of place. Strange how 
 hard it was to find a corner for it. The effort made 
 him sad. 
 
 He had not greatly relished the thought of facing 
 206
 
 RITA COVENTRY 207 
 
 a pile of letters from Alice on that desk when he re 
 turned from Chicago, but having found none he dis 
 covered he was disappointed. Never before had she 
 gone so long without communicating with him. It 
 was very peculiar. With a sigh he took up his pen 
 to write to her. 
 
 His letter did not altogether satisfy him; under the 
 circumstances, however, it was the best he could do; 
 he hoped she would not notice the gaps. He sealed 
 it, affixed a special-delivery stamp, dropped it in the 
 mail chute in the hall, and returned to the living 
 room. 
 
 How different it looked now, with the new lamp, 
 the piano turned around, and Rita s picture on the 
 mantelpiece. That, of course the placing of her 
 picture there was the great change. A grim little 
 allegory of the love-life of a man! 
 
 Next morning he gave I to explicit directions about 
 that evening s dinner. They would have cocktails, 
 and for hors d oeuvre, fresh caviare; the soup would 
 be Russian borsch; then filets mignons with mush 
 rooms under glass, and crisp little potatoes gauf- 
 rettes, followed by salad, cheese, and coffee. He 
 would bring some of that special coffee home with 
 him this afternoon. 
 
 From his well-stocked wine closet he took the 
 two bottles he most prized : a chartreuse which had 
 been extremely choice even in pre-Volstead days, 
 and his last quart of Krug 1908. 
 
 He wore a fur-lined coat that day. Winter had
 
 208 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 come back. A fine snow driven by a gale from the 
 northwest stung his face as he walked to the Ele 
 vated, leaning into the wind. 
 
 Anyway, her cold was better; she had sung last 
 night. 
 
 The roadbed of the Elevated was covered with a 
 thin layer of snow, like frosting on a cake. The 
 man at the ticket-chopping box had the collar of his 
 blue cloth coat turned up; his face was purple with 
 the cold, and frozen breath clung to his moustache. 
 Now and then he would put his woollen mittens to 
 his ears as he jigged in his felt boots, his back to the 
 storm. A fashionably dressed woman standing near 
 him, waiting for the train, wore a turban and cape 
 of caracul under which her arms were folded and 
 her shoulders hunched, elevating the cape and mak 
 ing it and the skirt beneath seem even shorter than 
 the fashion of the day demanded. Of her face one 
 could see only a pair of bright eyes, a bit of upper 
 lip, and a saucy nose. On her feet were light patent- 
 leather slippers with French heels, and these, and the 
 trim length of taupe-coloured silk stocking she ex 
 hibited stockings the shade of sunburned skin 
 seemed the more inadequate in contrast to the warm 
 bulk of the cape. Parrish shivered as he looked at 
 her. 
 
 All day the storm continued, the high wind sweep 
 ing the hard little pellets of snow out of the streets 
 and into corners, like a hasty housekeeper cleaning 
 up for company; and when he opened the door of
 
 RITA COVENTRY 209 
 
 his apartment that evening and was greeted by the 
 pleasant odour and cheerful crackle of burning logs, 
 he had an inspiration. 
 
 "Ito," he said as he gave his servant the package 
 of special coffee, "set a little table for dinner in the 
 living room beside the fire." 
 
 After dressing, he came into that room, and criti 
 cally surveyed the arrangement. "Excellent," he 
 said to the Japanese, "except, instead of placing 
 the lady opposite me you must seat her facing 
 the fire." 
 
 To-night Rita surprised him by arriving ahead of 
 time. He was aware of the fragrance of fresh air 
 about her as he took her sable cape, and as Ito car 
 ried the garment to the other room he did not waste 
 the opportunity. Her cheek felt like a rose fresh 
 from the refrigerator of a florist. 
 
 Perceiving the table set by the fire, she exclaimed 
 with pleasure, and, crossing, rested a slippered foot 
 upon the fender, holding her hands toward the burn 
 ing logs. On her wrist his bracelet sparkled splen 
 didly, sending out needles of brilliance, red, green, and 
 white. The wavering flames cast changing lights 
 and shadows on her arms and face, and touched the 
 folds of her black velvet gown with a mysterious rosy 
 bloom. 
 
 A woman and a grate fire Rita beside his hearth ! 
 He tingled with a sense of domesticity. 
 
 Ito came in with the cocktails; standing beside 
 the table they touched glasses and drank; then as
 
 210 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Rita set down her glass she found the orchids at her 
 place and held them against her gown. " But I won t 
 put them on now," she said, laying them beside her 
 plate. " I want them here where I can see them." 
 
 The dinner pleased her; with the enthusiasm of 
 one playing truant from a diet she praised it, course 
 by course. 
 
 "And this wine delicious!" she said. 
 
 "The last quart of my 1908 Krug," he told her, grat 
 ified. "I ve been saving it for a great occasion." 
 
 "It is nice of you to have made it this occasion, 
 but you shouldn t have opened it for me. I don t 
 need stimulation." 
 
 " If you mean you don t need it this evening," he 
 returned playfully, " I could distill a compliment out 
 of that." 
 
 "Help yourself." 
 
 As I to was in the kitchen he mischievously chose 
 to place his own construction on the invitation ; where 
 upon she feigned a great demureness, singing: 
 
 "Je ne savais que dire, et j ai rougi d abord." 
 
 "Yes," he said, greatly pleased with himself be 
 cause he recognized the fragment from "Faust"; 
 "but Marguerite was early Victorian. I prefer 
 Louise s idea of love. Marguerite is a wax doll in a 
 blonde wig. She s so good and so pathetic. Instead 
 of being victimized she should have married some 
 worthy burgher and become the mother of a happy 
 family."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 211 
 
 "Let s send her out boat riding in the park with 
 Lohengrin," said Rita. 
 
 "All right, but Louise she s the one I m in 
 terested in. She stands out from other operatic 
 heroines as you do from other women. Her poet 
 may quarrel with her later on, but she ll never bore 
 him. If they quarrel it ll be because he s jealous of 
 her." 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, "Louise isn t an easy lady to 
 hold. Undoubtedly she ll tire of him. And when 
 she does, let s give her a career. Let s have her take 
 up with Lieutenant Pinkerton and then, when he s 
 fallen madly in love with her, pay him off for jilting 
 Madame Butterfly by eloping with Parsifal." 
 
 "By all means," he agreed. "An affair with 
 Louise would be a good thing for Parsifal. It 
 would teach him something about life." 
 
 Over their coffee and liqueur they laughed to 
 gether. As they rose he lighted a cigarette. Rita 
 picked up her orchids and moving to the piano tried 
 it with an arpeggio. 
 
 "A good tone," she remarked, as if she had not 
 expected it. 
 
 "You re surprised?" 
 
 "A little," she said, seating herself and laying the 
 orchids on the music rack. 
 
 "May I ask why?" 
 
 "Oh bachelors pianos." She spoke airily. 
 
 "What do you know about bachelors pianos?" 
 
 Rita laughed.
 
 212 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "They re apt to be like their owners a little .bat 
 tered," she said. "Give me a cigarette." 
 
 "Excuse me. I thought you smoked only to 
 tease Busini." He hastened to offer his case. 
 
 "This time," she answered as he gave her a light, 
 "it s because your dinner was too good." 
 
 After a few puffs at the cigarette she laid it down 
 and began to modulate softly from key to key. 
 
 "Some friends brought a Southern girl to my 
 house the other day," she told him as she played. 
 "They wanted me to hear her. She had some negro 
 songs the real thing Have you ever heard that 
 plantation song, All God s Children Got Shoes ? 
 And she did some modern ones blues very funny. 
 Of course I can t sing so soon after dinner, but 
 She played an accompaniment and began, half re 
 citing: 
 
 "I got de blues and I m too darn mean to cry 
 ending with: 
 
 "Some people say dose weary blues ain t bad. 
 It s jus de wuss ole feelin dat I evuh had!" 
 
 Now and then she would glance up at Parrish as 
 he leaned on the piano, and there was an amused 
 expression in her eyes which told him she was taking 
 a childish delight in doing something so remote from 
 her usual repertoire. 
 
 "I ve been teaching it to Fremecourt," she said 
 as she ended. "You ought to hear him try to get
 
 RITA COVENTRY 213 
 
 the negro dialect." Then with sudden enthusiasm: 
 "There s an idea! I ll give a party and have him 
 sing some of these songs. We ll call it a week from 
 to-night unless you hear from me to the contrary." 
 She rose from the piano. "Now what about those 
 treasures you were going to show me?" 
 
 He led her about, keeping close to her as he ex 
 hibited the portraits and the more important pieces 
 of furniture from Blenkinswood: the Gilbert Stuarts, 
 the Sully, the St. Memins; the Duncan Phyfe dining 
 table, sideboard and chairs; the old silver punch 
 bowl; the Lowestoft china; the card table at which 
 Washington had played when visiting Blenkins 
 wood; the armchair of his host, a signer of the Dec 
 laration; and the Chinese Chippendale clock or 
 dered out from England by Parrish s three-times- 
 great-grandfather Blenkin. There were letters about 
 that clock written in the old gentleman s distin 
 guished hand, in ink now brown with age, on sheets 
 of handmade paper. Parrish had found them in a 
 chest in the attic of the plantation house and had 
 sent the most interesting specimens to an expert who 
 had reenforced them with silk at their worn folds, 
 and mounted them in portfolios, along with steel en 
 gravings of the venerable house and of several of his 
 ancestors. 
 
 The table having been removed from beside the 
 fire, and the couch pushed back to its usual position, 
 Parrish brought the old papers from the library and 
 seating himself beside Rita, placed the first port-
 
 2i 4 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 folio in her lap, turning the sheets for her and ex 
 plaining as he went along. 
 
 They had looked at a number of letters and had 
 come to an engraving showing the house "with its 
 new wing, added in 1791," when the old clock slowly 
 boomed the hour. It was ten. 
 
 "What day is this?" suddenly demanded Rita. 
 
 "Tuesday." 
 
 "But the date?" 
 
 "March first. What s the matter?" 
 
 "The first!" she exclaimed, starting to her feet. 
 The open portfolio slipped from her lap to the floor, 
 the papers scattering on the rug, but she seemed not 
 to notice them. "Heavens! I ve had a feeling all 
 evening Now I lave done it! A dinner in my 
 honour to-night at the Krausses !" 
 
 "Oh, that s too bad," said Parrish, relieved. From 
 her agitation he had feared it might be something 
 worse. "Yes, it s too bad. But" he shrugged 
 "well, you simply weren t there, that s all." 
 
 "But you don t understand! It s terribly im 
 portant! If it weren t for Hermann Krauss there 
 wouldn t be any opera! For heaven s sake get me 
 my wrap! I must rush right up there!" 
 
 "Nonsense! It would be half-past ten when you 
 arrived they d be going home. And your car 
 where s your car?" 
 
 She was near the door. Now she walked swiftly 
 back, stepping on one of the papers. 
 
 "Don t argue!" she cried, clenching her two fists.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 215 
 
 "Quickly! Get my cape! And a taxi! I must get 
 there if I have to walk in the snow!" 
 
 In spite of his reluctance he was stirred to action 
 by her vehemence. Slowly, resentfully, he moved 
 toward his room, where the sable cape lay on his 
 bed. But his pace did not suit her. 
 
 "Hurry! Hurry!" she cried, following on his 
 heels. 
 
 A fine ending, this, for their evening! Before 
 picking up the cape he turned to make a last ap 
 peal. 
 
 "For God s sake, Rita," he began, "have a little 
 sense! How can you 
 
 "Will you hurry?" she cried shrilly. 
 
 He took up the cape and flung it around her. 
 Then in a paroxysm of angry longing he seized her 
 in his arms and covered her face with savage kisses. 
 
 "There s no time for this!" Her voice was 
 smothered. She pushed away from him, beating 
 with one fist upon his chest. 
 
 He let her go. 
 
 " Damn you," he muttered, " you drive me crazy ! " 
 
 She rushed from the room. 
 
 "Wait!" he called after her. "Give me a chance 
 to get my hat and coat, anyway!" 
 
 "You don t need to come! I don t need you!" 
 The words streamed back to him as she raced toward 
 the outer door. 
 
 He ran to the hall, seized his coat, and struggling 
 into it as he went, joined her in the corridor, where
 
 216 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 she was waiting for the elevator. She did not look 
 at him. They did not speak. 
 
 The doorman hailed a passing taxi. As it stopped 
 it skidded in a pocket of snow beside the curb. Par- 
 rish, endeavouring to help her in, had only a sense of 
 the sweep of fur upon his finger tips. 
 
 "I don t need you!" she reiterated from the dark 
 ness within. 
 
 "Get over!" he said roughly, and after giving the 
 driver the address he shoved his way through the 
 narrow door and slammed it shut. 
 
 At the end of their short, silent drive he alighted, 
 ceremoniously assisted her across the walk and rang 
 the doorbell. Then, as a footman opened the inner 
 door, he lifted his hat and gave her a stiff good-night. 
 
 "Good-night," she replied pleasantly. And as 
 she passed in she added over her shoulder, "Good 
 night, Bruin!" 
 
 He got back into the taxi and drove home. His 
 feet were cold and wet; snow had leaked in over the 
 edges of his pumps. It would serve her right if he 
 got pneumonia and died. 
 
 His apartment was still redolent of her. When 
 with her he had never noticed that she used per 
 fumery, but now that she was gone the place was 
 haunted by her ghostlike fragrance. The cheerful 
 fire was a mockery. He went to his bedroom to 
 change his pumps, and crossing the floor kicked 
 something with his foot. It proved to be a gold
 
 RITA COVENTRY 217 
 
 mesh bag with a diamond-studded frame. Un 
 doubtedly it had valuable contents. She would 
 worry about it. Let her, then! He put it in his 
 safe. If she wanted to find out about it she could 
 telephone ! 
 
 In his slippers he returned to the living room. 
 The Blenkinswood portfolio and its contents still 
 lay upon the rug where she had dropped them; his 
 indignation flamed anew as he got down to pick them 
 up. Such frail old papers! She could so easily have 
 laid them aside! One of the Signer s letters had 
 been torn in falling; and in the centre of the engrav 
 ing showing Blenkinswood "with its new wing, 
 added in 1791," was the ruinous imprint of a sharp 
 little French heel. 
 
 Having gathered the papers he sat down on the 
 sofa to arrange them in their proper order. 
 
 The fact of the matter was that Rita hadn t 
 been interested in them. He saw that clearly now. 
 She had been bored. Her attention had wandered. 
 That was how she came to remember her engage 
 ment at the Krausses . Bored with these things! 
 Priceless old Americana! Bored with Blenkinswood 
 his house! Alice wouldn t have been bored! 
 She was always asking him to show her those port 
 folios. 
 
 With a tenderness he had never before felt for them 
 he carried the portfolios to the library and laid them 
 in their place. Rita had only looked into the li 
 brary; there he seemed for a moment to elude her,
 
 218 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 but upon his return to the living room that subtle 
 scent again assailed his nostrils. Maddening! He 
 must get it out of here. Cold though it was, he 
 would open a window. 
 
 Passing the piano on his way to the window he 
 stopped short. The orchids! He picked them up. 
 Already they were drooping. 
 
 The window was frozen shut; he had to hammer 
 with both hands at the sash to open it. When it did 
 open it flew up because of the momentum from his 
 final blow, and a great gust of freezing air burst in, 
 snapping the window shade and setting the draper 
 ies awhirl. With his left hand he seized the agitated 
 curtains, holding them aside. Then, drawing back, 
 he poised himself and hurled the orchids out into the 
 icy blackness. 
 
 Women! They talked of love! What did they 
 know about love? Devotion? Oh, yes, they d ac 
 cept plenty of that, and plenty of everything else, 
 too! But when it came to reciprocating showing 
 some consideration for a man they simply weren t 
 there! The least little thing an engagement or 
 anything would set them flying off at a tangent. 
 They were a lot of unreliable, luxury-loving, selfish 
 pussycats! Give them a cozy cushion by the fire and 
 they d purr for a while, but just when you began to 
 trust them they d sink their claws in you. Women! 
 
 Sullenly he closed the window, put out the lights, 
 and went into his bedroom.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE Bement baby had arrived while Parrish 
 was in Chicago, and now Bement, craving di 
 version after his sufferings in paternity, sug 
 gested to his partner that they make a night of it in 
 town, going to a show and later to the Midnight 
 Frolic. Of course it would have been nice if Mrs. 
 Bement had been well enough to join them, but she 
 and the baby were getting on all right, and the 
 father really needed to get away from that house and 
 those tiresome trained nurses. 
 
 The proposal, finding Parrish in the bitter mood in 
 which he had been left by Rita s abrupt exodus from 
 his apartment, appealed to him. He, too, had suf 
 fered. Two nights of white horror. His fatigue in 
 stead of inducing sleep expressed itself in a gnawing 
 restlessness. Moreover, his apartment had become 
 hateful to him for the ghosts which haunt us most 
 persistently are not those of the dead. The perfume 
 of Rita was gone, but something of her lingered; he 
 was continually aware of her gold mesh bag in his 
 safe, and of her photograph upon his mantelpiece. 
 That photograph picked itself out for him in the room 
 as if a spotlight shone upon it; he had a thought of 
 removing it but felt a curious embarrassment about 
 
 219
 
 220 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 doing so; to remove it would be to admit that he had 
 reversed himself, and he was not ready to admit that. 
 Damn her! She drove him crazy! 
 
 In his need for comfort his thoughts turned to 
 Alice, as those of one in trouble turn to a neglected 
 deity; he gazed for a long time at her photograph 
 upon his desk, but that photograph disturbed him, 
 too, though in a different way. Strange, there 
 seemed to be a look of sadness in the eyes. Why had 
 she not answered his letter? He was beginning to 
 feel hurt by her neglect. 
 
 He wrote and told her so. 
 
 On Thursday afternoon the partners came uptown 
 together to Parrish s apartment, where Bement and 
 his suitcase were duly installed. As men will when 
 their nerves need soothing, they dined at a Broadway 
 restaurant where there was continuous dancing and 
 jazz music. In the play which they subsequently 
 attended, a fat comedian, the victim of unjust sus- 
 picion,was obliged to hide under the bed of a pretty 
 but virtuous lady whose husband was jealous of her. 
 The comedian s chief humorous effect was achieved 
 when he crawled from under the bed like a turtle and 
 wistfully eyed the audience. This he did three times, 
 and the play was over, leaving Parrish and Bement 
 free to continue on their round of gayeties. 
 
 Through the after-theatre crowds they slowly 
 worked their way to Forty-second Street, and pass 
 ing into the wide corridor of the New Amsterdam
 
 RITA COVENTRY 221 
 
 Theatre, entered the elevator. Within, a little 
 group was already waiting for the car to ascend, and 
 among them Parrish recognized Sam Burke, who 
 bowed to him; then as those within the elevator 
 stirred to admit newcomers he saw behind Burke the 
 latter s wife and Clara Proctor. He advanced to 
 ward Clara and was about to ask if she had heard 
 from Alice when her stiff little nod stopped him; and 
 as if further to repel him she turned and began to 
 converse with Mrs. Burke. 
 
 He was surprised. Though he did not like Clara 
 and was aware of her dislike for him, hitherto as if by 
 tacit understanding they had been carefully polite 
 to each other. Well, if she did not wish to continue 
 the effort he was satisfied, though he thought it stu 
 pid of her to reveal so plainly what he considered to 
 be a jealousy of his hold on Alice. 
 
 All evening Parrish remained in a sardonic mood, 
 and when after returning to the apartment the part 
 ners sat up for a time over their highballs, talking, 
 Bement found himself amazed at the acidity of the 
 other s observations upon women, life, and love. 
 Though he had known Parrish since their college days 
 he had not before realized him to be a misogynist. 
 It must have been coming over him gradually. Be 
 ment had never been able to understand why Parrish 
 did not marry, but this, he thought, explained it. 
 A protracted bachelorhood was to him incompre 
 hensiblethe world was so full of lovely girls, and 
 married life, in his experience, so happy. He and
 
 222 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 his wife had long harboured a secret hope of finding 
 the right girl for Parrish, but he now concluded that 
 the fulfillment of such a hope was, if still a possibility, 
 exceedingly remote. 
 
 Next morning at breakfast, however, after Parrish 
 had drunk his coffee and what was infinitely more 
 important, had Bement known it read his mail, he 
 was noticeably more cheerful. 
 
 The junior partner commented upon this. 
 
 " It worried me," he said, "to hear you so cynical 
 last night." 
 
 "What did I say that was cynical?" 
 
 "About women." 
 
 "Oh, no," returned Parrish brightly, "you re 
 wrong, old man. I m not that way at all. All I 
 meant was you ve got to keep them in their place. 
 There s nothing especially cynical about that, and 
 certainly there s nothing new about it." He went 
 on: "Everybody knows it, but when a man s in 
 love he sometimes hasn t sense enough to put it into 
 practice. If a woman does something he doesn t 
 like he should ignore her for a while. It does them 
 good." 
 
 It was the note from Rita, lying beside his coffee 
 cup, that had made concrete in his mind the truth 
 of this old dictum. For two days he had ignored her, 
 and behold the result: she had used the mesh bag 
 as an excuse to write an apologetic note, reminding 
 him to bring it when he came to her house on 
 Tuesday to hear Fremecourt sing the negro songs.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 223 
 
 Shrewdly he surmised that if the truth were known 
 she was a little bit afraid he wouldn t come at all. 
 Well, let her be afraid! It wouldn t hurt her to 
 worry for a while ! 
 
 That day he took the mesh bag with him to the 
 office, wrapped and sealed it, and sent it to her by a 
 confidential clerk. She would look for a note in the 
 package a reply to hers. When she didn t find it, 
 that would give her something to think about! 
 Throughout the day he dwelt with malicious pleasure 
 on the thought of her looking in vain for that letter, 
 but by the next day he had begun to wonder if, con 
 sidering the circumstances, he had not been a little 
 too severe with her. After all, she had apologized; 
 he didn t want to be ungentlemanly. 
 
 As for her having left so suddenly the other night, 
 though it was frightfully annoying, he had to admit 
 (upon reflecting) that any one might forget an engage 
 ment. He had done it himself. He remembered the 
 time, long ago at Bar Harbor, when he had forgotten 
 to go to a tea-party given in his honour. And Alice, 
 when he first knew her, had forgotten an engagement 
 she had with someone else, and gone out with him; 
 certainly Alice was never intentionally careless about 
 other people s feelings; he remembered how upset 
 she had been. 
 
 For another day he thought the matter over; then 
 he wrote briefly to Rita, accepting her apology. But 
 he wasn t going to make it too easy for her he 
 didn t say definitely that he was coming to her party
 
 224 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 on Tuesday. "I am very busy," he wrote, "but 
 will come if I can,. 
 
 When Tuesday night arrived he made up his mind 
 that he would go. He was purposely late, however. 
 She was surprised and happy when he came in; he 
 could have seen that, even if she had not spoken of it. 
 
 She left some people and came halfway across the 
 room to meet him, saying, "Oh I wasn t certain I 
 was going to see you to-night." 
 
 " I couldn t be sure," said he. 
 
 " I d have been awfully sorry if you hadn t come," 
 she said. "Fremecourt is just going to sing some of 
 those negro songs." 
 
 She led him about, introducing him to those of her 
 guests he had not met. The room was filled; fully 
 half the people present were famous in the world of 
 music: Cassoli, the cellist; Seevagen and his young 
 rival of the violin, Heimann; Paldowski, the great 
 Polish pianist, with his air of amiable aloofness and 
 his soft aureole of gray hair, talking with Schoen and 
 Elena Cordoba, the musical sensation of the year; 
 Wildenstein, the symphony conductor; Liebmann, 
 the music publisher; the Krausses, Bickfords, Stick- 
 els, Langdons, and others whose bank accounts 
 vouchsafed them the privilege of association with the 
 artists; and of course Larry Merrick and the inevi 
 table Mrs. Fernis. 
 
 The ludicrous endeavours of the vast Fremecourt 
 to impersonate an American negro, handicapped as 
 he was by his French accent, delighted the assembly,
 
 RITA COVENTRY 225 
 
 and seemed particularly to appeal to the melancholy 
 Paldowski, who presently sat at the piano and played 
 the basso s accompaniments. Meanwhile, there were 
 mysterious departures to the dining room, where a 
 gay conspiracy was evidently being hatched, and 
 when Fremecourt stopped singing there came a great 
 tumult, followed by the appearance of a burlesque 
 German band made up impartially of musicians and 
 millionaires wearing paper caps and playing imitation 
 instruments of papier-mache, from which they evoked 
 sounds by singing into them. When the band, led 
 by the famous baton of Wildenstein, had frightfully 
 played several numbers, it marched gravely out 
 again, syncopating something dimly recognizable as 
 the most mournful of Chopin s compositions. Like 
 the music, the storm of applause which followed was 
 burlesque. 
 
 Mrs. Fernis bustled toward Rita. 
 
 "Dearie," she demanded, calling half across the 
 room, " where s the young genius you promised us?" 
 
 Rita looked at the clock and shrugged. 
 
 "That s what I ve been wondering," she answered. 
 " I do hope he is not going to disappoint me. But he 
 is an uncertain quantity un vrai type, I assure 
 you." 
 
 Parrish, standing near, was looking at her, wonder 
 ing if he knew of whom she was speaking, when she, 
 catching his eye, seemed to catch as well the question 
 in his mind, for she added, "Mr. Parrish can tell you 
 what a gifted young man he is." There was a mis-
 
 226 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 chievous gleam in her glance. "Mr. Parrish dis 
 covered him." And to him she explained paren 
 thetically: "I am speaking of Delaney." 
 
 With that she turned quickly away and engaged 
 in conversation elsewhere, leaving him at the mercy 
 of the inquisitorial lady, to extricate himself as best 
 he could. 
 
 "How very interesting!" she exclaimed. "And 
 where did you find him, Mr. Parrish?" 
 
 " I didn t find him at all," he answered shortly. 
 Then fearing she would think him rude he continued, 
 "Rita s just being playful. It was she who found 
 him. I had nothing to do with it." 
 
 "But who is he?" 
 
 "That I really don t know," he returned dismis- 
 sively. 
 
 " 1 heard dear Rita when she sang his songs in con 
 cert a week or so ago," the lady went on. 
 
 "Then," returned Parrish, "you know more about 
 him than I do. I was out of town." 
 
 "He accompanied her, you know." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "There s something interesting about him so 
 young and so good-looking, don t you think so?" 
 
 Parrish, wondering how Rita could put up with 
 such a woman, said he did think so. 
 
 A moment later, as he was speculating on a means 
 of escape from Mrs. Fernis, he saw Delaney enter the 
 room. He was in evening dress and looked very 
 well in it, though obviously the suit was not made by
 
 RITA COVENTRY 227 
 
 a good tailor. With some surprise he noticed that 
 the young man appeared perfectly at ease. He 
 paused inside the door and looked about the room; 
 then, seeing Rita, strolled over and with that de 
 tached air of his, greeted her. 
 
 " Excuse me, I must go and speak to him," Parrish 
 said to Mrs. Fernis, thinking he saw his opportunity. 
 
 But, "I ll go with you," said the lady. "His 
 looks fascinate me. So Hellenic! I want to meet 
 him." 
 
 Silently he escorted her across the room to where a 
 little group was gathering around Rita and the new 
 arrival. 
 
 "Of course you remember Mr. Parrish," Rita re 
 minded Delaney. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he answered vaguely. "How do you 
 do?" 
 
 "How do you do?" responded Parrish. He held 
 out his hand, and when the other had given it an 
 elusive pressure, presented him to Mrs. Fernis, iden 
 tifying her by saying: "Mrs. Grace Etheridge Fer 
 nis, you know." Then as no light of recognition 
 showed in Delaney s face he made a further effort to 
 assist him, adding: "Of course you ve read Sifting 
 Sands ?" 
 
 " Shifting Sands, " corrected Mrs. Fernis quickly. 
 
 "Well, anyway, I haven t read it," announced 
 Delaney. 
 
 "He reads nothing but the Russians," Rita has 
 tened to explain; and to Delaney: "When you get
 
 228 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 through with those eight volumes of Tolstoy s War 
 and Peace you really must read Mrs. Fernis. One 
 can t be au courant without reading her." 
 
 While she was speaking the young man looked at 
 her with a curious intentness that was characteristic 
 of him. It was as if he were listening with his eyes. 
 
 " I see," he answered indefinitely. Then after a 
 glance about the room he asked, " Isn t that Wilden- 
 stein that man over there?" 
 
 "Yes," Rita answered. "Come over and meet 
 him." 
 
 But Delaney did not move. 
 
 "I was just wondering," he said ruminatively, 
 "why he took the third movement of the Tschai- 
 kowsky Fifth so slowly the other day." 
 
 Rita gave a little shuddering laugh. 
 
 "Well, don t you go and ask him that!" 
 
 "Certainly not. But just the same he ought to 
 stick to Beethoven and Brahms. He hasn t the 
 temperament to do Tschaikowsky." 
 
 Again she laughed. 
 
 "Since Wildenstein doesn t measure up," she said, 
 "let us see if we can t find someone here who will. 
 Would you care to know Paldowski?" 
 
 "Yes, I d be glad to meet him." 
 
 "That," said she, her eyes brimming with amuse 
 ment, "is probably as great a tribute as he ever re 
 ceived though perhaps he wouldn t know it." 
 
 Some late guests entered and she crossed the room 
 to welcome them.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 229 
 
 "Isn t she beautiful to-night!" frothed Mrs. Fer- 
 nis, looking after her. " I never saw her in that type 
 of frock before, did you? It makes her look so 
 girlish so demure." 
 
 Perhaps because of the failure of her effort to con 
 verse with Delaney she looked at Parrish. 
 
 He had remarked the gown. It was the "sym 
 pathetic" shell-pink gown she had ordered on the day 
 he met her at the dressmaker s. He did not mention 
 that, however. 
 
 Delaney was gazing after Rita. Now he spoke. 
 
 "Yes," said he, almost as if talking to himself, 
 "it s beautiful." 
 
 Mrs. Fernis had evidently gathered that praise 
 from Delaney was praise indeed, for when Rita re 
 turned she said to her, "Mr. Delaney has been ad 
 miring your dress." 
 
 "Really?" She looked at him. "Have you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then/ she said half jestingly, "this is a red- 
 letter day for me. I had about abandoned hope of 
 ever extorting a compliment from you." 
 
 The young man flushed and looked confused. Af 
 ter a moment s hesitation he said gravely: "Why, 
 surely you know I admire you very much." 
 
 Though he had spoken before all three of them 
 and though apparently he had made only a conven 
 tional remark, Parrish had a curious sense of having 
 overheard something he was not meant to hear. He 
 felt a little bit embarrassed; and so, evidently, did
 
 230 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Mrs. Fernis, for with the manner of one who has by 
 accident intruded, she turned to him, saying: "I m 
 simply famished, aren t you? Let s go and get some 
 supper." 
 
 As they moved together toward the dining room 
 she asked: 
 
 "Doesn t he strike you as being a very singular 
 young man?" 
 
 For once Parrish found himself in full accord with 
 her. 
 
 "He strikes me as being all of that," said he.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A PER supper, when all were in the drawing 
 room again, Delaney played a suite of three 
 compositions called "In a Picture Gallery," 
 which Rita announced he had just completed. In it 
 he attempted a musical expression of the emotions 
 created by three paintings. The first represented 
 one of Monet s canvases water lilies in the painter s 
 garden at Giverny; the second a portrait by Whistler, 
 the third a Spanish market place by Ernest Lawson. 
 The music, like the paintings portrayed, was im 
 pressionistic, and Parrish, quickly deciding that he 
 did not think much of it, entertained himself, while 
 Delaney played, by looking about the room, observ 
 ing in more detail the heterogeneousness of its con 
 tents. Almost in a single glance he saw an an 
 cient Spanish desk, tall and bulky, studded with 
 natfs and strapped with ornamental ironwork; a 
 Chinese cabinet of red lacquer; and another cabinet 
 of buhl. A semicircular Heppelwhite table stood 
 against the wall between the French windows, and in 
 the next wall space a Korean chest of dark polished 
 wood, heavily bound with brass. The massive table 
 backed against the blue velvet couch at the centre of 
 the room was an old Italian piece, and upon it were 
 
 231
 
 2 32 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 two lamps made from Chinese bowls; but the several 
 tall standing lamps of carved and gilded wood were 
 Florentine. He noted also a light Sheraton sofa, 
 French and American chairs of several different eras, 
 and a stiff Italian throne and footstool covered with 
 old velvet and embroidered with the arms of the 
 Borghese. 
 
 Over the finely carved marble mantelpiece hung a 
 full-length portrait of the mistress of the house, 
 sweepingly painted and very strong in colour, and 
 elsewhere on the walls were a Flemish tapestry, a 
 florid, Rubens-like canvas depicting nymphs sur 
 prised by a faun, an old Italian mirror with a mas 
 sive gilded frame, the brocaded robe of a Noh dan 
 cer, and several modern American landscapes. 
 
 His cataloging of the museumlike collection 
 stopped with Delaney s playing, and he was aston 
 ished when the musicians gathered around the young 
 composer and congratulated him with an enthusiasm 
 apparently quite genuine. 
 
 Rita seemed much pleased. 
 
 "Now let me sing you one of his new songs," she 
 said, and immediately the room became quiet. 
 
 Parrish liked the song better than the piano com 
 position; it had a melody, and the words an old 
 poem by Samuel Lover were humorous : 
 
 "Oh, tis time I should talk to your mother, 
 
 Sweet Mary," says I; 
 "Oh, don t talk to my mother," says Mary, 
 
 Beginning to cry
 
 RITA COVENTRY 233 
 
 and after a rejection by Mary of a like suggestion in 
 regard to her father: 
 
 "Then how shall I get you, my jewel ? 
 
 Sweet Mary," says I; 
 "If your father and mother s so cruel, 
 
 Most surely I ll die ! " 
 "Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; 
 
 "A way now to save you I see; 
 Since my parents are both so contrary 
 
 You d better ask me ! " 
 
 As an encore Rita sang Delaney s arrangement of 
 " Bonnie Doon," but Parrish was aware of the song 
 only as a background for his thoughts. 
 
 So that "Sweet Mary" song was new, eh? He had 
 noticed music manuscript on the piano, yet neither 
 of them had used it. Rita knew the words and mu 
 sic by heart. How new was the song? How long 
 had it taken her to learn it? Of course she was a 
 quick study, but just when had she learned it? He 
 wished he knew just when, and just how long it had 
 taken. Delaney had come late; that showed they 
 hadn t rehearsed this evening, anyway. When, 
 then? Somehow he didn t like the idea of their re 
 hearsing there together, alone. The first thing Rita 
 knew Delaney would begin to misunderstand her 
 interest in his music. After all, he was just a piano 
 tuner; he had no advantages, no breeding. And he 
 read the Russians the rotten Russians! 
 
 He wondered if Delaney had been in town ever 
 since that night he had seen him outside the opera
 
 234 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 house. It looked that way. He had said in At 
 lantic City that he couldn t afford to come to New 
 York at all; but he had come, and now apparently he 
 was hanging around. Had the music publishers and 
 the Discaphone people advanced him money? Were 
 they in the habit of advancing money to unknown 
 composers? He didn t believe so. Young composers 
 were traditionally poor; if funds had been advanced 
 it must have been because of Rita s influence, and it 
 was not proper for a woman to use her influence in 
 that way for a man. Not that sort of man, anyway. 
 He would have to speak to her about it to-night, 
 when the guests had gone. 
 
 After singing, Rita summoned Schoen to exhibit 
 to Paldowski, Fremecourt, and some of the others his 
 tricks at the piano with an orange and hairbrush, 
 and he in turn was followed by Wildenstein, who 
 played his own elaboration of a Strauss waltz. 
 
 "He is very vain of playing the piano so well, in 
 addition to conducting," Mrs. Fernis whispered to 
 Parrish. She seemed to set great store by these little 
 titbits of gossip about the musical celebrities. 
 
 Already some of the guests had left, and now, 
 as it was nearly one o clock, a more general exodus 
 began. Soon only Parrish, Mrs. Fernis, Fremecourt 
 and Delaney remained. Fremecourt was a no 
 torious night owl and Mrs. Fernis was almost as 
 notorious a hanger-on. But why didn t Delaney 
 go? 
 
 Leaving the others gathered around the piano,
 
 RITA COVENTRY 235 
 
 where Fremecourt was humming "Bonnie Doon," 
 Rita drew Parrish aside. 
 
 "I haven t seen you in days," she said, "and to 
 night I d counted on a little visit with you, but"- 
 she gave her shrug "you see how it has been?" 
 She ran on: "Aside from that, I do think the party 
 has been a success, don t you? I mean, it s done 
 Delaney good -they liked him don t you think so? 
 
 "They seemed to," he replied magnanimously. 
 "Does he expect to be in New York long?" 
 
 "Yes, he s really getting launched. Liebmann is 
 publishing Bonnie Doon , you know, and he said 
 to-night that he would bring out Sweet Mary and 
 In a Picture Gallery." 
 
 "That s all right," Parrish returned, "but what 
 I m wondering is: how can Delaney afford to stick 
 around New York all this time? You know in At 
 lantic City he told us " 
 
 "Oh, it s dear of you to be worrying about that!" 
 she put in, laying her hand with what seemed to be 
 an impulsive gesture upon his arm, and raising her 
 eyes, warm with what looked like gratitude, to his. 
 "Thanks, just the same, though it s all been fixed." 
 
 "So I judged," said he. 
 
 " It isn t as if it were only sheet music," Rita con 
 tinued. "There s the Discaphone. There ll be lots 
 of money for him in that when he gets started. I m 
 going to sing Sweet Mary for them to-morrow, and 
 next week I m 
 
 "Of course," he interrupted, "you ve done won-
 
 236 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 ders for him. That goes without saying. If it 
 weren t for you he d still be going around Atlantic 
 City in his old checked cap tuning pianos. No 
 question about that. Probably all the rest of his 
 life. But, Rita, there s another side of this thing, 
 and you 
 
 She looked quickly at the others. 
 
 "Sh-h!" she warned. "Come over here." Again 
 laying her hand upon his sleeve she drew him farther 
 from the group at the piano. Then lowering her 
 voice to a confidential tone: "There s something I 
 want you to do for me, dear. You can help me a lot 
 if you will." 
 
 Her gaze was earnest and appealing. He nodded. 
 
 "Fremecourt will simply never go home," she 
 whispered, "nor Grace Fernis. I m always having 
 to send those two away. I must get them out pretty 
 soon. I have to practice those songs, and 
 
 He broke in with: "You mean alone?" 
 
 "No, of course not. With Delaney." 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 "Let me get this right. You mean what you 
 want me to do you want me to go is that it 
 and take them, and leave you with Delaney?" 
 
 She assented. 
 
 "Oh, you do!" he said roughly, his rage mounting. 
 "You do, do you? Well, you guess again!" She 
 looked at him fixedly, without speaking, while he 
 continued in a tone poisonously sarcastic: "No, 
 my dear, you ve got it wrong this time! I m not
 
 RITA COVENTRY 237 
 
 the one who s going! It s your little friend Delaney. 
 Do you see? And what s more His voice 
 
 was rising. 
 
 "Don t make a row!" she broke in sharply. 
 " Don t you see they re listening!" 
 
 He glanced toward the piano, catching Mrs. Fer- 
 nis s eyes fixed upon them. Hastily she looked away. 
 
 "What do I care!" he exclaimed. "If you don t 
 want them to listen get them out ! There are some 
 things you and I are going to settle right here, to 
 night. I m going to have a talk with you now if it s 
 my last!" 
 
 "All right!" she flashed, "on that basis 
 And leaving him abruptly she moved toward the 
 others. 
 
 Mrs. Fernis, however, met her halfway. 
 
 "Rita, dear," she announced, "Fremecourt and I 
 have just been saying we must go. It s getting 
 scandalously late." 
 
 Quickly Rita spoke to Delaney. 
 
 "I m sorry," she said, "but we ll have to put off 
 practising the songs. Come to-morrow morning 
 about ten o clock, will you?" 
 
 Standing at some distance from the door Parrish 
 exchanged bows and good-nights with the three. As 
 he watched Delaney go he thrust his hands into his 
 trousers pockets and planted his feet more firmly on 
 the rug, trying half consciously to assume the pos 
 ture of a host. It gave him a sense of triumph to do 
 that.
 
 238 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Ushering them out Rita pressed a push button 
 near the door, and simultaneously a bell sounded 
 faintly from a distant part of the house. Parrish 
 heard her clear voice bidding them good-night. 
 From where he stood he could see her leaning over 
 the balustrade looking after them. Presently he 
 heard the soft metallic sound of the front door 
 closing behind them. 
 
 Rita called down to the butler: "Pierre!" 
 
 "Mademoiselle?" He came running up. 
 
 "Laissez la lumiere la-bas." And in English she 
 added: "Monsieur will be going presently. I ll 
 ring." 
 
 "Bien, mademoiselle. Merci." He descended 
 toward the lower hall. 
 
 " If it was as a precaution that you told Pierre to 
 sit up," Parrish said with a contemptuous little 
 laugh, "it was quite unnecessary. I wish I were the 
 kind of man who can take a woman and drag her 
 around by the hair. It s what you need! Evidently 
 you know it, too! But you can set your mind at 
 rest you won t have to ring for help." 
 
 She, too, laughed. 
 
 "Oh, you re Anglo-Saxon," she retorted lightly, 
 "so I wasn t worrying. It s a little courtesy, that s 
 all. Doesn t it seem fitting that I should have you 
 shown out with due ceremony when probably you ll 
 be leaving for the last time?" 
 
 The flippancy hurt him as no display of anger could 
 have.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 239 
 
 "So," he said, "that s all this whole thing has 
 meant to you, is it?" She was at the other end of 
 the room; he took a few steps toward her. "If my 
 going doesn t mean any more than that to you I 
 might as well go now." 
 
 " I was only striking back," she said quickly. 
 "Don t let s go on like this. Let s sit down and 
 talk things over." She crossed, rang the bell again, 
 and returning took a chair, indicating to him a place 
 upon a near-by couch, where he sat in silence until 
 Pierre reappeared. 
 
 "You were up late last night," Rita said to the 
 butler. " I will see monsieur to the door." 
 
 " I thank mademoiselle." He bowed and retired. 
 Parrish listened to the sound of his footfalls on the 
 staircase. 
 
 "Well?" she invited. 
 
 " Do you think there s no end to what I can stand," 
 he asked her, "or is it that you just don t give a 
 damn?" 
 
 "Certainly I give a damn. Do you think if I 
 weren t fond of you I d be here now?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose you are fond of me," he returned 
 dryly. " I think one may fairly assume that much. 
 It seems strange now that I didn t see, all along, that 
 with you it was nothing more than a slight fondness. 
 Looking back, everything has pointed that way. 
 But I just couldn t see it or wouldn t. Naturally, 
 I didn t want to see it, caring for you as I do. Oh, 
 what a fatuous idiot I ve been!"
 
 240 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Caring for me as you do?" she echoed. "And 
 just how much do you think you do care?" 
 
 The implication of doubt as to the depth of his 
 feeling for a moment stupefied him. 
 
 "If I haven t shown you," he answered, "I guess 
 there s no way for me to tell you now." 
 
 "But," she demanded quickly, "if a man loves a 
 woman very deeply doesn t he ask her to marry 
 him?" 
 
 Marriage! Was that it, then? Was that what 
 she had been thinking of all this time? Here was 
 a situation ! He had never explained to Rita, as he 
 had to Alice, that he was not a marrying man. The 
 topic had never suggested itself and he had never 
 thought of bringing it up. It had not seemed nec 
 essary. Rita was such a different type. But wo 
 men ! You never could tell about a woman ! 
 
 Her eyes were fixed upon his face. 
 
 "You mean," he said slowly, "you mean that 
 you want me to marry you?" 
 
 "No," she answered, speaking quite as slowly as 
 he, and looking at him with a comical solemnity which 
 he recognized for a burlesque of his own expression, 
 " I don t mean anything of the kind." 
 
 He felt the hot blood in his face. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "then this is just a debating so 
 ciety!" 
 
 At once she became earnest. 
 
 "No, it s not," she answered, "and I shouldn t 
 have done that. I can see how my question about
 
 RITA COVENTRY 241 
 
 marriage misled you. I asked it because I wanted 
 to show you that you aren t so deeply in love with 
 me as you may have thought yourself." 
 
 "Well, it doesn t show me anything of the kind," 
 said he. "The reason I ve not asked you to marry 
 me is the same reason I ve not asked anybody else. 
 I intend to remain a bachelor. I ve never intended 
 to marry." 
 
 At that she smiled a little. 
 
 "There, at all events," she told him, "we are per 
 fectly in accord. I don t blame you for wanting to 
 remain a bachelor. I wouldn t marry the most fas 
 cinating man alive. In my case, of course, it is more 
 than just an inclination. Opera singers ought not 
 to marry the women, anyway. You can t serve 
 God and mammon, and you can t serve your art and 
 hot rolls for breakfast." 
 
 "A lot of them are married, though," said he. 
 
 "Yes, and I know just two who are really happy. 
 They re the exceptions that prove the rule. But 
 look at Prenslauer her career is ruined; she lost her 
 voice when she had her last baby. And most of the 
 others have either got divorces or accepted their 
 husbands love affairs." 
 
 There had been growing upon him a disturbing 
 sense of having been led, against his will, into an ab 
 stract discussion. He had not stayed here to talk 
 of Prenslauer s baby or the troubles of singers with 
 their husbands. 
 
 "This is all very interesting," he said, rising and
 
 242 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 taking a few restless steps, "but it s not getting us 
 anywhere." 
 
 "Well, then," she replied amiably enough, "what 
 is it you want?" 
 
 He stopped walking and looked down at her. 
 
 " I want to know exactly where I stand with you," 
 said he. 
 
 Her eyes met his. 
 
 "That s just what I ve been wondering," she said. 
 
 "You don t know?" 
 
 " I thought I knew, but 
 
 "Evidently!" he put in. 
 
 " but there s such a difference between loving 
 and being in love." 
 
 "Yes," he retorted, "and there s a difference be 
 tween loving and hating! I ought to know! But 
 that isn t getting us anywhere either." 
 
 "Being in love gets me somewhere," she insisted. 
 " If one is not in love life is empty as an unfurnished 
 house. I don t believe anybody who is not in love is 
 really happy. The day I met you I was lonely 
 you attracted me. I was longing to be in love again. 
 The day was like spring, if you remember." 
 
 "Do I!" he murmured with reminiscent fervour, 
 and after a deep sigh resumed: "Then what you 
 mean is you were longing to fall in love with some 
 body and now you re wondering whether you really 
 did or not." 
 
 "That s a crude way of putting it," said she, "but 
 love means more to me than it does to some people."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 243 
 
 He seated himself near her, leaning forward, and 
 was about to speak when in a reflective tone she sup 
 plemented: "When I m in love I sing better." 
 
 The words struck him like a blow. 
 
 "My God!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Talking 
 of love as if it were a gargle!" 
 
 Rita burst out laughing. 
 
 "Well, anyway," she declared, "I love you for 
 that!" 
 
 "But that isn t what I want to be loved for!" he 
 protested. "And I don t want intermittent love- 
 one day on a pinnacle, next day in the ditch. I m 
 worn out with your eternal changeableness. It s 
 nearly killing me! This thing is going to be defi 
 nitely settled to-night! I d rather 
 
 "There you are!" she broke in. "That s just it! 
 That s going to help me to explain to you. Do you 
 remember on the way to Atlantic City you were 
 talking about wanting to know all about me, want 
 ing to make a portrait of me, as you put it? You 
 kept talking about getting the portrait finished. 
 Well, what happens when a portrait is finished? The 
 painter has learned all he can about his subject. His 
 job is done. The portrait is framed and hung upon a 
 wall" she waved her hand toward her own portrait 
 above the mantelpiece "to gather dust. And with 
 a love affair it is the same. It is the development 
 that is interesting the gradual finding out. When 
 that is over most love affairs are done. Not great 
 ones, of course but there aren t many great ones.
 
 244 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "You d think," she continued, "that almost any 
 one would understand a thing like that, but men 
 seldom do. In love they go by instinct, and their 
 instinct is wrong. They hunt love as naturalists 
 hunt butterflies. They don t see the beauty of free 
 dom and movement. They want to catch the but 
 terfly, run a needle through it and mount it on a cork 
 where they can investigate it microscopically. But 
 by that time the butterfly is dead." 
 
 " If you mean that a man wants to be sure of 
 the woman he loves," said Parrish, "of course he 
 does! That s just the point I ve never been sure of 
 you. I guess there must be a hole in my butterfly 
 net!" 
 
 "Or perhaps the mesh isn t fine enough," said 
 she, smiling. 
 
 At that he became angry again. 
 
 "Oh, to hell with this butterfly talk!" he ex 
 claimed. "Generalities! What I want to know is 
 is there any use in my trying to go on, or am I 
 through?" 
 
 "And that s what I ve been endeavouring to tell 
 you," she gave him back. "I know you want to 
 pin me down, and I won t be pinned down. Love 
 isn t an exact science; it s a fine art." And before 
 he could break in she added: "And to be entirely 
 frank if you want me to be frank 
 
 "Yes, yes," he urged. 
 
 "Well, I am afraid you are not an artist. In love, 
 at least, you lack the light touch."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 245 
 
 Again he felt an impact as of a heavy fist. Of all 
 conceivable charges, that was the last he had ever 
 expected to hear made against him. And by a wo 
 man! She had the effrontery to say he lacked the 
 light touch in love ! he, to whom men friends had so 
 often come for advice in these matters; who had al 
 ways handled situations of this kind so deftly; who, 
 without being merciless, managed women; who, in 
 his love affairs, had with invariable skill charted his 
 course between the Scylla of loneliness and the Cha- 
 rybdis of responsibility! Preposterous! She was 
 deliberately trying to confuse him. But she couldn t 
 do it! He knew what had caused all the trouble. 
 He had been feeling it all along, and now somehow 
 he knew it. And he would tell her, too! 
 
 "It hasn t anything to do with a light touch," he 
 said. "It hasn t anything to do with me. It s 
 Delaney! Ever since you first saw that whelp 
 you ve been different!" 
 
 "Well," she returned, unperturbed, "what have 
 you got against Delaney?" 
 
 " I hadn t planned to stay long enough to tell 
 you," he answered bitterly, "but I ll tell you one 
 thing I ve got against him: he s not a gentleman." 
 
 "Perhaps not as you mean it," she conceded 
 without rancour. "I guess at that rate I m not a 
 lady, either. But Delaney is a good deal more than 
 a gentleman. He s an artist." 
 
 "Am I to infer that an artist cannot be a gentle 
 man?" His tone was triumphant.
 
 246 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "It has been known to happen," said she laconi 
 cally. 
 
 "Anyway, his being an artist can hardly make him 
 a novelty to you," he said. "Certainly you know 
 plenty of them. And as an artist he s not in your 
 class." 
 
 "There you re wrong," she answered. "He is 
 more truly an artist than I am. In the first place, he 
 creates instead of reproducing; and in the second, he 
 loves music purely for itself, while I love it partly for 
 what it can do for me." 
 
 "All right," he said; "granted you admire him. But 
 you don t have to get sentimental about him, do you?" 
 
 "No, I don t have to, and I don t say I am senti 
 mental about him; but if one must analyze, it might 
 be interesting to have a man like that care for one 
 even more than for his music." 
 
 "Yes, and you ve been trying to make him care!" 
 he charged. 
 
 "If I have, the effort has not been highly suc 
 cessful." 
 
 "You just fall in love with him," he prophesied 
 vindictively, "and you ll get yours! He s a lot 
 younger than you are. You can t hold him." 
 
 "I m a good gambler." 
 
 "Maybe you are," he retorted, "but if you can 
 hold him it will be the first case of that kind I ve 
 run across. I ve seen dozens of them where the 
 woman was older and I ve never known it to fail. 
 In the end he ll fall in love with some little girl young
 
 RITA COVENTRY 247 
 
 enough to be your daughter, and where will you be 
 then?" 
 
 "Playing tragic roles as I never did before. I 
 shouldn t wonder if that sort of bump would be good 
 for me." 
 
 He sank back on the couch, his eyes staring un 
 seeing across the room, his mind filled with a whirl 
 ing misery. Presently she stirred a little in her chair, 
 and he became aware of her again. She did look 
 younger in that dress almost girlish grotesquely 
 girlish for one capable of such a shocking stream of 
 bizarre sophistications. 
 
 Slowly he rose and stood before her. 
 
 "Just like surgery this for me," he said, and 
 smiled. 
 
 And as he smiled the dryness of his lips against his 
 teeth was painful. His whole mouth was dry. 
 When he opened it again to speak his tongue made a 
 little clicking sound against the roof of his mouth, 
 which vaguely irritated him. 
 
 "Diagnosis that s what I wanted. Now I know. 
 It s better to know. Well, I m ready to be wheeled 
 out." 
 
 With that he swung around and made his way 
 toward the door on legs that felt weak and numb. 
 
 He heard her make a little sound of pity he 
 didn t want her pity! Then her swift steps coming 
 after him he didn t want her following him! 
 
 "Don t come," he said without turning. "I ll 
 let myself out."
 
 248 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 But she kept coming. He heard her behind him 
 on the stairs. In the lower hall he almost ran to get 
 his coat from the chest where it was lying. He did 
 not pause to put it on, but threw it over his arm and, 
 seizing his hat and cane, made for the door. 
 
 She was back of him; he felt her pulling at his 
 coat. "Let me help you with it," he heard her 
 say. Why didn t she stay upstairs as he told her 
 to? She ought to know he wouldn t want her look 
 ing at him when he was like this! 
 
 As he reached for the doorknob she laid a detain 
 ing hand upon his outstretched arm. He dropped 
 his arm abruptly and turned upon her. 
 
 "You leave me alone!" he heard himself say, and 
 as she stepped back, looking startled, he realized 
 that he had made a threatening gesture with his 
 cane. 
 
 She was saying something as he shut the door be 
 hind him.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FOR the next few days Parrish was like a man 
 drugged. He felt light-headed, and as he 
 went about was continually on his guard 
 against revealing it. But he made the office every 
 day. Several times he was aware of Bement s sur 
 reptitious scrutiny, and it annoyed him. What if he 
 was not looking very well? Was that anybody 
 else s business as long as he attended to his job? 
 
 He was a little bit surprised that the pain was 
 not greater. Though incessant, it was dull. Per 
 haps it would be worse when this drugged feeling 
 wore off. His chief sensation was that of being 
 crippled and not yet accustomed to it; of greatly 
 missing some important portion of his body, which 
 had been removed. His heart still was inside him, 
 he could feel it pounding heavily; but he could not 
 eat, and there were times when he feared to breathe 
 deeply, lest it bring on the sharp pain. 
 
 But presently there came a day when he began to 
 understand a little and, as recuperation advanced, 
 to gather comfort from a wan philosophy. 
 
 Well, at all events, it was over. This surgery had 
 from the first been inevitable. Ultimately, no doubt, 
 he would be better for it; in one way, even, he was 
 
 249
 
 25 o RITA COVENTRY 
 
 better now the uncertainty was gone; at last he could 
 sleep. 
 
 As his mind cleared he found himself thinking of 
 Alice. Not once during what now seemed to him 
 to have been a period of illness through which he had 
 passed, had he heard from her; and now instead of 
 attributing her silence to the condition of her sister s 
 health, or to annoyance with him because he had so 
 long delayed writing to her, he began to be honest 
 with himself and to search for deeper causes. 
 
 Could she have heard some rumour of what had 
 been going on? At first that seemed to him hardly 
 probable. She was far away, out of touch with New 
 York and unacquainted with the people with whom 
 he had lately been associating. And even those 
 people, he liked to think, had for the most part been 
 unaware of his affair with Rita. Busini had evi 
 dently suspected something, and perhaps the ubiqui 
 tous Mrs. Fernis had also, but he hardly thought 
 there had been general gossip. Of course there was 
 Atlantic City, but on that trip he had seen no one he 
 knew. The people he knew would not be likely to 
 go to that hotel. 
 
 The only friend of Alice s he had met since she left 
 was Clara Proctor at the Midnight Frolic and 
 then he had been with Bement. Clara, to be sure, 
 had all but cut him. That still puzzled him a little. 
 But he and Clara never had liked each other; she 
 was always trying to come between him and Alice; 
 trying to inoculate Alice with her own cynicism con-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 251 
 
 cerning men, advising her to drop him because he 
 didn t mean to marry. 
 
 As he thought of that, there came to him the first 
 glimmer of mirth grim mirth that he had known 
 since Rita s door closed behind him. He had dis 
 liked Clara for interfering, but she was right: Alice 
 should have dropped him; from a strategic stand 
 point it would have been the wise thing to do. But 
 Alice hadn t any strategy. 
 
 Strategy was not very well distributed among wo 
 men: some had none; others too much. Real fine 
 ness didn t count as it ought to in relations between 
 men and women. Fine women, like Alice, lacking 
 strategy or scorning to use it, so often lost out, while 
 women who were cold-hearted and unscrupulous 
 got everything their own way. Perhaps the fine 
 ones could get some satisfaction out of knowing they 
 were square and honest, but that seemed cold com 
 fort. 
 
 Women! Why were people always generalizing 
 about women? Such a stupid thing to do ! General 
 izations were stupid anyway. How true the epigram 
 of the witty Frenchman who declared: "All generali 
 zations are false including this one!" When men 
 generalized about women they were in reality de 
 scribing not women, but their own reactions to some 
 certain woman. If a man proclaimed women selfish, 
 heartless, cruel, it was a safe conclusion that the wo 
 man he cared for had ill-used him; while if, upon the 
 other hand, according to him they were patient,
 
 252 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 loving, and forgiving, the woman he cared for was 
 generous and kind. 
 
 During these days he reflected a great deal about 
 women. 
 
 How helpless the average man against a woman 
 pretty and unscrupulous! To a man it was well- 
 nigh inconceivable that a woman s soul might not be 
 so lovely as her face that is, until she proved it to 
 him. Given a beautiful face his romantic fancy 
 would endow her with every admirable and endearing 
 quality of character. Strange, too, that beauty and 
 charm or lure qualities having not the slightest 
 bearing upon worth should be the two great mag 
 nets of the love attraction. That meant that the 
 qualities to attract were not the qualities to hold 
 love. Something wrong there. If things were right 
 with love, men would, from the beginning, be drawn 
 to women by their sweetness, their fair-mindedness, 
 their capability, their loyalty, in short, their fineness, 
 instead of learning later to appreciate those qualities 
 if lucky enough to find them. Yet under the dis 
 torted laws governing the love attraction all those 
 qualities the qualities of a good wife might often 
 be found in women who, for lack of attributes super 
 ficially attractive, were almost certainly predestined 
 to a state of spinsterhood. 
 
 The whole thing was a mess. 
 
 Take his own case: How horrible to realize that 
 he had so easily been drawn away from what was 
 beautiful and fine by what was beautiful but not fine;
 
 RITA COVENTRY 253 
 
 how horrible that he could cast aside Alice s unselfish, 
 unchanging love, for something hot, spasmodic, 
 spurious; and how horrible that the loss of that brief 
 meretricious love could plunge him into a wretched 
 state in which, though lonely, he avoided people, 
 returning each evening to his apartment like a sick 
 dog crawling into his kennel. 
 
 Sitting by the fire in his living room one night, 
 unable to interest himself in books or magazines, he 
 tried to analyze his situation. Rita s photograph 
 still stood upon the mantelpiece; for several days its 
 presence there had been disturbing him but, as if for 
 want of energy to move it, he had allowed it to re 
 main. There, at all events, was something he was 
 able to correct. He rose, took down the picture, and 
 removed it from the silver frame. 
 
 His wretchedness was not a wretchedness of long 
 ing for Rita. He treasured no dream, however 
 shadowy, of a renewal. He had put her or she had 
 put herself- definitely out of his life. Her destruc 
 tion of his illusions, her blows upon his self-respect, 
 made him detest her. If in the loss of her he missed 
 anything it was a Rita he had imagined, a Rita who 
 did not exist. 
 
 He looked at the photograph in his hands. She 
 was beautiful with the beauty of a blue-ribbon cob 
 exhibiting its gaits at a horse show. Proud, sleek, 
 and sure, self-confident, self-centred, self-satisfied, the 
 expression of her face, in the picture, irritated him. 
 
 Suddenly, violently, almost as if slashing at her, he
 
 254 RI TA COVENTRY 
 
 tore the photograph. He had aimed at the face, 
 but by a narrow margin missed it. Again he tore, 
 and this time the paper broke in a ragged line passing 
 through one eye, across the nose and down the cheek. 
 He threw the bits of the torn likeness at the fire, but 
 they hit the screen and fell back upon the hearth. 
 It was not unpleasant to scuff them into the hot 
 ashes with the sole of his shoe. The silver frame he 
 put away; he could give it to the cleaning woman. 
 
 But now in this morass of misery he did long for 
 Alice, and his longing for her was like his longing for 
 his mother when as a boy he became ill away from 
 home. There had always been that mother quality 
 in Alice, that eternal watchfulness for his well-being; 
 she was always thinking of him, worrying about him, 
 afraid he would get tired or take cold. He thought 
 with a strong nostalgia of the big comfortable chair 
 in her apartment and the smoker s stand beside it: 
 his chair, his stand, she called them. 
 
 And their tastes were so congenial she always 
 wanted to do what he wanted to; in restaurants she 
 was delighted with what he ordered, and after dinner 
 it was for him to decide what they should do 
 whether they should go to the theatre or back to her 
 apartment, where he could be comfortable and smoke 
 while they talked. 
 
 How he wished she were at her apartment now! 
 It would be so comforting to go to her; she was so 
 understanding when one was downhearted. When 
 the market was at its worst, after the war, and brok-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 255 
 
 erage houses were failing, he could always get en 
 couragement from her. And that time he had the 
 grippe she came to see him every day. How well 
 he remembered the way she used to fix his pillows! 
 She did it better than the nurse. 
 
 Trifling things always pleased her so. When he 
 gave her some little present she did not thank him 
 only once; with her a present seemed to renew itself 
 over and over, and she would speak of it again and 
 again. She remembered everything: not only birth 
 days but the most trifling anniversaries. 
 
 That reminded him he had been meaning to get 
 a present for her birthday. Her birthday would be 
 coming pretty soon. Let s see, when was it? It 
 came in the middle of March March fourteenth. 
 And to-day was March fourteenth! Her birthday 
 was to-day and to-day was nearly over! 
 
 He hastened to the telephone and put in a call for 
 Alice. It was only a little after ten o clock. That 
 meant nine in Cleveland. How fortunate, how very 
 fortunate, that he had thought of it in time! 
 
 While waiting in the library for the call to be put 
 through he paced the rug, following the pattern with 
 his feet. There was a place in the corner where he 
 had to take a short step or else go over into the bor 
 der. In the back of his mind was an incoherent wish 
 that the rug had been a little shorter or a little 
 longer, to match the length of his stride. 
 
 The knowledge that he was so soon to hear her 
 voice made him happy in spite of his apprehension
 
 256 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 as to what her attitude would be. Again he specu 
 lated on the cause of her silence. Suppose she had in 
 some way found out about Rita what would she say, 
 and what could he say? However, he did not believe 
 she had found out. It seemed far more likely that 
 she was hurt by his neglect. But he wished he knew. 
 It would be so much easier to commence talking with 
 her if he knew. Why didn t the operator get her? 
 Long-distance service ought to be prompt at this 
 time of night. He was moving toward the telephone 
 with the intention of asking for a report on his call, 
 when the bell began to ring. 
 
 "All ready with Cleveland," said the operator. 
 
 "Hello hello hello," he called. 
 
 "Just a minute, please." 
 
 He waited. There came a little click and a soft 
 electric hum upon the wire. 
 
 "Hello," he said again. 
 
 Then he heard Alice s voice, faint and far away. 
 
 "Hello Alice. This is Dick." He paused; then 
 as she did not answer he asked, "Can you hear me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I called up to wish you a happy birthday. I 
 couldn t get your present off to you in time. I was 
 wondering whether I d better send it or hold it here 
 until you get back. I suppose you will be coming 
 back pretty soon, won t you?" 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 "Why not? Is your sister no better?" 
 
 "She s much better, thank you."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 257 
 
 "Is she back from Lake Placid yet?" 
 
 "We expect her next week." 
 
 "That s fine! And after that you ll be coming 
 home?" 
 
 "I don t know," she said again, and there was 
 something ominous to him about the repetition. 
 
 "But I want to know," he persisted. "You must 
 have some idea when you ll be coming." 
 
 " I haven t made up my mind." 
 
 "Alice," he said, "I miss you awfully. You 
 haven t even written to me. I know it s my fault 
 I ought to have written to you but I was horribly 
 busy just after you went away; I kept putting off 
 writing from day to day, and after a while I felt so 
 guilty about it I didn t know how to begin. And I 
 haven t been feeling well. And last week I was 
 called on the jury I had a devil of a time getting off. 
 I ve been sitting here alone all evening, thinking 
 about you. Came home tired out. Last night I 
 stayed at home, too and the night before thinking 
 about you. I d give anything to see you. I do 
 wish you were back." 
 
 He was not satisfied with what he had been saying; 
 he felt that it did not sound genuine; he was throw 
 ing in words desperately, as if they had been bags 
 of sand intended to stop leaks in a dike. Strangely, 
 the flood he feared was not a flood of reproaches but 
 of silence; and now as he waited, giving her a chance 
 to answer, the silence began seeping through again, 
 forcing him to throw in more words.
 
 25 8 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "Hello! Alice!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 He hastened on: "I m wretched about the way 
 I ve treated you! I know I ve made you unhappy, 
 and that makes me unhappy. Can t you say some 
 thing to comfort me?" 
 
 Again that awful silence. 
 
 "Alice! Are you there?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Some quality in her voice he did not know just 
 what told him now that she was weeping. 
 
 "Can t you just say something to me?" 
 
 The electric singing of the wire suddenly stopped. 
 
 "Alice!" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 He worked the hook up and down and when the 
 operator responded made nervous inquiries of her. 
 
 "Hold the wire, please." A curious little sound 
 came through the receiver, telling him that the oper 
 ator, like a disembodied spirit, was flying through 
 the night to Cleveland to find out what was wrong; 
 a moment later he heard her disembodied voice. 
 
 "The party disconnected," she informed him. 
 
 His first impulse was to call Alice again, but he 
 abandoned the thought; there was no reason to 
 suppose that further communication with her by 
 telephone would be more satisfactory than the one 
 sided conversation just ended. 
 
 She had been crying; he was almost certain of it. 
 Was it because she did not wish him to detect it that
 
 RITA COVENTRY 259 
 
 she had hung up the receiver or was this a dismissal? 
 Her silences, her short replies, lent colour to the 
 latter theory. She had never treated him like that 
 before. If only she had reproached him instead of 
 being silent, that would have shown him where he 
 stood; but as things were, he knew no more than if 
 he had not called her up at all. 
 
 What if he had lost her! Now for the first time 
 he faced that possibility. He had relied upon her 
 gentleness, her devotion, her forgiveness. Had he 
 relied too much? Ruthlessly he had traded on 
 her finest qualities, treating her as he would not 
 have dared to treat a woman of coarser fibre. His 
 ethics had been the ethics of the jungle. He had 
 been considerate of Rita because he was afraid of 
 her, and inconsiderate of Alice because of her he was 
 not afraid. 
 
 Then, like a thunderbolt, the thought struck him 
 that be had treated Alice as Rita bad treated bim! 
 
 Would he forgive Rita? Never! 
 
 Would Alice forgive him? She must forgive him! 
 She must ! He must find some way to make her for 
 give him. He deserved to lose her, but he could not 
 bear to. 
 
 In the past he had been more aware of her need of 
 him than of his need of her, but now their positions 
 were reversed. He could not go on without her. He 
 must win her back. He must see her. He would go 
 at once to Cleveland. 
 
 Consulting a time-table he found that a train
 
 260 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 left for Buffalo at eleven-ten. He could just make it. 
 By changing cars at Buffalo to-morrow morning he 
 could reach Cleveland in the early afternoon. 
 
 Through the pantry door he shouted to Ito, then 
 ran to his own room and began collecting the things 
 he wanted packed. When the servant came he left 
 the filling of the bag to him and telephoned for a 
 taxi. In fifteen minutes he was on his way to the 
 station ; in half an hour he was on the train ; and when 
 a little later he retired for the night the train was 
 roaring along beside the Hudson River. But he 
 could not see the river. There are no windows in an 
 upper berth.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 ALIGHT snow was falling when Parrish ar 
 rived in Cleveland next afternoon, but when, 
 after a brief pause at a hotel, he took a taxi- 
 cab to drive to Alice s, there was only dampness on 
 the pavements where the snow had been. 
 
 Having passed through a busy district of retail 
 shops, theatres, and office buildings, where it seemed 
 to him pedestrians were too much given to crossing 
 the streets recklessly in the middle of blocks, they 
 came to an "auto row" made up of two- and three- 
 story buildings of brick and tile, with here and there 
 a mansion of an earlier day rearing its smoke-be 
 grimed bulk in futile defiance of the outward march 
 of trade. Then more old houses, ugly and massive, 
 some of them well kept, telling of wealthy families 
 still holding on, others turned into dressmakers 
 establishments, art shops, and boarding places. 
 Around some of them was grass, and on the grass 
 the snow had not melted, but held in a semi-trans 
 parent whitish glaze. 
 
 A few minutes farther out, at a trolley crossing, was 
 a thriving centre a small city within a large one 
 with banks, stores, and yellow taxis clustered around 
 a railroad station; and after perhaps ten minutes 
 
 261
 
 262 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 more, during which the cab traversed a section where 
 apartment houses and business buildings seemed to 
 be waging equal warfare with old houses, another 
 secondary business centre, with its crosstown trolley 
 line, banks, motion-picture theatres, and shops. 
 Then a parked circle with a bronze statue and a little 
 lake behind it, a boulevard winding amid snow-dusted 
 trees and shrubbery, and presently, after a long and 
 rather steep ascent, fine heights, on which stood large 
 residences in spacious grounds, with here and there 
 an apartment building sharply breaking the skyline. 
 More winding along a parked way: this one double 
 with street-cars running down the middle and new 
 houses built or building at each side; and at last, 
 after what was beginning to seem to Parrish a very 
 long drive, although his watch told him they had been 
 little more than half an hour on the way, a right- 
 angle turn into an intersecting highway which a 
 street-corner sign told him was Willowbrook Avenue. 
 It was the kind of street Alice s descriptions had led 
 him to expect : flanked by modest modern houses. One 
 or two of the largest might, he thought, have cost as 
 much as eighteen or twenty thousand dollars, while 
 the least of them must have cost twelve thousand. 
 The shrubs and trees in the yards were young, and 
 on such houses as were embellished with vines, the 
 loftiest shoots did not reach more than halfway to 
 the eaves, though there could be no doubt that, like 
 the owners of the houses, they were year by year pro 
 gressing upward in the world. Inexpensive cars stood
 
 RITA COVENTRY 263 
 
 at the curb, here and there, along the street, and 
 the lines of land proprietorship were marked off by 
 little drives made of twin strips of cement, leading 
 back to small garages. 
 
 In many front yards children were at play with 
 their sleds, laughing and shouting as they made the 
 most of the thin coat of snow, and from the sizes of 
 the children Parrish gathered an impression that the 
 fathers and mothers of this neighbourhood were 
 young. 
 
 The house before which the taxi stopped was of 
 stucco and brown-stained timber, low and sub 
 stantial, somewhat in the style of a California bunga 
 low, although there were upper windows, indicating 
 a second story tucked away beneath the long slope 
 of the roof. 
 
 A small boy and girl in the front yard stopped play 
 ing and advanced a few steps to inspect Parrish as he 
 alighted from the taxi. Passing up the walk he 
 smiled at them, but their big blue eyes remained 
 solemn. 
 
 "How do you do, Georgie? How do you do, 
 Alice?" he said, with a mischievous desire to astonish 
 them. 
 
 They did not reply, but continued to follow him 
 with their eyes. The only sign of their having heard 
 him was given by little Alice, who quickly reached 
 up and placed her small red-mittened hand in her 
 brother s. 
 
 Parrish ascended the steps, crossed the wide porch
 
 264 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 and rang the bell. Then, turning, he looked back at 
 the little pair. They were still staring at him, but 
 now Georgie, taking courage from the safe distance 
 intervening between him and the strange gentleman, 
 became vocal. 
 
 Nodding his head emphatically, as if in affirmation 
 of a fact almost unbelievable, he declared: "I got a 
 puppy. Name s Don. He can lick my face." 
 
 And before Parrish could make a suitable comment 
 the high baby voice of the little girl chimed a cor 
 roborative echo: "He can lick his face." Like her 
 brother she nodded as she spoke, widening her eyes, 
 gravely bright. 
 
 "Is his tongue rough?" Parrish asked. 
 
 "Yes, it s rough," said George. And "It s wuff," 
 immediately echoed Alice. 
 
 The conversation was interrupted at this juncture 
 when a maid opened the front door. 
 
 Parrish asked for Alice and gave the maid his 
 card, which, having no card tray, she took in her 
 hand. 
 
 "Come in," she said civilly, opening the door 
 wider after having looked at the card as if to see that 
 he was not a canvasser. As he hung his coat and hat 
 on the dark oak rack in the hall he saw her, on the 
 way upstairs, inspecting the card again. 
 
 In the parlour he sat down in a morris chair by a 
 wide front window, and from here he could see the 
 children at play out in the yard. They were sweet- 
 looking children, as Alice had said. He felt grateful
 
 RITA COVENTRY 265 
 
 to them, because somehow he did not quite know 
 how they had made easier his approach to the 
 house. 
 
 The room was of good size with dark woodwork 
 and patternless gray-green wall paper. The furni 
 ture was in the mission style, of oak fumed oak he 
 believed it was called and the cushions in the chairs 
 were of brown leather. The best thing in the room 
 was the spacious Khiva rug, and the only other rug 
 was a black bearskin, with a mounted head, lying 
 before the fireplace. Between the front windows, 
 near the chair in which he sat, stood a massive table 
 with a cover of soft leather, dyed to a maroon colour, 
 and on this was placed a lamp having a verdigris 
 metal base and a translucent shade of glass, streaked 
 green and white. Neatly arranged upon the table 
 within reach of the morris chair were many popular 
 magazines and several current novels. Against one 
 wall was an ebonized upright piano with a book of 
 songs for little children on the music rack, and be 
 side the piano stood a tall wrought-iron lamp with a 
 shade of wine-colour silk. Aside from two harmless 
 landscapes in watercolour there hung upon the walls 
 an etching of Rheims Cathedral, a sepia print of one 
 of Rossetti s slender women, and at either side of the 
 hall door a figure, reproduced in black and white, 
 from Abbey s mural decorations in the Boston Public 
 Library the cowled Isaiah, and Sir Galahad stand 
 ing in armour beside his horse. 
 
 He had ample time in which to observe these de-
 
 266 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 tails, since the maid was gone for a long time. Out 
 side, the daylight was beginning to fade, and the 
 parlour, its windows shaded by the porch, was be 
 coming shadowy. Overhead he could hear someone 
 moving about. He wondered if it was Alice getting 
 ready to come down. 
 
 Presently he heard a step on the stairs. But it was 
 not Alice; it was the maid again. 
 
 "Miss Meldrum asks to be excused," she an 
 nounced. 
 
 "She she does?" He stood nonplussed. 
 
 "She s not very well to-day." 
 
 "Oh, I m sorry," he said. "Please tell her I ll 
 come back this evening to find out how she is. You 
 might just let her know I m at the Statler." 
 
 Putting on his overcoat he wondered who it was 
 he had heard moving about the room overhead. Of 
 course it might have been the maid. 
 
 His spirits were at zero as he took his hat from the 
 rack. He did not wish to leave the house; it was the 
 one place in Cleveland where he wished to be, but he 
 could think of no excuse for staying. Could it be 
 possible that she would refuse to see him after he had 
 come all the way out to Cleveland, sleeping in an 
 upper berth and changing cars at Buffalo to get here 
 in a hurry? Surely she could not be so hard on him 
 as that! She was so sweet and gentle. On the 
 other hand, though, he had known, down in Virginia, 
 many an unreconstructed old lady, and some young 
 ones, too, who were the embodiment of gentleness
 
 RITA COVENTRY 267 
 
 until Yankees were mentioned, when they became 
 more bitter than the most fiery of Confederate vet 
 erans. That under Alice s tenderness there might 
 be an unrelenting strain was a possibility he had not 
 until now faced. Oh, she must see him! She must! 
 
 As with great reluctance he opened the front door 
 to leave the house, he found himself face to face with 
 a stranger who was ascending the steps a powerfully 
 built man of about his own age, with ruddy cheeks 
 and good-humoured blue eyes. Reaching the top 
 s,tep the man brought a key ring jingling from his 
 pocket; then, as the door was already open, he put 
 back his keys, and looking closely at Parrish, nodded 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "If I m not mistaken," he said in a strong voice, 
 "you re Mr. Parrish, from New York." 
 
 "Yes Mr. Brooks?" 
 
 "The same." His smile was engaging. "I had 
 to reach around in my mind for a minute to think 
 what your last name was. You re known as Dick 
 in this house." 
 
 Parrish smiled back. 
 
 "I was having precisely the same difficulty with 
 you," he said. "Of course Alice always speaks of 
 you as George." 
 
 The master of the house came in and shut the door 
 behind him. 
 
 "Take off your overcoat," he said. 
 
 "Thanks. I was just going." 
 
 "Whereto?"
 
 268 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 " Back to the hotel. I came to see Alice, but the 
 maid tells me she isn t very well. Thought I d try 
 again this evening." 
 
 George had hung up his ulster. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "she s had a lot of headaches 
 lately. That s why I came home early." Then, as 
 Parrish had not moved to remove his overcoat, the 
 other hospitably stripped the garment from his 
 back, saying: "Here, you don t want to go yet. 
 Come into my den we ll have a smoke." 
 
 He led the way down the hall to a small room even 
 more masculine in its equipment than the parlour. 
 
 Already Parrish was beginning to like this cordial 
 Mid-Westerner with his big voice, his close-cropped, 
 wiry, wavy hair, and his understanding eyes. More 
 over, he was grateful to him for making it easy to 
 remain. 
 
 "Hold on!" said George, stopping just inside the 
 door, "that must be your taxi outside?" And 
 when Parrish assented his host turned back declaring: 
 "I ll send him away. When you have to go I ll 
 drive you down." 
 
 "You re very kind," Parrish said, following him, 
 "but let me send him away." 
 
 "Put your money back in your pocket!" ordered 
 George as they raced together down the walk. 
 
 "No, I can t let you pay for my taxi." 
 
 " Yes, you can, too! Forget it ! This is my town." 
 He thrust money into the driver s hand and dis 
 missed him, whereafter they returned to the house
 
 RITA COVENTRY 269 
 
 and settled themselves with cigars in the lamplight 
 of the den. 
 
 "When did you get in?" George asked. 
 
 "This afternoon. I was due about two-thirty, but 
 my train was late." 
 
 "Ever been to Cleveland before?" 
 
 "Once or twice, on business, years ago." 
 
 " It s a good town," George assured him. 
 
 " I really don t know anything about it," Parrish 
 answered. " I just went to a hotel and an office and 
 a club." 
 
 "Been to the Athletic Club?" 
 
 "No, it was an old-fashioned club, very nice, right 
 across the street from the hotel." 
 
 "Oh, the Union I don t belong there. I ll be 
 glad to give you a card to the Athletic if you d care 
 for it." 
 
 "That s very good of you." 
 
 After discussing the Athletic Club for a time 
 George drifted to general talk about Cleveland: 
 about how Cleveland grew, and why; the city s in 
 dustries; the late Tom Johnson and the cult of the 
 three-cent fare. Then, thinking of comparisons, he 
 went on: 
 
 " I don t see how anybody can stand living in 
 New York. Every time I go there it seems to me 
 the place is worse. More people more congestion, 
 under the ground, and on it, and above it. I get 
 the feeling that everybody hates everybody else. 
 And so many foreigners low-class Jews parasites
 
 2 7 o RITA COVENTRY 
 
 bolsheviks. Scum of creation piling in, producing 
 nothing, ruining the city maybe the whole country. 
 Whew! That town makes me depressed about the 
 future of these United States. When I m there I 
 have to keep reminding myself of Ohio and these 
 other states out here, or I d feel that everything was 
 gone to pot." 
 
 "No doubt you re right," returned Parrish, "but 
 you must remember that New York has a lot of at 
 tractions." 
 
 "Too many apartment houses," the other went on. 
 "To live in a flat seems to me only a shade better 
 than living in a hotel. I like to feel that I m an 
 chored to the soil. But I know what you mean, 
 about attractions, and of course it s true. New 
 York does offer a lot in the way of things that are 
 improving and entertaining museums, the theatres, 
 concerts, and opera if you care for opera." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Parrish hurriedly. 
 
 "It seems to me," George continued, "that New 
 York is essentially a battleground where men try 
 their strength. Business competition must be ter 
 rible, and there are more temptations, more 
 
 " I m delighted to hear that Mrs. Brooks is so much 
 better," Parrish put in. 
 
 George beamed. 
 
 "She certainly gave us a scare," he answered, 
 "but she ll be home pretty soon now probably bet 
 ter than ever. It s a darn shame, her being sick. 
 She didn t need to be, but she s one of those women
 
 RITA COVENTRY 271 
 
 who hates to leave her family, and she wouldn t go 
 until she had to. That s the way with the Meldrums 
 they don t care about a whole lot of people, but 
 Lord, how they do tie up to the ones they re fond of!" 
 
 He seemed for a moment to reflect on this quality 
 in the Meldrums; then, in a new tone, leisurely and 
 expansive, he went on: "Well, I m mighty glad to 
 see you here, Parrish." He cocked his eye hu 
 morously. "I doped out that you d be coming." 
 
 "I ve been meaning to come for some time." 
 
 " I hope you ll stay till Margaret gets back. She 
 and I are interested in you, you know hearing so 
 much about you. First thing Alice takes out of her 
 bag when she gets here is your picture, and it s the 
 last thing she packs before she leaves." And he 
 added, with his infectious chuckle, which sounded as 
 if a bag of marbles were being rattled in his chest: 
 " If you re as much of a man as she claims you are, 
 you re quite some person." 
 
 "I m afraid I m not, though," Parrish answered 
 gravely. 
 
 George chuckled again. 
 
 "Of course you re not! If you were as good as 
 Alice claims you are, then you d be as good as Mar 
 garet claims I am, and there isn t anybody that 
 good." He shook his head ruminatively. "They re 
 a great pair, those girls! Alice she s a sketch! I 
 don t know what I d have done without her while 
 Margaret was away I don t mean only running this 
 plant for me and taking care of the children I mean
 
 272 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 the way she s worked to cheer me up and the way 
 she s amused me unconsciously, too." He laughed 
 reminiscently. "Friend of mine perhaps you ve 
 heard of him J. N. Burlingham, president of the 
 Cuyahoga Car and Foundry Company?" 
 
 " I know of that company," said Parrish. 
 
 "Well," George went on, chuckling, "Burlingham 
 has taken a great fancy to me, just lately, since Alice 
 came. He doesn t come around my office very much, 
 but he can t keep away from me evenings. For 
 about a week Alice thought he really did come here 
 to see me. Almost any other girl would have caught 
 on sooner, but that s one of the dandy things about 
 her she doesn t seem to realize that anybody could 
 be interested in her. When she did get wise to it 
 I had a deuce of a time getting her downstairs at all. 
 And, Lord, how she did hang icicles on the poor 
 cuss! She doesn t want to be mean to him in fact, 
 she likes him but he s not going to get a chance to 
 propose to her if she can help it." 
 
 And he went on: "I don t think it pays a woman 
 to be too honest and straightforward. She does 
 herself out of a lot of fun. That kind of woman 
 treats men too well because she thinks they re as 
 sensitive as she is. But you and I know that s not 
 so. If we fall in love with a woman and she won t 
 have us it may be a hard bump, but we get over 
 it. We have our business to keep our minds occu 
 pied. But if a man should trifle with a woman like 
 Alice I don t believe she d ever get over it, do you?"
 
 RITA COVENTRY 273 
 
 As he talked he had been watching the smoke of 
 his cigar, but now, with the question, he turned. 
 
 Parrish reached slowly out and knocked the ash 
 from his own cigar into a bowl. 
 
 "Perhaps not," he said. 
 
 There was silence between them for a time. 
 
 "Of course it has often struck you, as it has me," 
 George said presently, "that in any relation between 
 two people one of them always has the upper hand." 
 And as Parrish nodded he continued: "Even in so- 
 called equal partnerships one of the partners is al 
 ways the stronger. In business one partner will 
 dominate because he is more of a person than the 
 other, but in domestic partnerships the man will 
 generally dominate even when the woman is more of 
 a person. It isn t only that he controls the purse- 
 strings but that his position is stronger because he 
 is freer, has more outside interests and is less sen 
 sitive. That has always seemed to me a rank injus 
 tice. What I mean is that men, instead of getting the 
 upper hand of women because they deserve it, seem 
 lots of times to get it for exactly the opposite reason 
 because they re so much more selfish than their wives. 
 Or if the wife happens to be the more selfish one of 
 course that sometimes happens, too then she gets 
 the upper hand. It puts a premium on selfishness. 
 
 "I suppose," he pursued reflectively, "there is no 
 better gauge of a man s quality than whether or not 
 he imposes on a woman because of his advantage 
 over her. It s pretty hard not to do it sometimes.
 
 274 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Take the case of man with a wife like mine. I try to 
 be on my guard against imposing on Margaret, but 
 I guess I do impose on her most all the time. There s 
 our parlour out there, for instance." He gave his 
 little laugh. "When we moved in here she bought 
 that furniture because she knew it was the kind of 
 stuff I liked. Alice says it s not in good taste, but 
 Margaret sticks up for it because it s my style. It 
 isn t what she d have for herself at all, though. 1 
 didn t realize that in the beginning, but I ve got wise 
 to it since, and I m going to remedy the matter when 
 business picks up a little more. That s one of the 
 things I ve thought about while she s been away." 
 And after a little pause: "Their going away does give 
 us men a chance to think some, doesn t it?" 
 
 "I imagine so," Parrish answered, feeling as he 
 spoke the inadequacy of the reply. 
 
 He liked George. George was being extraordi 
 narily friendly. He had a feeling that George was 
 trying to make him understand that he wished to help 
 him, and he knew that he needed help, yet here he 
 had sat as uncommunicative as a Buddha. 
 
 "Look here, Brooks," he said, leaning forward, 
 "you ve been bully to me and I appreciate it. The 
 fact is, I m afraid Alice is thinking of refusing to see 
 me at all." 
 
 " I gathered that there had been a misunderstand 
 ing of some kind," returned George, "though she 
 hasn t said a word. She s been awfully downhearted 
 didn t want me to know, but I could tell and
 
 RITA COVENTRY 275 
 
 last night, when you telephoned, I got out of the room 
 in a hurry, but of course I couldn t help knowing she 
 was crying. I don t mind telling you I was pretty 
 sore on you last night." 
 
 "And I don t mind telling you," Parrish answered, 
 "that I m pretty sore on myself. Do you think 
 perhaps you could get her to come down and see me, 
 just for a minute?" 
 
 "Well, I got her down to see Burlingham," said 
 George quizzically. 
 
 "I m afraid that was easy compared with what 
 this is going to be. The plain truth is, I don t de 
 serve to see her." 
 
 George dropped the end of his cigar in the ash 
 bowl and rose. 
 
 " I suppose not," he said. 
 
 "Of course," said Parrish, "if she s really sick I 
 don t want to bother her. I ll come back." 
 
 "Oh, she can see you all right if she wants to." 
 He moved toward the door. "I ll go up and 
 
 "Wait!" cried Parrish; and as George turned: 
 "My God! Tell her I ve got to see her!" 
 
 "I ll do the best I can, old man." He moved on 
 again. 
 
 But as he was starting up the stairs Parrish, fol 
 lowing, caught him by the arm. 
 
 "Tell her," he said in an eager voice, "that it isn t 
 going to do her a bit of good to say she won t see me 
 because I m going to stick around here until she 
 does!"
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE den was not a room suited to the needs 
 of one nervously waiting. Small, with bulky 
 furniture, it afforded but scant space for prom 
 enading; the only straightaway was the passage be 
 tween fireplace and desk, and even that was abridged 
 at one end by an armchair, so that four long steps 
 covered the entire distance. For a time Parrish 
 paced back and forth over the cramped course, smok 
 ing a cigarette which he had lighted after discarding 
 his cigar; then, annoyed by the restrictive walls and 
 furniture, he dropped again into a chair, and finding 
 his cigarette burning to a stub, lighted a fresh one. 
 When his second cigarette was consumed he flung it 
 in the bowl and, opening his case to get another, 
 found it empty. He looked about the room for 
 cigarettes or cigars, but could discover only pipes 
 and pipe tobacco.. 
 
 Strange she did not come. He had hoped that 
 George would be able to persuade her to come down 
 at once. He wished he had noticed what time it was 
 when George left him, and that the latter would re 
 turn, if only for a minute, and give him some idea 
 how things were going on up there. 
 
 For lack of other occupation he wandered about 
 276
 
 RITA COVENTRY 277 
 
 inspecting the contents of the room. In three 
 group photographs of football teams of the Ohio 
 State University he had no difficulty in recognizing 
 George, and he gathered from inscriptions on several 
 silver cups standing on top of the bookcase that his 
 host had also shone at shot putting and trap shooting. 
 The books upon the shelves below dealt with hunt 
 ing, fishing, and natural history, and the magazines 
 upon the desk were sporting periodicals. 
 
 What could be the matter up there? He went to 
 the door and listened, but the house was as silent as 
 if it had been uninhabited. Perhaps Alice had been 
 lying down; perhaps she was dressing. In that case, 
 though, George could easily have come and told him 
 what was causing the delay. Surely he would have 
 done that. A nice fellow like George wouldn t leave 
 him down here in this horrible suspense if he could 
 help it. He must be staying because he had to 
 stay. He must be having a hard time with her. 
 Suppose she wouldn t come? Or if she did, what 
 chance had he of obtaining her forgiveness when so 
 persuasive a person as her brother-in-law had such 
 difficulty in inducing her merely to come and listen 
 to his plea? He took out his handkerchief and 
 wiped the palms of his hands. 
 
 Oh, for a cigarette! George must have ciga 
 rettes. Again he looked for them, this time going so 
 far as to search desk drawers, but to no purpose. 
 
 He had resumed his animal-like pacing and was 
 trying to concentrate his thoughts upon the formu-
 
 278 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 lation of an effective appeal to Alice, when through 
 the slightly opened door he heard from above the 
 squeak of a hinge and the faint sound of steps. The 
 tread was not George s. It was a woman s. She 
 was coming down the stairs. Coming slowly. He 
 could hear each muffled footfall on the carpet. 
 
 Now that the moment when he should see her, 
 the moment he had waited for so anxiously, was im 
 minent, a wave of fear swept over him. Had it been 
 George coming to tell him that Alice would not see 
 him, his suffering would have been acute, but hardly 
 more acute than was this panic at the thought of 
 facing her. He dreaded to meet her eyes. 
 
 By the difference in sound he knew when she 
 stepped from the last stair to the floor. Now she 
 was in the hall, coming directly toward him. He 
 stood a little back from the door, waiting, gazing at 
 the place where she would appear. 
 
 The door swung slowly. As their eyes met he 
 saw in hers the look that he had feared. It was a 
 look that he had never seen before how, then, had 
 he known what it would be? There was no question, 
 now, of what she knew. She knew! He understood 
 it instantly and as definitely as if she had spoken out 
 and told him. 
 
 With her hand on the knob she paused. He was 
 struck by the fact that she looked taller, and for an in 
 stant that thought stood forward in his harassed mind. 
 How curious that she should look so much taller! 
 
 He waited for a moment, hoping she would say
 
 RITA COVENTRY 279 
 
 something that would help him to begin. Perhaps 
 if he could once get started it would not be so hard. 
 The things he wanted to say to her seemed to be re 
 volving in his mind at terrible speed, like a huge fly 
 wheel in a power house. He must seize hold of that 
 dizzying wheel. When he spoke it was if he had 
 leaped blindly at it. 
 
 "Why you look taller!" he said, and wondered 
 why he had begun with such a fatuity. 
 
 She stood motionless, silent, her hand upon the 
 door knob as if at any moment she might turn and 
 go. Was it perhaps the lines of her soft dark dress 
 that made her look so tall? 
 
 "Please come in and sit down," he pleaded; and as 
 still she did not move he repeated, "Please! come in 
 and sit down." 
 
 She closed the door and advancing seated herself 
 in the nearest chair; and there was something in the 
 way she sat that gave him a feeling of her imperma- 
 nence there. 
 
 "Alice, won t you forgive me?" 
 
 "You broke your word," she answered without in 
 flection. 
 
 "My word?" He was not sure to what she was 
 referring. 
 
 " You promised you d tell me if you ever - Clara 
 said you wouldn t, but I believed you." 
 
 Now he caught her meaning. The promise had 
 meant so little to him that it had slipped his mind. 
 Another black mark against him.
 
 280 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 "If that were all I had to ask you to forgive!" he 
 brought out in a low voice. "How am I ever going 
 to explain? I can t explain it to myself. I feel as if 
 I had been out of my mind. That s the only shred 
 of defense I have to offer and it isn t a defense. 
 There s no justification for any of it, from beginning 
 to end. You couldn t hate me more than I hate 
 myself. I loathe myself! I m wretched. I m sick. 
 I never deserved you, and now I deserve you less 
 but I never wanted you so much. I used to imagine 
 I appreciated you, but why, I didn t at all! Not 
 at all. If I had, you and I would have been married 
 long ago. But I had selfish delusions about the ad 
 vantages of being free just as now I have a selfish 
 desire not to be free. Oh, Alice, if 
 
 " I used to wish you wanted to marry me," she 
 said, still in that uninflected tone. "Now I thank 
 God you didn t want to. If we had been married 
 this would have happened just the same." 
 
 "Oh no!" he cried. 
 
 "Yes, it would. If I had been your wife you 
 would have been sly about it- you wouldn t have 
 told me you d have got me out of the way just ex 
 actly as you did. But I didn t come down to dis 
 cuss this with you. I came because George said you 
 wouldn t go away until you saw me. Well, you ve 
 seen me so now you can go." 
 
 "Go?" he repeated. "With you hating me like 
 this? I can t I ve got to try to make you 
 understand something. I ve had an aberration
 
 RITA COVENTRY 281 
 
 but it s over with. The thought of it is sickening to 
 me! Even if I never win you back I m going to try 
 to live it down because I must win back my own 
 self-respect." 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 He clutched at the small encouragement afforded 
 by that single word. 
 
 "When I ve won back my self-respect," he went 
 on, "is there no chance of my winning back your re 
 spect, too?" And before she could speak he con 
 tinued: "Don t answer now. Don t take that hope 
 away from me I couldn t stand it! I m not asking 
 you to promise anything; I m only begging you not 
 to efface me. I m not asking you to marry me be 
 cause I don t dare. But won t you put me on pro 
 bation? Won t you let me try all the rest of my life 
 to make myself worthy of you? Don t answer that, 
 either. I know how you feel now. Right now it 
 doesn t seem possible that either of us can ever get 
 over* this; but if we can be patient, some day the 
 wound will heal, leaving perhaps only a slight scar. 
 That s the way the world is; if it weren t so life would 
 be unendurable. Probably you will resent the 
 idea but I must tell you: I am actually a better 
 man to-day because this thing has happened to me. 
 It has humbled me, and I needed that. And it s 
 given me a. new sense of values. It has marked 
 me away down and you away up. It has shown 
 me the absolute falseness of the standards I used 
 to believe in. Sophistication! Lord, what rot most
 
 282 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 sophistication is! It took something like this to 
 make me see straight. But I do see straight now. 
 I m really changed. Changed inside. Oh, I wish 
 you could see how it has changed me!" And in 
 this moment of unhappiness he was so earnest 
 that he was theatrical and beat upon his breast 
 with a clenched hand. 
 
 "Don t I seem different to you, Alice? Don t you 
 feel it? Don t you get something I mean some 
 thing like well, like a man who used to come into 
 our office he was a hard drinker, and every now and 
 then he would say I ve gone on the water wagon/ 
 and Bement and I would laugh because we knew it 
 didn t signify anything at all just temporary. 
 Then one day we heard that his wife had left him. 
 The next time we saw him he didn t say he was on 
 the wagon didn t even speak about drink until 
 somebody offered him one; then he said, I don t 
 drink any more/ and there was something about the 
 way he said it that made us know that this time it 
 was true." 
 
 He had been talking rapidly, but now he paused. 
 Since entering the room Alice had looked at him 
 steadily, and though she gave no sign of relenting, it 
 seemed to him that the expression of her eyes grew 
 less forbidding. It heartened him a little. 
 
 "And don t overlook this," he went on: "when his 
 wife left him she thought she was through with him 
 forever. But after a while she saw that he was really 
 different and came back. They re happy now."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 283 
 
 For the first time Alice lowered her eyes. Her 
 hands had been clasped in her lap; now he saw that 
 they were clenched, the knuckles showing white in 
 the lamplight, 
 
 " I wish you d go," she said, but her tone lacked 
 something of the cold resolution it had formerly held. 
 
 He longed to touch her but was afraid. He felt 
 that if he could take her hand the something he was 
 powerless to express in words must flow into her, 
 charging her with an understanding of this profound 
 revolution in his soul. And because he feared to 
 touch her physically he was impelled by instinct 
 to try to touch her in another way, recalling to her 
 the days when they were happy. 
 
 " I ve been having a ghastly time lately, all alone," 
 he said. "Night after night I ve been sitting in my 
 apartment longing for you, wishing I could go to you 
 for comfort as I used to. Last evening when I was 
 in the depths of despair, just before I telephoned, I 
 got to thinking of the time when I had the grippe and 
 how you came in every afternoon. You used to fix 
 my pillows for me so much better than the nurse 
 did. All day long I had you to look forward to, 
 and I used to " 
 
 "I wish you d go!" she broke in, wringing her 
 hands. 
 
 "But I don t want to leave you, dear! Where is 
 there for me to go?" 
 
 She stiffened in her chair and raising her eyes 
 looked at him savagely. It was as if some memory,
 
 284 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 all but dismissed, had returned stealthily and 
 stabbed her. 
 
 "Don t ask me where to go!" she cried with cold 
 fury. "So far as I m concerned you can go any 
 where!" And as he stood astounded at such an 
 outburst from her, she continued: "Why don t you 
 go back to Atlantic City! Back to Rita Coventry! 
 Back to to where 
 
 She stopped, gasping as if suffocated, and there 
 was a moment in which he felt himself actually 
 quailing before her. Then quickly she turned away 
 from him, sank her face in her arm on the back of 
 the chair and wept. 
 
 Her weeping frightened him. He had never heard 
 such tearing sobs. He dropped to his knees beside 
 her, flung an arm about her, and drawing her to him, 
 pressed his cheek against hers. 
 
 "Oh, don t! Alice! Don t! For God s sake, 
 don t cry like that! Don t! I can t bear it! Oh, 
 please don t!" He was pleading passionately with 
 out knowing what he was saying. 
 
 But the awful tearing sobs continued. With his 
 arm about her he felt the impact of each shock. 
 Never had he so desired to comfort any one, and 
 never had he been so powerless. He snatched out 
 his handkerchief and with a trembling hand tried to 
 dry her cheek, as if the stopping of her tears could 
 stop her sorrow. He was desperate about it, like 
 one endeavouring to stanch a wound. Her sleeve 
 was wet. He pressed the handkerchief into her hand.
 
 RITA COVENTRY 285 
 
 "Oh, Alice! Dearest! Dearest! I feel like a 
 murderer! Don t cry like that! Oh, please don t! 
 There s nobody else that matters to me at all! 
 Alice! I ll go I ll do anything if you ll only 
 stop! Please, sweetheart! Oh, please!" 
 
 Again he put his cheek to hers, tightening his arm 
 around her to fortify her body against the successive, 
 racking impulses; and when at last she became 
 quieter he knelt there, thankful, almost happy, hold 
 ing her, pressing her face to his, stroking her hair, 
 her shoulder, her arm, as if to smooth away the 
 pain. 
 
 She relaxed against him with a sigh. 
 
 "Dearest!" he whispered. 
 
 She gave up. 
 
 "It s no use," she breathed despairingly. "I love 
 you. I can t help myself." 
 
 "Thank God!" he murmured. "You love me. 
 That means I ve only got to make you glad you love 
 me!" 
 
 As he knelt there with his arm around her and his 
 face pressed to hers there came to him a memory at 
 first seemingly unrelated the memory of the time 
 when he had almost drowned. 
 
 It was in Maine in the early fall. He had arrived 
 from New York just before twilight and had hastened 
 to the deserted bathing beach. Off shore a sloop 
 was anchored and he made it his objective, swimming 
 rapidly through icy water. While he had some dis 
 tance yet to go he became conscious of fatigue, but
 
 286 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 the space between him and the boat was now shorter 
 than between him and the beach, so he kept on. 
 The last few strokes brought him to the verge of ex 
 haustion; he clutched at the boat s side, missed it, 
 went down. Coming up he had to swim a stroke 
 or two to reach it again. He put all his remaining 
 strength into the effort, feeling that should his grasp 
 fail this time he was lost; but now he managed to 
 get his finger tips over the low wooden rail at the 
 edge of the flush deck. For a long time he hung 
 there in the frigid water, without strength to lift 
 himself aboard, facing the fear that he could never 
 do so. But at last, a little rested, he mustered the 
 remnants of his energy and managed to clamber up 
 the side to safety. Never would he forget the feel 
 ing of relief that came to him at the moment when 
 he lifted himself gasping to the deck. Until now he 
 had known no emotion like it. 
 
 In the moments following that jeopardy, when he 
 lay in the lee of the little deckhouse recovering his 
 strength, life had seemed sweeter to him than ever 
 before, and he had something like a vision of the com 
 ing years spread out like a lovely landscape for him to 
 wander in. And now, confident that Alice was to 
 be restored to him, profoundly determined to make 
 himself more nearly worthy of her, love seemed 
 sweeter than ever before, and his landscape vision 
 of the coming years was made beautiful by the 
 thought of Alice with him. 
 
 In the past he had experienced many pleasures,
 
 RITA COVENTRY 287 
 
 vivid but short-lived selfish pleasures, glittering 
 little pleasures, ornaments pinned on to life; but 
 about this new-found happiness there was a reaching 
 out, a sweep, which seemed to make it integral with 
 life; and the thought struck him that this quality of 
 largeness was in some way connected with the fact 
 that now he was not thinking of himself but of 
 Alice of making Alice happy. 
 
 The three harmonizing notes of a Chinese gong 
 echoed through the house. Alice stirred. 
 
 "Dinner," said she. "I ought to have put the 
 children to bed long ago." She sat up, turning her 
 face from him. 
 
 "It won t hurt them to stay up a little bit later 
 this once, will it?" he asked as he rose. 
 
 "Anyway, I must go see. You ll keep George 
 company at supper? It won t be much the maid 
 goes out to-night but he ll be glad to have you." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 " I can t come down the way I look." 
 
 " But you must eat. I ll carry a tray to you." 
 
 He followed her to the foot of the stairs. He 
 wished to stand there gazing after her as she as 
 cended, but knowing that she preferred not to be 
 looked at, turned to the parlour, where presently 
 George joined him. 
 
 He tried to express his gratitude. 
 
 "Oh, that s all right," said George, checking his 
 stumbling speech of thanks. "Come on in and 
 have something to eat." He led the way to the
 
 288 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 dining room. " I guess by the looks of you a drink 
 wouldn t hurt you, either." 
 
 "Thanks," said Parrish, "but first I want to carry 
 some supper up to Alice." 
 
 "Oh, I ll do that," the other said. 
 
 "Not if I can help it, you won t!" Parrish an 
 swered, mustering a smile. "It s the only thing I 
 can think of to do for her right now." 
 
 Together they prepared the tray. 
 
 "No, we ve got this wrong," said Parrish when the 
 tray was set. "We ought to have put a napkin on 
 first. We must make it look dainty." 
 
 "All right," George agreed tolerantly. "Here s a 
 napkin. You go ahead and make it look dainty 
 while I get you that drink." 
 
 The tray having been made ready before George 
 returned, Parrish carried it upstairs, but at the top 
 of the flight, not knowing which was Alice s room, 
 he hesitated. He called her and was guided by her 
 answering voice to the door. 
 
 "Come in," she said, and as he entered the dimly 
 lighted chamber she warned, "Look out for that 
 chair." 
 
 He looked for a place to set the tray, and finding a 
 small table appropriated it for his purpose, carrying 
 it over to the couch where she was lying. 
 
 As she sat up to inspect her supper he suggested: 
 "Wouldn t you like a little more light?" 
 
 "I suppose I ll need it. That one over by the 
 dresser, please."
 
 RITA COVENTRY 289 
 
 Turning on the light he saw his photograph, and 
 hoped that it had remained there ever since she came 
 to Cleveland. 
 
 "Pictures like this are too big to lug about," he 
 commented. " I must have a miniature of you to 
 carry with me when I travel." Then returning to 
 her side, eager for approbation of his handiwork, he 
 asked: "Well, how do you think the tray looks?" 
 
 "Very nice." 
 
 "You might just make sure you ve got everything 
 you want," he suggested. "George and I tried to 
 think of everything but oh, I forgot the salt, didn t 
 I!" 
 
 "I won t need it," she protested. 
 
 But already he was leaving the room. 
 
 Returning with the salt he placed it on the tray 
 and manoeuvring to the foot of the couch sat down. 
 
 " I hope you feel a little better?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " That s good!" 
 
 After a little silence, during which she drank some 
 tea, she said : " Now you d better go down to George 
 and have your own supper." 
 
 Reluctantly he rose 
 
 "You re sure there isn t anything more I can bring 
 you?" 
 
 "No, thanks; I have everything I want." 
 
 He longed to embrace her. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," he began, "how I wish 
 
 But he was interrupted by George s voice booming
 
 290 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 from below: "Hey, you, Dick! How long does it 
 take you to carry a saltcellar upstairs? Come on to 
 supper!" 
 
 "Right down!" he called back, but he did not 
 move from her side. 
 
 "May I come up and see you afterward?" 
 
 "I m sorry I m afraid I m too tired." 
 
 "Yes, of course," he said quickly, his voice full of 
 solicitude. "May I see you to-morrow?" 
 
 She nodded, asking: " But when are you going back 
 to New York?" 
 
 "Oh, I haven t thought about that. I ll have to 
 go pretty soon in a day or so but I must wait un 
 til you re better. You ll be a lot better to-morrow, 
 won t you?" 
 
 "No doubt," she answered. "Now you really 
 must run along." 
 
 "Yes." He looked at her hungrily. 
 
 Passing by the back of the couch on his way to the 
 door he ventured to bend and kiss her hair. 
 
 As he reached the hall she stopped him. 
 
 "Dick." 
 
 "Yes, dear?" 
 
 "This lake climate is so changeable did you bring 
 warm clothing?"
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 BEFORE Parrish left for New York he had a 
 long talk with Alice. He begged her to 
 marry him as soon as possible, and although 
 she would give him no assurance, he took with him 
 on his journey three thoughts to comfort him: She 
 had assented to his coming back to Cleveland a week 
 hence. George, a matrimonial enthusiast because 
 of his own happy experience, was his supporter, and 
 this, he felt, meant that he would have the support 
 of Margaret also. And most encouraging of all, 
 Alice was worrying about his health again, God bless 
 her! 
 
 That she would marry him he now believed. His 
 fear was that she would make him wait. What 
 if she kept him waiting six months or a year! The 
 mere thought of such delay appalled him. A ter 
 rible waste of precious time! And he wasn t growing 
 any younger that ought to be considered, too. 
 
 Among other arguments presented to Alice in his 
 letter to her from the train, he made a point of his 
 increasing years. 
 
 "In a couple of years or so," he wrote, "I ll be 
 forty practically middle-aged. -Youth is going. I 
 
 291
 
 292 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 can feel myself aging. I can t stand this waiting. 
 It s going to make an old man of me if you don t look 
 out." 
 
 However, he overlooked the fact that in this argu 
 ment he was exhibiting a quality anything but old: 
 his impatience was that of a young lover. 
 
 In the evening after his return to New York he 
 telephoned to Alice, and finding conversation with 
 her highly satisfactory called her up again next night, 
 and the night after. Telephoning to her became a 
 daily habit with him; the contact thus established 
 made him less lonely; he knew what was going on 
 out there day by day. For example, when little 
 Georgie, looking out of the window at a storm, re 
 marked that the rain was combing its hair, the mot 
 reached Parrish on the evening of its utterance. 
 Again, on the night of Margaret s return, he was 
 introduced to her over the wire. Her voice was 
 sweet, like Alice s. And again on one occasion 
 when, Alice being out, he talked with George, he was 
 in position to gather such satisfaction as a lover 
 might from an exact knowledge of her whereabouts : 
 She had gone with the president of the Cuyahoga 
 Car and Foundry Company to see John Barrymore. 
 
 Parrish went to Cleveland the next week-end. 
 Upon the occasion of this visit he did not neglect to 
 point out to Alice that, however she might have 
 passed her evenings during the preceding week, he 
 had invariably remained alone at home for the pur-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 293 
 
 pose of telephoning to her. And he had almost 
 finished reading Carlyle s "French Revolution." 
 Later in the same evening he managed to give her 
 his estimate of John Barrymore as an actor. In his 
 opinion Barrymore was overrated. 
 
 To Margaret he was drawn at once. She was 
 like Alice, though not so beautiful. Her face, how 
 ever, held that same sweetness, and there was a 
 poignant loveliness in her eyes when she looked at 
 George and the children. 
 
 Among Margaret, George, and Parrish there was 
 no concealment as to his aspirations ; when Alice was 
 absent they would discuss the topic frankly. 
 
 "She ought to marry," Margaret said. "She is 
 a born wife and mother. I suppose being a bachelor 
 you haven t noticed her tact and judgment with the 
 children. Marriage will do a lot for her. It will 
 give her more poise." 
 
 George, sitting on the arm of her chair, looked down 
 at her affectionately. 
 
 "Yes, dear," he said. 
 
 And she glanced up at him and smiled and nodded. 
 
 "Margaret was just like her/ George explained. 
 
 This aspect of the matter had not hitherto struck 
 Parrish, but he realized instantly that what they 
 said was true. The essential difference between 
 Alice and her sister, aside from Alice s greater beauty, 
 was that she had less poise. Margaret had the 
 serenity which comes only to those who are con 
 scious of fulfilling their destiny; one knew that she
 
 294 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 felt secure, established; her husband, her children, 
 her house, even the furniture in the house, seemed to 
 collaborate to that end; it was as if the very chairs 
 contributed their quota toward making her feel 
 sure. Thinking of this, Parrish was struck by the 
 fancy that the furniture in this house, although it 
 had been selected to suit George, and although it 
 was presumably his legal property, seemed to belong 
 more to Margaret than Alice s own furniture to her. 
 Why was it that an unmarried woman, however inde 
 pendent, never seemed so completely the proprietor 
 of her home and possessions as a married woman? 
 
 Now he perceived clearly what hitherto he had but 
 vaguely felt that as a wife, secure in home and 
 husband, Alice would have her proper background. 
 In marriage she would bloom. 
 
 Suddenly it came to him what her background 
 should be. 
 
 Blenkinswood ! 
 
 Blenkinswood for her wedding present ! Blenkins 
 wood restored, with the old portraits, mahogany, and 
 silver, back in their places. And a surprise! He would 
 keep it secret from her until he should take her there. 
 
 The project put him in high spirits. He felt en 
 terprising, confident. And when that evening after 
 supper George and Margaret considerately went out 
 to a movie, leaving him alone with Alice, he had a 
 new sureness with her. To-night she must definitely 
 promise to become his wife. 
 
 She did. She was quite reasonable about it. He
 
 RITA COVENTRY 295 
 
 was able to make her see that the week of his pro 
 bationary period, being in reality an aeon, was long 
 enough. 
 
 And ah, the beauty of her yielding! 
 
 It was the essence of her nature to yield to those 
 she loved. He must be on his guard always against 
 that. He must spoil her because to spoil her was 
 impossible. He must teach her to be selfish be 
 cause it was a lesson she could never learn. With 
 all the spoiling he could give and all the selfishness 
 he could instill, she would ever be contriving to give 
 him his own way. 
 
 When at some future time it would seem to him 
 that he had done his utmost he must keep on search 
 ing out new contributions to her happiness, heaping 
 them up before her in atonement for the past. Ow 
 ing her a debt that he could never liquidate, he must 
 pay and pay against it, so long as his life should last. 
 
 A trinity existed in her. She was mother sweet 
 heart daughter to him. How he wished that he 
 had known her when she was the age of little Alice! 
 
 With her cheek resting peacefully upon his shoul 
 der he was for a long time motionless and silent. 
 The lamplight, sifting through the outer softness of 
 her hair, crowned her with a golden aureole, and this 
 tender and pure luminousness about her head added 
 to his awe. 
 
 Yet he was aware, in his feeling for her, of a du 
 ality. Bound up with his almost religious adoration 
 for her as a beautiful spirit was a passion for her as a
 
 296 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 beautiful woman. The two emotions were inter- 
 twined like two vines of equal strength, so wrapped 
 around each other, so inextricably entangled from 
 trunk to tendril, as to form a leafy cable, on which 
 white blooms and red grew one against the other. 
 Instead of strangling, these vines upheld and made 
 each other doubly strong. And Parrish knew that 
 this duality, this blending of adoration and passion, 
 was essential to a great and lasting love. 
 
 He craved to tell her of these things, but could 
 only whisper over and over, "I love you! Oh, I 
 love you so!" 
 
 And as he murmured to her he felt a terrible, sweet 
 suffering because instead of rearing for her a palace 
 of his thoughts he was able to build her only a struc 
 ture of old worn words. 
 
 Now they were lovers again! Yet not again, for 
 this was a balanced relationship such as had not 
 before existed. This love was new. There was a 
 fullness, a translucence, an unthinkable glory in it 
 which imparted to his spirit a rapturous sense of 
 form and colour, arborescent, radiant. He was ex 
 alted. A pilgrim, footsore and weary, he had 
 stumbled through the world and reached at last the 
 holy place. With soul and body bathed he had 
 entered the temple and knelt before the sacred shrine. 
 In her love he was reborn. 
 
 It seemed to him that George and Margaret had 
 hardly gone when they were back again, speaking of
 
 RITA COVENTRY 297 
 
 having seen the entire evening s show. The speed of 
 it all dazed him. He found it hard to speak with 
 them coherently as they paused on their way up 
 stairs. 
 
 "And when we are married," he said as he sat 
 down again by Alice, "there s one thing I want you 
 to let me do. I want you to let me plan the wedding 
 trip. I want you to start out with me without know 
 ing where you re going. Will you trust me to plan 
 something that will please you?" 
 
 Though she assented readily enough he was par 
 ticular to make the understanding very definite. 
 
 "Then it s agreed? You will abide by my plans?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "All right," he said triumphantly. "I ll tell you 
 the first part of the plan now. We. are to be mar 
 ried about the middle of May. That gives us nearly 
 two months to get ready." 
 
 She smiled, saying, "Oh, I didn t agree that you 
 should set the time." 
 
 "But I ve got to set the time if I m to set the 
 trip," he insisted. "I ve got to make it seasonable, 
 haven t I?" 
 
 Before he went back to New York that night he 
 made her see the soundness of his argument. Again 
 she was reasonable so reasonable that he almost 
 wished he had said April. But two months would 
 give him none too much time in which to get- Blen- 
 kinswood in order.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 ONE evening a few weeks later, when Alice 
 was in New York buying a trousseau and 
 arranging to give up her apartment, she 
 spoke to him of Blenkinswood. 
 
 "I ve never been able to understand," she said, 
 "why you don t take better care of it. That is one 
 thing I am going to try to make you do." 
 
 It gave him great amusement to assume, in answer 
 ing, the tone he had so often taken in the old days 
 when he used to put her off. 
 
 "Oh, let s not bother about Blenkinswood now," 
 he said as if the topic bored him. 
 
 And it was difficult for him not to laugh as he 
 spoke, for they were in her apartment, and her words 
 had interrupted his surreptitious scrutiny of her 
 chintz curtains, which he intended to have duplicated 
 for her room in the old house. Moreover, he knew 
 that the transformation of Blenkinswood was now 
 well under way. Not only had the shiftless farmer 
 been dismissed, and a young couple, the husband a 
 graduate of an agricultural school, been established 
 in a cottage on the place, but a large force of car 
 penters, plumbers, and painters were at work in the 
 house, installing a heating plant and bathrooms, lay- 
 
 298
 
 RITA COVENTRY 299 
 
 ing hardwood floors and restoring the ancient panel 
 ling. Outside, a landscape gardener with a gang of 
 men was engaged in renewing the lawns, gardens, and 
 slave-built terraces sloping down to the river front ; 
 that very day Parrish had received from the gardener 
 a report informing him that, despite neglect, the 
 hedges and arbour of box, planted on the terraces by 
 the Signer, could be reclaimed. 
 
 The boat-landing at the foot of the garden was 
 being rebuilt, for a hurried trip to Blenkinswood had 
 reminded Parrish that Virginia was still backward 
 as to roads, and he not only wished to avoid the 
 rough eleven-mile drive from the railway but desired 
 that Alice s first vision of her home should be from 
 the river. He could imagine the expression of her 
 face when, as their launch should come around the 
 bend, she first saw the venerable mansion crowning 
 the bluff, the sunlight glowing on its rosy bricks. 
 Landing, they would mount the terrace steps, passing 
 the giant azaleas, the wistaria, strolling under the 
 arch of box, and so up and up until, ascending the 
 last terrace, they reached the crest of the hill, where 
 the house, with its two long wings extending like 
 outstretched arms, would seem to welcome them. 
 
 There came a Sunday, the first day of May, two 
 weeks before the date set for the wedding, when Par 
 rish planned to pack the last of the smaller treasures to 
 be shipped to Blenkinswood. Coming out to break 
 fast in his dressing gown he found the Sunday papers
 
 300 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 piled on the table in the dining room. After pour 
 ing his coffee he slipped a news section from the sheaf, 
 and leaning it against the coffeepot before him, found 
 himself facing a picture of Rita and Delaney, beneath 
 which, in large headlines, he read: 
 
 DIVA MARRIES COMPOSER SHE MADE FAMOUS 
 
 RITA COVENTRY BECOMES WIFE OF PATRICK DELANEY, SEVERAL 
 YEARS HER JUNIOR 
 
 SINGER S ASSERTION SHE WOULD NEVER WED 
 RECALLED 
 
 Stated at Time of Reported Engagement to Italian Noble, 
 Domesticity Impossible for Artists and Marriage Certain to be 
 Failure. "A Woman s Right to Change Her Mind," She Says. 
 
 With an interest keen but quite impersonal he 
 read the florid story. For him it had no more sig 
 nificance than if it had been the tale of some happen 
 ing in a city he had visited long ago. Rita seemed 
 strangely remote. A reporter had interviewed her 
 and she had spoken with a brazenness which Par- 
 rish found repellent. 
 
 "Yes," she was quoted as saying, "it is true that 
 when, several years ago, I refused the Duca del 
 Valentino, I did so on the ground that an opera 
 singer should not marry. But though a singer, I 
 am also a woman, and a woman has a right to change 
 her mind. 
 
 "Paddy" here the reporter described her arch 
 look at her young husband "is enormously gifted
 
 RITA COVENTRY 301 
 
 and I intend to see that he gets the fullest opportu 
 nity for self-expression. He has never been abroad, 
 and you may imagine with what pleasure I anticipate 
 acting as his guide in my beloved France, for which 
 we sail May twentieth. Some of my friends tell 
 me I am a fool to marry and especially to marry a 
 man younger than myself. That may be true. I can 
 only say that now we are blissfully happy. What if 
 later we tire of each other? Shall we not have 
 had our hour of joy? After a motor trip through 
 France we shall settle quietly for the summer at 
 Deauville, where I have taken a villa. I intend to 
 show him how domestic I can be. 1 shall cook for 
 him, sew on his buttons, and mend his socks, like any 
 good wife." 
 
 Sitting there alone Parrish burst out laughing. He 
 could fancy Rita cooking for Delaney once care 
 fully costumed for the part. And the simple life at 
 Deauville, that Mecca of jaded Parisians, with its 
 casino and its one-piece bathing suits! Poor De 
 laney, how out of the picture he would be! He was 
 so boyish, so ingenuous. There was something 
 really fine about him, too. Would that fineness be 
 burned out? He felt genuinely sorry for Rita Cov 
 entry s young husband. 
 
 Breakfast over he took the Sunday papers to the 
 living room. The floor and walls were bare, and 
 packing boxes stood where the furniture had been. 
 Some of the things were going to Blenkinswood, some 
 to the larger apartment he had taken in New York.
 
 302 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 Today he would not have time to read the pa 
 pers. He used them to wrap up the silver, I to 
 helping him. 
 
 Then he turned to the bookcase, where were the 
 portfolios containing the old documents and the en 
 gravings of the house. The papers must be neatly 
 arranged for shipment. Opening the first portfolio 
 he made himself look at the engraving showing Blen- 
 kinswood "with its new wing, added in 1791." In 
 the centre of the picture was the ruinous imprint of 
 a sharp little French heel. Once he had thought the 
 damage irreparable, but now he remembered a man 
 down on Fourth Avenue, very skillful, who could 
 repair such things. He would send him the en 
 graving and the torn letter of the Signer. When 
 they had been mended the scars would be almost 
 imperceptible.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 AD you honestly have no idea where this ship 
 is going to take us?" he asked Alice. 
 "Not the least in the world," said she. "I 
 don t even know the ship s name." 
 
 "Would you like to know it?" he asked, delighted 
 at her ignorance. 
 
 "No, I don t care." 
 
 "Do you think you re going to Florida or 
 Panama or South America or Bermuda or Eu 
 rope? Where do you think you re going?" 
 
 " I don t know at all." She laughed. "Wouldn t 
 it be absurd if they came and asked me where I was 
 going and I couldn t tell them!" 
 
 "Tell them," he said, pouring over her an adoring 
 look, "to ask your husband!" 
 
 "I know who he is, anyway!" she said, and after 
 a quick look about reached out and pressed his hand. 
 
 "And," he said proudly, "you know what your 
 name is, don t you, Mrs. Parrish?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Perhaps that s why I m not interested in the 
 name of the boat." 
 
 A steward carrying a long cardboard box knocked 
 at their cabin door near by. Parrish crossed the 
 
 303
 
 304 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 deck, took the box, and entering the cabin, opened 
 it. It contained Ophelia roses her favourites 
 with petals shading from cream to a delicate pink. 
 He took them out, assembled them and placed them 
 in her arms. She buried her face in the blooms, and 
 as she raised it there came a little flush of pleasure 
 in her cheeks; it was as if the colour of the roses had 
 been transferred to them. 
 
 Little things always pleased her so! 
 
 She rang for a stewardess, who brought a vase; 
 but the stewardess was not allowed to arrange the 
 flowers; Alice must do that herself, although the 
 vessel was now backing out into the stream, and 
 Parrish, in the doorway, was urging her to join him 
 on deck. But before they were fairly headed down 
 the river she was out there with him, watching the 
 cross currents of shipping and gazing at the massed, 
 competing towers of lower Manhattan, etherealized in 
 a haze of smoke and bathed in the soft light of a late 
 afternoon sun which shone upon them like a rose- 
 coloured calcium in the theatre. 
 
 As they gathered way, passing down the harbour, 
 the fresh salt smell became more vigorous and the 
 breeze more lively. But though that boisterous wind 
 whirled skirts and snapped the sheltering canvas at 
 the forepart of the deck, there was a mildness in it. 
 It was a breeze of spring not the false spring of a 
 few months since, but the true season of resurrection 
 and rebirth. 
 
 When the vessel entered the Narrows they as-
 
 RITA COVENTRY 305 
 
 cended to the deserted boat deck, and standing by 
 the towering stack, watched the black smoke stream 
 back across the water. It was twilight. In the 
 sky behind them orange streaks still showed, while 
 with the gray of the distant shores was blended a 
 subtle note of mauve. To the north and to the south 
 the evening sky was clear, but the horizon to the east 
 was black and menacing. 
 
 A great liner, which must have started some time 
 after they did, had followed down the bay and all 
 but overtaken them. As they emerged from the 
 Narrows she was entering behind them ; through the 
 Lower Bay and the Swash Channel she pursued 
 them closely; and no sooner had their bows made 
 contact with the open ocean beyond Sandy Hook, 
 giving the other sea room, than she came up and 
 passed them arrogantly, close inboard, her sleek 
 black body dotted with long rows of porthole lights. 
 The stream of sable smoke hurled by her four red 
 stacks, soot banded at the top, was like a stream of 
 curses poured at the humble coastwise vessel which 
 had retarded her, and the picture of impatience was 
 heightened by the nervous, syncopated flashing of a 
 signal light above the bridge. She was telegraphing 
 with it, talking furiously. Furiously, too, her four 
 propellers lashed the waves behind. 
 
 Parrish recognized that proud sea challenger. He 
 had crossed on her. Moreover, he knew from his 
 morning paper that she was sailing to-day. And he 
 knew more than that, for the list of prominent pas-
 
 3 o6 RITA COVENTRY 
 
 sengers that he had read was headed by the name of 
 Rita Coventry. 
 
 "What a beauty!" exclaimed Alice, gazing across 
 the water at the other vessel. 
 
 He assented, mentioning the liner s name. 
 
 "But we aren t going the same way they are," 
 she commented, observing that their own course had 
 been swinging toward the south. And she added, 
 "I m glad. I don t think that sky out there looks 
 any too pleasant." 
 
 He glanced at the dark line of horizon to the 
 eastward. Then, with a feeling of complete finality, 
 he turned his back upon the other ship, and facing 
 the bows of their own vessel, now straightened on a 
 southern course, gazed at the calm sea and the peace 
 ful heavens. 
 
 "Well, dear," he said, "we needn t worry about 
 what s out there, where they are going." And he 
 added, "We couldn t ask a sweeter sky than is ahead 
 of us." 
 
 Then, as the wash from the fleeing liner reached 
 them, causing the deck to lurch a little, he encircled 
 Alice with his arm, steadying her. 
 
 THE END
 
 A 000073195 o