If* I
 
 B44D
 
 X
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 _ 
 0NIV. OT tUF. MRKAKY. TJOS JSSH*
 
 She stopped, her head lowered and her cheeks on fire.
 
 By 
 CHARLES BELMONT DAVIS 
 
 Author of 
 The Stage Door, The Lodger Overhead, etc. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 WALLACE MORGAN 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT 1913 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
 
 BROOKLYN, N. Y.
 
 TO 
 
 P. A. T.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE Holt House looked, for all the world, 
 like a toy Noah's Ark, resting calmly on the 
 flat bosom of a green paper ocean. The clapboard 
 walls of the old farmhouse glistened proudly in 
 their fresh coat of white paint, and the close-cropped 
 dewy lawn and the flowering orchard shone and 
 sparkled in the morning sun. Both on the links and 
 at the tiny club-house, a hundred yards up the course, 
 there was a distinct air of activity and excitement. 
 Indeed, the day was one of considerable import, both 
 to the caddies and to the young men and old men in 
 flannels, who were gathered about the club-house 
 porch or scattered over the short nine-hole course, 
 trying a few preliminary strokes before the really 
 serious work of the day began. 
 
 On the evening previous the little hotel had 
 
 i
 
 2 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 opened for the season, and to-day the local golf 
 club had unlocked the door of its club-house and 
 invited the members to begin their tournament for 
 the silver cup offered annually by the club's presi- 
 dent. Incidentally, it also happened to be Decora- 
 tion Day, but there were few heroes' graves to deco- 
 rate in Pleasantville and so the fact had but little 
 significance and was wholly forgotten long before 
 the luncheon hour. 
 
 On account of the general commotion on the links, 
 the porches of the hotel were, with the exception of 
 a solitary figure, quite deserted. The exception was 
 Max Lusk, who was paying his first visit to the Holt 
 House. During the summer previous he had spent 
 a week at one of the large caravansaries on the ocean 
 front, half a mile away, but during that visit his at- 
 tention had been attracted to the primitive hotel near 
 the banks of the river. The simplicity of the house 
 itself, and the quiet and natural beauty of its sur- 
 roundings, appealed to him greatly. It had long been 
 Lusk's custom to devote six days of each week to the 
 stock exchange, the Waldorf cafe, the theaters and 
 various Broadway restaurants, but either from an 
 innate love of the open, or a selfish desire to pre- 
 serve what little there was left of his health, he in-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 3 
 
 variably made a complete change in his routine on 
 the seventh day and spent it as far away as possible 
 from his regular week-day haunts. 
 
 On the morning in question he was sitting on the 
 edge of the hotel porch with a golf -bag between his 
 knees and with much care was examining his clubs 
 one by one. An undersized, freckled, native youth, 
 whom he had employed to act as his caddie, stood a 
 few feet away eying his patron with a genuine 
 sporting interest. 
 
 "Nickel-plated, ain't they?" suggested the boy. 
 
 Lusk nodded. "Yep, saves the price of having 
 'em cleaned often." 
 
 "Oh!" said the caddie, and during the silence that 
 ensued, the small boy in his own way slowly reached 
 the conclusion that, in all probability, Lusk belonged 
 to that class of golfers who invariably pay the cad- 
 die the official fee no less and certainly no more. 
 
 A screen door leading into the hotel was thrown 
 open, and a young man came out carrying his golf- 
 bag with him. He was in the early twenties, tall 
 and straight. The easy grace of his swinging gait 
 as he came down the porch, the bronzed face and 
 throat, and the heavily muscled forearm told of 
 much time spent in the open. The young man
 
 4 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 glanced down at Lusk and nodded to him cheerfully. 
 But as he was about to hurry on to the club-house 
 the broker stopped him. 
 
 "Are you playing in the tournament?" he asked. 
 
 The young man seemed to know instinctively 
 what was coming and hesitated. "Yes," he said 
 slowly ; "are you ?" 
 
 "I should think I was," Lusk whined. "They 
 made me pay fifteen dollars, a whole season's sub- 
 scription, to play for their old mug. Claimed that 
 this tournament was only for members. Now I've 
 joined their dodgasted club, nobody seems to want 
 to go around with me. Have you got a partner?" 
 
 The young man inwardly cursed himself for not 
 having properly prepared the night before against 
 such a calamity as this, but he smiled pleasantly and 
 said that he was even then on his way to the club to 
 look for some one to play with. 
 
 "Let's go round together," suggested the broker. 
 "My name is Max Lusk." 
 
 The young man switched his golf-bag to his left 
 hand and put out a heavy browned right to the 
 broker. "Glad to know you. I'm Porter Fielding. 
 My cousin runs the hotel here."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 5 
 
 Lusk got up and the two men, followed by the 
 freckled caddie, started up the course in the direc- 
 tion of the club-house. It was half an hour later 
 before they were allowed to drive off, and then to 
 their dismay they discovered that they had drawn a 
 position just back of two very old men who had a 
 most annoying regard for form and wasted many 
 minutes in practising strokes and in calculating im- 
 possible puts. 
 
 Lusk played fair golf, but it was the crude game 
 of the self-taught business man who plays for exer- 
 cise rather than for the love of the sport. For the 
 first few holes he watched the well-nigh perfect form 
 of his companion and became quickly and painfully 
 conscious of the fact that Fielding was easily beat- 
 ing him a stroke a hole. They had caught up with 
 the old men and were seated on a bench waiting for 
 them to drive off. 
 
 "It's an awful thing to follow two old geezers like 
 these," Lusk whispered, and then : "Where did you 
 learn your golf, anyhow? You play as if your name 
 might be Mr. Par." 
 
 Fielding smiled and swung his driver slowly be- 
 tween his knees. "You see I know this course pretty
 
 6 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 well, and then I've been at it a long time. I played 
 pretty steadily at college for four years." 
 
 Lusk nodded. "You went to college, eh? Do 
 you live here now ?" 
 
 "Just at present I do. I taught school at Pleas- 
 antville for two winters, and then I went to Jersey 
 City for a year, but I got in wrong. I was in the 
 offices of the Lehigh Valley, but I found out that 
 there was nothing in that. I want to get out on the 
 line if I can; there's more chance for promotion 
 there. I could have the school again this fall if I 
 wanted it, but I don't think I want it." 
 
 "You hit it when you admit you got in wrong," 
 Lusk said. "That's the only key to business suc- 
 cess. You know what I mean money success, and 
 if you have money success, you can buy the rest. I 
 don't understand these fathers who let a young cub, 
 just out of college, follow out any old career that he 
 thinks he likes. My idea is never to mind about how 
 small the job or the salary is at the start, but get in 
 right. Break into the game with the big chances. 
 Look at the case of my brother and myself. Our 
 father ran a general store in a one-night stand down 
 South, and we worked for him from the time we 
 were kids and would be there yet if we hadn't got
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 7 
 
 wise. We gave up twenty-five a week and came to 
 New York and took jobs cleaning out brokers' of- 
 fices at five and less. And now, well, I suppose 
 you've heard of Lusk Brothers. We have half a 
 dozen lads in our office who could buy out my old 
 man and his department store ten times over." 
 
 Lusk^ot up from the bench. "We'd better drive 
 as soon as the old one with the whiskers plays his 
 second. They're holding up the whole field. What 
 do you " He broke off and stood staring wide- 
 eyed at two young women who had just come into 
 the open from a narrow bit of woods that crossed 
 the course. Fielding turned and saw the girls stand- 
 ing behind him. 
 
 "Good morning," he said. "Wouldn't you like to 
 go round with us for a few holes?" 
 
 The smaller and younger of the two looked up at 
 her companion, but the other smiled and shook her 
 head. "I think not. It's too early and too hot for a 
 walk we'll sit here and watch you drive pff." 
 
 "Sorry," said Fielding, and started to tee up his 
 ball. He drove and then gave way to Lusk. Visibly 
 affected by the new arrivals, the broker made his 
 worst effort of the morning and the ball rolled but 
 a few feet in front of him. He turned and found
 
 8 
 
 the older of the girls laughing aloud and rocking 
 back and forth on the bench in a paroxysm of pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 "Miss Clayton," said Fielding, "this is Mr. Lusk. 
 I think you have confused him a little. He really 
 plays a fine game when there's no gallery." 
 
 Still smiling, the girl walked over to the blushing 
 broker and held out her hand. "Forgive me, won't 
 you, Mr. Lusk ?" she said. "I fear I've ruined your 
 score. Indeed, I'm awfully sorry." 
 
 From sheer embarrassment Lusk held her hand 
 for a moment and looked up confusedly at the big 
 smiling eyes, the splendid mass of wavy red hair, the 
 clear pink skin, the delicate nose and ears, the arched 
 scarlet lips and the full rounded throat. To the 
 others it was quite evident that Lusk's continued 
 confusion was not altogether due to the bad drive. 
 
 "That's all right, Miss Clayton," he stammered 
 finally, "It's all right. I'm only a duffer at the 
 game, anyhow." 
 
 Further conversation was rendered impossible at 
 the moment by the appearance of the next pair of 
 players coming through the woods. Lusk made a 
 low bow. "I hope we'll meet again," he said. 
 
 The girl, still smiling, turned toward the bench.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 9 
 
 "Of course we'll meet again." And then she threw 
 over her shoulder, "Good luck to you, Mr. Lusk." 
 
 The two men played the hole in silence, and it was 
 on their way to the next teeing ground that Lusk 
 spoke again. 
 
 "Who is the peach with the red hair one of the 
 boarders?" 
 
 Fielding shook his head. "No she's a native. 
 Both of those girls live here." 
 
 Lusk looked incredulous. "Well, I'll be jiggered! 
 She's a swell-looking girl for a native. Now the 
 other one sort of looks the part." 
 
 Fielding smiled at the broker's apparent enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 "What kind of folk," asked Lusk, "would a girl 
 like that have, in a small Jersey town like Pleasant- 
 ville?" 
 
 Fielding carefully teed his ball, swung his club 
 several times, and then drove far down the course. 
 
 "She hasn't any parents," he said. 
 
 "Just growed, eh, like Topsy ?" Lusk suggested. 
 
 "Not exactly. She was washed up on the beach 
 from a wreck near here at a place they call the Twin 
 Dunes. They found her clinging to her mother's 
 breast. It was a tramp steamer from New Orleans,
 
 io IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 carrying beet-sugar. None of the crew was saved, 
 and the mother and the baby were the only passen- 
 gers. Old man Clayton, who adopted the kid, tried 
 to find something out about the mother at New 
 Orleans but they didn't know anything at the steam- 
 ship office except that the captain had taken them 
 along as a favor. It seems both the mother and 
 the baby were sickly and had shipped for their 
 health. The Claytons advertised once or twice, but 
 nothing came out of it." 
 
 "How about the mother?" asked Lusk. "Dead, 
 eh, when she was washed up?" 
 
 "Just about that is, she never gained conscious- 
 ness. I've heard she was a real beauty had a pink 
 skin and red hair just like Fay's. She was a lady, 
 too, so they say, good clothes, you know, and that 
 sort of thing." 
 
 "And the girl has no idea where she comes 
 from?" 
 
 "Not the least. She was only a baby. But the 
 Claytons have treated her exactly like one of their 
 own children. That was their daughter with her 
 just now." 
 
 They were playing through the fair green slowly, 
 and constantly being held up by the two old men in
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 11 
 
 front of them. Fielding continued to play the same 
 even game, but Lusk's whole interest had centered 
 in the history of the Clayton girl. 
 
 "Well, how is it," he asked, "that Miss Clayton 
 dresses so well and the other girl so badly ?" 
 
 Fielding smiled. "Her clothes are no better. I 
 guess she just naturally knows how to wear them, 
 and then she thinks more about it than Margaret." 
 
 "It's wonderful how imitative some girls are," 
 said Lusk. "Now, she dresses just as well, apparent- 
 ly, and as simply as any of the city folk down here. 
 I've known several women just like that in New 
 York. Rubes when they first hit the town and in a 
 year swell dressers for fair. Just naturally had the 
 knack. Do they come to the hotel much? I'd like 
 to see the red-haired one again. If I'd only brought 
 my car, we might have had a fine ride to-night." 
 
 "I wish you had," Fielding said, smiling, but with 
 just a shade of resentment in his voice at Lusk's 
 familiarity. "However, you'll see them again 
 they're sure to be about this afternoon when they 
 present the cup. It's quite an event down here." 
 
 The two men played on after this in comparative 
 silence. Several times Lusk asked a question about 
 Miss Clayton nothing of importance, but enough
 
 12 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 to show that his mind was still busy with thoughts 
 of the girl. 
 
 Late that afternoon, Lusk again met her at the 
 presentation of the cup. She was standing on the 
 outskirts of the crowd that had gathered around 
 the little table on the lawn where the president was 
 about to deliver his speech of congratulation to 
 Fielding who had proved the winner. 
 
 Lusk sidled up to Miss Clayton and his strongly 
 Semitic features broke into a smile of greeting. 
 "Glad to see you again. I've been looking all over 
 the place for you." 
 
 The girl was looking at Porter Fielding at the 
 time and made no effort to show that she was not 
 much more interested in the president's speech than 
 in the words of the little broker. 
 
 "That was very good of you," she said indiffer- 
 ently, and then added with sudden enthusiasm: 
 "Isn't it fine that Porter won the cup; and he de- 
 served it, too ! That was a wonderful second round 
 he made. Did you play this afternoon?" 
 
 "Not me," Lusk sighed. "I was out of my class 
 altogether," and then hurriedly changing the subject 
 he added: "Fielding says you live here. Must be 
 mighty slow for a girl like you."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 13 
 
 She looked down at the smiling eager face of the 
 broker, and her scarlet lips broke into the same 
 cheerful laugh that had first attracted her to him. 
 
 "Oh, it's not so bad as that. Pretty quiet in the 
 winter, but there's always something doing in the 
 summer season. Lots of strangers and ocean bath- 
 ing and sailing on the river and hops at the hotels 
 on Saturday nights." 
 
 "Ever been to New York?" Lusk asked. 
 
 "Just for the day, two or three times." 
 
 "Enjoy yourself?" 
 
 "Pretty well. Went to a matinee once and 
 vaudeville a couple of times. You can't do much in 
 one day, you know." 
 
 Lusk shook his head sympathetically. "That's 
 right, and then New York doesn't wake up until 
 pretty late at night." 
 
 The man's eyes ceased their constant habit of 
 shifting and he looked into those of the girl. "Ever 
 think of going on the stage yourself ?" 
 
 Lusk knew two things Wall Street and the thea- 
 ter, and he therefore jumped at a topic of which he 
 could speak with authority. 
 
 Fay smiled and shook her head. "That's a funny 
 question for a man to ask a girl whom he's just met.
 
 14 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 As a matter of fact, I have thought of it just as I've 
 thought of a lot of other things that I might do 
 when I wanted to get away from Pleasantville." 
 And then as if from a civil desire to say something, 
 rather than from any real curiosity, "Is it hard to 
 get on the stage?" 
 
 "Hard to get on the stage!" Lusk repeated, and 
 anxious to appear important in the eyes of the pretty 
 girl at his side, laughed at the very thought. "Hard 
 for a girl with your looks ; not much, it isn't hard ! I 
 could get you a job to-morrow as a show-girl at 
 twenty-five or thirty a week." 
 
 Miss Clayton pursed her lips, crinkled her fore- 
 head, and regarded the broker with a new and 
 amused interest. 
 
 "Could you really?" 
 
 "Sure, I could. I know all the managers, know 
 'em well, and once in a while I take a little flier in a 
 show myself. Better come on in the acting's fine." 
 
 But the girl, with an evident deside to end this 
 particular topic of conversation, smilingly shook her 
 head. "I'm afraid not; I think I'd better stick to 
 Pleasantville and the home folk." 
 
 The president's speech was very short, and coming 
 to an abrupt end, Fielding stepped forward to receive
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 15 
 
 the prize. The women clapped their gloved hands, 
 and the men who had lost to him gave three rousing 
 cheers, and then in a spirit of revenge called loudly 
 on the winner for a speech. Lusk turned to speak 
 to Miss Clayton but there was something in her look 
 that checked him, and with a grim smile of under- 
 standing,!^ turned away again. Her eyes were fixed 
 on the winner, as were those of all of the little crowd 
 on the lawn. At the moment Porter Fielding was 
 a sight to attract the undivided attention of any 
 woman. Very tall, hatless, his arms and throat 
 bared, holding his golf-bag in one hand and the cup 
 in the other, his well-poised head held high, he stood 
 smiling back at the friendly smiling faces about him. 
 Perhaps from a spirit of sheer admiration for the 
 kind of manly beauty that he so wofully lacked, 
 or perhaps to make quite sure of his supposition, 
 Lusk once more turned to his companion. 
 
 "Good-looking boy, eh ?" he asked, smiling broad- 
 ly. He saw the girl's face flush and her hands 
 tighten suddenly about the handle of her parasol. 
 With her eyes still fixed on Fielding, she answered 
 the broker in an almost inaudible whisper. 
 
 "Good-looking? Why, I think Porter is wonder- 
 ful. Quite wonderful, don't you?"
 
 16 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Lusk looked down at his own carefully creased 
 flannels, his spotless white felt shoes, and brushed a 
 fleck of thread from his double-breasted blue serge 
 coat. Then he smiled at his own conspicuous neat- 
 ness and at the thought of how curiously emotional 
 women were at times. But this humorous train of 
 thought was suddenly interrupted by Miss Clayton, 
 who was speaking to him again and with much spirit. 
 
 "Are you smiling at me, Mr. Lusk," she asked, 
 "or rather at something I said ? Because if you are, 
 I think you're extremely rude." 
 
 For a moment he stared at the girl in open-eyed 
 wonder, and his thin putty face turned scarlet. His 
 confusion, however, was short-lived. 
 
 "I wasn't laughing at you or your remark," he 
 said, grinning up at her cheerfully. 
 
 "No," she said; "what then?" 
 
 Lusk grew suddenly serious, and he looked her 
 evenly in the eyes. "I was thinking," he said, "what 
 a little part masculine beauty has always played in 
 the history of the world. Female beauty, yes, but 
 good looks in a man don't count never have, never 
 will count." 
 
 The broker half closed his eyes as if in earnest
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 17 
 
 thought. "Bonds count, and stocks, that is, good 
 stocks count, and first mortgages count, and the best 
 of all is cash. And some day, Miss Clayton, you 
 will say that I am right, or if you don't then I don't 
 know women." 
 
 The crowd about the table had broken up into 
 little groups, and Fielding was walking across the 
 lawn with a girl, tall, very fair and rather pretty, but 
 she would have been conspicuous anywhere for the 
 very good-looking clothes she wore. He was show- 
 ing her the engraving on the cup, and they were 
 laughing and both of them seemed to be very pleased 
 and happy over his success. For a few moments as 
 they strolled slowly toward the hotel, Fay Clayton 
 followed them with her eyes. Then she turned back 
 to Lusk. 
 
 "I'm afraid Porter agrees with you, Mr. Lusk," 
 she said, "even if I do not." 
 
 The broker smiled knowingly and wagged his 
 head. 
 
 "You mean the blond lady Fielding is talking 
 to is rich?" 
 
 "Doesn't she look it? You don't wear all-lace
 
 i8 
 
 dresses like that when you're poor, not much you 
 don't." 
 
 "And look at the pearls!" sighed Lusk. "Who is 
 she?" 
 
 "Wilmerding Blanche Wilmerding. They have 
 a cottage down here on the beach. Her father is a 
 banker or something like that in New York." 
 
 "Oi, oi!" exclaimed Lusk. "I know, David Wil- 
 merding, the head of Wilmerding & Wilson. That 
 old man's got money he hasn't spent." 
 
 Fay turned to Lusk and held out her hand. 
 
 "Good-by," she said, "I must be going home now. 
 It's getting quite late, and they'll be waiting supper 
 for me." 
 
 But Lusk insisted on walking home with) her, and 
 in spite of her protests refused to take no for an 
 answer. They stopped at the drug store in the vil- 
 lage, and at great risk to his own digestion, he made 
 her drink soda-water with him, and afterward pre- 
 sented her with the largest box of candy the store 
 contained. He would have liked to show her some 
 further and more expensive attentions, but there was 
 nothing else in the shop that he could well offer 
 her. During the remainder of the walk, Fay con- 
 tinued to laugh at his jokes and smile at the more or
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 19 
 
 less interesting stories of his life in New York, but 
 Lusk was sufficiently clever to know that the girl at 
 heart fancied neither him nor his stories. 
 
 He left her at the gate of the Claytons' cottage 
 and slowly retraced his steps to the Holt House. 
 The superlative animal beauty of the girl, the ap- 
 parent extreme poverty of the people who had 
 adopted her, and her complete indifference to his 
 own imagined importance had confused and an- 
 noyed the little broker considerably. Her exact po- 
 sition, too, seemed something of a contradiction and 
 hard to place. Apparently she knew most of the 
 women who belonged to the summer colony and all 
 of the men, but even in the short time he had known 
 her, the observant Lusk could see that at least the 
 women did not treat her quite as one of themselves. 
 For a moment he forgot his business cares and his 
 friends in town and thought only of the girl with 
 the red hair and scarlet lips and big blue eyes which 
 seemed always to be laughing at but never with him. 
 He had intended going to Long Branch after supper 
 to call on some friends who had a cottage there, but 
 at the last moment he changed his mind and fol- 
 lowed a crowd of young people from the Holt 
 House, who were on their way to a dance at one of
 
 20 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the hotels on the beach, and where he believed he 
 would be most likely to find her. 
 
 From the dark piazza he saw her in the ballroom 
 with Fielding. It was a warm night and her face 
 was flushed with the heat. Her big blue eyes shone 
 with pleasure and the excitement of the dance, and 
 her wonderful red hair fell in crisp curls over her 
 damp forehead and neck. She wore a simple lin- 
 gerie dress, which was in striking contrast to many 
 of the gowns worn by the other dancers, but the 
 beauty of her face and tall lithe figure made her 
 easily the most conspicuous woman in the room. 
 From his point of vantage in the shadows of the 
 veranda Lusk looked at Fay's cheap simple frock 
 and her black cotton stockings, and smiled at the 
 thought of how much more wonderful she would 
 look in the kind of evening dresses that were worn 
 by the women he knew in New York. He would have 
 liked to ask her to dance, but in his constant 
 quest for gold this was, to his present sorrow, one 
 of the many social accomplishments which he had 
 neglected entirely. 
 
 Once during the evening, while walking with 
 Fielding Fay met him on the porch, and of her 
 own initiative stopped and chatted with him. After
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 21 
 
 she had left him, Lusk dropped into a deep wicker 
 chair and sat staring out at the black endless sea 
 and the long narrow silver crescents of foamy 
 breakers running up the flat gray beach. The whole 
 place seemed filled with her presence. Her joyous 
 laugh continued to ring in his ears, and he could 
 still feel the grasp of her strong damp hand in his. 
 For a long time he sat thus, unconscious of the 
 music or of the chatter of the people about him. 
 Then suddenly realizing his lonely position, he 
 shrugged his narrow shoulders, and pulling him- 
 self slowly out of the depths of the chair, lighted a 
 cigar, and started to walk back to the Holt House. 
 The morning following he went early to the bath- 
 ing-grounds and patiently waited for her coming. 
 At last he saw her walking from the bath-houses 
 toward the sea, her black bathing suit silhouetted 
 against the white glaring sand. When she had 
 neared the water's edge, Fay threw herself at 
 full length on the beach, and the men who were with 
 her gathered about in a little circle. Lusk made a 
 half-hearted move to join them, and then there came 
 to him a sudden realization that he was not wanted, 
 and he fell back into his former position. With 
 envious eyes he looked at the broad shoulders and
 
 22 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 athletic figures of the men in their bathing suits 
 seated about her, and with envious ears he listened 
 to snatches of their talk, and their free careless 
 laughter. It was only for one brief moment that 
 he decided that he would hire a suit and follow them 
 into the surf, and then he thought of what a sorry 
 figure he would cut alongside of her big brawny 
 friends, and dismissed the idea as absurd. For 
 more than an hour he watched Fay and her admirers 
 swim and dive and plunge about in the breakers, race 
 up and down the hard smooth beach, and from 
 sheer exhaustion throw themselves on the hot sand. 
 Once, from the water, she recognized him and waved 
 to him to join them, but in answer Lusk only smiled 
 feebly and shook his head. 
 
 It was after the bath was over, and she was 
 dressed again and on her way to join her friends 
 who were waiting for her, that Fay took pity on 
 Lusk's loneliness and spoke to him again. She came 
 up from behind where he sat and noiselessly dropped 
 to the soft sand at his side. He looked about sud- 
 denly and saw her pretty face aglow from the bath 
 and the hard exercise, and the great masses of red 
 hair, hanging loosely about her shoulders, and reach- 
 ing far below her waist. For a moment he gazed
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 23 
 
 in frank wonder at her splendid beauty and wonder- 
 ful physical condition and with much difficulty tried 
 to utter some words of welcome. 
 
 "You see," Fay laughed, "I had to come to you. 
 I don't think you like me at all, Mr. Lusk." 
 , The broker blushed and stammered a few unintel- 
 ligible words of protest. 
 
 "You never asked me to dance last night," Fay 
 ran on, "and you've kept away from me all this 
 morning. Now all these other men dance and bathe 
 with me and hang around until I'm tired of the sight 
 of them." 
 
 Lusk no longer blushed, and the power of speech 
 had once more come back to him. 
 
 "I can't dance," he said, "and I can't swim, but 
 last night and to-day I haven't taken my eyes off of 
 you. Miss Clayton, so help me, you're the most 
 beautiful woman I ever saw !" 
 
 Fay looked into Lusk's serious blinking eyes, and 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 "That's the most sincere and heartfelt compli- 
 ment I ever had paid me. I wish you'd tell me 
 things like that often, Mr. Lusk. You see you're a 
 regular man, and it means so much more than the 
 kind of fluff these kids talk."
 
 24 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay pulled herself to her knees and held out her 
 hand to him. "Good-by," she said, "and don't get 
 up, please." 
 
 "You must leave me so soon?" he begged. 
 
 "Must But don't you neglect me after this. I 
 want to hear all about your gay life in New York 
 and on Wall Street, and your friends on the stage." 
 
 Lusk was standing now, and when he had raised 
 the girl to her feet, looked her squarely in the eyes. 
 
 "I'm going to put you there," he said, smiling. 
 
 "Where," Fay asked, "on the stage?" 
 
 "That's it. I'm going to make a great actress of 
 you." 
 
 "All right, Mr. Lusk. I'll bet you don't." 
 
 With a farewell smile and a wave of her hand she 
 ran away to join her friends, and once more Lusk 
 was left alone. As he walked slowly back to the 
 hotel to his midday dinner, his thoughts were all of 
 the last -bantering words that Fay Clayton had 
 spoken to him, and the longer he thought of them 
 the more the new idea she had planted in his mind 
 pleased and interested him. On the afternoon pre- 
 vious, when he had first spoken to her of the stage 
 as a profession, he had done so because it was one of 
 the very few subjects, apart from his business, that
 
 I am going to make a great actress ot you.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 25 
 
 he really knew and on which he could talk glibly and 
 amusingly to women. But now the idea had sudden- 
 ly become a matter of real consideration and fraught 
 with the most interesting possibilities. His hands 
 clasped behind his back, his beady eyes smiling under 
 lowered brows, he walked slowly along the country 
 road, carefully reviewing the situation from its 
 many and varied angles. 
 
 Down there on the beach was a young woman of 
 unusual beauty, and apparently brimming over with 
 health, and the joy of living. Had the girl's circum- 
 stances been other than they were, he would have 
 passed on with a regretful but philosophic sigh. 
 Blanche Wilmerding, for instance, the daughter of 
 old David Wilmerding, had no place in his scheme 
 of life. Lusk knew that the firm of Lusk Brothers 
 was not the kind of firm with which the old conserv- 
 ative house of Wilmerding & Wilson would deal, 
 that is, if it could possibly be avoided, and he also 
 knew that the doors of Wilmerding's house in New 
 York or of his villa on the beach at Pleasantville 
 would never be open to him. 
 
 But the case of Fay Clayton was altogether dif- 
 ferent. She was a girl without means or any 
 defined position, living in almost poverty as the
 
 26 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 adopted daughter of simple fisher-folk. He ar- 
 gued to himself that a girl in so anomalous a posi- 
 tion must of necessity rebel against its hardships, 
 and would willingly free herself from the slight 
 bonds that held her that is, she would if the 
 inducements to break the bonds could be made suf- 
 ficiently attractive. He knew that even Fay Clay- 
 ton herself, notwithstanding her lack of worldly 
 knowledge, must appreciate how few were the roads 
 of escape open to a woman situated as she was. And 
 of all these roads, Lusk knew, from his own experi- 
 ence, that the stage would, in nine cases out of ten, 
 prove the greatest lure to a girl of Fay's spirits, and 
 to her love of a life of action and one that was en- 
 tirely free from restraint. To be sure she had 
 laughed at his mere suggestion of going on the stage, 
 but when he had had the opportunity to speak of the 
 great possibilities of the profession, the immense re- 
 turns in fame and fortune that awaited the success- 
 ful actress, he was quite sure that he could reach 
 something deeper in Fay than her simple love of ex- 
 citement. It was through this finer bigger feeling 
 of ambition that he hoped to break down any real 
 prejudices the girl might have against the stage as 
 a profession.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 27 
 
 Max Lusk was without tact, or mental or moral 
 cultivation, but he had an indomitable, almost brutal 
 will, and when he wanted anything in this world he 
 wanted it very badly, and the greater the obstacles 
 thrown in his way, the greater the pleasure to took 
 in fighting for the prize. He was a man of quick 
 thought and quick action, and in addition to this he 
 believed Fay Clayton to be the most beautiful woman 
 he had ever seen. Between the time he left her at 
 the bathing-grounds and his return to the hotel, he 
 had carefully arranged his plan of action. It was 
 out of the question to imagine that she would go to 
 New York alone and accept his personal protection, 
 or permit him to assist her financially during her 
 career as an embryo actress. The key to the situa- 
 tion at least so Lusk believed lay in Porter Field- 
 ing. Even in the two days the broker had known 
 Fay she had left no reasonable doubt as to her devo- 
 tion and admiration for him. She was a girl whose 
 emotions lay very near the surface, and she made no 
 effort to conceal her feelings for Fielding to any 
 one, even to a man whom she knew so slightly as 
 Lusk. 
 
 Where Fielding went it would probably be easy 
 to get Fay to follow. Therefore, the first move
 
 28 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 was to get Fielding to New York, and after all Lusk 
 had seen and learned that day, the task did not seem 
 difficult Fielding was without work, which the 
 broker could offer him, and in the same town, too, 
 where the rich Miss Wilmerding lived. Lusk knew 
 that the latter coincidence might mean little or noth- 
 ing, but he did know that good positions in brokers' 
 offices in New York were exceedingly rare and not 
 to be refused by boys from the country. He also 
 appreciated, even from his short acquaintance, that 
 with all his good looks and his charming courtesy of 
 manner, Porter Fielding was a rather weak soul, 
 and probably easily led. Down here in the country, 
 in the open, on the golf links, he knew that he had 
 no chance against this young good-looking athlete. 
 But let the boy come to New York, and then Fay 
 Clayton could compare them and the extent of their 
 power not in the sunshine, but under the searching 
 white lights and the pink candle-shades of the 
 Broadway restaurants where strength and good 
 looks in men counted not at all ; back in town, that 
 is, the town that Lusk knew, a tainted and unreal 
 land, where only money and automobiles and gor- 
 geous apartments count, and where girls learn so 
 easily and quickly the love of beautiful clothes and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 29 
 
 wonderful jewels, and acquire the passion to have 
 better clothes and more wonderful jewels than any 
 other woman. 
 
 During the long afternoon Lusk had completed 
 his plans, and after supper was over he looked up 
 Fielding and asked him to walk with him to the 
 river. For half an hour they sat on a bench smok- 
 ing Lusk's best cigars. Before them the blue waters 
 of the Natasqua River danced and sparkled in the 
 last rays of the dying sun, and the fresh green grass 
 and the spring wild flowers grew all about them. It 
 was in this setting of rippling water and fragrant 
 growing things that Lusk protested his admiration 
 for Fielding and made his offer the offer that 
 was meant only to bring Fay Clayton to New York, 
 to the big town where the bright lights would 
 blind her to the physical deficiencies and yet throw 
 into a brilliant relief the great financial resources of 
 Max Lusk. 
 
 It was but natural that Fielding should at once 
 realize the advantage of this opportunity that the 
 broker offered him. It meant work at once, living 
 wages for the present, and for the future at least 
 so Lusk assured him splendid possibilities of great 
 wealth and the power that only wealth brings. He
 
 30 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 was also conscious of the additional fact, although 
 neither he nor Lusk made mention of it, that he was 
 to live permanently in New York where he already 
 had many friends, chief among whom were David 
 Wilmerding and his daughter. That he would have 
 to give up the summer months in the country meant 
 little to Fielding, for his life at Pleasantville had al- 
 ready become irksome to him. And besides, Lusk 
 had promised that they should come down together 
 every Saturday morning to spend the week-end at 
 the Holt House. 
 
 From the moment that Lusk had first made a defi- 
 nite proposition, Fielding knew that he would 
 accept it, but taking himself rather seriously as a 
 man of affairs, he deemed it to his advantage not to 
 appear too eager. When the broker had finished his 
 carefully worded offer, and recited the many advan- 
 tages that would accrue from it, there was a long 
 silence, during which Lusk cast occasional furtive 
 glances at Fielding, who, with his broad shoulders 
 resting against the bench, his arms folded, looked 
 steadfastly at the deep blue waters of the little river. 
 
 "It would be hard to give up all this," he said at 
 last. "I missed it terribly that year I was working 
 in Jersey City."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 31 
 
 Lusk smiled and twisted his cigar slowly between 
 his lips. 
 
 "I suppose so. I suppose it was hard, but Jersey 
 City isn't New York. You won't find the Natasqua 
 River there, but, my boy, so much to make up for it, 
 believe me. I admire your love for the country, and 
 that's the very reason I want you in the office. City- 
 bred boys are no use they're born tired, but the boy 
 from the country is fresh and strong and ambitious. 
 Look over the men who have made fortunes in New 
 York, and see how many were born New Yorkers. 
 Not many, I can tell you. Besides, why should you 
 stay here ? You say you are all alone in the world. 
 Why waste your time on golf and teaching a lot of 
 kids in a village schoolhouse ? Get out into the big 
 puddle and splash about a bit, and watch the sharks 
 swallow the minnies and look out that you're a 
 shark, and not a minnie." 
 
 Fielding got up, and facing the broker, held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "All right," he said, "I'll go you." 
 
 "Good for you !" Lusk cried. "I've a flask in my 
 bag up at the house. Let's seal the bargain with a 
 drink." 
 
 But Fielding begged off. "A little later I will,
 
 32 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 but if you'll excuse me I think I'll finish my cigar 
 down here. I want to think it over." 
 
 "Of course, of course, you do," Lusk said sympa- 
 thetically. "Very natural of you, but don't get too 
 sentimental over leaving the old place. Don't forget 
 you'll be running down every Saturday and in a 
 sixty-horse-power car just like a regular broker 
 should. So long see you at the house later." 
 
 Lusk slowly started on his way back to the hotel, 
 but when he had reached the first turning in the road 
 he stopped in the shadow of a clump of trees where, 
 unobserved, he could watch Fielding. With a know- 
 ing smile he saw the young man look over his 
 shoulder down the road Lusk had just taken, and 
 then spring to his feet and hurry away along a path 
 that would lead him through the woods and event- 
 ually to Fay Clayton's home. 
 
 "I thought so," Lusk mumbled, and started again 
 on his way to the hotel. "But I won my first trick, 
 anyhow. That boy a shark in the big puddle ! 
 They'll eat him alive." 
 
 Fay saw Fielding first when he was still far down 
 the road and waved her hand, and then she and Mar- 
 garet hurried down the path to meet him at the gate.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 33 
 
 Fielding's face was smiling with happiness, and as 
 he held out both hands to the girls, he fairly shouted 
 his good news so that the Claytons, sitting on the 
 porch of the little cottage, might hear of it at the 
 same time as the others. 
 
 "Congratulate me, everybody," he cried ; "I've got 
 a job in New York." 
 
 Porter sat on the porch steps, and the others gath- 
 ered about and constantly interrupted his story with 
 exclamations of surprise and pleasure. Old Clayton 
 rocked slowly up and down in his favorite chair, 
 stroked his white stubble beard, and took his pipe 
 out of his mouth long enough to say, "Well done, 
 my boy, you deserve the honor." 
 
 Mrs. Clayton brushed back her hair, and putting 
 on her spectacles, regarded him with a lingering look 
 of pride, worthy of his own mother, who could 
 never share in her boy's prosperity. Margaret 
 slapped him violently on his broad shoulders, but 
 Fay remained quiet until the story was quite fin- 
 ished, and then silently her hand stole out, and plac- 
 ing it over his, she gently pressed it. And then as a 
 great treat and an unusual dissipation, Mr. Clayton 
 got out a bottle of rye whisky and two glasses, and 
 he and Fielding drank to the health of the "New
 
 34 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 King of Wall Street". Margaret and Mrs. Clayton 
 continued to bombard him with endless questions, 
 pertinent and impertinent, about his plans, but Fay 
 remained almost silent, wondering what kind of a 
 man was this Lusk who in two short days had taken 
 such an interest in an unknown boy and girl in a 
 little Jersey village. When it came time for Porter 
 to return to the hotel, she walked with him a short 
 distance down the road that they had traveled so 
 often and so many years together. When they had 
 reached the path that led through the woods to the 
 hotel, Fay stopped and held out both her hands to 
 him. 
 
 "If you are to go so soon," she said, "perhaps we 
 had better make this our good-by. We mayn't have 
 another chance. If " 
 
 "Many, I hope," Fielding interrupted her. 
 
 "I hope so, too, Porter," she went on, "but if we 
 shouldn't I want to tell you how very proud I am 
 of you and how proud I know that I'm always go- 
 ing to be of you. You see, Porter, you've been 
 pretty much everything to me all of my life, and 
 so I'm going to miss you terribly, even if you do 
 come back to see me on Saturdays. I suppose it's 
 because neither of us had any real people of our
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 35 
 
 own that we were brought so close together, and 
 that has made us understand each other so well." 
 
 She took her hands from his and laid them on his 
 shoulders and looked up at him with dimmed eyes. 
 
 "Good-by, Fay, dear," he said. 
 
 "Good-by to you," she whispered; "and always 
 for my sake be a good boy and a fine one, too, Por- 
 ter, won't you? And here's good luck to you, and 
 God bless you." 
 
 He took her pretty tear-stained face between his 
 strong hands and kissed her on the broad clear fore- 
 head, but the next moment she had slipped from him 
 and with lowered head was hurrying back to the cot- 
 tage.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A FEW days later Porter Fielding had settled 
 down as a clerk in the offices of Lusk Broth- 
 ers. It was understood that he was there to learn 
 the business, and his duties were far from onerous. 
 Various young men at various times had been given 
 clerkships in these same big mahogany and mirrored 
 offices for various and often unknown causes, and 
 therefore the members of the firm and their em- 
 ployees not only did not question his presence, but 
 did their best to make it pleasant for the newcomer. 
 It was at the advice of one of his fellow- clerks 
 that Fielding took a small furnished apartment in 
 preference to going to a boarding-house. There 
 were several restaurants in the neighborhood where 
 he could eat fairly well at small expense, but there 
 was little temptation to linger over his meals and, 
 therefore, his days and nights were practically di- 
 vided between the office and his apartment. He 
 knew the city but slightly, and in addition to this, 
 his present salary did not permit of many of the 
 
 36
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 37 
 
 town's pleasures. His days at the office were full 
 enough, and it was only during the late afternoon 
 and the long evenings after dinner that he had time 
 to think of the lazy days at Pleasantville and to 
 sometimes wish for a game of golf or a plunge in 
 the surf or a sail with Fay or Blanche Wilmerding 
 on the little river. 
 
 But even if he did occasionally feel the lone- 
 liness of a great city, and suffer from a real feel- 
 ing of homesickness, he knew that he was only 
 serving the apprenticeship that all young men with- 
 out means must serve, and in his heart he was 
 glad and grateful for the opportunity to get once 
 more into action. Surrounded as he was at the of- 
 fice by men who could afford to indulge their every 
 whim, he made light of his present simple life, was 
 confident that it was but temporary, and with such 
 good friends back of him did not doubt for one 
 moment that money and social success were almost 
 within his grasp. And even if his present rather 
 meager salary to a great extent did narrow his life 
 in town, he had always before him the prospect of 
 the week-end trip with Lusk to his old home. 
 
 It was on the second of these visits to Pleasant- 
 ville when Lusk first suggested to Fielding the idea
 
 38 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 that Fay Clayton should come to New York and 
 look for employment on the stage or elsewhere. At 
 the time they were flying along the Shore Road in 
 the broker's car. The sky was a wonderful tur- 
 quoise blue, the road was well oiled, the air was 
 balmy with the odor of the pine forests, the cushions 
 of the car were deep and luxurious it was in all 
 ways the moment to consider the happiness of those 
 less fortunate than themselves. 
 
 "It's a pity," Lusk sighed. "I tell you it's a real 
 pity that that girl, Fay Clayton, should waste her life 
 in a little country town. Just think of the women 
 who have succeeded on the stage and in business in 
 New York with not half her beauty and ability. I 
 tell you, Porter, it's a crime." 
 
 The idea was entirely new to Fielding, and for 
 some minutes he sat in silence, looking out on the 
 flying landscape. Fay had meant a great deal to 
 him the better part of his life, much more than any 
 one else, but he had always pictured her as part of 
 his life at Pleasantville. He had that affection for 
 her that a man can only have for the woman he has 
 known as a little girl, has gone to school with, has 
 played with and fought for, and seen grow and de- 
 velop from a slip of a freckled child into a half
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 39 
 
 grown girl and then into a woman, and in this case, 
 a wonderfully beautiful woman. 
 
 During a long talk he had had with Fay subse- 
 quent to the night when he had first told her that he 
 was going to New York, they had planned that, 
 as soon as he was settled, she and her sister 
 Margaret would come to pay him a long visit. 
 The idea that she would ever consider coming 
 there to live had never occurred to him, and for 
 certain reasons of her own, Fay had not told 
 him of how Lusk had urged her to let him procure 
 a position for her on the stage. Exactly as to what 
 her future was to be or how closely it was to be al- 
 lied with his own, Fielding had given but little 
 thought. When the question had come into his mind 
 he had put it away with the excuse that they were 
 both very young, and that there would be time 
 enough to give the matter serious attention when he 
 was comfortably settled in business. And in addi- 
 tion to this, it must be remembered that while he 
 was blessed with great good looks and much ad- 
 mired by both men and women, especially women, 
 Porter Fielding was at heart and in spirit just a little 
 weak and a little selfish as well. 
 
 But now, on this bright June morning, Lusk had
 
 40 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 put the question of Fay's future squarely before 
 him, and as her best friend and lifelong adviser, he 
 found it a most difficult question to answer. 
 
 "You see, Mr. Lusk," he said at last, "it's so hard 
 for me to say. I appreciate your thoughtfulness in 
 wanting to help her, and I know she would, too, but 
 I don't think the idea of Fay's working ever oc- 
 curred to either of us. Of course, the Claytons are 
 only the plainest kind of people. He's a fisherman, 
 and Mrs. Clayton has helped out by doing washing 
 for the boarders during the summer ; but they've al- 
 ways treated Fay as if she were a princess that is, 
 they did as far as they were able. The very romance 
 and the mystery of her being washed ashore, and the 
 fact that she never even knew her own name, have 
 made them treat her better even than they have their 
 own child. They have always believed that she came 
 of people of quality, and whether she did or not, 
 they have regarded her as something to be looked 
 up to, and much better than themselves. Their be- 
 lief in this idea has been so real that they have made 
 the other people in the village believe it, and, to be 
 quite frank, I think the girl believes it, too. Of 
 course I have thought that Fay might leave the Clay- 
 tons and Pleasantville some day when she was older,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 41 
 
 but it would be because she married never to go 
 on the stage or to work in an office. I think if she 
 did either it would kill the poor old Claytons." 
 
 Lusk gazed gloomily at the chauffeur's back, and 
 sank deeper into the yielding cushions of the car. 
 For the moment he was greatly discouraged at Field- 
 ing's views, because he knew that the young man's 
 words would have much if not everything to do with 
 the girl's final decision. 
 
 "Well, you know best, I suppose," he said, slowly 
 shaking his head, "but it seems an awful wasted 
 life to me for a girl like that. Think how proud you 
 would all be if she went on the stage and made good, 
 just as you're going to make good on the Street. To 
 be a famous actress would surely be better than 
 spending her days in a Jersey village. I know it's 
 all right now in the good old summer-time, but 
 consider those winter nights! Huh, it's awful just 
 to think of it !" 
 
 Lusk pulled himself up to the edge of the seat and 
 his narrow little body fairly shivered at the very 
 idea. 
 
 "I know what you mean," Fielding said. "It's 
 pretty hard during the winter months, especially for 
 a girl with Fay's spirits. And then she loves to be
 
 42 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 going all the time. The only fun she gets is skating 
 and tramping through the pines. Most of her time 
 Fay spends visiting the old sick people in the vil- 
 lage." 
 
 "Awful," Lusk signed, "awful ! Just think it over, 
 Porter. Take your time and try to see both sides. 
 Besides, imagine what fun it would be for you to 
 have her in town and to be able to take her about and 
 show her the sights. I know just the place to give 
 her a start. A friend of mine, Isador Harberg, has 
 a big interest in a musical show that opens in New 
 York in August, and they expect to keep it in town 
 all winter. Even if they should go on the road, I 
 could take Fay out and put her in something else. 
 Harberg says they don't begin rehearsals before the 
 first of July, so you see if you told her now she 
 would have plenty of time to think it over." 
 
 Fielding nodded. 
 
 "All right," he said. "I may be wrong. I'll speak 
 to her about it, anyhow, and then you can have a talk 
 with her afterward." 
 
 For a long time after this the two men sat silent 
 while the car purred on its way over the hard smooth 
 roads. Curled up in the corner, his hands clasped 
 about his knees, Lusk smiled at the excess of his own
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 43 
 
 enthusiasm. This love of gaining his own ends had 
 always been an obsession with him, and it was this 
 same indomitable will that had carried him to 
 his present success in busines. The idea of taking 
 this country beauty to New York and dolling her up 
 in fine plumage had at first appealed to him as an 
 amusing idea, certainly worth the giving of a small 
 position in his office to Porter Fielding. Now that 
 there seemed to be some possibility of opposition on 
 the part of Fielding himself and the kindly folk who 
 had adopted her, the fight seemed just so much more 
 worth the while. 
 
 Like most of his class, Max Lusk was fond of 
 the envy of the people of his own world of bought en 
 pleasures. He saw himself leading this unknown 
 girl with the beautiful color and the wonderful 
 red hair down the aisles of the big restaurants. 
 She would be better dressed than any woman in 
 the place, and the men and women sitting at the 
 tables would gasp with wonder at her beauty and 
 want tQ know where Lusk had discovered her. He 
 would take her to the theater and sit alone with her 
 in a stage-box, so that all the audience, as well as his 
 friends on the stage, could see his latest conquest. 
 And later, when she herself appeared on the stage,
 
 44 
 
 more beautiful and more wonderful than any of the 
 other women there, then he would sit down in front, 
 and her smiles would be for Max Lusk only, and he 
 would be the envy of all of the other men in the the- 
 ater. He would send her flowers, big bunches of 
 orchids, to be worn at her corsage, or beauty roses 
 with very long stems, which she would carry in her 
 arms, and every night one of his automobiles would 
 meet her at the stage door and whisk her off to sup- 
 per with him. The little broker smiled complacently 
 at these pictures of his great bounty to the girl, and 
 in every picture he saw Max Lusk shining in the re- 
 flected glory of her brilliant success. 
 
 The idea of Fay coming to New York filled Field- 
 ing's mind to the exclusion of every other thought. 
 The crucial moment of the girl's life was at hand, 
 and he believed that he alone would decide the 
 course which she would eventually pursue. After 
 twenty years of care and devotion and slaving, he 
 knew that the Claytons' wishes in the matter would 
 avail not at all against the strong independent will of 
 their adopted child. He knew that he and he alone 
 had heretofore been able to control her. From her 
 affection for- him, or an absurd belief in his judg-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 45 
 
 ment and common sense, she had never failed to fol- 
 low his advice, but the present situation was some- 
 thing much bigger than either of them had ever 
 faced before. For the first time Fielding recognized 
 the narrow limitations of his own worldly wisdom, 
 and that he was facing a condition that he was 
 wholly inadequate to combat. His knowledge of 
 New York and the life which Lusk had offered as an 
 alternative to Fay's uneventful existence in the coun- 
 try was absolutely nil, and he was conscious that his 
 opinions and advice would have no more real value 
 than so many empty words. He had set himself a 
 task which he now regarded with the keenest regret, 
 but he had given his word to Lusk, and at present the 
 latter stood sponsor for every hope of the fulfilling 
 of Fielding's own ambitions. 
 
 It was at Lusk's suggestion that they stopped at 
 the Clayton cottage before going to the hotel, and 
 without telling Fay why he wished to talk to her, 
 Fielding arranged to meet her late that afternoon at 
 the landing where she kept her sailboat. 
 
 He found her waiting for him, sitting in the stern 
 of the boat, the sail up and everything ready. Once 
 away from the pier, he took a seat just across from
 
 46 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 where she sat and in silence they watched the breeze 
 fill the little sail and heard the gentle lapping of the 
 tiny waves as they were carried toward the opposite 
 shore of the river. 
 
 "Isn't it good,"she said at last, "to be alone, just 
 you and I, drifting along in the same old lazy way? 
 Tell me, Porter, has it helped, or has New York 
 spoiled you for this sort of thing?" 
 
 He looked at her bared throat, at the brown strong 
 arms and hands grasping the tiller, at the strands of 
 the wonderful hair broken loose and blown across 
 her pretty sunburned face. As she sat there smiling 
 at him with her lips and eyes, it seemed as if she 
 were an essential part of the rippling water, the 
 cloudless, deep blue sky and the distant green banks 
 and sandy pebbled beach. It did not seem quite pos- 
 sible to imagine her a part of any other scene just 
 then. 
 
 "Has it helped?" he repeated. "Has it helped? I 
 don't believe I ever cared for the old place before 
 as I do at this moment. That's what makes it so 
 hard to say what I've got to say to you, Fay." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" she laughed. "Go ahead, 
 Porter; I'll make it as easy as I can for you."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 47 
 
 "On our way down here," he began, "Lusk and I 
 had a long talk about you. He thinks you are wast- 
 ing your life at Pleasantville. Wants you to go to 
 New York and make a career for yourself." 
 
 The smile suddenly faded from the girl's face. 
 
 "Did Mr. Lusk tell you how I was to make a ca- 
 reer?" 
 
 "Yes ; he says he has a chance for you to go on the 
 stage." 
 
 "And what did you say ?" 
 
 Fielding looked up at Fay's serious eyes and then 
 beyond to the white curving beach and the green 
 banks. 
 
 "I only said that I would tell you. I thought it 
 best that I should speak to you first. That's about all 
 I could say, except talking over your position here 
 and how you were situated with the Claytons. But, 
 of course, he knew all that as well as I did." 
 
 There was a lull in the breeze, and for a moment 
 Fay turned her eyes to the gently flapping sail and 
 then back to Fielding. 
 
 "Would you like me to go, Porter?" she asked. 
 
 Fielding looked at her with frank surprise. 
 
 ".Why, I don't know, Fay. It never really oc-
 
 48 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 curred to me that you would give the idea a serious 
 thought. You know what it would mean to those 
 two old people. If they thought that you " 
 
 "I know that, Porter," she interrupted, "I under- 
 stand all that, but I'm not thinking of them now. 
 The time has come when I have to think of my- 
 self every man and every woman has to come to 
 it sooner or later. Much as I love them, and I do 
 really love them, Porter, I know that they can only 
 live for a few years, and then what is going to be- 
 come of me ? It might be too late for me to make a 
 start then." 
 
 "And Margaret ?" he asked. 
 
 "The chances are," Fay hurried on, "that Mar- 
 garet will marry some one in Pleasantville, and she 
 will probably be very contented and very happy. I 
 wish I could be, but I can't. Tom Nagle, the butch- 
 er's boy, asked me to marry him last spring, and 
 Billy Carter, who works over at the hardware shop, 
 tried his best to propose two or three times, but I 
 can't marry Tom Nagle or Billy Carter and spend 
 the rest of my days in Pleasantville. I just couldn't 
 do it. You're the only thing that kept me alive here, 
 and now you've gone away." 
 
 Fielding looked at her and nodded.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 49 
 
 "I understand, of course," he said. "I suppose 
 you've -been thinking of this for some time." 
 
 "No, only for the last two weeks. Lusk suggest- 
 ed the idea to me as a joke, and it sort of appealed 
 to me as a way out of my troubles. Then you went 
 away, and I'll tell you honestly, Porter, I've missed 
 you terribly." 
 
 Fielding laid his hand gently over Fay's that 
 rested on the tiller. The breeze died away, and 
 the boat was only drifting. 
 
 "Tell me, Fay," he said, "what are your real 
 troubles?" 
 
 The girl looked up at him and then across the river 
 to the great scarlet disk of fire slowly disappearing 
 behind the high green banks. 
 
 "Troubles," she repeated, "just the same old trou- 
 bles. It's not so easy for you to understand, be- 
 cause, even if they are gone, you had a father once 
 and a mother and a certain defined position in the 
 world. I have nothing. I was cast up on the beach 
 down there by the Twin Dunes, with a lot of wreck- 
 age. That was the day of my birth, you might say. 
 Perhaps my mother was a princess, as Mother Clay- 
 ton and some of these folk in the village like to be- 
 lieve she was, and perhaps she wasn't. What kind
 
 50 
 
 of people she and my father were, we can only judge 
 by their daughter, and sometimes, God help me, Por- 
 ter, I almost believe that they were not very good 
 people." 
 
 Fielding drew himself up very straight and looked 
 her squarely in the eyes. 
 
 "There are times, Fay," he said, "when I can't un- 
 derstand you times when I don't know what you 
 mean." 
 
 There was a puff of wind, and Fay put the boat 
 about and with a free sail pointed toward the land- 
 ing. 
 
 "No," she said with a little sigh and an effort to 
 smile, "I know that. I know that you don't un- 
 derstand me sometimes, Porter. It would be very 
 difficult for any man to understand. Because if 
 you had no family or position you could go out 
 and fight for one, but it's not so easy for a girl to 
 do that. The men down here are all right because 
 they think I'm pretty, I suppose, but the women say 
 'Who is she?' and the answer is that I'm a foundling 
 and was adopted by some kind natives. They might 
 give me the benefit of the doubt and take it for 
 granted that my people were at least nice decent peo- 
 ple, but they don't. They treat me as if I were a
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 51 
 
 freak or something worse. I tell you, Porter, women 
 aren't naturally kind to other women. Why, there 
 isn't a day that I go to the links or the hotel or 
 to a dance on Saturday nights that I don't have to be 
 on my guard every minute. The women speak to 
 me, but they never forget that the only mother I have 
 does their washing for them. If I were an out-and- 
 out native it would be better, but I'm not. I'm some- 
 thing that floated in on a wreck a derelict. 
 
 "Day after day I've gone down to the Twin 
 Dunes, and do you think that ever for one moment, 
 when I've looked at the place where they found me 
 that night, that I was thankful? Not once, Porter. 
 I'd sit there and look at the waves, and all they ever 
 seemed to say to me was that line from Mark- 
 heim: 'If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it 
 down.' That's all they ever said to me, and they've 
 pounded it into my head until I thought I'd go mad. 
 One of these days I'll " 
 
 "Don't say that, Fay," Fielding threw back at her. 
 "I don't think that you're fair to yourself or to the 
 women. You're naturally very sensitive." 
 
 "Sensitive," she repeated. "Of course I'm sensi- 
 tive. If you had been treated as I have been by these 
 good and carefully protected wives and daughters
 
 52 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 you would be sensitive, too. The only thing I can 
 do is to take the men away from them, and I like to 
 think that I'm too much of a woman to stoop that 
 low. I tell you, Porter, I'm tired of it. I'm tired 
 of Pleasantville, and I'm tired of the people who 
 come here, and I'm tired of their snubs, and the 
 hypocrisy of their charity, and if Max Lusk or any- 
 body else gives me a chance to get away and be some- 
 body on my own, then I'm going to get away, and 
 the quicker the better." 
 
 Fielding shrugged his shoulders. "All right, Fay," 
 he said, "have it your own way. I wish I could ad- 
 vise you, but I know no more of the life that Lusk 
 throws out to you than you do. It's up to you to de- 
 cide." 
 
 When the girl spoke again it was almost in a whis- 
 per, and her voice, as well as her manner, was very 
 tense and hard. 
 
 "I know that," she said; "I know it's up to me. 
 It's been up to me ever since the night I was born 
 down there on the beach, and now I'm going to take 
 a chance to get out into the world and do something 
 and be somebody. I know I oughtn't to leave these 
 old people and Margaret, but I'm going to be selfish, 
 Porter. All my life I've kept myself down. I've
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 53 
 
 been starved in this place and all the time something 
 inside of me, that my mother put there, has been 
 crying out for a chance in the big world. And now 
 if it's come to me, so help me God, I'm going to take 
 that chance." 
 
 For a few moments they sat in silence while the 
 little boat drifted toward the end of the landing, but 
 in that short time Fay's manner underwent a com- 
 plete and wonderful change. She turned to Fielding 
 once more, her old calm joyous self. 
 
 "Don't worry about me, Porter," she laughed. 
 "You'll find that I'll come out all right, and don't 
 you forget that I'm to see Lusk before he goes 
 back." 
 
 That all-important interview, perhaps the most 
 important in the life of Fay Clayton, took place the 
 following morning on the beach in a little arbor built 
 of pine boughs far from the bathers and the crowd 
 of onlookers. For an hour she and Lusk sat alone, 
 and this time it was the man who did the talking, and 
 when Lusk was sufficiently interested he talked ex- 
 tremely well. His arguments throughout were preju- 
 diced and unfair, but he was wise enough to speak 
 only of the case of the girl who regards the stage in 
 the light of an honorable and legitimate profession,
 
 54 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 and ignores any outside means of adding to her in- 
 come. He began his argument by admitting that a 
 certain amount of hardship was necessary to the be- 
 ginning of any career. Of this phase he spoke but a 
 few words and then hurried on to tell at great length 
 of the rewards that were sure to come with her 
 success, and he did not fail to paint in vivid colors 
 the advantages of any life that she might lead in the 
 city as compared to her present dull existence in 
 Pleasantville. 
 
 Lusk had a quick clever mind, and it was not 
 difficult for him to answer the many questions she 
 asked him or to make light of the obstacles she 
 most feared. But, after all, it was not the adroit- 
 ness of the broker's mind or his ready speech that 
 finally induced the girl to say that she would in all 
 probability accept his offer. Although unconscious 
 of the fact, the broker had really won his first battle 
 with Fay the day before when Fielding had told her 
 that Lusk had found an opening for her on the stage 
 and a chance to get away from Pleasantville. What- 
 ever might be the hardships of this new life, at least 
 to Fay it meant independence and complete freedom 
 from the narrow views and the narrow life of the 
 kindly people who had brought her up. It meant,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 55 
 
 too, that she would be near Porter Fielding, the one 
 person in the world for whom she really cared, and 
 besides all this, in the dim distance, she saw awaiting 
 her the shimmering crown of fame as a reward for 
 her hard work and her ambition and beauty and end- 
 less endeavor. 
 
 That night she gave the two men her definite 
 answer and agreed to come to New York in time 
 to begin rehearsals for the new play. It was ar- 
 ranged that on the all-important day, two weeks 
 hence, she would go to town with Fielding and 
 Lusk in the latter's automobile, but as she did not 
 wish to tell the Claytons of her decision until the 
 very last moment, it was further agreed that no one 
 should speak of the matter, at least in Pleasantville. 
 And although they all held to this agreement, never- 
 theless each of them, Fay and Fielding and Lusk, 
 began characteristically to prepare for the girl's 
 coming to New York. 
 
 On the Sunday evening before the morning of her 
 departure, Fielding went over to the Clayton cottage 
 to see that Fay was ready for the trip. As he strolled 
 slowly through the little village and across the fields 
 that led to her home, the place had never seemed 
 quite so beautiful or quite so much like a home to
 
 56 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 him before. For a moment he stopped at the gate 
 and looked long at the little shingled cottage made 
 beautiful by age and so many tender associations. It 
 came to him fully for the first time just how much 
 every stick and stone, every bush and every flower- 
 ing plant in the little garden, meant to him, for in a 
 way Fay's home had always been his home, too, and 
 now, in his heart, he knew the end had come. She 
 saw him from the window of her room and ran 
 down the path to greet him. 
 
 "I knew you'd come," she said. "It just seemed 
 as if you would have to come to-night." 
 
 She held out both her hands, and he took them in 
 his, and when they had looked into each other's 
 eyes they knew that they had but one thought. 
 
 "Have you a few moments to spare?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "as many as you wish." 
 
 They walked to the edge of the garden, and with 
 their arms resting on the paling fence, looked out in 
 silence on the narrow dusty road and the green 
 meadows and beyond to the pine forests. Through 
 the upper branches they could see the pearl and pink 
 lights of the dying day the last day of their lazy, 
 childish, happy dreams. 
 
 "Have you told them ?" he asked.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 57 
 
 "Yes," she said with a catch in her voice; "yes, 
 I told them a little while ago." 
 
 "Was it very hard ?" 
 
 "Yes, Porter, it was very hard. Margaret cried 
 and upbraided me for not telling them before ; but 
 what was the use? I think Father Clayton took it 
 hardest of all. I meant so much to him and I sup- 
 pose it sort of hurt his pride. He asked me if it was 
 for good, and I said I thought that it was, and then 
 he put his arms about me and kissed me and told me 
 that whatever happened, and whether I succeeded or 
 failed, that the home and he and mother would al- 
 ways be waiting for me." 
 
 "And your mother?" Fielding asked. 
 
 "No, mother didn't say anything. I suppose it was 
 the idea of the stage that hurt. I guess, Porter, 
 there's only one thing that a girl could tell her mother 
 that would have hurt her worse." 
 
 "And she didn't say anything about your coming 
 back home to visit, or if you wanted to come to 
 stay?" 
 
 "No, Porter. She just sat by the window, rocking 
 up and down, with her hands clasped, and staring up 
 at the ceiling. I tell you I thought I'd go mad, and 
 then father got down the Bible and read a chapter
 
 58 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 about being saved from temptation. That's what 
 they're afraid of, and that's what hurts me here in 
 my heart They ought to believe in me after more 
 than twenty years; don't you think so, Porter?" 
 
 The girl suddenly dropped her face in her arms 
 and broke into a series of long low sobs. 
 
 Fielding put put his hand and touched her gently 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 "It'll all come right, Fay, dear," he said. "They're 
 very old, and they don't know a great deal about the 
 outside world, and then you must remember that 
 you've been so very much in their lives. So very 
 much pretty much everything. I think perhaps I'd 
 better go in and have a talk with them now." 
 
 Fay looked up sharply, her eyes filled with fear, 
 and with both hands caught Fielding by the arm. 
 
 "Don't, please, don't do that," she begged, "not 
 now, not to-night. They've got the idea that your 
 going to New York has something to do with my go- 
 ing, too. Don't go in there, now, Porter, please, for 
 my sake. I couldn't stand another scene to-night. I 
 couldn't do it I just couldn't." 
 
 "Of course, of course, Fay, dear," Fielding said, 
 "I understand. A week or two from now when
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 59 
 
 they're used to the idea, I'll have a good long talk 
 with them and explain what it really means for you 
 to go to New York and all about your wonderful 
 future." 
 
 The fear had gone from the girl as quickly as it 
 had come, and putting out her hands she rested 
 them on his shoulders and with her tear-stained eyes 
 looked into his. 
 
 "Porter," she said, "there's something else. I 
 want you to make me a promise." 
 
 Fielding could not trust himself to look into her 
 face just then, and so he continued to stare beyond 
 the meadows at the distant pines. 
 
 "It's granted now," he said. "You must know 
 that." 
 
 "It's really not very much. But, whatever hap- 
 pens, I want you to promise that if I should ever ask 
 you that you will bring me back here some day." 
 
 Fielding nodded, and they started slowly across 
 the garden toward the house. 
 
 "Of course, Fay," he said, "but we are to come 
 back many, many times together. This must always 
 be our real home. It couldn't very well be other- 
 wise could it ?"
 
 60 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 She pressed his hand hard in hers. 
 
 "I hope so," she whispered. "You don't know 
 how very much I hope so, Porter, but we can't al- 
 ways tell. Can we, dear ?"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 AL the plans for Fay Clayton's coming to 
 New York had been made in advance by Max 
 Lusk. Rather than have her go to a hotel or a regu- 
 lar boarding-house, he had arranged to have her live 
 with an old friend, Mrs. Amelia Yorke, who had not 
 only formerly been on the stage herself, but had a 
 daughter who was a chorus girl and for this reason, 
 as well as from her own personal inclinations, had 
 always remained in close touch with the theater and 
 its people. In many ways the arrangement seemed, 
 at least for the moment, to be one of mutual benefit. 
 On the one hand, Fay, while enjoying the home life 
 of the Yorke flat, would have at the very outset of 
 her stage life the expert knowledge of a theatrical 
 family, and, on the other hand, the Yorkes being in a 
 chronic state of bankruptcy, the ten dollars a week 
 which Fay was to pay for her board and lodging 
 would be of the greatest possible financial assistance 
 to them. Indeed, beyond the the twenty dollars that 
 Doris Yorke received every week as a member of 
 
 61
 
 62 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the Casino chorus, the family was quite without any 
 visible means of support. 
 
 Mrs. Yorke was by the way of being a widow, 
 although she personally had a most sincere, and 
 probably correct belief in the theory that Mr. Yorke 
 was still among the living. Several years previous 
 and at one of those almost perpetual periods when 
 the Yorkes were violently discussing a legal separa- 
 tion, a terrible catastrophe had visited the heart of 
 New York's business district. Fire had broken out 
 in an old building, the upper stories of which were 
 occupied by a job printing concern. Almost without 
 warning the massive presses had crashed through the 
 intervening floors and crushed the life out of fifty 
 unfortunate souls who were at lunch in a restaurant 
 in the basement. It so happened that Mr. Yorke oc- 
 casionally took his lunch here, but whether he was 
 present on this tragic occasion was never really 
 known. His body may have been among the fifty 
 charred and unrecognizable remains taken from the 
 cellar ; or it may have been that he only wished it to 
 appear so, and regarding the occasion as a marvelous 
 opportunity to escape from Mrs. Yorke or possible 
 years of alimony, had promptly flown to parts un- 
 known. It was to the latter belief that Mrs. Yorke
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 63 
 
 always held, and the arrival of a telegram invariably 
 sent her into a paroxysm of anxiety as to whether 
 she was or was not a bona fide widow. 
 
 Although Mrs. Yorke was beyond dispute the 
 strongest individual power, the real head of the 
 household, at least in point of years, was Mr. Hook- 
 er, father of Mrs. Yorke. He was a patriarchal old 
 gentleman with a self- fancied resemblance to Noah, 
 a mild species pf vanity he had carefully cultivated 
 and to which he constantly referred in his occasional 
 rambling conversation. Although known as Pop at 
 the Yorke flat, and by the small shopkeepers in the 
 neighborhood where the family dealt, he had for- 
 merly borne the much more distinguished title of 
 The Great Mozark, the Magical Medical Man. For 
 more than thirty years he had traveled through the 
 Middle West at the head of his own medicine show, 
 and there were still extant in that district rumors of 
 his marvelous cures, and of the ample fortune that 
 he had accumulated therefrom. 
 
 There were also well authenticated tales of a 
 beautiful but unscrupulous young woman from 
 Chicago who, having heard of the old man's 
 savings, had joined the medicine show with the 
 ostentatious purpose of singing coon ballads, but
 
 64 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 with the real and more selfish intention of taking 
 away his fortune. Exactly what did happen the 
 Great Mozark himself never told, but it is a mat- 
 ter of history that one day the old man turned up at 
 the Yorke flat quite penniless and had ever since re- 
 mained its most permanent fixture. Dressed in a 
 frock coat, a pair of trousers of a conspicuous plaid 
 pattern (a remnant of his former greatness), a 
 white shirt with a heavily starched bosom but no col- 
 lar, he spent his days in a rocking-chair looking out 
 of the window and smoking a huge meerschaum 
 pipe. He spoke but seldom and then usually during 
 the meals, when he whined in bitter complaint 
 against the food that was set before him. 
 
 Another member of the household was Miss 
 Angie Clubb, a niece of Mrs. Yorke and a pretty 
 blond creature with a very pink and white coloring 
 and what might be described as a plump Viennese 
 figure. Miss Clubb was a very dull and pleasant 
 soul, but with no apparent ambition in life except to 
 wear good clothes, eat better food than she could 
 possibly get at home, and avoid anything that sug- 
 gested work or activity of any kind. At regular in- 
 tervals she would accompany Doris Yorke to the 
 various theatrical managers' offices in search of em-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 65 
 
 ployment, but these visits had as yet never been at- 
 tended with any practical results. Doris Yorke, the 
 chorus girl, completed the family circle, and probably 
 owing to the fact that she was its only wage-earner 
 was, at least as far as the household itself was con- 
 cerned, by far its most unpopular member. As Mrs. 
 Yorke could not afford a servant it became the duty 
 of Doris to clean the house, make the beds and assist 
 her mother with the cooking. Combined with her 
 stage work it was a most unhappy and irksome exist- 
 ence, but with the exception of a few months which 
 she had spent on the road with traveling companies, 
 it was the only life that she had ever known. 
 
 When it was announced that a boarder in the per- 
 son of Fay Clayton was to join the family circle, 
 it can not in truth be said that Doris received the 
 news with any particular degree of enthusiasm. To 
 her it meant only another room to clean, one more 
 to cook for ? and, in all probability, less to eat for 
 herself. But somewhat to the consternation of Mrs. 
 Yorke, and especially to Angie Clubb, Fay insisted 
 from the outset on taking care of her own room, 
 even helping in the kitchen and on making herself 
 generally useful about the house. 
 
 In less than twenty-four hours after Lusk had in-
 
 66 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 troduced her to the Yorke flat she had settled down 
 as a full-fledged member of the family, and indeed 
 her presence seemed to facilitate rather than to clog 
 the machinery of the household. She was always 
 laughing and eager to work for others, and ex- 
 cept in the case of Doris, the desire to help any 
 one to anything in the Yorke menage was an un u 
 known or certainly unpractised virtue. Even old 
 Mr. Hooker, when Fay made her first appearance, 
 had found time to stop rocking and smile at her -be- 
 nignly over the rims of his spectacles. And when 
 she had left the room he crossed his arms, sighed 
 dolorously and from the depths of his memory re- 
 called a quotation which he repeated dully several 
 times to the stiff lace curtains of the window. 
 
 " 'A woman clothed in sunshine a woman 
 clothed in sunshine.' ' 
 
 Between Fay and Doris there at once sprang up 
 a strong intimacy. Fay liked the tawny-haired lit- 
 tle chorus girl because she was so honest and sincere, 
 and later, when she really learned the strength of 
 the girl's character, her liking developed into the 
 most sincere affection and admiration. But to her 
 great regret Fay soon discovered that Doris was
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 67 
 
 something 1 of a freak of nature and that her admir- 
 able and altogether lovable traits were in nowise 
 shared by the other members of her family. After 
 her years pf ease, if not of luxury, with the simple 
 Claytons at Pleasantville there was much in the life 
 of the Yorke family that did not appeal very strong- 
 ly to the new boarder. Every member of the house- 
 hold was in chronic need of money and discussed 
 but little else. Mrs. Yorke and Miss Clubb con- 
 stantly deplored their lack of suitable raiment, and 
 the old man was forever whining about the quality 
 of the food and the lack of tobacco which, with a 
 copy of a morning and evening newspaper, consti- 
 tuted his only needs. And then there was that 
 prince of betes nolres, the landlord, demanding his 
 rent, which was always in arrears, and those two 
 other monthly horrors, the gas and the telephone 
 bills. The latter was the subject of the most violent 
 discussions because it was regarded by every one, 
 with the exception of Miss Clubb, as the most self- 
 ish and unnecessary of luxuries. She, however, con- 
 tended with much spirit, and not without a consid- 
 erable degree of truth, that if it were not for the 
 telephone no one would ever ask her out to dinner.
 
 68 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 It was but a few days after Fay's arrival, and the 
 family were seated about the table after the usual 
 modest luncheon. Mrs. Yorke pushed her heavy 
 body back into her chair, and having blown several 
 rings of smoke from her cigarette at the mosquito- 
 covered chandelier, once more renewed her cam- 
 paign against the telephone. 
 
 "Mind you, Angie, dear," she said with a certain 
 tone of mock humility in her deep sonorous voice, 
 "I don't want to spoil your fun, and I know we live 
 too far up-town for your gentlemen friends to call 
 on you or even pay a messenger to bring you an 
 invitation. The telephone was surely invented for 
 gentlemen who are in unexpected and immediate 
 need of a good-looking girl for dinner or a supper- 
 party, but I ask you, Angie, dear, what good does 
 it do the rest of us? Once in a great while some- 
 body calls up Doris, but she usually gets her notes 
 down-town at the theater. But where do Pop and I 
 come in, is what I want to know? Now, if you ever 
 brought anything home from your swell dinners 
 and your gay supper-parties it would be all right, 
 but you don't, Angie. You know you don't. Some- 
 times, maybe, a fan the head waiter gave you at the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 69 
 
 restaurant, pr a souvenir doll. But what good's a 
 doll in a pink paper skirt or a cheap fan with a 
 restaurant advertisement on it to me or Pop? You 
 might -bring us a bottle of wine once in a while." 
 
 Miss Clubb flushed and glared angrily at her 
 aunt across the table. "I'm no chorus girl grafter," 
 she complained. "My gentlemen friends ain't ac- 
 customed to give girls a quart to take home to their 
 folks. They're not that kind." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke puffed up like a great pouter pigeon 
 and stared fiercely into the girl's eyes. "That's 
 right, Angie, you ain't no wine grafter. I can see 
 that, unless it happens that you and your refined 
 gentlemen friends drink it yourselves on the way 
 home in the cab, but I notice you ain't above work- 
 ing your friends for a new hat, or a pair of gloves, 
 and I suppose it was you who knit those scarlet silk 
 stockings you brought home the other afternoon. 
 You're so industrious with your needle, you are, 
 Angie. I don't think." 
 
 Tears gathered in the pale blue eyes and coursed 
 in two little rivulets down Angie's heavily powdered 
 cheeks. Lacking a handkerchief, she pressed a much 
 used napkin to her face and the flow of tears was 
 temporarily stopped. With a few inarticulate
 
 70 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 sounds of disgust old man Hooker pushed back his 
 chair and retired to his seat at the window. 
 
 Miss Clubb turned her damp eyes to those of Fay, 
 who was not yet immune to these family squabbles 
 and was regarding her with a sympathetic interest 
 
 "It's pretty hard, Miss Clayton," she said with a 
 distinct tremor in her voice. "I tell you it's pretty 
 hard to be put upon by your own aunt, especially 
 when your folks are dead, and you haven't got no 
 home of your own, and all just because you won't 
 bring a quart or the cold leavings from a supper- 
 party home to the flat. Heaven knows I've been 
 tramping the streets and visiting managers no end 
 looking for work." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke sniffed audibly and with a dexterous 
 movement of her thumb and finger flipped her cig- 
 arette end into the empty hearth. 
 
 "It's a pity about you, Angie ; it sure is a pity the 
 way you wear yourself out looking for work ! And 
 those managers' stairs are so steep and the wait- 
 ing-rooms that dusty !" 
 
 Once more Angie showed the preliminary signs 
 of the flood of tears that seemed forever ready 
 to overflow her pretty eyes. "It's not the stairs and 
 the dirty offices that's the trouble," she sobbed;
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 71 
 
 "it's that gray cloth dress and the hat with the blue 
 feathers. I've worn it in summer and winter until 
 they're all sick of it. Even the office boys beat it 
 now when they catch sight of those blue plumes." 
 
 Doris Yorke leaned her elbows on the table and 
 rested her chin between her palms. "Why don't 
 you try for this show Fay's in? If " 
 
 "That's funny, kid," Mrs. Yorke interrupted, 
 "that's what I call good cheap comedy. Why, Rosie 
 Lament's going with it, and she told me the other 
 day that they had the greatest bunch of show-girls 
 ever seen on Broadway. Angie'd have a great 
 chance for a job with that crowd not!" 
 
 Doris looked calmly at her mother's excited per- 
 spiring face and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know ! They're not so much ; just a 
 lot of old established failures. I should think the 
 managers would be glad to get a new face once in a 
 while. I'll go in with you to see Morley to-morrow 
 morning, Angie, that is, if you're game. It's a good 
 engagement a week or two on the road and then 
 Broadway for a long run. Think it over." 
 
 Further conversation was interrupted by the ring 
 of the telephone bell. Doris answered it, but an- 
 nounced that the call was for Angie. Before the
 
 72 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 latter had reached the telephone the gloom that had 
 filled the little dining-room had been dispelled and 
 now there was an air of cheerful expectancy. 
 
 "Sure, I will," Angie cooed through the telephone. 
 "I thought you'd forgot all about me. I'll be ready 
 in ten minutes. Just ring the bell in the hallway 
 and I'll come right down. By-by." 
 
 "Who is it?" gasped Mrs. Yorke, her round shin- 
 ing face fairly exuding hilarious excitement. Angie 
 started on a run for her bedroom. 
 
 "It's a John I met at supper last week," she threw 
 over her shoulder. "He's coming up with his car." 
 
 "Good, good for you, Angie!" Mrs. York called. 
 "He ought to be good for the telephone bill, any- 
 how." She bustled out of the room in pursuit of 
 the fortunate Angie, and Fay and Doris were left 
 alone. 
 
 Doris went over to the window and looked out 
 on the narrow court of dull yellow brick walls and 
 rusty iron fire-escapes. For a moment she beat a 
 tattoo with her knuckles on the soiled window-pane 
 and then spoke without looking around. "I'm sor- 
 ry," she said, "very sorry, Fay." 
 
 Fay looked up from her seat at the table in sur- 
 prise.
 
 73 
 
 "Sorry?" she repeated; "sorry about what? That 
 Angie is going out for a ride?" 
 
 "No, about the row. But I suppose you had to 
 get used to it sooner or later. It's always that way, 
 fighting and quarreling and bickering over who'll 
 pay for this and who'll pay for that, and how they'll 
 divide my salary. Take my advice, and when you 
 begin to get your wages don't loan 'em anything, be- 
 cause you'll never get it back." 
 
 Fay laughed. "Don't you worry about that," she 
 said, "I'll need it all myself. I'm beginning to find 
 out already what a lot it costs to live on in this 
 town." 
 
 Doris turned and looked Fay evenly in the eyes. 
 
 "No, you don't, Fay. You'll never know till you're 
 in debt. That's when you'll appreciate it. When 
 the men you thought were your friends are chasing 
 you like a lot of hungry wolves, and your own 
 mother is begging you to ask money from a lot of 
 college boys to pay the rent." She folded her arms 
 over her flat chest and turned back toward the win- 
 dow. "Oh, God," she whispered, "how I hate it 
 all! I tell you it's awful. The degradation of it 
 and the everlasting cry of those two women in there 
 for money, always money and at any price."
 
 74 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 The girl suddenly put her arms before her on the 
 window-frame and sobbed aloud. Fay went over 
 to her and laid her hands gently on Doris' shoul- 
 ders. "After all," she said, "she is your mother." 
 
 "I know," the girl sobbed softly; "I know, but 
 sometimes it's so hard not to forget that. One of 
 these days I'm afraid I'll tell her just what kind of 
 a mother I think she has been to me, and then that 
 would mean the end of the only home I've got." 
 
 The bell that connected with the street vestibule 
 rang shrilly through the apartment, and from across 
 the hallway they heard the door of Angie's bed- 
 room closed with a slam, and the rustle of her dress 
 as she hurried out on her way to keep her appoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "Don't forget the telephone bill," Mrs. Yorke 
 called after her, "and if you only could get enough 
 to pay that night dentist for fixing Pop's teeth ! And, 
 Angie, dear, there's always the rent." 
 
 Doris turned from the window, and as she looked 
 at Fay, she tried to force a smile into her tear- 
 stained eyes. 
 
 "Mother's right," she said, "there's always the 
 rent." 
 
 It had never occurred to Fay that her life at the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 75 
 
 Yorke flat was anything more than one of the un- 
 happy steps she must take in order to reach the 
 goal of a successful actress. Had she believed for 
 one moment that her present unpleasant surround- 
 ings were to last for more than the -briefest period 
 she would have returned at once to the home that 
 she believed was still open to her at Pleasantville. 
 
 During the few days that she had been with the 
 Yorke family its members, except on the occasion 
 of the outbreak concerning the telephone, had re- 
 frained from any of the usual exhibitions of open 
 warfare, and had done their best to make it as com- 
 fortable and as pleasant as possible for the new 
 boarder. But in spite of this momentary effort Fay 
 was always conscious of the dull sordid life of the 
 people among whom she had been thrown, their 
 lack of any real interests, and with the exception of 
 Doris, a total abhorrence for every kind of work, 
 and a constant effort to hide the abject poverty in 
 which they lived out their miserable useless exist- 
 ences. Added to these unhappy traits there was, es- 
 pecially on the part of Mrs. Yorke and Angie, the 
 always present desire for amusement, however 
 cheap and vulgar it might be, and a constant vigi- 
 lance to seize any opportunity to extract anything
 
 76 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 in the way of food or clothes or money from any 
 one on whom they could lay their greedy hands. 
 
 During the week that intervened between her de- 
 parture from Pleasantville and the day that her re- 
 hearsals were to begin, Fay spent most of her after- 
 noons and all of her evenings with Porter Fielding. 
 It was not only a welcome relief to her to get away 
 from the Yorke flat and the family's troubles, but it 
 was a great pleasure, as it had always been with Fay, 
 to be alone with Porter. Now she was getting her 
 first glimpses of New York through his eyes, and 
 although he was almost as ignorant of the city and 
 its ways as she was, Fay refused to see this and 
 chose to regard him as a thoroughly knowing guide 
 and mentor. 
 
 As is usual in July, the city was at its worst, the 
 streets seemed all torn up and the buildings all torn 
 down, or in a state of chaotic construction. The 
 pavements were baked with the dry heat of a long 
 summer, the air was lifeless, and the whole town 
 foul with dirt and plaster dust. But the scorched 
 city, and the unfortunate remnants of its perspir- 
 ing people who could not get away, and who 
 wandered slowly about gasping for breath, did not 
 worry Fay and Porter at all. Their hearts were very
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 77 
 
 light and above all they had youth. Their strong 
 healthy bodies had been rilled for many months with 
 the fresh pure air of the open country and besides 
 that they were both secure in the belief that they 
 were at the door-step of a wonderful new life which 
 was to be crowded with happiness and crowned with 
 great success. That the emoluments which were to 
 be a natural accompaniment to this success were still 
 far distant and that their present poverty confined 
 their amusements to the most simple of pleasures, 
 was, to their youthful spirits, of the least possible 
 consequence. 
 
 In the late afternoons they rode on the Fifth 
 Avenue omnibuses or took long leisurely walks 
 through the Park, where they fed the squir- 
 rels and enjoyed innumerable trips in the swan- 
 boats. Always at six o'clock they separated, and 
 Fay returned to the Yorke flat to put on one of her 
 best shirt-waists and a fresh duck skirt and other- 
 wise prepare for the more formal pleasures of the 
 evening. By seven, much to the envy of Mrs. Yorke 
 and Angie, she was off again and on her way to join 
 Porter at his rooms on West Thirty-first Street. It 
 was a pretty little apartment that he had taken, 
 very small and very cheap, but if the curtains and
 
 78 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the furniture of scarlet brocade were a trifle faded 
 and frayed they had once been of the best and bore 
 a distinct air of decayed aristocracy. There was a 
 little square sitting-room with two windows, and an 
 alcove bedroom with one window, and a tiny bath- 
 room with no window at all. In fact the bathroom 
 bore all the evidences of having been, in the days 
 when the original owners occupied the entire house, 
 either a closet or a clothes-press. The walls of the 
 sitting-room were covered with a very ancient if 
 correct example of a flowered white colonial paper, 
 but to offset the general tone of cold severity Porter 
 had tacked up innumerable photographs. These 
 were of Fay, taken on the tennis-courts at Pleasant- 
 ville, and in her bathing-suit on the beach; and of 
 himself playing golf ; and of both of them in a canoe, 
 or posing on a lawn, or on a bench at the river's 
 edge. For two young people, not too knowing or fas- 
 tidious in their artistic tastes, but overflowing with 
 the joy of living and a great affection for each other, 
 it was a most cozy and cheerful little room, full of 
 reminiscences of the happy past, and an excellent 
 place to chat and dream foolish impossible dreams 
 of a splendid future. 
 
 Their favorite dining place was Guffanti's, where
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 79 
 
 they had noodle soup and macaroni au jus and 
 which they enjoyed out of all proportion to its 
 seasonableness. They usually sat long over their 
 coffee, while Porter smoked his cigar and talked 
 of his day down-town at the office, or Fay dis- 
 cussed the Yorke family and their frantic efforts 
 to escape a complete financial collapse. Twice they 
 went to vaudeville performances and once to see 
 The Follies at the New York Roof Garden, but 
 on the other nights they had returned to Porter's 
 rooms, which were cooler and proved a much less 
 expensive form of entertainment than the theater. 
 
 Only twice had Fay seen Max Lusk since she had 
 come to New York. Once he had called at the Yorke 
 flat, where he had been received with open arms and 
 a most flattering enthusiasm by the entire family. 
 He came like a fairy prince in a huge canary yellow 
 touring 1 car, and which was greeted by the children 
 of the neighborhood with as much acclaim as if it 
 had been the golden band wagon of a circus parade. 
 He also came laden with many gifts a bottle of old 
 rye for Mr. Hooker, a large tin box of cigarettes 
 for Mrs. Yorke, white leather belts for Angie and 
 Doris, and, as if by way of contrast to these prac- 
 tical offerings, a great bunch of roses for Fay. Hav-
 
 8o IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 ing distributed his gifts with a truly Santa Clans 
 manner, he proceeded to make himself a most genial 
 if somewhat boisterous guest. Acceding to Mrs. 
 Yorke's urgent requests, he relieved himself of his 
 coat, and accepting the largest chair, put his feet on 
 another and proceeded with great relish to smoke 
 one of his own good cigars, and cool his perspiring 
 face with a palm-leaf fan. 
 
 "Nothing like a glimpse of family life," he said 
 with a chuckle, "nothing like it after a hard hot day 
 on the Street. I was just on my way to the Polo 
 Grounds and thought I'd drop in to see how you 
 were all getting on." He turned to Fay and his eyes 
 fairly blinked at her cool perfect beauty. "Miss 
 Clayton," he ran on, "you fit into the family circle 
 here like the clasp of a real pearl necklace. So much 
 better than if you were in a boarding-house, I can 
 tell you. Here's Mother Yorke, and Doris, and 
 Angie to look after you; and what more could any 
 one ask for? I envy you, my dear. Indeed, I do. 
 I envy you." 
 
 With a smirk he looked coyly at Angie and shook 
 his finger at her. "I caught you at Woodsmaston 
 the other night, little girl, hiding at that table in the 
 corner with a married man. Naughty, naughty
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 81 
 
 Angle! But I don't blame you, kid, he's one of the 
 few who can afford a wife and a good car, too." 
 
 "He's a very fine gentleman," Miss Clubb volun- 
 teered, "and he hardly ever takes a girl out that he 
 don't make her a handsome little present. 'Souve- 
 nirs of a happy dinner' he calls 'em in his notes. He 
 writes such beautiful notes, on the loveliest gray 
 paper with a gold crest, and his presents are all such 
 practical things. Stockings and gloves and hand- 
 kerchiefs you know no cheap junk or candy or a 
 chorus girl's bouquet." 
 
 "What's a chorus girl's bouquet?" Doris inter- 
 rupted with some warmth of feeling. 
 
 "It's one orchid," Angie ran on placidly, "com- 
 pletely surrounded by a garden of cheap green stuff. 
 I think it's an awful thing, Mr. Lusk, to see a girl 
 sitting up with some moneyed gink in a swell res- 
 taurant with a bunch of orchids at her waist, both 
 of them eating caviar, and all the time she's starv- 
 ing for a veal stew, or a porterhouse steak, sprin- 
 kled with good English chops. And as for those 
 orchids ; why for the price of half a dozen of them a 
 girl could pay her laundry bills for a month and be 
 careless with her duck skirts at that. But that Mr. 
 Gilson you saw me with the other night, now he's
 
 82 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 practical. He gave Claudine Le Mar the loveliest 
 shirt-waist laciest thing you ever saw. His wife's 
 an invalid, and she just begs him to go put and have 
 a good time." 
 
 Lusk laughed aloud and slapped his open hand 
 against his thigh. 
 
 "My dear, if all the men who said that to chorus 
 girls told the truth the hospitals wouldn't hold the 
 invalid wives. I tell you, Mother Yorke, it's a fine 
 sight for a gay bachelor's eyes to look about at your 
 little circle here and see one contented united family 
 in this day of alimony and unhappy marriages." 
 
 Doris clasped her hands behind her head and 
 tilted her chair against the wall. 
 
 "I thought alimony," she suggested, "came after 
 the unhappy marriages." 
 
 Lusk rubbed his hands together and laughed at the 
 little chorus girl. "Not with me," he said, "I always 
 think of the alimony first. I saw you the other night 
 at the Casino, my dear, and you sure looked fine in 
 that green dress in the second act. Yes, she did, Mrs. 
 Yorke, fine, \ tell you. Look out or she'll soon be 
 wearng all lace shirt-waists and using club cabs. 
 Many a girl has lost her way between the Casino 
 stage door and the old homestead."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 83 
 
 The girl's face flushed scarlet. She sprang to her 
 feet and in a moment more, with her arms resting on 
 her hips, stood looking down at Lusk. "Don't you 
 worry about me, Max Lusk," she cried, "not for the 
 richest broker on Wall Street!" With her tawny 
 head held high she walked slowly out of the room 
 and slammed the door behind her. 
 
 The round face of Mrs. Yorke had grown quite 
 apoplectic with rage. "And what do you think of 
 that !" she stormed. "Doris, my own daughter, and 
 to you of all people, Max Lusk! She's a devil, that's 
 what she is, an ungrateful little devil! Don't you 
 mind her tantrums, Mr. Lusk. Forget it, please, 
 just forget it." 
 
 But the broker was already on his feet and hur- 
 riedly pulling on his coat. His putty face was quite 
 white, and his ferret eyes were snapping with anger, 
 but he turned to Mrs. Yorke, and trying to assume 
 an air of gaiety, patted her on her broad shoulder. 
 
 "It's all right, Mother Yorke, it's all right," he 
 stammered. "I was a bit too free, and I like her 
 spirit. I do, I admire her for it. Good day to you, 
 Mrs. Yorke, and to all of you." And with a wave 
 of his hand he beat a hasty retreat and hurried down 
 the stairs to his waiting chariot.
 
 84 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 It was a few days later when Fay again met 
 Lusk. This time it was at the New York Roof Gar- 
 den, where she had gone with Porter Fielding. Aft- 
 er the first act she and Fielding had left their seats, 
 walked back to the promenade, and stood watching 
 the hot perspiring crowd moving up and down the 
 broad aisle. The women for the most part wore filmy 
 summer dresses with big flowered hats, but a few 
 were as plainly dressed as Fay in her simple shirt- 
 waist and duck skirt and broad-brimmed sailor hat. 
 But notwithstanding her clothes, the unusual beauty 
 pf the girl was not lost on the crowd that moved 
 slowly, along the promenade. The women looked 
 at her with frank curiosity and the men, walking in 
 couples, regarded her with searching glances of ill- 
 concealed admiration, and as they passed by where 
 she and Fielding stood, frequently nudged each oth- 
 er and smiled broadly. And many of them, instead 
 of continuing to the end of the promenade, turned 
 quickly and retraced their steps so that they might 
 have another look at this new beauty with the ivory 
 skin and the wonderful masses of red hair. It was 
 a crowd composed chiefly of the men and women 
 whose amusement and, indeed, whose whole inter- 
 ests in life are bounded by Wall Street and Broad-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 85 
 
 way, a tired crowd satiated with good food, and 
 strong drink, and money quickly made, and to 
 whom a new and pretty face acts as a pleasing tonic 
 to sluggish nerves and dulled appetites. 
 
 It was not the kind of admiration that even a 
 girl so unsophisticated as Fay Clayton could well 
 misunderstand, and so she took Fielding's arm, and 
 they started to push their way through the crowd 
 toward the aisle that led to their seats. It was 
 at this moment that they came upon Lusk. At the 
 sight of his friends his gray face and thin blood- 
 less lips broke into a smile of delighted recognition, 
 and having greeted them both with extreme geniali- 
 ty, he proceeded at once to introduce them to the 
 lady with whom he was walking. 
 
 "Miss Clayton," he said, "I want you to know my 
 very good friend, Miss Belle Gordon. I want you 
 to know her because she's a fine girl, and especially 
 because she's to be with you in The Belles of Bar- 
 bary. You, being a beginner, she might help you a 
 lot." 
 
 Belle Gordon was a very tall and very good-look- 
 ing brunette with large bovine eyes, a clean healthy 
 color in her cheeks, and a manner that seemed to 
 exude good nature and a true spirit of kindliness.
 
 86 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 She put out a glistening white glove and shook 
 hands with Fay with much cordiality. 
 
 "I'm glad to know you, Miss Clayton," she said in 
 a pleasant, well-modulated voice; "and it's fine that 
 you're to be with us. It's going to be a wonderful 
 set of girls." And then, casting an appreciative 
 smile at Fay's pretty face and trim lithe figure, she 
 added : "But don't you worry, my dear, none of 
 them'll have anything on you" 
 
 "Why not get together after the show," Lusk sug- 
 gested, "and have a bite at the Knickerbocker?" 
 
 Fay protested that she was not properly dressed 
 for the occasion, and indeed her simple clothes did 
 seem somewhat inadequate when compared to the 
 lace dress which the other girl wore, but both Miss 
 Gordon and Lusk only laughed at her objections, 
 and insisted that Fay and Fielding should join them. 
 
 "Anything goes in summer," Miss Gordon pro- 
 tested, "and besides I like your little frock. I'd have 
 worn a duck skirt to-night myself, but the only two 
 I have are in the wash and I didn't have enough 
 money this week to pay my laundry bill." 
 
 With this palpably untrue but well-meant social 
 pleasantry they parted, but with the understanding 
 that they were to meet an hour later at supper. It
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 87 
 
 was through this chance meeting that Fay Clayton 
 really started her career in the more or less exotic 
 life of Broadway, and in which she was soon to play 
 so conspicuous a part. 
 
 The first appearance of Fay under the most stren- 
 uous of New York's white lights was not, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, exactly as Lusk had planned it. He was 
 sorry that her debut with him in one of the big res- 
 taurants, where he was well-known, should not have 
 been made in more spectacular raiment. He regret- 
 ted, in a way, her simple if well-fitting clothes; the 
 sailor hat which had looked so becoming at Pleas- 
 antville seemed just a trifle too simple when com- 
 pared to the splendid black affair of Belle Gordon 
 with its great bunch of bird of paradise plumes, and 
 then Fay's white silk gloves appeared most inade- 
 quate and distinctly provincial. But in many ways 
 the chance meeting appealed to Lusk as a fortunate 
 one. For certain reasons, both selfish and altru- 
 istic, he had wanted Fay to meet Belle Gordon, 
 especially before the rehearsals had begun and be- 
 fore Fay had had the opportunity to make friends 
 of her own choosing among the girls in the com- 
 pany. Belle Gordon could be useful to the new 
 show-girl in the theater and she had always shown
 
 88 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 a commendable willingness to be useful to Max 
 Lusk outside of it. Besides, his mind still rankled 
 over the scene that had taken place during his last 
 visit to the Yorke flat, the insult which Doris Yorke 
 had flung at him, and to which Fay had been a wit- 
 ness. 
 
 Therefore, it was with unseeing eyes and unhear- 
 ing ears that Lusk sat through the last part of the 
 performance at the roof garden, but his heart was 
 warmed with a pleasant spirit of exhilaration re- 
 garding the coming little supper-party at the Knick- 
 erbocker. 
 
 The head waiter found them a table at an open 
 window, and Lusk placed Fay so that she could see 
 the people as they entered the big cool-looking room 
 with its green latticed walls and snowy white tables, 
 each with its vase of fresh flowers, and soft pink- 
 shaded lamp. To the country-bred girl it was like a 
 first glimpse into fairy-land. Her young heart with 
 all its innate love for beautiful things glowed and 
 thrilled at the sight of it, and, then, with a sudden 
 loathing, there flashed through her mind the thought 
 of the stuffy dining-room at the Yorke flat, and 
 the ill-smelling smoky restaurants, where she and 
 Porter had had their little dinners together, and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 89 
 
 which heretofore had seemed so bright, and so 
 cheerful, and amusing to her. For the moment she 
 had forgotten the inadequacy of her clothes as well 
 as the very existence of Fielding and Miss Gordon 
 and Lusk. In, a hazy sort of way it seemed to the 
 girl as if she had suddenly awakened to find herself 
 in an enchanted garden where there were the low 
 pleasant strains of sweet music and where every 
 woman w r as dressed more beautifully than she had 
 ever seen women dress before. The very air was 
 charged with a kind of subdued gaiety and easy 
 content, and every one seemed so kindly disposed 
 toward every one else and to bid her, an unknown 
 stranger, a warm and cheery welcome. 
 
 That at least two of the others at the table ap- 
 peared heedless to the charm of the scene about them 
 did not worry her for one brief moment. However 
 callous they may have become to it all, she well knew 
 that she had discovered a kind of paradise on earth, 
 which seemed to satisfy all her senses, and which 
 would always remain a joy to her. She glanced at 
 Lusk and found him with knit brows studying the 
 menu; Belle Gordon, across the table, was looking 
 out of the high French window at the twinkling 
 lights on the terrace, and stifling a yawn with her
 
 90 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 white gloved hand, but when she turned to Porter 
 Fielding, she found his eyes fixed on hers and in 
 them there was a look of complete happiness. She 
 nodded and smiled at him in a way that seemed 
 to say, "We understand," and then unseen by the 
 others she dropped her hand to her side, and seek- 
 ing his, gently pressed it. 
 
 Of the good things that Lusk had ordered with 
 such care for her to eat and drink Fay knew or 
 cared but little. In a vague way she knew that 
 it was all very dainty and that the china was ex- 
 quisitely thin and that every sip of the champagne 
 she drank from the long stemmed Venetian glass 
 seemed to add to the warmth and beauty of the 
 scene about her. Through the open window she 
 could hear the rumble of the city, but here there 
 was no turmoil, nothing but peace, the subdued 
 strains of exquisite sensuous music, and the smiling 
 faces of men and women, happy and content in the 
 luxury that only money can bring. 
 
 During the supper Lusk was eagerly attentive to 
 her and pointed out various local celebrities, seated 
 at the different tables, or as they entered the 
 room. Several of the actresses whom she had 
 seen earlier that same evening on the stage came
 
 in very late. Some were accompanied by men 
 sufficiently old to be their fathers and others by 
 boys still young enough to be at college, and for 
 her own peace of mind Fay was glad to see that 
 several of the actresses wore clothes as simple as 
 her own. Lusk and Belle Gordon seemed to be 
 acquainted with every one, and were constantly 
 smiling at, and nodding to, the new arrivals, and 
 although Fay and Fielding knew no one they were 
 both conscious of how all the men and women who 
 passed their table invariably looked back with 
 glances of the frankest admiration at the new and 
 unknown beauty. From every standpoint Lusk's 
 little supper-party was an unqualified success and it 
 was not until Fay was on her way home in the sub- 
 way with Fielding that she realized that the hap- 
 piest evening she had yet known was at an end. 
 
 Over her breakfast of coffee and eggs and bacon 
 the next day she recounted her experiences of the 
 previous night to the Yorke family. Mrs. Yorke and 
 Angie plied her with innumerable questions as to 
 every detail of the supper, but Doris remained omi- 
 nously silent, and old Mr. Hooker regarded her with 
 patriarchal solemnity over the rims of his large 
 spectacles. When the enthusiastic recital was over
 
 92 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 and the last possible question had been asked and an- 
 swered, the old man ran his claw-like fingers slowly 
 through his white beard and with a weary sigh shook 
 his head and shuffled back to his rocking-chair at the 
 window. 
 
 Doris was left to clear away the breakfast table, 
 and, as was usually the case, Fay remained to help 
 her. When the door was closed on them and the 
 two girls were alone, Fay pushed her chair away 
 from the table and stared at Doris until she had 
 compelled the younger girl to look back at her. 
 
 "Doris," she asked, "why did old Mr. Hooker act 
 like that, and why weren't you interested in my sup- 
 per-party? Surely it was harmless enough. Don't 
 you think I ought to have any fun ? You know that 
 there's not much fun for us here at home ; is there?" 
 
 Doris' thin lips broke into a pathetic little smile 
 and she leaned her narrow shoulders squarely 
 against the wall and folded her arms. 
 
 "No," she said, "you're quite right, Fay. There 
 isn't much fun at the flat here, and those swell res- 
 taurants are mighty restful and cool when it's hot 
 outside, and they're warm and cozy in winter when 
 it's freezing in the street, and the food is always
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 93 
 
 good. I suppose Pop sighed and went on like that 
 because he's an old man, and then, you see, he's been 
 in show business all of his life and has watched 
 girls start, just as you are starting, and he naturally 
 wonders, I suppose, how your particular case is com- 
 ing out. And then, too, Pop has taken a great shine 
 to you, Fay, just as everybody else has. I suppose 
 it's because you're so sweet, and always cheerful, 
 and so darned good to look at, and so terribly inno- 
 cent about some things." 
 
 She hesitated, pursed her lips, and glanced out of 
 the open window. 
 
 "Well," Fay said, "go on, Doris. Tell me what 
 you think; you, yourself." 
 
 "What do I think?" Doris continued slowly. "I 
 think that it is all a question of the price. That's it 
 just what you are willing to pay and that's the 
 question that you, and I, and every girl that's work- 
 ing for her living in this big rotten city has got 
 to decide sooner or later, and she's got to decide it 
 for herself. Now your friend Porter Fielding's all 
 right. You can't tell yet what the town will do to 
 him in its own good time, but just now I'll bet he's 
 clean and straight as a willow whistle." 

 
 94 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay smiled. "He's all of that," she said with a 
 touch of real pride. "Porter is the finest man I've 
 ever known." 
 
 "Now, Max Lusk," Doris went on, "isn't a bad 
 sort in a way. He's willing to pay the price and he 
 pays it willingly. He's a good spender, as New 
 York men go, but he wants his pound of flesh. He's 
 no anonymous giver. He'd rather put a certified 
 check for two hundred dollars into the plate at the 
 synagogue than he would a hundred dollar bill any 
 time, because, you see, they'd know who the check 
 came from. Why, if Max sent a valentine present 
 to a girl he'd put a couple of visiting cards in for 
 fear she might think some other John had sent it. 
 Now" 
 
 "It seems to me," Fay interrupted with some little 
 show of feeling, "that he is very kind. He certainly 
 has been good to me, and to Porter, too." 
 
 "Of course he's kind," Doris went on quite un- 
 ruffled. "But Lusk don't give away his kindness. 
 He loans it out at ninety days, and he always collects 
 his original stake, and interest, and his interest is 
 sometimes very high. Now, Belle Gordon is a good- 
 natured sort of a cow person. Wouldn't harm a 
 hornet if it stung her. All she wants is a soft bed
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 95 
 
 to sleep in and plenty of good things to eat and 
 drink, and a limousine car, and when air-ships are 
 perfectly safe she'll want one of those, too, and she 
 won't care very much how she gets it. 
 
 "When you start rehearsing you'll soon meet all of 
 the girls in the troupe, and you'll find out all about 
 them everything. Some of them'll be good and 
 some bad, but that'll be according to their way of 
 looking at things, and according to your way. But 
 my advice is to go slow and pick out your own 
 friends and don't let Max Lusk do it for you. Any- 
 how, if you take my advice, you won't identify your- 
 self with Belle Gordon, that is, unless you want to 
 pull with her crowd, and stand for their ways, which 
 are not the ways of a good many of the girls, or, in- 
 cidentally, my ways, or the ways, I should think, of 
 Pleasantville, New Jersey." 
 
 Fay got up and started to clear away the debris 
 left from the breakfast, and as Doris came to help 
 her, the older girl with a sudden impulse quickly 
 put out her arms, and drawing the younger one to 
 her, kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 "Thank you, Doris," she whispered. "You see, 
 it's all so new and strange to me, and you're the 
 only one I can depend on. Please don't think I'm
 
 96 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 ungrateful, because I have no one else to turn to, and 
 I need your help so much more than you can guess. 
 Why, kid, you must see that I don't even know the 
 A B C of these people's language." 
 
 Doris smiled up at Fay as a mother might smile 
 at her child, and then drawing herself away from 
 her, once more started to clear away the table. 
 
 "That's right, Fay," she said, "I guess that's 
 right, but after you've been in a dressing-room with 
 that crowd at the theater for a week you'll speak 
 their language to X Y Z and so forth. Except there 
 is no 'and so forth' in a show-girl's alphabet they 
 tell every detail. But, Fay, just remember one thing. 
 Even if you have to listen to the X Y Z of their 
 language, and, perhaps, sometimes have to talk it 
 yourself, remember you can always think in the 
 A B C of it."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE day of Fay's first rehearsal came at last, 
 and Doris went to the theater with her to in- 
 troduce her to Morley, the stage-manager, and any 
 members of the company that she happened to know. 
 There were dozens of girls standing about the 
 cleared stage in groups or sitting in long lines on 
 rough wooden benches. Morley was at a little 
 table with a long list of names before him and be- 
 side him sat Ben Tolliver, the manager and nominal 
 owner of the show. Doris led Fay up to the table 
 and introduced her to the two men, who, with their 
 cigars clenched closely between their teeth, nodded 
 at her and then with calm scrutiny looked her over 
 from head to foot. Morley glanced at his list, and 
 turned to Tolliver. 
 
 "She's the girl Harberg sent," he v/hispered; 
 "she'll do, won't she?" 
 
 "You bet she'll do," Tolliver grunted. "Come to 
 my office between three and four this afternoon, 
 Miss Clayton, and I'll give you a contract." 
 
 97
 
 98 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Once more the two men nodded to her, and as Fay 
 turned away she heard Tolliver say : "Will she do ? 
 I only wish we had a few more like her." 
 
 Doris led Fay about the stage, introducing her to 
 several of the girls, to whom she explained that her 
 friend was a beginner, and that they must look after 
 her and tell her how to make up, and be dressed in 
 time for her cues. Belle Gordon left a group of par- 
 ticularly well dressed and good-looking women, 
 who, Doris explained under her breath, were the 
 show-girls, and gave Fay a most genial welcome. 
 
 "I won't introduce you to that bunch over there," 
 she said, "until to-morrow. There's no hurry and 
 you'll see all you want of them and more too before 
 the season's over. I just heard what Tolliver said 
 to Morley about you. You start strong with the 
 management, anyhow. By-by." 
 
 At the door that led from the street they came 
 to another group of three girls who were standing 
 apart from the others and whom Doris greeted with 
 the most friendly interest. 
 
 "We're here just on the chance," one of them ex- 
 plained, "but I don't suppose we've got a ghost, do 
 you?" 
 
 From where she stood Fay glanced at their poor
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 99 
 
 clothes and their hot tired faces and understood, 
 but Doris laughed aloud and patted the girl on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Why, Mazie," she said, "of course you've got a 
 great chance. I don't think this crowd is such a 
 much. Do you know Tolliver?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. "No, I don't, but I 
 worked for Morley once." 
 
 "Come along with me," Doris said, and Fay 
 watched her, followed by the three girls, push her 
 way through the crowd to the manager's table. The 
 two men with amused faces listened to Doris' ex- 
 cited earnest talk, and after a whispered conversa- 
 tion, Morley made a note of the girls' names and 
 then laughingly waved them away. A moment later 
 Doris joined Fay and they went out of the stage 
 door and the dark gloomy theater into the hot sun- 
 shine of the street. 
 
 "That, was mighty nice of you, Doris," Fay said. 
 
 But Doris only blushed and plunged into a long 
 dissertation on the vagaries of her profession : how 
 success depended so largely on opportunity and in- 
 fluence, and how seldom it came as a reward for in- 
 trinsic worth and virtue and hard painstaking ef- 
 fort; how the favorites of the manager and the
 
 ioo IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 stage-manager got the occasional lines to read, and 
 the small "bits" to play, and were given the "special" 
 dresses to wear, which gave them at least a certain 
 pictorial prominence, while the girl without friends 
 remained season after season in the last row of the 
 chorus. 
 
 That afternoon Fay signed a contract that called 
 for a salary of twenty-five dollars a week. She 
 ran down the dusty stairs from the manager's of- 
 fice and out into the glare of the hot sun clasping the 
 piece of paper tightly in her hand, and for the mo- 
 ment she was supremely happy in the thought that 
 she had proved her ability to earn her own living 
 and had taken the first step up the ladder of fame. 
 With her pretty head held high, her lips and eyes 
 smiling with the happiness that was in her heart, she 
 swung proudly along Broadway, and in the security 
 of her new position, she even felt a real pang of 
 pity for the little groups of unemployed seedy-look- 
 ing actors and poorly dressed soubrettes who crowd- 
 ed the sidewalk. These were the members of her 
 chosen profession who had been tried and found 
 wanting, and failure was written large in their wan 
 tired faces. At a glance one could see the sterility 
 of their lives, and that they and hope and ambition
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 101 
 
 had long since parted company. But she had youth 
 and health and superlative beauty and a joyous- 
 ness in her very walk that brought smiles to even 
 the lane of wan faces through which she passed. 
 And, besides all this, in her hand she held a contract 
 that guaranteed her a living income and the right to 
 show her beauty on a Broadway stage. 
 
 The next day Fay began her rehearsals and sat on 
 one of the many long benches, as did all the other 
 girls, and sang the choruses of several songs from 
 little typewritten slips of paper. This she did every 
 morning and afternoon for a week, and then Morley 
 took her and the other seven show-girls in hand and 
 drilled them in a few simple dancing steps and in 
 walking in unison up and down and across the stage. 
 It was all very easy and while the stage-manager 
 frequently lost his temper and swore at the chorus 
 girls, especially those who did the more difficult 
 dances, he always treated the eight show-girls with 
 much respect and the greater consideration. 
 
 When the chorus was rehearsing Fay sat in the de- 
 serted orchestra seats, or in a stage-box and chatted 
 with some of her seven co-workers, or listened to 
 their tales of the automobile ride, or the "rough- 
 house party" of the previous night. Several times
 
 102 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 different girls had invited her to join them at din- 
 ners that were to be given them by their men friends, 
 but Fay had always refused on the excuse of a previ- 
 ous engagement. She was still feeling her way 
 among these new friends, and following the advice of 
 Doris Yorke, had not allied herself with any of the 
 different groups of girls. That there were great so- 
 cial distinctions between these different groups was 
 quite evident, but as to whether these distinctions 
 were founded on superior position on or off the 
 stage, or on financial or moral conditions, was still, 
 to Fay, a complete enigma. 
 
 The night rehearsals had not yet begun and so 
 she had her evenings free to dine with Fielding. 
 Once as a great extravagance they had gone back 
 to the Knickerbocker, but the other nights, owing 
 to a necessary regard for economy, they had been 
 forced to content themselves with the less expensive 
 table d'hote restaurants. If the pleasures of the 
 latter had been somewhat dimmed by a newly- 
 gained knowledge of fairy-lit palaces farther up- 
 town, this misfortune, in their mutual scheme of 
 happiness, was to a great extent compensated for by 
 the pleasure Fay found in telling of her daily work
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 103 
 
 at the theater and of her experience in the new 
 world that was just opening before her. 
 
 It was nearly a fortnight after Lusk's little sup- 
 per-party that Fay again met the man who had made 
 her new life possible. One afternoon when the re- 
 hearsal was over she had left the stage door at the 
 same time as Belle Gordon, and the latter had in- 
 sisted on Fay walking over to her place for a cup of 
 tea. Miss Gordon made her home in a charming 
 little flat in an apartment-house on West Forty-sixth 
 Street, and it so happened that it was the first time 
 Fay had had the opportunity to see how any of her 
 fellow- workers lived outside of the theater. 
 
 The afternoon was very hot and it was with 
 a distinct gasp of pleasure and relief that Fay 
 entered the small, carefully shaded sitting-room 
 and sank into a deep wicker chair with its cool 
 fresh covering of flowered chintz. Through half- 
 closed eyes she glanced about the cozy homelike 
 place with its gray and gold wall-paper and its 
 hangings of light green silk. There were half a 
 dozen big luxurious chairs and in one corner a 
 low couch covered with dark green leather and in 
 another a piano, its top littered with music. On the
 
 104 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 mantel there was a large photograph of Miss Gor- 
 don in a silver frame, and about the walls were sev- 
 eral mezzotints and line engravings. A pair of old- 
 fashioned andirons glistened on the empty hearth 
 under a white-fluted colonial mantelpiece, and wher- 
 ever she turned her eyes Fay seemed to find some'- 
 thing new and beautiful. And about it all, and 
 above everything else, there was an air of quiet and 
 repose that rested her and soothed her excited 
 nerves after the long hot day at the theater. 
 
 Fay closed her eyes and gave a little sigh of pure 
 content. 
 
 "It's so beautiful and cool and wonderful," she 
 said, "I wonder how you can ever leave it." 
 
 "It is sort of nice," Miss Gordon laughed. "Come 
 in and take off your hat and make yourself at 
 home." 
 
 She led her through her dainty bedroom, with its 
 white furniture and delicate pink hangings, to a 
 big bathroom with glistening tiles and deep enam- 
 eled tub and glass shelves covered with rows pf 
 gold-topped toilet bottles. 
 
 A few moments later Fay returned to the sitting- 
 room, cool and refreshed, her eyes shining, and her 
 mind satiated with the love that her mother had
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 105 
 
 given her for all that was beautiful and exquisite in 
 material things. A pretty French maid brought them 
 the tea-tray, and the two girls sat across the table 
 and laughed and talked the gossip of the theater, 
 drank their tea, and ate cakes and sandwiches as thin 
 as wafers. And Fay fairly reveled in the comforta- 
 ble luxury of it all and was wonderfully content. 
 
 It was on her way to the subway station just after 
 she had left Belle Gordon's apartment that she met 
 Max Lusk hurrying in the opposite direction along 
 Forty-sixth Street. 
 
 As he caught sight of her, the little broker's face 
 was suddenly wreathed in smiles, and he greeted her 
 with what was apparently meant for the most heart- 
 felt delight at the unexpected meeting. 
 
 "What luck!" he cried. "I'm glad to see you. 
 You're looking great! Tell me how you like show 
 business." 
 
 "Fine, as far as I've gone," Fay said, "but I'm 
 afraid I'm taking you out of your way." 
 
 "Not at all," Lusk protested, "my way is always 
 your way. I was just walking over to Del's to talk 
 business with some men; but what's business to a 
 stroll with a pretty girl ? Let 'em wait !" 
 
 With a glance of pride and complete satisfaction
 
 io6 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 at his good-looking companion, he fell into step and 
 they walked slowly toward Broadway. 
 
 "How do they treat you," he asked ; "pretty good, 
 eh? You must let me know if any of those stage- 
 managers get gay. They're liable to be pretty fresh 
 sometimes." 
 
 "Oh, they're all right," Fay laughed. "I guess 
 they know I'm from the country, but I'm learning 
 every day. Do you see my white gloves and my new 
 sailor? Give me a few weeks more and my salary 
 and I'll look the part all right, believe me." 
 
 Lusk glanced at the glistening gloves and the 
 broad sailor hat and smiled his complete approval. 
 
 "And how are all the girls ?" he asked. "Civil and 
 decent to you? they're a bit catty sometimes." 
 
 "Not to me," Fay said ; "they've really been love- 
 ly. Asked me out to parties and all sorts of things, 
 but I haven't gone to a party yet not one." 
 
 Lusk nodded. "Just as well," he said approving- 
 ly. "Just as well to go slow. Seen anything of Belle 
 Gordon?" 
 
 "I've just left her she pretty near saved my life ; 
 I was so tired and weary after the rehearsal, and 
 she asked me up to her flat for a cup of tea. My, 
 but it's a wonderful place she's got, so dainty and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 107 
 
 comforable! It certainly looked good after the 
 Yorke flat; I don't know, but just quiet and peace- 
 ful. You wouldn't mind the dust and the heat of 
 the city if you had a home like that to go to." 
 
 Lusk glanced sharply into the girl's eyes, but she 
 was looking away and did not notice him. 
 
 Again he found his plans moving more rapidly 
 than he had hoped for, but the conditions seemed to 
 invite immediate action. Fay's beauty had never 
 seemed more evident than on this summer after- 
 noon, and besides he knew that during her two 
 weeks of rehearsals, she must have acquired consid- 
 erable knowledge as to how the other girls lived. 
 
 "That's funny," he said, "but I was just thinking 
 when I met you that I had to look for a flat myself. 
 There's an apartment-house a little below here 
 where they have some fine rooms. Would you mind 
 going with me and giving me the advantage of your 
 advice?" 
 
 Fay was pleased and flattered at the suggestion, 
 and a few minutes later they had entered the marble 
 vestibule of the apartment-house and Lusk started 
 in on a long heart-to-heart conversation with the 
 manager. 
 
 "There's just one furnished suite left," Lusk said,
 
 io8 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 turning to Fay. "It's on the first floor. Let's go up 
 and have a look at it" 
 
 The manager accompanied them in the elevator, 
 showed them the rooms, and having told them of 
 the changes he was willing to make, left them alone. 
 
 "There's plenty of space and plenty of light," 
 Lusk said enthusiastically, "and I must say it looks 
 pretty good to me. Of course, we can practically 
 make any changes we wish, that is if we take it for 
 twelve months." 
 
 While the apartment lacked the repose of Belle 
 Gordon's, it was larger and much richer in its ap- 
 pointments, and Fay immediately began to specu- 
 late on the alterations in the decorations and furni- 
 ture that she would make were it hers to do with 
 as she liked. Apparently unconscious of Lusk's 
 presence, she wandered through the different rooms, 
 examining each detail of the decoration and every 
 piece of furniture and bric-a-brac and picture with 
 the greatest possible interest. At last she sank into 
 the cushions of a low deep chair by the window, 
 and, with half-closed eyes, looked about the cozy lit- 
 tle sitting-room as if to get the full effect of all its 
 luxurious comfort. 
 
 "It's lovely," she said with a little sigh, "quite
 
 At last she sank into the cushions of a low deep chair.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 109 
 
 lovely. I suppose you are going to take it, surely, 
 aren't you? I wonder if I shall ever have a place 
 like this just for my very own to work and dream 
 in? Wouldn't it be wonderful!" 
 
 Lusk smiled and took a few steps that brought 
 him to the side of Fay's chair. 
 
 "It is better than Mother Yorke's flat," he said, 
 "a good deal better. More comfy and independent, 
 too, eh?" 
 
 The little broker smiled at the girl and rubbed his 
 thin hands briskly together. 
 
 "What do you say, my dear? It's yours, all yours, 
 if you just say the word." 
 
 Fay looked up at the gray putty face and smiled. 
 
 "Mine?" she said incredulously. "This mine 
 not on twenty- five dollars a week." 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. "A year's rent and the 
 running expenses as a little present from me. Think 
 it over, my dear, think it over." 
 
 The girl's face grew suddenly scarlet, and with 
 one quick movement she was on her feet and staring 
 into Lusk's eyes, now filled with terror, as the full 
 significance of his mistake overpowered him com- 
 pletely. 
 
 Her lithe figure drawn to its full height, her eyes
 
 i io IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 flashing, she drew back her strong arm and whipped 
 her gloved hand across the miserable cringing face 
 before her. With a cry, half fear, half rage, Lusk 
 fell back, throwing his arms before him, and Fay, 
 running through the open door, slammed it behind 
 her, and rushed down the stairway to the protection 
 of the open street. 
 
 Fay returned at once to the Yorke flat, hurried to 
 her bedroom and locked the door. A moment later 
 she heard the heavy footsteps of Mother Yorke 
 coming down the hallway and this was followed by 
 a persistent inquisitive knock. But Fay was in no 
 mood for gossip and refused to admit her, excusing 
 herself on the grounds of a bad headache and the 
 urgent necessity for undisturbed rest. Her body, 
 hot and tired, her brain still throbbing with excite- 
 ment, she threw herself on the bed and lay on her 
 back staring with dry wide eyes at the ceiling. 
 
 After a time her indignation at the insult gave 
 way to thoughts more practical. Her mind, al- 
 though still confused with many emotions, was try- 
 ing to grasp some idea of just what a difference 
 this breaking with Lusk would make in her affairs. 
 It did not occur to her for a moment that the break
 
 Ill 
 
 was not necessarily permanent. Any such thought 
 to the contrary she would have cast away with in- 
 dignation and disgust. But her present situation 
 was a serious one and she thoroughly realized that 
 she had lost the friendship of the broker at a time 
 when it was most essential to her. In six months, 
 perhaps in a much shorter period, she could have 
 stood on her own feet. Now she needed this man's 
 help. It was not only what he might have been 
 willing to do for her, but now it became a question 
 as to what extent he would use his influence to in- 
 jure her at the theater. 
 
 And besides this, she needed money, not much, but 
 enough to pay her actual living expenses until the 
 season opened and she could depend on her salary. 
 The little savings of years that she had brought with 
 her from Pleasantville were nearly gone. There had 
 been clothes to buy to make her look presentable 
 at the rehearsals, and then there were the lunches 
 between the morning and afternoon rehearsals. 
 Several times girls, who seemed to have unlimited 
 pocket-money, had asked her to lunch with them at 
 the best restaurants, and Fay had always promptly 
 returned this rather expensive hospitality. Added
 
 ii2 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 to this there were the ten dollars a week for her 
 room and board at Mrs. Yorke's, and a hundred lit- 
 tle expenses that had reduced her meager hoard very 
 close to the vanishing point. 
 
 With the exception of the Claytons and per- 
 haps Porter Fielding, there was no one to whom 
 she had the right to turn. The Claytons had not 
 only resented her going on the stage, but were 
 pitifully poor. Fielding was having a hard time 
 to live and dress properly on the small salary that 
 he was receiving from Lusk Brothers, and Fay 
 knew, only too well, how hopelessly in debt was 
 every member of the Yorke family. She had no 
 jewelry nor anything of value to pawn, and a 
 week before, when she had thoroughly appreciated 
 the seriousness of her position, a loan from Lusk 
 seemed the only way out of her present troubles. 
 Half a dozen times he had offered her his help in 
 case that such an emergency should arise, and she 
 had, practically decided that when it was absolutely 
 necessary she would go to him and ask his aid. 
 Of this decision she had said nothing to Porter 
 Fielding. It would only distress him, and besides, 
 as soon as she began to earn a salary, she could in 
 a short time pay back Lusk his loan. But now she
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 113 
 
 could never see Lusk again, certainly never ask him 
 a favor. 
 
 The situation seemed hopeless and once more 
 her thoughts turned to an enforced return to 
 Pleasantville. But it would be an enforced return. 
 Notwithstanding the heat and dust of the baked de- 
 serted city, and in spite of its lifeless air, she knew 
 that she loved it. The idea of returning to the quiet 
 calm of her former uneventful life had already be- 
 come well-nigh impossible to her, and the more she 
 thought of these things, the more confused became 
 her mind. With flushed face and temples throbbing, 
 she jumped from the bed and took several quick 
 turns up and down the little room. Hardly conscious 
 of what she was doing, she called aloud for Doris 
 Yorke. 
 
 After one glance at Fay's flushed face and excited 
 eyes, Doris closed the door of the bedroom behind 
 her, and taking the older girl by the hand, led her 
 to a chair by the open window. She forced Fay to 
 sit down, and dropping to her knees and taking both 
 of Fay's cold hands in her own soft warm ones, she 
 gently pressed them against her flat child's breast. 
 
 "Have your troubles really begun, dear?" she 
 asked. "What is it, a row with the stage-manager ?"
 
 ii4 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay looked out pf the window on the dirty yellow 
 walls of the court. She was already sorry that she 
 had decided to tell Doris of her troubles, but it was 
 too late now to turn back. 
 
 "No," she said in a voice that scarcely rose above 
 a whisper, "it's worse than that ; it's Lusk." 
 
 She felt the hands of the girl kneeling at her feet 
 close tightly about her own, and it gave her confi- 
 dence to go on with the story of her experience at 
 the apartment-house. And then she hurriedly told 
 of her fears that Lusk would have her put out of 
 the company, of her lack of funds, and of her pre- 
 vious determination to borrow the money from 
 the broker to tide over her immediate needs. Doris 
 listened to Fay's recital of her woes with a friendly 
 interest but a somewhat aggravating calmness and 
 the least suggestion of a smile playing about her 
 pale pretty lips. 
 
 "Why, that's all right, my dear," she said. "Of 
 course, it was dull of Lusk to make his play so early 
 in the game, but you must have known it had to 
 come. You ought to be thankful that that particular 
 trouble is behind you instead of ahead of you, and 
 we can fix up the money difficulties easily enough."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 115 
 
 There was something in Doris' manner, perhaps 
 more than in her words, that made Fay feel that 
 her troubles were probably not so great as she had 
 imagined them, and she gave a sharp little gasp of 
 relief. 
 
 "You're so very dear to me," she whispered. "Tell 
 me what am I to do." 
 
 Doris laughed and pulled herself to her feet. 
 
 "You ? You're not to do anything. You see it's 
 like this." 
 
 She sat on the edge of the bed and rested her el- 
 bows on her knees and her chin between her palms. 
 
 "All the men in New York," she went on, "aren't 
 Max Lusks, although when you first go into the busi- 
 ness, you are pretty sure to think that they are. A 
 girl in the company, let us say, has a man friend 
 who may be a pretty good sort, but he has a man 
 friend whom he has to take out to supper, so he 
 asks his girl friend to bring along another girl from 
 the company. Well, so you are chosen, and you trail 
 along, and the chances are that the man friend is just 
 a business acquaintance and probably a rotter, and 
 you get all the worst of it. Believe me, the thing 
 you've got to look out for in show business is the
 
 n6 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 man friend of the man friend of your best girl 
 friend. But, bless you! that don't last forever, be- 
 cause gradually you make your own friends, and it's 
 up to you to ask the girl to meet the unknown rotter. 
 Mind you, I don't say that nearly all men are not 
 alike that is, as far as the way they treat girls on 
 the stage because as a matter of fact they are. 
 But there are just enough exceptions to make men 
 friends worth while and to keep up your belief 
 in the sex. I know one myself." 
 
 Doris' philosophy and her hopeful outlook on life 
 had gone far to soothe Fay's outraged feelings and 
 now she could smile cheerfully at the chorus girl's 
 optimism. 
 
 "Only one?" she asked. 
 
 Doris pursed her lips and knitted her brows as if 
 in serious thought. 
 
 "Well, only one I'm perfectly sure of. His name 
 is James Alexander Stuart. He's really a great 
 swell, and he doesn't belong to Broadway at all, ex- 
 cept to act as a sort of bank for chorus girls in hard 
 luck. He says they appeal to his imagination, and 
 his sense of humor, which free libraries and peace 
 congresses don't. He'd love to help you out, if I
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 117 
 
 told him your story, and he wouldn't even ask me 
 your name." 
 
 "Then why don't you ask him," Fay said, "to help 
 your mother and Angie?" 
 
 "Never. Mother's rent wouldn't appeal to his 
 imagination or his sense of humor at all. He knows 
 they would laugh at him behind his back and call 
 him an easy mark. Jimmy Stuart must be treated 
 as a philanthropist, not as a good thing, and you 
 must always spend the money he gives you as he 
 tells you. I knew a girl, Tina Tracy, who was a 
 show-girl with me once. She got a hundred dollars 
 from Jimmy to buy a pair of antique gold shoe 
 buckles, but before she got the buckles another girl 
 in the company had some trouble with her lungs, and 
 so Tina handed over the hundred to her so that she 
 could go away on a vacation. When Jimmy heard 
 about it he was awful mad, really mad, and said a 
 girl threatened with consumption wasn't picturesque, 
 but any girl who would wear a pair of antique gold 
 buckles on shoes that were ragged and half -soled 
 was. Then he came to me and gave me the money 
 to have the girl with the bad lungs sent to a camp 
 in the Adirondacks for a year. She's playing a
 
 u8 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 good part on Broadway to-day, and she'd give the 
 world to know who saved her life, but Jimmy would 
 never let me tell. But, at that, he's still sore about 
 Tina not buying the buckles, and loves to go around 
 telling everybody how she deceived him." 
 
 Doris got up and stretched her arms luxuriously 
 above her head. 
 
 "Well, Fay," she asked, "feeling any better? 
 Whenever your red hair and wonderful face and 
 shape get you in trouble with too ardent admirers 
 always come to me and I'll tell you some more tales 
 of the Great White Way." 
 
 Fay took the little figure in her arms and kissed 
 Doris on the forehead. "Thank you, dear," she 
 said, "I will, always. You're a great doctor for the 
 mind, Doris. I don't know what I should do with- 
 out you." 
 
 Doris smiled and started for the door. "I guess 
 I'll call up Jimmy now and invite him to invite me to 
 lunch to-morrow. I'll tell him I need the money. 
 How much do you want, Fay?" 
 
 Fay hesitated and looked away from Doris to her 
 long slender hands which were clasped tightly to- 
 gether before her. 
 
 "I can't do it," she whispered, "I can't do it."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 119 
 
 "Don't be foolish," Doris argued, "don't be fool- 
 ish. Will a hundred be enough?" 
 
 Fay looked up and nodded. "Yes, more than 
 enough, and don't forget to tell Mr. Stuart that it 
 is only a loan and that I shall pay it back just as soon 
 as I can from my salary." 
 
 Doris opened the door and then turned to Fay 
 and solemnly shook her head and the tousled mass 
 of yellow curls. 
 
 "All right, my dear," she said a little wearily, 
 "I'll tell him if you insist on it But, heavens, Fay, 
 Jimmy knows that people in our business always 
 borrow money just as well as he knows they never 
 pay it back." 
 
 Fay's face flushed a brilliant scarlet. "What do 
 you mean, Doris ? You know that I'll pay it back." 
 
 "That's all right," Doris said assuringly, "of 
 course, you will. But you'll learn in time, a pretty 
 short time probably, that the only real, satisfactory, 
 commonwealth plan of living in the world is the 
 present arrangement between the New York swells 
 and our best little chorus girls. By-by." 
 
 Before Fay could answer her the door was sud- 
 denly closed with unnecessary violence, and she 
 heard Doris singing cheerily on her way down the
 
 120 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 hall to telephone her altruistic friend, Mr. James 
 Alexander Stuart, that most wonderful of all New 
 York men, an eccentric who gave something for 
 nothing and who found pleasure in the doing of it.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A FEW minutes later Doris knocked at Fay's 
 door, and then opened it just enough to show 
 her smiling face and a broad white felt hat half 
 concealing her tousled yellow curls. 
 
 "It's all right, my dear," she cried, "I'm to meet 
 him at lunch to-morrow, and I told him to stop in 
 on his way there and get some of those crisp yellow- 
 backs they give you at restaurants and ladies' 
 banks." 
 
 Fay looked at Doris with eyes still wet and eye- 
 lids red from crying. "I'm sorry, so sorry. I've 
 been such a fool." 
 
 "Don't you worry, now," Doris urged sympa- 
 thetically. "You've got a lot to learn yet. By-by, 
 I'm off to dinner down-town. Are you going to 
 dine with Fielding?" 
 
 Fay shook her head. "Not to-night. Somehow, 
 I don't feel up to it, after that scene with Lusk. 
 I'm afraid I might break down and tell Porter, and 
 that would mean the end of both of us. I think I'll 
 
 121
 
 122 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 have dinner here and then take a walk later. I want 
 to be alone. Good night." 
 
 "Have it your own way," Doris called. "Good 
 night to you." 
 
 Fay got up, and going to the mirror, gazed for a 
 long time at her white face and reddened eyes, and 
 then drew the back of her hand several times slow- 
 ly across her forehead. 
 
 "I wonder how long it's been," she said half 
 aloud, "since you looked like that. You're a sight." 
 
 Then she went out of her room into the hallway 
 and telephoned Fielding that she had a bad head- 
 ache, and was feeling generally miserable, and 
 would be unable to come to dinner. The sound of 
 his voice and his words of sympathy only increased 
 the nervousness from which she was still suffering 
 and she hurriedly said good night and rang off. For 
 a moment she hesitated at her own door, but she 
 was tired of the close, dark, little bedroom, and hear- 
 ing Mrs. Yorke at work in the kitchen, went out into 
 the sitting-room. There she found Mr. Hooker sit- 
 ting as usual at the open window, his eyes half- 
 closed, and the evening paper lying at his feet. With 
 a sudden impulse of pity, due to her own unhappy 
 plight, she crossed the room, and kneeling at the side
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 123 
 
 of the old man, leaned her elbows on the arm of his 
 rocking-chair. 
 
 "What were you thinking about?" she asked; 
 "please tell me." 
 
 The old man looked up with a little start, and put- 
 ting out his hand gently, touched the girl on the 
 mass of hair over her broad clear forehead. Then, 
 leaning his head against the back of the rocking- 
 chair, with half-closed eyes, he looked up at the 
 gray smoke-begrimed ceiling. 
 
 "I was dreaming, my dear young lady," he whis- 
 pered, "just dreaming." 
 
 "Dreaming?" she repeated. 
 
 "Yes. I only have two dreams, which must seem 
 very strange to you when you think of how many 
 hours I sit here in the same chair, looking out of 
 the same window at the same old tenement house 
 across the way. You see you are young and have 
 many dreams as all young people should have. I 
 had many, many dreams when I was your age, but 
 just now there are only the two." 
 
 With her soft white fingers Fay touched those 
 of the old man resting on his knee. 
 
 "Please tell me," she said, "what are the two 
 dreams about? I'd really like so much to know."
 
 124 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "Would you?" he said. "I think I'll tell you be- 
 cause you would understand so much better than 
 the others. No one understands me here, except, 
 perhaps, little Doris. My first dream, my dear, is 
 of a young man with long black hair, and he is 
 dressed in a velvet coat, and plaid trousers, and a 
 broad felt hat. He is standing on the steps of a 
 wagon which is painted with gay colors, and 
 in large gilt letters on the sides are the words 
 'The Great Mozark.' Back of him there are two 
 horses feeding in a green field, and before him 
 there is a broad roadway. The roadway is filled 
 with a great crowd of farmers and their wives and 
 little children, and they are all laughing at the 
 funny stories he is telling them. And why 
 shouldn't they laugh, for there is a blue sky over 
 their heads, and there is nothing about them but 
 green pastures, and fields of waving corn, and wheat, 
 and shade trees, and the curious-looking man in the 
 long hair who tells them funny stories? Then, 
 when they are laughing the loudest, he tries to sell 
 them bottles of medicine which he pretends will cure 
 every ill under the sun, and while they really cure 
 none, do no harm at all. 
 
 "When the sun has set and the people have gone
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 125 
 
 to their homes for supper, the Great Mozark feeds 
 his horses and cooks his own supper in a little 
 oven in his wagon, or over a wood fire at the 
 roadside. Afterward he smokes his pipe and 
 counts the money he has made from the bottles 
 of medicine he has sold. And later the crowd comes 
 back, only, it is a bigger crowd now, and the medi- 
 cine man stands between two flaming torches and 
 tells his stories and bandies words with the onlook- 
 ers and sells his elixir of life. Late at night, when he 
 is alone once more, he goes to bed on a canvas cot in 
 the gay-painted wagon, or, when the weather is 
 warm and fine, he wraps himself in a great blanket 
 and sleeps on the ground with only the stars over- 
 head. 
 
 "At the break of day, when the sun is just show- 
 ing itself over the tree-tops, and the dew covers 
 the fields, the birds sing their morning songs and 
 wake the medicine man from his long sleep. After 
 he has washed and dressed the Great Mozark feeds 
 his horses and cooks his own good breakfast. Then 
 with the sun up, but the fields still damp with dew 
 and the birds hopping and skipping about him, he 
 starts on to the next little village, laughing and talk- 
 ing to his horses as he goes. I can see him now as
 
 126 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 he drives slowly over an open sunlit road, or again 
 along a silent wood-road under the boughs of the 
 forest trees." 
 
 The old man pressed his thin white hands over his 
 eyes and gave a little sigh. "That, my dear young 
 lady," he said, "is one of my dreams." 
 
 "And the other?" Fay asked. 
 
 "The other? The other is of a farmhouse just 
 like the one I used to know a very long time ago, 
 and whenever my travels brought me anywhere near 
 to that neighborhood I used to hunt up the place and 
 lean over the fence, and wish that some day the 
 house and the farm and the garden might be mine. 
 It was just an old whitewashed house with a broad 
 porch, and a couple of rocking-chairs on it, and all 
 around the house there was an orchard, and there 
 were always some cows and chickens fooling about, 
 and there was also one of those old-oaken-bucket 
 wells. It really wasn't much of a place, but there 
 was a wonderful peace that seemed to brood over 
 it and shut it out from the rest of the world. I was 
 young then and full of deviltry, too, but I always 
 somehow pictured myself one day sitting on that 
 porch, and looking out on the orchard, and seeing 
 the sun set, and the light of the day fade into twi-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 127 
 
 light and then into the black night the night that 
 all of us must face sometime." 
 
 The old man sighed and smiled at Fay. "Those 
 are my dreams, my dear young lady," he went on, 
 and then, nodding his head toward the open window 
 and the brick building across the way, hideous with 
 its network of rusty iron fire-escapes; "and this," 
 he added, "is my life." 
 
 Fay pressed one of his hands in both of hers. "I 
 understand what you mean," she said, "and I'm glad 
 that you told me about your dreams. You see I 
 came from the country, too. I've lived there all of 
 my life, and I'm sure I love it just as you love it." 
 
 "And yet you came to this." 
 
 For a few minutes Fay hesitated. "You see, Mr. 
 Hooker," she explained, " I wasn't very happy 
 where I was." 
 
 The old man looked down at the girl's face and 
 nodded. 
 
 "I don't suppose any young girls or any young 
 men are ever quite happy in the country until they 
 have had the chance to get away from it for a time. 
 They want to make a try for success in the big 
 towns, and light, and suffer, and cry as you, my 
 dear, I fear have been suffering and crying."
 
 128 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay glanced tip and smiled through her tear- 
 dimmed eyes. "But if I succeed?" she asked. "Sup- 
 pose some day mind you, I say some day I 
 should become famous. You were an actor once, 
 at least, so Mrs. Yorke says you surely must know 
 what I mean." 
 
 The old man chuckled and slowly shook his ven- 
 erable head. 
 
 "I was the Great Mozark, the Medicine Man, a 
 faker, a gypsy, but my own master. For a few 
 weeks I was an actor, but I threw up my job and 
 went back to the road not the road of the player of 
 to-day, but the broad highway of the open country 
 that leads to the village greens. No dogs of man- 
 agers and stage-managers for me I was as free as 
 the air I breathed. If it was my pleasure, I could 
 work and tell my stories and sell my elixir of life; 
 or, if it better suited my mood, I could camp in a 
 grove of trees and for days take my ease on the 
 banks of a stream of crystal water, and loaf and 
 dream idle useless dreams. 
 
 "When I was an actor there was no moment 
 that I could call my own. During the day I was 
 at the beck and call of a stage-manager who
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 129 
 
 dragged me from my bed in a stuffy hotel to re- 
 hearse or to sit for hours in a dark ill-smell- 
 ing theater. At night I had to paint my face, 
 wear foolish clothes, and read the lines and speak 
 the thoughts of another man. My dear young lady, 
 you may grow old in this profession which you have 
 chosen and some day you may become the most fa- 
 mous actress in all the world, but it is well for you 
 to remember now and while you are just at the begin- 
 of your career, that every night when other people 
 are enjoying their hours of ease that you must work. 
 And you must paint your sweet pretty face for them, 
 and even if you read the lines and speak the thoughts 
 of Shakespeare you are still only a distant echo a 
 puppet, spouting the words and thoughts of some 
 one other than yourself, some one much greater 
 than you can ever hope to be. Don't answer me if 
 you would rather not, but just suppose that you 
 were not satisfied with this life here which you have 
 chosen, could you go back to your own home in the 
 country ? I like you so much, my dear, that it would 
 give me a great deal of happiness to think that you 
 could do that. Tell me could you go back there 
 do your people still want you ?"
 
 130 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay drew a long breath and tried to smile up at 
 the kind serious eyes of the old man. "Why, yes," 
 she sighed, "I think I could go -back." 
 
 "I heard something from Doris of your life," he 
 said, "and of your going away from home. It 
 would be a pity to cut yourself off from all that. 
 Tell me, if you don't mind, have you written to them 
 since you have been here ?" 
 
 Fay shook her head, and her voice scarcely rose 
 above a whisper. "I'm afraid not. I've been so busy 
 and then, you see, they were very, very much hurt 
 at my going away." 
 
 "Old people are easily hurt," he said, "just as 
 young people are a little thoughtless sometimes. It 
 seems a pity to cut them out entirely. It's not a 
 pretty sight to watch the back-log of your life burn 
 to ashes and make no effort at all to save it. Why 
 not write to them now and ask if you can't go to 
 see them? It's not far you could get away from 
 your work on Sunday, surely." 
 
 The shadows suddenly faded from the girl's face, 
 a new light shone through the misty eyes, and she 
 rose quickly to her feet. 
 
 "Thank you so much," she said, "I'll telegraph 
 them now and ask if I may spend next Sunday with
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 131 
 
 them. Please don't think that I'm ungrateful to 
 them, will you? I don't want you to think that 
 of me. " 
 
 Fay leaned over and gently touched the old man's 
 forehead with her lips. A moment more and she 
 had left the room and was on her way to telegraph 
 the Claytons and was supremely happy in the 
 thought of seeing them so soon again. 
 
 It was shortly after dinner when the answer to 
 her telegram arrived. She was with Mrs. Yorke in 
 the dining-room, helping the older woman to clear 
 away the dishes, but wishing to be alone, she went 
 into her bedroom and carefully closed and locked 
 the door. With trembling fingers she opened the 
 envelope and read the message that was signed by 
 old man Clayton. 
 
 "Your mother has decided that she does not want 
 to see you on Sunday or at any time. I am so 
 sorry." 
 
 With the telegram stretched tightly between her 
 hands, Fay read and reread its words many times, 
 and then let the yellow piece of paper flutter to the 
 floor. For a long time she sat on the edge of the 
 bed, her elbows on her knees, her chin between her
 
 132 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 palms, her dry eyes staring steadily into space. At 
 last she stooped, and picking up the telegram, care- 
 fully folded it and put it in the pocket of her dress. 
 After this she slowly crossed the room, and for a 
 long time stood looking out of the open window at 
 the dark walls of the court. Then she turned back to 
 the stuffy little bedroom with its gaudy soiled wall- 
 paper, lighted by one flickering gas-jet. With halt- 
 ing unsteady steps she went over to her bureau and 
 looked at herself in the glass, and slowly ran her 
 long tapering fingers through the masses of red hair. 
 
 "Well," she said to the white dreary face in the 
 mirror, "the back-log is burned, all right burned 
 to ashes. I'm sorry for you, but I guess this isn't 
 your day. You're standing on your own feet now, 
 for sure, Fay, and it's up to you, just you. And 
 you've got to make good." 
 
 She wondered why she did not break down and 
 cry at her own pitiable plight. It would have been 
 a great relief to her, she was quite sure, but it was 
 no more physically possible for her to cry then than 
 it would have been to laugh aloud. Without any 
 effort to arrange her hair or to make herself more 
 presentable, mechanically she put on her hat, and 
 noiselessly closing her bedroom door behind her,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 133 
 
 walked softly down the hallway and let herself out 
 of the flat. 
 
 Having reached the street, she found that there 
 was a heavy mist and that a light rain had begun to 
 fall, but she paid no heed to this, and with lowered 
 head walked on, looking neither to one side nor the 
 other. For the first time since she had come to New 
 York she felt the loneliness of a great city. Dur- 
 ing the last few hours she had been insulted by a 
 man whom she had believed to be her friend, and 
 she had been cast adrift from the only home that 
 she had ever known. These were the two thoughts 
 that crowded her aching brain as, heedless of 
 whither her steps were leading her, she hurried 
 along the rain-swept deserted streets. Once she was 
 nearly run over by a cable car, but deaf to the curses 
 of the motorman, and apparently indifferent to the 
 accident she had so barely escaped, she hurried 
 quickly on her way. At last her unguided steps led 
 her to Broadway, and the glow of the myriads of 
 colored lights brought to her a sudden realization 
 of where she was. The rain had almost ceased 
 now, and she was conscious that the passers-by were 
 regarding her curiously. 
 
 As she stopped at a corner, uncertain which
 
 134 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 way to turn, a man approached her and with a 
 smile offered to take her home in a taxicab. Fay 
 turned on him with the fierceness of a tigress at 
 bay, and in her rage she would have struck him. 
 But the first glance at the girl's face was sufficient 
 for the man, and he hurried on his way. The only 
 thought that filled her mind now was for her per- 
 sonal protection. It seemed to her half-crazed brain 
 as if she were the prey of the whole merciless city 
 and that she must find some one, and at once, to 
 help her. Her first thought was naturally Fielding, 
 and on the bare chance that he would be at home, 
 she boarded a car that she knew would take her al- 
 most to the door of the house in which he lived. 
 
 She held her thumb against the electric button 
 over his letter-box in the lower hallway until, to 
 her supreme relief, she heard the answering click 
 of the lock of the front door. Tired as she was she 
 fairly flew up the two long flights of stairs and did 
 not slacken her pace until she saw Fielding standing 
 in the doorway of his apartment. Breathless, she 
 pushed aside the hand that he held out to her, and 
 exhausted from her long walk, fell panting into the 
 nearest chair that offered itself to her tired body. In 
 a moment he was kneeling at her side.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 135 
 
 "Why, Fay, dear," he said, "you're faint, and 
 your clothes are drenched. Tell me what's hap- 
 pened, dear, please tell me." 
 
 Fay brushed away the loose strands of hair that 
 had fallen across her damp forehead and made a 
 futile effort to smile away Fielding's alarm over 
 her forlorn condition. 
 
 "I had a terrible headache," she explained in a 
 low half -incoherent voice, "and I thought a long 
 walk would do me good, and it began to rain. I 
 don't know, but I think I must have lost my way. 
 And then a strange man insulted me in the street. I 
 could have killed him, but he ran away from me and 
 I started on again, but I couldn't think of any- 
 thing except that I had been taken for that kind of a 
 woman. And, oh, Porter, I wanted so much some 
 one to protect me, and to put their arms about me 
 and love me. And then I thought of you, and and 
 here I am." 
 
 For a moment she stretched her arms above her 
 head and then dropped them again, and with a long 
 sigh, her whole body seemed to relax and crumple 
 up, and she sank into the depths of the big armchair. 
 
 Fielding rose from his knees, and when he spoke 
 it was much as he would have done to a spoiled
 
 136 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 child. "Fay, you're tired out, and you're hysterical, 
 and you're wet to the skin. What you need is a big 
 glass of whisky. Then you can go into the bed- 
 room and put on some of my clothes and dry your 
 own in front of the gas stove." 
 
 Too exhausted to argue, Fay nodded her assent, 
 and with some little effort sat up in the chair, and 
 pulling out her hatpins, laid her bedraggled straw 
 hat on the table. In a few moments Fielding re- 
 turned with a glass of whisky, and taking Fay by 
 the hands, slowly pulled her to her feet. 
 
 "I've lighted the stove," he said, "and here's your 
 drink. Now take it with you, and don't drink it 
 all at once. There's a lot of it even for a girl as 
 played out as you are." 
 
 Fay took the glass of whisky, and putting it to 
 her lips, smiled over the rim at Fielding. She took 
 but a sip and then started for the bedroom, but 
 when she had reached the door, she raised the glass 
 again to her host and took another sip. 
 
 "I'm an a'wful nuisance, Porter aren't I?" she 
 laughed. "But I had to talk to somebody I've had 
 a rotten day of it." 
 
 "That's all right," Fielding said, "hurry up and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 137 
 
 get out of those wet things. You'll find plenty of 
 my clothes lying around, or in the wardrobe." 
 
 With a cheerful smile of farewell, Fay disap- 
 peared through the door and closed it behind her. 
 
 Fielding walked up and down the room several 
 times, stopped to light a cigarette, inhaled a few 
 long puffs, and then tossed it into the empty fire- 
 place. The spirit of adventure had never been very 
 strongly developed in him, and Fay's unexpected 
 visit did not appeal to him at all. He could not 
 understand why she should deliberately break an 
 engagement to dine with him and then, well toward 
 midnight, suddenly turn up at his rooms, drenched 
 to the skin, and bordering on a condition of nervous 
 collapse. Always in the best of health himself, he 
 had a secret loathing for sickness in the case of any 
 one else. Wholly ignorant of the trials that Fay had 
 borne during the last few hours, he had little sym- 
 pathy for her present complete state of exhaustion. 
 
 To Fielding's carefully regulated, unemotional 
 mind nothing could excuse a girl voluntarily walk- 
 ing through the streets of New York alone on a 
 rainy night, and especially on Broadway, where 
 she would naturally be subject to the insults of any
 
 138 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 casual passer-by. He could not comprehend at all 
 why she had not gone to her own room at the Yorke 
 flat instead of coming to a bachelor's apartment at 
 so very late an hour in the evening. And besides 
 all this, her use of the word "rotten" annoyed him 
 extremely. Already he had spoken about it on 
 several different occasions since she had come to 
 New York to live, and he could not understand why 
 she should not respect his wishes in a matter of this 
 sort He was convinced that it was one of the re- 
 sults of her companionship with the girls at the the- 
 ater, and decided that he must speak to her at once, 
 and beg her that there might be no further laxity in 
 her former standards of speech or actions. 
 
 Suddenly the door leading into the bedroom opened 
 and Fay came slowly into the sitting-room. She was 
 clad in a long gray overcoat below which showed the 
 ends of a pair of turned-up flannel trousers, small 
 bare ankles, and feet partially concealed by very 
 large bath slippers. The coat collar was turned up 
 and buttoned across her throat, and she had done her 
 hair loosely in a great roll on the top of her head. 
 Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkled and her 
 lips were smiling with pleasurable delight at her
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 139 
 
 own quaint appearance. The huge bath slippers 
 greatly impeded her progress, and she shuffled with 
 a slow skating motion half-way across the room 
 and fell into the depths of a low armchair. She 
 looked up at Fielding with a sly sort of twinkle in 
 her eyes and chuckled audibly. 
 
 "Don't you think I make a pretty boy, Porter?" 
 she asked. ' 'Cause I think I make an awful pretty 
 boy awful pretty. Most fascinating and insidi- 
 ous." 
 
 Fielding stood before the hearth, and with his 
 hands clasped behind his back, looked down at the 
 lovely lithe figure in the comic ill-fitting clothes 
 and the face which never before had appeared to 
 him so brilliantly beautiful as it did now. But in 
 no way did he show his admiration for the girl's 
 loveliness. With some little difficulty Fay suc- 
 ceeded in pushing one of her hands out of the long 
 sleeve of the overcoat, beckoned to him and mo- 
 tioned him to a place at the side of her chair. 
 
 "Thank you, no," Fielding said shortly. "I pre- 
 fer to stand where I am." And then suddenly added 
 the wholly unnecessary question, "Are you feeling 
 any better?"
 
 140 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay pouted her scarlet lips and looked up at him 
 with a frown. 
 
 "Course I'm feeling better. Anybody could see 
 that. I said to myself just now in the other room 
 when I was looking into the mirror, I said, 'Fay, 
 you do look funny in that rig, but you look awful 
 pretty and even Porter and Porter certainly's a 
 cold proposition will surely love you when you 
 look like that.' " 
 
 After this speech Fay looked at Fielding with 
 sprightly inquisitiveness, but finding that he was 
 still gazing down at her with grave curious eyes, she 
 sighed and slowly shook her head. 
 
 "It's funny to me," she said dreamily, "how all 
 the men I meet seem to love me all except you, 
 Porter. Now, if " 
 
 "Men have different ways of showing their love," 
 he interrupted. "Perhaps it is because I love you 
 so much that you hurt me so much, and I can't tell 
 you that I love you." 
 
 Fay no longer smiled, but looked up at Fielding 
 with wide questioning eyes. 
 
 "Hurt you?" she asked. "I hurt you !" 
 
 "Yes," he said. "You've hurt me to-night." 
 
 "How?"
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 141 
 
 "By coming here when you should have gone to 
 your own home. By wandering alone through the 
 streets and laying yourself open to being insulted 
 by any blackguard who happened along." 
 
 Fay nodded. "I see what you mean." 
 
 "And then," Fielding went on, "I told you not to 
 use that word 'rotten'. You didn't say it before 
 you got mixed up with that crowd at the theater. I 
 don't see why you should let down just because 
 your profession makes it necessary for you to mix 
 up with people who happen to be beneath you in 
 education and breeding." 
 
 Fay clasped her hands behind her head and looked 
 stolidly up at the ceiling. 
 
 "How do you know that I'm any better bred than 
 those girls ? I don't. All you and I know, and any- 
 body else knows, is that I was washed up on the 
 beach. Everything else about my fine breeding is 
 hearsay, tradition no doubt evolved from the brain 
 of Mother Clayton. She wanted to believe it, and 
 so she made herself believe it and made others be- 
 lieve it, too, I guess. I'd like to think that my 
 mother was a lady and and a good woman. But, 
 do you know sometimes, Porter, that is, if I am to 
 judge by her daughter can you let me have an-
 
 142 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 other little drink? I'm tired, and I've had a bad 
 day." 
 
 Fielding shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said 
 significantly, "but it's all gone." 
 
 Fay tossed her chin in the air, and her eyes 
 flashed. "You mean you think that I've had enough. 
 Will you phone for a taxi, please? Don't worry, 
 I've got the price." 
 
 Fielding looked down at her with serious anxious 
 eyes. 
 
 "I thought perhaps that you might let me take 
 you home. " 
 
 Fay threw her head against the back of the chair 
 and closed her eyes. "Oh, Porter," she sighed, 
 "how I wish sometimes that "you could understand 
 me; that you were not always so fine, and strong, 
 and hard just a little human for once in your life." 
 
 With her eyes still closed she slowly stretched out 
 her arms toward him and pressed her finger-nails 
 hard into the soft palms of her white hands. 
 
 "Kiss me, Porter," she cried, "kiss me, just once 
 on the lips." 
 
 Fielding drew himself to his full height, and with 
 a slight shrug of his broad shoulders, crossed the 
 room to the telephone.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 143 
 
 "No, Fay," he said, "not to-night. Don't be 
 foolish." 
 
 She pulled herself slowly from the chair, and 
 without looking at Fielding, pushed her feet farther 
 into the big bath slippers, and then, with no more 
 words, shuffled back into the bedroom. By the time 
 that she had dressed herself again in her own 
 clothes the taxicab had arrived, and Fielding led 
 the way in silence down the two long flights of 
 stairs. He opened the cab door and helped her in. 
 
 "You're quite sure that you don't want me to go 
 home with you ?" he asked. 
 
 Fay shook her head. "No, thank you, Porter. I 
 think I'd rather go back alone." 
 
 "Good night, then," he said. "You're sure you 
 have the fare ?" 
 
 For answer Fay nodded and wearily rested her 
 head against the cushions of the open cab. "Good 
 night," she called, but her words scarcely rose above 
 a whisper, and were lost in the whirring noise of 
 the machine, as, with a sudden jolt, it started on its 
 way. 
 
 At an early hour the following- morning Fay was 
 awakened by Mrs. Yorke, who brought her a box 
 of flowers that had been sent by messenger. For
 
 144 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 a few moments the older woman lingered about 
 the room, in the hope that Fay would open the box 
 and tell her from whom the flowers came. But as 
 Fay showed no inclination to do anything of the 
 kind, with profuse apologies for her intrusion, Mrs. 
 Yorke reluctantly took her leave. The moment 
 the door had closed Fay cut the strings from the 
 box, and opening the lid, found a sealed note lying 
 on a bunch of scarlet roses. With trembling fingers 
 she tore open the envelope and at the first glance 
 recognized the card as Fielding's. His message 
 she read over and over again. There was only 
 one line scribbled in pencil "I forgive you 
 Porter." For a few moments Fay did not seem 
 to understand just what the message meant, and 
 then the hot blood surged into her face, and tear- 
 ing the card into small pieces, she threw them out 
 of the open window. 
 
 "He forgives me," she repeated again and again. 
 "Porter forgives me" 
 
 With both hands she raised the open box of long- 
 stemmed roses high above her head and was about 
 to hurl it, too, through the window. And then 
 something seemed to hold back her arms, and with 
 a sudden change of movement, she buried her
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 145 
 
 hot burning face in the bunch of damp fragrant 
 flowers. "After all," she whispered fiercely, "he 
 did send me roses, and it's the first time in his life 
 he ever did that and I love him for it yes, I do, 
 I love him for it." 
 
 Later that morning Fay went to rehearsal, de- 
 pressed and very unhappy. She was listless in her 
 work and not sure of herself, and for the first time 
 was sharply reprimanded by the stage-manager. 
 During the long intervals, when her set of girls was 
 not on the stage, she sat alone in the back of the 
 dark gloomy auditorium and sullenly brooded over 
 her troubles. 
 
 In the morbid condition of her mind it seemed as 
 if Lusk, the Claytons and even Fielding had all 
 turned irrevocably against her, and for the first time 
 she seriously doubted the wisdom of her choice in 
 coming to New York. But, to her great sorrow, she 
 realized fully that the time had come when it was 
 too late to turn back. Even her bridges at Pleasant- 
 ville had been burned away, and she thoroughly ap- 
 preciated that the stage career, which she had for- 
 merly regarded as an experiment, had now become 
 an absolute necessity as her only means of liveli- 
 hood. As far as Lusk was concerned she had al-
 
 146 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 ways cared but little for him, and her only fear was 
 that he would use his influence with the manage- 
 ment against her. 
 
 But it was very different in the case of Porter 
 Fielding. His friendship and the hours they spent 
 almost daily together were the best part of her life, 
 and without them the future, as far as she could 
 see, offered her but little promise. The thought 
 that she had lost him through an impetuous and 
 foolish act of her own was intolerable to her, and 
 she determined to see him at the first opportunity. 
 Night rehearsals were to begin that day, and as 
 they started early in the evening it would hereafter 
 be inconvenient for him to dine with her. There- 
 fore, she could depend on seeing him only during 
 the late afternoon or after the night rehearsal was 
 over. But whatever plans they might arrange for 
 the future, Fay felt that she could no longer endure 
 the doubt in her mind as to Fielding's present feel- 
 ings toward her, and, therefore, on her way to lunch 
 she stopped at a hotel and telephoned him to his 
 office. His cheery words of greeting brought to 
 her the first happy moment of the day. After speak- 
 ing of her gratitude to him for the roses he had sent 
 her, she told him about the night rehearsals, and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 147 
 
 asked if she might come to see him at his rooms 
 that afternoon. His apparent sincere pleasure at 
 the prospect of seeing her so soon dispelled the last 
 of her morbid fears, and quite happy and contented 
 again, she hurried on to her lonely lunch. 
 
 It was five o'clock when, still a little doubtful of 
 just what she was to say, Fay went slowly up the 
 stairs that led to Fielding's apartment. But when 
 she had reached the second landing and saw him 
 waiting for her at the doorway, with a little cry 
 of pleasure, she ran to him. Once in the room and 
 the door closed, he put his arms about her, and for 
 the first time in his life, kissed her on the lips. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Fay, dear," he said, "but I wasn't 
 myself at all last night. I know I acted like an awful 
 brute, and then I sent you that silly priggish mes- 
 sage this morning. But that's all over now, isn't 
 it ? Just as if it never was ?" 
 
 Fay looked up at him and smiled her complete 
 forgiveness, and then taking him by the hand, led 
 him across the room. 
 
 "Now, Porter," she said, "I'm going to sit in the 
 big chair, and you get a cigar. Then bring that 
 foot-stool over and sit at my feet, because I've got 
 a great deal to say to you. Oh, I've had such a lot
 
 148 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 of troubles, and I wanted to tell you all about them 
 last night, but somehow you seemed different and 
 unsympathetic, and I couldn't talk to you then." 
 
 Fielding did as he was told, and when he was 
 seated comfortably at her feet, laid his hand over 
 the girl's and pressed it gently. 
 
 "Now, Fay," he said, "go ahead and tell me all 
 about all of your troubles every one of them." 
 
 But Fay did not tell him all of her troubles. 
 If she spoke of her fight with Lusk, she knew that 
 it could only lead to a serious row between the 
 broker and Fielding, as a result of which Porter 
 would undoubtedly lose his position, and this, at 
 the present time, would be fatal to his career. It 
 seemed equally useless to speak of the hundred 
 dollars that she had borrowed through Doris. It 
 would only distress Fielding, and he would insist 
 on paying the money back from his own meager 
 savings, or, failing in this, would no doubt borrow 
 from Max Lusk, which would render the situation 
 still more impossible to Fay. Therefore, she began 
 the story of her troubles with the telegram she had 
 sent the Claytons, asking them if she might visit 
 them over Sunday. She had brought the answer
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 149 
 
 with her, and when she showed it to Fielding, he 
 read it over several times and then smiled and 
 handed it back to her. 
 
 "That's all right, Fay," he said, "I'll run down 
 myself on Sunday and fix it up for you easily 
 enough. You can see that the old man is still strong 
 for you." 
 
 Fay nodded, but her effort to smile was a com- 
 plete failure. 
 
 "Thank you, Porter, but there's no use. I know 
 Mother Clayton and I know when her mind is once 
 made up that nothing can ever change it. I tell you, 
 it's over. I have no home, now nothing." 
 
 He took one of her hands in both of his and 
 touched her fingers gently with his lips. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I know I've got you. But sup- 
 pose I should fail on the stage. Suppose I should 
 lose my place with this company. Where could I 
 go, what could I do?" 
 
 "My dear child," Fielding laughed, "there are 
 other companies lots of them." 
 
 "Yes, I know," she said, "but there are not other 
 homes that is for me. I tell you, Porter, I've lost 
 something that I can never get back, never. That
 
 150 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 part of my life is over, and I'm just about begin- 
 ning to understand what a big part of my life it 
 really was." 
 
 She reached out her free hand and laid it on his 
 shoulder and looked steadily into Fielding's serious 
 eyes. 
 
 "So you see, Porter," she went on, speaking very 
 slowly, "that's why you've got to be good to me. 
 And, sometimes, when I am a little weak or fool- 
 ish, you mustn't be hard on me, but try to under- 
 stand and forgive me." 
 
 Fielding got up, and holding out both hands, drew 
 Fay to her feet. 
 
 "All right," he said, smiling, "I promise you, 
 Fay, that I'll do my best. And now make yourself 
 some tea, and I'll have a drink." 
 
 It was an hour later when Fay returned to the 
 Yorke flat and in the privacy of her bedroom Doris 
 handed her a hundred dollars in crisp twenty-dollar 
 notes. 
 
 "He was charmed to make the loan," Doris said, 
 "completely charmed. I told him I wanted him to 
 meet you one of these days, and he said that that 
 was entirely up to you."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 151 
 
 The chorus girl started to leave the room and 
 Fay put out her hand. "Thank you, Doris," she 
 said. "You're a good friend. Did you did you 
 tell him my name?" 
 
 "No," Doris laughed, "of course, I didn't. That's 
 also up to you." 
 
 When Fay was alone she stood for some moments 
 in the center of the room staring at the roll of yel- 
 low-back bills in her hand, and then, overcome with 
 a sudden loathing for the money and herself, she 
 tossed it on the bureau. Exhausted from her long- 
 day of work and trouble, she sank wearily on the 
 edge of the bed and started slowly to unbutton her 
 shoes. 
 
 "You're a fool, Fay Clayton," she mumbled; "a 
 poor weak fool. I wonder if your mother would 
 have taken money from a man she'd never met?" 
 
 She kicked off her loosened shoes, and with her 
 hands clasped behind her, fell back on the bed and 
 lay staring up at the ceiling. 
 
 "I wonder," she said; "I wonder if she would."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 FOR the following two weeks Fay had to de- 
 vote practically all of her time to The Belles of 
 Barbary. There were rehearsals every morning, 
 afternoon and night, and when not at the theater she 
 was holding long sessions either at the dressmaker's 
 or bootmaker's or photographer's. To her it was all 
 distinctly new and very exciting, and she found it 
 intensely interesting to watch how the various parts 
 of the new ppera were being welded into a complete 
 whole. The principals were rehearsing with the 
 chorus and show-girls now, and as a rule she found 
 them much more simple and friendly than the less 
 conspicuous members of the company. The women 
 who were to play the principal parts seemed more 
 than willing to help her in any way they could, and 
 the men were all most kind and a few quite con- 
 spicuous in their attentions to her. 
 
 Of Fielding she saw but little, but at least once 
 every day she talked to him over the telephone, and 
 several times, late in the afternoon, she had stopped 
 
 152
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 153 
 
 in at his rooms for a cup of tea. The in frequency 
 with which she now saw him seemed only to add to 
 the pleasure of these occasional visits, and they were 
 largely spent in discussing the good times they were 
 to have together after The Belles of Barbary had 
 been tried for a week out of town and Fay had re- 
 turned to New York to settle down for the winter. 
 At no time in her life had she ever felt so secure of 
 Fielding's affection for her, and at no time before 
 had she ever appreciated how very much the real 
 friendship of a strong man meant to a girl who was 
 placed as she was. So, if Fay and Fielding saw 
 less of each other during these last two weeks of re- 
 hearsals, both of them regarded the new arrange- 
 ment as purely temporary, and both looked forward 
 to the time when they could resume the old order of 
 things and be sure of seeing each other at least 
 once every day. 
 
 It was at the very end of August when The Belles 
 of Barbary opened its preliminary season in Atlantic 
 City. This trying out of the new play, that is, as 
 far as Fay could judge by appearances, was regard- 
 ed by the principals of the company, and certainly 
 by the members of the chorus, entirely in the light 
 of a pleasure outing, and not at all as a serious busi-
 
 154 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 ness undertaking. Even Ben Tolliver, the manager, 
 and the men who were known or who were supposed 
 to have money interests in the enterprise, suddenly 
 dropped their manner of mystery, became most ge- 
 nial, and spent many hours between the rehearsals 
 and performances in the company of some of the 
 best-looking of the actresses. 
 
 It turned out to be one of those rare occasions in 
 the theatrical world when from the very beginning 
 success seems to be an undisputed fact, and the usu- 
 ally much-dreaded first night in New York is looked 
 forward to by those most interested with keen 
 anticipation rather than as a terrifying ordeal. The 
 local critics and the managerial experts, even the 
 chary speculators who had come down from town, 
 had agreed that The Belles of Barbary was an as- 
 sured success. Therefore, content was in the very 
 air, and every one was happy the managers be- 
 cause they saw the prospect of solid financial returns 
 for their investment, and the members of the com- 
 pany because success meant a season's run in the big 
 city six months at least in their cozy flats, instead 
 of weary days and nights of travel, and stuffy ho- 
 tels and the crowded dressing-rooms of "the road". 
 
 As in all musical comedies there was a certain
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 155 
 
 amount of rehearsing to be done in the week that 
 immediately preceded the great night of the open- 
 ing on Broadway. But to offset this there was 
 plenty of time for ocean baths, leisurely strolls 
 along the board-walk, and pleasant little suppers 
 that began after the performance was over and 
 usually continued far into the morning hours. In 
 addition to all this, at least to Fay, there was the 
 excitement of the actual performance, the thrill of 
 the lights and the music, and the rapid chang- 
 ing from one wonderful costume to another still 
 more wonderful. For the first time in her life 
 her desire to wear beautiful clothes had been 
 realized, and from the night of the first dress re- 
 hearsal it was quite evident that the considerable 
 sum of money lavished on Fay's particular dresses 
 had not been spent in vain. Of the eight show- 
 girls there was no doubt that she was easily the most 
 conspicuous. Indeed, in the ensembles, she was 
 without question the most noticeable and most 
 beautiful woman on the stage, and it was a collection 
 of women which had been gathered together largely 
 with an eye to female loveliness. Fay heard her 
 praises not only from the men and women of the 
 company, but she saw it plainly in the eyes of the
 
 156 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 audience. And besides all this she appreciated the 
 fact that she was new to New York. 
 
 The men who had run down from town to see 
 their women friends in the company raved about 
 her, and predicted for her a wonderful success on 
 the first night, at least a success of beauty. As a 
 matter of fact, she had little to do in the perform- 
 ance, but Fay had always been naturally graceful 
 and endowed with wonderful personal charm. And 
 now she carried the same grace of movement and 
 the same charm to her stage work, and above all 
 else, she always seemed to be absolutely at her ease. 
 Added to this, she had real animation, a great buoy- 
 ancy of spirit, the physical condition of a splendid 
 healthy animal, and the intense interest in her work 
 which it was only too evident that most of her fel- 
 low-workers had long since lost. She was happy to 
 be back once more near the sea where she could hear 
 the sound of the breakers ; she was supremely happy 
 in her work and in the thought that she was earning 
 her own living. Indeed, for the first few days of her 
 stage life, the cup of her joy was filled to the brim 
 and overflowing. 
 
 It had been impossible for Fielding to get away 
 for the first night at Atlantic City, but he had sent
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 157 
 
 her a long telegram, and after the performance was 
 over, she had sent him in return, a very, very long 
 one telling him of the play's great success and of her 
 own superlative happiness. 
 
 During the earlier part of the evening Belle Gor- 
 don had asked Fay to go to a supper which some 
 men, who had come down from New York, were 
 giving to herself and several of the other show-girls. 
 Had it been in the city she would have refused, as 
 she had, heretofore, refused all of Belle Gordon's 
 invitations, as well as those of the other girls. But 
 now the conditions were different, and as she had 
 already told Belle that she knew no one in Atlantic 
 City she could not well excuse herself on the 
 grounds of a previous engagement. Under the cir- 
 cumstances there seemed nothing left for her to do 
 but to accept the invitation. And, as a matter of 
 fact, she did accept gladly, as, on such a gala night, 
 it would have seemed hard indeed to have returned 
 to her hot stuffy bedroom at the hotel. 
 
 The men met their guests at the stage door 
 and carried them off in two big touring cars to 
 the Shellbourne. The large dining-room was crowded 
 almost entirely with members of the company and 
 their friends from town, and every one beamed on
 
 158 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 every one else, and the air was full of congratula- 
 tions on the great success of the new play. It was 
 really like one very large and boisterously happy 
 party. Fay sat between two young men, one of 
 whom told her that she was even more beautiful off 
 the stage than she was on it, and when the other had 
 expressed the exactly opposite opinion, both youths 
 gave up any further personal remarks and devoted 
 themselves to long libations of champagne and the 
 general chorus of gossip. 
 
 Miss Gordon, on whom the responsibilities of 
 hostess weighed but lightly, waved her hand to Fay 
 and smiled pleasantly at her beautiful guest across 
 the table. "It certainly is good," she said, "to have 
 you with us at last, Fay. I tell you, boys and girls, 
 this room looks just like an opening night used to 
 at old Rector's. It's sure one grand occasion. I 
 can't see a thing here that hasn't been branded by 
 Broadway. If I" 
 
 "Well, well," Miss Mazie Kane interrupted, "what 
 do you think of that!" Miss Kane was not of the 
 company, but had run down with a party of friends 
 in an automobile to see the launching of the new 
 play. In New York she was noted for her innocent 
 blond beauty, her ceaseless chatter, and a sustained
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 159 
 
 devotion to the predatory rich. "If there ain't Inez 
 Morrell," she ran on, "and Inez is with Eddie Som- 
 mers. Well, well ! Inez can come back all right, and 
 I'll bet she is glad to be talking to a man again old 
 enough to have cut all his teeth. Have any of you 
 noticed the ginks and rah-rah boys she's been doing 
 time with lately? Why, do you know, that Inez 
 Morrell has been robbing nurseries so long that 
 when she was in the hospital last spring the nurses 
 said she used to talk baby talk all the time in her 
 sleep honest they did." 
 
 About the table mild laughter greeted these some- 
 what personal remarks. "She used to be with me in 
 The Doll-baby Girl," Miss Kane hurried on. "Yes, 
 she did." 
 
 "I remember you in that piece," one of the men 
 interrupted. "In the first act you played a simple 
 country lassie, and you wore a short white dress and 
 a sunbonnet, and you and some others played ring- 
 around-rosy. That certainly gave me one laugh. 
 Mazie Kane in a sunbonnet and playing ring-around- 
 rosy with a lot of other criminals. Eh, what !" 
 
 Miss Kane smiled and then shook her head at the 
 thought of the fearful deeds true art sometimes im- 
 poses on the hard-working actress.
 
 160 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "What a troupe," she sighed, "what a troupe! 
 That was the worst bunch of girls I ever saw gath- 
 ered together. Why, when a gentleman friend asked 
 me to make up a party for supper, I was actually 
 ashamed. There wasn't a girl in the crowd I was 
 sure had a decent dress to wear, or wouldn't take 
 away a few forks or spoons for souvenirs." 
 
 "Wasn't Teddy Marlowe in that show," Belle 
 Gordon asked, "and Edith Carlton?" 
 
 "That's right," Miss Kane admitted, "but you 
 wouldn't want to introduce Edith to anybody over 
 seventeen and Teddy Marlowe didn't know how to 
 treat men of any age." 
 
 "She's been married twice that I know of," Miss 
 Gordon suggested. 
 
 "That's all right," Miss Kane admitted a little 
 wearily, "but, believe me, Teddy lacks experience. 
 And then Teddy was educated very much above her 
 natural vulgarity, and that's an awful thing to hap- 
 pen to any girl." 
 
 For three hours Fay sipped her champagne and 
 in silence listened to the other girls discussing their 
 women and men friends. Most of the talk appealed 
 to her as being very dull, a very little that was 
 amusing, and much more that was vulgar. But the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 161 
 
 lights, and the music of the orchestra, and the 
 noise and laughter of the crowded room appealed 
 to her very strongly, and she was really glad to 
 be there, surrounded by so much exhilaration, and 
 not alone in her room at the hotel. Several times 
 she wondered what Fielding would have thought 
 of it, and in her heart she was glad that he was 
 not there. 
 
 Once she remembered the advice that Doris Yorke 
 had given her, not to ally herself with Belle Gor- 
 don or her crowd unless she wanted to be identi- 
 fied as one of them, and for a brief moment she 
 was annoyed at the thought that she had disre- 
 garded her friend's kindly warning. It was not 
 until she was on her way back to the hotel in the 
 automobile that she thoroughly realized, and the 
 realization came to her then with great force, that 
 the other members of the company in the restaurant 
 who had seen her would, no doubt, always connect 
 her with that particular set of girls. 
 
 When Fay awoke the next morning the sun was 
 streaming into her room, and she found that it was 
 past ten o'clock. There was to be a general re- 
 hearsal at eleven and so she dressed hurriedly and 
 went down-stairs to her breakfast. It had always
 
 1 62 
 
 been her custom to arise early, and now she was con- 
 scious of a guilty feeling at the loss of these morning 
 hours that had always appealed to her as the best 
 of the day. Besides this, she was unused to late sup- 
 pers, her head ached, her limbs were tired, and 
 all her accustomed energy, physical and mental, 
 seemed to have gone, and left her exhausted and de- 
 pressed. On her way to the theater she decided that 
 no supper-party was worth her present condition, 
 and now that she was away from the lights, and 
 music, and the excitement of the crowd, she realized 
 that the supper had not been very gay but rather 
 dull. Fay was also keenly conscious of the feeling 
 that she had not been bored by the vapid talk and 
 the suggestive remarks of her companions and that 
 it would have been much more to her credit if she 
 had not only been bored but wholly disgusted. She 
 found, however, a certain balm for her self -accus- 
 ing thoughts in the argument that she had gained 
 a knowledge of her fellow-workers and their friends 
 which could have been acquired by experience and 
 by experience only. 
 
 In any case, she determined that she had been to 
 her last supper-party, at least as far as the week at 
 Atlantic City was concerned. Hereafter, however
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 163 
 
 lonesome it might be, she would at once return to 
 her hotel as soon as the performance was over, and 
 thus keep herself in condition for her work and the 
 all-important opening in New York. On that night 
 she had already arranged to take supper with Field- 
 ing. They were to celebrate her metropolitan debut, 
 and it was to be a real celebration that is, as far 
 as Fielding's purse would permit. But at that sup- 
 per there would be no one but themselves, and in 
 no way would it resemble the heavy eating, heavy 
 drinking, riotous affair of the night previous. 
 
 For the first time, the rehearsal that morning did 
 not amuse Fay, and she was delighted when it was 
 over and she could get out of the warm theater into 
 the sunshine and enjoy the cool breezes from the sea. 
 With several other girls from the company she went 
 at once for a bath in the ocean, and after an hour 
 spent in the water and lying about on the hot sand, 
 she felt much better and almost free from the effects 
 of the supper-party. 
 
 Late that afternoon she started out for a walk 
 by herself, but at the door of the hotel she met Belle 
 Gordon and several of the men who had been at 
 the supper the night before. They insisted on her 
 joining them, and for the next two hours she idled
 
 1 64 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 away her time at the shooting-galleries, the moving- 
 picture shows, the booths of the palm-readers, and 
 at various of the other catch-penny devices of the 
 board-walk. Like herself, Miss Gordon and her 
 men friends seemed much refreshed by the sea air 
 and Fay found their society vastly more amusing 
 than being alone with her own thoughts. If the 
 men were at times a little boisterous and free in 
 their manner toward her they actually did or said 
 nothing to which she could object, and when they 
 insisted on her joining them again at supper that 
 night there seemed to be no legitimate excuse for 
 a refusal. This was "the road" and she had been 
 told that on the road "everything went," and she 
 had also been told that if a girl held herself aloof 
 from her fellow-players she would at once lose 
 standing in the company and that unpopularity was 
 the most hopeless of all barriers to success. When 
 she was back in New York, she argued to herself, 
 it would be different. Then it would be easy enough 
 to be friendly with the girls of the company at the 
 theater, but when she was away from it she could 
 see as little or as much of them as she chose. 
 
 Thus it was that Fay cleared away any regrets 
 that she may have had at being identified with Belle
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 165 
 
 Gordon and her set of girls, as well as the men who 
 placed their automobiles at their service and were 
 forever ready to play host. There was, she easily 
 convinced herself, plenty of time to go back to her 
 old standards when she had returned to town, and 
 to the simple inexpensive hospitality of Porter 
 Fielding. 
 
 It was during this same week, when Fay was en- 
 joying the early fruits of her stage success, that 
 Fielding, too, scored his first victory. On Thursday 
 afternoon David Wilmerding telephoned him at 
 Lusk Brothers that he would like to have him dine 
 with him that night at his house, and Fielding, of 
 course, accepted with alacrity. He rather imagined 
 that Blanche Wilmerding must have come to town 
 for the night and that it was to her that he 
 was really indebted for the invitation. But 
 when he had been shown into the drawing- 
 room of the big home on Madison Avenue he 
 found Mr. Wilmerding waiting for him alone. 
 
 It was the first time that Fielding had been at the 
 house, and although much of the furniture was con- 
 cealed in its summer covers, he was deeply im- 
 pressed by the size of the rooms, the polished floors, 
 and the wonderful paintings that hung against the
 
 1 66 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 silk brocaded walls. After his life at cheap res- 
 taurants, the snowy linen of the dinner-table, the 
 heavy silver, the row of thin gilt-edged glasses be- 
 fore his plate, the shaded candles, and the great 
 bowl of roses in the center, appealed to him greatly. 
 As he glanced about the dining-room, at the mahog- 
 any sideboards covered with massive silver plate, at 
 the rich hangings, and the lace curtains, gently 
 stirred by the evening breeze, Fielding was im- 
 mensely pleased to be in such surroundings, and he 
 made no effort to conceal his delight. 
 
 "It's quite wonderful," he exclaimed with the 
 most sincere frankness. 
 
 His elderly host smiled and from across the table 
 raised his glass of sherry to him. "I'm glad you 
 like it," he said heartily. "I hope that this is only 
 the first of many dinners we shall have together." 
 
 During the dinner, the conversation drifted in 
 various directions from the news of the town to the 
 quiet life of Pleasantville and then back again to the 
 doings of the day on Wall Street. It was not until 
 the coffee had been served and the servants had left 
 the room that Fielding learned just why he had been 
 asked to dinner. For a few moments the two men
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 167 
 
 puffed silently on their cigars, and then Mr. Wil- 
 merding pushed his chair back from the table, 
 crossed his legs, and began. 
 
 "Porter," he said, "I hope you don't mind my 
 calling you Porter; I wanted to talk to you about 
 your work down-town. Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 Fielding looked at his host a little confused. 
 "Why, yes. I think it's a wonderful business. That 
 is, I'm sure it is, if I could once get a working 
 knowledge of it. You see, as yet, I'm only learning 
 the rudiments." 
 
 Wilmerding nodded. "That's it, that's why I 
 wanted to talk to you now, before you had learned 
 the rudiments. I mean the rudiments of the busi- 
 ness as practised by a firm like Lusk Brothers." 
 
 Fielding looked at his host and smiled. "You 
 mean you don't like Lusk Brothers." 
 
 The older man rolled his cigar slowly between 
 his lips. 
 
 "That's about it," he said. "If you don't know 
 it already, Fielding, you'll soon learn that there 
 are as many brands of brokers as there are of whis- 
 ky. I've always known the Lusks in a business 
 way, but it's only a week ago that I took the trouble
 
 1 68 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 to find out anything about them, especially Max 
 Lusk, outside of business. Porter, he's a bad lot, 
 believe me, a thoroughly bad lot." 
 
 Fielding looked at Wilmerding with serious ques- 
 tioning eyes. 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear you say it. He's always been 
 extremely kind to me, and I can't forget that he gave 
 me my chance to come to New York." 
 
 Wilmerding pushed his chair farther from the 
 table and smiled pleasantly at his guest's serious 
 face. 
 
 "As far as I know," he said, "there are three rea- 
 sons why brokerage firms take young men into their 
 employ. The young men are either relatives who 
 must be taken care of, or have rich fathers who put 
 money into the business, or influential social con- 
 nections through which they are expected to ob- 
 tain valuable accounts. To be quite frank with you, 
 Fielding, I can't see how you come under any of 
 these heads. You're surely not a relative of Max 
 Lusk, you haven't rich parents and, as yet, at least 
 as far as I know, and if you will allow me to be quite 
 frank, you have no social connections of any par- 
 ticular value. And, what's more important, you 
 never will have as long as you are in the employ of
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 169 
 
 the Lusk Brothers, and Max Lusk knows that as 
 well as I do. Now, if you don't mind telling me, 
 why do you think he voluntarily asked you to come 
 into his office? It would be very interesting to 
 know, very." 
 
 "I have always thought," Fielding said, "that it 
 was from sheer kindness. I certainly know of no 
 other reason." 
 
 Wilmerding smiled genially at his youthful guest 
 and shook his head. 
 
 "The Lusks have never been conspicuous for 
 their philanthropy, believe me. But, Porter, I'm 
 not like some men who muck-rake just for the fun 
 of stirring up the muck. .When I do dig up an evil 
 I try to suggest a remedy, and the remedy in this 
 case is that you quit Lusk Brothers and come with 
 us." 
 
 Fielding looked steadily across the table into the 
 smiling eyes of his host, and while his gratitude was 
 easily evident he found it impossible, for the mo- 
 ment, to find the words with which to express ade- 
 quately the full extent of his feelings. 
 
 "It's only fair to speak to you now," Wilmer- 
 ding went on, "of what no doubt you are already 
 well aware. We are a very conservative house and
 
 1 70 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 while we will pay; you as much as you receive at 
 present, I doubt very much if your finances will in- 
 crease with the same leaps and -bounds that they 
 might with Lusk Brothers. But, mind you, I say 
 'might'." 
 
 "Oh, it isn't the money I care for," Fielding pro- 
 tested eagerly. "It's the chance I'm thinking about. 
 I certainly don't pretend to know much about Wall 
 Street, but I do know just how much it means for 
 a young man to be connected with a house like 
 yours. Really, Mr. Wilmerding, I don't know why 
 you should do it." 
 
 The old man took his cigar out of his mouth and 
 smiled grimly at the ashes. "I do. Because I like 
 you, and I hate to see a young man with a clean 
 record, and a good golfer to boot, go to the devil 
 surely in a business way and probably in a social 
 way as well. Why, even Blanche sized up Lusk 
 when she saw him on the links at Pleasantville. It 
 was she who first warned me." 
 
 "I don't know," Fielding said, "how I can ever 
 thank you or her." 
 
 Wilmerding pushed his chair from the table and 
 got up. 
 
 "Then don't try," he said. "Break away from
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 171 
 
 the Lusks as soon as you can. Then take a Turkish 
 bath, get thoroughly sterilized, and come down to 
 see me. And now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going 
 to send you home, as I've got a lot of papers to look 
 over before I get to bed." 
 
 The two men shook hands warmly, and Fielding 
 made a final effort to express his gratitude. 
 
 "And, oh, Porter," Wilmerding said, "I'd almost 
 forgotten. Blanche is coming to town on Monday 
 and she wants you to go to the theater that night 
 and to supper afterward. Said she would arrive in 
 town too late to dine comfortably, so it would be 
 better to take supper at the Knickerbocker. It seems 
 that that Miss Clayton from Pleasantville is going 
 to make her first appearance and Blanche wants to 
 see her. She was a friend of yours, too, wasn't 
 she?" 
 
 "Yes," Fielding said, "a great friend. We grew 
 up together." 
 
 And then for a moment he hesitated and stood 
 irresolute, not knowing what he should say further. 
 Monday night was to have been the night of the sup- 
 per-party, when he and Fay were to have gone out to 
 celebrate alone, to talk over the success of the play, 
 and of Fay's success, too. He knew how she had
 
 172 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 planned and looked forward to it, but in the face 
 of Mr. Wilmerding's wonderful business offer it 
 seemed impossible now to refuse his invitation. 
 
 "Well," Wilmerding asked briefly, "that'll be all 
 right about the theater and supper on Monday? I'll 
 tell Blanche it's all fixed, eh?" 
 
 Fielding nodded and backed slowly toward the 
 door. It really seemed as if there was no alterna- 
 tive. "Yes, of course," he said, "and thank you and 
 Miss Wilmerding so much. I'll be delighted to go." 
 
 "That's, fine," said the broker, "and once more 
 good night to you." 
 
 As soon as Fielding had reached his rooms he 
 wrote a long letter to Fay, telling her of Wilmer- 
 ding's offer, how great a promotion it meant to him 
 in every way, and how, with the attention he pur- 
 posed giving to his work, an honorable and enviable 
 position in the business world was now practically 
 assured to him for life. He dwelt at length on 
 the fact that his first thought had been to write to 
 her of his success because he knew that she, more 
 than any one else, had his welfare at heart, and be- 
 cause he wanted her to be the first to congratulate 
 him on his new-found happiness. At the end of the 
 letter he told her of his acceptance of Wilmerding's
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 173 
 
 invitation to ,go to the opening performance of 
 The Belles of Barbary and to a supper-party aft- 
 erward, and, how, under the circumstances, he was 
 sure that she would understand how ungracious, 
 even impossible, it would have been to have refused 
 the invitation. 
 
 "There will be so many nights," he wrote, "when 
 we can have little suppers and celebrate our dual con- 
 quests of New York that I know you will feel that 
 I did the right thing about Monday evening. It 
 seems such a pity after all our plans, but I am sure 
 that you will appreciate the difficulty of my position, 
 and that you will be as generous as you always have 
 been, Fay, dear, and will as usual forgive your 
 friend Porter." 
 
 He mailed the letter that night so that Fay should 
 receive it at the earliest moment possible, and then, 
 satisfied with having done what he considered the 
 right and only proper thing under the circumstances, 
 he went to bed and to sleep, happy and content in 
 the thought that success was within his grasp. 
 
 When Fielding arrived at his office the next 
 morning, it was with some slight feeling of trepida- 
 tion that he asked for a few minutes' private con- 
 versation with Max Lusk. He could not well ig- 
 nore the fact that it was Lusk who had given him
 
 174 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 his opportunity to come to New York, and had since 
 that time treated him with every mark of favor 
 and the greatest consideration. Now, long before 
 he had had an opportunity to pay off even a tithe of 
 this debt, and certainly for no adequate reason that 
 he could give, he was leaving the employ of this 
 man who had so befriended him. In his little glass 
 office Lusk listened to Fielding's story, and consid- 
 erably to the latter's surprise, was apparently not in 
 the least perturbed or hurt at the young man's news, 
 but, to the contrary, heartily congratulated him on 
 his change of employers. 
 
 He slapped Fielding genially on the knee and 
 his putty features were wreathed in smiles. 
 
 "Fine," he cried, "fine! To get into that firm is 
 like having Wall Street pin its legion of honor on 
 your chest. Personally, I consider it a great distinc- 
 tion to have Wilmerding think well enough of one 
 of our young men to take him from us. Finish 
 your work up here and leave just as soon as you 
 are ready. Porter, my boy, you're in luck and I 
 congratulate you." 
 
 The two men shook hands, and greatly relieved, 
 Fielding hurried from the room. Once alone Lusk
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 175 
 
 chuckled audibly, shrugged his narrow shoulders, 
 and sitting down at his desk, reached out for the 
 telephone to resume his day's work. Fielding had 
 served the little broker's purpose, for he was the 
 direct means of bringing Fay Clayton to New York, 
 and now that he could be of no further use to him, 
 Lusk was only too delighted to be rid of him. 
 
 It was late on that same Friday afternoon when 
 Fay returned from rehearsal and found Fielding's 
 letter waiting for her at the hotel. She took it to 
 her room and tore off the envelope with the same 
 little thrill of pleasure with which she always opened 
 one of Porter's notes. As she read of the news 
 of Mr. Wilmerding's offer her eyes shone with the 
 real pleasure and pride that was in her heart, but 
 when she came to the part about the supper-party 
 the smile on her lips and in her eyes vanished as 
 quickly as it had come. Involuntarily her fingers 
 tightened about the letter, and she crushed it in the 
 palm of her hand. Her face turned slowly scarlet 
 and tears of humiliation rilled her eyes. That night 
 was to have been her night, and she could not un- 
 derstand how any conditions could exist that would 
 induce Fielding to beg off. Together they had
 
 1 76 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 planned for it for days, and she had been looking 
 forward to the night as the happiest of their many; 
 little celebrations. 
 
 Although she would not admit it, even to herself, 
 the real cause of her distress, of course, lay deeper 
 than the mere postponing of their supper-party. 
 The effect of the whole letter on Fay was that Field- 
 ing had permanently allied himself with the Wilmer- 
 dings, and it would have been more than human if 
 she could have had any particular liking for Blanche 
 .Wilmerding. Whether he really cared for the girl or 
 was only attracted by her position and her money, 
 or whether Blanche cared for him, Fay had never 
 known. But the facts disclosed in Porter's letter 
 certainly seemed to show that the girl was interested 
 in Fielding and his career. Indignant and miserable 
 as she was, Fay at once made two sincere efforts to 
 write Fielding her congratulations on his new posi- 
 tion, but both attempts were absolute failures and 
 she destroyed the letters. Glancing at the clock, she 
 found that there was still half an hour before her 
 dinner-time and at once decided to take a short walk 
 and send Fielding a telegram of congratulation and 
 good wishes. It seemed the easiest way out of her
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 177 
 
 troubles the telegram would reach him that same 
 night, and when she saw him she would be in a mood 
 better calculated to conceal her real feelings. 
 
 She went to the telegraph office, and having sent 
 her message, started on a brisk walk to the hotel. 
 Heedless of the passing crowds on the board-walk, 
 her mind still full of Fielding and his letter, she 
 hurried on until she became conscious that some 
 one was following her and calling her by name. 
 Turning quickly, she saw the smiling eager face of 
 Max Lusk. It was the first time that she had met 
 him since the miserable scene in the apartment- 
 house, and her first instinct was to turn and run 
 away from him as she had then, but there was some- 
 thing in the look and in the cringing attitude of the 
 man that made her hesitate. .With his hat in hand 
 he bowed low before her. 
 
 "I have come to ask your forgiveness," he said 
 with a great show of humility. "I couldn't stand 
 it any longer, Miss Clayton indeed, I couldn't. 
 Won't you believe me ?" 
 
 Had her mind been less perturbed than it was at 
 that time, it is probable that she would have resented 
 his daring to approach her at all. But in the con-
 
 i ;8 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 fusion of the moment and from the very unexpect- 
 edness of his appearance, almost unconsciously, she 
 held out her hand to him. 
 
 Lusk took her hand in both of his, and so low did 
 he bend over, that his lips almost touched her glove. 
 His whole manner was so penitent, even pathetic, 
 that Fay's first flush of indignation gave way to one 
 of pity. 
 
 "I've been thinking of nothing else for days," he 
 protested. "This morning I felt as if I couldn't 
 stand it any longer so I came down to see if you 
 wouldn't forgive me. Please try to forget it, and 
 let's start again. Won't you?" 
 
 For a few moments Fay stood looking out at the 
 sea, apparently unconscious that she was not alone. 
 In her heart she had no faith in Lusk or his protest- 
 ations, but during the last month, owing to the 
 women with whom she had associated, her stand- 
 ards, especially in regard to men, had undergone a 
 great change. She disliked Max Lusk and she dis- 
 trusted him, but she was also afraid of him. Even 
 in her brief experience of theatrical life she had 
 learned of several authentic cases of girls who had 
 lost their positions through the influence of men like 
 this one. Suddenly she turned and nodded to him,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 179 
 
 but her lips were drawn tight and there was no smile 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "Why, that's all right," she said. "Yes, let's 
 forget it." 
 
 Lusk's face beamed, and he clapped his hands to- 
 gether. "Good," he cried, "that's fine! And now 
 that it's all settled, mayn't I walk back to the hotel 
 with you?" 
 
 But Fay shook her head, "Not if you don't mind," 
 she said decisively. "I'd rather be alone just now." 
 
 With the belief that his chance meeting with the 
 girl was the only cause for her evidently nervous 
 state of mind, Lusk smiled his apologies. 
 
 "Perhaps I could see you at supper," he ventured. 
 
 "I'm afraid not; you see, I've already promised 
 some of the girls to go put with them." 
 
 The broker gloomily shook his head. 
 
 "That's too bad, because I've got to go back to 
 town to-morrow morning. It's one of those engage- 
 ments that can't be broken." And then he seemed to 
 have a happy inspiration, and his face was no longer 
 clouded in gloom. 
 
 "But how about Monday night in town?" he 
 asked. "A fine supper to celebrate your first night 
 as a Broadway favorite ! What do you say ?"
 
 i8o IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 At the suggestion Fay's lips broke into the mere 
 suggestion of a smile. 
 
 "It's funny you should have asked me that," she 
 said, "and just at this time." 
 
 "Funny," he repeated, "why funny?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "But you will let me give you the supper," he 
 urged. 
 
 For a brief moment Fay hesitated, and then 
 shrugged her shoulders and nodded her assent. 
 
 "Of course," she said, "I'll be glad to go to sup- 
 per with you Monday night." 
 
 "Where shall we have it," he asked, now thor- 
 oughly alert and delighted with the prospect; "and 
 do you want it in a private room or the restaurant; 
 and whom shall I invite? Of course, you'll want 
 Porter and" 
 
 "I think Porter has an engagement that night," 
 she interrupted him, "I'm sure he has. Ask any- 
 body, and have it any place you like, Mr. Lusk. It's 
 all the same to me. You can send me word to the 
 theater." 
 
 She smiled in a perfunctory sort of way and held 
 out her hand. Even Lusk noticed how tired and 
 miserable she looked.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 181 
 
 "Good-by, then," he said, "until Monday." 
 "Until Monday," she repeated. "It's very good 
 
 of you to give me a party. I must hurry back to 
 
 the hotel now. Good-by."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 rHE BELLES OF BARBARY was the first 
 important offering of the new season, and the 
 big theater was crowded with the kind of audience 
 that is always gathered together at this time of the 
 year. The eight boxes were filled by the families of 
 leading managers, or by women stars who had not 
 yet opened their season and who came to be seen 
 and to see their fellow-artists at work. Regarding 
 the event as a great social occasion, the lady stars 
 had arrayed themselves in their most gorgeous rai- 
 ment, and the wives of the managers, as representa- 
 tives of the commercial side of the drama, were 
 equally conspicuous in the brilliancy of their plu- 
 mage. 
 
 The front rows were filled by men who were 
 either particular friends of the manager of the thea- 
 ter, or who were willing to pay exorbitant prices to 
 the speculators for such choice seats. Back of these 
 sat the critics, gloomy and terribly conscious of their 
 own importance, and, still farther back, the men and 
 
 182
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 183 
 
 women who seem to live only for first nights and 
 who just manage to exist somehow somewhere dur- 
 ing the intervals. Young men with long hair, ac- 
 companied by ladies with wonderful coiffures 
 and gold eye-glasses; embryo playwrights, pro- 
 fessional playwrights, rival managers, theatrical 
 lawyers, wine-agents, play producers, music pub- 
 lishers; show-girls, still rehearsing and whose 
 men friends were sufficiently generous to provide 
 them with expensive seats; play brokers, song- 
 writers, costumers, wig-makers, hair-dressers, 
 hotel managers, composers and librettists all of 
 the men and women who are more or less dependent 
 on the theater and its people and whose bank ac- 
 counts are directly affected by the success or failure 
 of any new play. 
 
 The greater part of the audience gathered early 
 in the lobbies, the men discussing the rumors of 
 the success of the various artists in the musical 
 comedy during its week at Atlantic City, and the 
 women making mental notes and exchanging caustic 
 or complimentary remarks concerning the costumes 
 of the new arrivals. It was a crowd which had 
 come to be seen as well as to see: the men for the 
 greater part on business bent, serious and know-
 
 1 84 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 ing; the women conspicuous for their extravagant 
 head-dress, their bizarre and inappropriate raiment, 
 the great amount of perfume that they exuded and 
 that soon permeated the entire theater. Max Lusk 
 and two of his male cronies sat in the front row, 
 but Wilmerding, less wise in the secrets of how to 
 obtain the best places for a Broadway premiere, 
 had bought seats for his party much farther back 
 in the orchestra. 
 
 If the exceedingly encouraging reports of the new 
 musical comedy had given a more than usually 
 joyous and hopeful air to the assembled audience, 
 there was no such spirit evident back of the curtain. 
 Ben Tolliver, the manager, Morley, the producer, 
 and the actors and actresses who were to play the 
 principal parts, and whom Fay had seen laughing 
 and joking behind the scenes at Atlantic City, had 
 suddenly become terribly serious. Now every one 
 seemed nervous and irritable and to have lost their 
 confidence and all hope of success. 
 
 Fay had gone to the theater early, and having 
 dressed for the first act, went down on the dimly- 
 lighted stage. The scene was already set and ready, 
 the properties were laid out on long tables ; nowhere 
 was there any sign of confusion, but rather the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 185 
 
 superlative orderliness of the deck of a man-of-war. 
 The whole atmosphere of the place seemed to Fay 
 tense and unnecessary and quite unbearable ; groups 
 of actors stood about in corners of the stage, silent 
 and gloomy, and even the "grips" appeared de- 
 pressed and apparently hopeless of the outcome. 
 That this same stage would in a few minutes be the 
 scene of a riot of brilliant color and music and pretty 
 women seemed to Fay hardly possible, and tired of 
 the silence and pall that hung over the place, she 
 hurried back to the more congenial atmosphere of 
 the big dressing-room that had been set apart for the 
 use of the show-girls. 
 
 Here there was laughter and endless chatter and 
 an absolute lack of any feeling of responsibility 
 whatever. No gloomy doubts assailed the cheerful 
 outlook of these charming ladies. Whether the play 
 was a success or a failure they were, at least, sure of 
 their salaries for a few weeks, and in any case, they 
 were back in the big town, at home in their cozy 
 flats, and surrounded by the kind friends who would 
 send them flowers and give them an endless round 
 of dinners and supper-parties. 
 
 Fay did not leave the room until she was called 
 with the others for their first entrance. Carefully
 
 1 86 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 holding up her dress, she went down the dusty nar- 
 row spiral staircase to the now brilliantly lighted 
 stage and found that since her last visit a great 
 transformation had taken place. The radiance of 
 a thousand electric globes seemed to have dispelled 
 completely the former foreboding gloom. The silent 
 pall that had hung over the place had given way to 
 an atmosphere of keen exhilaration. On the stage 
 proper the soubrette and the second comedian were 
 taking their third encore for a song and dance which 
 at Atlantic City had never won more than one; 
 everywhere she looked, about the broad spaces, be- 
 hind the scenes, there were groups of smiling, gaily 
 dressed chorus girls ; the principals of the company, 
 now apparently sure of a success, were gathered 
 about the entrances ready to go on or waiting to con- 
 gratulate their fellow-workers as they left the stage. 
 Even the usually hard-set features of Ben Tolliver 
 were wreathed in smiles as he stood in the prompt 
 entrance directing the performance. The play was 
 going as it had never gone before, and the very air 
 seemed charged with success. 
 
 At last it came Fay's turn, and she and the other 
 seven show-girls, with their wonderful dresses and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 187 
 
 flaring hats, and carrying long-handled parasols, 
 followed the prima donna slowly down the stage. 
 Belle Gordon, who was next to Fay, turned and 
 smiled to her encouragingly. 
 
 "Don't be scared, Fay," she whispered, "it's just 
 like Atlantic City." 
 
 But, as a matter of fact, Fay was not at all fright- 
 ened. Her eyes once accustomed to the glare of the 
 footlights, she found that Belle Gordon was right 
 and that as far as she was concerned a Broadway 
 stage was just like the stage at Atlantic City. There 
 was the prima donna singing the opening bars of her 
 song, precisely as she had always sung them, and 
 beyond her were the footlights and the musical direc- 
 tor, with his white kid gloves and gold-rimmed spec- 
 tacles, and beyond him, rows of black coats and 
 broad shirt-fronts, relieved at intervals by the bril- 
 liant color of a woman's dress. 
 
 The blurred rows of faces gradually cleared, and 
 she saw the smiling features of Max Lusk. She 
 did not smile back at him, but looked quickly away 
 to another part of the house. But wherever she 
 looked, whether it was at the men in the front rows 
 or at the overdressed women in the boxes, she found
 
 1 88 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 that they were looking at her, and smiling at her, as 
 if to say, "My, but you're a very pretty girl, and 
 we're glad to see you on Broadway." 
 
 Several times during the play she looked for 
 Fielding, but could not find him. It was the one dis- 
 appointment of the evening, but she was confident 
 that he was in the theater and her secret hope was 
 that he, too, would think her as pretty as the others 
 thought her. His words of praise were the only 
 ones she really cared to hear, and over and over 
 again, when she was on the stage and in her dress- 
 ing-room, it was with a sharp pang of regret that she 
 remembered that she could not see him until the fol- 
 lowing day. The bitterness that she had felt toward 
 him when she had received his letter at Atlantic City 
 was gone by now and all she cared for was to be near 
 him, to have him tell her that he thought her much 
 the prettiest girl on the stage, and that he cared for 
 her more than Blanche Wilmerding or any one else 
 in the whole world. 
 
 The Belles of Barbary continued on its joyous 
 way, and the first performance ended in a triumph 
 with glory enough for every one concerned. The 
 audience filed slowly out of the theater, happy in the 
 the thought that there was at least one theater in
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 189 
 
 town where for many months one could hear pretty 
 music, laugh at good comedy, and watch beautiful 
 girls cavort or move majestically about the stage. 
 Behind the scenes every one was happy because a 
 long season on Broadway and the accompanying 
 comforts and luxuries of New York were an as- 
 sured fact. 
 
 When the curtain had fallen, innumerable tele- 
 grams of good wishes and boxes of flowers were 
 given out by the stage doorkeeper to almost every 
 member of the company. To Fay's lot fell a tele- 
 gram from Doris Yorke, and two bunches of flowers 
 one of roses from Fielding, and a great bouquet 
 of orchids from Lusk. The big dressing-room of 
 the show-girls looked like a flower-shop at Easter 
 time, but Lusk's was easily the most conspicuous 
 offering of all, and was enormously admired by 
 the other girls. But it was Fielding's roses and the 
 telegram from Doris that most appealed to Fay. The 
 orchids only served to remind her that the automo- 
 bile of the donor was waiting for her at the stage 
 door, ready to carry her off to a supper-party that 
 she in no way fancied. Her thoughts were all of 
 Fielding and the little supper they had planned and 
 she now thoroughly regretted the sudden impulse
 
 190 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 that had prompted her to accept Lusk's invitation 
 to the party that he was giving in her honor. 
 
 As Belle Gordon had also been asked, the two girls 
 went together in Lusk's car and met their host and 
 his other guests in the lobby of the Knickerbocker 
 where he had decided to give the supper. A large 
 table had been reserved for him in the Armenon- 
 ville room, just inside one of the windows leading 
 to the terrace, and it was therefore necessary for his 
 party to traverse almost the entire length of the res- 
 taurant. 
 
 The place was crowded with people who had been 
 to see the new play and most of them were half 
 through their supper when Lusk and his friends 
 made their entrance. In all ways it was just as the 
 little broker would have planned it the orchestra 
 was playing the song hit from The Belles of Barbary, 
 the men and women that filled the room to overflow- 
 ing were already enjoying the exhilarating effects 
 of good food and good drink, and were extremely 
 happy in the consciousness of having witnessed a 
 real success. And what meant much more to Max 
 Lusk, Fay looked quite superb. She wore the only 
 good evening dress she owned, a simple white tulle, 
 but it showed off her tall lithe figure to wonderful
 
 When she saw Fielding sitting at a table a few feet away.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 191 
 
 advantage. And as she followed Lusk slowly along 
 the aisles, formed by the crowded tables, few failed 
 to recognize the red-haired show-girl who had been 
 the chief topic of gossip between the acts of The 
 Belles of Barbary. 
 
 Bowing to the right and left, and fairly beaming 
 with satisfaction over a guest whose beauty at- 
 tracted such universal attention and admiration, 
 Lusk proudly led the way across the restaurant. 
 And, to many there, the mystery, which during the 
 early part of the evening had existed concerning 
 the exact social and moral status of the new show- 
 girl, had been definitely solved. To the seasoned 
 eyes of these men and women of Broadway seeing 
 is believing, and they saw Fay Clayton with Max 
 Lusk, and they saw that Belle Gordon and several 
 more of her luxurious type of show-girl were mem- 
 bers of the same party, and they therefore believed. 
 
 It was just as Fay was about to take her place 
 at Lusk's right that she first saw the Wilmerdings 
 and Fielding sitting at a table but a few feet away. 
 At the moment Blanche Wilmerding was speaking 
 to her father, but Fielding's eyes were riveted on 
 Fay. She had not seen him since she had gone 
 away, more than a week before, and her first im-
 
 192 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 pulse was to take the few steps that separated them 
 and to tell him how happy she was to see him again, 
 but there was something in his look that made 
 this simple show of friendliness impossible. Field- 
 ing's lips were drawn into a straight hard line, and 
 there was no smile of welcome as he recognized 
 Fay's greeting by a formal bow. If Wilmerding or 
 his daughter, both of whom she knew slightly, were 
 conscious of her presence they did not show it then 
 or afterward. With a sharp little gasp of wonder 
 and pain, she sank into her chair and quickly turned 
 toward the man sitting on her right so that her face 
 was hidden from Wilmerding's table. To Fay the 
 room became suddenly unbearably oppressive, the 
 pink candle-shades and the roses on the table seemed 
 to be moving slowly up and down before her strain- 
 ing eyes, her lips were parched, and the pleasantries 
 she tried to speak died in her throat. The man on 
 her right regarded her with evident alarm. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're a little faint," he said. 
 "You'd better drink this," and he pushed a glass of 
 water toward her. She did as she was bid, and in 
 a few minutes more she had found herself again, 
 and went on talking to her fellow-guest, as if noth- 
 ing had happened.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 193 
 
 Instead of being the happiest night of Fay's life, 
 as she had so carefully planned that it should be, 
 it turned out, in reality, to be the most miserable that 
 she had ever known. As the long supper dragged 
 on its weary way of cheap wit and sordid gos- 
 sip she found herself constantly casting secret 
 glances at the men and women of her own 
 party, and then comparing them and their man^ 
 ners and their clothes with the people at the 
 other tables. As far as she could see, there 
 was little difference, except the women at Lusk's 
 table were perhaps a little overdressed, and at times, 
 especially as the hour grew late, the men laughed 
 loudly and seemed to want to make themselves con- 
 spicuous. Several times, almost against her will, 
 she glanced at the Wilmerdings' table, but it always 
 so happened that Fielding was talking to Miss Wil- 
 merding, and when they started to leave the res- 
 taurant Fay quickly turned her head and talked 
 with much animation to one of her own party. 
 
 But at last, and greatly to Fay's relief, the supper 
 came to an end, and Lusk took her and Belle Gordon 
 home in his car. They dropped Miss Gordon at her 
 apartment and Fay found herself alone with Lusk. 
 The long evening of anxiety and excitement had be-
 
 194 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 gun to tell on her and she sank back wearily into 
 the corner of the limousine, her eyes closed, and her 
 head resting against the cushions. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're very tired," Lusk said with 
 great solicitude. 
 
 "Very," she said; "the performance was a good 
 deal of a strain, but that's over at last, thank heaven ! 
 I'm mighty glad I can never make another first ap- 
 pearance on Broadway." 
 
 Lusk smiled at her and gave her a fatherly pat on 
 her gloved hand. 
 
 "I tell you you were wonderful, Miss Clayton, 
 wonderful ! You ought to have heard how the men 
 raved about you between the acts. I was mighty 
 proud of my protege, mighty proud, believe me!" 
 
 Fay closed her eyes, and with a slight shudder, 
 sank farther back into the cushions. She wanted 
 so much to be silent, but Lusk insisted on talking 
 ceaselessly. 
 
 "Did you see Porter at supper?" he ran on. "You 
 know he has left us and gone with old man Wil- 
 merding. A rare chance for a boy! And that Miss 
 Wilmerding's a fine gal, a fine gal, I can tell you." 
 
 Fay pulled herself slowly from the depths of the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 195 
 
 cushions, and sitting on the edge of the seat, stared 
 out of the open window on the long rows of gloomy 
 foreboding houses flying by in the darkness. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "she's a fine girl." 
 
 "But not for me," Lusk chuckled, "not my kind 
 at all. I like women who work for a living, who 
 really do something with their lives, and who are 
 clever enough to keep themselves before the public. 
 What can you expect of a girl who has everything 
 thrown at her all of her life, and for what for 
 nothing?" 
 
 "That's right," Fay said with a weary little sigh, 
 "that girl's got everything a home, and a father to 
 look after her, and friends, and money I'll bet she 
 doesn't have to borrow from men." 
 
 Lusk stuck his hand deep in his trousers pocket, 
 and pulling out a fat roll of bills, held it toward her. 
 
 "My dear Miss Clayton," he said, "if there's any- 
 thing I can do " 
 
 But Fay pushed the proffered hand sharply from 
 her. 
 
 "Thank you, no," she whispered. "Please don't 
 do that, please don't." 
 
 While she still spoke the automobile, to her great
 
 196 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 relief, swung around the corner of the cross-street 
 on which the Yorkes lived and came to a sudden 
 stop before their door. 
 
 Lusk helped her out of the car, and, when they 
 had reached the vestibule she shook hands with him 
 and thanked him as graciously as she could for the 
 supper-party and the orchids and for all of his kind- 
 nesses. 
 
 "You're sure there's nothing I can do," he ven- 
 tured again, and, unabashed by the failure of his 
 previous effort, his hand dove into his trousers 
 pocket. 
 
 "Nothing," Fay laughed, "nothing not now, 
 anyhow. Good night." 
 
 Lusk started to go, but before he had reached the 
 car he called back to her. 
 
 "But don't forget, Miss Clayton, if you ever 
 should need me, I'm your banker." 
 
 By way of answer, Fay waved her hand to him, 
 and having let herself in the door, started to climb 
 up the long flights of stairs to the Yorke apart- 
 ment where she found Doris waiting for her in the 
 sitting-room. 
 
 "Hello, Fay," Doris cried, "how was it? Did 
 you get through all right, or did you fall down and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 197 
 
 disgrace yourself? And how do you like the stage, 
 now that you're a regular Broadway actress ?" 
 
 Fay put out her arms, and resting them on the 
 girl's shoulders, looked straight into her eyes. 
 
 "Doris," she said, "I can't tell you how sweet I 
 think it was of you to wait up for me, but I'm going 
 to bed. I'm just dead beat. The play was a great 
 success, and they tell me I was a great success, and, 
 I guess I was that is as far as a show-girl can be 
 a great success and I hate the stage, and I hate 
 everybody connected with the stage, directly or in- 
 directly, and that includes myself." 
 
 Doris laughed aloud, slipped her shoulders free 
 from Fay's hands, and started for her bedroom. 
 When she had reached the door she turned and 
 kissed her hand to the gloomy bent figure standing 
 in the center of the room. 
 
 "Of course, you're right, dear," she called, "but 
 I'm sorry you found it out so soon. Show business 
 is a rotten business, sure. Good night." 
 
 Fay had returned from Atlantic City on Sunday 
 afternoon, but as she had a dress rehearsal that 
 evening and many little things to attend to before 
 the opening, she and Fielding had agreed that it
 
 198 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 would be better not to try to see each other before 
 Tuesday afternoon, when she was to come to his 
 rooms for tea. Their chance meeting on Monday 
 night at the restaurant had been a contingency that 
 neither of them had considered. 
 
 As was his custom, he met her at the door of his 
 apartment, but apparently not noticing the hand of 
 welcome he held out to her, she crossed the room 
 and sat down in her favorite armchair before the 
 empty fireplace. Fielding carefully closed the door 
 and then went over to the hearth, and leaning 
 against the mantel, looked down at Fay's white face 
 and colorless lips. 
 
 "What's the trouble, Fay?" he asked. "Tell me, 
 won't you, please?" 
 
 But Fay disregarded his question, and for a few 
 moments nervously ran her long tapering fingers 
 up and down the arms of the chair. 
 
 "I thought at first," she began, "that it would be 
 better if I didn't come to see you at all to-day, but 
 afterward it seemed wiser for me to come and have 
 a little talk with you. It seemed fairer to both of 
 us, and I want very much to be fair with you, 
 Porter."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 199 
 
 Fielding clasped his hands behind his back and 
 slowly shook his head. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't understand you," he said. 
 "I'm afraid I don't understand you at all.'* 
 
 "That seems a pity, too," Fay went on. "Why 
 were you ashamed to speak to me last night? Was 
 it me or my friends of whom you were ashamed ?" 
 
 Fielding smiled and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I didn't care much about some of your friends 
 that's a fact." 
 
 "A week ago," Fay said, "you were glad enough 
 to know Max Lusk, and to take his money. Can a 
 few days with Wilmerding & Wilson have changed 
 your views so entirely?" 
 
 "It wasn't the men," Fielding replied quickly, "it 
 was the women. Fay, you have no right to expect 
 me to go from a girl like Blanche Wilmerding and 
 speak to some of the women who were at your table. 
 I don't know much about the ways of the world, but 
 I know that much. Won't you take off your hat? 
 You look as if you were going to run away at once. 
 Better have some tea. " 
 
 For several moments Fay did not answer, but 
 pressed the back of her hand hard against her fore-
 
 200 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 head. "I can't stay very long," she said at last. "I 
 played around with those girls in Atlantic City be- 
 cause I had no excuse to offer them for staying away 
 from their parties. It's very difficult to be with 
 those women so much at the theater and not be civil 
 to them even friendly. But, at that, I'd quite de- 
 cided to cut them out altogether that is, when I 
 came back to New York. And then I got your let- 
 ter, and when I found that you had thrown me down 
 for the Wilmerdings, I suppose I sort of lost my 
 head. Lusk turned up I met him that same after- 
 noon on the board-walk and I said I would go to 
 supper with him last night. I didn't know who he 
 was going to have, but I was sorry afterward I 
 hadn't refused, because I don't like him very much. 
 But after I got your letter I was pretty badly broken 
 up and I hardly knew what I was doing. You hurt 
 me terribly, Porter, terribly. I'd looked forward 
 so much to that supper with you." 
 
 Fielding walked over to her side and laid his hand 
 gently on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Fay," he 
 said, "so very sorry, but I thought " 
 
 "Won't you go back," Fay interrupted him, "and 
 stand where you were ? I can talk to you so much 
 better when you are over there. I've been thinking
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 201 
 
 it all out to-day, and I must tell you now before we 
 quit." 
 
 "Quit !" he repeated. 
 
 "Yes, quit," she went on. "You see, Porter, just 
 a few weeks ago it seems such a terribly short 
 time now, doesn't it ? we were down there at Pleas- 
 antville and things were pretty much the same with 
 us. We were poor, and didn't have really much but 
 each other, and then we both of us got our chance, 
 and we came on here to seek our fortunes, in a way, 
 didn't we? And although that's such a very short 
 time ago, just look at the difference. You're a suc- 
 cess already, Porter, and " 
 
 "Everybody was talking about you last night, 
 Fay," he said ; "why, all the people near us spoke of 
 you. They thought you were wonderful." 
 
 "I know that," she said, "I know that I know 
 I looked pretty, but I didn't care what any one else 
 thought. I wanted to look pretty to you. I'd tried 
 so hard to look my best, and to learn the steps, and 
 I worked and worked at rehearsals with the one 
 thought always in my mind that you would be 
 proud of me. And and then when it was all over, 
 and they said that I had done all right, and looked 
 so pretty, and I got your roses, and was very pleased
 
 202 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 and happy then you refused to speak to me in a 
 restaurant." 
 
 She turned, and hiding her face against the cush- 
 ions pf the chair, broke into a series of long low 
 sobs. Fielding came and knelt by her side and put 
 his arms about her shoulders. 
 
 "Forgive me, Fay," he begged, "please forgive 
 me. Please, Fay, dear, give me another chance." 
 
 But the girl motioned him away, and, in a few 
 moments, pulled herself to her feet, and then took 
 several quick turns up and down the length of the 
 room. 
 
 "I tell you, Porter," she began again, "I tell you 
 it's over. It was nobody's fault. You didn't know, 
 and I didn't know, what this coming to New York 
 meant to either of us. But now we know and the 
 luck, as usual, is with the man. You're in right, and 
 I'm in wrong. If I had a home to go back to I'd 
 go back to it to-day, but I have no home. I'm on 
 my own feet I'm alone. I wanted to make some- 
 thing of myself, and look where I've landed look 
 at my friends. You're right, I know what they are. 
 Even if my morals are different from those of the 
 girls you saw me with last night, it's the job that 
 counts it isn't the individual. I'm just as much an
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 203 
 
 outcast from decent society as they are. If I were 
 a shop-girl, or a stenographer, or anything else 
 pretty much, I could hold up my head, but because 
 I'm a show-girl I'm supposed to be bad, plain bad. 
 Why, the very name is tainted." 
 
 "Fay, dear," Fielding said assuringly, "you're 
 nervous and excited from overwork, and you've got 
 your relative values badly mixed. To-night we're 
 going to have our little supper-party, and talk it all 
 over quietly. I'll meet you at the stage door after 
 the performance." 
 
 Fay went to the mirror that hung over the fire- 
 place, dried her wet eyes with her handkerchief, and 
 rearranged her hair. Then she turned to Fielding, 
 looked frankly into his eyes, and held out her hand. 
 
 "Thank you, Porter," she said, and her voice was 
 quite calm again. "I appreciate your asking me, 
 but I can't go you must understand that. It 
 wouldn't do for you in your present position to be 
 seen supping alone with a show-girl. I'll come back 
 here sometimes just to see how you are getting on, 
 but the old days are over. You see, the trouble was 
 that we were coming to the crossroads all the time 
 and we didn't know it." She drew her hand from 
 his and forced a smile into her tired misty eyes.
 
 204 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "Good-by to you, Porter," she went on, "and God 
 bless you, and good luck to you. Don't try to see 
 me for a while, anyhow, and don't write to me 
 it's better that way. I want to think things over and 
 have time to forget about about last night." 
 
 He suddenly held out his arms and took a step 
 toward her, but she motioned him back. 
 
 "Please don't," she whispered, "please don't touch 
 me, Porter. You've got to make it as easy for me 
 as you can. Because, you see, you're a man and I'm 
 only a woman, and and I loved you, Porter oh, 
 good God, how I loved you!" 
 
 In silent acquiescence to her wishes, Fielding 
 bowed low before her, and Fay, her arm shielding 
 her face, and with unsteady steps, groped her way 
 out of the room and down the stairs. 
 
 Had this interview with Fay taken place at almost 
 any other time it would, no doubt, have made a 
 much more serious and lasting impression on Field- 
 ing than it did. It occurred, however, at a moment 
 when he was completely engrossed with his own 
 affairs. He, therefore, chose to regard all that Fay 
 had said as the ravings of a warm-hearted, very 
 emotional girl who had just made her first appear- 
 ance on the stage, and, in consequence, was still suf-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 205 
 
 fering from an experience that Fielding was quite 
 willing to believe was a most nerve-racking ordeal. 
 Under the circumstances he deemed it best to accept 
 her judgment in the matter and not to write to her 
 or try to see her again until her nerves had been re- 
 stored to their normal condition, and until she was 
 ready to take a less morbid view of the future. 
 
 And there could be no question that he was im- 
 mensely interested in his new position, and all that 
 it meant to him now, and would mean to him hereaf- 
 ter. The great advantages in the change he had 
 made had been evident at once. At no time were 
 the offices of Lusk Brothers ever quite free from 
 the spirit of gambling. The younger members of 
 the firm, the clerks, even the office boys, were for- 
 ever talking of "tips" and " good things", and trying 
 to "pay expenses" for a Sunday jaunt or a present 
 to a girl friend. Few came to invest, but many to 
 speculate, and the marble brass-bound offices were in 
 purpose not very different from the rooms of the 
 casino at Monte Carlo. Even when the market was 
 dullest there always seemed to be excitement here, 
 and Fielding had but little liking for the everlasting 
 din, the ceaseless confusion and the loud talk of the 
 men wlio hung over the ticker from ten o'clock in
 
 206 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the morning until three in the afternoon, and lived 
 only on their nerves and cocktails. 
 
 At the banking house of Wilmerding & Wilson, 
 there was no confusion at all, but rather an atmos- 
 phere pf great dignity that had been created by the 
 traditions of years of solid prosperity. The worst 
 panics known to Wall Street had left the big silent 
 offices, with their solemn occupants, unruffled, and 
 in times of great financial stress, the name of Wil- 
 merding & Wilson had always been among those 
 who, in the hour of imminent peril, came to save and 
 never to destroy. Even Mr. Wilmerding found time 
 to interest himself in Fielding's first duties and to 
 see that he was properly started on his business 
 career. The younger men in the office were most 
 courteous and friendly in giving him such assistance 
 as they could and it was not only at the office but 
 rather outside of it that they showed their friendly 
 spirit, by asking him to their clubs in town and to 
 their homes in the country. 
 
 It was not, after all, very strange that Fielding 
 should have at once come into a certain degree of 
 popularity among these new acquaintances. He was 
 quiet, intelligent, always courteous, had the manly 
 good looks that appeal to both men and women,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 207 
 
 was unusually good at outdoor sports, and, above all, 
 was tremendously interested in anything and every- 
 thing that happened to be going on. He was learn- 
 ing one of the best established facts in the social life 
 of New York that the unattached young man, at- 
 tractive but poor, is always in demand, and gets ten 
 invitations where the young man with a million dol- 
 lars and a wife is fortunate if he gets one. 
 
 In all ways these were the best days that Fielding 
 had ever known. He was happy in his work, happy 
 in his friends, and the pleasure he found in this new 
 life, crowded with its many interests, was only 
 equaled by his surprise that it should have been 
 made so easy for him, and that it should have come 
 to him unasked or unsought. Indeed, it was prob- 
 ably the keen pleasure that he took in the hospitality 
 that was held out to him, and his frank gratitude to 
 his hosts, which, to a great extent, accounted for 
 his popularity. The men and women of wealth and 
 of socially conspicuous position, whom he had 
 known heretofore only by hearsay or through the 
 newspapers, and whom he had always held in a kind 
 of awe, he found in reality to be more kindly and 
 more simple in their thoughts and in their ways of 
 living than the people, much less prominent, whom he
 
 208 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 had known before. For the first time since he had 
 come to New York he no longer felt the lack of 
 wealth. These new friends seemed to be playing a 
 game of give and take, and to be quite willing to 
 accept his courtesy, and his good looks, and his golf 
 and tennis as an entirely adequate contribution. 
 
 Of Fay he heard nothing, and saw but once. He 
 had gone to a dinner and later to a theater-party to 
 The Belles of Barbary, and from the back of the 
 box, he had watched her throughout the evening 
 whenever she was on the stage. She was quite as 
 beautiful and, perhaps, even more graceful and 
 charming in her manner than ever, but whether it 
 was on account of the women in the box with him, 
 or for some other reason, he found himself regard- 
 ing her with new eyes. For the first time it did not 
 seem possible to him that this girl on the stage, 
 dressed in her gorgeous clothes, her lips and cheeks 
 rouged, and her eyes smiling through penciled 
 lashes, was the same girl whom he had known and 
 grown up with at Pleasantville. Once, when she 
 stood very near his box, he caught her eye and 
 smiled and nodded to her, but she give him no sign 
 of recognition. During the remainder of the even- 
 ing he found himself constantly wondering whether
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 209 
 
 it was because she was still angry with him, or be- 
 cause she was as morbid as she had been about her- 
 self, and conscious of the difference between her 
 position in life and that of the woman with him in 
 the box. He hoped and rather expected that she 
 would call him up at his office the following morn- 
 ing, but this hope was not realized and he soon for- 
 got the incident. 
 
 It was when he stopped long enough to look at her 
 photographs in his room that he recalled the days 
 when Fay had been nearly all of his life. There 
 were other moments, too, when his thoughts turned 
 back to her. Often when he was at a late dinner, 
 surrounded by friends and all of the comforts and 
 luxuries that money makes possible, he would sud- 
 denly remember that she was at work, parading up 
 and down the stage, or changing her clothes in a hot 
 stuffy dressing-room. At such moments he would 
 make a mental vow that he would write to her the 
 next day and seek her out, whether she wished it or 
 not, and try to do something to make her life 
 brighter, and to have her share the happiness that 
 had come so suddenly and unexpectedly to him. But 
 in the morning he would regard the affair with 
 a calmer and what he assured himself was a saner
 
 210 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 judgment. In the rush of other affairs, he would 
 decide that it was better to leave matters as they 
 stood, and to trust to the future to bring Fay and 
 himself back to their old intimate terms of friend- 
 ship. 
 
 If Fielding had been busily occupied during the 
 month he had been at work in his new position, Fay, 
 on her part, had done her best to try to forget the 
 time when her happiness depended solely on him. 
 For a few days after her last unhappy talk with 
 Porter at his rooms she had refused invitations of 
 every kind, had wandered about by herself, gloomy 
 and depressed, and had not only spent the best part 
 of her mornings and afternoons in the Yorke flat, 
 but had returned there every night as soon as the 
 performance was over. But the Yorke family no 
 longer interested nor even amused her. Mrs. Yorke 
 and Angie Clubb fought with each other incessantly, 
 and both of them continued to browbeat Doris and 
 old man Hooker. At last Fay could stand it no 
 longer, and in self-defense she accepted almost any 
 invitation that was offered her. She went to 
 lunches with the girls of the company at the dif- 
 ferent Broadway restaurants, where, either by acci- 
 dent or previous arrangement, they usually met
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 211 
 
 some men who arrived in time for a liqueur and to 
 pay the check. After the performance Fay usually 
 had the choice of half a dozen supper-parties, 
 and her time was often booked far ahead. She 
 never returned to the flat now before two or three 
 o'clock in the morning, sometimes much later, but, 
 as she had become accustomed to sleeping until 
 noon, it made little difference as far as her health 
 was concerned. 
 
 It was after about two weeks of this sort of life 
 when Doris came into Fay's room late one after- 
 noon and asked her to go for a walk in the park. 
 But Fay begged off with the excuse that she had 
 to go down-town early to dine with some friends 
 and to supper after the performance with the same 
 crowd, and that the outlook was for a long hard 
 night. Doris perched herself on Fay's trunk and 
 for some moments carefully regarded the tips of her 
 swinging shoes. 
 
 "Aren't you going it a little strong?" she asked 
 at last. "I know that it's none of my business, Fay, 
 but to keep up your present pace it seems as if you 
 ought to get out into the air a little more. When 
 I first knew you you used to take such a lot of exer- 
 cise."
 
 212 
 
 Fay went over to the window and beat a slow 
 tattoo with her fingers on the window-pane. 
 
 "That's right, Doris," she said, "but I don't seem 
 to have the time to take care of myself any more. So 
 many parties, day and night, and so much sewing 
 and darning, trying to make my few poor clothes 
 look decent." 
 
 Doris stopped swinging her feet and rested her 
 elbows on her knees and her chin between her 
 palms. 
 
 "They tell me, Fay, you're a great favorite in the 
 supper game. No party complete without you, and 
 that the men are all crazy to meet you. But don't 
 you honestly think that you're traveling a little fast 
 for a beginner?" 
 
 Fay turned suddenly from the window and looked 
 Doris evenly in the eyes. 
 
 "Just what do you mean by that?" she asked. 
 
 "I mean," said Doris, "that is, if I am to believe 
 what I hear, and my information is pretty good, 
 that you're not very particular as to the men you 
 go to supper with. The rah-rah boys I run with 
 aren't such a much, but they're gentlemen. This 
 crowd of yours may be rich I guess they're that 
 all right, but they're cheap. They like to take
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 213 
 
 you to the big restaurants with the big crowds, like 
 Rector's, and Churchill's, and the Madrid, because 
 they want to be seen with the best-looking show- 
 girl in New York the girl they're all talking about. 
 If you never want to hit the straw, Fay, why don't 
 you take up with the real thing the married men 
 and the smart society crowd that's afraid to be seen 
 with us theatrical ladies, and who give their parties 
 in private supper-rooms, with their own band and 
 coon singers to amuse you?" 
 
 Fay nodded. "I'm going to one of those to-mor- 
 row night Marie Walters is going to take me." 
 
 "Well, Marie's a nice girl," Doris said, "that is, 
 if you say it quick. You don't want to go to sleep 
 when Marie's about. You probably know the story 
 about her and the slippers?" 
 
 Gloomy, depressed and disinterested, Fay shook 
 her head. 
 
 "It seems," Doris went on, unruffled, "that some 
 girl, Maizie Allen, it was, had on a new pair of 
 slippers at a supper where Marie happened to be, and 
 the slippers were so tight that she took them off 
 under the table. Well, when the party broke up, 
 Maizie groped about for her slippers, but she 
 couldn't find them any place. It really looked as if
 
 214 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 she'd have to go home in her silk-stockinged feet, till 
 somebody saw one of the slippers sticking out of 
 Marie Walters' pocket. Sure, Marie's a nice girl, 
 but she's what my friend, James Alexander Stuart, 
 calls predatory. Now if " 
 
 "He's going to be there to-morrow night," Fay 
 interrupted, "so Marie says." 
 
 "Is he?" said Doris. "That sounds like a good 
 party. I'd like to go if I could get by with a Cin- 
 derella first-act make-up, and they wouldn't let the 
 clock bark out the hour of midnight. What's be- 
 come of your friend, Porter Fielding? I haven't 
 heard you mention him for a long, long time. Quit, 
 eh?" 
 
 Fay looked up at Doris with eyes that had sud- 
 denly become misty and then out of the window on 
 the grimy walls of the court. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "in a way, I guess we've quit." 
 
 Doris slid off the trunk, and going over to Fay, 
 stood back of her and placed her hands gently on 
 her shoulders. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Fay," she said. "I shouldn't have 
 asked you that, but I was afraid that something was 
 wrong between you two the way you've been going
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 215 
 
 it lately. You're not drinking much at these par- 
 ties, are you, Fay ?" 
 
 Fay shook her head. "Not much," she said. 
 
 "I'm glad of that, anyhow. Most of the girls I 
 know when they believe they really care for a man 
 usually celebrate with a pint, and then when they 
 have a row try to forget it with a quart. And then 
 that liquor habit ! I tell you that's something awful. 
 I know a girl in our chorus, Mae Darnton, that's 
 always falling in love with some prince. And then, 
 when he throws her over in a couple of days, Mae 
 discovers some entirely new liquor, put up in a 
 queer-looking bottle, and tries to drown her sorrow 
 in it before anybody else can get a taste. If the 
 Johns only stood by the chorus girls instead of 
 ditching them all the time, I believe the dealers in 
 liquors would be driven out of business." 
 
 She opened the door and blew a kiss toward Fay. 
 
 "Have a good time at your party, dear," she said, 
 "and don't forget you're the best-looking thing on 
 Broadway. Nurse it, though, and try to hold on to 
 your pink cheeks, and cut the hicks, and the kikes, 
 and the ginks, and don't forget to tell me what you 
 think of James Alexander Stuart."
 
 216 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "Good-by," Fay called, "and thank you. You're 
 a wise kid." 
 
 Doris smiled and shook her head in protest. 
 
 "Not so very wise at that," she said; "but I've 
 been eating caviar and alligator pears with those 
 brigands and child-stealers, who give the hard work- 
 ing chorus girl dinners and suppers, for a long time. 
 Broadway may be the Great White Way, my dear, 
 and it surely is well lit up, especially at night. But 
 I'll tell you, Fay, it's an awful crooked street, espe- 
 cially just above Forty-second Street."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE supper-party to which Fay had been in- 
 vited for the evening following, and which 
 was to be at Martin's, was, by all odds, the most 
 costly, and in all ways, the most interesting social 
 event that she had yet attended. There were two 
 large adjoining rooms, one of which was cleared 
 for dancing, while the other was devoted to a buffet 
 and numerous small tables. There were bunches 
 of roses and big green plants scattered about in 
 great profusion, and there were many comfortable 
 lounging chairs and divans for those who preferred 
 tete-a-tetes to dancing. For music there was a 
 Hungarian band and a quartette of coon shouters, 
 and from the very moment of her arrival until that 
 of her leave-taking, many hours later, Fay always 
 seemed conscious of the presence of a waiter, bow- 
 ing low before her, and offering her a glass of cham- 
 pagne. It was the kind of a party that the very 
 rich young men of New York like to give because 
 it satisfies their taste for the good things to which 
 
 217
 
 218 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 they are used, and gratifies their spirit of hospitality 
 in offering to fair young women of the stage luxu- 
 ries to which the young women themselves have 
 been wholly unaccustomed, and of which their 
 mothers, who probably scrubbed floors or washed 
 clothes for an honest living, never even dreamed. 
 
 Fay knew at least half of the thirty women pres- 
 ent, as they were either from her own company or 
 she had met them at various supper-parties, but the 
 men were all strangers to her. Even to her inex- 
 perienced eyes it was not difficult to see that they 
 were of a different class from the kind of men she 
 had met since coming to New York. The girls at 
 the theater had assured her that at this particular 
 party she would meet only "swells", and the girls 
 were evidently right. But even if Fay was a stranger 
 when she entered the big room, there was surely 
 nothing left undone to make her feel very much at 
 home at once, and that she was among friends. In 
 a few minutes she had met every man in the place, 
 and thereafter, at least as far as the men were con- 
 cerned, she was beyond question the most popular 
 woman in the room. 
 
 Fay not only danced very well, but she really 
 enjoyed it, and, in consequence, she was never
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 219 
 
 allowed to stop until sheer exhaustion forced her 
 to rest. At one o'clock there was an elaborate sup- 
 per, and Fay, with half a dozen others who had 
 been much together during the early part of the 
 evening, gathered about one of the tables. For the 
 next hour she ate and drank the good things put 
 before her, listened to the coon quartette sing comic 
 songs, joined in the choruses whether she knew the 
 words or not, and had a thoroughly amusing and 
 happy time. 
 
 Once, just before supper, Fay had danced with 
 Jimmy Stuart, but it was some hours later when she 
 found her first opportunity to talk to him alone. He 
 had asked her to dance with him again, but she 
 begged off on the plea of being thoroughly tired out, 
 and suggested that they go some place for a 
 quiet talk. Stuart seemed delighted with the idea 
 and led her to a little room just across the hallway 
 from the ballroom, where it was comparatively 
 quiet and where, at least, they were quite alone. Fay 
 made herself comfortable in the depths of a low 
 divan, and Stuart sat in a big armchair facing 
 her. He was a rather heavily built young man, with 
 a hard muscular figure, a strong if not very 
 handsome face, and gray eyes that were curiously
 
 220 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 contradictory because, while they were serious eyes, 
 they always seemed to be smiling and inviting one's 
 confidence. He was in many ways very much like 
 the other young men at the party except that either 
 he did not drink champagne or did not show the 
 effects of it, and he was chiefly conspicuous for a 
 certain old-time courtesy in his manner, which to 
 women was as charming as it was unusual. 
 
 "I wanted to meet you very much, Mr. Stuart," 
 Fay began, "because I owe you such a lot." 
 
 Stuart smiled and sank back in his chair. 
 
 "That's fine," he laughed, "and most unexpected. 
 How much do you owe me ?" 
 
 Fay looked him evenly in the eyes. "One hun- 
 dred dollars." 
 
 Stuart took out his cigarette case, lighted a cig- 
 arette, and blew a few rings at a pair of amorous 
 cupids on the frescoed ceiling. 
 
 "That's very interesting," he said. "Somehow I 
 never thought of it as a cash debt. When did I have 
 the honor of loaning you a hundred dollars?" 
 
 For some reason Fay did not find the confession 
 as easy as she had anticipated, or, at least, hoped 
 that it might be, and she spoke slowly and with
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 221 
 
 evident signs of embarrassment. "I borrowed it 
 anonymously through Doris Yorke. I wanted to tell 
 you how very grateful I was, and to assure you that 
 it was a loan and not a gift of of chartiy. It came 
 at a time when I had to have money, and it saved 
 me the humiliation of going to others who might not 
 have been so kind perhaps less exacting than you 
 have been. It's not very easy for me to explain, as 
 you can see, but perhaps you will understand." 
 
 Fay looked up at Stuart and found that he was 
 regarding her with an apparently new interest. 
 
 "Of course, I understand," he said. "Doris told 
 me something about you and your story, although 
 she didn't tell me your name." 
 
 "Just what did Doris tell you?" Fay asked. 
 
 Stuart hesitated for a moment, blew a few more 
 rings at the amorous cupids, and then : "You must 
 understand, Miss Clayton, that our little friend, 
 Doris, did not tell me your name." 
 
 Fay nodded. "I understand please go on." 
 
 "It seems," Stuart began, "that a fearful bounder 
 here in town, one Max Lusk, was very anxious, for 
 one reason or another, to get you to New York. He 
 was so anxious to get you here that he gave a young
 
 222 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 man a position in his office because he did not be- 
 lieve that you would come unless this young man 
 happened to be living here." 
 
 He looked at Fay and saw that her eyes were 
 staring into his, and that her face had gone quite 
 white. 
 
 "Is that news to you?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "please go on, please." 
 
 "Well, then it seems," Stuart continued cheer- 
 fully, "that you spent your savings and were about 
 to go to Lusk when he insulted you. It also seems 
 that you were properly indignant, and not knowing 
 much of Lusk or his kind, were, also, greatly sur- 
 prised. But Doris Yorke knew that people soon 
 become callous to all kinds of things in this big 
 cruel town; and knowing also how greatly you 
 needed the money, she feared that you would pardon 
 Lusk and would still go to him for a loan. To pre- 
 vent this she came to me. Under the circumstances, 
 I can not consider my action in the matter particu- 
 larly praiseworthy. You see I knew Max Lusk, 
 even if I didn't know you." 
 
 Fay looked at Stuart and tried to smile but the 
 effort was not much of a success. 
 
 "I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Stuart," she said.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 223 
 
 "I didn't know how really grateful I was before." 
 
 Stuart suddenly became serious. "That's all right, 
 but as long as we are telling each other our right 
 names, I'm going to ask you a very impertinent 
 question. Did you pardon Lusk ?" 
 
 "Yes, I pardoned him. It's impossible to explain 
 the conditions but he came to me at a moment when 
 I wasn't myself I wasn't myself at all. He'd al- 
 ways been very kind to me except except that one 
 time. I didn't know then why he brought me to 
 New York." 
 
 "One more question," Stuart said. "Forgive me 
 for asking, but have you ever borrowed money from 
 him since?" 
 
 Fay shook her head. "No. No he offered to 
 loan me some, but, thank God, I refused." 
 
 "Well, that's good, anyhow," Stuart said with a 
 sigh of relief. "Now, let's be cheerful again. Do 
 you like this sort of thing I mean these dances?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I suppose I do. They keep your mind 
 off other troubles, and, besides, it all seems to be part 
 of the game, and apparently it's the only game for a 
 girl in my position. You've seen enough of the 
 theater to know that a girl can't hold herself as 
 being any better than the rest and expect to get on."
 
 224 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "But you can't go on doing this sort of thing," 
 Stuart protested, "that is, not on your present sal- 
 ary." 
 
 "I have so far," Fay said, "that is, I have with the 
 hundred you loaned me." 
 
 Stuart shook his head in violent protest. "But 
 you can't keep it up I know you can't. What is 
 your ultimate ambition, anyhow? Do you want to 
 get married, or do you want to be a great actress?" 
 
 "Both," Fay laughed. 
 
 "And do you consider the kind of life you are 
 leading now," Stuart asked, "to be a proper step 
 to either?" 
 
 "I do, and I'm working on a carefully thought out 
 and well defined scheme. I'm making myself con- 
 spicuous, which is apparently the first ambition of 
 every actress, and I'm keeping myself respectable, 
 which is, of course, absolutely necessary to a suc- 
 cessful marriage." 
 
 Stuart stood up and smiled pleasantly down at 
 Fay's smiling eyes. 
 
 "Do you really think you can win out with that 
 theory?" 
 
 "Of course I can," Fay laughed, "watch me."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 225 
 
 "All right," he said, "I'll watch you and I'll help 
 you, too. You have the courage of your convictions, 
 anyhow, but, really, I don't think our best young 
 men, unless they happen to be very young indeed, 
 are looking for wives in private supper-rooms. Have 
 you fixed it up with any one to take you home ?" 
 
 Fay blushed and shook her head. " 'Nobody 
 asked me, sir/ she said." 
 
 "Good," cried Stuart, "then we'll have one more 
 dance and finish our talk in the cab." 
 
 It was dawn when they started up the avenue on 
 the way to Mother Yorke's flat, and Fay, sleepy and 
 thoroughly tired out, was grateful that Stuart 
 showed no inclination to continue their recent con- 
 versation that had taken such a purely personal 
 and even intimate turn. The taxicab whirled them 
 over the gray deserted streets, and then along the 
 broad bowered roadways of the park. The cool 
 morning air seemed wonderfully fresh and clean 
 after that of the hot smoky supper-room; and both 
 of them, quite at peace and content, preferred to 
 remain in complete silence. It had been the first 
 really happy evening that Fay had known for a long 
 time and she was as conscious of this as she was that 
 her pleasure was almost entirely due to her meeting
 
 226 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 with Stuart. In his presence she enjoyed a feeling 
 of such perfect safety and protection, and then, too, 
 he seemed to understand her and he was so sincere 
 and honest in all that he said. When they were 
 within a few blocks of her home, Stuart picked up 
 Fay's purse from the cushion where she had laid it, 
 placed a roll of bills in it, and handed it to her. 
 
 "There's some ammunition to fight Lusk with," 
 he said. "Let me know when you need any more, 
 won't you?" 
 
 Fay shook herself free from her lethargy and sat 
 up straight on the edge of the seat, once more quite 
 wide awake. 
 
 "Why should I take money from you," she asked, 
 "and not from Lusk ?" 
 
 "Don't make me laugh, Miss Clayton," Stuart 
 said. "I'm backing that theory of yours just as I 
 would back a theory about a race-horse. I don't 
 happen to think it's a very fine theory, but I've got 
 as good a chance putting my money on it as I have 
 on a race-horse. Better, perhaps, I should think 
 from my experience." 
 
 The cab stopped before her door, and Fay turned 
 her face toward him and her big eyes looked fairly 
 into his.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 227 
 
 "Just what is your theory ?" she asked. 
 
 "My theory in your particular case," he said, 
 "would be to give up late suppers, and live in a hall 
 bedroom and save something every week out of your 
 salary. And, furthermore, I'll bet you'll do it some 
 day, and you'll do it of your own sweet will, and 
 because you want to do it." 
 
 "Then why give me the money?" she persisted. 
 
 "Why? Because white gloves, and hats with 
 plumes on them, and pretty dresses cost money, and 
 if I didn't supply them or the wherewithal to get 
 them, in your present frame of mind somebody else 
 might, and I'm the least dangerous giver I know. 
 Also, I've always understood if you want to make a 
 child stop eating candy the easiest way was to feed 
 it candy until it was good and sick. You're really 
 only a child, and my theory is that you're going to 
 be good and sick pretty soon." 
 
 "All right," said Fay. "I'll take the money be- 
 cause you're you, but tell me one thing more. If I 
 wear white gloves, and pretty dresses and expensive 
 hats I'll wear them for people to see, and the people 
 will know well enough that I'm not buying them out 
 of my salary. What's the difference between the 
 name and the game?"
 
 228 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Stuart got up and let himself out of the cab. 
 
 "The difference," he said, holding out his hand to 
 her, "is much the most important thing in life your 
 conscience." 
 
 With a sudden impulse Fay took his hand in both 
 of hers. "Thank you," she said. "I'll remember 
 that and all the other things you've said. Good 
 night to you. You'll call me up sometimes, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "Of course I will," Stuart laughed; "why, the 
 fight has only just begun. Good night." 
 
 It was past noon when Fay awoke the next morn- 
 ing, and after dressing she went out into the little 
 sitting-room. With the exception of Mr. Hooker, 
 who was dozing in his rocking-chair before the win- 
 dow, the place was quite deserted. As Fay came in 
 the old man roused himself and blinked and smiled 
 at her with an unusual cheerfulness. 
 
 "Good morning, my dear," he said, "and how are 
 you to-day ?" 
 
 Fay glanced at herself in the mirror that hung 
 over the mantel and wearily shook her head. 
 
 "Not very well," she sighed. "Our Fay isn't look- 
 ing her best these days."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 229 
 
 "Too many late hours, my child," the old man 
 chuckled ; "it's the beauty sleep you miss, and that's 
 the only kind that'll bring the roses back to your 
 cheeks." 
 
 "I don't think it's exactly that," Fay said. "I 
 guess it's just worry over trying to keep step with a 
 whole regiment of people who have been marching 
 together for years. I'm an awfully raw recruit, and 
 I don't learn easily that's all." 
 
 She sat down in a chair facing the old man and 
 went on talking. 
 
 "Mr. Hooker, just now when I was putting on my 
 shoes, I was wondering what a girl ought to do 
 when men throw money at her, literally throw it at 
 her. You understand what I'm trying to get at 
 you know, when she hasn't worked for it." 
 
 "Meaning you?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, meaning me." 
 
 "I'd throw it back," said Mr. Hooker. "But don't 
 tell Mother Yorke or Angie I said so." 
 
 Fay met his smiling glance and nodded. 
 
 "I guess you're right. It's so hard sometimes for 
 me to keep my point of view. The old standards 
 I had at Pleasantville seem to have gone to smash
 
 2 3 o IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 long ago and to have come tumbling about my 
 poor head." 
 
 "That's a pity," said Mr. Hooker. "I know how 
 hard it is to keep up to the high mark you set for 
 yourself and yet " 
 
 "And yet " Fay repeated. 
 
 The old man smiled and ran his fingers slowly 
 through his long white beard. Then he took out his 
 watch, and opening it, showed Fay a photograph 
 pasted on the lid opposite the crystal. It was a cheap 
 photograph, stained and faded, of a very old woman 
 with snow-white hair, a wrinkled face and a mouth 
 and eyes that evidently knew no such thing as com- 
 promise. 
 
 "That," he said, "was my mother. It's a copy 
 taken from an old photograph. I'm sorry it's so 
 bad, for I don't think it does her justice, quite. 
 Mother was a hard woman, but very fair and very 
 just, but I didn't know that until afterward. You 
 see, I went away when I was pretty young and 
 and she died before I ever began to find out some 
 of the things that she had done for me. Died long 
 before I ever had a chance to find out, and to show 
 her how grateful I was for all those years of pain 
 and suffering that I had caused her and for all the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 231 
 
 care she had given me as a kid. But later when I 
 grew up, and everywhere I looked I saw women 
 suffering, and depriving themselves, and starving for 
 their children, then I understood what my mother 
 had done." 
 
 He glanced down at the photograph and then at 
 Fay, who was looking at the picture, too. 
 
 "I know you'll think it's a hard face, my dear," 
 he went on again, "but she wasn't hard. She was 
 very gentle with me, and, even now, I can remember 
 when I used to run to her; and how she'd put out 
 her arms; and her smile was just like an angel's 
 yes, my dear, just like an angel's. 
 
 "There are weeks, months I should say, perhaps 
 there have been years, when I have opened that 
 watch again and again and looked only on the face 
 which would tell me the hour of the day. But there 
 have been other times when I looked only for the 
 face of my mother times when, as you say, things 
 go tumbling about your head, and you're crying out 
 for help, and the kind of help that even your friends 
 can't give you." 
 
 "I know what you mean," Fay said, "but you 
 see, Mr. Hooker, I haven't a picture of my mother 
 I haven't even the faintest memory of her."
 
 232 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 The old man put out his hand and patted her 
 gently on the knee. 
 
 "I know, my dear," he went on, "I know, but, be- 
 lieve me, there are the memories of other things. 
 Have you forgotten your home the place you lived 
 when you knew only the innocent thoughts of a 
 child?" 
 
 "I have no home," Fay said. "I have no home 
 now that is gone absolutely." 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said, "it's not gone any more than the 
 hills you knew as a child are gone. It is still there, 
 just as the trees you used to climb are there, and 
 the fields and the meadows you played in are there. 
 And if I were you, I would go back there sometime 
 sometime before it is too late and I would wan- 
 der over the fields and among the trees that you 
 knew as old friends. And if you are no longer wel- 
 come at your home, you can still see it, even if it is 
 from a great distance. It's wonderful, my dear 
 young lady, how those simple things of the days 
 when our minds were simple will refresh us, and 
 make us better and give us the strength to go on with 
 the fight. Because when we reach a certain age, we 
 must all fight the peace and the content are gone,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 233 
 
 and it is only to the very old, who have given up 
 the struggle, and who are waiting for the end, that 
 those days of peace and content can ever return. So 
 save the memory of them, my dear, save it as you 
 would your good name, and the name of your 
 mother you never knew." 
 
 Fay got up and in silence started to leave the 
 room. 
 
 "And the money," he asked, "the money that is 
 thrown at you by men you will send it back?" 
 
 Fay turned and smiled and with the tips of her 
 ringers blew a kiss to the old man. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "That is what I am going to 
 do now send it back." 
 
 This was the letter that Fay, in the seclusion of 
 her bedroom, wrote to Stuart : 
 
 "My dear James Stuart : 
 
 "I am returning you the roll of bills you so kindly 
 and tactfully pressed upon me last night. As I have 
 not counted them I do not know the amount any 
 more than you do, but I am sure it was good for 
 many pairs of white gloves and big joyous hats and 
 even pretty dresses. I wish that I could take the 
 credit to myself for sending it back, but I can't. 
 It is all due to my fellow-boarder, Mr. Hooker, an 
 ex-medicine-showman, a philosopher of the ham- 
 and-eggs school, with a body destroyed by excesses,
 
 234 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 and yet who regards virtue as a beautiful concrete 
 thing more beautiful and more concrete than the 
 most wonderfully cut jewel in the world. Decrepit, 
 dependent, his fading eyes set on a green land, 
 where he hopes that even his sins will be forgotten 
 and forgiven, he has asked me in his own way to 
 remember the days when I played dolls on the 
 lowest hanging bough in our orchard, and when my 
 mind was as pure and my soul as white as the apple 
 blossoms. 
 
 "You said last night that the difference between 
 the name and the game was a clear conscience. Is 
 the girl's conscience clear who can declare aloud : 
 I am virtuous virtuous according to the laws and 
 traditions made by the courts and society? How 
 about her heart if it be crossed and seared and 
 scarred by a knowledge of crime and vice? un- 
 sought if you will, but there it is. Do you believe 
 that we can awake the next morning, and with our 
 limbs still trembling from fear, thank the Lord that 
 we were strong enough to have withstood tempta- 
 tion, and do you believe that we are still pure, and 
 in the eyes of the world, still acceptable in God's 
 sight ? But, believe me, the scar is there. 
 
 "Since I have come to New York, my broker 
 friends have been forever telling me that the market 
 is bad, that money is tight, and yet these same men 
 have done nothing but offer me money, money, and 
 again money and everything that money will buy. 
 They mortgage their homes, they sell their yachts 
 and cars, they deprive their wives of the very neces- 
 sities of life, and yet for the new and pretty face they 
 can still somewhere find money. Of course, my dear
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 235 
 
 Mr. Stuart, I know that you are different. They 
 tell me that you are an eccentric philanthropist, giv- 
 ing much and expecting nothing, -but even your 
 money must leave its scar, pull us down a little 
 nearer to the point where we don't care. 
 
 "I know that you said all this to me last night 
 that is, you tried to warn me in your own way, 
 and to wager that I would in time come to your 
 own way of thinking. Well, you win. I'm going 
 to try to dedicate myself to my art, and to the 
 bacon and the bad coffee of the Yorke family. If 
 you hear of me again in the gay world it will be 
 as 'One-Dress Fay.' I don't know that I can give 
 it up altogether. I rather imagine I'm too weak 
 for that. It's really going to be very hard at times 
 especially after a long night at the theater, and 
 when I'm tired and hungry. But, at least, I can 
 promise you that hereafter I am going to take your 
 advice and live on my salary, and anything you hear 
 to the contrary I want you to know is not true. 
 
 "Also, when you get this, please do not write me 
 a letter of condolence or send me a bunch of orchids, 
 and for a week, anyhow, please do not try to see me. 
 Just let me alone, for that long, to fight it out by 
 myself, or rather with the help of our little friend, 
 Doris, and Mr. Hooker, the medicine man. So, 
 here's luck to you, Mr. James Alexander Stuart, 
 and lots of it and may you pardon the ravings of, 
 "Yours emotionally, 
 
 "FAY CLAYTON." 
 
 Without reading the letter over, Fay put it in an 
 envelope, sealed it, and then left her room to look
 
 236 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 in the telephone book for Stuart's address. In the 
 hallway she met Doris. The girl was trembling 
 with excitement, her usually smiling face had gone 
 quite white, and her thin colorless lips were drawn 
 into a straight hard line. 
 
 "What is it?" Fay asked. "Is there anything the 
 matter, Doris, tell me?" 
 
 Doris shook her head, and gently but firmly 
 pushed Fay to one side. 
 
 "No, it's nothing much. I've got to see mother 
 and Angie. I've got something to say to them, now. 
 They've gone a little too far this time." Then just 
 as she reached the door she threw over her shoul- 
 der: "You'd better come along, Fay. It may inter- 
 est you, too." 
 
 They went into the sitting-room, where they 
 found Mr. Hooker in his usual place before the win- 
 dow. Angie was seated on a sofa in the corner 
 plucking proudly at the broad satin ribbons of a 
 large black velvet hat, and Mrs. Yorke was before 
 the mirror trying on an even more ostentatious af- 
 fair a kind of turban of red silk and white para- 
 dise feathers. At the entrance of the two girls Mrs. 
 Yorke turned quickly and glanced at her daughter. 
 
 "Well, Doris," she said, with a somewhat labored
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 237 
 
 attempt at gaiety, "what do you think of mother's 
 new winter hat, and Angle's, too? Heaven knows 
 it's time we had them." 
 
 For several tense moments Doris stood silent in 
 the center of the room, her teeth clenched, her 
 hands stuck deep in her coat pockets. She glanced 
 first at her mother and then at Angie, and then the 
 tempest of her wrath suddenly broke. 
 
 "Where did you get them?" she demanded. 
 
 "Where did we get them?" Mrs. Yorke echoed. 
 "Why, we got them from a little money your fa- 
 ther's lawyer sent me, and it was high time he was 
 sending us something, high time!" 
 
 Doris looked the woman evenly in the eyes. 
 "Mother," she said, "that's not true." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke's round face turned a brilliant red 
 and her whole figure seemed to swell to abnormal 
 proportions, while Angie, clasping her hat to her 
 breast, cowered in the corner as if some one was 
 about to strike her. 
 
 "What did you say," Mrs. Yorke fairly shrieked, 
 "what did you say, you little hussy !" 
 
 "Don't get excited, mother," Doris said, trying 
 hard to subdue her own rage, "or you're liable to 
 die of apoplexy. You got those hats, or the money
 
 238 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 for them, from Tommy Garrison, when he came up 
 to see me yesterday afternoon and I was out. I 
 know it's so because I just heard it from a friend 
 of Tommy's down-town." 
 
 "Well," shouted Mrs. Yorke, "can't Tommy Gar- 
 rison buy two poor women a couple of hats ? His 
 father's rich enough, isn't he ? He's worth " 
 
 "I don't know about his father," Doris interrupt- 
 ed, "but I know all about Tommy. He's a nice kid, 
 but he hasn't got a cent of his own. I would no 
 more ask him for a hat than I would a blind beggar 
 with a tin sign on his chest." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke leaned her bulky frame against the 
 mantel-shelf, and folding her arms across her am- 
 ple breast, sneered at her daughter, who was stand- 
 ing white and rigid in the center of the room. 
 
 "No," she said, "you wouldn't ask no million- 
 aire's son for nothing. You'd let your mother 
 starve, and you'd let her go about in rags before 
 you'd lift your hand to help her. What good has 
 all the bringing up I gave you and all your pretty 
 ways and your pretty face done for me, and Pop, 
 and Angie, here? No good, I say, and now you 
 even begrudge us a couple of hats." 
 
 With blanched face and her teeth set, Doris threw
 
 "Mother," she said, "that's not true.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 239 
 
 up her hand, and there was something in the girl's 
 manner that subdued the mother into abject silence. 
 
 "Mother," Doris began, "for the last five years 
 I've worked for you, and for Angie, and for Pop, 
 and you have all lived pretty much on what I've 
 earned. I know I haven't made much, but what I 
 made you got. And, besides that, I've gone to men 
 for money to pay the rent and the bills, and just 
 because these boys were kind and easy, and because 
 they were sorry for me, they gave up." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke started to speak, but once more Doris 
 threw up her hand and the old woman was silent. 
 
 "And during all that time," she went on, "ever 
 since I was fourteen years old, there has never been 
 a moment that you wouldn't have sold me to the 
 highest bidder. You've never had the nerve to say 
 it in so many words, but I know, mother, I know. 
 They talk about the men in this town and the harm 
 they do to girls on the stage, and, God knows, the 
 men are bad enough, but how about the mothers 
 who have daughters in the show business, and who 
 drive their girls out, not for what there is in it for 
 the girls, but for what they can get out of it them- 
 selves? It isn't the girls, and it isn't the men. Be- 
 lieve me, it's the mothers, like you, who are crazy
 
 240 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 for hats and new dresses, that send most of the girls 
 to the devil in this town." 
 
 Her face gone livid with rage, Mother Yorke bent 
 her heavy body low as if about to spring at Doris. 
 
 "You lie, you little devil," she cried, "you lie, and 
 you know you lie !" 
 
 Doris looked at the old woman, unmoved, and 
 shrugged her shoulders. "Don't get hysterical, 
 mother," she said, "I just wanted to tell you why it's 
 all over." 
 
 Mother Yorke pulled herself up straight, and with 
 her arms resting on her broad hips, leaned against 
 the mantel. 
 
 "What do you mean by all over?" she sneered. 
 
 "I mean," Doris went on in the same even unim- 
 passioned voice. "I mean that I'm going to quit 
 you. I'm going to quit you, and I'm going to quit 
 Angie. Hereafter you two can graft, and lie, and 
 fight for your own living, and may God have mercy 
 on you both." 
 
 Old man Hooker got up from his chair, and shuf- 
 fling over to where Doris stood, put out his hand and 
 touched her gently on the sleeve. 
 
 "Won't you take me with you, Doris?" he 
 begged. "Please don't leave me here with them."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 241 
 
 Doris turned, and smiling at her grandfather, put 
 her arm under his. 
 
 "That's all right, Pop," she said. "Of course, 
 you'll go with me, and perhaps Fay will come, too, 
 and( the three of us can start a little home of our 
 own." 
 
 Fay glanced at Mrs. Yorke's flushed angry face 
 and at poor Angie Clubb, crouching at the end of 
 the sofa and whimpering aloud, and then nodded to 
 Doris. 
 
 "Why, yes," she said, "of course, I'll go." 
 
 Mother Yorke glared at her brazenly. "Go 
 ahead," she taunted, "and good riddance, I say! I 
 don't care very much about having a girl in my 
 house who keeps the hours that you have lately, 
 Miss Clayton. It ain't respectable." 
 
 The blood surged to Fay's face, her throat sud- 
 denly became parched, and she could not force the 
 words she wanted to speak through her lips. Doris 
 shook her head at Fay to warn her not to answer, 
 and then nodded in the direction of the door. 
 
 "I think, Fay, you'd better pack now," she said. 
 "We'll be getting out this afternoon." Then she 
 turned to her grandfather. "Come along, Pop," 
 and taking him by the arm, and without looking
 
 242 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 again at her mother or Angie, she led the old man 
 from the room. 
 
 As the door closed on them Angie stretched her- 
 self at full length on the lounge and sobbed aloud. 
 Not so with Mrs. Yorke, who, having regained her 
 composure in a remarkably short space of time, 
 stood before the mirror once more regarding her- 
 self and her new head-gear. She glanced at the 
 weeping Angie, and then removing her hat, held it 
 before her at arm's length and apparently scrutinized 
 its every detail with the greatest possible interest 
 and pleasure. 
 
 "Shut up, will you !" she suddenly threw at Angie, 
 and then once more turned her attention to the hat. 
 "And all on account," she sighed, "of doing a rah- 
 rah boy out of a couple of measly bonnets. It 
 makes me that sore. If I " 
 
 The rest of the sentence was lost in Angle's 
 cries. "We'll starve," she moaned, "we'll starve. 
 It's cruel for them to leave us like that it's in- 
 human." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke tossed her hat on the center table 
 and regarded her niece with an apparently new 
 and speculative interest.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 243 
 
 "No, we won't starve," she said in her deep thun- 
 dering tones. 
 
 Seeing a possible ray of hope for a continuance 
 of her lazy selfish life, Angie sat up on the edge of 
 the sofa and hurriedly dabbed her wet eyes with a 
 much-used handkerchief. 
 
 "What'll we do," she gasped between sobs, "what 
 is it we'll do?" 
 
 "It isn't so much what we'll do," Mother Yorke 
 went on gloomily, as if condemning a prisoner to a 
 life sentence, "as it is what you'll do. Now you put 
 on that new hat of yours, and try to borrow a fresh 
 pair of white gloves from Doris or Fay they may 
 be generous to you now that they're going away. 
 Then you go down-town and proceed to stump up 
 the stairs of every manager in the city, and you keep 
 on stumping until you get a job, and, Angie Clubb, 
 never you dare come into that door again empty- 
 handed. Do you hear me?" 
 
 Mrs. Yorke drew herself to her full majestic pro- 
 portions and with the manner of a true tragedy 
 queen pointed to the door. 
 
 "Now, you grafter," she fairly shouted, her eyes 
 ablaze, "you blond loafer get out !"
 
 244 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 For two days, Fay and Doris and her grandfather 
 stopped at a hotel in the neighborhood and then 
 moved to a furnished flat on One Hundred and 
 Thirtieth Street, far over on the west side. The 
 new apartment was very small, and ill-lighted, and 
 stuffy, and the wall-paper and furniture were cheap 
 and vulgar and garish, but it was the best they could 
 afford, as Mr. Hooker could be of no financial as- 
 sistance, and Fay had insisted that, at least for the 
 present, it would be only right for Doris to send half 
 of her salary to her mother. The girls did the cook- 
 ing and the housework and in all ways practised the 
 strictest economy. They had promised each other 
 that they would live on their wages, and would 
 neither ask nor accept assistance of any kind. It was 
 a life in which there was or could be little sunshine, 
 but one fraught with hardship and deprivation. The 
 two girls took long walks in the morning and in the 
 evening went down-town together to their respect- 
 ive theaters and returned together as soon as their 
 performances were over. 
 
 Doris was cheerful and even happier than she 
 had been when she was the main support of Mother 
 Yorke's flat, but the lack of variety in her life and 
 the hopeless vulgarity of her new home wore sen-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 245 
 
 ously on Fay's nerves, and she became constantly 
 more gloomy and depressed. She no longer had the 
 money to buy even the few things that would have 
 been necessary had she continued to go to the lunches 
 and supper-parties at which for a time she had been 
 so conspicuous a figure. But as she persisted in re- 
 fusing all invitations, the invitations became con- 
 stantly less frequent, and in a short time she was no 
 longer asked out at all. It was also but natural that 
 in her present unhappy mood, the girls at the theater 
 should show but slight desire for her company and 
 gradually leave her to her own devices. 
 
 For the time being her spirit was gone, and she 
 was morbidly conscious of her lack of suitable 
 clothes and the cramped flat with its stale musty 
 odor had become almost unbearable. Lusk had 
 written her several times, and was most anxious 
 to give her various kinds of parties. She had al- 
 ways refused these invitations with short formal 
 notes, and had finally written him curtly that she no 
 longer went anywhere, but was devoting herself en- 
 tirely to her stage work, and to the study that was 
 necessary for her future career. Had such been the 
 case Fay would have been much happier than she 
 was, but she was only too well aware of the fact
 
 246 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 that she was not only not learning anything that 
 could possibly be of any value to her, but that she 
 no longer did her work at the theater with the spirit 
 that the management had a right to expect. On sev- 
 eral occasions, after she had left the stage, Morley 
 had reprimanded her sharply for her indifference, 
 and once he had threatened her with dismissal if 
 she did not show an immediate and marked improve- 
 ment in her performance. 
 
 Stuart had done as Fay had asked, and for a 
 week, had neither written her nor sent her flowers 
 nor in any way recognized her existence. But, at 
 the end of that time, he came with a car laden with 
 roses. She received him in the little sitting-room 
 and at the sight of his friendly face, for a moment 
 the old happy light flared up in her eyes, but it was 
 only for a moment. Her instinct had told her from 
 that first long evening which they had spent together 
 that Stuart liked her, and she was quite sure that 
 she could rely absolutely on his friendship. She 
 knew, too, that she liked him and admired him more 
 than any other man whom she had met since she 
 had first come to New York. But she was not in a 
 condition of mind to encourage new friendships.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 247 
 
 Her attitude was that of the wounded animal who 
 wishes only to run away and hide from its kind. 
 
 The visit was a failure. Fay knew it, and Stuart 
 knew it. He talked of things farthest removed from 
 her present life, vital things, in which he wanted 
 her to be interested, and in which he knew and she 
 knew that she ought to be interested. But Fay's 
 mind was no longer capable of receiving new im- 
 pressions. Her body was starved and her mind was 
 dulled by too much trouble. And so, in a short time, 
 he left her, disappointed and discouraged, but still 
 hopeful that her mood was but temporary and that 
 he could yet lead her back to a sane point of view 
 and to a normal healthy life. She tried to be gra- 
 cious at this first short visit, as she did at the others 
 that followed, but, even if the desire was there, the 
 girl's spirit was crushed and she was unable to rise 
 above the depression of her mind or the poverty of 
 her surroundings. In every way possible Stuart tried, 
 again and again, to arouse her from her apathy, 
 but each of these visits left him painfully conscious 
 of his failure. He admired her enormously for the 
 stand that she had taken and for which he was 
 largely responsible. However, this in no way sur-
 
 248 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 prised him, because he thought he understood some- 
 thing of women, and from the first he had believed 
 Fay to be a girl of wonderful and infinite possibili- 
 ties. In spite of the failure of his early efforts to 
 arouse any interest in her or to bring her back to 
 even a shadow of her former happy self, he contin- 
 ued to visit her whenever she would receive him. 
 But, in time, he came to feel that his efforts were not 
 only hopeless but that Fay would prefer to be left 
 alone with her fellow-lodgers. Therefore, the visits 
 became less and less frequent, and he contented him- 
 self by sending her flowers and books so that she 
 should be constantly reminded of his admiration and 
 of his ever-present friendship. 
 
 But for Fay the empty profitless days dragged 
 on, and with barely enough money on which to 
 exist, bereft of the companionship of the encour- 
 agement of her friends, save Stuart, Fay could 
 find no happiness in the present or little to hope 
 for in the future. Of all the men that she had 
 known it was, of course, Fielding that she missed 
 the most. With his friendship to cheer her on, and 
 his hand always held out to her as it was in the old 
 days, she believed that even her present dull exist- 
 ence would have been possible. But her pride had
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 249 
 
 been hurt, terribly hurt, and she felt that the dif- 
 ference in the lives they now led had carried them 
 very far apart and that he no longer cared for her. 
 The only solace she found in this gray unhappy life 
 was that it was above suspicion and that there 
 was nothing with which Fielding could reproach her. 
 Several times she had seen him in the audience at 
 the theater, but, although when she looked in his 
 direction and found that his eyes were always on 
 her, she had never given him any sign that she was 
 conscious of his presence. 
 
 It was on a cold raw afternoon, late in November, 
 that Fay suddenly determined that she would visit 
 Fielding at his rooms. She had been feeling particu- 
 larly miserable and lonesome all day, and it was 
 probably this extreme depression that prompted the 
 thought. She decided that perhaps she had been 
 unnecessarily sensitive, and that, after all, he really 
 did care for her, even craved to have her back, just, 
 as ever since their separation, she had craved to have 
 him^back again. It was her hope that he might feel 
 just as she felt, and that he would want to hold both 
 of her hands in his, and to tell her, in his own way, 
 that she was more to him than any one else in the 
 whole world. Her mind made up, she began at once
 
 250 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 to prepare for her visit to him. She thought at first 
 that she would telephone him of her coming, and 
 then she decided that it would be better to have her 
 little visit a complete surprise. 
 
 Hurry as she might, she could not arrive until 
 after five o'clock, when he was almost sure to 
 be at home, and, in her mind, she pictured just 
 what their meeting was to be. He would be stand- 
 ing at the door of his apartment, his left hand 
 as usual stuck deep in his dressing-gown pocket, 
 and in his right hand he would be holding his 
 pipe, and not knowing, of course, who it was who 
 had rung his bell, he would be greatly annoyed and 
 scowling at the unexpected visitor. But at the 
 sight of Fay his face would break into a broad 
 smile, and he would call out his welcome to her, and 
 holding out both his arms, would hurry along the 
 passage so as to meet her at least half-way. And 
 then she would run to him, and when he had drawn 
 her into the room, he would kiss her on the forehead, 
 as he always did, and, perhaps, he would put his big 
 strong arms about her and tell her how very much 
 he had missed her, how glad he was to have her back 
 again, and that there never would, or never could be 
 another separation like this one.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 251 
 
 Fortunately the day was cold, and Fay assured 
 herself there would be a blazing wood fire on the 
 hearth, and she had always wanted so much to see 
 a fire there. Their first greetings over, he would 
 pull up his favorite armchair, and then he would 
 sit on the floor at her feet and smoke his pipe, just 
 as he used to do in the old days. They would both 
 look at the crackling logs, and he would tell her how 
 lonely he had been without her, and how never again 
 must there be any trouble between them. Afterward, 
 when they were safely back again on the old inti- 
 mate footing, and the last trace of their quarrel 
 had been swept away, she would make the tea, and 
 Fielding would get out the tin boxes of crackers he 
 always kept in the cupboard. She would eat a great 
 many of them because, instead of coming back to the 
 flat for dinner, she would be sure to decide to remain 
 at his rooms until it was time for her to go to the 
 theater. These, and many similar thoughts, passed 
 again and again through Fay's mind as with great 
 care she prepared for her visit. 
 
 She put on her blue tailored suit that, in spite 
 of the hard service it had seen, still looked fairly 
 well, and after a long search she discovered some 
 fairly fresh white gloves and a pair of black
 
 252 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 silk stockings, which, although they had been 
 darned many times, were quite good enough for 
 one more wearing. When Fay was nearly ready 
 she glanced at herself in the mirror, and at the 
 sight of the pale face and the shadows under her 
 eyes, gave a little startled gasp of disappoint- 
 ment. But, to offset this, she found some con- 
 solation, in the knowledge that the eyes were as 
 bright as they had ever been and shone with a light 
 to which they had been strangers for many days. 
 She took courage, too, from the masses of wonder- 
 ful red hair and the scarlet cupid-bow lips, the 
 beauty of which no troubles or deprivations could 
 dim. On her way out she met Doris in the hallway, 
 and very much to the younger girl's surprise, threw 
 her arms about her and kissed her warmly on the 
 thin pale lips. 
 
 "Kid," she cried, "I'm going back to Porter. 
 Wish me luck, won't you?" 
 
 Doris held her off at arm's length and looked at 
 the white gloves, and then at the eyes, fairly ablaze 
 with the old light. 
 
 "You bet I wish you luck, Fay, dear," she cried, 
 "and such a lot of it!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN ANSWER to Fay's ring the lock of Field- 
 ing's front door clicked, and with a little gasp 
 of pleasure that she had really found him at home, 
 she hurried up the long flights of stairs. Instead of 
 catching the first sight of Fielding standing at the 
 door of his apartment, as she had expected, she 
 found him waiting for her on the landing. Con- 
 trary to her expectations, also, he neither held out 
 his arms to her, nor gave the sudden cry of surprise 
 and pleasure that she had anticipated. In reality 
 Fielding appeared greatly confused, and his manner 
 was very formal, almost ungracious. 
 
 "Why, Fay," he said, holding out his hand, "this 
 is quite a surprise. I have some friends to tea 
 come in, won't you ?" 
 
 For a moment Fay stood still, hesitating. "I 
 don't know what to do," she stammered. "I think 
 I'd better not come in to-day." 
 
 It was quite evident that Fielding was annoyed, 
 and he made but a sorry effort to conceal it. He 
 
 253
 
 254 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 bit his lip, looked back at the open door, and 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It's too late to go back, now, Fay," he said in a 
 whisper. "They've heard you. You'd better come 
 along." 
 
 She followed him into the sitting-room where 
 she found Miss Wilmerding at the tea-table and an 
 elderly white-haired lady sitting before the hearth. 
 The blazing wood fire at least was as Fay had ex- 
 pected to see it. As she entered, the two women 
 rose, and Miss Wilmerding, recognizing her at once, 
 held out her hand. 
 
 "I'm so glad to see you again, Miss Clayton," she 
 said, and then turning to the woman by the fire- 
 place; "this is my aunt, Mrs. Henley." 
 
 The elder woman bowed and sat down again in 
 the big armchair the chair in which, earlier in the 
 afternoon, Fay had pictured herself, at luxurious 
 ease, with Porter sitting at her feet, smoking the pipe 
 of peace. The unexpectedness of it all, the sudden 
 death-blow to the happy hour she had planned, and 
 more particularly, the coldness of Fielding's recep- 
 tion, had left Fay confused and uncertain of herself. 
 Her habitual poise and the ease and grace of the 
 girl's manner had vanished, and she found herself
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 255 
 
 standing irresolute and overcome with a sudden 
 fright and a great longing to run away. She heard 
 Miss Wilmerding say something about tea, found 
 courage to refuse in a few formal words of thanks, 
 and dropped into a stiff high-backed chair that 
 Fielding had placed for her between the two women. 
 
 "I think I saw you once at Pleasantville," Mrs. 
 Henley said to her. "You were playing quite a 
 wonderful game of tennis. And then I saw you the 
 other night, when I went to the theater with Blanche 
 here and Mr. Fielding. I think the play is charm- 
 ing, don't you ? so clean, and free from suggestion 
 unlike so many of the plays of to-day and amus- 
 ing, too. The music I thought particularly nice." 
 
 "And, really, Miss Clayton," Miss Wilmerding 
 added with genuine enthusiasm, "I never saw any 
 one look so lovely in my life as you do in the second 
 act, in that green spangly dress and the big black 
 hat. I was just crazy about you. You know, I've 
 seen the show several times." 
 
 Fay smiled and nodded to the girl. "I'm glad 
 you think I looked so well," she said. "It's really 
 quite a wonderful dress that green one." 
 
 Her courage had suddenly returned to her, but 
 with it a violent dislike for the two women. To her
 
 256 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 confused distorted mind their simple and sincere 
 expressions of pleasure about the performance and 
 her personal appearance appealed to her only as a 
 species of lying pleasantries, and spoken solely to 
 make her feel at ease. The hot blood tingled 
 through her body, and she resented their well-meant 
 words as keenly as she resented their presence. 
 This room had once been hers at least she had 
 been its brightest ornament and she had hoped to 
 hold the same position in it again. But now these 
 interlopers had come, with their gorgeous furs and 
 their fine clothes and their gracious manners, and 
 had supplanted her. 
 
 "Do you like your life on the, stage?" Mrs. Hen- 
 ley asked. 
 
 Fay looked at the elder woman, pursed her lips 
 and wrinkled her brow as if in some doubt as to 
 her answer. In reality her thoughts flew back to the 
 crowded dressing-room at the theater, filled with 
 cigarette smoke, to the loud vulgar talk of the girls, 
 and then to the stuffy up-town flat where she lived, 
 or rather starved, with Doris and the old ex-medi- 
 cine man. 
 
 "Yes," she said at last, speaking with much de- 
 liberation. "I think I like it very much. Of course,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 257 
 
 advancement is a little slow at first, but it's not a 
 bad life while you're waiting for fame and wealth. 
 I suppose there is a sort of glamour about women 
 of the stage that is, there seems to be in the case 
 of a certain kind of men in town I mean the men 
 of your class." Fay hesitated, smiled at Mrs. Hen- 
 ley, and went on, "I really don't know why, but they 
 must get awfully bored at home, for they're for- 
 ever running after us, and giving us suppers and 
 dances in private rooms and taking us on long, cozy 
 automobile rides. I don't know what the inns 
 around New York would do if it weren't for us 
 show-girls and the rich married swells." 
 
 Fay had spoken the last few words with her eyes 
 cast on the floor as if to give an appearance of mock 
 modesty, but when she glanced up again she found 
 that Mrs. Henley was gazing into the fire with a 
 look of complete boredom on her face. Blanche 
 Wilmerding was smiling into her tea-cup, as if its 
 interior decoration was a matter of much curiosity 
 and amusement, but Fielding's eyes she found were 
 set on her own, and she saw, also, that he was blush- 
 ing furiously. Well, if he was ashamed of her, if he 
 found her unworthy of these new friends, she would 
 give him good cause. Surely, she argued, he had
 
 258 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 brought it on himself who was he that he should 
 not have welcomed her return joyfully rather than 
 as the unavoidable visit of some social pariah! Why, 
 were these women better than she because she had 
 chosen to work for an honest living? She looked 
 into Fielding's scarlet, embarrassed, good-looking 
 face and smiled at him knowingly. 
 
 "I'm very tired, Porter," she said. "Could you 
 let me have a drop of that very good Scotch you 
 gave me the other night when I was here? Just 
 plain Scotch no water, please." 
 
 Fielding got up, and taking a bottle of Scotch and 
 a glass from the cupboard, poured out a drink and 
 handed it to her in silence. 
 
 "And, Porter, dear," Fay ran on, "could you let 
 me have a cigarette ? I know Mrs. Henley and Miss 
 Wilmerding won't mind, and it's such a tremendous 
 tonic to my poor shattered nerves." 
 
 Fay lighted the cigarette herself, and holding it in 
 one hand and the glass of Scotch in the other, she 
 carefully crossed her feet so that between her low 
 patent leather shoes and the edge of her skirt there 
 was an ample display of black silk stocking. 
 
 "You see, Mrs. Henley," she went on, "it's really 
 a very strenuous life I lead working at night, and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 259 
 
 then amusing the swells until all hours of the morn- 
 ing. But, of course, you will understand the latter 
 part of it any woman can sympathize with another 
 who has to keep these New York business men 
 amused or interested. They're really awfully dull, 
 at least I find them so, but we shouldn't blame the 
 poor souls, should we? I suppose they have to 
 spend all of their puny brains on business during the 
 day to make enough money to buy taxicabs and 
 champagne for us show-girls at night." 
 
 She stopped just long enough to glance at Mrs. 
 Henley, but finding that the old lady was looking 
 with the same bored expression into the fire, Fay 
 hurried on again. 
 
 "There was a most wonderful party up-stairs at 
 Sherry's the other night. You wouldn't believe, 
 Mrs. Henley, the men who were there some of the 
 biggest men in New York, merchants, and lawyers, 
 and brokers, and all having the time of their dear 
 old lives, dancing and making love to the girls. 
 There were two bands and some corking vaudeville 
 stunts, and then, later, a lot of the regular boys, the 
 younger set, from a debutante's coming-out party. 
 It certainly was good to get some new blood be- 
 cause the ancient captains of industry were just
 
 260 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 about all in." Fay turned to Miss Wilmerding. 
 "Don't you ever wonder, Miss Wilmerding," she 
 said, smiling sweetly, "how these young men who go 
 to a respectable party first and then hurry on to a 
 chorus girls' ball and spend the night dancing and 
 drinking, are able to go to their work at all in the 
 
 morning ?' 
 
 Miss Wilmerding smiled at Fay and shook her 
 head. 
 
 "To tell you the truth," she said, "I'd never 
 thought of it before especially the chorus girls' 
 ball part of it. Now that you mention it, I should 
 think it must be a frightful effort, and some of the 
 men really haven't got too many brains to squander, 
 have they ?" 
 
 "Not much they haven't," Fay laughed. "Now 
 if they could only lie abed, as we do, until late into 
 the afternoon it would be different. But men must 
 work, I suppose we women are such expensive 
 playthings." 
 
 She glanced at the clock over the mantel, un- 
 crossed her feet and rose from her chair. 
 
 "I'm afraid I must be going," she said abruptly. 
 "I'm due at a little dinner before the performance." 
 
 Miss Wilmerding got up and shook hands in a
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 261 
 
 most friendly manner with her, but Mrs. Henley sat 
 still, and her farewell was confined to a formal bow. 
 Fielding opened the door and went with Fay as far 
 as the landing at the head of the stairs. 
 
 "Good-by, Porter," she said. "I'm sorry I 
 broke into your party. I hope I didn't talk too 
 much, but your friends seemed so keen to know 
 something about a show-girl's life, and I thought 
 they might never have another chance to hear the 
 inside story." 
 
 "Why, that's all right, Fay," Fielding said, hold- 
 ing out his hand. "I'm glad you came. Good-by." 
 
 For a moment after he had returned to the room 
 there was an embarrassing silence. It was Miss 
 Wilmerding who spoke first. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell us, Porter," she said, "that 
 you had asked other guests ? Such an amusing per- 
 son, your friend, Miss Clayton." 
 
 Fielding hesitated, much confused. "You see, as 
 a matter of fact," he stammered, "I didn't ask Miss 
 Clayton. She just dropped in." 
 
 "How nice of her," Miss Wilmerding laughed. 
 "Now is" 
 
 "Very extraordinary of her, I should say," Mrs. 
 Henley interrupted. "I may be old-fashioned, but
 
 262 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 this idea of dropping into a bachelor's apartment for 
 tea, or even a Scotch and soda and a cigarette, seems 
 very modern to me. And her remarks about those 
 dances, and the young men, and the captains of in- 
 dustry, were most unusual. Do people talk about 
 that sort of thing nowadays?" 
 
 "It would seem so," Fielding said, "that is, some 
 people do. Indeed, Mrs. Henley, I'm very sorry." 
 
 Miss Wilmerding sat back in her chair and 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 "Why, Porter," she said, "what do you mean by 
 saying you're sorry? The girl didn't like us that's 
 all. She was bluffing; she didn't touch the Scotch, 
 and I could see by her face that she hated the cigar- 
 ette. It almost made her sick. I'm sorry, too, but 
 I'm sorry for her not for any of us. The girl's 
 sick,, I tell you, and overworked and run down or 
 something. I used to see her at Pleasantville, and 
 she wasn't the same person at all, always laughing 
 and full of fun, and had the most wonderful spirits, 
 and now look at her. Have you seen much of her, 
 Porter, since she came to town?" , 
 
 Fielding shook his head. "Not much," he ex- 
 plained, "that is, not very much lately. Npt at all 
 for the last two months or so."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 263 
 
 Miss Wilmerding put her palms together, slowly 
 joined the tips of her fingers, and for a few mo- 
 ments stared up at the ceiling. 
 
 "Of course it's none of my business," she said, 
 "and I don't know anything about it, but I do know 
 that you used to be very good friends. It seems a 
 pity for a girl alone in a big city to lose all of her 
 old friends, doesn't it? I wonder if she would let 
 me call on her? Don't you think it would be all 
 right, Aunty?" 
 
 Mrs. Henley raised her eyebrows and slightly 
 shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose so. I don't 
 know where Miss Clayton lives, but it certainly can't 
 be any worse than those awful East Side tenements 
 and the jails you are always visiting!" 
 
 Miss Wilmerding got up. "Come on, Aunty," 
 she said, "we must be going home." And then, 
 turning to Fielding, "Don't forget you're coming to 
 a family dinner to-night. Couldn't you see Miss 
 Clayton to-day, somehow, and tell her that I want to 
 call on her very soon ?" 
 
 Fielding nodded. "Why, yes, I could see her 
 after the performance, to-night, surely." 
 
 "Do that, will you, for me," Blanche said, smil- 
 ing at him, "and try to fix it for to-morrow after-
 
 264 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 noon. The sooner, the better, and then she will un- 
 derstand that I'm really interested." 
 
 "It's very good of you," Fielding said, "very 
 good of you, and I know that Fay will appreciate 
 it." 
 
 "Good of me !" Blanche laughed. "I'm only too 
 glad to get the chance to know her better. I think 
 she's bully." 
 
 When Fay left Fielding's apartment it was past 
 six o'clock and there was not time for her to return 
 to her home for dinner. It was already dark in the 
 streets, the air was cold and raw, and there was a 
 light rain falling. The sidewalks were crowded 
 with men and women hurrying home from their 
 work, but heedless of everything and everybody, she 
 wandered on quite unconscious of where she was 
 going. She put up her hand, and noticing the white 
 glove she wore, smiled grimly and then brushed the 
 rain from her eyes. The cold bleak air blowing in 
 her face brought her to a sudden realization of just 
 what she had done during her uncontrolled fit of 
 jealousy and anger. 
 
 "It's all over now," she mumbled to herself, "it's
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 265 
 
 all over for you, Fay. And what for? Just for the 
 fun of insulting two women who wanted to be civil 
 to you and they were friends of Porter's, too. I 
 guess you must be crazy, Fay." For an hour she 
 wandered along the wet pavements repeating the 
 same morbid hopeless thoughts, heedless of where 
 her footsteps led her and trying only to keep to 
 those streets that seemed the least crowded. Her 
 mind, utterly fagged out, her body exhausted and 
 numb from the cold, she saw the lighted window of 
 a cheap restaurant, and it reminded her that she 
 must get something to eat if she expected to be able 
 to go through the evening performance. At the far 
 end of the restaurant she found a table where there 
 were no men and only one other woman. A 
 waiter with a dirty apron took her order for roast- 
 beef and a cup of coffee, and then, with dull heavy 
 eyes, Fay sat gazing at the cheaply stenciled walls, 
 the fly-specked mirrors and the tawdry chromos 
 with their broken and tarnished gilt frames. 
 
 "It's a pretty tough night, eh?" Fay heard a 
 voice say, and she looked at the woman across the 
 table. She was a middle-aged woman with a sal- 
 low face that had so much rouge on it that Fay
 
 266 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 found herself wondering why the rain had not 
 washed it off completely or made it run in little riv- 
 ulets down her cheeks. 
 
 She nodded at the woman and made an attempt 
 to smile, but it was a rather sorry effort, as her 
 clothes were wet through, her body was so very 
 tired and her limbs were numb from the cold. 
 
 "Yes, it's a very bad night," she said as civilly 
 as she could. 
 
 "Too wet for white kid gloves," laughed the 
 woman. "They'll be doing you no good to-night, 
 my dear. Better keep your finery for the fair 
 nights." 
 
 "Thank you," Fay said, "I'd forgotten," and she 
 tugged at the wet gloves until she had pulled them 
 off. The waiter brought her a plate of roast-beef 
 and a cup of coffee and Fay began her supper at 
 once, but the woman across the table seemed to be 
 in no hurry, and insisted on continuing the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "I've never seen you here at Dorin's before," she 
 suggested. 
 
 "No," Fay said, "I work farther up-town." 
 
 "Work?" the woman repeated. 
 
 "Yes. I'm in the show at the Knickerbocker."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 267 
 
 "What do you think of that," said the woman, 
 "a regular actress! May God help you, I say! I 
 was in the show business myself once, but never 
 again. I traveled night and day with Murray's 
 Oriental Blondes for two seasons. That's a fine 
 profession! Look what it's brought me to eating 
 at Dprin's with a lot of greasy chauffeurs and 
 drunken night-hawk drivers. But now I'm inde- 
 pendent I lead my own life, bad as it may be, and 
 I'll give it to you straight, it's no worse than when 
 I was an actress with Murray's Oriental Blondes. 
 There's no stage-manager living can tell me now 
 what I must do and what I mustn't do." 
 
 With a tremor that ran through her whole body 
 Fay looked at the woman's rouged cheeks and fishy 
 meaningless eyes, and then glanced at the clock over 
 the cashier's desk. It was already half-past seven 
 the hour at which she should have reported at the 
 theater and so she hurriedly drank her coffee, and 
 asked the waiter for the check. 
 
 The woman looked at her, chuckled, and con- 
 tinued slowly to stir the coffee in her own huge cup 
 of heavy cracked china. 
 
 "There you are," she said, as Fay rose quickly 
 from the table, "rushing off with only half your din-
 
 268 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 ner finished, while I sit here and enjoy my demi- 
 tasse at my elegant leisure. Good night to you, 
 dearie," she called to her derisively, "and good luck 
 to you." 
 
 It was a quarter to eight when Fay reached the 
 stage door, and to her great distress she met Sedley, 
 Morley's assistant, on the stairs leading to her dress- 
 ing-room. Sedley deliberately put his hand on the 
 balustrade and his arm blocked her way. 
 
 "Late again, eh, Miss Clayton ?" he snapped at her. 
 "If it wasn't that half a dozen of the girls are off 
 to-night I wouldn't let you go on at all. Some of 
 you dames is altogether too good for this business." 
 
 Fay turned and looked him evenly in the eyes. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Sedley, I can't bribe you the 
 way some of the girls do," she said, "but I can't 
 afford it. I'm not that kind of a girl. Do I go on 
 or not? Have it your own way it's up to you." 
 
 The young man whistled softly and shrugged his 
 shoulders. "Sure," he said, "I told you to go on to- 
 night. But the next time you're late you won't go 
 on. You won't go on that night or any night after 
 that. Do you get me?" 
 
 With a sneer he dropped his arm, and Fay, white
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 269 
 
 from rage and fear, and without looking at him 
 again, hurried on to the dressing-room. 
 
 Fay's performance that night was but a shadow of 
 what it had been earlier in the season. With the aid 
 of her make-up box it was easy enough to conceal 
 the pale cheeks and the shadows under the eyes, but 
 the enthusiasm and the animal spirits of youth were 
 conspicuously absent, and the fact that Morley and 
 Sedley were constantly watching her from the en- 
 trances did not tend to improve her performance. 
 Over and over again she thought: "If I could only 
 escape from the awful glare of those footlights 
 if I could only get away from those rows and rows of 
 grinning faces." But she knew only too well that she 
 could not get away. She needed every penny of her 
 salary ; she could not even afford the luxury of stay- 
 ing off for a night or two as so many of the girls 
 did. This would not only mean the loss of her pay, 
 but, unpopular as she now was with Morley and his 
 assistant, she thoroughly realized that, in all proba- 
 bility, it would result in her immediate dismissal. 
 
 And then her thoughts would suddenly fly back to 
 her visit to Fielding's rooms and to her gratuitous 
 insults to his friends. She would try to remember
 
 .270 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 all of the miserable cheap lies she had told of her 
 life, and the memory of every word that she had 
 spoken would cut like a knife. Suffering from 
 fever, and several times very near to fainting, she 
 somehow fought her way through the long perform- 
 ance and changed to her street clothes. At the stage 
 door there was the usual crowd of loafers and young 
 men waiting for their girl friends, but quite sure 
 that there was no one waiting for her, with lowered 
 head, she hurried on her way. Just at the edge of 
 the crowd she was conscious that some one was 
 blocking her way, and looking up she saw Fielding. 
 After the disastrous events of the afternoon she had 
 already decided that in all probability she would 
 never see him again, and her surprise at finding him 
 waiting for her was as great as the real thrill of 
 pleasure she felt at the warmth of his greeting. 
 
 "Hello, Fay," he said, "I came around to bring 
 you a message from Miss Wilmerding. What do 
 you say to going somewhere for a bite of supper?" 
 
 She looked at him, and her eyes told better than 
 any words how sincerely glad she was to see him. 
 
 "I'm so glad you came," she said, "but I'm not 
 going out at all these days. I meet Doris at the 
 Casino every night now and we go straight home.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 271 
 
 Perhaps you'll walk around there with me? Oh, 
 Porter, I'm so glad to see you ! I made such a fool 
 of myself this afternoon, but I was nervous and 
 tired out I haven't been very well lately." 
 
 "I know that. Fay, dear, you look all run down. 
 Miss Wilmerding understood perfectly and she sent 
 me around to ask you if you wouldn't let her come 
 to see you some time to-morrow." 
 
 It was but a few blocks to the Casino, but they 
 walked very slowly, and before they had reached the 
 stage door, where they found Doris waiting, Field- 
 ing had arranged that Miss Wilmerding was to call 
 on Fay the following afternoon. 
 
 There had been but few callers admitted to Fay's 
 new home. Therefore the visit of any one so distin- 
 guished as Miss Blanche Wilmerding, the daughter 
 of the millionaire banker, David Wilmerding, was, 
 at least in the eyes of Doris and her grandfather, a 
 matter of the very greatest import. Both of them 
 protested at first that they should not appear at all 
 during the visit but remain discreetly hidden in the 
 dining-room. But Fay would not consent to this, 
 and insisted that it was not only her pleasure, but 
 distinctly proper that they should be in the sitting-
 
 272 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 room to receive her guest, and that they could retire 
 afterward if they chose. 
 
 Mr. Hooker was especially pleased at this ar- 
 rangement and arose early the next morning to pre- 
 pare his toilet. This consisted in brushing his one 
 suit of clothes, laying out a fresh shirt and sending 
 Doris to a neighboring barber-shop for a paper 
 collar and a necktie, to both of which luxuries he 
 had long been a stranger. By eight o'clock he was 
 completely dressed and ready for Miss Wilmer- 
 ding's call, which was to take place at five in the 
 afternoon. It was at his own suggestion, however, 
 that during the intervening hours, he should smoke 
 his pipe in his bedroom so that the air of the sit- 
 ting-room should be as free as possible from the 
 fumes of the very rank tobacco to which con- 
 tinued poverty had addicted him. 
 
 The two girls spent the morning scrubbing and 
 dusting and making the little place as clean as possi- 
 ble, but they could no more do away with the garish 
 vulgarity of the furniture of the sitting-room than 
 they could with the four flights of dark and narrow 
 stairs that it was necessary for their guest to climb 
 to reach it. Doris was busily burnishing a tea-cup.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 273 
 
 but Fay had apparently grown tired of the prepara- 
 tions and was staring idly out of the window. 
 
 "I wonder," Doris exclaimed excitedly, "if she'll 
 come in a taxi or one of her own cars with a limou- 
 sine top?" 
 
 Fay shook her head and stifled a yawn. "I don't 
 know, Doris, dear, and to tell you the truth, I don't 
 care very much." 
 
 "Why, Fay," Doris cried in genuine surprise, "I 
 think it's fine of her to come to see you. Don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Why, yes," Fay said, "I suppose, in a way, it is, 
 but at best it's a kind of charity. What can it lead 
 to? Nothing. Last night I was pleased with the 
 idea, because, I suppose, I'd have been pleased at 
 anything. I was so glad to see Porter I could have 
 cried I did very nearly." 
 
 "Wasn't he nice to you?" Doris asked. 
 
 "Yes, he was nice to me last night, after she had 
 told him to be. He wasn't very glad to see me at his 
 place. That was a mistake, that visit. I never should 
 have gone back. If I hadn't been such a fool I would 
 have telephoned before I started. I can see things 
 as they really were, now this morning. Doris he 
 was ashamed of me ashamed of me and ashamed
 
 274 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 of my profession. That's why this girl is coming to 
 call she's sorry for me." 
 
 "You're morbid," Doris shot at her. "You've got 
 things all twisted, and you won't get them straight 
 until you get over this fit of nerves. You want to 
 look out for yourself, Fay, or you'll break down 
 altogether." 
 
 Fay shook her head. "That's all right, kid; I 
 won't break down. But I'm right about this girl's 
 visit. What can we have in common nothing, 
 nothing at all. At Pleasantville it was different. 
 We both played tennis on the same courts, and 
 danced at the same dances, and knew the same 
 men." 
 
 "You both know Porter Fielding now," Doris 
 suggested. 
 
 Fay nodded, and then smiled and shrugged her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "That's true, too," she said. "Perhaps that's the 
 reason she's coming to call." 
 
 Doris got up and in silence arranged the cups on 
 the little table where Fay was to serve the tea. Then 
 she turned to her friend: "I wouldn't say that if I 
 were you, Fay. It isn't like you." 
 
 Fay walked over and looked down at the carefully
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 275 
 
 arranged little tea-table. "Thank you, Doris," she 
 said, "and thank you for all the trouble you've taken 
 about this call. But I don't want her to call. Mark 
 my words, no good can come of it. She's always 
 stood in my way, and now that I'm down and out, 
 she's coming here with her furs and her jewels to 
 gloat over me. I hate her." 
 
 "I know you do," Doris laughed, "but just the 
 same she'll be here pretty soon, so go into your 
 bedroom and cool off your face. And for the love 
 of Heaven, don't be a fool." 
 
 Notwithstanding the four flights of stairs, Miss 
 Wilmerding arrived in the most excellent spirits, and 
 her fragile flower-like beauty, as well as the cheeri- 
 ness of her manner, made an immediate and delight- 
 fully favorable impression on both Doris and her 
 grandfather. Indeed, it was to the latter .that the 
 visitor chose to address the greater part of her con- 
 versation, until, very much against his will, Doris 
 led him from the room. When they were gone Miss 
 Wilmerding sat in a large rocking-chair, and Fay 
 took her place at the improvised tea-table. 
 
 "What a wonderful old man!" Blanche ex- 
 claimed. "He reminds me so much of some one." 
 
 "Yes," Fay said, "Mr. Hooker fancies he rather
 
 276 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 resembles the pictures of Noah. He's quite a phi- 
 losopher in his way. I'm indebted to him for much 
 excellent advice although I have not always fol- 
 lowed it. I'm afraid it's rather a lonely life that he 
 leads here." 
 
 "Lonely," Miss Wilmerding repeated, "with Miss 
 Yorke and yourself near? I should think that most 
 men would envy him." She glanced about the little 
 sitting-room. "And such a comfortable pretty home, 
 too." 
 
 Fay looked at her visitor and smilingly shook her 
 head. "Thank you," she said. "It's a furnished flat 
 the green plush furniture with the flowered panels 
 was not of our choosing." 
 
 Fay was not making it easy for Miss Wilmerding, 
 but the latter had come with the distinct purpose of 
 making the girl her friend, and she would not so 
 easily be denied. 
 
 "I was so glad to meet you yesterday," she ran on. 
 "Now that you have settled in town I thought how 
 pleasant it would be if we could see something of 
 each other." 
 
 "You're very good," Fay said. "Won't you have 
 some tea?" 
 
 As if to give an air of greater sociability to the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 277 
 
 occasion, Blanche began slowly to pull off her 
 gloves. 
 
 "Why, yes," she said, "I should like some tea 
 very much. And what wonderful-looking biscuits 
 those are !" 
 
 "Yes, they are nice," Fay admitted. "Doris made 
 them. We divide the post of cook, but Doris is so 
 much better than I am that she does all the hot bread 
 and pastry work." 
 
 For a moment there was silence while Fay poured 
 the tea, and then Blanche began again. 
 
 "You've known Mr. Fielding for a long time, 
 haven't you? I remember you were great friends 
 at Pleasantville." 
 
 "Yes, we were great friends," Fay said with a 
 strong accent on the were. "You see we grew up 
 together, almost as brother and sister. Then Porter 
 came to town and went into business, and in a short 
 time I followed him. And I went on the stage." 
 
 "Wasn't it splendid," Miss Wilmerding ex- 
 claimed, "you're both being able to start in the same 
 town !" 
 
 Fay glanced at Blanche and then back to the tea- 
 cups. "Yes, in a way, it was. But, of course, you 
 see we are both working now and our interests are
 
 278 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 different and and our friends are not the same." 
 
 "But why shouldn't they be the same?" Blanche 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know exactly why," Fay said, "but it 
 doesn't seem to work out, somehow. When I went 
 on the stage I thought everything would be just the 
 same, but it isn't. It's quite different. You see, Por- 
 ter has been very successful and he has had the time, 
 too, to make new friends." 
 
 "Hasn't he, though!" Miss Wilmerding exclaimed 
 with genuine enthusiasm. "I think it's quite won- 
 derful, the place he has made for himself, and espe- 
 cially in so short a time. All the men and women 
 think he's fine, and he's asked about everywhere 
 now. We're very proud of him." 
 
 "Proud?" Fay asked. 
 
 Miss Wilmerding flushed at the suddenness of the 
 question, and then hurried on. 
 
 "Yes, you see, dad and I sort of took him under 
 pur wing when he came to New York, and in a way, 
 we felt responsible; so when he won out we were 
 naturally pleased just as you must feel pleased." 
 
 "Of course," Fay said, "I understand. I'm glad 
 he's been such a success. It's nice to see one's 
 friends get on in the world, even if
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 279 
 
 "And you're going to be a great success, too, 
 aren't you?" Blanche interrupted her as if she 
 foresaw what Fay was about to say. "I suppose we 
 shall soon see your name in a big electric sign on 
 Broadway, won't we?" 
 
 Fay looked up from the tea-cup she was holding 
 in her hand. "I hope so," she said, "but it seems 
 to be a pretty hard road to success on the stage. 
 Must you go ?" 
 
 Miss Wilmerding had risen and was putting on 
 her gloves. 
 
 "I'm afraid I must," she said. "I just wanted to 
 look you up and ask you to be sure to come and see 
 me. You will come very soon, won't you?" 
 
 Fay looked at the bright eager eyes of the girl, 
 the pink and white skin, and the broad clear brow, as 
 yet unruffled by a single real care or trouble. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I'd be glad to come, 
 Miss Wilmerding, but just now it's well, it's not 
 possible." 
 
 "Why, Miss Clayton," Blanche urged, "please 
 don't say that. Surely you can run in to see me 
 some afternoon, and then we can arrange for a 
 little party just you and Porter and myself, or a 
 big party, if you'd rather."
 
 280 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Fay's eyes were becoming a little misty, but she 
 looked steadily into those of her visitor. 
 
 "I'd rather you'd understand, Miss Wilmerding," 
 she said, "just why I don't come to see you. It 
 makes it more simple for the future. I don't go 
 anywhere, because just now I can't. It's not an easy 
 thing to say, but I've no clothes, and I have no 
 money and I don't belong any more. I'm out of it. 
 This old man and the girl you just met are my only 
 friends, and my acquaintances are the kind of people 
 you wouldn't care to meet." She turned her eyes 
 from Blanche and glanced about the room. "And 
 this," she added, "is my home. Miss Wilmerding, 
 believe me, the girl who comes to this town with 
 nothing but her good looks had better be dead." 
 
 Blanche put out her hand. "Good-by, Miss Clay- 
 ton," she said, "that is, if it is to be good-by. But be- 
 fore I go, I want to tell you, if you don't mind, how 
 I admire the fight you are making and and I think 
 it's bully and that you are just fine !" 
 
 Fay led the way in silence through the narrow 
 hallway, and after she had opened the front door, 
 once more shook hands with her visitor. ''Good- 
 by again," she said, "and thank you so much for 
 coming'."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 281 
 
 "I'm sorry it's to be good-by," Miss Wihnerding 
 said, "perhaps you'll change your mind some day. 
 I hope so, anyhow. Say good-by to Mr. Hooker for 
 me, won't you, and to Miss Yorke and thank her 
 so much for the biscuits." 
 
 Fay bowed her head and when she raised it again 
 Miss Wilmerding was lost in the shadows of the 
 gloomy hallway, and the luckless, profitless visit was 
 at an end.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 OWING to his long wait in anticipation of the 
 visit of the distinguished guest rather than to 
 the visit itself, Mr. Hooker, completely exhausted, 
 had fallen asleep in his bedroom, and when Fay re- 
 turned to the sitting-room, she found Doris enjoy- 
 ing the luxurious comforts of her grandfather's 
 chair. 
 
 "Well," asked Doris, "did she like my biscuits? 
 I'll bet she never tasted anything like them in her 
 Fifth Avenue palace better, perhaps, but nothing 
 just like them." 
 
 Fay went over to the window in front of which 
 Doris sat, and leaning against the frame, looked out 
 on the ill-lighted gloomy street 
 
 "She liked them all right," Fay said. "Told me 
 to tell you so and to thank you." 
 
 "Good for her," Doris laughed. "I rather like 
 your friend, and my ! but that was some fur coat she 
 had on. If an actress wore a coat like that they'd 
 suspect every Pittsburgh millionaire in the iron busi- 
 
 282
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 283 
 
 ness. Did your friend tell you why she came to 
 call?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," Fay said, still looking out of 
 the window, "just to be sociable I guess. Anyhow, I 
 found out what I wanted to know." 
 
 "And that was?" 
 
 "She loves Porter." 
 
 Doris pushed herself forward to the edge of the 
 chair. Even if Fay had never told her she knew 
 that Fielding was the best part of her friend's life. 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 Fay shook her head, and with misty eyes looked 
 up at the darkening skies. "I could hear it in her 
 voice when she spoke his name. It was in her eyes 
 I tell you it was in her eyes." 
 
 "But it wasn't in her eyes," Doris asked, "that 
 Fielding loves her, was it ?" 
 
 "No," Fay said, "but do you think Porter or any 
 other man could, or would, refuse that pretty sweet 
 thing and all that she brings with her? I don't. 
 Especially Porter, who was born ambitious, and all 
 of his life has been crazy for just the things that 
 that girl can give him." 
 
 Doris put out her hands and gently pressed Fay's 
 hand that hung limply by her side.
 
 284 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "I'm sorry, dear," she said, "so very sorry." 
 
 "Thank you, kid," Fay whispered. "I know. I 
 know how you feel, but it's over. And isn't it a pity, 
 dear, when it's over and when you know it's over?" 
 
 Half an hour later when old Mr. Hooker came 
 into the room he found them still at the window 
 and Doris in his favorite chair, bending over Fay, 
 who was sitting at her feet with her face buried in 
 the younger girl's lap. 
 
 Blanche Wilmerding returned to her home thor- 
 oughly discouraged at her futile efforts to establish 
 any kind of friendly relations between herself and 
 Fay Clayton. But although she had failed so sig- 
 nally, she could not bring herself to feel that the 
 fault was in any way her own. If she had erred at 
 all it was in going out of her way to do a favor 
 where it was not appreciated, and where the motive 
 of the kindly act was entirely misunderstood. An- 
 noyed and distressed at her lack of success she 
 dressed and went down to the drawing-room to 
 wait for Fielding, who was coming to dinner. 
 
 The gaieties of the winter season were not yet 
 under way, and of late Fielding usually dined alone 
 with Miss Wilmerding and her father several times 
 during the week. Occasionally they all went to the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 285 
 
 play together, but more often Mr. Wilmerding re- 
 tired to his den, and Blanche and Fielding would 
 spend the evening chatting in the library up-stairs 
 which had all the comforts and none of the stiffness 
 of the big formal drawing-rooms on the lower floor. 
 In every way the Wilmerdings had made Fielding 
 feel that their home was to be a home to him, too, 
 and he accepted their kindness with proper gratitude 
 and a very natural avidity. On this particular even- 
 ing Mr. Wilmerding was going out to a dinner, and 
 Blanche was greatly pleased at the prospect. The 
 memory of her unhappy call on Fay still hung heavy 
 over her, and she wished to tell Fielding all about it 
 and at once. 
 
 He came in smiling and took her proffered hand 
 in both of his own. 
 
 "Well," he asked, "tell me all about it." 
 
 "Porter," she said, "it was awful." 
 
 "Awful," he repeated. "What was the matter? 
 Was the flat so bad or was it that terrible old man?" 
 
 Blanche shook her head at Fielding's lack of un- 
 derstanding and sympathy, and an apparently de- 
 cided inclination to take the matter lightly. 
 
 "I tell you it was awful. She refused to come 
 to see me or have anything to do with me, and I
 
 286 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 tried so hard to be nice and friendly to her. Indeed, 
 I did, Porter. She said it was her poverty, but 
 that's not the real reason. There's something else." 
 
 "I'm so sorry I let you go at all, Blanche," he said, 
 "but how was I to know that Fay would act like 
 that?" 
 
 "Sorry for me," Blanche repeated. "Don't be 
 sorry for me I tell you that girl is a tragedy. Oh, 
 Porter, if you could only have seen the place. It 
 was so cheap and vulgar and the plush furniture and 
 the awful wall-paper fairly screamed at you, and she 
 looked so poor and so tired and and hungry. Yes, 
 Porter, she did, I tell you, she looked hungry." 
 
 Fielding smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "Oh, it is not so bad as that," he said. "You're a 
 little carried away by your sympathy. I'll go up 
 there to-morrow and have a good talk with Fay 
 and find out just what the trouble is. If I wasn't 
 such a selfish brute I'd have done it long ago." 
 
 Any further conversation on the subject was im- 
 possible for the moment as the servant announced 
 dinner, and it was not until they were once more 
 comfortably settled in the library that Blanche had 
 again spoken of her fruitless visit of the afternoon. 
 She was sitting before the fire on the edge of a low
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 287 
 
 armchair, her elbows on her knees and her chin 
 resting between her palms. Fielding sat tailor- fash- 
 ion on a great white bear-skin at her feet and 
 watched the flames in the broad hearth throw 
 shadows across the delicate pink and white face, the 
 sensitive appealing eyes, and the masses of golden- 
 yellow hair. About them there was nothing that 
 was not beautiful every detail of the room spoke 
 of good breeding, and good taste, and unlimited 
 wealth. And then, too, both of them had youth 
 and abundant health, and spirits, and unusual good 
 looks, and Fielding, at least, had not always known 
 the extreme comfort of such luxury as this. It was, 
 in all ways, a moment when the thoughts of two such 
 happy contented young people would naturally turn 
 to those less fortunate than themselves. They had 
 tried and tried hard to account for Fay's attitude 
 from many different angles. Blanche had spoken 
 of the girl's present unhappy position at great length 
 and with the most friendly and sincere concern, and 
 Fielding had talked freely of the days when Fay 
 and he had been so constantly together. 
 
 "Porter," Blanche said, "it's not an easy question 
 to ask, and don't answer it if you'd rather not. But 
 in a way it might account for Fay's position. Didn't
 
 288 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 you use to to care a great deal about her at one 
 time?" 
 
 "Why, yes," Fielding answered quite frankly. 
 "I do still, although lately I've seen so very little of 
 her. If you mean was I ever in love with Fay, to 
 be honest, I don't think that I ever really was." 
 
 Blanche shaded her eyes with her hand, and for 
 some moments stared in silence at the points of 
 flame shooting up from the crackling logs. 
 
 "Isn't it just possible," she said at last, "that 
 well, that she cares for you? You were her best 
 friend once and now " 
 
 "And now," Fielding interrupted her, "you mean 
 that you are my best friend." 
 
 There was something in his voice and in his eyes 
 that confused her and made her sorry for what she 
 had said. She pushed herself back into the depths 
 of the low chair and for a moment closed her eyes. 
 When she opened them again she found Fielding 
 standing over her, and then he reached for her 
 hand which was gripping the arm of the chair, and 
 raising it, brushed the tips of her fingers with his 
 lips, 
 
 "Blanche," he whispered, "I wish with all my
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 289 
 
 heart that some woman, any woman, had the right 
 to be jealous of me." 
 
 Again she closed her eyes, and with her free hand 
 clasped the other arm of the chair. 
 
 "I know I have no right I know it's quite mad 
 of me but " 
 
 She opened her eyes and in their depths, where 
 there was no place for subterfuge, and where one 
 could look only for the fearless truth, he saw the 
 answer to his unasked question. And so he bent 
 over her still lower, so low that his lips touched hers. 
 Then he stood quite erect and jerked his chin in the 
 air, and threw back his shoulders, as all true con- 
 querors should do, and at that moment the door 
 opened and Mr. Wilmerding bustled in. 
 
 "Well, young people," he cried, "how are you? 
 I've been bored as I've never been bored before, 
 even at a banker's banquet." 
 
 "Speaking for myself," Fielding said, "I've never 
 been so happy before in my life. Mr. Wilmerding, 
 I've just asked your daughter to marry me." 
 
 The banker glared at Fielding with wide-eyed 
 wonder. 
 
 "Bless my soul," he gasped, "but this is very sud- 
 den at least it is to me. What did Blanche say?"
 
 290 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 The girl walked over to Fielding and put her arm 
 through his. 
 
 "Blanche really didn't say anything," she said, 
 smiling frankly into her father's startled eyes, "but 
 that's all right. Porter understands." 
 
 A few minutes later Mr. Wilmerding pushed an 
 electric button and when the butler appeared he or- 
 dered a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Just 
 as the servant was closing the door, Wilmerding add- 
 ed : "And some cake. I don't know why they have 
 cake on these occasions, but according to the best 
 novels they always do, and you two have got to eat 
 cake if it chokes you." 
 
 Thus it was that Fielding and Blanche Wilmer- 
 ding were betrothed. During the ensuing talk it 
 was agreed between them and the banker that the 
 event should be celebrated by Porter taking a va- 
 cation the day following and spending it alone with 
 Blanche in the back seat of Mr. Wilmerding's larg- 
 est touring car. 
 
 "We'll drive all morning," Blanche planned excit- 
 edly, "and for lunch we'll go to one of those rather 
 risque inns, and we'll lunch all alone and create a 
 terrible scandal." 
 
 "No, we won't," Fielding protested, "because no-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 291 
 
 body will know about it. I positively refuse to 
 lunch where there will be any one to see us." 
 
 The happy party of three said good night, in fact 
 they said it several times in the library, and then, 
 with a prematurely wifely spirit, Blanche went to the 
 front door for fear, as she explained it, that Field- 
 ing would not put on his overcoat and hat before 
 going out into the cold night air. 
 
 The door once closed behind him, Fielding lighted 
 a cigar, and with his shoulders back, his head held 
 high, he started with a long swinging gait down 
 the avenue in the direction of his home. Good for- 
 tune had indeed been his. In less than six months' 
 time it seemed as if every one of his ambitions and 
 his hopes had been realized. The future lay before 
 him as fair and as unruffled as a well of crystal 
 water. Health, the best of all nature's gifts, had been 
 his from childhood ; to this had been added a secure 
 and honorable position; and now through his mar* 
 riage to Blanche Wilmerding, his last fear of need or 
 any lack of this world's goods would vanish forever. 
 
 He looked up at the silver stars shining coldly 
 down on him from the unbroken stretch of purple 
 sky and thanked his God that he had lived cleanly, 
 and, to himself, made silent oath that he would live
 
 292 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 worthily of her love always. And then, at the 
 thought of her love for him, there was a sudden 
 tightening of the muscles in his throat and he felt the 
 hot blood rush to his face. Because she gave him not 
 only her love, but with it every desire of his most 
 ambitious dreams, and he knew only too well that 
 the one thing which he ought to give her in return 
 for all this was his love, and that he could not give. 
 
 To the full Fielding appreciated the girl's un- 
 doubted charm, her wonderful sweetness, and her 
 frail exquisite beauty, but he did not love her not 
 as he wanted to love her, not as he had prayed and 
 would pray again that he might love her. That 
 she could or ever would discover his secret did not 
 for one moment occur to him as a remote possibility. 
 He was quite sure that he would prove himself the 
 best of husbands, better perhaps than many of the 
 men whom he knew, and who, years after marriage, 
 still loved their wives with all the tenderness and 
 passion of the early days of their courtship. 
 
 It was not that at the moment Fielding loved any 
 one else, but he knew well enough what real love 
 was the kind of love which he should have brought 
 to a woman so fine and unselfish as Blanche Wilmer- 
 ding. Perhaps it was to Fay Clayton more than to
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 293 
 
 any other woman that he owed his understanding 
 of real love. His desire of the old days to protect 
 and guard her had been instilled into him through 
 years of devoted companionship, and yet in spite 
 of his brotherly attitude there had been moments 
 when her wonderful animal beauty had fairly over- 
 whelmed him, and he would have given everything 
 he possessed to have crushed her for one moment in 
 his arms. But that was the Porter Fielding and the 
 Fay Clayton of Pleasantville, when they lived under 
 stretches of blue sky, and their existence was as 
 human as it was clean and beautiful. Much had 
 happened since those days of Arcadian joys, much 
 worldly knowledge had been learned by both of 
 them, and even had it been their greatest desire, 
 never again could they enjoy the innocent pleasures 
 of their joyous irresponsible youth. 
 
 But Porter Fielding's regrets for the lack of sin- 
 cerity of his own feelings were far outweighed by 
 happier thoughts of the culmination of his hopes 
 which had been so suddenly and unexpectedly real- 
 ized that night. By the time he had reached his 
 home he was smiling again and was thoroughly con- 
 tent and at peace with himself and all the world. In 
 the brass box in the hallway he found a letter that
 
 294 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 had evidently been left by a messenger, and when he 
 had carried it to his sitting-room, and turned on the 
 lights, he saw that the address was in Fay's hand- 
 writing. These were the words she had written in 
 her brief note : 
 
 "Dear Porter: 
 
 "You may remember that on the last night we were 
 together at Pleasantville the night before I left to 
 come to New York I asked you to make me a 
 promise. It was that, never mind what might hap- 
 pen, you would bring me to Pleasantville when- 
 ever I asked you, and you made the promise. I am 
 leaving to-morrow morning on the ten-forty from 
 Twenty-third Street and shall arrange things so that 
 we can return by an afternoon train. I shall meet 
 you in the outside waiting-room of the station as 
 pay-day is not until to-morrow and I don't think I'll 
 have quite money enough to buy my ticket. So you 
 see that your coming, even apart from your promise, 
 is imperative. Au revoir. As ever, 
 
 "FAY." 
 
 Fielding read the note the first time hurriedly 
 and while he still stood under the chandelier. Then 
 he sat down and read and reread it slowly several 
 times. His first feelings were of great surprise and 
 consternation, and the more he considered Fay's re- 
 quest the greater his consternation grew. It seemed 
 not only thoughtless but most inconsiderate and alto-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 295 
 
 gether unlike her to ask him to do her such a favor 
 at such a time. Of course, Fielding realized that she 
 could not be expected to know of his engagement 
 to Blanche Wilmerding, or with what keen pleasure 
 both he and the girl he was to marry were looking 
 forward to the long day that they were to spend 
 together on the morrow. But Fay did know that 
 Saturday was at best only a half-holiday and that 
 under circumstances less unusual it would have been 
 imperative for him to have been at the office during 
 the morning hours at least. On the other hand the 
 fact that Fay herself had a matinee the following 
 afternoon seemed conclusive proof that she regard- 
 ed her visit to Pleasantville as not only extremely 
 urgent but of the greatest possible importance. 
 
 But worry and fume over the matter as he might 
 Fielding could not argue against the two vital facts, 
 that he had made a promise and that he had been 
 asked, and asked in no uncertain terms, to make 
 that promise good. His first idea was to telephone 
 Blanche at once and to lay the whole matter before 
 her, but on second thought he decided that she had 
 no doubt already gone to bed, and that there would 
 be no one down-stairs to answer the call and switch 
 it to Blanche's telephone in her own room. Should
 
 296 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 he wish to do so there would be plenty of time to 
 telephone her in the morning before he started to 
 meet Fay. But then he remembered that conversa- 
 tions over the telephone were not only not always 
 satisfactory but frequently led to misunderstandings 
 and, therefore, his final decision was to write her a 
 brief note. This he did at once, merely stating that 
 he had been called out of town on imperative busi- 
 ness, the nature of which he could better tell her on 
 his return that evening. In a few carefully chosen 
 words he ended the letter by assuring her that when 
 she knew the circumstances she would not only for- 
 give him but agree with him that he had done the 
 only thing possible. 
 
 The morning following he sent the letter by mes- 
 senger to Miss Wilmerding and then went on to the 
 station to meet Fay. He found her waiting at the 
 door of the ferry house, and when she saw him she 
 hurried to him, laughing, and dangling an empty 
 purse before his eyes. 
 
 "I'm broke, Porter," she said, "stony broke! 
 That's a pretty way to go back to the old town, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 Porter smiled, shook his head with mock sol- 
 emnity at the vacuous purse, and started toward the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 297 
 
 ticket-window. Fay put her arm under his, and not- 
 withstanding the crowd that surrounded them, 
 absolutely refused to be quieted. 
 
 "Just think of it, Porter," she cried, eagerly 
 squeezing his arm, "we're going back back to dear 
 old Pleasantville. You've run away from business 
 and I'm going to cut the matinee and probably get 
 fired, but we're going home, aren't we, we're going 
 home!" She suddenly swung herself before him 
 so that she could look fairly into his serious eyes. 
 "Smile a little, Porter," she begged "just a little 
 smile. Let's pretend we're a couple of kids playing 
 hooky from school ! That's it, Porter, let's be kids 
 again just for a day just for a few hours. Won't 
 you, please?" 
 
 Fielding looked squarely into the lovely blue eyes. 
 They were laughing eager eyes now the same eyes 
 that he had known months ago months before the 
 glare of the footlights and the white lights of the 
 town had dulled them and brought sorrow to their 
 limpid depths. The shadows, too, had gone from 
 her face the white drawn look had vanished, and 
 in its place was the flush of the old lovely pink and 
 white coloring. In Fay this morning Fielding saw 
 the Fay of the days when she and he were always
 
 298 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 together, sailing over the rippling waters of the Na- 
 tasqua, or taking long walks through the sweet- 
 smelling pine forests, or along stretches of hard 
 white pebbled beach. Here was the Fay of yester- 
 day, a laughing, winsome, beautiful, joyous play- 
 mate, the Fay with whom he had grown up, and 
 learned to love as he would have loved a sister. 
 
 It would have taken a stronger man than Porter 
 Fielding to have been indifferent to the charm of 
 Fay Clayton that morning. She seemed, somehow, 
 to be an integral part of the brilliant crisp December 
 day, the kind of a day that sends the blood racing 
 through the veins and makes one long for the broad 
 blue sky, the brittle roads and the sunlit forest of 
 the country of early winter. The annoyance that 
 Fielding had previously nourished against her on 
 account of her request vanished before her irresist- 
 ible spirit as the mist disappears before the warm 
 glow of the summer sun. He knew that Blanche 
 Wilmerding had a great sympathy for Fay, and 
 thoroughly convinced that she would not, only for- 
 give him but be glad that he had kept his promise, 
 he gave himself up to the happiness he once more 
 felt in the presence of his old friend. Her laugh 
 was as infectious as was the very spirit of her gaiety,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 299 
 
 and as the train carried them slowly on their way, 
 they laughed and chatted together, heedless of 
 everything and every one but themselves, and as 
 content as two happy children. Fay told him of her 
 experiences at the theater and at the new flat up- 
 town, but they were all amusing experiences. If 
 Fielding were to accept these tales as the whole truth, 
 then the girls in the company were a witty, care-free 
 and most lovable crowd, and old man Hooker was to 
 Fay and Doris a source of never-ending delight. Not 
 for a moment did she dwell on her true life, somber, 
 almost tragic in its very monotony, and stripped 
 bare of happiness of every kind. 
 
 It was when the way-train swung about the curve 
 that brought it in sight of the sea that Fielding 
 noticed the first change in Fay's mood. For the mo- 
 ment her spirits seemed to sag, her amusing cease- 
 less chatter came to a sudden end. She sat silent, 
 looking out at the little villages of summer cottages, 
 the long stretches of gray sand-dunes, and between 
 these at intervals, a patch of deep blue sea and high 
 rolling breakers. It was a bleak view she had from 
 the window so bleak, and gray, and out-of-season 
 that even the brilliant sunshine could not warm it 
 into cheerfulness. The wooden cottages were all
 
 300 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 closed tight and boarded for the winter, and the 
 broad clay streets were quite deserted it seemed 
 as if the owner of the coast had locked the door 
 and gone away and left only the high white- 
 crested breakers to guard his home. 
 
 When Fay had left Pleasantville, six months be- 
 fore, the same narrow strip of land had been alive 
 with young men in flannels, hatless pretty girls in 
 duck skirts and filmy shirt-waists, automobiles, and 
 runabouts, and summer "hacks" ; the grass was 
 green then, and everywhere there were blooming 
 flowers, and the spirit of the summer holiday was in 
 the air. But the sight of the closed villas, the de- 
 serted streets, the occasional lonely pine tree 
 did not hurt Fay as it would have hurt the vision of 
 the traveler who looked out on the desolation of the 
 Jersey coast in winter for the first time. Because, 
 every now and again, Fay recognized some land- 
 mark a house, or a broken fence, a garden, an iso- 
 lated clump of pines that told her that she was 
 being brought nearer and nearer to her old home. 
 Being of a much less emotional temperament, this 
 return did not affect Fielding in the same way as it 
 did the girl, but at least he appreciated the thoughts 
 that were passing through her mind, and so he re-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 301 
 
 mained silent and let her dream on her own foolish 
 sentimental dreams. 
 
 As the train gradually drew near Pleasantville 
 and the more frequent became the landmarks that 
 Fay recognized, the more intense became her inter- 
 est and not for a moment now did she take her eyes 
 from the passing landscape. At last the train 
 slowed down perceptibly, and they both knew that 
 that meant they were about to cross the old wooden 
 bridge that spanned the Natasqua. Fay was the first 
 to catch a glimpse of the blue sunlit waters of the 
 fair little river on which they had spent the best part 
 of their youth. As the train rumbled slowly across 
 the draw she closed her eyes for a moment, and 
 resting her head against the back of the seat, pressed 
 her arm tightly against Fielding's and her fingers 
 closed like a vise about his wrist. 
 
 "It's the Natasqua, Porter," she whispered, "it's 
 the dear old Natasqua. We're home again, Porter, 
 we're home." 
 
 Until this time neither of them had mentioned the 
 object of their present visit to Pleasantville, but now 
 it seemed necessary for Fielding to speak. 
 
 "Do you expect any one to meet you?" he asked. 
 
 Fay opened her eyes and once more stared out of
 
 302 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the window. They had crossed the bridge and were 
 running through a strip of pine woods that lay just 
 beyond the edge of the town. 
 
 "No, Porter," she said, "I wasn't expecting any 
 one to meet me." 
 
 "I thought perhaps," he suggested, "that Mar- 
 garet" 
 
 Fay shook her head. "No, not even Margaret. 
 You see Margaret doesn't answer my letters any 
 more. I wrote to her several times after after the 
 trouble, but she didn't write at all to me after that. 
 I think it hurt me almost more than anything else, 
 Porter. We'd been so close, Margaret and I and 
 then I'd always sort of looked after her, and I 
 thought, somehow, that she'd be sure to stick, even 
 if the others did fail me." 
 
 "Yes, or course," Fielding said, "I understand 
 and I'm sorry. It doesn't seem like Margaret, does 
 it? Had you any plans, that is, plans for after we 
 arrive any idea of what you wanted to do?" 
 
 Fay turned from the window and looked at him 
 through misty eyes. Her brave brilliant spirits of 
 the early morning had disappeared entirely. 
 
 "Why, no, Porter," she said, "I had no plans. I 
 just felt somehow that I had to go back to the old
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 303 
 
 place. I was heartsick for a sight of it, and last 
 night it seemed as if I couldn't stay away any 
 longer. Of course I wanted to be with you when I 
 came back, but I didn't know how to ask you ex- 
 actly, and then I remembered the promise you made 
 me. That was a funny premonition how I knew 
 some day that I'd want you to bring me back here." 
 
 With a great creaking of rusty brakes, the train 
 slowly came to a stop before the station. As Fay 
 and Fielding stepped from the car to the platform, 
 the station master waved his greeting to them just 
 as if they had left Pleasantville the day before, and 
 a driver, whom they both knew, inquired casually if 
 they wanted to hire his hack. But Fay said that she 
 preferred to walk, and so they left the station and 
 strolled slowly across the road. At Fielding's sug- 
 gestion they stopped in at a little restaurant where 
 they ordered some sandwiches and milk for their 
 luncheon. The woman who owned the place re- 
 ceived Fielding with a boisterous welcome, but when 
 she recognized Fay she gave her a quick nod and 
 hurried on into the kitchen. 
 
 "Do you suppose they all feel that way?" Fay 
 asked. 
 
 But Fielding pretended not to understand and be-
 
 304 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 gan to talk of other things. The woman soon re- 
 turned with the sandwiches and milk, and without 
 again glancing at Fay, left them alone. They ate 
 their simple luncheon in silence and when they had 
 finished Fay went outside while Fielding paid the 
 woman. 
 
 They walked slowly down the broad street in the 
 direction of the river. It was the hour when the 
 very few who spent their winters in Pleasantville 
 stopped work for their midday dinner and there was 
 absolutely no one in sight. The cottages which for 
 the most part were used only by the summer visitors 
 were closed and the windows and doors boarded, a 
 sharp breeze from the ocean blew through the naked 
 branches of the trees, and gloom and desolation 
 seemed to brood over the deserted village. Fay but- 
 toned the collar of her coat tightly about her throat 
 and unconsciously they quickened their footsteps. 
 
 They turned from the main roadway into a path 
 that led them to a pavilion and the public boat-house 
 where Fay had always kept her sailboat. The big, 
 gray, barn-like structure was closed and locked for 
 the winter, but the}'- sat down on a wooden bench 
 and looked out at the sparkling waters of the Natas- 
 qua. For a long time neither of them spoke. Per-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 305 
 
 haps more than any other place the river recalled to 
 them the joyous happy days of their youth, and 
 both were conscious of the same thought, the 
 thought that each knew filled the other's mind. The 
 river, unchanged, peaceful and beautiful, still flowed 
 on its way to the sea, but since they had last seen 
 that river what changes had come into their lives! 
 Fay shivered slightly from the cold, and getting up 
 from the bench, took several quick turns up and 
 down the porch of the pavilion. 
 
 "And now?" Fielding asked. 
 
 "Now," Fay said, "I think I'd like to go and look 
 at the old house. Do you mind coming with me? 
 I won't go very near." 
 
 Fielding smiled at her and put his arm through 
 hers, and they started briskly to walk toward the 
 Claytons' home. The sun had disappeared behind 
 some fat gray clouds, the wind from the sea had 
 freshened, and the air was growing cold and raw. 
 They turned from the broad street into a wood road 
 and it was through a break in the trees that Fay 
 caught the first glimpse of her old home. They could 
 distinguish the figure of a woman standing on the 
 porch, but they were too far away to recognize the 
 woman's face.
 
 3 o6 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "It's Margaret, I think," Fay said. "I'm sure 
 it's Margaret. Don't you think so, Porter ?" 
 
 Her manner was so eager that Fielding quickly 
 assured her that she was right. She leaned against a 
 pine tree and for some moments, with her hands 
 clasped tightly before her, gazed steadily at the fig- 
 ure of the girl on the porch. 
 
 "I'm glad you think it's Margaret," she at last. 
 "I like to think that I saw Margaret again. Mar- 
 garet was such a dear kid, wasn't she, Porter?" 
 
 Suddenly Fay stood up very straight, threw her 
 shoulders sharply back, and with one more glance 
 at the little gray cottage, turned her face from it. 
 
 "And now, Porter," she said, "I want you to take 
 me to the ocean. We must see the ocean together 
 again, mustn't we? And then that will be the last 
 favor I shall ask of you, and you can go back to 
 your beloved New York." 
 
 "But you're going back with me?" he asked. 
 
 Fay smiled and nodded her head. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course, I'm going back. In a way, 
 I'd like to stay on, but it doesn't seem possible. I've 
 got to get back to the theater for the performance 
 this evening, and then there's really no place for me 
 to spend the night here now; is there?"
 
 Itf ANOTHER MOMENT 307 
 
 "No," he said, "I suppose not. I'm sorry." 
 After this they walked on in silence toward the 
 road that led to the sea, and Fay seemed to become 
 more and more depressed with every step they took. 
 To Fielding the whole visit to Pleasantville was still 
 an enigma, and he could not understand the melan- 
 choly pleasure that Fay had evidently anticipated 
 in returning to her old home. Under other circum- 
 stances her desire to go back to her people and the 
 scenes of her youth was only natural, but at the pres- 
 ent her people did not want to see her, and the only 
 object of her present trip, as far as Fielding could 
 understand it, was to stir up memories that he be- 
 lieved had best have been forgotten entirely. 
 
 From the woods they turned into the broad road- 
 way that ran straight to the ocean. Like all the other 
 highways it was quite deserted ; the semi-detached 
 villas that lined it on either side were vacant and had 
 ugly rough boards nailed across the doors and win- 
 dows; the bushes and flower beds of the little gar- 
 dens were cold and barren-looking, and many of the 
 tiny fenced lawns were strewn with tin cans, empty 
 bottles and the refuse of the summer that was gone. 
 They walked cautiously now along the narrow 
 wooden sidewalk, and their progress was of neces-
 
 3 o8 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 sity very slow, for many of the planks were broken 
 or had rotted away entirely. At last they caught a 
 glimpse of the ocean and by way of greeting Fay 
 waved her hand to it and then started to run through 
 the heavy white sand, as fast as she could, toward 
 the beach. She called to Fielding, daring him to 
 race her to the sea, but he was tired and anxious and 
 was content to follow slowly. 
 
 When he caught up with her he found her sitting 
 on the edge of the porch of a deserted wooden build- 
 ing known to the summer visitors as the Casino, but 
 which in reality was a very crudely built bathing 
 pavilion, and now quite deserted and in a deplorable 
 state of neglect and decay. Many of the shingles 
 of which the outer walls were made had been 
 wrenched loose by storms; the doors of the long 
 rows of bath-houses flapped and creaked on their 
 rusty hinges, and the frames of two derelict bottom- 
 less rocking-chairs were rocked slowly to and fro by 
 the wind that whistled and screeched its way across 
 the deserted porches and through the gaping cracks 
 of the shattered building. All trace of the brilliant 
 sunshine of the morning was gone, and the sky was 
 now filled with gray swiftly-moving clouds, and a 
 sharp piercing breeze from the ocean had turned the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 309 
 
 day bitterly cold. Fielding buttoned the collar of 
 his overcoat tightly across his throat, and sitting 
 down at Fay's side, swung his legs over the edge 
 of the porch. For a long time there was silence 
 while they looked out on the high white-crested 
 breakers that kept on impotently smashing away 
 their terrific power on the endless stretch of gray 
 flinty beach, and tossing clouds of foamy spray high 
 into the air. 
 
 It was Fay who spoke first. 
 
 "I wish it would clear," she said. "It would be 
 fine if the sun were shining on those breakers and 
 the spray wouldn't it? Waves always look so 
 grim to me in this kind of weather, so terribly grim. 
 It was a day like this at least Father Clayton 
 always said it was when I was washed up on the 
 beach a raw stormy day in December." 
 
 The wind was rising constantly now, and every 
 minute it was growing colder and colder. Fielding 
 got up and stamped his feet, but Fay sat still, her 
 back against a pillar, her arms gathered tightly 
 about her knees, apparently completely oblivious to 
 the wind or cold. 
 
 "You know, Porter," she went on, "that I always 
 called the eighth of December my birthday the
 
 3io IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 eighth was the day I was wrecked and the Claytons 
 took me home to live with them. I was only " 
 
 "Why, that's funny," Fielding interrupted her, 
 "but to-day's the eighth. Did you know that?" 
 
 Fay was looking out at the long foamy crescents 
 running far up the hard gray beach. 
 
 "Yes, Porter," she said, but she did not turn her 
 head toward him. "That's why I wanted to come 
 down here to-day sort of an anniversary party." 
 
 "I'm sorry I didn't remember, Fay," he said. "I 
 wish I'd sent you something. Do you remember the 
 foolish birthday gifts we used to give each other 
 when we were very little kids? We always went 
 together and bought them at old man Cope's place. 
 I'm sorry I forgot about its being your birthday 
 to-day." 
 
 "That's all right," she said, "don't you worry, 
 Porter. I'm glad you remembered at all. You did 
 enough when you brought me down here that was 
 enough for anybody to do. I was sorry, too, that I 
 had to ask you to pay my fare down and back, but 
 you see, to-night is pay night at the theater, and I 
 was broke and I couldn't very well borrow from 
 Doris, and poor Mr. Hooker he hasn't got any- 
 thing at all. But that's all right, Porter, I know
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 311 
 
 you won't be sorry for all the nice things you've 
 done for me to-day and and during the old times." 
 She put out her hand and looked up at him with eyes 
 as helpless and as innocent as those of a child. 
 
 "I know you'll be glad," she went on, "because 
 it's good to remember those things sometimes very 
 good." 
 
 He held her hand tightly in both of his own, and 
 when he looked at her, she saw a light in his eyes 
 that she had not seen there for a long, long time. 
 
 "Don't talk like that," he said, "please don't 
 You don't know how it hurts. I've been a brute to 
 you lately, and I know it, and you know it, too, kid." 
 
 She looked up at him and made a pathetic little 
 effort to smile, but her eyes were very dim, and 
 when she spoke there was a catch in her voice. 
 
 "My, but it's good, Porter," she said, "to hear 
 you call me 'kid' again. It's just like the old days." 
 
 He raised his hands and laid them gently on her 
 shoulders, but the movement instead of calming her 
 seemed to rouse her to sudden action, and before he 
 had time to speak, she rose quickly and stood facing 
 him. Then she reached out and took his handker- 
 chief from the breast pocket of his overcoat, and 
 having dried her eyes with it, stuffed it back.
 
 312 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "I'm a sentimental fool, Porter," she said, "just 
 a poor sentimental fool. When I started out this 
 morning I took an oath to myself that I was going 
 to be cheerful and just as amusing as I could be all 
 day, and not to cry once, or to mope, or to be a nui- 
 sance to you. I wanted you to remember me to-day 
 as being well, sort of jolly, and bright, and like I 
 used to be, and instead of that 
 
 Her voice trailed off and was lost in the cry of the 
 wind tearing through the deserted pavilion. 
 
 "It's not easy to be cheerful, Fay, dear," Field- 
 ing said, trying to comfort her, "when there's noth- 
 ing but ghosts about. And such ghosts as we've 
 seen to-day! Ugh! They give me the creeps." 
 
 Fay looked Porter fairly in the eyes, and in an 
 uncertain sort of way smiled at him. 
 
 "Porter," she said, "I'm going to see one more 
 ghost before I go back, and if you don't mind, I 
 think I'd rather see it by myself. I'd like to walk 
 up the beach toward the Twin Dunes. You 
 wouldn't care, would you?" 
 
 Fielding shook his head. 
 
 "Why, of course not, Fay," he said. "But it 
 does seem terribly morbid, somehow." 
 
 For a few moments she looked with frightened
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 313 
 
 unseeing eyes out toward the ocean and then back 
 to Fielding. 
 
 "I know that," she said. "I know that, Porter; 
 but still I would like to go back and look at the old 
 place. I can walk there in five minutes, really I can, 
 and I won't stay but a moment. Why don't you 
 take a walk up the beach and see how the Wilmer- 
 dings' house looks? Then you can tell Miss Wil- 
 merding about it when you see her the next time." 
 
 "Fay," Fielding said suddenly, "why did you 
 treat Blanche the way you did yesterday? What 
 possible reason could you have for refusing to go 
 to see her." 
 
 Fay shook her head and stuck her hands deep into 
 the pockets of her long coat. 
 
 "I can't tell you that just now," she said. "It's 
 such a long story, but but, Porter, I'd like to ask 
 you a question. Are you engaged to Blanche Wil- 
 merding?" 
 
 The suddenness and unexpectedness of the ques- 
 tion made Fielding give a little gasp, but he recov- 
 ered himself at once and quickly put out his hand. 
 
 "Yes, Fay," he said, "I am engaged. Congratu- 
 late me, won't you? I want you to be the first to 
 wish me luck."
 
 3 i4 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Her worst fears had been realized, and the barrier 
 that for months had been gradually rising- between 
 them reared before her now to impossible heights. 
 The secret love dreams and all the hopes of her 
 youth were over, definitely, decisively over, and now 
 it only remained for her to be brave for just a few 
 minutes more. With a certain timidity she had 
 never felt before in his presence she put out her 
 hand and laid it in his. 
 
 "I'm so glad," she said. "I think it's just fine, 
 Porter, and I congratulate you and and I con- 
 gratulate her, too." 
 
 Fielding blushed a little, and in his heart he felt a 
 great pleasure that it was over. As if to hide his 
 confusion, he fumbled under his coats, and then, as- 
 suming a more practical manner, pulled out his 
 watch. 
 
 "I'll meet you here in half an hour," he said 
 briskly, "that will give us plenty of time to get the 
 three-thirty back to town. Will that suit you all 
 right?" 
 
 Fay nodded and smiled a wistful sort of smile at 
 his boyish face and eager laughing eyes. 
 
 "Yes, that will be all right in half an hour."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 SHE turned and started along the path that 
 skirted the edge of the grassy sand-dunes. 
 Fielding stood looking after her, thinking that she 
 would turn and wave to him, but the dark figure con- 
 tinued to trudge slowly and laboriously through the 
 heavy sand and gave him no sign. He decided at first 
 that he would accept her suggestion and walk down 
 the beach in the other direction to have a look at the 
 Wilmerding cottage. Then he determined that such 
 a walk would not only require considerable effort 
 but be quite useless and that, in all ways, it would be 
 much better for him to remain where he was. He 
 took several quick turns up and down the wind- 
 swept porch of the pavilion and then sat down and 
 waited for Fay to return. 
 
 She had disappeared from sight now behind some 
 high dunes, and his mind turned back to his own 
 affairs and how he could best explain his sudden 
 visit to Pleasantville to Blanche Wilmerding. It 
 had been such a useless visit, full of unhappy mem- 
 
 315
 
 3 i6 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 t 
 
 ories, and now Fay had gone by herself to see more 
 ghosts. To Fielding's practical unsentimental mind 
 the whole day had been sadly misspent. He could 
 not persuade himself that it was possible that Fay 
 had come so far merely for the melancholy pleasure 
 of visiting her old home, the doors of which were 
 forever closed against her, and therefore, he con- 
 tinued mentally to grope for some legitimate reason 
 for her sudden desire to return to Pleasantville. 
 And then, without any apparent logical train of 
 thought, his mind suddenly flew back to the talk 
 they had had months before, when she had given 
 him her reasons for wanting to go to New York and 
 to work for her living. With a terrifying force the 
 words that she had quoted then now rushed through 
 his brain "If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it 
 down." 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and with all the speed in 
 every fiber of his strong lithe body started to run 
 along the path that Fay had taken. But do the best 
 that he could his progress was very slow, for the 
 path was deep in soft yielding sand and in many 
 places had been washed away and completely oblit- 
 erated. As he plowed his way over the dunes, often 
 slipping and falling, lie cursed himself again and
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 317 
 
 again for not having remembered her threat to end 
 her life, and at the very place where she had now but 
 gone. Running and half -exhausted, he began to 
 realize for the first time the poverty of her present 
 life and the hardships that she must have undergone ; 
 how friendless she was and, worst of all, how he, 
 her best friend, had neglected and deserted her at a 
 time when she most needed his help. At last he saw 
 the Twin Dunes, the landmark of the scene of the 
 wreck, and with redoubled effort he sped on through 
 the crumbling sand. And then, as he hurled his 
 tired numb body over the last hillock, and saw 
 her still alive, he gave a great cry and running to her 
 fell exhausted at her side. She was sitting on the 
 sand, looking with calm steadfast eyes toward the 
 sea, her back resting against the rib of an abandoned 
 fishing smack. At Fielding's unexpected coming 
 she showed no emotion at all. 
 
 "Thank God," he gasped, "I'm not too late. 
 What have you got there?" 
 
 His whole body trembling from fear and exhaus- 
 tion, he pointed to Fay's tightly closed right hand. 
 As if in acknowledgment that she was powerless 
 before his greater strength, she slightly shrugged 
 her shoulders, and opening her hand, showed him a
 
 3i8 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 small vial. He reached put, and taking the little 
 blue bottle, with a great sigh of relief, tossed it into 
 the surf. 
 
 For some moments there was silence between 
 them while Fay still stared out at the foaming sea 
 and Fielding lay panting for breath at her side. 
 
 "Good God, Fay," he breathed at last, "I didn't 
 think it had come to this." His voice was trembling 
 and he looked into her big blue eyes which he saw 
 were dry and unafraid. 
 
 "It was the best thing, Porter," she said. "It was 
 the only thing. I'd thought it all out." 
 
 "You're mad," he gasped; "you're sick and tired. 
 Your brain's tired and your body's tired. You're 
 not yourself you're mad." 
 
 Fay shook her head and smiled at him as a mother 
 might smile at a wayward child. 
 
 "No, Porter," she said, "I'm not mad. It wasn't 
 as if I hadn't tried, because I have tried. I seem to 
 have been a sort of an experiment that didn't work 
 ut. The waves threw me up on the beach and then 
 they said, 'Now, let's see what you can do with 
 yourself, and your good looks, and your red hair, 
 but no father and no mother.' Well, I tried all 
 right, Porter. But I tell you there's no niche for a
 
 - 
 
 
 With calm steadfast eyes toward the sea.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 319 
 
 girl like me. I suppose it's my disposition. So 
 I came back and to-day I said to the waves : 'I was 
 a bad job, I failed utterly, and I know I made an 
 awful mess of it. But, notwithstanding all that, I 
 can still say that I'm as good and clean as the night 
 you threw me as a child on the beach, and I wanted 
 to come back to you while I could still say that.' ' 
 With a little regretful sigh she settled farther back 
 against the naked ribs of the derelict. 
 
 "In five minutes," she went on, "it would have 
 been all over. I would have been free, and you 
 would have been free, and our troubles would have 
 been at an end. I don't know what becomes of girls 
 who, every minute of their lives, have to fight the 
 too much red blood that is put into their veins, I 
 don't know. But your future was all right, anyhow. 
 So don't you see, Porter, you meant well but it was 
 really a mistake. Now I've got to begin all over 
 again and I'm not up to it. That's it I'm not up to 
 it. Living isn't good enough for me. I'm tired and 
 I wanted so much to quit." 
 
 Fielding took her hands that lay idly in her lap 
 and pressed them closely in his own. 
 
 "You're right, Fay," he whispered, "when you 
 say that you've got to begin again, but we've both
 
 320 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 got to begin again. This time we'll begin together 
 and stick together, always. I know it's all been a 
 mistake, and I know I've been a brute, but, thank 
 God, it's not too late. I know now that we were 
 always meant to be together, and to live together 
 and never to separate. I know that I've been a 
 selfish fool, and thought of nothing but my own suc- 
 cess and cared only for the things and the people 
 who would bring me success. I know all that. But 
 that's all over now, Fay. You may say that it took 
 a long time and nearly an awful tragedy to bring 
 me to myself, and you've got every right to say it, 
 but surely you must understand now. You must 
 know now, Fay, dear, that I love you." 
 
 Fay gently shook her hands free and then clasped 
 them closely together in her lap. 
 
 "Oh, Porter," she said, "it's all so hopeless now." 
 
 "Hopeless ?" he repeated. 
 
 "Why, yes. You must know that I can't marry 
 you. I'd bring you nothing but my love, and that 
 couldn't hold you. You're ambitious and you al- 
 ways will be ambitious. You love position and 
 money and all that money brings. I would only 
 hold you back. You may love me now to-day I
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 321 
 
 know you do or you wouldn't tell me that you do. 
 But really you're ashamed of me." 
 
 "Ashamed of you?" He put out his hand toward 
 her, but with a quick movement she pushed it away 
 from her. 
 
 "Why, yes, Porter. Have you forgotten the night 
 at the restaurant, after the first performance, or just 
 the other afternoon at your rooms? You were 
 ashamed of me, and a man can't be happy with a 
 woman he is ashamed of. There would be no more 
 chance of happiness for us than there would be for 
 a man who married a woman he had lived with. 
 You love me a little, Porter, and you're terribly 
 sorry for me, that's all." She smiled at him and 
 then: "Help me up, won't you? .We've got to be 
 getting back to town." 
 
 When they were both on their feet he looked her 
 squarely in the eyes. 
 
 "You mean what you say, Fay?" he asked. "To 
 me it seems the only chance that either of us has 
 for any happiness." 
 
 "Why, no, Porter," she said smiling, "it wouldn't 
 do, believe me, and I know us both better now than 
 I ever have in all my life. Just remember this. The
 
 322 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 first time in all these years that you ever told me that 
 you loved me was just now when you saw me at 
 death's door, when you saved me from killing my- 
 self. That isn't love, Porter, that's pity. You have 
 disowned me, and you have shown other people that 
 you were ashamed of me, and that is a crime which 
 no real woman ever forgot or ever forgave. All 
 your love for all the rest of your life couldn't wipe 
 out the memory of that. You must go back to Miss 
 Wilmerding. You must forget this day believe 
 me it never existed. You've got a fine successful 
 life before you with her, and I wish you luck." 
 
 "Do you think," he asked, "that that w T ould be 
 fair to Miss Wilmerding? Do you think that I am 
 going to keep my love for you a secret from her? 
 Do you think that I have fallen so low that I am not 
 going to tell her, as soon as I see her, just what I 
 have said to you ?" 
 
 Fay looked at him with surprised curious eyes, 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 "Forgive me, Porter," she said. "Perhaps you're 
 more of a man than I thought you were, and I'm so 
 glad that you're going to do the right thing." 
 
 She turned and together they started back along 
 the path that led to the Casino and to the road to
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 323 
 
 the station. Neither then nor later, during the long 
 journey in the train, did either of them speak of 
 their feelings for each other, or for any one else, or 
 of the reason why Fay had asked him to spend the 
 day which was to have been her last at Pleasantville. 
 It was six o'clock when Fay reached her apart- 
 ment and found Doris and old man Hooker waiting 
 dinner for her. At her plate there was a note from 
 James Stuart. This was what he had written : 
 
 "DEAR Miss CLAYTON: I am giving a supper 
 after the theater to-night at Martin's, and as suppers 
 go, it promises to be gay and amusing that is, if 
 you care for this kind of a supper. Personally, I 
 don't care for them at all, and I am giving this 
 simply in return for others to which I was weak 
 enough to go just because I had nothing else to do. 
 I am only asking you because I thought that you 
 might hear of it and think perhaps I had forgotten 
 you. It may sound inhospitable, but I hope you 
 won't come. You don't belong to this kind of a 
 party, and never did. I invited Doris over the tele- 
 phone in much the same genial strain in which I am 
 writing this, and she seemed glad to refuse. I am 
 hoping that you will agree with her. As ever, 
 "Sincerely yours, 
 "JAMES ALEXANDER STUART. 
 
 "N. B. In case you should decide to go I'll have a 
 cab waiting for you at your stage door." 
 
 Fay looked up at Doris, and their eyes met.
 
 "It's an invitation to Stuart's party," Fay said. 
 "You're not going?" 
 
 Doris shook her head. 
 
 "Not for me," she laughed. "Not when the man 
 who is giving the party warns you off. I like some- 
 thing good to eat and a dance as well as any one, 
 but not at that price. From here it looks like one of 
 those things. You're not going, are you, Fay?" 
 
 Fay hesitated and slowly put the letter back into 
 its envelope. "Yes," she said, "I was thinking of 
 it." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, during which Mr. 
 Hooker regarded Fay solemnly over the rims of his 
 spectacles and Doris drew her thin lips into a hard 
 straight line. 
 
 "Why, Fay?" she asked. 
 
 Fay shrugged her shoulders. "Why not? I've 
 had a change of heart, Doris. I'm going back to 
 the dances, and the suppers, and to all the fun I can 
 squeeze out of this miserable life you and I lead. 
 I'm tired of being good and virtuous and forgiving. 
 The worst supper-party, or dance or whatever it is, 
 is none too good for me now." 
 
 Doris made no answer, but started to eat her sup-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 325 
 
 per. Fay's depressed mood quickly spread to the 
 others and the three fellow-boarders finished their 
 humble meal in gloomy silence. When the supper 
 was over Fay went to her bedroom and changed to 
 the only dress she owned that was at all possible to 
 wear at Stuart's party. It was threadworn and 
 crumpled and, in all ways, inadequate to the occa- 
 sion, but no one appreciated this fact better than 
 Fay herself. She knew that among the clothes of 
 the other women her own dress would be unfortu- 
 nately conspicuous not only on account of its simplic- 
 ity, but the condition to which long and hard service 
 had reduced it. Her one pair of long gloves was far 
 from fresh, and her white satin slippers were frayed 
 and soiled, but heedless of her appearance as well 
 as of all the consequences to which the party might 
 lead, she doggedly obeyed the impulse that seemed 
 for the moment to control her and to drive her on. 
 .When she was fully dressed she put on a long coat 
 and, with Doris, started down-town. It was a 
 gloomy silent ride they had together in the subway 
 and both of them were glad when it was at an end. 
 For the first time since they had known each other a 
 barrier seemed to have risen between them, and for
 
 326 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the first time, neither of them could speak the truth 
 which was in their hearts. 
 
 Fay reached the theater at her regular hour, but 
 crossing the stage on her way to her dressing-room 
 she met Morley, who, at least so it seemed to Fay, 
 had been waiting for her. 
 
 "Miss Clayton," he said, "you weren't at the 
 matinee. Why?" 
 
 Fay knew that she probably would have trouble 
 on account of her absence, but her brain had been 
 filled with other things, and she had given the mat- 
 ter but little thought. Somehow, her mind had 
 seemed as indifferent to this as it had to everything 
 else, but now the trouble was upon her, and very 
 much sooner than she had expected. 
 
 "I'm afraid I have no excuse," she said weakly. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," Morley demanded, 
 "that you weren't sick that you have no doctor's 
 certificate nothing ?" 
 
 Fay looked at him with scared terrified eyes. 
 
 "Nothing," she repeated. "There's no reason 
 that I can give you." 
 
 By way of answer Morley shrugged his heavy 
 shoulders and started across the stage, but when he 
 had gone but a few steps, he stopped again.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 327 
 
 "And, Miss Clayton," he called to her, "I think I'll 
 give you your two weeks' notice now. You needn't 
 go on after to-night. You can stop in at my office 
 any day next week and get your salary." 
 
 Fay swung about, but with a great effort she 
 checked the flow of words that sprang to her lips 
 and which she wanted to hurl at the big burly figure 
 retreating across the dimly-lighted stage. It was 
 her last chance to tell him all she thought of him 
 and the profession he dishonored. For months she 
 had watched him, and his man, Sedley, trade op- 
 portunity on the stage for such favors as the women 
 of the company would grant them. During all this 
 time she had seen ability and hard work over- 
 looked and pretty faces and easy morals pushed to 
 the fore. 
 
 From the day that she had ignored Max Lusk, 
 had definitely refused to accept his hospitality, and 
 be seen with him in public places, she had fallen into 
 disfavor. From that moment her opportunity for 
 preferment was gone, and she knew it, and every 
 member of the company knew it. It was on such 
 scandal that the women with whom she worked 
 seemed to live and thrive it was the ozone of the 
 rank stifling air of the dressing-rooms, and shut
 
 328 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 out every clean decent thought from their narrow 
 selfish lives. 
 
 All this and more she would have hurled at the 
 self-complacent Morley, who had robbed her of her 
 livelihood, but in his own world his power was abso- 
 lute, and knowing this, Fay turned slowly back and, 
 beaten and cowed, continued on her way to the 
 dressing-room. Once there she immediately related 
 the incident of her ignominious dismissal, because 
 she preferred to tell of it in her own way before 
 Morley had told of it in his to his particular favor- 
 ites in the company. The news was greeted by the 
 other girls with a chorus of sympathy and commis- 
 eration, and a great and noisy tirade against stage- 
 managers in general and Morley in particular. But 
 in five minutes or less, and to Fay's great relief, the 
 subject was forgotten, and the talk turned to the 
 promised wonders of Stuart's supper-party. 
 
 Her mind and body numb from the disasters of 
 the day, Fay managed, somehow, to go through the 
 performance, and to change to the clothes she was 
 to wear at the dance. With indifference, she re- 
 garded the gorgeous gowns and the jewels with 
 which the other women in the dressing-room, who
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 329 
 
 were going to the party, adorned themselves. She 
 was as indifferent to their wonderful clothes and 
 to their brilliant jewels as she was to the women 
 who wore them as she was indifferent to every- 
 thing. When she was quite ready to go she turned 
 for a last look at herself in the mirror, and her only 
 thought was one of regret. "What a pity," she 
 sighed to the tired face in the glass, "such a pity that 
 Porter didn't let me end it all down there on the 
 beach." 
 
 When Fielding had returned to New York after 
 his day with Fay at Pleasantville he had gone di- 
 rectly to the home of Blanche Wilmerding. He 
 had formed no definite idea as to what he was go- 
 ing to say or to do, but, whatever the outcome, he 
 felt that the sooner it was over the better it would 
 be for every one concerned. He found her alone in 
 the library, as if she had been awaiting his coming, 
 and she received him in the same friendly way with 
 which she had always welcomed him, but not as 
 she might have been expected to welcome him after 
 the events of the night before. She was sitting in a 
 low chair at the far end of the hearth, and when 
 she had given him her hand, and he had taken his
 
 330 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 favorite stand with his back to the fireplace, she 
 looked at him with a most assuring friendly smile. 
 
 "Well, Porter," she said, "it's up to you." 
 
 He clasped his hands behind him and looked back 
 at the smiling interested face, but the man's face 
 was hard-set, and there was no smile in his eyes nor 
 on his lips. He was the chief, and, indeed, the only 
 witness for the defense, and he showed that he 
 realized his position thoroughly. 
 
 "The night before Fay Clayton left her home, 
 about six months ago," he began, "she asked me to 
 promise her that, if ever it should be her wish, I 
 should return with her to Pleasantville. When I got 
 home last night I found a note from her exacting 
 the fulfilment of that promise. It may have been 
 a purely sentimental idea, created by the keen re- 
 gret she felt at leaving her home, a mere foolish 
 whim of a very emotional girl, if you like, but be 
 that as it may, I had made the promise." 
 
 He glanced at Blanche and found her looking 
 steadily beyond him to the blazing logs in the fire- 
 place. 
 
 "And and you kept your promise?" she asked. 
 
 Fielding nodded. "Yes, I kept my promise." 
 
 "And if it is right for me to ask," Blanche went
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 331 
 
 on, "can you tell me why she particularly wanted 
 you to go back to Pleasantville with her, now 
 to-day?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I think I can. I had been a great 
 deal to Fay that is, as far as her life down there 
 was concerned. We had grown up together ; we had 
 no other friends, we were together, always ; in a way 
 we had always loved each other. She went there 
 to-day to see the place for the last time, and she 
 wanted to have me with her. After all, it seems but 
 a. natural wish. If " 
 
 "You said just now," Blanche interrupted him, 
 "that she went there to see the place for the last 
 time. Why the last time?" 
 
 For a moment Fielding hesitated and clenched his 
 hands tightly behind him. 
 
 "Fay didn't intend to come back. She was tired, 
 and sick, and terribly poor, and quite hopeless about 
 the future. There was nothing beautiful in life left 
 to her. She'd had enough she wanted to quit, 
 she" 
 
 The girl before the fireplace suddenly threw up 
 her hand for him to stop, and pressed the back of 
 the other hand against her closed eyes. 
 
 "Stop," she begged, "please stop."
 
 332 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 Save for the crackling of the logs and the ticking 
 of the clock, the room was quite silent. It was the 
 girl who spoke first. She took her hand from be- 
 fore her startled eyes and stretched it toward him. 
 But he did not take it, and stood staring down at 
 her, and for the first time she saw how tired and 
 gray was his face. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Porter," she said. "So very, very 
 sorry for both of you. I know how awful a scene 
 like that must have been to you. Forgive me, dear, 
 won't you, for making you tell me ?" 
 
 "I'm sorry, Blanche," he said, "but I haven't told 
 you everything yet, and I've got to. I've got to do 
 it, and I've got to do it now." 
 
 He pulled himself up very straight and looked 
 down at her with his tired meaningless eyes. 
 
 "Last night," he said, "I told you that I had 
 never loved Fay Clayton, and I guess I lied to you. 
 But, before God, Blanche, I didn't mean to lie to 
 you. It was only to-day, when I saw her sitting 
 there with that damned bottle in her hand, that I 
 knew how much I cared. I cared for her then as 
 I have never cared for any one in this world, and I 
 told her so." 
 
 Blanche pulled herself slowly out of her chair
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 333 
 
 and went over to a broad table in the center of the 
 room and for some moments stood silent, looking 
 down at the magazines, arranged in neat rows on 
 the table. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Porter," she said at last, still look- 
 ing down at the magazines. "I know just to say 
 that I'm sorry doesn't sound very adequate, but I 
 don't know exactly what I should say. Of course, 
 I'm glad for you that you found out, and I'm glad 
 for Miss Clayton's sake, too, because she's made a 
 good fight of it, and then, I'm sure she's fine all 
 through. I guess that's all, Porter, except I hope 
 that you'll be very happy together, but, of course, 
 I'm sure you'll both be that very, very happy." 
 
 "Fay's not going to marry me," Fielding said 
 bluntly, "that is, if that is what you mean." 
 
 He glanced at Blanche and the glow from a big 
 yellow-shaded lamp on the table showed the look of 
 complete surprise on her pale tired face. 
 
 "You mean," she said, "that she won't marry 
 you?" 
 
 "That's is," Fielding went on doggedly. "She 
 says I was ashamed of her, and in a way, she's right. 
 I wasn't ashamed of her, but I was ashamed of her 
 friends, and I neglected her terribly. I suppose I
 
 334 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 was afraid that she'd stand in my way, and so I 
 threw her aside, just as I threw every one else aside 
 who I didn't think could help. Things came too 
 easy for a while, I suppose, and I lost my head. 
 That's all I was selfish and I lost my head." 
 
 When he looked at Blanche again he found her 
 regarding him with dull curious eyes, as if he were 
 a stranger, and she could not understand his pres- 
 ence there. 
 
 "What a lot of trouble you've made, Porter," she 
 said, "what a lot of trouble for every one for that 
 poor Clayton girl, and for yourself, and for me, 
 and for dear old dad. He was so happy last night 
 just like a kid." 
 
 "I suppose," Fielding said, "I had better speak to 
 him now at once." 
 
 But Blanche shook her head. 
 
 "No, Porter. I'd rather do that myself. We're 
 such pals, dad and I. I think, perhaps, I could make 
 him understand, or or I guess I'll tell him it was 
 my fault, and that I had changed my mind. That 
 will make things better for you I mean better for 
 you, at the office." 
 
 "Thank you," Fielding said. "It's just like you,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 335 
 
 Blanche, to think of me and my future when all I 
 deserve is to be ordered out of your house." 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't talk like that, Porter," she said. 
 "It was much better for you to be honest much 
 better. Good night." 
 
 She held out a cold nerveless hand, and he took 
 it limply in his own. "And sometime," she went 
 on in the same even voice, "some of these days, you 
 will come to see us again, won't you? I'll write 
 you when to come. Good night again." 
 
 "Thank you," he said, "you've been very kind 
 kinder, I know, than any one has ever been to me 
 before." 
 
 Without looking at the girl's face again, he 
 dropped her hand. And with the knowledge that he 
 was leaving the wreck of every hope and of every 
 ambition of his youth behind him, he went slowly 
 out of the room. 
 
 When he had reached the pavement his footsteps 
 turned mechanically toward his own home. It was 
 just past seven o'clock and the avenue was filled 
 with automobiles, and taxicabs, and carriages taking 
 people to dinner. He looked at the smiling faces 
 and the pretty light-colored dresses of the women
 
 336 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 and wondered that he felt no resentment or envy 
 of any kind. In a dazed sort of way he realized 
 that, after all, the fault had all been his. There 
 was no one on whom he could shift the blame of 
 his tragedy even had he wished to do so : everything 
 that this world could give had been granted him, 
 and he had thrown it away. And then, of a sudden, 
 he discovered that he had unconsciously quickened 
 his steps and that his one great desire was to get 
 back to his own rooms. He wanted to be alone, 
 and, alone, to try and find out how some new struc- 
 ture could be reared from the chaos to which he 
 had razed his own life. 
 
 Once at home he lighted his pipe and poured him- 
 self out a glass of Scotch. The drink would make 
 him think the better, he argued, and now was the 
 moment for him to think and to act quickly. He 
 lighted the fire, and for a long time sat gazing dully 
 at the burning logs and wondering why his brain 
 refused to act or failed to grasp the extreme seri- 
 ousness of his position. It was well enough for 
 Blanche to tell her father that it was she who had 
 erred, but how was he to be sure that her father 
 would believe her, or that in case he questioned 
 her, she would not break down and sob out the
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 337 
 
 whole miserable truth. He filled his glass again, 
 and when his pipe went out, he was greatly surprised 
 to find that he lacked the effort or the desire to re- 
 light it. The long hard day and the endless nervous 
 strain had begun to tell on him at last, and just as 
 he had finished his second glass of Scotch, he fell 
 into a heavy feverish sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IT WAS three hours later when Fielding awoke, 
 and glancing at the clock, found that it was a 
 quarter to eleven. For some time he sat gazing 
 dully at the embers on the hearth, wondering how 
 long it had been since he had fallen asleep and try- 
 ing to bring order out of his confused thoughts. 
 And then, of a sudden, all the miserable scenes of 
 that dreary day of tragedy suddenly flashed through 
 his tired brain like a series of shafts of lightning. 
 He pulled himself to his feet, buttoned his coat 
 about him, and took a few rapid turns up and down 
 the room, for it was very cold. His first thought 
 was to undress and go at once to bed, but then he 
 remembered that he had had no dinner, and he 
 decided to go to a restaurant and get the best sup- 
 per that money could buy. He was not hungry, but 
 the night was yet young and he dreaded to be alone 
 with his unhappy thoughts. A cold bath restored 
 his circulation and cleared his brain, and when he 
 had put on his evening clothes he started forth. At 
 
 338
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 339 
 
 the avenue he hesitated, uncertain which way to 
 turn, but he saw the lights at Martin's at Twenty- 
 sixth Street, and decided to go there for his solitary 
 supper. Even if he found no one there whom he 
 knew, there would, at least, be a crowd, and music, 
 and good things to eat and drink, and the chance to 
 forget. 
 
 He found a little side-table unoccupied, and in a 
 short time, through the aid of several cocktails and 
 a bottle of champagne, he had, to a great extent, 
 forgotten his troubles and was regarding the future 
 from a viewpoint entirely artificial but roseate in 
 the extreme. 
 
 It was nearly one o'clock, and most of the crowd 
 in the restaurant had gone, when two men whom he 
 knew slightly passed his table. They stopped for a 
 moment to 'speak to him and comment on his lonely 
 appearance, and then, as they started on their way 
 again, one of them called back to him : "Why don't 
 you come on up-stairs to Jimmie Stuart's party? 
 Every good-looking girl in town's there. Jimmy's 
 giving a perfectly good party. Better come along." 
 
 "Much obliged," Fielding said, "but I don't think 
 I know him." 
 
 Both of the men laughed uproariously. In their
 
 340 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 exhilarated condition they would probably have 
 laughed at anything, but this remark of Fielding's 
 seemed to strike them as particularly humorous. 
 
 "That's all right," one of them explained, 
 "Jimmy told me to ask any one I wanted. A dozen 
 men more or less won't make any difference with 
 that crowd up there." 
 
 Fielding had always made it a fixed rule to avoid 
 the kind of supper-parties he supposed this one to 
 be. When men had invited him to them he had re- 
 fused because he did not believe that they would ap- 
 peal to him, and because he also feared that they 
 would hurt him in a business \vay. But now, in his 
 present optimistic state of mind, he cared nothing 
 for his business position, and was ready and eager 
 for any kind of amusement that offered itself. 
 
 "All right," he said, "I'll go." 
 
 The two young men waited while he paid his 
 check and then he went with them to the supper- 
 rooms up-stairs. 
 
 The whole floor was given over to the party, and 
 a few minutes after his arrival Fielding had lost his 
 two friends and was wandering alone through the 
 brilliantly lighted rooms. He found them filled 
 with many exhilarated men and more wonderfully
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 341 
 
 dressed and sprightly women from the musical com- 
 edies. 
 
 He noticed that many of the men and not a few 
 of the women were smoking, and so he lighted a 
 cigarette, and accepted the proffer of a glass of 
 champagne from a passing waiter. While he had 
 but slight desire to mingle more intimately with the 
 crowd, he found much pleasure in watching its 
 innocent, if somewhat boisterous, antics. Some of 
 the men he knew slightly, but they welcomed him 
 with enthusiasm, and although he had never met 
 any of the women, many of them greeted the good- 
 looking newcomer with marked signs of friendli- 
 ness. And Fielding, with smiles of gratitude and 
 pleasure, acknowledged their welcome. 
 
 It was much more gay and amusing and brilliant 
 than any dance he had ever seen. In addition to 
 the sensuous music, the golden glow of the warm 
 rooms, the real and artificial beauty of the women, 
 and their gorgeous and exquisite clothes, there was 
 an air of natural gaiety abroad and a spirit of aban- 
 don that appealed to him greatly and satisfied his 
 senses completely. His troubles became purely 
 imaginary, and then vanished completely before this 
 vision of false fairy-land. Supremely happy and
 
 342 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 content again, he continued to smoke his cigarette, 
 sip his glass of champagne, and look on with wide- 
 open admiring eyes at the brilliant and sensuous 
 passing show. 
 
 Eventually it occurred to him that he had not yet 
 met his host, and his slowly moving mind having 
 reached the conclusion that this social tradition, 
 however trivial, should be accomplished at once, he 
 started in search of any mutual friend who would 
 introduce him. He had gone but a few steps, how- 
 ever, when he was confronted by a pink and white 
 face and a pair of large, blue, pathetic eyes. She 
 was a very pretty girl with a small slight figure 
 which was but ill-concealed in a clinging dress of 
 black tulle and jet, and which seemed to have been 
 made especially to show off her wonderfully white 
 and perfectly molded arms and exquisitely rounded 
 throat. Her manner was far from bold but rather 
 intensely pleading. 
 
 "Won't you please dance with me?" she begged. 
 "I do so want to dance and nobody seems to care for 
 me any more." 
 
 Under the circumstances further words were quite 
 useless, and smiling his extreme pleasure, Fielding 
 put his arm about the girl, and they started to dance.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 343 
 
 When they had reached the far end of the room he 
 unconsciously looked over his partner's shoulder, 
 and his glance fell upon a girl with wonderful red 
 hair and a white dress conspicuous for its simplicity. 
 At the next turn of the waltz he looked again and 
 then he knew that it was Fay. She was sitting 
 against the wall on one of the long rows of chairs 
 that lined the room, and was smiling gaily and chat- 
 tering volubly to the young man next to her. Field- 
 ing suddenly stopped dancing, and mumbling a few 
 words of apology, led his unknown partner to a seat 
 at the other end of the room, and then, without fur- 
 ther ceremony, left her there, surprised and indig- 
 nant. 
 
 Fay did not see Fielding until he stood directly 
 before her, and then she looked up at him with wide- 
 open eyes of surprise and astonishment. 
 
 "Why, Porter," she gasped, "what are you doing 
 here?" 
 
 Ignoring her question, he squared his shoulders 
 and looked her straight in the eyes. "May I speak 
 to you for a moment?" he asked. 
 
 His manner, as well as his speech, was so abrupt, 
 even rude, that Fay, in fear of a scene, turned 
 quickly to the man to whom she had been talking
 
 344 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 and asked to be excused, promising to return to him 
 in a few minutes. Somewhat surprised and con- 
 fused by Fielding's sudden appearance on the scene, 
 the young man quickly got up, smiled and bowed 
 his assent to the unexpected interruption of his 
 tete-a-tete, and then calmly settled back in his seat 
 to wait for Fay's return. 
 
 Fay took Fielding's arm, and in silence he led her 
 slowly through the whirling mass of dancers to a 
 little room, directly across the hall from the ball- 
 room, and where they were quite alone. She leaned 
 against a table and folded her arms. Experience 
 had taught her something of how to deal with men 
 whose nerves were on edge from too much cham- 
 pagne, and she was not afraid. 
 
 "Well, Porter," she said, "what is it?" 
 
 His face was hard-set and white with anger, and 
 she saw with how great an effort he was trying to 
 control himself. 
 
 "I want to know," he demanded, "what you are 
 doing at a place like this? Why do you choose to 
 associate with women of this kind? You know 
 what kind of women they are as well as I do. Why, 
 I ask you?"
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 345 
 
 Fay shrugged her shoulders and forced an unwill- 
 ing smile to her lips. 
 
 "Why?" she repeated. "Because these women are 
 my friends ; these are the women I work with. I'm 
 not ashamed of them." 
 
 "Then you mean," Fielding threw at her, "that 
 you have deliberately sunk to this sort of thing?" 
 
 For a moment Fay hesitated and stared indiffer- 
 ently into Fielding's eyes. 
 
 "Really, Porter," she said, "there doesn't seem to 
 be anything else. I tried starving in complete re- 
 spectability, and I wanted to try suicide, but you 
 wouldn't let me. I told you it would have been 
 much better if you had let me have my way much 
 better for every one, better for me, and better for 
 you, and better for Blanche Wilmerding. Did you 
 tell her I mean about what happened to-day ?" 
 
 Fielding nodded. "Yes, I told her." 
 
 "And she threw you out ?" 
 
 "Yes, she threw me out." 
 
 Fay rested her hands on the edge of the table, and 
 throwing up her chin, smiled at the ceiling as if she 
 had found something amusing in the gaudy fres- 
 coes.
 
 346 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "I'm glad you think it's something to laugh at," 
 Fielding said. 
 
 Fay glanced at him, and then beyond to the ball- 
 room, filled with its crowd of laughing boisterous 
 dancers. 
 
 "I wasn't smiling at that," she said. "I was think- 
 ing how funny it was that after six months both of 
 us should come to this." She nodded toward the 
 noisy ballroom. "Do you remember the wonderful 
 plans we laid out with such care for ourselves, the 
 successes that were to come to us so easily? Six 
 short months ago just think of it and now here 
 we are, two derelicts ! Two derelicts stranded on a 
 hostile shore, our youth wrecked by our own foolish 
 acts ! Why, Porter, we don't count even in a crowd 
 like this." 
 
 Fielding put out his hand and grasped her tightly 
 by the arm. 
 
 "We still have each other," he whispered. "Come 
 away with me, and if we stick together, we can win 
 out yet in spite of everything. I still have my posi- 
 tion, and " 
 
 She shook her arm free, and her eyes blazed with 
 indignation. 
 
 "You're crazy," she said, "and I'm sorry to say it,
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 347 
 
 Porter, but you're not yourself. Do you want me 
 to tell you what I really think of you as a man?" 
 
 Fielding pulled himself up very straight and 
 looked her squarely in the eyes. The manner and 
 words of the girl seemed suddenly to have sobered 
 him and brought him to a realization of his position. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "please go on. I want you to tell 
 me." 
 
 "I think," she began, and her voice was very even 
 and without apparent feeling of any kind, "I think, 
 Porter, I have always thought, that with your 
 friendship I would have had a chance. I believe 
 that with you to turn to I might have won out even 
 against the odds that every poor good-looking girl 
 must beat out in this big, heartless, rotten town. 
 My love for you was the one thing that counted in 
 my life, and always had counted. It was the one 
 thing which I clung to, and that kept alive my hope 
 for the future. It was the intangible safeguard that 
 most girls get at their mother's knee. And you 
 threw that away. Yes, you did, Porter. You were 
 selfish and ambitious, and you threw it away. You 
 hurt me, and you hurt me again and again, until I 
 grew to understand you, and until you had crushed 
 out every spark of love I ever had for you. If I "
 
 348 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "Then tell me," he interrupted her fiercely, "if 
 you felt as you say you do, why did you ask me to 
 go with you to-day to Pleasantville ?" 
 
 "Because," she said, "I didn't ask the Porter 
 Fielding that I know to-day to go with me. I asked 
 the Porter Fielding I used to know. I tried to be 
 as bright and gay as I could. I tried to be like my 
 old self, and to make you feel toward me as you 
 used to feel, and to be your old self. It was to be 
 my last day, and all that I wanted was a few hours 
 of happiness with the only man with whom I had 
 ever known any happiness. That was all. If I had 
 known that it was to make trouble between you, and 
 Blanche Wilmerding, and be the end of all your am- 
 bitions for money and everything else that you have 
 wished for all of your selfish life, then I shouldn't 
 have asked you that last favor. I'd have gone to 
 Pleasantville alone. I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry 
 for what I did, and I'm sorry for what I've said, 
 but now I am done with you." 
 
 Fielding took a step nearer her, and held out his 
 arms unsteadily toward her, but she shrank back 
 from him. 
 
 "Don't touch me," she whispered. "I'm done 
 with you, I tell you, I'm done with you."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 349 
 
 But Fielding, maddened beyond reason, took an- 
 other step nearer her, his hand closed tightly about 
 her arm, and his fingers sank into her soft flesh. 
 
 "I don't care," he said hoarsely, "whether you are 
 done with me or not, but I am going to take you 
 away from this damned place." 
 
 Too quick to stop her, Fielding saw Fay sud- 
 denly throw up her free hand and beckon to some 
 one who was passing the open doorway. Turning, 
 he saw come into the room a young man, who was 
 unlike most of the others at the dance in that he 
 seemed quite calm and his face unflushed. Fielding 
 watched him quickly cross the room and stand by 
 Fay's side. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Miss Clayton?" the 
 young man asked. 
 
 "This is a friend of mine, Mr. Stuart," Fay stam- 
 mered. "He's not himself he's been drinking and 
 he insists on taking me home. I want you to .send 
 him away." 
 
 Stuart looked at Fielding and then, for the first 
 time, saw the hand clasped with a grip of steel about 
 Fay's wrist. 
 
 "Drop that hand," he said, "and get out. This 
 is my party, and Miss Clayton is here with me."
 
 350 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 But Fielding did not loosen his hold on Fay's 
 arm and continued to glare dully into Stuart's eyes. 
 
 "I don't give a damn whose party it is," he 
 shouted, "but this is no place for a decent woman. 
 I'm going to " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, for suddenly 
 Stuart's arm shot out from his thick-set body and 
 Fielding, with a low cry of pain, lay sprawling on 
 the table. 
 
 It was over quickly and quietly over and in 
 no way disturbed the joyous riot of the neighboring 
 ballroom. A few of the revelers, passing the door 
 a little later, noticed Fielding's prostrate form lying 
 across the table, but they hurried on their way, their 
 minds at rest with the charitable thought that if a 
 fellow-guest preferred sleep rather than the pleas- 
 ures of the waltz, it was, after all, his own affair. 
 
 When he opened his eyes Fielding found himself 
 alone. Stunned, his mind a blank, with uncertain 
 steps he groped his way out of the room. A few 
 of the passing guests, in a spirit of levity, brushed 
 against the tottering good-looking youth, and sev- 
 eral times he almost lost his footing and fell, but at 
 last he reached the coat-room at the end of the hall- 
 way. A waiter, winking significantly to his fellow-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 351 
 
 servants at the young man's shifting blood-shot eyes 
 and disheveled condition, helped him on with his 
 overcoat and handed him his hat. And then, with a 
 great air of personal solicitude, the waiter led Field- 
 ing to the door and guided him down the marble 
 staircase to the cool invigorating air of the open 
 street. 
 
 When Fay awoke the next day, it was past noon. 
 For some time she lay staring up at the ceiling, and 
 one by one, she reviewed the incidents of the pre- 
 vious day her visit to Pleasantville, the row with 
 Porter at Stuart's dance, and her peremptory dis- 
 missal from the company. It was the last that 
 caused her the greatest concern, and she suddenly 
 determined that she must see Doris at once and de- 
 cide what could best be done in regard to seeking 
 future employment. The prospect for stage work 
 she knew was very bad, as only two or three days 
 before, she had heard Doris say that she had tried to 
 get a position for a girl friend and had failed ut- 
 terly. She dressed quickly and went out to the sit- 
 ting-room, but she found the place quite deserted. 
 Mr. Hooker was indulging in the unusual luxury of 
 a Sunday promenade, and Doris had gone down- 
 town and had left a note saying that she would not
 
 352 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 return until after lunch. Fay went over to the win- 
 dow and with unappreciative eyes stood looking out 
 on the brilliant sunshine. Her mind was filled with 
 unhappy thoughts of the day just gone and the im- 
 ' mediate future surely held out to her but scant hope. 
 Her mind and body seemed to sag from too much 
 trouble, and she thoroughly realized how desperate 
 was her position. 
 
 The bell to the flat rang out shrilly through the 
 deserted rooms, and believing that Mr. Hooker 
 had returned from his walk, she hurried to the door. 
 In the dimly lighted hallway she recognized the in- 
 significant bowing figure and the smirking counte- 
 nance of Max Lusk. Even in the semi-darkness her 
 surprise at seeing him again was easily evident, but 
 she received him as graciously as she knew how, 
 and led him to the sitting-room. Lusk declined to 
 remove his overcoat, but as he sank into Mr. 
 Hooker's favorite rocking-chair, he threw the coat 
 wide open, so that Fay might properly admire its 
 sealskin lining. In his right hand he held his silver- 
 mounted cane as if it had been a staff, and with 
 his left hand he toyed with his shining silk hat. 
 When Fay told him that Doris and Mr. Hooker
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 353 
 
 were out he sighed regretfully, but in conspicuous 
 contrast, his beady eyes twinkled with pleasure. 
 
 "Too bad, too bad," he said, "I just dropped 
 in to say good-by. I'm sailing on Tuesday for 
 Bremen." 
 
 Fay looked at the puny little figure and the putty 
 grinning face and thought what great good fortune 
 some people had and how curiously this world's 
 goods were distributed. But what she said was.* 
 
 "It sounds good to me, Mr. Lusk. Is it a busi- 
 ness or a pleasure trip?" 
 
 Lusk cocked his head to one side and indulged in 
 a mysterious secretive smile. "That all depends. 
 If I go with just the party I hope to, I fear there 
 won't be very much doing in the way of business." 
 His face suddenly assumed a look of genuine con- 
 cern. "I was sorry to hear of your trouble with 
 Morley," he added; "he's a brute. If I'd known any- 
 thing about it I certainly shouldn't have let him give 
 you your notice, not for a minute." 
 
 "I don't suppose you know of anything else?" 
 Fay asked. 
 
 Lusk rested his chin on the head of his cane and 
 gloomily shook his head.
 
 354 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "It was too bad of you, Miss Clayton, to ignore 
 me, and to refuse to see me, for all of that long time. 
 I knew of several good things for a bright pretty 
 girl you know what I mean bits and small parts, 
 showy little things that you could have done splen- 
 didly." 
 
 "And now they're all gone?" Fay asked gloomily. 
 
 "All gone," Lusk sighed. "It's the very worst 
 time in the year, I suppose, to get out of a job in 
 your business. All the fall shows well set and noth- 
 ing doing now until the spring. If I were to be here 
 it might be different. Perhaps I could get you 
 something, but I sail on the Kaiser Wilhelm der 
 Grosse on Tuesday." 
 
 "You'll be gone long?" Fay asked. 
 
 The mask of gloom gradually faded from the 
 little broker's face. There was a smile in his eyes 
 and on his lips. He got up, and laying aside his hat 
 and cane, stood before the stove, and spread out his 
 jeweled hands behind him. 
 
 "Oh, no, not for long," he said, "two or three 
 months, perhaps. Just enough to escape the worst 
 -of the cold weather over here and get back in time 
 to see the new spring shows open. I have a big in- 
 terest in a couple of them."
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 355 
 
 He let his beady shifting eyes rest for a moment 
 on Fay, long enough to be quite sure that she thor- 
 oughly understood the true significance of all he 
 said. 
 
 "If I go alone," he went on, "I shall stay for a 
 few weeks in Germany and visit some of my people 
 and do a little business. But if I don't go alone 
 bah to Germany! A couple of days will be enough 
 for Baden, and then scurry away to Paris dear old 
 Paris! the city where every man and every woman 
 are happy. A week will be enough for the lady to 
 buy plenty of pretty clothes and hats, and enough, 
 perhaps, too, for a visit to the jewelry shops along 
 the Rue de la Paix. And then we're off for the 
 Riviera in a comfortable car with a good French 
 chauffeur Nice and Monte Carlo! a sight of the 
 great people of all the world taking their ease, and 
 just at the top of the season, eh! That would be 
 some trip for a girl with the man who would give 
 her everything she wanted, some trip ! Orange sun- 
 shine, and the best French cooking, and the blue 
 Mediterranean, and a man who would back you to 
 the limit at Monte Carlo ! Better than a stuffy little 
 flat in Harlem, and starvation, eh, what?" 
 
 A few months before, when he had chosen to in-
 
 356 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 suit Fay Clayton, her answer had been a blow in the 
 face, but now it seemed that Lusk had no fear of 
 personal violence whatever, and smiling and bowing, 
 he moved a few steps nearer to her. 
 
 "That would be a fine trip, eh, Miss Clayton," he 
 said, leering into her pale face "a great chance for 
 a girl to see the world? What do you say, Fay?" 
 
 "When did you say you sailed?" she asked. 
 
 Lusk drew a roll of bills from his pocket and 
 tossed it on the center table. 
 
 "Something for a little necessary shopping for 
 the voyage," he said. "We shall sail on Tuesday- 
 Tuesday at noon. You might ring me up in the 
 morning, at my office." 
 
 Fay bowed her head in assent, and Lusk, assum- 
 ing a smiling and jaunty air, moved toward the 
 door. 
 
 "I shall call you up to-morrow morning at the 
 office," she said. "I suppose there will be many 
 little things that I shall have to ask you." 
 
 "To-morrow morning," he repeated, and placing 
 his silk hat over his heart, he made her a low bow 
 of mock servility. And thus, at last as the con- 
 queror, he took his leave.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 357 
 
 The first definite conclusion that Fay reached was 
 that she would tell Doris and old man Hooker that 
 she was leaving on Tuesday morning to visit some 
 old friends in the neighborhood of Pleasantville. 
 The truth would only hurt them and must inevitably 
 result in endless arguments that in no way could 
 affect her ultimate decision. The decision made, she 
 at once began the preparations for her departure. 
 Her mind a blank, her soul numb, her conscience a 
 thing warped and thrown to the winds, she proceed- 
 ed with deliberation to her own undoing. Fay Clay- 
 ton had turned to the oldest and the most pitiful ex- 
 cuse of weak men and emotional women fate. For 
 the moment she was willing to believe that inexora- 
 ble fate in the person of one Max Lusk had laid its 
 heavy hand upon her, and fate could not be denied. 
 But, at least, fate had come supplied with plenty of 
 money enough for her own immediate needs, and 
 a substantial balance to leave to her fellow-lodgers. 
 
 When Doris returned to the apartment late that 
 afternoon Fay told her at once of her dismissal 
 from the company and of her proposed visit to her 
 friends in the country. Confused as her mind was, 
 it assumed a certain degree of craftiness. With a
 
 358 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 fine regard to the details of her plans she lied to 
 Doris, and her story was believed. 
 
 The next morning she went down-town and made 
 the purchases which, earlier in the day, Lusk had 
 assured her were essential to the ocean voyage, but 
 not for a moment was the girl more than half-con- 
 scious of what she was doing. Over and over again, 
 she saw in quick succession Lusk's gray putty face 
 bowing himself out of the door, Fielding as he fell 
 unconscious across the table at Stuart's party, and 
 Stuart himself, with his virile thick-set frame, bull- 
 dog jaw, and sympathetic appealing eyes. 
 
 It was two o'clock when she had finished her pur- 
 chases, and with her arms filled with bundles, was 
 hurrying on her way to the subway station at Times 
 Square. Just as she passed the Knickerbocker, 
 Stuart came out of the hotel and met her face to 
 face. It was impossible to avoid him, and so she 
 stopped, her head lowered, and her cheeks on fire. 
 
 "Such a day's shopping," he laughed, "y u must 
 have come into a legacy." 
 
 Fay glanced at him and then down at the parcels. 
 Somehow, it seemed impossible to lie to this man, 
 and, after all, what difference could it make now? 
 
 "No, not a legacy," she said. "I'm going abroad
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 359 
 
 to-morrow. I'm going abroad to Bremen, and 
 Paris, and Monte Carlo. Congratulate me." 
 
 Stuart was holding a cigarette between his fingers, 
 but at her words he let it fall to the pavement, and 
 then carefully stamped out the fire with his heel. 
 
 "Do you mean," he asked, "that you are mar- 
 ried?" 
 
 Fay looked at him with scared confused eyes, and 
 shook her head. 
 
 "No," she said, "I'm not married. Just a trip 
 abroad Bremen, and Paris, and Monte Carlo." 
 
 Stuart tapped the pavement slowly with his stick, 
 glanced at Fay, and then back at the hotel, and then 
 at the high bill-boards over the shops across the 
 street. 
 
 "You're sailing to-morrow?" he said, with his un- 
 seeing eyes now fixed on the packages under her 
 arm. "To-morrow," he repeated, "it seems so soon." 
 
 From a world of worldly knowledge his mind was 
 groping about for a word, an argument, a story that 
 would put to rout this tragedy. People were pass- 
 ing them, jostling them, as they stood facing each 
 other on the crowded thoroughfare. Somehow he 
 resented the sun shining from a clear blue sky, and 
 the noise of the traffic and the rumble of the cars
 
 360 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 fairly bellowed in his ears. Surely in the archives 
 of his full happy life there was something, some 
 moral, some word of hope, that he could offer the 
 distraught mind of this girl, standing impotently 
 before him, that would make her see things as they 
 really were. Was there no experience in his whole 
 life that fitted him to hold a brief for virtue and 
 clean living? He saw a woman, who, in his heart, 
 he cared for tremendously, a soul, as yet pure, clad 
 in blue serge, and white gloves and patent leather 
 shoes, bound straight for hell hell surely in this 
 world and whatever hell the next world provides 
 and yet he found his tongue was dry and powerless. 
 Weakly he put out his hand, but his voice was un- 
 naturally high and resonant. 
 
 "Good-by," he said, "and good luck to you. But, 
 good God, will nothing stop you? You're the one 
 thing in this rotten town that I'd have gambled on. 
 I'd have staked my life on you. Let me come and 
 see you this afternoon, to-night, any time let me 
 talk to you, before you go, won't you?" 
 
 With frightened unseeing eyes, Fay tried to look 
 into his. She slowly gathered her bundles under 
 one arm and put out her hand to take the one held 
 out to her, but, somehow, their outstretched hands
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 361 
 
 never met, and the crowds of the street came be- 
 tween them and carried them apart. 
 
 All the arrangements for her departure Fay had 
 learned by telephone from Lusk, and the next morn- 
 ing found her lying on the lounge in her stateroom, 
 a dry-eyed, miserably unhappy, nervous wreck of 
 her former self. It was not until the big boat was 
 well on its way down the bay that she found the 
 physical strength and the courage to venture on 
 deck. To her great relief there was no one near, and 
 so she leaned on the rail and watched the high build- 
 ings of New York slowly disappear through the 
 gray mists of the winter morning. Whatever evil 
 the future might bring her, thank God, that was 
 over! The great towers the emblem of huge in- 
 dustries the blaring show of wealth and prosperity, 
 that blotted out the weak and poor under the shadow 
 of its ostentatious splendor, were fading before her 
 tired weary eyes. At least she had made good her 
 escape before the big cruel city had completely 
 crushed her poor pretty body into oblivion. 
 
 "Good morning," she heard a cool pleasant voice 
 saying to her, and looking over her shoulder, she saw 
 Jimmy Stuart standing at her side. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" she demanded. Her
 
 362 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 voice was steady enough, but she was conscious that 
 her body was trembling from her head to her feet. 
 
 Stuart folded his arms over the rail, and disre- 
 garding her angry eyes, stared calmly and smilingly 
 into the white-capped waters of the bay. 
 
 "Meaning me?" he chuckled. "What am I doing 
 here? I'm by way of being a rescuing party. Like 
 all rescuing parties, I suppose I lack the initiative of 
 discovery, but, also, like all rescuing parties, I'm 
 hoping to come in for most of the glory." 
 
 "How did you know," she asked, "that I was sail- 
 ing on this boat ?" 
 
 "That's easy," he laughed, "there was only one 
 boat sailing to-day." 
 
 "Do you know," she asked, "why I am here? Do 
 you know with whom I am making this trip? It 
 almost seems as if you might have spared me this 
 last humiliation." 
 
 Stuart gathered his arms closer about his body 
 and stared with renewed interest at the passing 
 waters. 
 
 "I can make a pretty good guess who you are 
 with," he said. "I saw that bounder, Lusk, just 
 now, trying to engage two places at the captain's 
 table. I hate to be brusk, Miss Clayton, but the situ-
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 363 
 
 ation seems to demand it. Do you mind telling me 
 how much you owe him?" 
 
 "I certainly do," Fay threw back at him. "What 
 right have you to ask a question like that ?" 
 
 "Because," Stuart answered, "I've got to pay him 
 back the money, and as it's not a very pleasant thing 
 to do, I'd rather get it over, and have it off my 
 mind." 
 
 Fay looked steadily at Stuart and settled herself 
 more comfortably against the rail. 
 
 "Do you think, Mr. Stuart," she asked, "that 
 your money is any better than Mr. Lusk's ?" 
 
 "Bless your soul, yes," he laughed. "Don't you 
 know your New York any better than that ? Lusk's 
 money is all tainted. Yes, it is perfectly good, but 
 yet tainted money. How much did you say it was ?" 
 
 Fay turned from him and for a long time looked 
 at the ghostlike shores, fast vanishing behind the 
 banks of mist that rolled in from the sea. Once 
 more it seemed as if inexorable fate had interfered 
 in her affairs and again would brook no denial. As 
 a matter of fact she loved Jimmy Stuart for his un- 
 warranted intervention, and would have liked to 
 throw her arms about his neck and cry away her 
 sorrows on his broad shoulders, but, instead, she
 
 364 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 only turned back to him and said : "Mr. Lusk gave 
 me three hundred dollars, and he paid for my pas- 
 sage on the boat." 
 
 "That's fine," Stuart cried. "I always knew he 
 was a piker. You wait here for me, won't you ?" 
 
 Before Fay could answer him he had gone, and 
 with blurred eyes she watched him hurrying down 
 the deck, whistling as he went. 
 
 In ten minutes he was back again. 
 
 "It's all right," he laughed, "and do you know 
 he had the nerve to ask me the same question you 
 did why my money was any better than his." 
 
 "You mean," she asked, "that you paid him 
 everything ?" 
 
 "You bet I paid him everything," he said, "and I 
 also volunteered the information that if he ever 
 dared to speak to you or even look at you again on 
 the voyage I'd break his head for him. I think he 
 thought I was going to do it, anyhow, because as 
 soon as I gave him the money, he ran down the gang- 
 way like a scared rabbit." 
 
 Fay stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her 
 ulster, and looked steadily into the young man's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Stuart," she said, "you're the most curious
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 365 
 
 man I ever knew. You are just like Jimmy Stuart 
 and nobody else. I don't understand you at all." 
 
 Stuart leaned his back against the rail and shook 
 his head, and smiled at her. 
 
 "No," he said, "I'm really not curious I'm ab- 
 normally normal that's all. I don't have to be 
 curious. I was just born understanding. For in- 
 stance, I have always understood you. When I first 
 knew you I was quite sure that intrinsically you 
 were in many ways the finest woman I had ever 
 met; and by all odds the most amusing that is, 
 when you had your health and your spirits with you 
 but I also knew that you were terribly sensitive, 
 and emotional, and fearfully and wonderfully mis- 
 understood. A great asset, if handled properly, 
 but, good lord! how you did mismanage the prop- 
 erty. Whew ! You know I have to shudder when I 
 think of how near you came to making a mess of it. 
 You'd better go to your stateroom now and doll 
 yourself up for lunch. Suppose you meet me here 
 in half an hour. I've engaged two splendid places at 
 the most inconspicuous end of the doctor's table." 
 
 For six days Stuart seldom left her side, and 
 with fairly good weather, one can learn much, and 
 forget much, during six days at sea. They walked
 
 366 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the deck together for miles, morning, noon and 
 night, and sat for hours in their steamer chairs, side 
 by side, and read amusing stories and thrilling detec- 
 tive tales to each other. They played shuffle-board 
 by themselves, and they laughed and talked together 
 of the present, but never of the past or of the future. 
 And, gradually, Stuart saw the color come back to 
 Fay's cheeks and the old light into her eyes. It was 
 on the night of the sixth day out, and they were sit- 
 ting together, as they always sat together for a while 
 on deck after dinner, that he decided that it was not 
 only wise but necessary to speak of the future. 
 
 "To-morrow," he said, "we shall reach Bremen-^* 
 good old Bremen !" 
 
 "Have you ever been to Bremen ?" she asked. 
 
 "No," he admitted cheerfully, "but I love it as 
 the first stopping place of the return of the rescuing 
 party, and the first ground we've put our feet on 
 since we started on our little journey of content- 
 ment." 
 
 "Then you're glad to have been a rescuing party," 
 she asked, "and you've been content?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "and more, oh! a great deal 
 more." 
 
 For a few moments they sat in silence, listening to
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 367 
 
 the steady beat of the engines and looking out on 
 the black rolling waters and the purple starlit sky. 
 
 "I'm glad of that," she said at last. "I owe you 
 such an awful lot." 
 
 "It has been fun," he admitted, "wonderful fun. 
 It's a pity about Bremen to-morrow, but I suppose 
 there's a lot of foolish passengers on board who 
 want to get to work, or to see their families, or 
 something. And there's the mails it's funny how 
 many people like to get letters. It really seems as if 
 the work of the rescuing party was over at least, 
 in a way, it's over." 
 
 "Well, after all," she said, "it was a great success 
 as a rescuing party, for you found the one who was 
 lost, and brought her safely into port. But I'm 
 afraid your troubles aren't quite over yet. There's 
 the further debt for the expenses of a few days at 
 the hotel at Bremen, and then my passage back to 
 Broadway Broadway and the managers' offices. I 
 fear there's a good deal more than glory to a rescu- 
 ing party. It doesn't seem to be a very cheap short- 
 cut to fr.me." 
 
 "Broadway," Stuart repeated dreamily, "the 
 Great White Way. I know a place in fact I own 
 it. It's a farm left me by my revered ancestors on
 
 3 68 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 the eastern shore of the good old state of Maryland. 
 It's a regular farm, with a whitewashed fence, and 
 a truck garden, and two automobiles, and lots of 
 cows, and chickens, and pigs, and neighbors who live 
 in knickerbockers and have polo ponies to sell, and 
 marvelous appetites for mint juleps. The old house 
 itself is conspicuous for six beautiful fat round pil- 
 lars that hold up the roof of the porch, and a few of 
 the original clapboards left me by my ancestors. 
 There is also a wonderful path leading to the house, 
 lined with box all of which makes the outside look 
 most ancient and respectable and beautiful. But 
 inside there are many tiled bath-tubs, which my 
 ancestors would probably have hated, and many 
 deep leather chairs, which they would have loved. 
 In a word, it's the sort of place that appeals to a man 
 like myself, who wants to play at farming and live 
 his life in peace and content. An added attraction 
 that I forgot to mention is a bubbling stream that 
 runs right through the dairy, but the most wonderful 
 thing about the farm is the circle of hills that sur- 
 rounds it. The hills are all covered with birch and 
 pine, and these trees shoot up so high that with the 
 exception of the sun and moon and the stars, they 
 shut out the light from every part of the world. The
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 369 
 
 highest electric globe on the highest sign on Broad- 
 way could never be seen from my farm." 
 
 "What do you call your farm," she asked, "Para- 
 dise?" 
 
 "No," he said, "it's called 'Rest Farm'. Fay, it 
 occurred to me that if you didn't like the hotel at 
 Bremen, we might hurry on to Paris to join my 
 mother and sister. They're stopping there for the 
 winter. We could be married at once." 
 
 Fay clasped her hands behind her head and stared 
 hard at the silver stars, shining with a wonderful 
 crystal whiteness from the vast stretch of purple sky. 
 
 "Jimmy," she said, "you know that I have been 
 starved and bruised in body, and soul, and mind; 
 and when there seems to be nothing left for me at 
 all you come to me and offer me all this your home 
 and peace for the rest of my days. Do you think 
 you are being quite fair to yourself? You haven't 
 known me so very long or so very well. How do 
 you know I care enough for you, and not for just the 
 home and the chance to start again?" 
 
 "If you don't care enough now," he said, "all I 
 ask is the chance to make you care. Fay, dear, 
 won't you give me the chance ? I would try so hard 
 to make you care, always."
 
 370 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 "If I only could," she whispered, "if I only could. 
 I could have, once only six months ago but, Jim- 
 my, I can't any more. There's this trip back of me 
 now, and a lot of foolish things I did when I was 
 crazy and didn't care all those parties, and the peo- 
 ple I ran with. You know the old saying about the 
 'name and the game'. The time has come when I've 
 got to pay the cost." 
 
 "The cost of what?" he asked. "You've been 
 through the fire and you've come out unscathed." 
 
 "Not quite," she said. "I tell you I've got to pay 
 the cost the cost of unsought knowledge, the kind 
 of knowledge that is thrust on every unprotected 
 girl in a big city like New York." 
 
 Stuart stared at the rail moving slowly up and 
 down against the black water. 
 
 "Of all the women I know," he said, "I would 
 rather lead you by the hand to my mother, and say 
 to her : 'Mother, I have brought you a daughter. In 
 her I have found an end to all of my troubles. The 
 feverish useless life I have led is over.' ' 
 
 With a little sigh of content Fay let her head sink 
 against the back of the chair. Through her closed 
 eyelids she saw a great white light, and years of 
 peace and calm content stretching before her.
 
 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 371 
 
 She put out her hand and closed it tightly over 
 Stuart's. When she spoke her voice scarcely rose 
 above the whir of the big ship as it cut through the 
 huge waves, annihilating space, and rushing her on 
 her way to the goal of happiness. 
 
 "All right, Jimmy," she said, "if you can say that 
 to your mother, and be sure you mean it, I'll go with 
 you to Paris." 
 
 He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, and 
 then leaned so close to her that they could see 
 clearly into each other's eyes. 
 
 "I mean it so much," he said, "that I would like to 
 make you a promise a promise to do anything that 
 you want me to do I mean now or at any time 
 hereafter." 
 
 Fay continued to look into his eyes, which for 
 once had turned serious, and laughed gaily, just as 
 she used to laugh when she was a girl at Pleasant- 
 ville. 
 
 "No, Jimmy," she said, "you've promised me 
 enough for to-night." And then, with a sudden 
 misgiving, he saw her wrinkle her forehead and 
 draw her eyebrows close together. 
 
 "What is it, dear ?" he asked. 
 
 "I was thinking," she said, "that there is one
 
 372 IN ANOTHER MOMENT 
 
 thing that you could do for me, and I'd like to have 
 you do it right away. Send a wireless to Doris, and 
 say that I am with you, and that we are on our way 
 to visit your mother and your sister at Paris, and 
 that we are going to be married." 
 
 "Sure I will," he cried, and jumped to his feet. 
 "Isn't there some one else I can send a message to 
 for you?" 
 
 Fay sat up straight in her chair and stretched out 
 her hand toward him and let it lay close in his. 
 
 "No, thank you," she said. "You won't be long 
 gone, will you ? And don't forget to say that we are 
 going to be married." 
 
 She took away her hand, and with a little sigh of 
 content, once more dropped back into her chair. 
 
 "That's a wonderful word, Jimmy," she mur- 
 mured. "Did you ever stop to think how wonderful 
 it is, and all that it can mean that word, married? 
 I don't believe I have ever thought much about it 
 myself before; but now I know that it is the most 
 beautiful word in the whole wide world." 
 
 THE END
 
 
 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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