# The Blind Bow-boy/Chapter 4

In a room, the walls of which were lined with pale-green taffeta, a man and a woman were sitting in the late June afternoon. It was a charming room with orange and gold lacquer screens, escritoires and tables of a severe Directoire pattern, needle-point chairs, and a chaste marble fireplace. Stalks of indigo larkspurs and salmon snapdragons emerged from tall crystal vases. A few books bound in gaily coloured boards lay on one of the tables, and the others were cluttered, hugger-mugger, with a variety of picturesque and valuable objects. A bright Manila shawl, embroidered in vermilion and lemon flowers, was thrown over the piano, and was held in place by a blue Canton china pitcher full of magenta roses. A copper bowl, heaped with ripe figs, stood on a console-table. Sanguines by Boucher and Fragonard, with indelicate subjects, hung on the walls. The broad windows looked down on Gramercy Park. This was the living-room of an apartment which included two small bedrooms, and an alcove, which served as a kitchen.
A young man in white flannels, a young man with ​curly golden hair and blue eyes and a profile that resembled somewhat Sherril Schell's photograph of Rupert Brooke, a young man with slender, graceful hands which he was inclined to wave rather excessively in punctuation of his verbal effects, reclined on a divan upholstered with green taffeta, smoking a cigarette in a jade holder of a green so dark and so nearly translucent that it paraphrased emerald.
In one of the heavier and easier chairs sat a lady, with a face which, perhaps, you would not call beautiful, but which would assuredly awaken your interest. The forehead was almost entirely obscured by a wave of chestnut hair, bobbed at the back. The eyes were grey, the nose retroussé. She had a good artificial colour and her rather sensual lips were enamelled a vivid carmine. Her jaw was square but it was the square jaw of character, by no means detracting from her charm. She, too, wore white, a robe of Chinese brocaded crêpe, with a girdle of uncut chalcedony, into which she had inserted a cluster of scarlet geraniums. These flowers bloomed also on her small white French hat, a creation of Evelyne Varon.
Campaspe Lorillard was about thirty, intensely feminine, intensely feline, in the most seductive sense of the word. She was addicted to chainsmoking, that is she lighted one cigarette from the other as fast as it burned too near the end of her amethyst holder. She was regarding Paul Moody ​with some intensity and was obviously interested in what he was about to say.
Out with it! she commanded, and her voice, clear and soft and sympathetic, although it contained a suggestion of mockery, was not lacking in force or intention.
Yes, I must tell you. . . . He'll be here in a few minutes, Paul groaned.
Campaspe remained silent, blowing delicate and wistful rings of smoke into the air.
Do you remember the poet who was too proud to die and who sent his servant out into the street to beg for him? . . . I had to do something; you will admit that?
Campaspe did not help him.
I couldn't go on. Father won't send me another dollar.
If you are going to give Mrs. Whittaker the honour of keeping you, tell me this instant, Campaspe interpolated.
It's not quite as bad as that. It isn't marriage.
I never had any such idea.
Oh! It isn't that either!
Well, Paulet, what is it?
Campaspe regarded her sheer white stockings with some interest; her eyes followed on down to her trim shoes of white suede, which fastened across the ankles with a curious arrangement of straps with chalcedony buttons.
​I may as well tell you. . . . An unintimate observer would have been puzzled to decide how much of Paul's misery was feigned. . . . I'm going to become a tutor, 'paspe.
A tutor! She smiled. A tutor! A guide to fast life! How to smoke opium in three lessons?
Not so bad for a guess, Paul grinned. He began to feel more comfortable. You've more or less hit it.
Who wants to learn?
That's the strange part. I answered an advertisement. It's here somewhere. . . .
He rose and fumbled about in an escritoire until he found the clipping.
What kind of jest is this? Campaspe's interest was not on the wane.
That's just what I thought. I went to see him . . . an old man, in earnest. It's his son, a milksop, I take it. I don't know. I've never seen him. He's coming in today. You've got to help. . . . Everybody's got to help. . . .
Teach him the vices?
I really don't know. It's all queer. The old fellow didn't tell me much. He asked questions. He seemed particularly pleased when he learned that my wife had supported me. That appeared to settle the matter for him.
But Amy doesn't any more. She even made a ​quite violent effort to get you to return the compliment.
He liked that too. . . . He seemed to like everything about me.
Swank!
Perhaps, but my new income begins today. I don't have to do anything for it, so far as I can see, except introduce the—the—the offspring to my friends. The old gentleman stipulated, though, that I should never mention business. He doesn't want ideas of that nature put into the boy's head.
What is the name of this horrid old man?
Prewett, George Prewett.
We don't know him, do we?
God, no! He belongs to one of the 1870-90 families, I should gather from the house. Stained-glass and wainscoting. I'm sure they give turkey dinners on Thanksgiving and Christmas.
And you don't have to teach the boy anything definite?
No. Nothing was said about reading or study. . . . I rely on you, the old 'un said, to introduce my son to existence. I don't know exactly where it is to be found, but you look as if you do. You know, at least, the things I want my son to know. . . . The old boy was abrupt and brusque, not at all hesitant or indecisive. He signed a cheque at our last interview yesterday morning and passed it over to me.
Paul removed a leather money-case from his ​coat-pocket, extracted a pink slip of paper therefrom, and handed it over to Campaspe.
As much as that! Are you feeding the boy?
No, he has his own money.
This is all?
Another cheque in a month. . . . Sooner, if I want it. There are no limits set to my rapacity. Oh! he's rich!
Well, Paulet, you're in luck again. You're always lucky, she commented, rather pensively.
I don't do anything about it: his answer was not uncomplacent.
Nothing unpleasant ever happens to you, she continued to muse aloud, or if it does, like Amy's divorce, it serves to make something pleasant happen. Even when you were in Ludlow Street Jail you ate hot-house grapes and pickled walnuts and read Turgenieff. I sometimes regret that I didn't marry you myself.
I wish you had.
God forbid! It's better for us to be friends.
Alive to the cozenage, Paulet's face assumed the rather silly but extremely sympathetic expression of a chow puppy having its belly massaged by a friendly hand.
I haven't given you a cocktail, he remembered. Ki!
A diminutive Jap in a white linen uniform appeared from the alcove.
Make some of your best Bacardi cocktails.
​Yessir.
Campaspe was thinking. When, exactly, do you expect him? she asked.
Harold? He telephoned, or a man named Drains, his man, telephoned that he would come in this afternoon.
So he's named Harold. Prewett—she rolled it over—, no, I don't remember that.
The glass that held the cocktail was Venetian. Campaspe regarded its crumpled and gold-flecked convolutions before she began to sip the contents.
Ki makes good cocktails. I'm glad you're not going to lose him, glad you're not going to lose the green taffeta. Oh! I suppose you wouldn't anyway. You are lucky, Paulet. Hundreds of people would give you a dime a week to keep you from going under. You are cheerful and amusing and decorative. I'm glad I didn't marry you. No husband can be cheerful and amusing and decorative to his wife, and a man who is cheerful and amusing and decorative to the world, but who ceases to be so to his wife, soon loses his self-confidence, and fails to interest anybody.
Paul sipped his cocktail. The clock struck five. Ki opened the door for John Armstrong, a young stock-broker, who suggested something of the prizefighter in his good-natured virility.
Hello, Mrs. Lorillard. . . . Hello, Paul. Drinks?
​Just in time. Ki!
Surprised to find you in town, Mrs. Lorillard.
I've been away for two days. I scarcely ever go to the country, never for long. It's dull and lonely and hot; a convention, this going to the country. New York is an ideal summer-resort. I like it better in the summer than I do in the winter. Only one detail I deplore: the straight streets. The cow-paths, the lanes, the byways, and the turnings exist only in quarters I never visit.
But don't you go to Europe?
Europe! Why all this racing over Europe? I did the museums when I was seventeen. Paris is provincial, démodé. Nothing remains but the dressmakers, and they work only for American women. As for the people . . . people are the same everywhere. If you have imagination, you don't need to travel.
Hadn't thought of it. Guess you're right. I've got to stick. It's a good idea to have reasons. I'll use yours. May I?
I expect you to.
Paul, Campaspe noted, was beginning to look a trifle perturbed. He dreaded, she said to herself, the coming encounter, but Harold's entrance proved a happy surprise for both of them. He was so young, so entirely adequate in appearance. Even with the ideas of an adolescent he would do, would pass. He did resemble a frightened dormouse, but ​he was very handsome. And Campaspe's instinct told her at once that this boy was the opposite of Paul in everything.
Come over here and sit down, young man, she ordered, although in a kindly enough tone. Ki will give you a cocktail. Harold said nothing this time about his previous temperate habits, but the size of the drink alarmed him. Ki was not penurious with alcohol.
After Harold had drunk half his cocktail, he even attempted a little sally.
You will pardon me for speaking of it, he said, but I am admiring your flowers. I never saw any one wear geraniums before. I didn't know they were worn. They seem to belong in boxes outside windows, or in pots, or in parks, but they are just right on you.
paspe always wears geraniums, said Paul, probably because Cupid doesn't like them.
Cupid? queried Harold, more comfortable, a trifle bolder.
Mr. Lorillard. Madame's husband. We always call him that. Cupid and my Campaspe played for kisses; Cupid paid, you know. He pays all right, but he doesn't get the kisses. . . . Hello, Bunny.
Paul rose to greet the newcomer, Mr. Titus Hugg, a very short man, shorter even than Ki, inclined towards rotundity, but young and rosy and extremely affable.
​I've been composing, Bunny remarked, a wonderful thing, and I was getting along splendidly until the telephone set me off by ringing in the identical key as that in which I was writing. I couldn't think of another dissonance. I quit!
Noises usually inspire you, suggested Campaspe.
Always, until today. I wrote a queer, strange thing, created after a creaking door. The maid broke china. I used the crash. Even the sound of soapy suds, rubbed up and down, up and down, was good for a little piece.
What are you writing now, Bunny, a symphony? queried John Armstrong.
Mr. Titus Hugg looked at the stock-broker with disgust.
A symphony! Say, don't you know this is the twentieth century? A symphony! Does your firm sell spinning-wheel stock? Music has got to be less tenuous; all this going on and going over is finished. Brevity, that's what we want now. All the old stuff is too long. My new pieces are over in five or six bars, one of them in only two. Do you want to hear it?
I could stand two bars, John Armstrong replied.
Bunny disregarded the insult; Paul, Harold, and Campaspe all urged him to play. He sat down before the Steinway grand, looking portentous.
La pavane pour une Infante defunte, he read the title of the piece of music on the rack in front of him. One sees that everywhere now, just as in the eighties, ​I have been told, it was always La prière d'une vierge.
He did not make a tentative attack on the keyboard, as is the bad habit of amateurs. Instead, he plunged at once into a conglomeration of harsh seconds. After a few raucous but brilliant wrestlings with the keys, he ceased.
What do you call it? Campaspe demanded.
Fourteenth Street. It's part of my Manhattan Suite.
Play Fifteenth Street, suggested Harold.
I haven't written all the streets, only twenty-five of them, and not consecutively.
Sheridan Square! was Paul's idea.
Certainly not. . . . I'll play you Sutton Place if you like.
Not that! cried Campaspe. We must have some reservations.
I'll play you Albéniz's Triana, said the intransigent musician, and he did play a few bars, but he broke off in the middle of one with the cry, J'en ai marre!
Play that!
J'en ai marre! J'en ai marre!
After a cocktail, Bunny was more complaisant.
I'll play Columbus Circle.
Childs' by moonlight?
The Maine Monument in the late afternoon?
The Columbus statue?
​Well, judge for yourselves!
This time, with one finger, Bunny picked out a tune which wandered from the top to the bottom of the piano.
I can't play the accompaniment to that melody until I get the right kind of piano. It's not written for the tempered scale. I must have quarter and sixteenth tones. Moses played it for me on his violin. . . . You heard it, Paul.
Like a cat singing to the discoverer of America. . . . You saw him sailing on and you listened to the cat.
In spite of himself, Harold smiled.
Bunny played his Bowery Ballet in two bars.
I'm tired. He wheeled around. 'paspe, sing for us, one of those nice, old-fashioned songs your mother used to sing.
Do! Do! from John Armstrong and Paul. Even Harold caught the infection of their enthusiasm.
Fannie's so adorable when she sings them, Campaspe said, as she went to the piano. She settled herself, preluded with a few bars, and then began:
It's lovely, cried Harold.
It is nice, Campaspe admitted. Time makes tunes classic.
She had a talent for singing popular airs, and the boys were delighted when she attacked another, broken by, harmonized and syncopated with, the shaking of cocktails.
In spite of the French words they sound so American, was Harold's comment.
They are American, affirmed Campaspe, by Stephen Foster, or Edward MacDowell, or one of those dead composers. They are almost folksongs now, and what a quaint old-fashioned air they have, like the names of absinthe frappe, or sherry flip, or pousse cafe. You should hear Fannie sing them; ​she's so young, so indecently young. You know my mother, don't you, Bunny?
Never had the pleasure.
She looks younger than 'paspe, Paul explained. Always going to fortune-tellers. One told her last summer that she would fall in love at the age of thirty-two!
Dear Fannie, I'd like to see her again, Campaspe mused.
Where is your mother? asked Paul.
Fannie's in Paris.
Have you read about the Siamese twins? John Armstrong interpolated.
What? from Bunny.
One of them died!
Oh! from Campaspe.
One of them had a son, put in Paul.
If the public were more imaginative, the newspapers could not print such things, commented Campaspe.
Ki brought in a trayful of cocktails.
Why do Japs always smile? asked John Armstrong, as Ki retired to his little kitchen.
It's their mask, a perfect one, Campaspe replied. You never know what they are really thinking. I have a harder one. Why do Greek bootblacks always have such wonderful hair?
I suppose it's the essential oils, Paul began. . . . And then, with a swift transition, Let's go junketing; let's go to Coney Island!
​Just the thing, assented John Armstrong, and Bunny and Campaspe approved. Nobody asked Harold for his opinion of the projected excursion.
Have you got your car? Bunny demanded of Campaspe.
It should be outside.
Ki! Paul shouted.
Flurry and rush began, preparation for excitement and adventure, a swift appraisal of boxes of cigarettes. Ki poured whiskey and gin and rum into tube-containers enclosed in field-glass cases.
Hats! Hats! cried John Armstrong.
The little Jap ran about, smiling, executing commands, bearing hats, ridding the apartment of guests. They walked out into the bright sunglare of Gramercy Park. Inside the railing, a half-dozen children, watched by their nursemaids, were attempting to pretend to enjoy themselves in the little forest of shrubbery under the melancholy statue of Edwin Booth.
Have you heard about Amy? asked Paul.
Has Amy married again? Bunny queried.
That I don't know, but she smoked a cigarette in Gramercy Park the other evening and the pious trustees have taken her key away from her.
Poor Amy! Campaspe mused aloud. She doesn't understand how to enjoy her freedom. She doesn't understand her world. She wants to live her own life, as she sees us live ours, and she doesn't know how. She's always having keys taken away ​from her. Everything will be locked to her soon.
Would you smoke a cigarette in Gramercy Park? asked Harold, as they stepped into the car.
Sit in front with the chauffeur, Harold, she directed. John, you and Paul sit with me. Bunny, take the strapontin.
They followed her instructions, and the Rolls-Royce swung out into the street and turned down Irving Place.
I wouldn't want to: Campaspe at last found time to reply to Harold's question. Amy is trying too hard to fight the world, to soften the world's corners, instead of softening her own. In the end, of course, martyrdom is waiting for her. I have no respect for martyrs. Any one who is strong enough shapes the world to his own purposes, but he doesn't do it roughly; he accomplishes his object in just the way that any woman you know gets anything she wants out of her husband . . . by appearing to be in sympathy with those who oppose him. Conform externally with the world's demands and you will get anything you desire in life. By a process of erosion you can dig a hole in two years through public opinion that it would take you two centuries to knock through. It is just as great a mistake to reject violently ideas that do not appeal to us. Rejection implies labour, interest, even fear. Indifference is the purer method. Indifference rids one of cause and effect simultaneously. . . . The world—she appeared to be in a kind of revery—is ​a very pleasant place for people who know how to live. We are the few. The rest are fools, and all we have to do to persuade the fools to permit us to live our own lives is to make them believe that we, too, are fools. It's so simple, once you understand. But what does the martyr gain? He has lost the suffrage of public opinion and he has done nothing to advance his own cause, for unless he has made the world believe in it he cannot carry it through. Bah! she repeated, I have no respect for martyrs. Give me an intelligent hypocrite every time!
What an extraordinary woman! thought Harold, and it occurred to him that he was learning more from her than he was from Paul. It was she who was giving him his first lessons in worldliness and he did not sense anything tangible in the manner of these lessons which he could resent. He found himself less aggressive, less inclined to obstinacy, chip more off shoulder, and back more flexible, than he had found himself with Drains. Paul seemed decent enough, he admitted, but he did not feel quite natural with Paul, quite ready to relax in his presence. With Campaspe, on the other hand, he already seemed acquainted; she awakened his sympathy. Part of this readier acceptance was doubtless due to his early environment. He knew women and trusted them. In spite of his college years, perhaps because of them, he never felt quite comfortable with men. . . . He was left to himself. The ​four in the back of the car were conversing in an animated manner about matters with which he had no concern. There was, however, he perceived, no rudeness in connection with this exclusion. He did not have the feeling, which had come to him so many times at college, that he was being ignored. It was rather as though these people considered him already enough of a friend so that they might talk freely in his presence without making any mechanical attempt to draw him in. Presently, he discovered that the motor of a Rolls-Royce heats the feet mercilessly. He spoke of this to the chauffeur, who opened an aperture near Harold's ankles, permitting a draught to blow across them.
There is something pathetic about the young, the suffering of a young man trying to adjust himself to circumstances which he does not understand. Harold presently began to miss the compassion assuredly due him, and his mood shifted. In spite of the friendly attitude of his companions, he began to pity himself, as he sat silent and alone on the little seat beside the driver of the Rolls-Royce, which was breaking all the speed laws, as it burst forward down the Long Island turnpike. Houses, farms, trees, Socony signs: a monotonous prospect. Harold, saddened a little, it is presumable, by Bacardi rum, thought of himself as helplessly immeshed in a kind of life which he certainly did not understand and which he felt sure he never could like. Helpless! From his earliest childhood he ​had been accustomed to accepting, unquestioningly, the arrangements others had made for him. He remembered how he had been brought up like a girl, with long curls which had not been clipped until he was nearly seven years old. He recalled, with shame, the day on which he had been permitted to discard his kilts for a boy's proper apparel, and how at the time, he had been ashamed, rather, to make the change. He thought of his college days, one long struggle at hopeless compromise. He had not been a particularly good student, and the external activities of his fellow-students had proved utterly alien to his taste. How many times he had walked alone across the campus! How many nights he had remained alone in his room! His vacations were a repetition of his childhood: Aunt Sadi, dear Aunt Sadi, he thought today, Persia Blaine, Miss Perkins; riding, swimming, reading, the quiet, easy security of farm life, safe but unrevealing. . . . That extraordinary interview with his father: whatever happened he could never forget that. Then Alice Blake, who reminded him of Persia Blaine and Aunt Sadi, and who was young and beautiful besides, had passed his way, had been swept from his vision, and nothing remained but this new life, this incomprehensible and silly life, compounded of cocktails and chatter and music, which in its dissonances sounded almost obscene to him. In spite of Campaspe, he felt that he would never be able to cope with it. Why didn't he break ​away and find himself? That seemed to be the most impossible procedure of all.
At last the towers and minarets and wheels and scenic railways of Coney Island came into view in the sonorous light; then, the wide strip of ocean, the beach strewn with refuse and bathers, fat Jewesses, and flashy young clerks from Broadway shops. There was a curious confusion of artificial and natural odours: the fishy, salty smell of the sea; the aroma of cooking-food, steaming clams, sausages, frying pork. A mechanical piano wailed out Say it with music a quarter tone off key. Barkers everywhere: Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to present this afternoon this little lady here on my right, the Princess Sesame, considered by many to be the GREATEST LIVING EXPONENT of oriental harem dancing. The little lady will perform for you here this afternoon, INSIDE THIS TENT, a feat hitherto unattempted by any of the world's great terpsichorean marvels, NAMELY, the Sicilian shimmy dagger dance! . . . Balloons, captive and toy, elongated and round, purple, green, and red. Ferris wheels, airplane swings, merry-go-rounds, tinsel and marabou, hula dolls, trap-drummers, giant coasters, gyroplanes, dodge 'ems, maelstroms, frolics, wonderlands, poses plastiques, pig slides, barbecues, captive aeros, witching waves, whirlpools, whips, chute the chutes, Venetian canals, fun houses, targets, shooting galleries, popcorn, cracker-jack, pretzels, soft ​drinks, eskimo pies, ice-cream cones: all the delights of the greatest of American amusement parks.
Campaspe clapped her hands. It's superb! she cried. Just what I imagined. I'll never have to see anything again. It's all of life and most of death: sordid splendour with a touch of immortality and middle-class ecstasy. This is Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and Thomas Hardy, and Max Beerbohm, and Bret Harte, and even James Joyce. It's a parable; it's an allegory; it's the pagan idea of heaven, and the Christian conception of hell. It burns and it freezes. It is clamour and it is silence. It is both home and the house of prostitution. It is what you want and what you want to escape. It is—she turned to Harold—complete experience. It is your education.
Harold was dazzled by her enthusiasm, but he certainly had no idea what she was talking about.
What shall we do first? asked Paul, rather languidly. They had descended from the motor and were walking along the beach.
I'm hungry, struck up Bunny.
Get Bunny a hot dog, suggested John Armstrong.
I could eat a smoked Pom, was Bunny's riposte.
Presently, they were all munching sausages laid in between two strips of bun, larded with mustard.
Buy me a balloon and a kewpie, John, cried the ravished Campaspe. Can you find me a geranium balloon? . . . No, they're all off-colour. I'll take a blue one. Harold, come here! Stay with me ​and you'll enjoy yourself. John, the other side for you. I find you charming, John. There's something so fresh and wholesome about you Wall Street men after a week-end in the country. The country is so perverse, nothing normal about it at all. The boy who took care of the cows had jaundice.
You're a duck, Cam—Mrs. Lorillard, John laughed. Let's do a scenic railway in the same seat.
Game! This long one. She pointed to a great structure, waving up and down cross country on incredibly tall stilts. They entered the gateway and booked places. As they swung and pitched down the headlong descents, she grasped him first by the arms, then round the shoulders, leaning against him, and, while he was only mildly thrilled by the motion—he had been an ace in the army—, her magnetic propinquity proved more unsettling. At the end of the ride, she removed the withered geraniums from her belt and tossed them away.
I'll get you some more: Harold was beside her again.
No more flowers today, she announced decisively, but thank you, Harold. . . . She turned to John: With you next to me, I'd like to do that over.
Game! he echoed her earlier refrain.
She laughed. We'll try another sport.
They stood before a small, brightly decorated wooden structure, in front of which, stretched on ropes, a dozen rudely painted banners informed ​passers-by of the nature of the attractions to be viewed within. It was a sideshow, a congress of freaks, an assemblage of strange people. There were, the posters promised, a sword-swallower, a tattooed lady, giants and pigmies, a three-legged man, a bearded gentlewoman, a man with an iron tongue, a fellow with a revolving head, a wild man of Borneo, an armless man; in short, an auspicious miscellany. The barker, standing on a low platform, was functioning, waving his hands and shouting to the curious crowd which had assembled.
Within, he declared, we have the greatest collection of abnormal human beings ever exhibited together under one roof. Where else can you see the little lady only two feet high, who is ninety years of age? Where else can you gaze upon a death-defying demon who eats sharp knives and thrives on fire? He swallows the burning flames as you and I swallow our bread and meat. His throat is the wonder of science. See the Rrrrrrrrussian cossack who carries thousands of pounds in weights on a hook passed through his tongue! The man with the iron tongue! See the little lady with her snakes. This little lady, a picture of female beauty, is only sixteen years old, and yet she wraps a forty-pound boa constrictor around her waist and defies him to crrrrrush her. The most terrifying spectacle you can observe on the entire island.
That settles it, exclaimed Campaspe. I adore snakes, and so they passed the entrance. A few ​others followed them in, but the greater part of the crowd lingered outside to stare at the huge, crudely Painted banners, and to listen to the gifted barker.
Inside, a series of platforms circled the small room, and on these platforms were ranged the strange people, the midgets, the tall men, the sword-swallowers, and ladies bearded and tattooed. Some of them looked merely bored, but most of them wore a superior expression of conscious pride, considering themselves, indubitably, of some importance in the world, contemptuous of that part of the public which did not share their peculiar perfections. Their costumes ran to red and blue and gold and pink, tricked out with tinsel and machine-made lace. All were retailing photographs of their strange selves, and a few sold booklets. Occasionally, these favoured folk conversed with one another, spoke a few words, casual and solemn at best, for it could be seen that they had nothing of importance to say to one another or to the world, nothing, save: Here I am; look at me; I am a brilliant exception on this sphere where you are conspicuously and defectively normal. You have only two legs, the three-legged man seemed to assert sneeringly, while the lady with The Last Supper tattooed on her back and Rock of Ages on her belly was obviously a trifle impatient with such women as were forced to wear mere clothes by way of decorating their bodies.
Campaspe noted these impressions, while the ​barker was introducing the little ladies and the wild men. Now he stood before a platform on which was seated a girl who immediately drew the attention of Campaspe's group. She was assuredly an exception, a special jewel. She had the delicate features of a beauty from the Caucasus or an aristocratic Levantine Jewess. Her fragile nose, her exquisitely formed lips, her high cheek-bones had been modelled by an artist. She was a girl, evidently, for whom God had determined to do his best. Short and slender, her body was rhythmic and full of grace. Her head was set above her shoulders in a piquant, bird-like way, while a mass of fluffy brown hair surrounded her pale face and her great green eyes with a delicious shadow. She wore a costume of spangled crimson, cut off at the knees, with a low neck and no sleeves, and on her head a skull-cap fashioned entirely of purple sequins, and surmounted by a feather almost as tall as herself. Her stockings were the colour of the blue-jay's feathers.
What a lovely creature! cried Campaspe.
She's beautiful, said Paul.
Even Harold regarded the girl with curiosity, as she stood up to go through with her act without any of the abandon of the other performers. I'll at ease in her costume and out of place in the show, still it could be seen that she was lacking in self-consciousness. There was no rouge on her face, no paint on her lips.
​This little lady to the right, announced the barker, is the bravest little lady in the show. Only sixteen years of age, she handles the fiercest and most dangerous rrreptiles with the carelessness of a farmhand petting a tame calf. She has visited the jungle and brought back with her vipers with fangs so deadly that one dart would kill a buffalo, boa constrictors who could fold a full-grown African lion in their coils and crrrush him to death, the deadly poisonous Indian cobra, more dreaded by the natives than the man-eating tiger! And to make her act more dangerous, it is our custom to feed these venomous reptiles only once a month. They are hungry now. They have not been fed for three weeks. Show the ladies and gentlemen what you can do, Zimbule.
As a hurdy-gurdy groaned out a melancholy rendering of I hear you calling me, the little lady stooped over a great chest, painted bright pink and studded with brass-headed nails, and raised the cover. From the gaping box one gathered a confused impression of a nest of lethargic serpents. One, more active than the rest, elevated his grear jewelled head, with its staring, beaded eyes, and protruded his forked tongue. With a lack of relish, an active distaste, indeed, which must have been apparent even to the small boys present, the little lady lifted the huge, scaly monster out of the chest and disposed his heavy iridescent folds around her torso. Up to a certain point, the snake sub​mitted with an easy grace and a seeming lassitude. Quite suddenly, however, with a quick brilliant movement, which in its intricacy baffled the beholder, he coiled himself securely three or four times about her waist in an embrace which constantly grew more perilous, while, with his head pointing vertically straight upward from her abdomen, he darted what might be called forked kisses ather chin. The girl's face assumed a pallor which gave to her beauty an even greater delicacy. Her lips quivered; immediately, only the whites of her eyes were visible; her body collapsed, and she fell heavily to the floor. The serpent, alarmed, perhaps, by this new game, swiftly unrolled himself and glided back into his box.
Quick! Campaspe whispered to John. Quick! Get the child!
Armstrong vaulted to the platform, caught Zimbule in his arms and, descending, made his way through the group, too astonished to question or oppose him, out to the open air. Thence Campaspe and the others followed him.
That's right! the barker approved. Take her out! Give her the air!
It's criminal. She's only a baby . . . Campaspe exclaimed.
They all have to begin, said the barker. It's her first show here, but she swore she was on. These kids lie like hell.
To a little plot of grass behind the show-building ​John had borne her, laying her gently on the sward, while Campaspe and the others swiftly surrounded her and kept the crowd from surging too close. Paul had found some water which he dashed in her face. Presently, she opened her great green eyes.
Who are you? she asked, and Campaspe was relieved to discover that a rather common voice and accent offered the proper contrast to the refined beauty of her features.
Don't talk, suggested Campaspe. Wait till you feel better.
The amateur snake-charmer glanced searchingly into the faces of her new friends; presently, she smiled.
Well, I was game.
What did you do it for? demanded Campaspe.
Coin. You gotta eat.
Hungry?
Ain't had a good feed for a week.
Where do you live?
No place.
Where's your family?
In hell, I guess.
Any friends?
Don't kid me.
Campaspe turned to John again. Carry her to the car, she directed.
He bent over to lift her once more, but the child, now resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and half sitting up, rejected his offer of assistance.
​Say, I can walk.
Come with us. We'll get you something to eat, Campaspe explained. She slipped a five dollar bill into the palm of the barker, with the words. She doesn't belong here.
The barker grinned. Glad to get rid of her, lady, so easy. I couldn't leave her do another show.
The group, pressing close about to protect her from the still curious crowd, made their way slowly to the spot where the motor was parked. Once in the car, Campaspe directed her chauffeur to drive to a hotel further down the beach. The girl slid into the cushions, between John and Campaspe. The others found places.
As the car started, the girl's distrust awakened. Say, she cried, what's the idea?
You're hungry, aren't you?
I sure am.
Want something to eat?
God, yes.
Well, you're going to get it. Keep quiet for a while. You're not strong enough to talk yet.
The child offered no further resistance, but at the entrance to the dining-room of the hotel, Campaspe met with a new form of opposition. It was early, and the room was practically empty, but the costume of the young lady! Campaspe sent for the head-waiter.
​You know Mr. Lorillard?
Certainly, madame.
Well, I am Mrs. Lorillard. This is the Duchess of Manchester. She is studying Coney Island for her book on America, and it is her fancy to dress like this. . . . Shall we go to the . . . ? She named another hotel nearby.
Certainly not, Mrs. Lorillard. The man became obsequious at once. Come right in here, of course. He led them to a table near the window.
What do you want to eat? asked Paul.
Steak, pork chops, ham and eggs. . . . Whether from lack of breath or lack of imagination the girl did not make the list longer.
Campaspe turned to the waiter. Bring her a glass of milk and some toast and be quick about it. The girl is starving. Then to the pseudo-enchantress of serpents: You can't have everything you want now. You're not strong enough to eat it. It would make you ill. Now don't talk any more till you've swallowed some food.
The girl obeyed and remained silent, but her great green eyes wandered curiously from face to face. When, after a very short interval, the waiter returned with the order, she drank the milk at a single gulp, and crunched the toast between her strong young jaws with an intensity which betokened anxiety lest the food should be removed before she could dispatch it. Campaspe and the boys were ​sipping glasses of orange juice, into which Paul had dexterously inserted drops from the field-glass cases which Ki had prepared.
Feel better now, kid? asked John Armstrong.
I feel all right.
What is your name? Campaspe asked.
Wotschures?
Campaspe Lorillard.
Zimbule O'Grady.
Zimbule O'Grady, exclaimed Paul, with delight . . . Zim—
The girl misunderstood his tone. Don't you like it? she flared.
Paul was quick to aver that he adored it.
Bunny, whose mind, as usual, was wandering, accidentally saved the situation. He was sitting with his back to the corner, facing the entrance. Idly watching people coming in, his attention was attracted by a pair just about to sit down at a table across the room.
My God! 'paspe, he cried, look at Cupid!
Campaspe and the others turned to gaze across the long, vine-hung and trellised room, at a short, fat man, slightly bald, who stood beside a massive blonde, wearing a black dress, quivering with jet, an enormous hat, trembling with paradise plumes, and from whose wrists dangled enough gold-bags, vanity-cases, bracelets, chains, gold pencils, and bangles to set a minor Sixth Avenue merchant up in business.
​Campaspe smiled. What abominable taste Cupid has in women, she remarked. He looks like an olive on a holiday. Then: I think we'd better start back. We've had our adventure.
What about dinner? asked John Armstrong.
We'll stop somewhere else for that.
Why not go back to the apartment? Paul suggested. Ki can run out for some cold cuts and a salad.
Kalter Aufschnitt! Just the thing! cried Campaspe, delighted, and no danger of seeing vulgar people!
Can he get some ham? Zimbule demanded hopefully.
Yes, and you will be ready to eat it then.
For the drive back, certain rearrangements of position were effected. Bunny attempted to slip into the back seat beside Zimbule, but, with some dexterity, Campaspe pushed John Armstrong between herself and the girl, and, as Harold and Paul already occupied the strapontins, Bunny was forced to take the seat by the chauffeur. He sulked. Harold was feeling altogether confused and uncomfortable. Paul was highly amused.
Zimbule now seemed as strong as a young ox, as alert as a wren searching for worms. She had completely forgone her momentary distrust, and was behaving as only a young animal, bereft of self-consciousness, can behave. In the restaurant, she and Bunny, from their positions of propinquity, had ​indulged in quaint plays of words and hands. They had even been a little rough at times. Now she called out to him, and occasionally reached over to poke him in the back or to pull his hair. Campaspe, for some curious and secret reason, was concentrating her attention on John Armstrong, flattering the handsome stock-broker with overt suavities until he responded with some of the clumsy intuition of a Newfoundland dog. Bunny, too, found that his feet were getting hot. These Rolls-Royces! But what a burrrrrrrrrrrrrrr for a tone-poem! Inns and trees flew past. Farmhouses and fields, aqueducts, railroad embankments. At last (it was late twilight), the illuminated city, the tall gloomy towers, their pinnacles gleaming, the serrated silhouette of Manhattan. John Armstrong ventured to take Campaspe's hand in his. She made no objection.
Ki opened the door with his habitual enigmatic smile, and when bidden to seek refreshments, he smiled more blandly than ever. While Ki laid the table, Paul was shaking cocktails, assisted by Harold, who cracked the ice and squeezed the oranges. Zimbule was sitting on Bunny's lap.
Oh, Ki! cried Campaspe, I forgot to tell Ambrose I wouldn't need him any more. Run down and tell him not to wait. I'll walk home. Well—she turned to the spread table—here we are again. As for you, young lady, you go home with me, of course.
​What will Cupid say? from Bunny.
Whatever he likes.
A dubious expression lurked between Zimbule's eyebrows, and Bunny crossed his fingers. The girl seemed as comfortable as if she had been accustomed to pass every evening in Paul's apartment, showing no curiosity. She was, Campaspe noted, oblivious to surroundings. Things, in themselves, meant nothing to her. Harold, she saw, was too self-conscious and embarrassed to eat.
After supper, Campaspe settled herself on a couch, with John Armstrong on the floor beneath her.
Lucky I came today, 'paspe. I thought I should never see you again. It's been six months since we met for the first time.
You really like me?
I adore you, 'paspe.
That's right . . . You Wall Street men! So substantial! No jaundice.
Paul turned to Harold: There won't be many days like this.
It doesn't matter. Father said . . .
Oh! I know. Strange bird, your father. I don't mind telling you I'm not wise.
What kind of women do you like? Campaspe was hailing Harold.
I like you. He was very much in earnest.
Very good for an amateur. You shall have your day, but this is John's night.
​John squeezed her hand. You're making fun of me, 'paspe.
She regarded him quizzically.
Towards two o'clock, Campaspe glanced at her wrist watch.
I must take the child home, she said. She must be tired.
Where is your child? Paul set down his cocktail glass. Both noted for the first time that Zimbule was no longer in the room.
Where is Bunny? demanded John Armstrong.
Paul rose and strode across the floor to the closed bedroom door. Opening it softly, he emitted a low chuckle. The others joined him.
The bed-lamp, shedding a soft amber glow, was still lighted. The floor was strewn with spangled crimson skirts, stockings the shade of blue-jay feathers, sequined caps, boots, trousers, shirts, chemises. . . . Under the sheet in Paul's superb bed, with a crest-emblazoned head-board shaped like the facade of a Dutch house and with its posts terminating in bleeding pomegranates, in this bed, which had once been the property of some Iberian grandee, lay Bunny and Zimbule, their bare arms entwined round each other's throats, their lips slightly parted, their eyes closed. They were asleep.
C'est Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée! whispered Paul.
Don't disturb them, said Campaspe quietly. They ​look too cunning like that. Zimbule passes the night here. John can take me home.
Harold's expression was one of the wildest horror.