Painted Veils

Until the day of her death Easter never forgot that first night in New York. It was the initial twist of her ship's wheel, and the commonplace happenings which followed her entrance into the Maison Felicé were to give force and direction to her entire life.

The journey from Washington had been stupid. An early November afternoon sky heavy with threatening snow, her nerves tense with expectation, made the girl feel that the big city once reached her troubles would be over; but at Jersey City they began. After a few blunders she reached the 23rd Street ferry and noted the snow falling in the foggy river. Her baggage had been checked to the hotel and she had nothing to do but climb into a hansom and direct the driver to west 25th Street. She made a tentative bargain with the man. Easter was prudent because she had little money. The hotel-it was in reality two old-fashioned houses with high steps and brown stone fa?ades, the conventional residence of the early eighties-did not impress her; besides, it was snowing so thickly that she could hardly distinguish anything, and when she was admitted into the hall the light dazzled her eyes. She felt lonely, timid, uncomfortable. A tall, portly lady saluted her.

"You are Mlle. Esther Brandès? I am Madame Felice." Her room had been engaged for a month ahead through the aid of a common friend. Her heart beat faster when the Frenchwoman politely said:

"I am sorry, Mlle. Brandès. Your room is occupied for a few days. We did not expect you till next week." The look of dismay on the newcomer's face must have appealed, for Madame added:

"But I shall put you in another room, a splendid apartment on the ground floor. You will like it. It will cost you only five dollars a day, tout compris. Do you speak French?" Easter nodded. She was so appalled at the price that she was speechless.

"But-but-" she stammered.

"Yes, I know," continued Madame in her native tongue and more pleasantly, "yes, I know, but it is only for one week and if Mlle. Brandès could see our waiting list!" That settled the matter. She bowed her head and soon a maid had her handbag open in a small bedroom adjoining a large well-furnished room, containing a grand pianoforte. There were three windows at the side. "The piano, it is the property of Monsieur Invern. He is away till next week," said the too confidential gossip. Easter handed her a tip and she bowed herself out. The chandelier gave plenty of light. There were bookcases. Much music. On the walls hung photographs of composers. Evidently the apartment of a musical person. She looked out of a window. An extension with skylights, and a noise of clattering dishes coupled with certain odours, not disagreeable to her nostrils, told her that the cuisine of the establishment was beneath. What she saw was the roof of the dining-room. Maison Felicé was one of those semi-hotels with table d'h?tes so popular in New York two or three decades ago. The cookery was French and notoriously good. Its fame spread to Virginia, where a friend of her mother's had secured, after the funeral of the poor woman, a letter of introduction to Madame Felicé. It was not easy to get into the hotel as a permanent guest.

Easter should have accounted herself lucky. She didn't. She was too miserably homesick for a home that no longer existed to bother about the exclusiveness of an hotel. Her glance traversed the lighted roof of the dining-room, and through the fast dropping snow it was arrested by a gloomy wall. Again her heart sank.

"My God!" she cried. "What a dismal prospect!" Without parents and in her wallet a hundred dollars she was alone in New York. The situation was almost melodramatic. That snowstorm viewed in the aperture between two buildings, and from the windows of a hired apartment, made an ineradicable impression. For the first time in her life she felt absolutely friendless.

Madame had told her the hour for dinner-7 till 8 p.m.; the luncheon was till 2 o'clock; and breakfast eaten in the room. A foreign atmosphere permeated the house. She turned away from the depressing night, lighted all the gas-burners, pulled down the shades and proceeded to make a modest toilette. Her trunk hadn't arrived, so she must eat her first meal in street clothes. No gong had sounded. Summoning courage she pressed a button. No answer, but from the sounds of talking and general bustle she knew that dinner was served. Another embarrassment. How to enter a dining-room full of strangers? Easter was a well-bred young woman, but not accustomed to the world; above all, to a Bohemian world. At the Maison Felicé, she had been informed, that the guests were celebrated. Singers, painters, actors, musicians there congregated. A perfect Bohemia where she would rub elbows, even speak to the people she most admired-artistic folk. She crossed a parlour, and found herself on a landing from which she could see a long table in the middle of the room, with little tables ranged along the walls. A numerous company was assembled, gabbling, eating, drinking, seemingly happy. An old chap with a bald head and grizzled moustaches saluted her rather markedly. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked prosperous and authoritative.

"I wish you the good-evening and a welcome, Mademoiselle," he said. "You must be tired and hungry. I am Monsieur Felicé. Come with me. I give you a table to yourself with only one other guest. But-a nice young man, I assure you, quite an old friend of the house." His speech was voluble, accompanied by many gestures. He was Proven?al, his wife Swiss. He stared at the girl. She was pretty, though not to his taste. He preferred blondes. She sat herself at a table near the short flight of steps that led from the foyer to the salle-à-manger. She was alone. Soon her soup was served. It was like wine to her faded spirits. Easter felt more cheerful. Decidedly a full stomach is an obstacle to melancholy. She sipped a glass of red wine. Her humour began to mellow. The soup was excellent, the fish promising-and then there stood before her, slightly bowing, a small, slender young man who introduced himself:

"Papa Felicé tells me I am to have the honour of sitting at dinner with you. My name is Stone, Alfred Stone, at your service." His manner was a trifle formal. He looked about forty and was barely thirty. A young-old man, worn, though not precisely dissipated looking. Easter didn't know whether she liked or disliked him. She resented his presence because he disturbed her dreams. But when he asked her name she became interested.

"Papa Felicé says you are a singer, Miss Brandès. Brandès! That must be a Jewish name?"

"No, I am not Jewish. And my first name Esther! My father was born in Virginia. So was I. He may have had Jewish blood in his veins. I don't know. He said his father was a Dane-"

"Aha!" cried Stone. "Georg Brandes the Danish writer is a Jew, and there is Marthe Brandès of Paris, you know, the beautiful actress-"

"I've never been to Paris," interrupted Easter. "Is she a great actress this Marthe Brandès?"

"Not so great as alluring. Yes, she is great if compared with any English or American actress." His dark eyes glowed. He almost became animated. Easter listened with curiosity. A man who spoke with such surety was somebody. Who was this Mr. Stone? She tried him with a touch of flattery.

"You must have seen a lot of actresses to pass such a judgment." He became quite languid.

"Miss Brandès, I am a critic of the theatre and music." She eagerly responded:

"A critic of music. How nice." His depression increased.

"What's nice about it?" he asked in a sullen tone.

"Oh, to hear all the great singers and players."

"You mean, to be forced to hear a lot of mediocrities. Even the great ones, Lilli Lehmann, Brandt, the De Reszkes, get on my nerves. You can have too much of a good thing my dear young lady." She became still more absorbed.

"Now, tell me. What are you after?" he demanded in kindly fashion.

"I mean to be a great dramatic soprano," she confidently asserted.

"Aha!" he vouchsafed. "Rather a modest programme."

"I mean to accomplish it," she retorted. He was visibly impressed.

"Of course, a great voice you must have to begin with; and then there are such items as vocal technique and dramatic temperament, and beauty-you are well supplied in that-" he gallantly bowed-"Thank you," said the girl not in the least abashed; she knew she was good-looking-"and how many other qualifications?" he interposed.

"I speak French. My mother was a Frenchwoman. I speak Italian, without an accent, my teacher said-" "Without an Italian accent, he meant?"-"No, with a Tuscan accent," the girl proudly replied; "and I'm a trained musician, a solo pianist, and accompanist and read and transpose at sight. I-" He wearily waved her words away.

"Yes, yes. I know all about you girls who play, sing, transpose and compose. There's Yankee versatility, if you please. Universal genius. And you couldn't compose a r?le any more than you could cook your husband's dinner-if you were unlucky enough to have one." Easter smiled and it was like sunrise. Something inexpressibly youthful came into the world.

"At any rate I have a good dinner if I haven't the husband," she challenged. He assented. "The cuisine here is famous. Not at Martin's, or Delmonico's, or down on 14th Street at Moretti's is there better flavoured food." They had not reached coffee. The sweets were insignificant. Easter positively became buoyant. She must have had Celtic in her, she went from the cellar to the clouds and the clouds to the cellar with such facility. Her Avernus once achieved, the rebound was sure to follow. Momentarily she forgot her poverty, loneliness, strangeness, and Mr. Stone was like a friend in need. She played confidential.

"All my life I've been at music. I was born near Warrenton on a farm. Then we moved to Richmond. Papa was unfortunate. I appeared as a child prodigy, later I taught little girls some older than myself. I began singing, in the cradle, mother said. Poor dear mother. She was so wrapped up in my musical career." (He thought: "They all say the same things ... already, career!") "She died last Spring. Father has been away for years"-Easter hesitated-"and here I am with lots of conceit and no money-to speak of-and yet I mean to succeed."

He admired her, this tall black-haired girl with the broad shoulders and steady eyes. Physical signs augured well. Her ears were small, shapely, her throat a tower of strength. Her bust was undeveloped, but the chest measurement unusual. He couldn't see her hips, but she sat boldly upright and there was decision in every movement, every attitude. Her eyes did not please his fastidious demands. They were not full-orbed, rather small, deep-set, and he couldn't make up his mind whether in colour they were dark-blue or dark-green; at times they seemed both; but they went well with the blue-black hair coiled about a wide low forehead. The nose was too large for canonic beauty; but it was boldly jutting, not altogether aquiline, a good rudder for a striking countenance, and one that might steer her little ship through stormy weather. The ensemble promised. But Stone had witnessed so many auspicious beginnings that the brilliant girl, whose speech was streaked with an agreeable southern accent, did not altogether convince him. Another! he commented, but inaudibly. He gravely inquired if she had any letters to musical people.

"Yes, to Madame Fursch-Madi, for one. Also a letter from our U. S. senator to the Director of the Metropolitan Opera House." She beamed. Stone looked at her. "Madame Fursch-Madi is a great dramatic soprano, but she hasn't much time for pupils, she is so busy with concert work. But you may have a chance if your voice is as good as you believe it to be. La Fursch has a class two afternoons in the week at the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, and as I know Madame Mayerbeer the director, I could give you a letter to her; better still, I could take you to her and introduce you, that is if you care to go." He is interested, without doubt, thought Easter. She was in a gleeful mood, but held herself down. The effervescent kitten tricks might not please this cynical critic. She gladly accepted his offer. They slowly moved from the half-deserted room. Two hours had quickly passed. She was surprised. Stone spoke:

"It's too soon after eating, yet I wish I could hear your voice. Then I might judge. Perhaps Fursch-Madi won't bother with an amateur. Her forte is not tone-production, but style. She is an operatic stylist. To hear her deliver Pleurez, mes yeux from the Cid, or Printemps from Samson et Dalila is something to remember. The true Gallic tradition, broad and dramatic, with justesse in expression. Ah! Only Lilli is her superior." Out of breath, he paused. He was seldom so expansive, he loathed enthusiasm. His motto in life was Horatian. To this he superadded Richelieu's injunction "point de zèle." And now he was spilling over like a green provincial. Evil communications, he sighed.

Easter clapped her hands. As she felt herself to be the pivot of the universe, visible and invisible, she spoke only of her own sensations: "Teachers say that my voice is placed to perfection. I don't think there will be much trouble about Madame Fursch. However, Mr. Stone, if it is allowed in this hotel, I occupy a parlour and there is a pianoforte." It was soon settled. Madame Felicé was gracious. So was Monsieur. They were both poker-players and were only too glad to get to the table in their private apartment.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Stone, "you have Invern's place, haven't you?" They were in the girl's apartment.

"Who is Invern?" she mildly inquired.

"Ulick Invern, a writer, incidentally a critic. He has lived here ever since he came from Paris. No, he isn't a Frenchman. Paris born, of New York stock, but a confirmed Parisian. So am I, poor devil, that I am. But he is rich, at least well-to-do, and I must make my salt writing for the newspapers. Go ahead. Sing some scales mezzo-voce, at first, it won't be such an effort at that." Easter sang. Two octaves she glided through.

"Phew!" cried her listener. "Big, fruity, lots of colour, velvety. But who placed your voice did you say?"

The girl stubbornly answered: "Mrs. Dodd, and she said-"

"Rot! No matter what she said. You have a rare voice. It's a pity it wasn't taken in hand sooner. But you sing by the grace of God. Naturally. And that's something. No, Fursch won't bother with you. Madame Ash is your woman. She will get that refractory break in your register safely back on the rails. Take my word for it, Miss-Miss-" he hesitated. "Esther Brandès-my friends nickname me Easter, and I answer to that," she confessed. "Well, Miss Easter, I'm not so sure that your self-confidence-egotism is sometimes a form of genius you know-isn't justified. You have voice, presence, intelligence, ambition. Good Lord! a lot of singers with half your gifts have become famous. It all depends on you-and chance. Don't mock that word-chance. Luck is two-thirds the battle. I'd rather be lucky than rich." He ruefully thought of the last horse race at which the bookmakers had picked his ribs bare. "What time shall I call for you tomorrow?"

"Nine o'clock," she quickly responded, all flame.

"Good heavens girl. That's the middle of the night. Let us say, after luncheon. I'll be here at 3 o'clock. I can't get in for luncheon as I don't rise till midday. Then-ho! for the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, where they teach you to sing in every language-but your own. Madame Mayerbeer is Gallic or nothing." He made a formal bow and took his leave. Easter stood at the pianoforte dreaming. Was it, after all, coming, the realization of her mother's solitary ambition? But once between the sheets Easter didn't dream. The day and its wonderful events had exhausted her. She was awakened in broad daylight by the maid who asked her if she would have coffee or chocolate.

* * *

Alfred Stone reflected: She is unusual. Never mind her beauty or her voice; it's her personality that will win out. What curious eyes. Hard as steel when she doesn't like the way things are going. Big heart? Yes-for herself. A cold hard-boiled egg is that same heart. Temperament! Well, I don't know. She may be as hot as a red-hot stove, but she is cerebral all the same. Never will waste herself in the swamp of sensual sentimentality. She will learn to use a man just as a man uses a woman. Un, deux, trois-c'est fini! That's the only way. Like trying on a new pair of gloves. Do they fit? No.

Chuck 'em away. I think Frida Ash is the right card for her, not Fursch. Easter is not ready yet for the footlights.

He walked into the vestibule of the Maison Felicé and to his surprise found her waiting for him.

"What! Punctuality in a future prima-donna," he jested. Easter disliked him this afternoon. She was in an umbrageous humour. She had slept soundly, the day was clear, the air crisp, the snow was not ankle-deep. Why had she turned cold? She didn't know. Stone suddenly bored her. Yet she had passed the morning thinking of him. Why his sudden interest? Would he try to profit by her? Such things she had read about in musical journals. Managers-who didn't advertise-were denounced by unselfish editors. Perhaps he would make a commission by taking her to the Cosmopolitaine. Nasty mean suspicions closed in upon her. She couldn't shake them off. She sang some scales; she read without interest a morning newspaper that she had found in the rusty drawing-room. The French breakfast of chocolate and rolls didn't appeal to her. She possessed a young, healthy appetite; and she missed the cozy chatter of the American breakfast-table. Several times she peeped through the glass door of her apartment, but saw no one. Various noises told her that the household was cleaning. In despair she took a warm bath and admired the rickety old tub, sheet-iron, not porcelain. She admired her body's lithe length as she faced an oval mirror. I am nice, she thought. Smooth, white, not hairy like so many girls I know. Her breasts were sketchy, but her bosom was so massive that a rich harvest was certain. Her pelvic curve was classic, her legs long and not knock-kneed. The Lord be praised for that much! she said aloud. It was her hair that most pleased her. Black with a suggestion of blue it was like a helmet on her small head. Its tone was faintly echoed in the arm-pits and on the tache d'encre, as they say in the painter's atelier. A robust girl and a desirable one, though the languorous, voluptuous air was absent. Easter might be profoundly immoral, but never a slimy odalisque. Her temperament was too tonic. Passion-yes, to the edge of tatters. Foaming passion; but no man would ever call her slave. This she resolved, as she squeezed her tiny breasts. Then she bowed low to her image, kicked her right leg on high, turned her comely back, peeped over her shoulder, mockingly stuck out her tongue as she regarded with awe-almost-the width of her delicately modelled buttocks. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "I hope I'm not going to get a married woman's bottom like Amy Brown's." Then she slowly dressed, after much pagan joy over her physical beauty.

She ate everything they brought her at the luncheon table. "Starved, that's what I am. Nothing since last night." She was glad to be alone at table. She wished to think over the situation. Her money wouldn't last long. What then! Not for a moment did she consider the possibility of a complaisant rich man. She knew her value in that direction; always, or nearly always, having a man messing about you! No, she preferred her liberty, the most precious liberty of sleeping solo, of arising in the morning alone. She swallowed her demi-tasse and found Stone at the door.

"Let's walk to Union Square," he said and she assented. They went across to Broadway. He quietly studied his companion, who, in the liveliest spirits, hummed, chattered, flirted with every good-looking man she passed, and elbowed her companion into a state of irritation. He was a stickler for the nuances of behaviour, especially in women. He, the Bohemian, frequenter of race-courses, gambling hells, cafés, cocottes and even worse, couldn't tolerate a slang phrase from the mouth of a woman. He saw that Easter was crude, though not coarse. Her education had been the normal unintelligent education of small towns. She hadn't been taught to talk, walk or dress properly. Nevertheless, she wasn't slouchy, and her bearing distinctive. She was Esther Brandès, and six months hence she would be a full-fledged New York woman. Of that he was assured. Perhaps sooner. And men? She liked them, he saw that. Had she? Who could tell? She wasn't shy. She hadn't thus far blushed. To be sure, the conversation hadn't strayed from the conventional. Then he laughed. She turned to him.

"Let me laugh, too," she begged. "I was thinking," he explained, "of an old maid aunt of mine who used to pray the Lord she wouldn't die guessing." Easter stopped and unrestrainedly roared. He was scandalized. "Hurry up," he expostulated. "We shall be late, otherwise." But he was secretly elated at the quick-fire success of his joke. A smart girl, that; she will go far-perhaps too far. They went into the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine. The door was opened by a polite coloured man. He said Madame was busy just then. Wouldn't they wait in the reception room? Stone called the old man "George" and gave him a cigarette. The room was on the first floor facing the entrance hall. At the stroke of four gabble was heard. Girls and young men with fiddle cases and music-rolls tumbled down stairs, while fresh classes were forming. A weary or bored instructor bustled among his pupils. A gong struck. "Now, ladies, now gentlemen," called out George. "Upstairs, please, for Monsieur Lapoul's class."

"It's run like a railway station here," said Stone. Then added in French, "We shall see Madame Mayerbeer first, but don't say anything about Fursch-Madi. I'd like to get you on the free-list, then, perhaps, you might help out by accompanying." Easter tried to look grateful, but couldn't. "What do they pay accompanists by the hour?" she naively inquired.

"Pon my word," he answered, "you are a regular pawnbroker."

"Oh, it's all very well for you. You're a man. I must work for my living." She was tart. He grimly smiled: "A critic who has to listen to rotten singers isn't working, is he? Hello! here's Madame." A pretty plump little woman, picturesquely garbed in brown-ribbed velvet, wearing a man's collar and cravat artistically tied, tripped into the room and in French bade them the time of day. Stone took her apart and whispered in her little ear, which her loosely piled iron gray hair did not conceal. But she was all eyes for the girl, who in turn devoured this model Parisienne. And she is an American, what chic! thought Easter. "A voice, you say, Alfred, and such good looks. I should say so. Come up stairs, Miss Brandès. Nice stage name, eh, Alfred! Of course, she will go into the Fursch class." "I don't know about that," answered Stone, who seemed to be an oracle in the eyes of Madame. "I should rather say Ash. The young lady has a lot to learn, a long road to travel-" "Yes, but"-"But me no buts," he retorted. "With Fursch-Madi she will only get a vocal top-dressing, whereas it's the roots that need attending to. No, try Frida Ash."

"Bien, monsieur, mais vous êtes exigeant." Madame Mayerbeer turned to the girl and fairly glowed with enthusiasm.

"I am a lover of beauty, Miss Brandès, in all its forms. You must be with us. Our Conservatoire is truly international. We develop native talent irrespective of race or religion. Talent is what we are after, and I need hardly tell you that our teaching staff is the most famous in the world. Such genius. But the combination of beauty and talent-you, Mr. Stone tells me, possess a wonderful voice-All right, George. Tell her I'll be upstairs soon. Attendez...." She rushed out to the stairway. "Adèle, I'll be up in a minute. We have just discovered a treasure. A marvellous voice, so Mr. Stone declares...." A grumbling voice called down:

"Another of his discoveries-like the last I suppose." There was ironic edge to her words. Stone never winced, Madame was only more amiable. "I'm crazy to hear you sing." There was genuine fire in her lovely eyes. Easter was quite willing. But M. Lapoul wouldn't be ready for a half-hour.

"George, tell M. Lapoul to dismiss his class for the day," cried Madame impetuously. "Say I wish to consult him about our new scheme for a Théatre d'application here in the Conservatoire." Ten minutes later light footsteps were heard. A fantastic Frenchman rushed in, kissed Madame's hand, bowed, till his spine cracked, before Easter and stared her out of countenance. He was the typical Gallic tenor and jeune-premier. Hair worn bang-fashion like a silly girl, a sparse, peaked beard, moustaches upturned-the conquering rooster was evoked by every movement of his graceful, insolent, interesting person. But his eyes were superb, thought Easter, who was fascinated by their size, lustre, and the heavy romantic lashes that fringed them. So this is the celebrated Victor Lapoul, the singer who turned the heads of Parisian women when he warbled so amorously at the Comique, she mused. They say he hasn't much voice left. It's all in his personality. The tenor circled her as a cat does a mouse. He wore a preposterously low collar, his hairy chest was partly visible. Ugh! Easter didn't like hairy men. She shocked her mother when a growing girl by declaring she would never marry, because she wouldn't be able to endure the sight of her husband's hairy legs when he got out of bed in the morning. Her mother shrugged despairing shoulders. I've hatched out a queer bird, this Yankee child of mine, said the Frenchwoman. But she re-doubled her watch on the girl's goings and comings. No such feeble excuse as spending the night with a school-girl friend imposed upon this experienced woman. Strange to relate that Easter was as strictly chaperoned as if living on the continent. She, American born, was brought up like a French provincial miss.

In the space of Victor Lapoul's room Easter sang. She had boasted to the amused Stone that her operatic repertoire began with Pinafore and ended with Isolde. Sweet Little Buttercup and Isolde! It was too much for his gravity. He said so and she was annoyed. A characteristic. The slightest contradiction and she became belligerent. She accompanied herself in "Good Night" by Dvorak. Madame was all smiles. A diplomatic girl, this, to first sing a composition by the reigning Director of the institution. Lapoul, his arms melodramatically folded, struck an attitude at the end of the instrument. He was apparently more absorbed in the face of the singer than by her singing. He made no comment when she finished. Stone cynically regarded the tenor. "Cabotin" he whispered to the patronne, who never budged. She was accustomed to his carping tongue. Easter had expected tumultuous acclaim. The silence chilled her a trifle, but she didn't lose courage. Oh! well, I'll try them with something classic, and began Isolde's Liebestod. Lapoul threw up his arms: "Suffering Jesu," he cried, "not that, not that accursed requiem of a tomcat howled over by a tabby."

"You see, he doesn't care much for Wagner," interposed Madame.

"Care much is good," laughed Stone. Lapoul left the room. "Sing something French. I'll bring him back," whispered Madame. "It is still 1870 for him." She dashed out. Stone looked at Easter, she looked at Stone. "Sing anything French," he finally commanded, but he could hardly keep his face straight. "M. Escargot will run in." "Why do you call him Escargot? His name is not Snail." Easter was all smiles as she began that classic of barber-shop and bar-room, "Les Rameaux." Lapoul tip-toed in, followed by Madame. The music suited the full-bodied tones of her voice, and, as Easter knew the composition she got through with some sense of triumph. "Rotten," was all that Stone ejaculated. The tenor applauded. A very magnificent, extraordinary, beautiful, lovely, wonderful soprano. Ah! one year in his class. Mademoiselle would be a marvellous artiste. Ravishing. Overwhelming. The Metropolitan Opera House would gladly throw open its doors to such genius. All the while he uttered this hyperbolical praise he persistently fastened his bold staring eyes upon the girl. Stone noted that he made swallowing movements as if he were about to taste a bonne-bouche. His offer left the company cold. His scheme didn't suit the plans of either Madame Mayer beer or Alfred Stone. "Fursch-Madi," said Madame. "She goes to Ash or no one," muttered Stone. Why the girl is amateurish. She has no steady production, she phrases like a fool. Madame Frida will soon fix all that. They moved out. Lapoul called to Easter. "A moment, charming demoiselle." She returned to the room and his arms clasped her and hot moist kisses were deposited on her cheek. She didn't stir. "But you are adorable. Pardon, a thousand pardons," he begged. She didn't answer. Stone outside the door winked at Madame, who indulgently smiled. A Frenchman could do no harm in her eyes. "Cochon," exclaimed Stone. Easter re-appeared as cool as a dew-pearled June rose, but she wasn't blushing. "Great God! how glacial are these American misses," moaned Lapoul, when alone. But he didn't mean what he said.

* * *

Alfred Stone spat bitterly on the floor of his bedroom-which was also his living-room and library. His cigarette tasted like toasted rag, and in his mouth there was scum. Brown, brown and yellow, he told himself. This boozing till all hours in the morning must be stopped. A hard night last night down at Lüchow's, but the crowd left there at half past one when they couldn't get anything more and went over to Andy's on Second Avenue and played poker-dice till six. No wonder I feel rotten, said Stone. It was past midday. He swallowed a cup of strong tea which he made with trembling hands.

He had a concert to "cover," a concert at Mendelssohn Hall, but first he must go to his office at the "Daily Chanticleer." He looked at his image in the glass. His skin was dingy, discolored, his eyes unnaturally dilated. A hard night and a hard face. He lighted a cigarette. Tea and tobacco soon steadied his nerves. He was in a moody humour. What's the use of anything? was its keynote. The bookmakers had hit him hard the day before; hence the drinking bout with a gang of chaps for whom he didn't care a rap. Ulick had been with them at the start, had eaten a hearty dinner, but, as usual, dodged away when the heavy drinking began. Smart Ulick. But a bloody blighter when it came to sticking. However, I can't blame him, philosophically added Stone. Ulick doesn't drink or smoke. Why should he tag after a band of thirsty ruffians like ours. He's girl-mad, that's what he is. And why the sudden interest in Easter Brandès?

Her name gave him a new point of departure. That young woman was too shrewd by half. Too ambitious, uncannily so. The soul of a pawnbroker, he had accused her of having. Young, not bad looking-he was critical this day-but coldly selfish; what's worse, she didn't mind letting you see how indifferent she was.

She would make a man run himself to death and take it for granted. But he was through. I bring her to the Cosmopolitaine, introduce her to the right set, and she seems to think it only natural. Not a word of thanks, if you please. She doesn't mind that stinker Lapoul messing over her, never turns a hair. And yesterday I take her to Ash, and because she hears some wholesome truths she vents her spite on me at dinner last night. What do you think of it? In the violence of his outraged dignity Stone left the table and sauntered to the window. Ugh! he groaned. It was raining and the prospect of going out to listen to a dull piano-recital-or was it some screecher of a soprano-gave him the blues worse than ever. What a rotten life, he meditated. I feel like a chicken with the pip. Oh, Lord, how long? Well, Frida Ash, the good old girl, certainly did lay down the law to Easter. A promising career. But work, work like a galley-slave for at least four years; maybe five. I'll do it, cries Easter. A bargain, says Frida. Easter gets two or three lessons a week and in return is to be accompanist for Ash. That's a nice job, I don't think. Play accompaniments all day for a set of imbecile amateurs. But what can she do? She has no money. She is too chilly to earn any by approved horizontal methods.

He puffed a fresh cigarette. Am I fond of the girl? he asked himself. No, not by a long shot, but she will be a fine morsel for some lucky chap-with money. Oh yes lashins' and lavins' of money she'll want. What a curious bird she is, just like Invern. She tried to pump me about him. Is she mashed on him? Who knows? I fancy the lady didn't much like vacating his rooms. She asked me, with such a funny look in her eye: "How is it your friend is in town, lecturing at the Conservatoire, and all that. Yet he doesn't live in his own apartment?" And what a thunder-cloud expression she wore when I carelessly explained: "Oh you must know, Ulick is a bit of a runabout. I suppose he has something new on his staff. He usually disappears at such times, till the period of disillusionment; then he returns to the home-nest, pale but pious. He's a queer bird also, is Ulick." Aha! the girl positively became discontented. I have to laugh. No, she won't do for me. Her eyes are too secret, too calculating, and her ears too tiny-but they are pretty ears all the same. Heigho! I'll dress and go to my little hell hall. The man who invented musical criticism should have been evirated. Ha! that's a good word, evirated! I'll use it in my notice tomorrow. Herr Slopstein should be evirated for the manner in which he played Beethoven....

* * *