FullReads

He had first seen her on the screen. He had met her afterward at her hotel. She had seemed as ingenuous as the parts she played. Perhaps she was. He could never be quite sure. Perhaps the money she had made afterward had spoiled her. She had jumped from fifty dollars a week to a thousand.

After that O-liver could give her nothing. He had an allowance from his mother of three thousand a year. Fluffy Hair made as much as that in three weeks. Where he had been king of his own domain he became a sort of gentleman footman, carrying her sables and her satchels. But that was not the worst of it. He found that they had not a taste in common. She laughed at his books, at his love of sea and sky. She even laughed at his Mary Pick, whose name suggested a hated rival.

And so he left her–laughing.

A certain sense of responsibility, however, took him to her once a month, and a letter went to her every week. She was his wife. He continued in a sense to watch over her. Yet she resented his watching.

From her stairway she had seen him, and when a rest was granted she came down to him.

“I’ll be through presently,” she said. “We can go to my hotel.”

Her rooms in the hotel overlooked the sea. There was a balcony, and they sat on it in long lazy chairs and had iced things to drink.

O-liver drank lemonade. His wife had something stronger.

“I have not been well,” she said; “it’s a part of the doctor’s prescription.”

She had removed the pink from her face, and he saw that she was pale.

“You are working too hard,” he told her. “You’d better take a month in the desert, out of doors.”

She shivered. She hated the out-of-doors that he raved about. They had spent their honeymoon in a tent. She had been wild to get back to civilization. It had been their first moment of disillusion.

She showed him before he went some of the things she had acquired since his last visit–an ermine coat, a string of pearls.

“I saw them in your last picture,” he told her. “You really visit me by proxy. I find your name on the boards, and walk in with a lot of other men and look at you. And not one of them dreams that I’ve ever seen the woman on the screen.”

“Well, they wouldn’t of course.” She had never taken his name. Her own was too valuable.

When he told her good-bye he asked a question: “Are you happy?”

For a moment her face clouded. “I’m not quite sure. Is anybody? But I like the way I am living, Ollie.”

He had a sense of relief. “So do I,” he said. “I earn fifteen dollars a week. The papers say that you earn fifteen hundred–and you’re not quite twenty.”

“There isn’t a man in this hotel that makes so much,” she told him complacently. “The women try to snub me, but they can’t. Money talks.”

It seemed to him that in her case it shouted. As he rode back on Mary Pick he thought seriously of his fifteen dollars a week and her fifteen hundred; and of how little either weighed in the balance of happiness.

IV

It was not until the following Saturday that he saw Jane. She had made two hundred sandwiches. She had got Tommy’s mother to help her. She had invented new combinations, always holding to the idea of satisfying the substantial appetites of men.

There would be no use, she argued, in offering five-o’clock-tea combinations.

She was very busy and very happy and very hopeful.

“If this keeps up,” she told her mother, “I shall rent a little shop and sell them over the counter.”

Her mother had an invalid’s pessimism. “They may tire of them.”

They were not yet tired. They gave Jane and her basket vociferous greeting, crowding round her and buying eagerly. Atwood and Henry having placed orders hung back, content to wait for a later moment when she might have leisure to talk to them.