 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
II
Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street swarmed with
the noon crowd. The wealthy, happy sun glittered in
transient gold through the thick windows of the smart
shops, lighting upon mesh bags and purses and strings
of pearls in gray velvet cases; upon gaudy feather fans of
many colors; upon the laces and silks of expensive
dresses; upon the bad paintings and the fine period
furniture in the elaborate show rooms of interior decorators.
Working-girls, in pairs and groups and swarms,
loitered by these windows, choosing their future boudoirs
from some resplendent display which included even a
man's silk pajamas laid domestically across the bed.
They stood in front of the jewelry stores and picked
and their platinum wrist watches, and then drifted on
to inspect the feather fans and opera cloaks; meanwhile
digesting the sandwiches and sundaes they had eaten
for lunch.
All through the crowd were men in uniform, sailors
from the great fleet anchored in the Hudson, soldiers
with divisional insignia from Massachusetts to California,
wanting fearfully to be noticed, and finding the
great city thoroughly fed up with soldiers unless they
were nicely massed into pretty formations and uncomfortable
under the weight of a pack and rifle.
Through this medley Dean and Gordon wandered;
the former interested, made alert by the display of humanity
at its frothiest and gaudiest; the latter reminded
of how often he had been one of the crowd, tired, casually
fed, overworked, and dissipated. To Dean the
struggle was significant, young, cheerful; to Gordon it
was dismal, meaningless, endless.
In the Yale Club they met a group of their former
classmates who greeted the visiting Dean vociferously.
Sitting in a semicircle of lounges and great chairs, they
had a highball all around.
Gordon found the conversation tiresome and interminable.
They lunched together en masse, warmed with
liquor as the afternoon began. They were all going to
the Gamma Psi dance that night—it promised to be the
best party since the war.
"Edith Bradin's coming," said some one to Gordon.
"Didn't she used to be an old flame of yours? Aren't
you both from Harrisburg?"
"Yes." He tried to change the subject. "I see her
brother occasionally. He's sort of a socialistic nut.
Runs a paper or something here in New York."
"Not like his gay sister, eh?" continued his eager
informant. "Well, she's coming to-night with a junior
named Peter Himmel."
Gordon was to meet Jewel Hudson at eight o'clock—
he had promised to have some money for her. Several
times he glanced nervously at his wrist watch. At four,
to his relief, Dean rose and announced that he was going
over to Rivers Brothers to buy some collars and ties.
But as they left the Club another of the party joined
them, to Gordon's great dismay. Dean was in a jovial
mood now, happy, expectant of the evening's party,
faintly hilarious. Over in Rivers' he chose a dozen
neckties, selecting each one after long consultations with
the other man. Did he think narrow ties were coming
back? And wasn't it a shame that Rivers couldn't
get any more Welsh Margotson collars? There never
was a collar like the "Covington."
Gordon was in something of a panic. He wanted
the money immediately. And he was now inspired
also with a vague idea of attending the Gamma Psi
dance. He wanted to see Edith—Edith whom he hadn't
met since one romantic night at the Harrisburg Country
Club just before he went to France. The affair had died,
drowned in the turmoil of the war and quite forgotten
in the arabesque of these three months, but a picture
of her, poignant, debonnaire, immersed in her own inconsequential
chatter, recurred to him unexpectedly
and brought a hundred memories with it. It was
Edith's face that he had cherished through college with
a sort of detached yet affectionate admiration. He
had loved to draw her—around his room had been a
dozen sketches of her—playing golf, swimming—he
could draw her pert, arresting profile with his eyes shut.
They left Rivers' at five-thirty and paused for a moment
on the sidewalk.
"Well," said Dean genially, "I'm all set now. Think
I'll go back to the hotel and get a shave, haircut, and
massage."
"Good enough," said the other man, "I think I'll
join you."
Gordon wondered if he was to be beaten after all.
With difficulty he restrained himself from turning to
the man and snarling out, "Go on away, damn you!"
In despair he suspected that perhaps Dean had spoken
to him, was keeping him along in order to avoid a dispute
about the money.
They went into the Biltmore—a Biltmore alive with
girls—mostly from the West and South, the stellar débutantes
of many cities gathered for the dance of a famous
fraternity of a famous university. But to Gordon
they were faces in a dream. He gathered together his
forces for a last appeal, was about to come out with he
knew not what, when Dean suddenly excused himself
to the other man and taking Gordon's arm led him
aside.
"Gordy," he said quickly, "I've thought the whole
thing over carefully and I've decided that I can't lend
you that money. I'd like to oblige you, but I don't
feel I ought to—it'd put a crimp in me for a month."
Gordon, watching him dully, wondered why he had
never before noticed how much those upper teeth projected.
"—I'm mighty sorry, Gordon," continued Dean,
"but that's the way it is."
He took out his wallet and deliberately counted out
seventy-five dollars in bills.
"Here," he said, holding them out, "here's seventy-five;
that makes eighty all together. That's all the
actual cash I have with me, besides what I'll actually
spend on the trip."
Gordon raised his clenched hand automatically,
opened it as though it were a tongs he was holding,
and clenched it again on the money.
"I'll see you at the dance," continued Dean. "I've
got to get along to the barber shop."
"So-long," said Gordon in a strained and husky
voice.
"So-long."
Dean began to smile, but seemed to change his mind.
He nodded briskly and disappeared.
But Gordon stood there, his handsome face awry
with distress, the roll of bills clenched tightly in his
hand. Then, blinded by sudden tears, he stumbled
clumsily down the Biltmore steps.
| Tales of the jazz age | |