 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
VI
At one o'clock a special orchestra, special even in a
day of special orchestras, arrived at Delmonico's, and
its members, seating themselves arrogantly around the
piano, took up the burden of providing music for the
Gamma Psi Fraternity. They were headed by a famous
flute-player, distinguished throughout New York for
his feat of standing on his head and shimmying with
flute. During his performance the lights were extinguished
except for the spotlight on the flute-player and
another roving beam that threw flickering shadows and
changing kaleidoscopic colors over the massed dancers.
Edith had danced herself into that tired, dreamy
state habitual only with débutantes, a state equivalent
to the glow of a noble soul after several long highballs.
Her mind floated vaguely on the bosom of her music;
her partners changed with the unreality of phantoms
under the colorful shifting dusk, and to her present
coma it seemed as if days had passed since the dance
began. She had talked on many fragmentary subjects
with many men. She had been kissed once and made
love to six times. Earlier in the evening different undergraduates
had danced with her, but now, like all the
more popular girls there, she had her own entourage—
that is, half a dozen gallants had singled her out or
were alternating her charms with those of some other
chosen beauty; they cut in on her in regular, inevitable
succession.
Several times she had seen Gordon—he had been sitting
a long time on the stairway with his palm to his
head, his dull eyes fixed at an infinite speck on the floor
before him, very depressed, he looked, and quite drunk—
but Edith each time had averted her glance hurriedly.
All that seemed long ago; her mind was passive now,
her senses were lulled to trance-like sleep; only her feet
danced and her voice talked on in hazy sentimental
banter.
But Edith was not nearly so tired as to be incapable
of moral indignation when Peter Himmel cut in on her,
sublimely and happily drunk. She gasped and looked
up at him.
"Why, Peter!"
"I'm a li'l' stewed, Edith."
"Why, Peter, you're a peach, you are! Don't you
think it's a bum way of doing—when you're with me?"
Then she smiled unwillingly, for he was looking at
her with owlish sentimentality varied with a silly spasmodic
smile.
"Darlin' Edith," he began earnestly, "you know I
love you, don't you?"
"You tell it well."
"I love you—and I merely wanted you to kiss me,"
he added sadly.
His embarrassment, his shame, were both gone. She
was a mos' beautiful girl in whole worl'. Mos' beautiful
eyes, like stars above. He wanted to 'pologize—
firs', for presuming try to kiss her; second, for drinking
—but he'd been so discouraged 'cause he had thought
she was mad at him—
The red-fat man cut in, and looking up at Edith
smiled radiantly.
"Did you bring any one?" she asked.
No. The red-fat man was a stag.
"Well, would you mind—would it be an awful bother
for you to—to take me home to-night?" (this extreme
diffidence was a charming affectation on Edith's part—
she knew that the red-fat man would immediately dissolve
into a paroxysm of delight).
"Bother? Why, good Lord, I'd be darn glad to!
You know I'd be darn glad to."
"Thanks loads! You're awfully sweet."
She glanced at her wrist-watch. It was half-past one.
And, as she said "half-past one" to herself, it floated
vaguely into her mind that her brother had told her at
luncheon that he worked in the office of his newspaper
until after one-thirty every evening.
Edith turned suddenly to her current partner.
"What street is Delmonico's on, anyway?"
"Street? Oh, why Fifth Avenue, of course."
"I mean, what cross street?"
"Why—let's see—it's on Forty-fourth Street."
This verified what she had thought. Henry's office
must be across the street and just around the corner,
and it occurred to her immediately that she might slip
over for a moment and surprise him, float in on him, a
shimmering marvel in her new crimson opera cloak and
"cheer him up." It was exactly the sort of thing Edith
revelled in doing—an unconventional, jaunty thing.
The idea reached out and gripped at her imagination—
after an instant's hesitation she had decided.
"My hair is just about to tumble entirely down,"
she said pleasantly to her partner; "would you mind
if I go and fix it?"
"Not at all."
"You're a peach."
A few minutes later, wrapped in her crimson opera
cloak, she flitted down a side-stairs, her cheeks glowing
with excitement at her little adventure. She ran by a
couple who stood at the door—a weak-chinned waiter
and an over-rouged young lady, in hot dispute—and
opening the outer door stepped into the warm May
night.
| Tales of the jazz age | |