Athalie

Never before had she known loneliness. A man had made her understand

it. Never before had she known bitterness. A man had taught it to her.

Never again should any man do what this man had done to her! She was

learning resentment.

All men should be the same to her hereafter. All men should stand

already condemned. Never again should one among them betray her mind

to reveal itself, persuade her heart to response, her lips to

sacrifice their sweetness and their pride, her soul to stir in its

sleep, awake, and answer. And for what the minds and hearts of men

might bring upon themselves, let men be responsible. Their

inclinations, offers, protests, promises as far as they regarded

herself could never again affect her. Let man look to himself; his

desires no longer concerned her. Let him keep his distance--or take

his chances. And there were no chances.

Athalie was learning resentment.

* * * * *

Somebody was knocking. Athalie rose from the floor, turned on the

lights, dried her eyes, went slowly to the door, and opened it.

A large, fat, pallid woman stood in the hallway. Her eyes were as

washed out as her faded, yellowish hair; and her kimono needed

washing.

"Good evening," she said cordially, coming in without any

encouragement from Athalie and settling her uncorseted bulk in the

arm-chair. "My name is Grace Bellmore,--Mrs. Grace Bellmore. I have

the rear rooms under yours. If you're ever lonely come down and talk

it over. Neighbours are not what they might be in this house. Look out

for the Meehan, too. I'd call her a cat only I like cats. Say, that's

a fine one on your bed there. Persian? Oh, Angora--" here she fished

out a cigarette from the pocket of her wrapper, found a match,

scratched it on the sole of her ample slipper, and lighted her

cigarette.

"Have one?" she inquired. "No? Don't like them? Oh, well, you'll come

to 'em. Everything comes easy when you're lonely. I know. You don't

have to tell me. God! I get so sick of my own company sometimes--"

She turned her head to gaze about her, twisting her heavy, creased

neck as far as the folds of fat permitted: "You had your nerve with

you when you took this place. I knew Mrs. Del Garmo. I warned her,

too. But she was a bone-head. A woman can't be careless in this town.

And when it comes to men--say, Miss Greensleeve, I want to know their

names before they ask me to dinner and start in calling me Grace. It's

Grace after meat with me!" And she laughed and laughed, slapping

her fat knee with a pudgy, ring-laden hand.