"But you should see the old dragons and dowagers and
death-heads, and frumps who go to see Athalie! And the
younger married bunch, too. I understand one has to ask for
an appointment a week ahead.
"So she must be making every sort of money. And yet she lives
simply enough--sky floor of a new office-apartment building
on Long Acre--hoisted way up in the air above everything. You
look out and see nothing but city and river and bay and haze
on every side as far as the horizon's circle. At night it's
just an endless waste of electric lights. There's very little
sound from the street roar below. It's still up there in the
sky, and sunny; silent and snowy; quiet and rainy; noiseless
and dark--according to the hours, seasons, and meteorological
conditions, my son. And it's some joint, believe me, with the
dark old mahogany trim and furniture and the dull rich
effects in azure and gold; and the Beluch carpets full of
sombre purple and dusky fire, and the white cat on the
window-sill watching you put of its sapphire blue eyes.
"And Athalie! curled up on her deep, soft divan, nibbling
sweetmeats and listening to a dozen men--for there are
usually as many as that who drop in at one time or another
after business is over, and during the evening, unless
Athalie is dining out, which she often does, damn it!
"Business hours for her begin at two o'clock in the
afternoon; and last until five. She could make a lot more
money than she does if she opened earlier. I told her this,
once, but she said that she was determined to educate
herself.
"And it seems that she studies French, Italian, German, piano
and vocal music; and has some down-and-out old hen read with
her. I believe her ambition is to take the regular Harvard
course as nearly as possible. Some nerve! What?
"Well, that's how her mornings go; and now I've given you, I
think, a fair schedule of the life she leads. That fellow
Dane hangs about a lot. So do Hargrave and Faithorn and young
Allys and Arthur Ensart. And so do I, Clive; and a lot of
others. Why, I don't know. I don't suppose we'd marry her;
and yet it would not surprise me if any one of us asked her.
My suspicions are that the majority of the men who go there
have asked her. We're a fine lot, we men. So damn
fastidious. And then we go to sentimental pieces when we at
last get it into our bone-heads that there is no other way
that leads to Athalie except by marrying her. And we ask her.
And then we get turned down!