"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!




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