The Drums of Jeopardy

Kitty Conover ate in the kitchen. First off, this statement is likely

to create the false impression that there was an ordinary grain here,

a wedge of base hemlock in the citron. Not so. She ate in the kitchen

because she could not yet face that vacant chair in the dining room

without choking and losing her appetite. She could not look at the chair

without visualizing that glorious, whimsical, fascinating mother of

hers, who could turn grumpy janitors into comedians and send importunate

bill collectors away with nothing but spangles in their heads.

So long as she stayed out of the dining room she could accept her

loneliness with sound philosophy. She knew, as all sensible people know,

that there were ghosts, that memory had haunted galleries, and that

empty chairs were evocations.

Her days were so busily active, there were so many first nights and

concerts, that she did not mind such evenings as she had to spend alone

in the apartment. Persons were in and out of the office all through

the day, and many of them entertaining. For only real persons ever

penetrated that well-guarded cubby-hole off the noisy city room. Many

of them were old friends of her mother. Of course they were a little

pompous, but this was less innate than acquired; and she knew that below

they were worth while. She had come to the conclusion that successful

actors and actresses were the only people in America who spoke English

fluently and correctly.

Yes, she ate in the kitchen; but she would have been a fit subject for

the fastidious Fragonard. Kitty was naturally an exquisite. Everything

about her was dainty, her body and her mind. The background of pans and

dishes, gas range and sink did not absorb Kitty; her presence here in

the morning lifted everything out of the rut of commonplace and created

an atmosphere that was ornamental. Pink peignoir and turquoise-blue

boudoir cap, silk petticoat and stockings and adorable little slippers.

No harm to tell the secret! Kitty was educating herself for a husband.

She knew that if she acquired the habit of daintiness at breakfast

before marriage it would become second nature after marriage. Moreover,

she was determined that it should be tremendous news that would cause a

newspaper to intervene. She had all the confidence in the world in her

mirror.

She got her breakfast this morning, singing. She was happy. She had

found a door out of monotony; theatrical drama had given way to the

living. She had opened the book of adventure and she was going straight

through to finis. That there was an undertow of the sinister escaped her

or she ignored it.