The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 1, 1903, Page 3

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understand Sallie.” Miss Munson grew red in the face and t her temper with wonderful rapidity. Te were moments when she hated the ice in b she had been forced by the in uncontrollable circum- stances id this was one of the mo- -but she loved the pose of juveni innocence. It was the only lux- ) able, and she was not going to permit its molestation with a good grace, You're jealous!” cried noisi what. to do because vdenham makKes more money than , and doesn’t have to write about and hair restorers, and etiquette; obliged to grind out doggerel You are all furious because she's 108t talked about woman in the of- nd the 1 Miss Munson mut- teful cats!” in a sotto voce that tto as it might have been. ence!” commanged Mrs. Amelia Am- berg Hutchinson, majestically. -*Silénce! 1 will not permit such language in the office. Miss Munson. I shall appeal to Mr ers. You and your desk are here on sufferance only . Try and conduct your- self in a seemly manner, if you wish to remain. And your mother, if she takes as much Interest in yqur welfare as you wish us to -beiieve, should keep you at home. especially as you are not obliged to indulge in these labors. Personally, I confess that 1 need my salary—I am not ed to confess it—or nothing would to appear daily in an office dry is accepted and figringly ed Munson sald nothin inflammable fuse had bu Ehe felt a trifle sorry tha g. Her readily i jtself out on record as a semi-defe: de- testable Sally Sydenham ad as- cribed her own pardonable sentiments 10 the other ladies. It was a pity. Happy Hippy wobbled from the room, leaving a trail of stagnant perfume be- hind bher. She was rather tir thes: magpies_and infinitely prefer: < culine regions of the office. & of remarking that she could alw ;T slong” with men, but could scarcely cope with the pettiness of her own sex s for my doggerel verses id th pale poetess with biting emphasis, “they may be weak'—they were in the last stages of anaemia—“but they brir letters from all over the world. & million a year would I waste on dramatic criticism. I did it gnce, at request of Mr. Childers. It was h—never again.” P Atwood had, indeed, tried theatri- icism before Sallie's advent, but her soulfulness had stood In the way. he had criticized musical comedy from “Hemiet” point of view. and had dis- sed Palais Royal farce from the plat- the old comedies. “San Toy™ 4 because it was o trivial com- with “Coriolanus,” and “The Gay ns” was voted a detestable frivol- r the reason that it *‘fell down™ be- “The School for Scand She had P d morality when nobody wanted it, and had inveighed against immorality when to discover it a powerful micro- scope would have been necessary Dear Mrs. Atwood,” bleated Rita Eis- enstein, “your criticisms were lovely, and gh you never write another live. 1 shall never forget the in wh you roved that the lead- haracters in ‘Florodora’ were utterly Jus compared with those in—1 think he LIF"F‘LAH( of Venice." It was 1 never imperiled my iscussing sexual mat- nguage of & wvenger!” re- he poetess, who, like Bunthorne, very terrible when thwarted. “If record be sofled—"" Gargle with a weak solution of per- ¢ of hydrogen.” wrote Mrs. Amelia berg Hutchinson, murmuring the rds almost cooingly. “And tell him that to win you he must renounce tobacco,” scribbled Lamp-Post Lu with soft insistence. Rita Eisenstein and Mamie Munson aughed loudly, and a Kilkenny conflict seemed likely to re-establish itself in this zy, secluded little ‘sanctum_when the ssibilities were interrupted by the ar- rival of Atkinson Smith, the " business manager. Mr. Smith was followed by Happy Hippy, who bad met him on his way up, and who sweetly and clingingly held hi rm, so that escape was cut off. a handsome man, sition. He was ely the weaker sex, and ugh he looked upon feminine journal- parodies, and was wont to re- at his club that to see the fair travestied was at times discouraging, he would ally forsake his assoc! wander to the where petticoats prevailed. Any were better than none at al jemeanor of the la changed The features of Mrs, on settled them- - wife-and- he milk of hu- 3 from her of malice disfigurec 2's face the symmetry of Anasta- ced by a sort of rapt extremely pleasing. made an effort to hide ed the pose of a god- r bath. Mamie Mun- the manner of nted with the \dane revelation, but a happy smile in’ Mr. Rita E Smith's directior at * and nly. Miss Higgins the world was therefore, de busi- d from 10 ve Invited -asion will want you There will be & coid coliation.” He knew that feminine journalists were ¢ one with their brethren in the mrat- tion—cold, warm or tepid. At collation” Mrs. Ame- ewallowed invisi- ble food, and 2 Atwood emitted 2 spund that, hed been an ordi- nary, unpoetic, every-dey mortel, wouid e mention o a Amberg H have very much Jike “smacking” ver lps. “We should Hke the entice staf to be esented,” went on, “‘and 1 hope . * u will all o8 X conveniant to appear. If any of you see 55 Sydenham | wish would kmdlw‘r l!_u:l of’xhl The pu: heir 1 and shot glances &t each piber. Lven the subject of the cold ocEstios was temporarily fc gotten. Mra Amelia Amberg Huteh was the first to resover her equanimity 1f there is going to bz plenty pugne. Mr. Smith,” giay with hippopotamic efriness “I (hink you upon Miss Ealile Eydenbam's quoth ths postdss, em- vi “it will be & Tery tems affair iss Sydenham. Sheer respeeiability, now, wiil frighten her. ¥'m afraid, Smith.” turning tq the business man- “thal Miss Sydenhsy will never ap- he’ll come right encugh,” inter- Ol posed Lamp-Post Lucy. “Therell be a few actors on hand. I'm sure, apd she 1 stories. Sallie won't id yop—read her article on v, Mr. Bmith?" asked Mamie coguettishiy. but In tones so low were scarecly audlible. cast Qown their eres in ap- y. Mrs, Amelin Amber erted her flaccid face an wt the wail. The pale powtass 10ok- 1Be ceiling, %8 though ghe wanted \gh as poseibie. Happy Hip- cast impicring glacces at n , &8 though to sae, "Don't t admit it Lems-Post Lucy plant- her feet firmiy en the foor, wilh her us In_two counties. Rita Fisenstein rose, walked tg the window acd played ir upon the pase. he Ousiness manager was va amused and enjoyed It all hugely, her article,” he an- V. read_them—wouldn’t miss them for worlds. They're the best thing in the paper—cut rather low at the neck, of course, but none the worse for that. Sallle is a caution—so unconven- tional, isn't she?" “Mr. Smith,’ sald Mrs. Amelia Amberg Hutchinson in a funereal 'would you let your dear little boys and girls read Sallie Sydenham's articles “Before | can answer that question, my dear lady,” replied the business manager, with a smile, “'l feel that it would be necessary and respectable to marry. I'm Happy Hippy. who gpecu- his celibacy,‘gave him a win- ning loc But Sallie duesn't write fur children,” he added. “No,” sighed the pale poetess, sorrow- fully. To the babes and sucklings she carries no appeal. Ah, me!” “Perhaps 1 had better send a line to her house,” said Atkinson Smith, thoughtfully, feeling that sufficient for the day was the journalistic petticoat thereof, and turning to go. “‘Don’t for- get to come, any of you. You won't be shocked I can promise. Good-morhing.” Their original expressions rcturned to the faces of the perturbed ladies as soon as Atkinson Smith had ‘gone. These ex- pressions were now helghtened by dis- comiiture. It would have been very easy to announce a supply of well-conceived contempt for this business manager, who apparently held feminine propriety so lightly. But it would have been useless. After all, he_was, by his own confession, unmarried. Perhaps he was a rake. To a rake Miss Sydenham would undoubtedly make a fervent appeal. This idea spread with telepathic contagion among the ladies. They worked on silently for a half hour. At the end of that time Mrs. Amelia Amberg Hutchinson arose, and in a voice ;nal trembled slightly, she spoke as fol- ows ““The only thing to do, in order to rec- tify the licentious spirit of this office, is to cut Miss Sydenham openly. As we are to appear at this reception, and she is also to be there, the occasion seems to me to be an inspired one. Ladies, let us show, by a discreet forbearance and a seemly self-repression, that Miss Syden- ham is not—er—is—not—er—in our class.” The pale poetess murmured a chaste “Amen:” Happy Hippy nodded approv- ingly: Miss Munson threw up her eyes to the whitewashed cefling, and seemed to register a vow; Lamp-Post Lucy tapped her boots assentingly on the floor; Eva Hizgins paused in her manipulation of Mrs. Carrfe Nation's sweet and fragrant mind to show that she was acquiescent, lated upo and Miss Eisenstein shook Mrs. Amelia, Sallie needed a moral support. Amberg Hutchinson's moist red hand and beamed upon that benevolent matron. By which it will be seen that the way of the transgressor is hard, and all the harder when the way is macadamized by the feminine Process. The virtue that hath its own reward was thereafter luminous in the feminine sanctum on tne seventh floor. CHAPTER V. Chaglie Covington was one of the for- tunate many who are not tortured by the too strenuous idea. He was known to his friends as a ‘‘charming fellow,” wnich meant that he was soctally colorless and pleasantly non-aggressive. . He was on the outside edge of journalism, and was con- sequently popular in Newspaper Row, be- cause he confiicted with nobody. Mr. Cov- ington wrote agreeabie reylews of dis. agreeable books, and encouraged the bud- ding author to bud. It”"was not a very exhilarating pastime, but Mr. Covington was satisfied, because it was undoubtediy quite respectable. He collecied autograph copies of valueless publications, and was looked upon with delight by the authors thereof, who loved to present *‘works” that .ew seemed inclined to purchase. Mr. Covington's supreme ambition was to be looked upon as “‘a man about town.” His desires went no further. He belonged to a club or two, and was careful to be on view in the windows thereof once or twice a week. He lived in a bachelor apartment, with a housekeeper. At 6 o'clock reg- ularly he donned his evening clothes, gnd ate his solitary ‘chop In well-groonfed state. Of late his post-prandial entertain- ment had consisted in escorting Miss Sal- ue Sydenham to the playhouse. He was sincerely interested in the girl. It was through his “outside’ influence that she had obtained a footing in Owl- dom. He had first met her while she was trying to eke out a living by teaching the voung idea—an occupation that she thor- oughly loathed. Her candor and ingen- vouspess had appealed to him, and he had set out to better her condition, with mo- tives to pure gnd selfish that they had laid themselves open to uncharitable criticism. He had watched her rapid, mushroom progress, and deplored the means she used to accomplish it. He was genuinely tached to her. It flattered his vanity— man about town' that he was—to be seen at ‘“opening -nights” with a girl so universally talked about as Sallle.’ He liked to hear the crowd murmur as they entered the playhouse—she, In her osten- tatious mock-finery, he in the very sever- ity _of rigid uncompromising evening garb. Mr. Covington was amused at the frequent charges that he wrote Mise Svdenham’s criticisms As a_sense of humor was entirely foreizn to him, and a frivolity of style distinctly antipodal to his nature, he might have been even more legitimately amused than he was. This young man had lovable gualities, and his shortcomings were merely super- His “Incerity shone from his.face He avoided the petty jealousles, the sting- ing disappointments, the deadening of the finer nature's susceptibilities, and the ostracising necessities 6f newspaper life. He knew that they existed, but did not care to take chances. His life was simple and uninspiring. What the world thought “that was evervthing to him. It was a specles of altruistic selfishness, if there be such a paradoxical combination. He estimated his own value by the fictitious tag that Mrs. Grundy stitched to him. Mr. Covington entered his club one morning in feverish haste. Tt was his cus- tom to read the morning papers there, as it gave him the lefsurely pose of a flaneur. He usually =at in\a leather chair by a large window, and ambled through his task. rs-by nodded to him occasion. ally, wh pleased him, and the “Hal- lo, Charlie!” that greeted him at times was music to him. Such easy, unstudied popularity was delightful. 3 On this occasion Charlie appeared to be ill at ease. He took up the paper for which Miss Sydenham wrote, but did not open it. He had a presentiment of un- pleasantness, He had accompanied Sallie the night before to a music hall, and the memory of the entertainment was partic- ularly galling. The feature of the pro- gramme had been a duel, fought by two arch young women. The conventionalities had been blithely disregarded. After dis- robing for the contest, the girls had hor- rified the audience by appearing stripped to the walst, without the traditional flesh- ings. New York likes its forbidden fruit well hidden, and the exhibition had been received with righteous howls of disgust. Ladies had risen and departed, men had hissed, and there had ,been a sort of pandemonium. . Charlie Covington, as he sat with the still unopened paper In his hand, tried to recall his own sensatfons. He thought— he hoped—that he had felt embarrassed, for Sallie’s sake rather than for his own: but he could not be quite sure of it. Miss Sydenham had laughed apathetically at the crass stupidity of the “feature,” and had declined to move from her box. She had reasoned, with some apparent logic, that & newspaper writer was valueless If carried away too completely by personal sentiments. It might be “good journal- ism"” to orofess these sentiments, but to experience them veritably was the very height of weakness. “I am here,” she had said, “to tell the public what T see, and there is no reason whv T should allow my own sweet personal mod- esty to do _my readers out of their dally dose. They are not responsible for the sad fact that T am a perfect lady. Eallie had sat there and had seemed to enjoy watching the expressions on the faces of the men and women, and—Mr. Covington certalnly remembered {t—he had failed to argue the matter with her. He had stayed though convinced, and He d laughed. He recalled his gh- T . 7 \ V4 THE SUNDAY CALL. Ty 4""\‘ . P 5va B ter—a "%m‘ mirthless laughter. This was the truth; there was no doubt about it. Yet Saiiie was a girl, and a pretty girl: and he was a man at the apogee of his virllity. What was there in the mystic exigencies of journalism that had dulled those facts for him last night? Charlie Covington always prided himself upon his chivalry, and surely a man could ~fot write himself awai; from that. He sighed, and the paper rustled in his band If Sallie had taken a correct and serfous view of an extremely degrading . exhibition, he would have no cause for self-reproach. He could even justify his course in allowing her to remain. As he read the article his face fell. A dull, brick-red glow spread along his fore- head. and he bit his mustacne with feb-" rile zest, Miss Sydenham had ‘‘guyed’ the cntire thing, and hiad huried at it the shafts of a misdirected ridicule. Hundreds of people might read this, and laugh. Miss Sydenham had réligiously closed her eyes to the impropriety of the undressed duel. “There was no excuse for it,” she wrote, “inasmuch as both ladies were £0 exceedingly ili-formed that the artisiic scnse was shocked. The challenging girl looked so much like a Hottentot that we simply screamed for corsets. ‘The other resembled a jelly that had not ‘jelled,’ and the public felt sorry for her, Action on the part of the authorities will be un- necessary. Who would care to interfere with a Hottentot or a jelly?" Charlie Covington let the pBE" fall, sin- cerely grieved. His eyes looked through the club window, but saw nothing. ¥or the fitst time theé cries of “‘Hallo, Char- lie!™ were unheard by him. Miss Syden- ham's article would cause discussion, but of the wrong sort, and her motives would be impugned—certainly with justice, If she had only taken a woman’s view of the show—just for once! If she had but al- lowed ‘an injured femininity to shine through her article! In every paper that day this nauseating duel had probably been ferociously ‘“roasted,” and Sallie Sydenham had laughed at it as no man would have dared to laugh. They would all say that she was lacking in the moral sense, and . . . and . . . other hate- ful things. If she had written as she surely must have felt, all would have been well. The comments of a girl, or a wife, or a mother, wouid have been valua- ble. She might have attacked the thing from each- or all of these points. Sallie had lost a valuable oppostunity, and had delibérately sacrificed morality to a per- verse flippancy. It was maddening. He told himself that it was all his fault; that the disgrace lay at his door as surely as it did at hers. 'he whole episode wus simply disgusting. He rose and walked up and down, raging against journalism. A woman t think that she could wade through the improprieties, man-like and alone, to emerge unsullied. But he did not think .that it was possible. ‘‘He that touches pitch shall be defiled therewith,' he re- membered; and how much more she? It was awful to think of this young woman wasting her God-given wit in cesspools. And yet ... ANd yet L . . 'he thought of Amelia Amberg Hutchinson, Anastasia Atwood, Lamp-Post Lucy, and the other untrouséred specimens of OWi- dom. They were journalism’s substitute for so-called “womanly women,” but how distasteful and repulsive! Was there no medium between their canting stupidity and Sallie’s revolutionary recklessness? She knew no women, and—Iif he believed what she said—had no desire to do so. Women were either jealous of her vogue, or opposed to her ruthless frankness. Sal- ife could neither Intérest women nor feel interested in them. She had no ideas on the servant-girl question but homorous ones. Her convictions on the subject: of stewing prunes or preserving tomatoes were positively sinful. She hated to be asked her opinions on current literature, the enptiness of which she despised. She laughed at the high-falutin gibberish of Marie Corellf, and the fervid mock-hero- fcs of Hall Caine. Poetry she could not understand, except that of Anastasia At- wpod, which a;unaled to her distressing “sense of the ludicrous. book sentiments. *“As ye sow, so 11 ye reap” seemed to him a somewhat banal dea for the fastidious Mr. Covington. - “*This is not a Sunday-school, my boy,’ he said rather coldly, “and there is no reason why Miss Sydenham should be- lieve that it is. She is a nice, 'Iollr girl, and I like her immensely. Personally as well as pro(essflonaniy, 1 ‘Vprecum her. Let her alone, Charife. hen she is 50 she can write recipes for pickled cabbage, and advice to those who are freckled an seedy. There is plenty of time.” “You do not understand me,’ persisted the other. “I sald at the beginning that this was personal. Would you care to see your, céusin’s name signed to Miss Syden- ham'’s article of to-day?"” Jack Childers was displeased, flush mounted to his forehead. Miss Hampton out, Charife,” “and don't, for heaven's sake, Miss Sydenham is not my cous were 1 should be very sorry indeed to see her in journalism in any capacity. What —what on earth is the matter with you to-day?" “'Sallie values your good opinion,” Mr. Cavington continued. ploddingly, blindly seeking a weak point in the managing ed- itor’s armor coat. ‘I know she does. One word from you would do a great déal, and I think you should speak it. The girl s ruining herself for a salary. As you say, she has written many decollete ef- fusions, and I have never even alluded to them. But last night she went too far. There is a happy medium in everything. Besides, it is bad for the paper to chami- plon & Woman who apparently—I say ap- parently—forgets her sex.” Mr. Childers folded his arms, and could not resist the temptation of winking at the serious young man. He was restored to good humor, and he realized that it Sailie's article brought forth such pro- ®tests from a friend it was indeed even more startling than he had imagined. Jack Childers knew the value of startling, and it appealed to him. “If I thought that it would hurt t girl.,” he said presently, with sincerity, would do as you suggest, Charlie. But it cannot hurt her. llje is a little devil, and ail the preaching in the worid would not reduce her work to the flabby plati- tudes of a ssamstress.” “‘Miss Sydenham’s better self detests all this,” Mr. Covington declared emphat- ically. *I am sure of it. She assumes a pose, but in reaiity she is sensitive, mod- est, jand more femininely decorous than all ‘Your frumps.” Mr. Childers shrugged his shoulders. “I dare say,” he remarked. “Why not? But I am not as interested in Sallie’s better self as T am in her journalistic duplicate. Why should I be?’ Come, Charlie, old man, don't you see that you are—you are away off? Probably Bernhardt has a bet- ter self, and is a loving mother and a d ing grandmother. But when she pla: “‘Camille” and “Tosca" cordently_ moral ladies, we accept her at her face value and are thankful for it. How is the bock world . Mr. Covington sat down, fidgeted, crossed his legs, stared at the brass door- knob as though it were a crystal globe that brought to his consciousness sub- merged visions or an unimagined futurity, and_spoke slowly. “Suppose, old man,” he said, ‘‘suppose just for a moment that you were in love with Sallie Sydenham—what would you do? Would this pose, that you enjoy so much at present, appeal to you as a Knp- py one? Would your chivalrous senti- mentse still sink themselves in editorial approval of ‘a good thing'?"” he young man’s crystal-gazing was in- effective. The managing editor laughed heartily, and Charlie Covington saw that he had gone astray ll'{ his hypothetical case. “My imaginationis a fairly good one,” said Mr. Childers. “It is not called into play very frequently, as you may sup- pose. Still, I like to give it an aliring, and shake ‘ouf the moths occasionally. But I cannot place it in the position that you suggest. hy ask me to picture my- self as in love with the strange ladles of 2 newspaper office? Are you going to and a “‘Leave Charlie Covington realized, perhaps for wed me to Amelia Amberg Thing- the first time, that Sallile was quite Im- ummy, or me a corespond- possible. Some influence, however, must "ent 'to Mrs. Anastasia Atwood? I be brought to bear upon her. if she admit, my dear fellow, that Sallie could only be Jnduced to form some girl friendship what an inestimable, boon it would be for her.” This const: “assoc] ~otion with the other sex, this nocturn haunting of the newspaper office, this per- petual quest for a humorous’ outlook. were derioralizing. He fancied that Miss Sydenham was more alive to the good opinion of Jack Childers than to that of anybody else. He was very fond of Jack Childers whose amiable, unspotled nature he a mired. Childers must surely see that this girl was ruining herself. He must cer- tainly realize that she was jeopardizing her reputation even for newspaper pur- poses. He would see Jack Childers at once. The idea came to him as though in swift ingpiration. He would consult the managing editor immediately. There was no time to be lost It seemed to him as thouzh the Tenderloination of this girl were* achieving itself suddenly. The pro- cess must be arrested before it was too late. Charlie Covington was not addicted to an intensity of energy, but five min- utes after he had deeided te see Mr. Childers he was on his way downtown. The soles of Mr. patent leathe er boots were in unsullied evidence, ere= vated gracefully wpon #n adjoining desk, as Charlie Covington was agmitted to the tiny office in whieh Salie Sydenfism was wont to seek nocrurngl nepeiytife after her day’s work “This is very kind of veu (lariie, old man,” he said in the sbothing amiable voice that to his reporters was pleasant- est music. “You don't faver me very often, I'm sorry to say. Sit down and make’ your miserable life happy.’ “I'm rather upset to-day, Childers said, “and I thought i'd run in and see vou. Tt is a purely personal matter, and [ beg that you will consider it as such. The fact is that I am the miscreant who took Miss Sydenham to that loathsome affair at the music hall last night. I-I can’t tell you how painful it is to me to admit it. But it is the truth. and—and—though 1 might have influenced her, or have tried to influence her, to write in a very diffe: ent strain, T—I'm sorry to say I didn't Jack Childers looked for a moment in amaze at the troubled face of his friend. His instincts told him that the Quixotic Covington_was self-reproachful. - But on his_desk before him was Sallle Syden- ham's “story,” cut out and on view, and as he remembered it he burst out laugh- ng. - 3 . “I'm glad you didn’t try to suppress Sal- lie,”” he said, simmering from his laughter to a smile. *“‘We should have missed a good deal if you had. Her story to-day was quite the happiest thing in the paper. It nas made a hit. I read .t twice, and laughed more heartlly at the second read- ing than at the first. Sallie has such a refreshingly novel way of looking at things."” & Charlie Covington peered at Mr. Childers for a moment without speaking. Then he sald: “I don’t belleve that she reall looks at things in the reckless way t you imagine. She expresscs herself in this sbandoned style because she is encour- aged to do so. But—old man—don't you think it's rather rough on a girl? Isn't it just a trifie low-down to allow any young wom: as a—as a—in this loose and degraded way? Do you think that, as a man, you are justified in countenancing it?" Jack Childers was s , and looked it. If Charlie C anybody else he would have laughed him to Instant subjection. But he had a keen admiration for this slim voung clubmun who had one foot in journalism and-the other in- Utopia. “My dear fellow,” he said, ‘“you are blue to-day. You are out of sorts. Sallie has written a good many articles for us, and they have all been rather low at the neck and short at the skirt. But they are clever and they are brilllant. It {s re- freshing to find a %oman who does not deal with these matfers as my corps of petticoated frumps would do, if they had the chance. You must remember that we pay Miss Syvdenham an unusual salary, and that she justifies it ey unusual work. . “Oh, 1 know, 1 know a!l that,” Mr, Cov- ington retorted impaticnily. “That is not the point. Eallie is a girl—and a_ young girl—thought.ess. extravagzant and fool- ish. She has no idea what she is doin; for herself. She is suwing a terrible seed, and she will surely reap a cruel harvest.” Jack Childers sighed. He hated copy- to flaunt herself before the public, > DB L 1 | is not'in their class, never was, and never wil ut * * '¢’] am not going to love with h “When I do, she will not be asked to e for a living. - Poor Sallle! * * He sighed involuntarily, and was quite as amused as he 1 looked rather sharply at the dejected feat- ures of Charlie Covington, after which his usual charming manner reasserted itself, and he glanced tenderly at this unsullied friend of his. He had always liked Charlie Covington, and now he feit fonder of him than ever, for he saw his scruples and understood, though he failed to appreci- ate, them. © . “Live and let live, Charlie,” he said. “Sallie 1s earning & mans salary a man’s work. “If she is careful, she can quit journalism In a year or two, and marry or not marry, or do whatever she likes. Give the girl a chance, and don't preach her out of her originaiity and en- thusiasm. She isp't our sister, or our mother, or our sweetheart, bul merely a good fellow, 1 always tall ber so. I'm quite fond of her, aud we have rare ald tates. I wish she smoked, Over 3 pige, Sailic and I could bave fing times.” “That is the troublo, . Covington inststed. “jt ts this terridle atmesphere that oppresses her. Sbe lives sueh 4 Lol not She should have wemen friends: Ste should associate occasionally With her own sex.”” “Why don't you tell her so?” eried Mr. Childers. “Surround her with women, if you think it is bett: Personally, I don't ugree with you. Sallle needs congenial spirits, and ‘women are not such * * < for her, at any rate. But try it, old man, and see what it will do. Why don’'t you suggest it to her?” “I have no influence with Miss Syden- ham,” he answered, with a tinge of bitter- ness. “She likes me, but I am merely an escort. Perhaps I do her even, more harm than good. I suppose that people talk about sceing us together all the time. I wisu you would suggest the idea of fem- inine friends to her.” § “‘Not 1," retorted Childers. “It is none of my business, and 1 prefer to keep Sal- lie for myself. | may be selfish, but I shall not interfere. She must do as she - likes, as far as I am concerned. And she -will come to no harm. I think I can prom- ise you that. It is not the outspoken woman who comes .to grief. There is no corrosive influence in a plain expression of frank opinion. It is these terrible pet- ti‘oated frumps with the repressed ideas t .t go more swiftly to perdition. I'd trust Salue further than I would the - Anastasia—husband, try, and inspirational poems notwith- standing. Charlie Covington's depression _was heavy, and he could not shake it off. It clung to him like an Old Man of the Sea and seemed to throttle him. He now feit sorry that he had approached Jack Child- rs on this subject, as his mission had roved to be so signally unsuccessful. fe tried to believe that he had been making mountalns out of molehills, but from his immutable view point he could not bring himself to that belief. He could even see the case from Mr. @hilders’ position, but that fact brought satisfaction to his mind. Tne only thing to do was to sub- ject Miss Sydenkam to some outside in- fluence—something that would oust her thoughts from the eternal routine of newspaperdom. Her avowed antipathy to women might, after all, be part of her pose. He was not clever enough to fatnom the depths of her character. He would do' what he could, for he cou'd not help " feeling_responsible for her welfare. But_he could not discuss_irrelevancies with Jack Childers to-day. With a heavy heart he left the newspaper office, on the stalrs of which he heard two unfledged office hoys indulging in ribald laughter. and evidently analyzing the obliquities of Salie’s article. He heard one lad say: “She's a warm one. ain’t she?” To which the other replied: “A regular scorcher.” And his spirits sank to their lowest ebb. CHAPTER VI Sallie shook the dust of Newspaper Row from her feet, and with the contents of her mail box unopened, and stowed away in her pockets, she proceeded homeward, there to bask in the luxury of “a night - of Theoretically, ‘Sallie reveled in the idea of this solitary, Inactive evening, far had been. Then he slot-machine indus-. from the nocturnal, moping owls and the disgruntied masculinity of Owldom. She buoyed herselt up with the anticipation of this respite. Yet the anticipation was in- variably its most cheering feature. She had discovered that New York is probably the least sociable and the most inquisitive city in the world. The crowd- ing humanity with which Sallie’s house buiged was devoted to ‘“‘nine refined fam- ilies, without children.” These families were heavily, oppressively, dismally, and lugubriously -respeciabie. Perhaps if tne Maithusian idea had been less rigidly sug- gested by the owner of the house, the “nine refined families” might have been tinted by some of the hues of humanity. As it was, their reputable child- lessness ana indetatgable propriety turn- €d the milk of their sympathy into a sort’ of curd of relentiess curiosity. Not one of tne childless matrons in the house had ever called upon the lonely girl, or sougnt to dissipate the titillant suspicions that her demeanor and her unchaperouned celibacy pussibly aroused. Why did she live alone? What respect- able girl ever lived alone? How was it that no women ever came to see her? Was it true that she had been to the theater, “writing pleces for a paper,” when she silently let herself in, aiways after mid- night? In houses like this, where dank respect- ability is a blight upon the uplifting ten- dency of the human soul, and where the proprieties stalk like ghofils in the ceme- lery of sympathies stark and dead, the boon of blithe and recreative Intercourse is impossible. Sallie was left severely alone; but nine women watched her; nine pairs of eyes, from which the cradle gleam had been crushed, knew the exact amount of her grocer's, butcher's, and baker's bilis; nine opaque, ' prosaic minds tried to read the truth of her Bo- hemianism in distorted script; nine pairs of hands were ready to puil her down, if she gave them the opportunity, and nine pairs of feet would have jumped upon her- willingly when down. Yet it was a typical New York apartment house. Sallie did not consciously exact sociability. Had she done so, she could have found it In the so- called slums. It is there that the cultl. vation of exotic selfishness is stupidly neglected. This condition of things appealed most strenuously to Ballle’s gorgeous sense of humor. It tickled her, and she enjoyed It. She had learned of its existence in some mysterious way—possible through Rosina, her colored maid, a most devoted damsel with a_coffee-cream complexion, who easily absorbed outside influences. She was not anxious to know her sister occupants. She felt that they were kitch- en-y creatures—the sort of women who are always flitting around dusting things and arranging furniture. She disiiked the brand very cordially, except for purposes of humor. And now—and now she was home again. The coveted respite had come at last, and with its advent she experienced her usual sense of dissatisfaction and weariness. Newspaper Row certainly took all her pith from her and left but a husk. She never realized how necessary were its moil and excitement to her until she was “home” in solitary glory. Lven now the temptation to plunge into the contents of her mall, before she had partaken of her lonely dinner, was strong upon her. Under such conditions small grievances, like {ll-weeds, grew apace, and involuntary exaggeration achieved pre- posterous results. So Sallie sat down to her uneniivened meal and allowed Rgsina to n‘?pea.l to her appetite. The tijted handmalden was as loquacious he rest of her race, and Sallie was too weary to rejoice in a dignified silence. Rosina’s prattle was restful, and she put no extin- guisher upon it. “The people downstairs,” sald Rosina, as she poured out a glass of cheap claret for Sallie (vintage, the day before yester- day; caves, those of the corner grocery), ‘“‘are always asking about you. At least, their girl is, and I suppose that she has her instructions. They kind o’ think you're in the chorus somewhere. Susan, the girl, asked me for tickets, so that she could see you." Sallie smiled. *Do I look so chorus-y, Rgsina?” she asked. ““Not to me,” declared the maiden, rath- er reluctantly; “but I suppose they no- tice that—er—er—" She hesitated, and would probably have colored if nature had left a place for such visible emotionalism in the dusky tint of her skin. “Notice what?” queried Sallle, sipping her wickedly up-to-date claret. Rosina was silent for a_moment. Then she said slowly: “That you don’t look quite like other people.” “Come, out with it. my girl,” cried Miss Sydenham. beginning to enjoy herseif “Why don't I look like other people? 1 have two eyes, and & nose, I don't D sess a wooden leg. Why am [ unilke other people?” ! Well," said Rosina, rather shamefully, “Susan says that you rouge your face fer- ribly, and that private ladies—she called them private ladiss-—-never do. I'd sooner not have told you, Miss, but perhaps it is best for you to Know what they say. [ told Susan that 1t wes g (le.” pot it isn't, Rosing," retorted Kfiss Sydenham. "It i3 quite trus. Sse,” and with her servistte, slightly molstened, she rubbed her cheak, and hcld op the scarlet stain for Inshacilon. ‘The haydmaiden leolted astonfshed. "Of oourcs, T knew that “vau did - (1,” she spod, “but I thought ft best to tetl san yeu Gido’t, because—er—woll, be- cat Because what?" “Oh, Miss Bydenham.” the girl respond- ed awkwardly, “why are you so strange? You know—I'm sure you know. Pegple think it isn’t respectable.” “Let them think,” Miss Sydenham said, as she slowly dissected her mutton chop. Rosina bustled around rather aimlessly. Her good-natured face was under a cloud. She was Yestless and uneasy, for she was quite devoted to her scatter-brained mis- tress, and very nearly understood her complex character. 2 “I'm older than you are, Miss Sallle,” she said J)resemly, when the rice-pudding stage had approached, “and I's only a col- ored girl. But seems to me—and you'll forgive me for saying it, Miss—that you make a mistake." Sallie sighed. She thought of Charlie Covington, and of Jack Childers, and of a good many other people and things. And she sighed again as she said: “1 make a good many, Rosina.” “Oh, no, Miss. You know your own busi- ness; but—but—wouldn't it be a good thin, for you, Miss Sallie, if you stopped these folks chattering? If they knew you they'd like you. I'm sure if you asked them up to afternoon tea occasionally they'd come, and—er—weil, it would kind of be a good thing for you—all alone as you are. They don’t amount to much, but they’'re better than none at all. It fsn't good for a girl like you always, always to be by yourself. It isn't nat- ural.” Sallie put her elbows on the table and leaped her head upon her hands. ‘She was amUsed and slightly ‘Impressed by poor Rosina’s words. She liked this faithful, humble thing, who had begun by calling her “honey,” and whom she had weaned from an apparently endearing epithet that had made her feel like a_coon song. “I am not quite alone, Rosina,” she said, with forced gayety. ‘‘You're here, aren't you? You can defend me. I don't want ihese people. and I won't have them. You can tell them that I paint, and that I put my feet on the table—it is my table—and that I smeke, and—go to the devil gen- erally.” : “But you don't, Mi jeinder, “and there is no use pretending to do such things. I wish you'd get mar- ried, Sallfe. I do, indeed. Girls hadn’t ought to live llke men, when théy are real—real girls, even If they piay that they’'re not. “Then you positively think thaf, after all, T am a real, real girl, Rosina?" “*Deed’'n I do, honey,” she said, re- Japsing for a moment into dialect,’ and then shaking it off. “You ean't fool this child. You're a real girl, right enonzh. “Give me a light, Rosina.” Miss Syden- ham went on a moment later, after pro- ducing a cigarette. *“Thanks, very much,” puffing forth a cloud of smoke rather rue- fully. “And now”—lfting one small foot after the other and deliberately putting * was the quiet re- Z > St both on the table—"now do you think I'm a real girl?" . The ~colored mald chuckled. In her honest heart she was a bit startled; but Rosina belonged to a race that loves en- tertainment, and her young mistress was as good as a varlety show. She had laughed at less humorous stage incidents In her loud yet melodious way. “Answer me, Rosina,” Miss Sydenham persisted. “Take a good look first. Here 1 am—cigarette deilcately poised between my fingers—all my feet rudely elevated on the mahogany—signs of revelry every- where—'"" She pointed to the cheap claret bottle without a label, and to tne luxuri- ous remains of the muddy rice pudding. “You see how horribly unwomanly it ail is. No crochet, no embroldery, no stock- iugs to “darn—nothing—nothing—nothing. Tell me even now—am I a real woman?" Sallie waited impatiently for the an- swer, as she found elevated feet most un- comfortable (how could Jack Childers in- varfably sit with them perched aloft?) and the cigaretie smoke irritated her bronchial tubes most alarmingly. “‘Even now,” replied Resina, with a grin that seemed to be all wool and a yard wide,-“you're a real girl, and you ought to be a wife and a mother; and you will be, when the right man comes along. And 1 dare lly—l!houldn'( be surprised—if you knew thafiright man now, and—was Just waiting fe im to say ‘Be mine.” ™ Sallie flushed Quickly, and then laughed —rather mirthlessly. She was very nearly amused, but not quite. Rosina jarred upon her nerves somewhat severely. She was rather vexed that sha had countemanced this dialogue. But it was better than soliloquizing. She rather envied Hamlet and other. soliloquizing gentlemen who could ease their souls by saying lovely things to nobody in particular. Such habits must be comforting as the con- fessional. If she had only been born into siage life instead of real life, nothing would have mattered, for on the st: the villain in his cell, and the hero on a desert island, are never silent or lonely. They talk to the stones or the grass,/and are quite happy and chatty. She sent Rosina away and put her feet down. Then she -threw away the ciga- rette, which, she had so often tried, un successfully, to enjoy. Carefully shi placed the cork in the bottle of evil claret, and laughed aloud as she recalled Jack Childers’ eplcurean remarks on the sub- ject of claret. “After a bottle has been upened it is no good except to drink im- mediately,” he had sald. “Even the hole made by a corkscrew spolls claret. It should never be kept. And never buy cheap claret. Water is much healthier and pleasanter.”” And then—she recalied it all quite readily—he had spoken of Pommard, and Beaune, and St. Julien, and St. Este- phe. She wondered what he would think of her pet brand, bought at the grocer's, with a tin of tomatoes and some straw- berry jam? The idea tickled her fancy so that she laughed continuously for at jeast two min- utes. He would think that she was very squalid. Jack Childers was one of those many men who discuss wine as though it were a religion. He had a regular wine creed. He could argue about Pommery as though it were Christian Science. Once he had been seriously offended with her because she had insisted upon putting sugar in her Sauterne. They had dined tegether that night - it was a busy office night—and neither had been able to go up- town. Mr. Childers was most devout on the subject of wine. 2 The table had been cleared, and Rosi- na, with one or two sympathetic glances at her mistress, had retired to the kitchen, Miss Sydenham felt that she was now strong enough to open her mail, and pre- pared herself for its usual revelations. The first letter she opened was from a ‘“gentleman,” who gave his name and address. He had Tead her “racy” articles tor a long time with keen delight. But it was her frank and breezy handling of the duel incident at the music hall that had at last induced him to writs to her. He Would be extremely glad to meet her. He ‘was young and luent, and he added, as a sort of afterthought, in the nauseating language of the creatures who frequent the “personal” column of public organs, that he was “ver, iond of fun.” Sallie tore up the letter in & fury, and the fact that, by her work, she laid her- self open to just such insult was no balm to her indignation. It was iting, and for a moment, a wild idea of answering the letter flitted through her brain. It was several minutes before she was able to smile again, and to place the incident where it _belonged. Letter No. 2 was from an actress whom Sallie had called fat. *“You—you, of all people, should be careful how to criticize personal appearance,” wrote the infuria- ted lady. *“Why, you're more made up than any of us—with your red cheeks and your bleached hair ¢ ¢ ** ‘Wife and Then came a note signed Mother,” begging Sallie to reform befors This kindly correspon- it was too late. dent insisted that Sallle had an immor- tal soul, which she was jeopardizing b; her reckless. ruthless work. “What mfi it profit a wan ve, and a woman,” she wrote, sexing the Biblical quotation com- fortably to fit the situation, *“if she win the whole world and lose her own soul?”* The anonymous letter is popularly supposed to have no sting. Logic is ai- ways played effectively around ft, and this logic says that If a writer be ton cowardly to sign his name to his com- munication, his bark must be worse than his bite. Hut all this is unavalling. The anonymous letter {s {nvariably cruel, Those that came to Sallle Sydeni and they were many, wounded her deeply. The handwritng of the next latter was familiar to her. It was that of her sister, Lettie, in Chicago, and Sallle’ moistened as she opened it. The “‘fam- ily” instinct, repressed and gtarvad gs | was, nevertheless assarted Itself. “My darling old girl,” feel so terribly like an Old T¥: the Sea as 1 write these line=, that I amn quite ashamed of myself. It's 350Ut thoss sng- ing lessons. The one iss550n 3 Wweek has been getting along very niceiy, and 2. Valerie seemed to thrk it encugi. ou remember We told hor that we millionaires. Well, to put it byit€y, the lady now declares tha: two wilt G ab- solutely necessary, and that 1 continue I cannot’ do wilp lesy horrid? I do so hate money, you dear, gor but I know you wou d ow didn’t tell you the w ten dollars a week miie— —and—oh, I loathe m wlf * * & Sallle’s eyes grew even moistsr. She was grateful for this letter fcom ths ous per- son in the world who reaily loved her, for her real If.. Many “eEif-soppariiog” girls would have n_],u Leattin &8 5 serious incubus. To i bility v* one of the e ures of her life. Sne way [ she was able to respaut o, uflou Sallie played her part v too realistically for s never forgot that it gave iter Ua poer 1o aid Lettle. And 80 it came about cmtanie of the next letter, wrich % w ture of Charlle Covingrg, 2=1f e that they. would have Jaizs e strenuous circumstanceieard == This was the letter. “My Dear Sallie: - s “Your article on that v ! ) If you choose to thimk, Fou Jd&o call it selfish- pain, for I have reprazoied Ayeslt bitterly ever since for oy oslminal Ba- havior In allowing youto remeis in_the theater. But, putting exide Qwy own fosi- ings, don’t you see—caD’t you sue—tiat ou are Ininrln‘ yourself, aad thut In the vrbich vour M- surely believe that 1 am 7o have tried to show ydr 1 say that you ‘must more careful. Don't best in a woman for tle a&pl‘nu of those who what happegs to you.. so mort| myself in the bud. Do, 165 try and cum!-u :'he few wom: L Sallle threw the letter ax!dy rastrer con-

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