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"Wait till you hear what Miss Silsby's gotta say!" said one dryad, and another added: "Woisse than that is this: you know who that was you flang out at so regardless?" "I don't know, and I don't care," sobbed Kedzie. "You would care if you was wise to who His Nibs was!" "Who was it?" Kedzie gasped. "Jim Dyckman no less! You was right in his arms, and you hadda go an' biff him."
Kedzie was thrilled at his autocratic manner. He scared off the ghost of Magruder. Ferriday pondered aloud the bill of fare as if it were the plot of a new feature film. "Capon en casserole, milk-fed guinea-hen escoffier, plover en cocotte, English golden pheasant, partridge do any of those tiresome things interest you?"
But he could no more have proposed an informal alliance with his precious Kedzie than he could have wished that his mother had made one with his father. His mother and father had eloped and been married by a sleepy preacher, but that was poetic and picturesque, seeing that they did not fail to wake the preacher.
Register devotion, gratitude, adoration now you got it. Turn on your lamps full power, dearie! Wow! Bully! A couple of tears, please. That's the stuff. You'll be the queen of the world. Weep a little more. Real tears. That's it! Now clinch for the fade-out. Cut!" Kedzie tiptoed away.
Kedzie was willing to let it go at that, but Skip pondered: "But, say that ain't goin' to make such a hell of a hit scuse me, lady but I mean if you tell your new landlady about your trunk bein' left on your old one, that ain't goin' to get you nothin' but the door-slam in the snoot.... I tell you: tell her you just come in on the train and your wardrobe-trunk is on the way unless it got delayed in changin' cars at oh, any old place.
But poets, like the rest of us, are the better for getting a grief on paper and out of the system. Kedzie did not answer his letter for a long while and he did not miss her answer much, for he was having his own little triumphs. The advertisements he wrote were receiving honorable mention at the office and he was having success with his poetry and his flirtations of evenings.
Kedzie was not half so afraid as the elder Dyckmans were; for she had her youth and her beauty, and they were only a plain, fat old rich couple whose last remaining son had been stolen from them by a stranger who might take him from them altogether or fling him back at their feet with a ruined heart.
Kedzie tried for a while to lift herself from the common ruck of the aristocracy by outshining the others in charities and in splendors. She soon grew weary of the everlasting appeals for money to send to Europe. She grew weary of writing checks and putting on costumes for bazaars, spectacles, parades, and carnivals. She found herself circumscribed by so much altruism.
Kedzie gasped, getting her hand away. Mrs. Dyckman groped for it and took it back. "Don't be vexed. Or if you must be, pout as you used to. You mustn't grow hard, my child. Your type of beauty doesn't improve with cynicism. You must think sweet thoughts or simply be petulant when you're angry. Don't grow hard! If nothing else will move you let me appeal to your pride.
The dishes she had left he carried away with an elegiac solemnity. The streets were darkened now and the lights bewildered Kedzie. The town grew more solemn. It withdrew into itself. People were going home. Kedzie did not know where to go. She walked for fear of standing still. The noise fatigued her. She turned west to escape it and found a little park at 161st Street.
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