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Updated: May 15, 2025
Did I pass up Pig-iron and his limousine to come home in a flat-wheeled trolley with my hero, who's already made him sore once? Oh, didn't I though! I guess I'm crazy!" Cecille recoiled a little from that. A prize-fighter. A bruiser. A plug-ugly. But but why, that wasn't possible. And if your idea of such a one is what Cecille's once was, neither will he fill your eye. Just a kid.
"I went because I saw in the paper that Mrs. Schuyler Driggs was going to be among the patronesses to receive." The hysterical giggle was gone from Cecille's voice. She shut tight her teeth and raised her chin. Felicity felt that it was safe now to remain silent. And she was right, partly right. She only failed to realize that Cecille was all too calm.
There was his shyness again, so lamely come upon him that it colored his face. And the halting boyishness of the request had warmed Cecille's face too; warmed her through and through. She knew an impulse to hug his head to her breast, a very mature and motherly impulse. He had told her much of this business; so much that she hardly recoiled from it at all. A welter yes, she understood that.
If I could once get it through my nut what you're waiting for what you expect there's going to be in it for you it wouldn't be so hard. But I can't." "I don't know what you mean." She had caught Cecille's interest now. "Neither do I," she admitted. "Not exactly. That's why I'm talking. That's what I'm trying to get at."
"It is kind of stagy," she pursued it. "Your own?" "Naturally." Cecille's crispness was lost upon her. They could never have quarreled. And Cecille had found a dressing-gown and hugged it tight around her knees. "Oh, not necessarily," Felicity said, abstractedly judicious. "Take me for instance. I tried out four or five before I was inspired with the one I'm wearing now.
For Cecille's working day was over before Felicity's began. But there had been no intimacy of the spirit. And yet each knew the soul of the other as well as though it had been a meal sack which could be turned inside out, exposing every seam to scrutiny. Felicity Brown belonged to the Midnight Roof Club's famous Aero Octet.
"Let's leave my sister out of it," he said at length deliberately. And Cecille's cheeks were still pale from his tone when they arrived back at the apartment. "That was a bad crack you made," Felicity told her then. "I I didn't know." "They don't like to discuss their own womenfolks with girls like us." "Oh!" The exclamation was little more than a whisper. "But no harm done," airily.
Neither felt any inclination to talk. But Cecille's brain had been as uncannily busy as that of one who lies awake throughout a white and sleepless night. And she had believed this bodiless activity to be the process of sound reasoning; she had found some security in the conclusions she had formed. But when they turned back toward the apartment the whole brilliant structure proved treacherous.
It did in Cecille's. If it be so true, so inevitable, so frightful, surely it should be self-evident now and then, instead of a mere matter of report. And beautiful generalization, never anything but vague, becomes noticeable after a time, questionable. The things of glory in this world are not so tediously many that they will not bear once or twice the telling.
Nor did the girl at the mirror see the raw flush which her cool comment brought to Cecille's face, nor would she have understood it had she seen. That one's privacy, one's physical fastidiousness, could be affronted by mere words, would have astounded her. Fastidiousness carried that far fastidiousness of any sort was incomprehensible to Felicity. But she found the topic momentarily of interest.
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