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Updated: May 25, 2025
It was put up to me just as cold. I didn't want to, any more than you do. They aren't my rules; they're theirs! But I had to decide. And it's time you figured it out." Again Cecille touched her lip with the tip of her tongue. "I've been trying to," she faltered. "But I it don't seem to me as though I want as much as you do. I'd be content with oh-so-little.
Instantly the tiny pulse had picked up its throbbing in her throat. Yet she let the contact endure. Defiant, she rode all the way home that way. But the inevitable reaction came. Revulsion might be the more accurate word applied to Cecille. That night she had stripped off one stocking in preparation for bed; she had sat longer than she could have told, broodingly studying her bare knee.
And her tone made Felicity wheel. "Of what?" Felicity demanded, a little blank. Cecille laughed. It was a woeful, croaking attempt at flippancy. "Oh, the old line of stuff!" She had never before employed Felicity's brand of slang. It came unpleasantly from her tongue. "The wages of sin and all that sort of thing."
An unobserving person, still seeking the key to their intimacy, could easily blunder upon the old bromide and repeat that a pretty woman invariably prefers a plain one for a foil. But he would have to be a very blind fool indeed. For Felicity Brown's beauty, perfect enough under the spot of the Midnight Club's miniature stage, became a less flawless thing in contrast with Cecille.
"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.
Believe me, you'll be shown the same respect as if you were out with your maiden aunt. They know I'm refined and won't stand for anything else. And it'll do you good." Cecille did go, once. So far as her escort was concerned she found that Felicity had spoken the truth. He was innocuous. He was, indeed, quite entirely unaware of her presence most of the evening. That did not displease her.
And Felicity was standing before the other girl, every line of her pulsing triumph. "Not him!" Cecille cried. She could not have understood the triumph better had Felicity explained with a torrent of words. "Oh, not him!" with quick, unthinking horror. "He he's only a boy." "Who?" demanded Felicity blankly. "Mr Mr. Blair." Felicity's laugh was staccato. "Him? Good Lord, no. Dunham!"
While the curves of her fine form partook more of Juno's majestic frame than Hebe's pliant youth while the full sweep and outline of her figure denoted maturity and completeness in every part, the charming face, the large, gazelle eyes, the voluptuous ease of her attitude, the gentle languor of her whole bearing, constituted a woman which few susceptible young or even mature men could have looked on without misgivings that they might but too soon learn to long for the glances, the smiles, the witcheries which had made Helene Cecille Stille, in many respects, a counterpart of Helen of Troy.
He gave her her wish so quietly that when she looked again she was surprised not to see him still there. In the lower hall he stopped a moment and stood with his head on one side as a man stands who listens. He made as if to climb the stairs again, and shook his head. Holliday came first, and he'd have to hurry. In the box of a sitting-room above Cecille sat and also listened.
The rest of the time she spent on her knees beside the girl in the chair crooning softly. And she never knew that most of the words she set to her soothing, extemporaneous tune would have contaminated anybody, most of all Mrs. Schuyler Driggs herself. At eleven-thirty, when Cecille was crying comfortably, she rose. And seeing that her work was well done, she became brisk.
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