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"Burly Blonde Divorcée, Routed Society Burglar," across the first two columns, but the proceeding was rather tamely typed and the Burly Blonde's portrait in evening dress was inconspicuous beside the headlines "Flurry in Federal Express! Wild Scenes on Stock Exchange. Millions made by Gentlemen's Agreement." "Gentlemin!" hissed Cassidy.
"And you mean to tell me," said the gentle voice of the Divorcée at his elbow, "that you calmly face the idea of the hundreds of thousands of men, well and strong to-day dead to-morrow, the thought of the mothers who have borne their sons in pain, and bred them in love, only to fling them before the cannon?" "For what, after all, are we born?" said the Doctor.
We had no doubt who was to contribute the story. The Divorcée was dressed with unusual care for the rôle, and carried a big lace bag on her arm, and, as she leaned back in her chair, she pulled one of the big old fashioned candles in its deep glass toward her, and said with a nervous laugh: "I shall have to ask you to let me read my story. You know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing.
The editor told me, with that nameless look of the cynical scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about Huntington Close I had best watch Mrs. Frances Tulkington, a very wealthy Western divorcee about whom the smart set were much excited, particularly those whose wealth made it difficult to stand the pace of society as it was going at present.
And this was Bob's widow, this dashing divorcée! Dashing she was as I now remembered her, fine in mould, finer in spirit, reckless and rebellious as she well might be. I had seen her submit before a ball-room, but with the contempt that leads captivity captive. Seldom have I admired anything more.
"No story is finished until the heroine is dead," said the Journalist. "This woman, I'll bet she had another romance." "Did she?" asked the Critic of the Divorcée, who was still nervously rolling her manuscript in both hands. "I don't know. How should I? And if I did I shouldn't tell you. It isn't a true story, of course." And she rose from her chair and walked away into the moonlight.
The Divorcée had a trunk or two that she thought she ought to send in order that we might start with as little luggage as possible, so both chauffeurs were sent up to town with baggage, and orders to wait there. The rest of us had been busy doing a little in the way of dismantling the house. The unexpected end of our summer had come.
"A young girl, married, widow, or divorced?" "Married, of course. Girl, widow, or divorcée, you could capture by promise of marriage." "What is her name?" "Eryfile. She is a baker's wife." "A baker's wife!" answered the Radiant, making a grimace, "I don't like that." "I can't help it. It's the kind of people I know best. Eryfile's husband is not at home at present; he went to Megara.
The editor told me, with that nameless look of the cynical scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about Huntington Close I had best watch Mrs. Frances Tulkington, a very wealthy Western divorcée about whom the smart set were much excited, particularly those whose wealth made it difficult to stand the pace of society as it was going at present.
"You are sure she had no disillusion?" asked the Critic. "I am," said the Nurse. "And her name was Josephine?" asked the Divorcée. "It was not, and Utica was not the town," replied the Nurse. "Perhaps her disillusion is ahead of her," said the Journalist. "'Say no man' or woman either 'is happy until the day of his death." "She is dead," said the Nurse.
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