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Updated: June 9, 2025
But I didn't think you had the nerve to ask her. If she says yes, you'll be the luckiest man in New York the whole town's crazy about her." "We'll make her say yes," Lilas added, with drunken decision. "Come, dear, say it." She bent a flushed face toward Lorelei and laid a loose hand upon her arm. "Well? What's your answer?" Bob fixed heavy eyes upon his heart's desire and echoed: "Yes.
Take it from me, on the word of a volunteer fireman, Lilas will cash in on him quicker than you think. I know." "How do you know?" inquired his sister. "Never mind how. Maybe I've got second sight. Anyhow, the info is right; Hammon's in the game-bag." "Who told you?" "Maybe I got it in the dog-eared dope," mocked the brother. "Maybe Max Melcher told me.
More than once lately Jim had been tempted to turn his knowledge of the Hammon "suicide" into cash, but he could think of no safe and certain means of doing so until one day Max Melcher dropped a bit of intelligence that promised to open a way. "Who do you suppose I just heard from?" Max inquired, one raw afternoon in March, when he had found Jim in their usual haunt. "Lilas Lynn."
"But the poor little things are frightened." She looked up to find her companion staring in Hammon's direction with an expression of peculiar, derisive amusement. Hammon was the center of an admiring group; congratulations were being hurled at him from every quarter. At his side was Lilas Lynn, very dark, very striking, very expensively gowned, and elaborately bejeweled.
For me, accustomed to the gay and grotesque life deployed in an evening at the dancing-place of the Parisian students in the Closerie des lilas, it was instructive to compare this with a low English dancing-house, the Holborn Casino, which was merely sad, stiff, and repulsive.
"Come quick quick." "What's wrong?" he demanded, with a sharp change of tone. "Has Bob ?" "No, no. It's Mr. Hammon. He's down-stairs with Lilas, and he's hurt shot. I I'm frightened." She turned to find Bob and Jim staring at her. "Come," she gasped. "I think he's dying." She led the way swiftly, and they followed.
Her dark eyes were somber, her brows were lowered and drawn together. The slipshod informality of the meal, the constant faultfinding of the hostess, made it something of a trial. Lorelei was not sorry when it was over and Lilas took her to look at the vacant flat.
Bob drove away with a parting flourish of his whip. The elevator was in its place, the hall-man was dozing, with heels propped upon the telephone switchboard, when Wharton entered the Elegancia and rang the bell of Lilas Lynn's apartment; but a careless glimpse of the glittering buttons and the rusty hat sent the attendant back into his drowse.
"I'll come for you myself, and we'll whip over to a cafe for supper." "You'll save me from him," said Lorelei, with a wan smile, "and I'll know that you are in good company for one evening at least." "Don't lose any sleep over my habits," he told her, lightly; "and don't worry yourself about this newspaper story, either. Melcher is in the right, for Hammon cut him out with Lilas.
Despite the different phases of the spectacle of Tuesday, at the Closerie de Lilas, you had the feeling of its splendour, its excellence, and, most of all, of its reality, its relationship to every other phase of life, and not of the hypersensitivity of the thing as we still consider it among ourselves in general; and if you heard the name of Paul Fort, or Francis Jammes, it was a definite issue in daily life, equal with the name of the great statesmen in importance, you were being introduced into a sphere of activities of the utmost importance, that poetry was something to be reckoned with.
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