In a sense Gloria’s past was an old story to
him. He had followed it with the eyes of a journalist,
for he was going to write a book about her some day.
But his interests, just at present, were family interests.
He wanted to know, in particular, who was this Joseph
Bloeckman that he had seen her with several times;
and those two girls she was with constantly, “this”
Rachael Jerryl and “this” Miss Kane—surely
Miss Kane wasn’t exactly the sort one would
associate with Gloria!
But the moment had passed. Mrs. Gilbert having
climbed the hill of exposition was about to glide
swiftly down the ski-jump of collapse. Her eyes
were like a blue sky seen through two round, red window-casements.
The flesh about her mouth was trembling.
And at the moment the door opened, admitting into
the room Gloria and the two young ladies lately mentioned.
“Well!”
“How do you do, Mrs. Gilbert!”
Miss Kane and Miss Jerryl are presented to Mr. Richard
Caramel. “This is Dick” (laughter).
“I’ve heard so much about you,”
says Miss Kane between a giggle and a shout.
“How do you do,” says Miss Jerryl shyly.
Richard Caramel tries to move about as if his figure
were better. He is torn between his innate cordiality
and the fact that he considers these girls rather
common—not at all the Farmover type.
Gloria has disappeared into the bedroom.
“Do sit down,” beams Mrs. Gilbert, who
is by now quite herself. “Take off your
things.” Dick is afraid she will make some
remark about the age of his soul, but he forgets his
qualms in completing a conscientious, novelist’s
examination of the two young women.
Muriel Kane had originated in a rising family of East
Orange. She was short rather than small, and
hovered audaciously between plumpness and width.
Her hair was black and elaborately arranged. This,
in conjunction with her handsome, rather bovine eyes,
and her over-red lips, combined to make her resemble
Theda Bara, the prominent motion picture actress.
People told her constantly that she was a “vampire,”
and she believed them. She suspected hopefully
that they were afraid of her, and she did her utmost
under all circumstances to give the impression of danger.
An imaginative man could see the red flag that she
constantly carried, waving it wildly, beseechingly—and,
alas, to little spectacular avail. She was also
tremendously timely: she knew the latest songs,
all the latest songs—when one of them was
played on the phonograph she would rise to her feet
and rock her shoulders back and forth and snap her
fingers, and if there was no music she would accompany
herself by humming.
Her conversation was also timely: “I don’t
care,” she would say, “I should worry
and lose my figure”—and again:
“I can’t make my feet behave when I hear
that tune. Oh, baby!”
