“Miss Gloria’s not feeling well.
She’s lying down, asleep. Who shall I say
called?”
“Nobody!” he shouted.
In a wild panic he slammed down the receiver; collapsed
into his armchair in the cold sweat of breathless
relief.
The first thing he said to her was: “Why,
you’ve bobbed your hair!” and she answered:
“Yes, isn’t it gorgeous?”
It was not fashionable then. It was to be fashionable
in five or six years. At that time it was considered
extremely daring.
“It’s all sunshine outdoors,” he
said gravely. “Don’t you want to take
a walk?”
She put on a light coat and a quaintly piquant Napoleon
hat of Alice Blue, and they walked along the Avenue
and into the Zoo, where they properly admired the
grandeur of the elephant and the collar-height of
the giraffe, but did not visit the monkey house because
Gloria said that monkeys smelt so bad.
Then they returned toward the Plaza, talking about
nothing, but glad for the spring singing in the air
and for the warm balm that lay upon the suddenly golden
city. To their right was the Park, while at the
left a great bulk of granite and marble muttered dully
a millionaire’s chaotic message to whosoever
would listen: something about “I worked
and I saved and I was sharper than all Adam and here
I sit, by golly, by golly!”
All the newest and most beautiful designs in automobiles
were out on Fifth Avenue, and ahead of them the Plaza
loomed up rather unusually white and attractive.
The supple, indolent Gloria walked a short shadow’s
length ahead of him, pouring out lazy casual comments
that floated a moment on the dazzling air before they
reached his ear.
“Oh!” she cried, “I want to go south
to Hot Springs! I want to get out in the air
and just roll around on the new grass and forget there’s
ever been any winter.”
“Don’t you, though!”
“I want to hear a million robins making a frightful
racket. I sort of like birds.”
“All women are birds,” he ventured.
“What kind am I?”—quick and
eager.
“A swallow, I think, and sometimes a bird of
paradise. Most girls are sparrows, of course—see
that row of nurse-maids over there? They’re
sparrows—or are they magpies? And of
course you’ve met canary girls—and
robin girls.”
“And swan girls and parrot girls. All grown
women are hawks, I think, or owls.”
“What am I—a buzzard?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Oh, no, you’re not a bird at all, do
you think? You’re a Russian wolfhound.”
Anthony remembered that they were white and always
looked unnaturally hungry. But then they were
usually photographed with dukes and princesses, so
he was properly flattered.
“Dick’s a fox terrier, a trick fox terrier,”
she continued.
“And Maury’s a cat.” Simultaneously
it occurred to him how like Bloeckman was to a robust
and offensive hog. But he preserved a discreet
silence.
