"I?"
"You did, didn't you?"
"I had a glass of champagne."
"What else?"
"Nothing except something pink in a glass before we sat down to supper And something violet coloured, afterward."
"Your breath is dreadful; do you realise it?"
Catharine seemed surprised, then her eyes wandered vaguely, drowsily, and she laid her gloved hand on Athalie's arm as though to steady herself.
"What sort of man is your new friend, Cecil Reeve?" inquired Athalie.
"He's nice a gentleman. And they were so amusing; we laughed so much I told him he might call He's really all right, Athalie "
"And Mr. Ferris?"
"Well I don't know about him; he's Genevieve's friend; I don't know him so well But of course he's all right a gentleman "
"That's the trouble," said Athalie in a low voice.
"What is the trouble?"
"These friends of yours and of Doris, and of mine they're gentlemen And that is why we find them agreeable, socially But when they desire social amusement they know where to find it."
"Where?"
"Where girls who work for a living are unknown. Where they never are asked, never go, never are expected to go. But that is where such men are asked, where such men are expected; and it is where they go for social diversion not to the Regina with two of Winton's models, nor to the Café Arabesque with an Egyptian Garden chorus girl, nor " she hesitated, flushed, and was silent, staring mentally at the image of C. Bailey, Jr., which her logic and philosophy had inevitably evoked.
"Then, what is a business girl to do?" asked Catharine, vaguely.
Athalie shook her golden head, slowly: "Don't ask me."
Catharine said, still more vaguely: "She must do something pleasant before she's too old and sick to to care what happens."
"I know it Men, of that kind, are pleasant I don't see why we shouldn't go out with them. It's all the chance we have. Or will ever have I've thought it over. I don't see that it helps for us to resent their sisters and mothers and friends. Such women would never permit us to know them. The nearest we can get to them is to know their sons."
"I don't want to know them "
"Yes, you do. Be honest, Catharine. Every girl does. And really I believe if the choice were offered a business girl, she would rather know the mothers and sisters than the sons."
"There's no use thinking about it," said Catharine.
"No, there is no use And so I don't see any harm in being friends with their sons It will hurt at times humiliate us maybe embitter us But it's that or nothing."
"We needn't be silly about their sons."
Athalie opened her dark blue eyes, then laughed confidently: "Oh, as for anything like that! I should hope not. We three ought to know something by this time."
"I should think so," murmured Catharine; and her warm, wine-scented breath fell on Athalie's cheek.
CHAPTER VIII
BEFORE February had ended C. Bailey, Jr., and Athalie Greensleeve had been to more than one play, had dined and supped together more than once at the Regina.
The magnificence of the most fashionable restaurant in town had thrilled and enchanted Athalie. At close range for the first time she had an opportunity to inspect the rich, the fashionable, and the great. As for celebrities, they seemed to be merely a by-product of the gay, animated, beautifully gowned throngs: people she had heard of, people more important still of whom she had never heard, people important only to themselves of whom nobody had ever heard thronged the great rococo rooms. The best hotel orchestra in America played there; the loveliest flowers, the most magnificent jewels, the most celebrated cuisine in the entire Republic all were there for Athalie Greensleeve to wonder at and to enjoy. There were other things for her to wonder at, too, the seemingly exhaustless list of C. Bailey, Jr.'s, acquaintances; for he was always nodding to somebody or returning salutes wherever they were, in the theatre, or the street, in his little limousine car, at restaurants. Men sometimes came up and spoke and were presented to Athalie: women, never.
But although she was very happy after her first evening out with C. Bailey, Jr., she realised that a serious inroad upon her savings was absolutely necessary if she were to continue her maiden's progress with this enchanting young man. Clothing of a very different species than any she had ever permitted herself was now becoming a necessity. She made the inroad. It was worth while if only to see his surprise and his naïve pride in her.
And truly the girl was very lovely in the few luxuries she ventured to acquire so lovely, indeed, that many heads turned and many eyes followed her calm and graceful progress in theatre aisle, amid thronged tables, on the Avenue, anywhere and everywhere she moved along the path of life now already in flowery bloom for her.
And beside her, eager, happy, flattered, walked C. Bailey, Jr., very conscious that he was being envied; very proud of the beautiful young girl with whom he was so constantly identifying himself, and who, very obviously, was doing him honour.
Of his gratified and flattered self-esteem the girl was unconscious; that he was really happy with her, proud of her appearance, kind to her beyond reason and even beyond propriety perhaps, invariably courteous and considerate, she was vividly aware. And it made her intensely happy to know that she gave him pleasure and to accept it from him.
It was pleasure to Clive; but not entirely unmitigated. His father asked him once or twice who the girl was of whom "people" were talking; and when his son said: "She's absolutely all right, father," Bailey, Sr., knew that she was so far.
"But what's the use, Clive?" he asked with a sort of sad humour. "Is it necessary for you, too, to follow the path of the calf?"
"I like her."
"And other men are inclined to, and have no opportunity; is that it, my son? The fascination of monopoly? The chicken with the worm?"
"I like her," repeated Clive, Jr., a trifle annoyed.
"So you have remarked before. Who is she?"
"Do you remember that charming little child in the red hood and cloak down at Greensleeve's tavern when we were duck-shooting?"
"Is that the girl?"
"Yes."
"What is she?"
"Stenographer."
Bailey, Sr., shrugged his shoulders, patiently.
"What's the use, Clive?"
"Use? Well there's no particular use. I'm not in love with her. Did you think I was?"
"I don't think any more. Your mother does that for me Don't make anybody unhappy, my son."
His mother, also, had made very frank representations to him on several occasions, the burden of them being that common people beget common ideas, common associations corrupt good manners, and that "nice" girls would continue to view with disdain and might ultimately ostracise any misguided young man of their own caste who played about with a woman for whose existence nobody who was anybody could account.
"The daughter of a Long Island road-house keeper! Why, Clive! where is your sense of fitness! Men don't do that sort of thing any more!"
"What sort of thing, mother?"
"What you are doing."
"What am I doing?"
"Parading a very conspicuous young woman about town."
"If you saw her in somebody's drawing-room you'd merely think her beautiful and well-bred."
"Clive! Will you please awake from that silly dream?"
"That's the truth, mother. And if she spoke it would merely confirm the impression. You won't believe it but it's true."