Part 4 (1/2)
One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a seat at Ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink.
Something in her demeanour interested him.
”And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a month or two they discharged me.”
”And why?”
”I suppose I was just used up, that's all.”
”Frightful!”
”I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--I love wine.”
She gulped down her gla.s.s.
”And do you like your present occupation?”
”Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?”
This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was all her own.
On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked, half-reproachfully: ”Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?”
”Didn't you?”
”Do you mean this?”
”Why, yes; she was--very agreeable.”
Ernest frowned.
”We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in sociology. Susie--”
”Susie, was that her name?”
”Yes.”
”So she had a name?”
”Of course.”
”She shouldn't. It should be a number.”
”They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human.”
”Yes,” said Ernest, ”that is the most horrible part of it.”
VIII
The moon was s.h.i.+ning brightly.