Part 3 (1/2)

”Dolly! Dolly! Dolly!” Again came the call, unmistakable, music to Dolly's ear. She tip-toed to the door. From within sounded a thres.h.i.+ng noise, as of a whale caught in shallows. ”Yes. What is it?” she called back melodiously, mastering her desire to rush in.

”Come here, Dolly,” said the male voice. ”Come here.”

”I'm coming,” said Dolly, and went in with a slightly bored expression.

”Help me, Dolly,” said the perspiring and be-ruffled gentleman within. ”I can't--can't--get my coat on.”

”Why, Goosie; of course I'll help you.”

But the help, although almost sincere, was powerless. The coat would not go on. The sleeves rose to the elbows smoothly, half way to the shoulders with more effort--but here they stuck, refusing to slide over the top of the shoulders. On each side of the spine, almost cracking the s.h.i.+rt, a protuberance bulged which the coat could not leap.

He stood there puffing, his hair mussed up, his eyes wrathful. ”Well,” he growled at length; ”why don't you go get your scissors.”

”Shall I?” she said doubtfully--and at the same time bounced out like a little rabbit. ”Take off your s.h.i.+rt, Goosie,” she said, returning with the gleaming instruments, now symbolical of her superior common-sense.

She aided him. She took off his collar and tie, unfastened the b.u.t.tons, and then she was tugging at the s.h.i.+rt. It slid down, uncovering the shoulders. There was a dry, crackling sound, as of a fan stretched open--and Dolly sat down on the floor. ”Oh-oh-oh,” she cried, ”Go-oo-oo-ssie-ie!”

He stood there, looking out of the corner of his eye at his reflection in the mirror, red-faced and very much abashed. For with the slipping of the s.h.i.+rt, on his shoulders there had sprung, with the movement of a released jack-in-the-box, two vibrant white things.

Two gleaming, l.u.s.trous, white things that were----

”They're wings,” said Dolly, still on the floor. ”_They are wings_,” she repeated, in the tone of one saying, _He is dead_. ”Now, Goosie, you _have_ done it!”

But a change had come in Charles-Norton. The blush had left his brow, the foolish expression his face; he was pivoting before the mirror like a woman with a new bonnet.

”I _like_ them,” he said.

And then, ”Just look at them, Dolly. Just look at the curve of them.

Isn't it a beautiful curve! And the whiteness of them, Dolly--like a baby's soul. And how downy--soft like you, Dolly. Look at them gleam.

And they move, Dolly, they move! Dolly, oh, look!”

The wings were gently breathing; their slender tips struck his waist at each oscillation. The movement quickened, became a beat, a rapid palpitation. A soft whirring sound filled the room; the newspaper on the bed, dislodged, eddied to the floor; the wings were a mere white blur.

Suddenly Charles-Norton's feet left the floor, and he rose slowly into the air. ”Look, look, Dolly,” he cried, as he went up, hovering above her up-tilted nose and her wide eyes, as she sat there, paralyzed, upon the ground; ”Dolly, look!”

The humming sound took a higher note; a picture crashed down; the room was a small cyclone. ”Dolly, watch me; look!”

And with a sudden leap, Charles-Norton slanted up toward the ceiling and lit, seated, on the edge of the shelf that went along the four walls.

”Look,” he said with triumph, balancing smilingly on his perch.

But immediately his expression changed to one of concern, and he sprang down quickly and quietly. Dolly was now stretched full-length along the carpet; her face was in her arms. He turned it to the light. Her eyes were closed.

Dolly had fainted.

CHAPTER VI

A husband who has a wife that faints is in the grasp of the great It.

Full of fear, pity, remorse, and self-hatred, Charles-Norton danced about helplessly for several minutes, sprinkling water upon Dolly's brow (much of it went down her neck); trying to pour bad whiskey between her pearly teeth; calling himself names; chafing her hands, promising to be good, to do always what she wanted; loosening her garments; proclaiming the fact that he was a brute, she an angel--while the wings, loose down his back, flapped after him in long, mournful gestures. And when finally, from the couch upon which he had drawn her, Dolly opened upon him her blue eyes, humid as twin stars at dawn, he placed her little scissors in her hand, and with head bowed low, in an ecstatic agony of self-renunciation bade her do her duty. The little scissors could not do it this time, though.