Part 17 (1/2)

The pride of Miss St. Clair's heart was that ”front-parlor.” And upon it she had ”slathered” a goodly sum--with a fond generosity that was wholly mistaken, since her purchases utterly ruined the artistic value of whatever the room possessed of good. She had papered its walls in red (one might have said with the idea of matching the background with her hair); but the paper bore a conventional pattern--in the same tone--which was so wrought with circles and letter S's that at a quick glance the wall seemed fairly to be a-crawl. And she had hung the bay-window with cheap lace curtains, flanked at either side by other curtains of a heavy material and a flashy pattern.

The fireplace had suffered no less than the window. On its mantel was the desecrating plaster statuette of a diving-girl--tinted in various pastel shades; this between two vases of paper flowers. And above the fireplace, against the writhing wall paper, hung a chromo ent.i.tled ”The Lorelei”--three maidens divested of apparel as completely as was the diving-girl, but hedged about by a garish gold frame.

However, it was in the matter of furniture that Miss St. Clair had sinned the most. This furniture consisted of one of those perpetrations, one of those crimes against beauty and comfort, that is known as a ”set.” It comprised a ”settee,” a ”rocker,” an armchair, and a chair without arms--all overlaid with a bright green, silky velour that fiercely fought the red wall paper and the landlady's hair.

At this hour of the morning, the room was empty, save for a bird and a rag doll in long dresses. A sash of the bay-window was raised, and the cheap lace curtains were blowing back before a light breeze. Against the curtains, swinging high out of the way of the breeze, was a gilded cage of generous size, holding a green-and-yellow canary.

The other occupant of the room was propped up carefully on the chair without arms. To its right, hanging from the chair back, was a little girl's well-worn coat; to its left, suspended from an elastic, was an equally shabby hat. And the pitiful condition of doll, coat, and hat was sharply accentuated by the background of the chair's verdant nap.

The doll's eyes were shoe b.u.t.tons, of an ox-blood shade. They stared redly at the chirping canary.

The stairs creaked, and a woman came bustling down--a youngish woman with ”rural” written in her over-long, over-full skirt, her bewreathed straw hat, and her three-quarters coat that testified to faithful service. Her face showed glad excitement. She pulled on cotton gloves as she came, and glanced upward over a shoulder.

”Tottie!--Tottie!”

”Hoo-hoo!” Miss St. Clair was in a jovial mood.

”Somebody's at the front door.” The velour rocker held a half-dozen freshly wrapped packages, spoil of an earlier shopping expedition.

Mrs. Colter gathered the packages together.

The bell began to ring more insistently, and with a certain rhythm.

Tottie came down, in a tea-gown that was well past its prime, and that held the same relation to her abundant jewelry that marble fireplace and crystal chandelier sustained to her ornate furniture. ”Don't go for just a minute, Mrs. Colter,” she suggested, rotating her chewing-gum, and adjusting a flowered silk shawl.

There was a boy at the front door, a capped and uniformed urchin with a special delivery letter. ”Miss Clare Crosby live here?” he inquired.

Behind his back, in his other hand, the b.u.t.t of a cigarette sent up a fragrant thread of smoke.

”You bet,”--and Miss St. Clair relieved him of the letter he proffered.

He went down the steps at an alarming gait, and she came slowly into the parlor, studying the letter, feeling it inquiringly.

”I'm goin' to finish my tradin',” informed Mrs. Colter. ”It'll be six months likely before I git down to N'York again.”

”You oughta let Clare know when you're comin',” declared Tottie, holding the letter up to the light.

”Oh, well, I won't start home till she gits in. You know there's trains every hour to Poughkeepsie.” Having gathered her bundles together, Mrs. Colter carried them into the back-parlor.

Left alone, Tottie lost no further time. To pry the letter open and unfold it was the swift work of a thumb and finger made dexterous by long use of the cigarette. ”'_Great news, my darling!_'” she read.

”'_The firm says----_'”

But Mrs. Colter was returning. ”I'll be back from the store in no time,” she announced as she came; ”only want to git a bon-bon spoon and a pickle fork.” Then calling through the double doors, ”Come, Barbara!”

Tottie, having returned the letter to its envelope and resealed it, now set it against the diving-girl on the mantelpiece. ”What you doin'?”

she inquired; ”blowin' the kid's board money?”

”Board money!” cried Mrs. Colter. ”Why, Miss Crosby ain't paid me for two weeks.--Barbara!”

”Yes,” answered a child's voice.

”Well, she's behind with me a whole month,” returned Tottie, ”and you know I let her have a room here just to be accommodatin'. The stage is my perfession, Mrs. Colter. Oh, yes, I've played with most all of the big ones. And as I say, I don't have to take roomers. Why, I rented this house just so's I could entertain my theatrical friends.”