JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
 
 ^2-XC^. 
 
 <X&^4 X^/^T
 
 JOAN THUKSDAY
 
 " Oh," she said, " I guess I '11 do, all right, all right ! " 
 
 FRONTISPIECE. See Page 14
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 BY 
 
 LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 OSCAR CESARE 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1913
 
 Copyright, 191S, 
 BY Louis JOSEPH VANCB. 
 
 All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign 
 languages, including the Scandinavian. 
 
 Published, September, 1913. 
 Reprinted, September, 1913. 
 Reprinted, December, 1913. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. 8. A.
 
 TO 
 GRANT RICHARDS 
 
 2228431
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I guess I'll do, all right, all right!" 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 "What's the matter with you, anyway?" he de- 
 manded, hotly Page 123 
 
 "Miss Thursday my fiancee. Joan, this is Mrs. 
 
 Marbridge" " 208 
 
 The door slammed. He was gone " 270
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 SHE stood on the southeast corner of Broadway at 
 Twenty-second Street, waiting for a northbound car with 
 a vacant seat. She had been on her feet all day and was 
 very tired, so tired that the prospect of being obliged to 
 stand all the way uptown seemed quite intolerable. And 
 so, though quick with impatience to get home and " have 
 it over with," she chose to wait. 
 
 Up out of the south, from lower Broadway and the 
 sweatshop purlieus of Union Square, defiled an unending 
 procession of surface cars, without exception dark with 
 massed humanity. Pausing momentarily before the corner 
 where the girl was waiting (as if mockingly submitting 
 themselves to the appraisal of her alert eyes) one after 
 another received the signal of the switchman beyond the 
 northern crossing and ground sluggishly on. Not one but 
 was crowded to the guards, affording the girl no excuse for 
 leaving her position. 
 
 She waited on, her growing impatience as imperceptible 
 as her fatigue : neither of them discernible to those many 
 transient stares which she received with a semblance of 
 blank indifference that was, in reality, not devoid of con- 
 sciousness. Youth will not be overlooked; reinforced by 
 an abounding vitality, such as hers, it becomes imperious. 
 This girl was as pretty as she was poor, and as young. 
 
 Judged by her appearance, she might have been any- 
 where between sixteen and twenty years of age. She was, 
 in fact, something over eighteen, and at heart more nearly 
 a child than this age might be taken to imply more a
 
 2 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 child than any who knew her suspected. She herself sus- 
 pected it least of all. 
 
 She looked what she liked to believe herself, a young 
 woman of considerable experience with life. Simple, and 
 even cheap, her garments still owned a certain dis- 
 tinction which she would without hesitation have termed 
 " stylish " : a quality of smartness which somehow con- 
 trived not incongruously to associate with inferior mate- 
 rials. Her shirtwaist was of opaque linen, pleated, and 
 while not laundry-fresh was still presentable; her skirt 
 fitted her hips snugly, and fell in graceful lines to a point 
 something short of her low tan shoes, showing stockings of 
 a texture at once coarse and sheer ; to her hat, an ordinary 
 straw simply trimmed with a band and chou of ribbon, she 
 had lent some little factitious character by deftly twisting 
 it a trifle out of the prevailing shape. Over one arm she 
 carried a coat of the same material as her skirt, and in 
 her hand a well-worn handbag of imitation leather, rather 
 too large, and decorated with a monogram of two initials 
 in German silver. The initials were J-T : her name was 
 Joan Thursby. 
 
 Uniform with a thousand sisters of the shop-counters, 
 she was yet mysteriously different. Men looked twice in 
 passing; after passing some turned to look again. 
 
 Her face, tinted by the glow of the western sky, was by 
 no means poor in native colour: a shade thin, its regular 
 features held a promise, vague, fugitive, and provoking. 
 Her hair was a brown which hardly escaped being ruddy, 
 and her skin matched it, lacking alike the dusky warmth 
 of the brune and the purity of the blonde. She was neither 
 tall nor short, but seemed misleadingly smaller than she 
 was in fact, thanks to the slightness of a body more 
 stupidly nourished than under-nourished or immature. 
 Her eyes were brown and large, and they were very beau- 
 tiful indeed when divorced from the vacancy of weary 
 thinking. 
 
 It was only in this look of the unthinking toiler that
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 3 
 
 unconsciously she confessed Her immense fatigue. Her 
 features were relaxed into lines and contours of apathy. 
 She seemed neither to think nor even to be capable of 
 much sustained thought. Yet she was thinking, and that 
 very intensely if unconsciously. Her mind was not only 
 active but was one of considerable latent capacity: some- 
 thing which she did not in the least suspect; indeed, it 
 had never occurred to Joan to debate her mental limita- 
 tions. Her thoughts were as a rule more emotional than 
 psychical: as now, when she was intensely preoccupied 
 with pondering how she was to explain at home the loss 
 of her position, and what would be said to her, and how 
 she would feel when all had been said . . . and what she 
 would then do. . . . 
 
 Daylight was slowly fading. Though it was only half- 
 after six of an evening in June, the sun was already in- 
 visible, smudged out by a portentous bank of purplish 
 cloud whose profile was edged with fire-of-gold against a 
 sky of tarnished blue a sky that seemed dimmed with 
 the sweat of day-long heat and toil. The city air was 
 close and moveless, and the cloud-bank was lifting very 
 slowly from behind the Jersey hills; it might be several 
 hours before the promised storm would break and bring 
 relief to a parched and weary people. 
 
 At length despairing of her desire, the girl moved out 
 to the middle of the street and boarded the next open car 
 of the Lexington Avenue line. 
 
 She was able to find standing-room only between two 
 seats toward the rear, where smoking was permitted. She 
 stood just inside the running-board, grasping the back of 
 the forward seat. Her hand rested between the shoulders 
 of two men. She was the only woman in that section. 
 Behind her were ten masculine knees in a row, before 
 her five masculine heads: ten men crowding the two 
 transverse benches, some smoking, all stolidly absorbed in 
 newspapers and indifferent to the intrusion of a woman. 
 None dreamed of offering the girl a seat ; nor did she find
 
 4 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 this anything remarkable, in whom use had bred the habit 
 of accepting without question such everyday phenomena. 
 If she was weary, so were the men ; if she desired the con- 
 sideration due her sex, then must she enfranchise herself 
 from the sexless struggle for a living wage. . . . 
 
 The car, swerving into Twenty-third Street, plunged on 
 to and turned north on Lexington Avenue. Thereafter its 
 progress consisted of a series of frantic leaps from street- 
 corner to street-corner. When it was in motion, there was 
 a grateful rush of air ; when at pause, the heat was stifling 
 and the fumes of cigarettes, pipes, and cheap cigars blended 
 to manufacture a mephitic reek. A slight sweat dewed the 
 face of the girl, and her colour faded to pallor. Her feet 
 and legs were aching, her back ached with much lifting 
 of boxes to and from shelves, her head ached chiefly 
 because of the inevitable malnutrition of a shop-girl's 
 lunch. 
 
 From time to time more passengers were taken on; a 
 lesser number alighted : Joan found herself obliged to edge 
 farther in between the rank of knees and the rigid back 
 of the forward seat. By the time the car crossed Forty- 
 second Street, she was at the inside guard-rail: ten per- 
 sons, half of them standing, were occupying a space meant 
 for five. 
 
 It was then, or only a trifle later, that she became 
 conscious of the knee which the man behind her was 
 purposely pressing against her. Then for a minute or 
 two she was let alone. But she was sick with apprehen- 
 sion. . . . 
 
 She stood it as long as she could. Then abruptly she 
 twisted round and faced her persecutor. 
 
 Before her eyes, half blinded by rage and disgust, his 
 face swam like the mask of an incubus a blur of red 
 flesh fixed in an insolent smirk. 
 
 She was dimly aware of curious glances lifting to the 
 sound of her tremulous voice: 
 
 " Must I leave this car ? Or will you let me alone ? "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 5 
 
 There was the pause of an instant; then she had her 
 answer in a tone of truculent contempt: 
 
 " Ah, wha's the matter with you, anyhow ? " 
 
 She choked, stammering, and looked round in despair. 
 But the man at her elbow was grinning with open amuse- 
 ment, and another, seated beside her tormentor, was pre- 
 tending to notice nothing, his nose buried in a news- 
 paper. 
 
 " If y'u don't like the goin', sister, why doncha get off 
 V walk ? " 
 
 This from him who had compelled that frantic protest. 
 
 With a lurch, the car stopped ; and as it did so the girl 
 turned impulsively, grasped the guard-rail, swung her lithe 
 body between it and the floor of the car, and dropped 
 to the cobbles between the tracks. She staggered a foot 
 or two away, followed by an indistinguishable taunt 
 amid derisive laughter. Fortunately there was no car bear- 
 ing down on the southbound track to endanger her; while 
 that which she had left flung away as, recovering, she ran 
 to the sidewalk. 
 
 She began to trudge northward. The first street lamp 
 she encountered told her she had alighted at Forty-seventh 
 Street, and had another mile and a half to walk. But 
 with all her weariness, she no longer thought of riding; 
 it was impossible . . . she could never escape annoyance 
 . . . men just would n't let her alone . . . 
 
 Men! . . . 
 
 Shuddering imperceptibly, her eyes hot with tears of 
 shame and indignation, she walked rapidly, anxious to 
 gain the refuge of her home, to be secure, for a time at 
 least, from Man. . . . 
 
 They called themselves Men! She despised them all 
 all! Beasts! . . . What had she ever done? ... It 
 was n't as if this was the first time : they were always 
 plaguing her: hardly a day passed . . . Well, anyway, 
 never a week. ... It was n't her fault if she was pretty : 
 she never even so much as looked at them : but they kept
 
 6 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 on staring . . . nudging . . . She didn't believe there 
 was a decent fellow living . . . except, of course, That 
 One ... 
 
 He was different ; at least, he had been, somehow : like 
 a perfect gentleman. He had come between her and a 
 gang of tormentors, had knocked one down and thrown the 
 rest into confusion with a lively play of fists, and then, 
 whisking Joan into a convenient taxicab, had taken her 
 to the corner nearest her home never so much as asking 
 her name, or if he might call. . . . She had expected him 
 to like in a book; but he didn't, nor had he (likewise 
 contrary to her expectations) at any time thereafter been 
 known to haunt her neighbourhood. To her the affair was 
 like a dream of chivalry: she remembered him as very 
 handsome (probably far more handsome than he really 
 was) and different, with grand clothes and manners (the 
 man had helped her out of the cab and lifted his hat in 
 parting) : all in all, vastly unlike any of the fellows whose 
 rude attentions she somewhat loftily permitted in the 
 streets after supper or at the home of some other girl. 
 
 That One remained her dream-lord of romance. And 
 in her heart of hearts she was sure that some day their 
 paths would cross again. But it had all happened so long 
 ago that she had grown a little faint with waiting. 
 
 So, smothering her indignation with roseate fancies, she 
 plodded her weary way to Seventy-sixth Street; where, 
 turning eastward, she presently ascended a squat brown- 
 stone stoop, entered the dingy vestibule of a dingier 
 tenement, pressed the button below a mail-box labelled 
 " Thursby," waited till the latch clicked its spasmodic wel- 
 come, and then began her weary climb to the topmost floor.
 
 n 
 
 THE five flights of steps were long and steep and cov- 
 ered with a compound of fabric, grease, and dirt which, 
 today resembling a thin layer of decayed rubber, had once 
 been bright linoleum. There was no light other than a 
 dejected dusk filtering down the wall from a grimy sky- 
 light in the roof, a twilight lacking little of the gloom 
 of night. 
 
 On each landing five doors opened three toward the 
 back, two toward the front of the building: most of them 
 ajar, for purposes of ventilation and publicity. It was 
 a question which was the louder, the clatter of tongues 
 or the conflict of odours from things cooking and things 
 that would doubtless have been the better for purification 
 by fire. 
 
 At the top conditions were a little more endurable: 
 and when Joan had shut behind her the door giving ac- 
 cess to her home, the clatter and squalling came from below, 
 a familiar and not unpleasant blend of dissonances. And 
 within the smells were individual: chiefly of boiled cab- 
 bage and fried pork, with a feebly contending flavour of 
 cheap tobacco-smoke. 
 
 She was in the dining-room of the Thursby flat. Be- 
 hind it lay the kitchen; forward, three small cubicles 
 successively denominated on the architect's plans as " bed- 
 chamber," " alcove," and " parlour." They were all, how- 
 ever, sleeping-rooms. The nearest was occupied by Joan's 
 brother ; the next, the alcove, contained a double-bed dedi- 
 cated to Joan and her young sister; while the parlour 
 held a curiosity called a folding-bed, which had long since
 
 8 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 ceased to fold, and on which slept Anthony Thursby and 
 his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Thursby was now in the kitchen, preparing din- 
 ner with the assistance of her fifteen-year-old daughter, 
 Edna. " Butch," the son of the house, was not at home. 
 
 Anthony Thursby sat at the dining-table, head bent 
 over a ragged note-book and a well-thumbed collection of 
 white and pink newspaper clippings. 
 
 It was the sight of him that checked Joan in her ex- 
 plicit intention. She had meant to enter dramatically to 
 her mother, blurt out the news, with the cause, of her 
 misfortune, and abandon herself to the luxury of self-pity 
 soothed by sympathy. But she had also meant to have it 
 understood that nobody was to tell " the Old Man " at 
 least not until she should have established herself in a new 
 job. In short, she had not thought to find Thursby at 
 home. 
 
 Hesitating beside the table, she removed the long pins 
 from her hat while she stared with narrowed eyes at her 
 father. She was wondering whether she had n't better 
 confess and have it out with him first as last. The only 
 thing, indeed, that made her pause was the knowledge that 
 there would be no living with him until she was once more 
 " earning good money " behind a counter. And she was 
 firmly determined not again to seek employment in a de- 
 partment store. 
 
 Eegarding fixedly the round but unpolished bald head 
 with its neglected fringe of grey hair, she asked herself 
 if the bitterness in her heart for her father were in truth 
 hatred or mere premonitory resentment of the opposition 
 he would unquestionably set against her plans for the 
 future. . . . 
 
 He was a man of nearly fifty, who looked more, in spite 
 of a tendency to genial corpulence. At thirty he had been 
 a fair and handsome man ; today his round red face was 
 mottled, disfigured by a ragged grey moustache, discoloured 
 by several days' growth of scrubby beard, and lined and
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 9 
 
 seamed with the imprint of that consuming passion whose 
 sign was also set in his grey, passionate, haunted eyes. 
 Shabbily dressed in a soiled madras shirt and shoddy 
 trousers, he wore neither tie nor collar : his unkempt chin 
 hung in folds upon his chest. Fat and grimy forearms 
 protruded from his rolled-up sleeves; fat and mottled 
 hands trembled slightly but perceptibly as they rustled the 
 pink and white clippings and with a stubby pencil scrawled 
 mysterious hieroglyphics in the battered note-book. 
 
 Thursby was intent upon what he, and indeed all his 
 family, knew as his " dope " : checking and re-checking 
 selections for to-morrow's races. This pursuit, with its 
 concomitants, its attendant tides of hope and disappoint- 
 ment, was his infatuation, at once the solace and the 
 terror of his declining years. 
 
 Now and again he muttered unintelligibly. 
 
 There rose a sound of voices in the kitchen. Annoyed 
 by the interruption, he started, looked up, and discovered 
 Joan. 
 
 She offered to his irritated gaze a face of calm, with 
 unsmiling features. 
 
 " Hello ! " he growled. " How the h how long 've 
 you been in ? " 
 
 " Only a few minutes, pa," the girl returned quietly. 
 
 " Well what 're you standing there staring ! for, 
 anyhow ? " 
 
 " I did n't mean anything : I was just taking off my 
 hat." 
 
 " Well " his face was now purple with senseless anger 
 " cut along ! Don't bother me. I 'm busy." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 There was a damnable superciliousness in the tone of 
 the girl as she turned away. Thursby meditated an ex- 
 plosion, but refrained at discretion : Joan had taught him 
 that, unlike her browbeaten mother and timid sister and 
 her sleek, loaferish brother, she could give as good as he 
 could send. He bent again, grumbling, over his dope.
 
 10 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Instantly it gripped him, obliterating all else in his cos- 
 mos. He frowned, moistened the pencil at his mouth, and 
 scrawled another note in the greasy little book. 
 
 Joan slipped quietly away to her bedroom. She found 
 it stifling ; ventilated solely from the parlour and the open 
 door to Butch' s kennel, it reeked with the smell of human 
 flesh and cheap perfume. She noted resentfully the fact 
 that her sister had neglected to make up the bed: its 
 rumpled sheets and pillows, still retaining the impres- 
 sion of overnight, lent the cubicle the final effect of sordid 
 poverty. 
 
 Hanging up her hat and coat, she sat for a time on the 
 edge of the bed, thinking profoundly. 
 
 Such an existence, she felt, passed human endurance. 
 And a gate of escape stood ajar to her, with a mundane 
 paradise beyond, if only she had the courage to adven- 
 ture. . . . 
 
 In any event, conditions as they were now with the 
 Thursbys could not obtain much longer. If the Old Man 
 continued to follow the races through the poolrooms, he 
 would soon be forced out of his small business and his 
 family dispossessed of their mean lodgings; and there 
 was no longer any excuse for hope that he would ever 
 shake off the bondage of his infatuation. As it was, he 
 gave little enough toward the support of his family, and 
 grudged that little; almost all his meagre profits went to 
 the poolrooms ; it was only when he won (or seldom other- 
 wise) that he would spare his wife a few dollars. Further- 
 more, his business was heavily involved in an intricate 
 meshing of debt. 
 
 Thursby, at least, persisted in calling it a business; 
 though Joan's lips shaped scornfully at mention of that 
 mean and insignificant newspaper shop, crowded in be- 
 tween a saloon and a delicatessen shop, in the shadow of 
 the Third Avenue Elevated Kailway. In her understand- 
 ing it was chiefly remarkable as the one place where one 
 could be certain of not finding Thursby during the after-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 11 
 
 noon or Butch at night. They were seldom there together: 
 it was as if father and son could not breathe the same 
 atmosphere for long at a time. 
 
 Nominally, Butch was his father's assistant; actually, 
 he alone kept the business alive ; had it not been for his 
 supervision of the morning and evening paper deliveries, 
 it would long since have wasted inconspicuously away. By 
 way of compensation, Butch, shrewdly alive to signs of a 
 winning day, would now and again wheedle a dollar or two 
 out of the Old Man. Wages he neither received nor ex- 
 pected, being well content with a nominal employment 
 which served to cover many an hour of unlicensed liberty ; 
 and he seemed to have access to some mysterious if occa- 
 sionally scanty fund, for he was never without some little 
 money in pocket. After dinner, if Butch elected to eat 
 the evening meal at home, he invariably disappeared; 
 and his return was a matter of his personal convenience. 
 He had been known not to sleep at home at all ; his favour- 
 ite bedtime was between one and two in the morning 
 after the saloons had closed. Yet no one had ever seen 
 him drunk. 
 
 He was younger than Joan by a year. Born to the name 
 of Edgar, he had been dubbed Butch in the public schools, 
 and the name had stuck ; even his mother and father em- 
 ployed it. And yet it could not be said to suit him ; rather, 
 the boy suggested a jocky. He was short, slender, and 
 wiry ; with a strong, emaciated nose flanked by small eyes 
 sunk deep in sallow cheeks his mouth set in a perpetu- 
 ally sardonic curve. He dressed neatly, whatever the 
 straits and necessities of the family (to the mitigation of 
 which he contributed nothing whatever) and had a failing 
 for narrow red neckties and flashy waistcoats. His hard, 
 thin lips were generally tight upon a cigarette ; they were 
 forever tight upon his personal affairs : if he opened them 
 at home it was to " kid " the girls, which he did with a 
 slangy, mordant wit, or to drop some casually affectionate 
 word to his mother. His conversation with his father,
 
 12 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 whom he seemed always to be watching with a narrow, 
 grim suspicion, was ordinarily confined to monosyllables 
 of affirmation or negation. 
 
 He went his secret ways, self-sufficient, wary, reserved ; 
 a perpetual subject of covert speculation to the women of 
 his family. 
 
 Joan had heard it whispered that he was a member of 
 the " Car-barn Gang." But she never dared question 
 Butch, though she trembled every time she came upon 
 newspaper headlines advertising some fresh hooliganism 
 on the part of the gang a policeman " beaten up," a 
 sober citizen " held up and frisked " in the small hours, 
 or a member of some rival organization found stabbed and 
 weltering on the sawdust floor of a grisly dive. 
 
 Between this girl and her brother there existed a strange 
 harmony of understanding, quite tacit and almost unrec- 
 ognized by either. Joan's nearest approach to acknowl- 
 edgment of it resided in infrequent admissions to friends 
 that she could " get on with Butch," whereas " the rest 
 of the bunch made her weary." 
 
 Almost all the vigour and vitality of the mother seemed 
 to have been surrendered to Butch and Joan; there had 
 been little left for Edna. The girl was frail, anaemic, flat- 
 chested, pretty in an appealing way: fit only for one of 
 two things, tuberculosis or reconstruction in the country. 
 As it was, in the busy seasons she found underpaid em- 
 ployment in the workrooms of Sixth Avenue dressmaking 
 establishments; between whiles she drudged at house- 
 work to the limits of her small strength. 
 
 As for Mrs. Thursby ... It was singularly difficult 
 for Joan to realize her mother. There was about the 
 woman something formless and intangible. She seemed 
 to fail to make a definite impression even upon the retina 
 of the physical eye. She had the faculty of effacing her- 
 self, seemed more a woman that had been than a woman 
 who was. The four boundary walls of the flat compre- 
 hended her existence ; she seldom left the house ; she never
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 13 
 
 changed her dress save for bed. It might have been thought 
 that she would thus dominate her world : to the contrary, 
 she haunted it, more a wraith than a body, a creature of 
 functions rather than of faculties. She had a way of 
 being in a room without attracting a glance, of passing 
 through and from it without leaving an impression of her 
 transit. 
 
 When Joan made herself look directly at her mother, 
 she was able to detect traces of ravaged beauty. A living 
 shell in which its tenant lay dormant, her subjective will 
 to live alone kept this woman going her sempiternal rounds 
 of monotony. Capacity for affection she apparently had 
 none; she regarded her children with as little interest as 
 her husband. Nor had she the power to excite or sustain 
 affection. 
 
 Joan believed she loved her mother. She did not : she 
 accepted her as a convention in which affection inhered 
 through tradition alone. . . . 
 
 Seated on the edge of the bed, her face flushed with the 
 heat of the smouldering evening, sombre eyes staring 
 steadfastly at the threadbare carpet, the girl shook her 
 head silently, in dreary wonder. 
 
 She stood at crossroads. She could, of course, go on as 
 she had gone bartering youth and strength for a few 
 dollars a week. But every fibre of her being, every instinct 
 of her forlorn soul, was in vital mutiny against such 
 servitude. In fact, doubt no longer existed in Joan's mind 
 as to which way she would turn: dread of the inev- 
 itable rupture alone deterred her from the first steps. 
 
 From the rear of the flat Edna called her fretfully: 
 " Joan ! Jo-an ! Ain't you coming to eat ? " 
 
 Joan rose. She answered affirmatively in a strong voice. 
 Her mind was now made up: she would tell them after 
 supper after the Old Man had gone back to the shop. 
 
 She posed before a mirror, touching her hair with deft 
 fingers while she stared curiously at the face falsified in 
 the depths of the uneven sheet of glass.
 
 14 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Then placing her hands on her hips, at the belt-line, 
 thumbs to the back, she lifted her shoulders, at one and 
 the same time smoothing out the wrinkles in her waist and 
 settling her belt into place. 
 
 " Oh," she said, as casually as if there had been any 
 one to hear, " I guess I '11 do, all right, all right ! "
 
 m 
 
 WITH a careless nod to her mother and sister, Joan 
 slipped into her chair and helped herself mechanically but 
 liberally to the remains of pork and cabbage. Her mother 
 tilted a granite-ware pot over a cup and filled the latter 
 with the decoction which, in the Thursby menu, masquer- 
 aded as coffee. 
 
 Joan acknowledged the service with an outspoken 
 " Thanks." 
 
 At this Edna plucked up courage to say, with some 
 animation : " Joan " 
 
 The mother interrupted with a sibilant warning, 
 "Hv&t" 
 
 Thursby lifted his head and raked the three faces with 
 an angry glance. " In God's name ! " he cried " can't 
 you women hold your tongues ? " 
 
 The girls made their resentment variously visible : Joan 
 with a scowl and a toss of her head, Edna with a timid 
 pout. The mother's face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. 
 Thereafter, as far as they were concerned, the meal pro- 
 gressed in silence. 
 
 Thursby bent low over his plate, in the intervals devoted 
 to mastication intently studying the file of dope at his 
 elbow. Now and again he would drop knife and fork to 
 take up his pencil and check the name of a horse or jot 
 additional memoranda in his note-book. Infrequently he 
 spoke or, rather, grunted, to indicate a desire for some 
 dish beyond his reach. Curiously enough (Joan remarked 
 for the thousandth time) he was punctilious to say 
 " please " and " thank you." The idiosyncrasy was all a 
 piece (she thought) with the ease with which he employed
 
 16 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 knife, fork, and spoon: a careless grace which the girl 
 considered " elegant " and did him the honour to imitate. 
 
 Furtively throughout the meal she studied her father. 
 These little peculiarities of his, these refinements which 
 sat so strangely on his gross, neglected person and were so 
 exotic to his circumstances, exerted a compelling fascina- 
 tion upon the nimble curiosity of the girl. She both feared 
 and despised him, but none the less cherished a sneaking 
 admiration for the man. Beyond the fact that their es- 
 tate had not always been so sorry, she knew nothing of the 
 history of her parents ; but she liked to think of her father, 
 that he had once been, in some unknown way, superior: 
 that he was a man ruined by a marriage beneath his station. 
 To think this flattered her own secret dreams of rising out 
 of her environment : girls, she had heard, took after their 
 fathers and vice-versa: perhaps she had inherited some 
 of Anthony Thursby's keener intelligence, adaptability, 
 and sensitiveness those qualities with which she chose 
 to endow the man who had been Thursby before he became 
 her father. Other circumstances lent colour to this theory : 
 Butch, for instance, had unquestionably inherited his 
 mother's physique and her reticence, while Joan had 
 her father's vigorous constitution and a body like his for 
 sturdiness and good proportion. . . . 
 
 Suddenly thrusting back his chair, Thursby rose, but- 
 toned a soiled collar round his neck, shrugged a shabby 
 coat upon his shoulders and, pocketing his dope, departed 
 with neither word nor glance for his womenfolk. 
 
 His heavy footsteps were pounding the second flight of 
 steps before a voice broke the hush in the stuffy little 
 room, a voice faint and toneless, dim and passionless. It 
 was Mrs. Thursby's. 
 
 " He 's had a bad day, I guess . . ." 
 
 Edna placed a tender hand over the scalded, listless one 
 that rested on the oilcloth. Joan, abandoning her deter- 
 mination to air her personal grievances at the first avail- 
 able instant, said suddenly:
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 17 
 
 " Never mind, ma. It ain't like he was a drinking 
 man." 
 
 The vacant eyes in the faded face of the mother were 
 fathoming distances remote from the four walls of the 
 slatternly room. Her thin and colourless lips trembled 
 slightly ; little more than a whisper escaped them : 
 
 " Sometimes I wish he was wish he had been. It 'd 
 've been easier to stand all this." A faltering gesture 
 indicated vaguely the misery of their environment. 
 
 Edna continued to pet the unresponsive hand. 
 
 " Don't, mother ! " she pleaded. 
 
 The woman stirred, withdrew her hand, and slowly 
 got up. 
 
 " Come on, Edna. Le's get done with them dishes." 
 
 With eyes hard and calculating, Joan watched the two 
 drift into the kitchen. Their wretched state touched her 
 less than the fact that she must continue forever to share 
 it, or else try to better it in open defiance of her father's 
 prejudices. 
 
 " Something 's got to be done for this family," she 
 grumbled " and I don't see anybody even thinking of 
 doing anything but me ! " 
 
 She rose and strode angrily back to the cubicle she 
 shared with Edna. In a fit of unreasoning rage, snatching 
 her hat from its hook, she impaled it upon her hair with 
 hatpins that stabbed viciously. It had grown too dark to 
 see more than a vague white shape moving on the surface 
 of the mirror. But she did not stop to light the gas to 
 make sure she was armoured against the public eye. In 
 another moment, bag in hand, coat over her arm, she was 
 letting herself out into the hallway. 
 
 Time enough tomorrow morning to fret her mother and 
 sister with news of her misfortune: tonight she was 
 in the humour to make a bold move toward freedom. . . . 
 
 But on the door-stoop she checked, a trifle dashed by 
 apprehension of the impending storm, which she had quite 
 forgotten. She drew back into the vestibule: she could
 
 18 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 hardly afford to subject her only decent waist and skirt to 
 danger of a drenching. 
 
 An atmosphere if anything more dense than that of the 
 day blanketed heavily the city. Even the gutter-children 
 seemed to feel its influence, and instead of making the 
 evening hideous with screams and rioting, moved with an 
 uncommon lethargy, or stood or squatted apart in little 
 groups, their voices hushed and querulous. The roar of 
 the trains on the nearby Elevated seemed muted, the 
 clangour of the Third Avenue surface cars blunted, and 
 Joan fancied that the street lamps burned with an added 
 lustre. Wayfarers moved slowly if near home, otherwise 
 briskly, with a spirit as unwilling as unwonted: one and 
 all with frequent glances skyward. 
 
 Overhead, a low-hung bosom of dusky vapour borrowed 
 a dull blush from the fires of life that blazed beneath. 
 In the west, beyond the silhouetted structure of the Ele- 
 vated and the less distinct profile of buildings on the far 
 side of Central Park, the clouds blazed luridly with their 
 own dread fires a fitful, sheeted play athwart gigantic 
 curtains, to an accompaniment of dull and intermittent 
 grumbles. 
 
 A soft, warm breath sighed down the breathless street, 
 and sighing, died. Another, more cool and brusque, swept 
 sharp upon the heels of the first, played with the littered 
 rubbish of the pavements, caressed with a grateful touch 
 flesh still stinging with the heat of day, and drove on, 
 preceded by a cloud of acrid dust. A few drops of luke- 
 warm water maculated the sidewalks with spots as big as 
 dollars. There followed a sharper play of fire, and one 
 more near. Children ran shrieking to shelter, and men 
 and women dodged into convenient doorways or scudded 
 off clumsily. The wind freshened, grew more chill. . . . 
 Then, so suddenly that there might as well have been no 
 warning, on the wings of the howling blast, laced continu- 
 ally with empyrean fire, timed by the rolling detona- 
 tions of heavy artillery now near, now far, a shining
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 19 
 
 deluge sluiced the streets and made its gutters brawling 
 rivulets. 
 
 A lonely, huddled figure, standing back in the entry, well 
 out of the spray from the spattering drops, Joan waited 
 the passing of the storm with neither fascination nor fear. 
 Self-absorbed, her mood almost altogether introspective, 
 she weighed her reckless plans. The crisis bellowed over- 
 head in a series of tremendous, shattering explosions, bath- 
 ing the empty street in wave after wave of blinding violet 
 light, without seriously disturbing the slow, steady pro- 
 cesses of the girl's mentality. 
 
 Then she became aware of a young man who had emerged 
 from the darksome backwards of the tenement, so quietly 
 that Joan had no notion how long he might have been 
 standing there, regarding her with interest and amusement 
 in his grey eyes and on his broad, good-humoured counte- 
 nance. He had a long, strong body poised solidly on sturdy 
 legs, short arms with large and efficient hands; and bore 
 himself with a careless confidence that did much to dis- 
 semble the negligence of his mode of dress the ill-fitting 
 coat and trousers, the common striped " outing shirt," the 
 rusty derby set aslant on his round, close-cropped head. 
 Joan knew him as Ben Austin, one of the few admirers 
 whose attentions she was wont to suffer: by occupation a 
 stage-hand at the Hippodrome; a steady young man, 
 who lived with his mother in one of the rear flats. 
 
 He greeted her with a broadening grin and a " Hello, 
 Joan!" 
 
 She said with indifference : " Hello, Ben." 
 
 " Waitin' for the rain to let up ? " 
 
 " No, foolish ; I 'm posing for a statue of Patience by 
 a sculptor who 's going to be born to-morrow." 
 
 This answer was brilliantly in accord with the humour 
 of the day. Austin chuckled appreciatively. 
 
 " I thought maybe you was waitin' for Jeems to bring 
 around your limousine, Miss Thursby." 
 
 " I was, but he won't be here till day before yesterday."
 
 20 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 The strain of such repartee proved too much for Austin ; 
 he felt himself outclassed and, shuffling to cover his dis- 
 comfiture, sought another subject. 
 
 " Whacha doing tonight, Joan ? Anythin' special ? " 
 
 " I 've got an engagement to pass remarks on the weather 
 with the Dook de Bonehead," the girl returned with as- 
 perity. " He ain't late, either." 
 
 " I guess that was one off the griddle, all right," said 
 Austin pensively. " Excuse me for livin'." 
 
 There fell a pause, Joan contemptuously staring away 
 through the glimmering raindrops, Austin desperately cast- 
 ing about for a conversational opening less calculated than 
 its predecessors to educe rebuffs. 
 
 "Say, Joan, lis'en : 
 
 " Move on/' the girl interrupted : " you 're blocking the 
 traffic." 
 
 " Nah serious' : howja like to go to a show to- 
 night ? " 
 
 She turned incredulous eyes to him. " What show ? " 
 she drawled. 
 
 " I gotta pass for Ziegfield's Follies N'Yawk Eoof. 
 Wanta go ? " 
 
 " Quit your kidding," she replied after a brief pause 
 devoted to analysis of his sincerity. " Y' know you 've got 
 to work." 
 
 " Nothin' like that ! " he insisted. " The Hip closed 
 last Sat'dy and I got a coupla weeks lay-off while they 're 
 gettin' ready to rehearse the new show. On the level, now : 
 will you go with me ? " 
 
 " Will I ! " The girl drew a long, ecstatic breath. Then 
 her face darkened as she glanced again at the street: 
 "But we'll get all wet!" 
 
 " No, we won't : I '11 get an umbrella. Besides, it 's 
 lettin' up." 
 
 With this Austin vanished, to return in a few minutes 
 with a fairly presentable umbrella. The shower was, in 
 fact, fast passing on over Long Island, leaving in its wake
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 21 
 
 a slackening drizzle amid deep-throated growls at con- 
 stantly lengthening intervals. 
 
 Half-clothed children were seeping in swelling streams 
 from the tenements as the two Austin holding the um- 
 brella, Joan with a hand on her escort's arm, her skirts 
 gathered high about her trim ankles splashed through 
 lukewarm puddles toward Third Avenue. A faint and 
 odorous vapour steamed up from wet and darkly lustrous 
 asphalt. 
 
 They hurried on in silence: Austin dumbly content 
 with his conquest of the aloof tolerance which the girl 
 had theretofore shown him, and planning bolder and more 
 masterful steps; Joan all ecstatic with the prospect of 
 seeing for the first time a " Broadway show." . . . 
 
 A few minutes before nine they left the crosstown car 
 at Broadway and Forty-second Street. 
 
 Though she had lived all her young years within the 
 boundaries of !NTew York, never before had Joan experi- 
 enced the sensation of being a unit of that roaring flood 
 of life which nightly scours Longacre Square, with scarce 
 a perceptible change in volume, winter or summer. Yet 
 she accepted it with apparently implacable calm. She 
 felt as if she had been born to this, as if she were com- 
 ing tardily into her birthright something of which 
 each least detail would in time become most intimate to 
 her. 
 
 They were already late, and Austin hurried her. A 
 brief, hasty walk brought them to the theatre, where Austin 
 left her in a corner of the lobby with the promise that he 
 would return in a very few minutes: he had to see a 
 friend " round back," he explained in an undertone. But 
 Joan remained a target for boldly enquiring glances for 
 full ten minutes before he reappeared. Even then, with 
 a nod to her to wait, Austin went to the box-office window. 
 She was not deceived as to the general tenor of his fortunes 
 there saw him place a card on the ledge and confer in- 
 audibly with the ticket-seller, and then reluctantly remove
 
 22 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 the card and substitute for it two one-dollar bills, for 
 which he received two slips of pasteboard. 
 
 " House 'most sold out," he muttered uncomfortably in 
 her ear as an elevator carried them to the roof. " Best I 
 could get was table seats." 
 
 " They 're just as good as any," she whispered, with a 
 look of gratitude that temporarily turned his head. 
 
 The elevator discharged them into a vast hall with walls 
 and a roof of glass. Artificial wistaria festooned its beams 
 and pillars of steel, palms and potted plants lined the 
 walls. A myriad electric bulbs glimmered dimly through- 
 out the auditorium, brilliantly upon the small stage. Deep 
 banks of chairs radiated back from the footlights, to each 
 its tenant staring greedily in one common direction. 
 
 An usher waved the newcomers to the left. Ultimately 
 they found seats at a small table in a far corner of the 
 enclosure. 
 
 Austin was disappointed, and made his disappointment 
 known in a public grumble: the table was too far away; 
 they could n't see nothin' might 's well not 've come. 
 Joan smiled his ill-humour away, insisting that the seats 
 were fine. Mollified, he summoned a waiter and ordered 
 beer for himself, for Joan a glass of lemonade a weirdly 
 decorated and insipid concoction which, nevertheless, Joan 
 absorbed with the keenest relish. 
 
 In point of fact, the distance from their seats to 
 the stage offered little obstacle to her complete enjoyment : 
 her senses were all youthful and unimpaired ; she saw and 
 heard what many another missed of those in their neigh- 
 bourhood. Furthermore, Joan brought to an entertain- 
 ment of this character a point of view fresh, virginal, and 
 innocent of the very meaning of ennui. She sat forward 
 on the extreme edge of her chair, imperceptibly a-quiver 
 with excitement, avid of every sight and sound. All that 
 was tawdry, vulgar, and contemptible escaped her : she was 
 sensitive only to the illusion of splendour and magnifi- 
 cence, and lived enraptured by dream-like music, exquisite
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 23 
 
 wit, and the poetic beauty of femininity but half -clothed, 
 or less, and viewed through a kaleidoscopic play of coloured 
 light. 
 
 During the intermission she bent an elbow on the 
 sloppy table-top and chattered at Austin with a vivacity 
 new in his knowledge of her, and for which he had no 
 match. . . . 
 
 At one time during the second part of the performance, 
 the auditorium was suddenly darkened, while attention was 
 held to the stage by the antics of a pair of German come- 
 dians. But in the shadows that now surrounded them 
 (quite unconscious that Austin had seized this opportunity 
 to capture her warm young hand) Joan became aware of 
 a number of figures issuing from a side-door to the stage. 
 She saw them marshalled in ranks of two a long double 
 file, vaguely glimmering through the obscurity. And then 
 the comedians darted into the wings, the lights blazed out 
 at full strength all over the enclosure, and a roll of drums 
 crescendo roused the audience to a tremendous and ex- 
 hilarating novelty: a procession of chorus girls in hip- 
 tights and hussar tunics who, each with a snare-drum at 
 waist, had stolen down the aisle, into the heart of the 
 auditorium. 
 
 For a long moment they marked time, drumming skil- 
 fully, their leader with her polished baton standing beside 
 Joan. Then the orchestra blared out an accompaniment, 
 and they strode away, turning left and marching up the 
 centre aisle to the stage. . . . Joan marked, with pulses 
 that seemed to beat in tune to the drumming, the wistful 
 beauty of many of the painted faces with their aloof eyes 
 and fixed smiles of conscious self-possession, the richness 
 of their uniforms, their bare powdered arms, the pretty 
 legs in their silken casings. Oblivious to the libidinous 
 glances of the goggling men they passed, she envied them 
 one and all the meanest and homeliest of them even 
 as the most proud and beautiful this chance of theirs to 
 act, to be admired, to win the homage of the herd. . . .
 
 24 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 She awoke as from idyllic dreams to find herself again 
 in a Third Avenue car, homeward bound. But still her 
 brain was drowsy with memories of the splendour and the 
 glory; fragments of haunting melody ran through her 
 thoughts; and visions haunted her, of herself command- 
 ing a similar meed of adoration. . . . 
 
 Austin's arm lay along the top of the seat behind her; 
 his fingers rested lightly against the sleeve of her shirt- 
 waist. She did not notice them. To his clumsily playful 
 advances she returned indefinite, monosyllabic answers, ac- 
 companied by her charming smile of a grateful child. . . . 
 
 On the third landing of their tenement they paused to 
 say good night, visible to one another only in a faint 
 light reflected up from the gas-jet burning low in the 
 hall below. The smell of humanity and its food hung in 
 the clammy air they breathed. A hum of voices from the 
 many cells of the hive buzzed in their ears. But Joan 
 forgot them all. 
 
 She hesitated, embarrassed with the difficulty of finding 
 words adequate to express her thanks. 
 
 Austin tried awkwardly to help her out : " Well, I guess 
 it 's good night, kid." 
 
 She said, exclamatory : " O Ben ! I 've had such a good 
 time!" 
 
 " Dja ? Glad to hear it. Will you go again 
 next week ? I guess I can work som' other show, all 
 right." 
 
 Compunction smote as memory reminded her. " But 
 Ben did n't you have to pay for those tickets ? " 
 
 " Oh, that 's all right. I could n't find the fella I was 
 lookin' for, round back." 
 
 " I 'm so sorry " 
 
 " Gwan ! It was n't nothin'. Cheap at the price, if 
 you liked it, little girl." 
 
 " I liked it awfully! But I won't go again, unless you 
 show me the pass first." 
 
 " Wel-1, we '11 see about that." He edged a pace nearer.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 25 
 
 Suddenly self-conscious, Joan drew back and offered Her 
 hand. " Good night and thank you so much, Ben." 
 
 He took the hand, but retained it. " Ah, say ! is this 
 all I get ? I thought you kinda liked me . . ." 
 
 "I do, Ben, but " 
 Well, a kiss won't cost you nothin'. It 's your turn 
 
 tt 
 n 
 
 now. 
 
 u 
 
 But, Ben but, Ben " 
 
 " Oh, well, if that 's the way you feel about it " 
 
 He made as if to relinquish her hand. But to be 
 thought lacking in generosity had stung her beyond en- 
 durance. Without stopping to think blindly and 
 quickly, so that she might not think she gave herself 
 to his arms. 
 
 " Well," she breathed in a soft voice, " just one . . ." 
 
 "Just one, eh?" He pressed his lips to hers. "Oh, 
 I don't know about that ! " 
 
 He tightened his embrace. Her heart was hammering 
 madly. His mouth hurt her lips, his beard rasped her 
 tender skin. She wanted frantically to get away, to regain 
 possession of herself; and wanted it the more because, 
 dimly through the tumult of thought and emotion, she 
 was conscious of the fact that she rather liked it. 
 
 " Joan . . ." Austin murmured in a tone that, soft 
 with the note of wooing, was yet vibrant with the elation 
 of the conqueror, " Joan . . ." 
 
 One arm shifted up from her waist and his big hand 
 rested heavily over her heart. 
 
 For a breath she seemed numb and helpless, suffocating 
 with the tempest of her senses. Then like lightning there 
 pierced her confusion the memory of the knee that had 
 driven her from the car, only that afternoon: symbolic 
 of the bedrock beastliness of man. With a quick twist and 
 wrench she freed herself and reeled a pace or two away. 
 
 " Ben ! " she cried, in a voice hoarse with anger. " You 
 you brute ! " 
 
 " Why, what 's the matter ? "
 
 26 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " What right had you to to touch me like that ? " 
 she panted, retreating as he advanced. 
 
 He paused, realizing that he had made a false move 
 which bade fair to lose him his prey entirely. Only by 
 elaborate diplomacy would he ever be able to reestablish 
 a footing of friendship; weeks must elapse now before 
 he would gain the advantage of another kiss from her 
 lips. He swore beneath his breath. 
 
 " I did n't mean nothing" he said in a surly voice. 
 " I don't see as you got any call to make such a fuss." 
 
 "Oh, don't you? ... Don't you!" She felt as if 
 she must choke if she continued to parley with him. 
 " Well, I do ! " she flashed ; and turning, ran up the 
 fourth flight of steps. 
 
 He swung on his heel, muttering; and she heard him 
 slam the door to his flat. 
 
 She continued more slowly, panting and struggling to 
 subdue the signs of her emotion. But she was poisoned 
 to the deeps of her being with her reawakened loathing of 
 Man. On the top landing she paused, blinking back her 
 tears, digging her nails into her palms while she fought 
 down a tendency to sob, then drew herself up, took a deep 
 breath, and advancing to the dining-room, turned the knob 
 with stealth, to avoid disturbing her family. 
 
 To her surprise and dismay, as the first crack widened 
 between the door and jamb, she saw that the room was 
 lighted. 
 
 Wondering, she walked boldly in. 
 
 Her father was seated at the dining-table, a cheap pipe 
 gripped between his teeth. Contrary to his custom, when 
 he sat up late, he was not thumbing his dope. His fat, 
 hairy arms were folded upon the oilcloth, his face turned 
 squarely to the door. Instinctively Joan understood that 
 he had waited up for her, that inexplicably a crisis was 
 about to occur in her relations with her family. 
 
 In a chair tilted back against the wall, near the window 
 opening upon the air-shaft, Butch sat, his feet drawn up
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 27 
 
 on the lower rung, purple lisle-thread socks luridly dis- 
 played, hands in his trouser-pockets, a cigarette drooping 
 from his cynical mouth, a straw hat with brilliant ribbon 
 tilted forward over his eyes. 
 
 Closing the door, Joan put her back to it, eyes ques- 
 tioning her parent. Butch did not move. Thursby sagged 
 his chin lower on his chest. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " he demanded in deep accents, 
 with the incisive and precise enunciation which she had 
 learned to associate only with his phases of bad temper. 
 
 " Where 've I been ? " she repeated, stammering. 
 " Where . . . Why out walking " 
 
 " Street-walking ? " he suggested with an ugly snarl. 
 
 She sank, a limp, frightened figure, into a chair near 
 the door. 
 
 " Why, pa what do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean I 'm going to find out the why and wherefore 
 of the way you 're behaving yourself. You 're my daugh- 
 ter, and not of age yet, and I have a right to know what 
 you do and where you go. Keep still ! " he snapped, as 
 she started to interrupt. " Speak when you 're spoken 
 to. ... I 'm going to have a serious talk with you, young 
 woman. . . . What 's all this I hear about your losing 
 your job and going on the stage ? "
 
 IV 
 
 FOE a brief moment Joan sat agape, meeting incredu- 
 lously the keen, contemptuous gaze of her father. Then 
 she pulled herself together with determination to be 
 neither browbeaten nor overborne. 
 
 " Where 'd you hear that about me ? " she demanded 
 ominously. 
 
 Thursby shook his ponderous head : " It makes no 
 difference " 
 
 " It makes a lot of difference to me ! " she cut in, sharply 
 contentious. " You might 's well tell me, because I won't 
 talk to you if you don't." 
 
 Butch brushed the brim of his hat an inch above his 
 eyes and threw her a glance of approbation. Thursby 
 hesitated, his large, mottled face sullen and dark in the 
 bluish illumination provided by the single gas-jet wheez- 
 ing above the table. Then reluctantly he gave in. 
 
 " Old Inness was in the store this evening. He 
 said " 
 
 " Never mind what he said ! I guess I know. Gussie 's 
 been shooting off her face about me at home. And of 
 course old Inness hadn't nothing better to do than to 
 run off and tell you everything he knew ! " 
 
 " Then you don't deny it ? " Thursby insisted. 
 
 " I don't have to. It 's true. No, I don't deny it," 
 she returned, aping his manner to exasperation. 
 
 " How 'd you come to lose your job ? " 
 
 " Mr. Winter insulted me one of the floor-walkers 
 if you 've got to know." 
 
 Thursby's head wagged heavily while he weighed thia
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 29 
 
 information, and he regarded his daughter with a baleful, 
 morose glare, his fat hands trembling. 
 
 " What did you say to this man, Winter ? " he asked 
 presently. 
 
 " Told him I 'd slap his face if he tried anything like 
 that on me again. So he reported me up to the manage- 
 ment lied about me and I got fired." 
 
 There was a long silence, through which Thursby pon- 
 dered the matter, his thick lips moving inaudibly, while 
 Joan sat upright, maintaining her attitude of independence 
 and defiance, and Butch, grinning lazily, as if at some 
 private jest, manufactured ring after ring of smoke in the 
 still, close air. 
 
 Before her father spoke again, Joan became cognizant 
 of Edna and her mother, like twin ghosts in their night- 
 dresses, stealing silently, barefooted, to listen just within 
 the door of the adjoining bedroom. 
 
 " And what do you propose to do now ? " asked Thursby 
 at length, lifting his weary, haunted gaze to his daughter's 
 face. " What 's this about your going on the stage ? " 
 
 Joan set her jaw firmly. " That 's what I 'm going 
 to do." 
 
 Thursby shook his head with decision. " I won't have 
 it," he said. 
 
 " Oh, you won't ? Well, I 'd like to know how you 're 
 going to stop me. I 'm tired slaving behind a counter 
 for a dog's wages and that eaten up by fines because I 
 won't go out with the floor-walkers. I 'm going to do the 
 best I can for myself. I 'm going to be an actress, so 's 
 I can make a decent living for Edna and ma and myself." 
 
 " A decent living ! " Thursby mocked without mirth. 
 " You 're old enough to know better than that." 
 
 " I 'm old enough to know which side my bread 's but- 
 tered on," the girl flashed back angrily. " I 'm through 
 living in this dirty flat and giving up every dollar I make 
 to keep us all from starving. God knows what we 'd do 
 if it was n't for me with a steady job, and Edna working
 
 30 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 during the season. You don't do anything to help us 
 out : all you get goes on the ponies. I don't see any reason 
 why I got to consult you if I choose to better myself." 
 
 She rose the better to end her tirade with a stamp of 
 her foot. Thursby likewise got up, if more sluggishly, 
 and moved round the table to confront her. 
 
 " You don't go on the stage no ! " he said. " That 's 
 settled. Understand ? " 
 
 " Oh, I get you/' she replied, with a flirt of her head, 
 " but I don't agree with you. I 'm going down town first 
 thing tomorrow to try for a job with with," she hesi- 
 tated, " Ziegfield's Follies ! " 
 
 " You will do nothing of the sort," he insisted fiercely, 
 congested veins starting out upon his forehead. " You 're 
 my daughter, and those are my orders to you, and you '11 
 obey 'em or I '11 know the reason why. You ..." He 
 faltered as if choking. Then he flung out an arm, with a 
 violent gesture indicating the shrinking woman in the 
 doorway. " You your mother was an actress when I 
 married her and took her off the stage. She she " 
 
 " Don't you dare say a word against my mother ! " 
 Joan screamed passionately into his louring face. " Don't 
 you dare ! You hear me : don't you dare ! " 
 
 Her infuriated accents were echoed by a smothered gasp 
 and a spasm of sobbing from the other room. 
 
 Momentarily abashed by the sheer force of this defiance, 
 the father fell back a pace. An expression of almost 
 ludicrous disconcertion shadowed his discoloured fea- 
 tures. Then slowly, as if thoughtfully, he lifted one hand 
 and deliberately tore his collar from its fastening and 
 cast it from him. 
 
 At this, hastily jerking his cigarette into the air-shaft, 
 Butch got up, removed his hat and carefully placed it on 
 the mantel, out of harm's way. 
 
 " You," said Thursby with apparent difficulty, breath- - 
 ing heavily between his words " you shan't use that 
 tone to me, young woman, and live in this house. More
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 31 
 
 than that, you 7 11 leave it this very night now ! unless 
 you promise to give up this fool's notion of the stage." 
 
 "Tonight!" 
 
 Joan paled; her lips tightened; but the glint in her 
 eyes was n't one of fright. 
 
 " Tonight ! " her father reiterated with malicious pleas- 
 ure in what he thought to be evidences of consternation. 
 " And what 's more, you 're going to apologize to me now." 
 
 " Apologize to you ! " Joan caught her breath sharply, 
 and her next words came without premeditation; she was 
 barely conscious, in her rage, that she employed them: 
 "I '11 be damned if I do!" 
 
 With an inarticulate cry, maddened beyond reason, 
 Thursby lifted a heavy hand and stepped toward her. 
 
 Simultaneously Butch sprang forward, seized the men- 
 acing fist and dragged it down and back, with a movement 
 so swift and deft that its purpose was accomplished and 
 the hand pinned to the small of Thursby's back actually 
 before he appreciated what was happening. 
 
 Even Joan was slow to comprehend the fact of this 
 amazing intervention. . . . 
 
 Nodding emphatically, " Beat it, kid," Butch counselled 
 in a pleasant, unstrained tone " beat it while the going 's 
 good . . . Easy, now, guvner ! " 
 
 Speechless, Joan slipped out into the hall and slammed 
 the door. Stumbling blindly in the murk, she was none 
 the less quick to find the head of the stairway. 
 
 On the ground floor, panting and sobbing, she paused to 
 listen. There came from above no sound of pursuit to 
 speed her on ; yet on she went, out of the house, to scurry 
 away through the midnight hush of the squalid street like 
 a hunted thing. 
 
 There was no sort of coherence in her thoughts, nothing 
 but shreds and tatters of rage, fear, and despair, all clouded 
 with a faint and vain regret. She gave no heed to the 
 way she went: impulse controlled and blind instinct 
 guided her. But at the corner of Park Avenue she was
 
 32 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 obliged to pause for breath, and took advantage of that 
 pause to review her plight and plan her future. 
 
 Her first concern must be to find a lodging for the night. 
 Tomorrow could take care of itself. . . . 
 
 Uttering a low cry of dismay, the girl clutched at the 
 handbag swinging by its strap from her wrist: its latch 
 was broken, its wide jaws yawned. In a breath she had 
 grasped the empty substance of her most dire apprehen- 
 sions : the slender fold of bills, handed her when she left 
 the store for the last time that evening, was gone. Whether 
 some sneak-thief had robbed her on a surface-car or in 
 the Broadway rabble, or whether the lock had been broken, 
 releasing its poor treasure, during her struggle with Austin 
 on the stairs or afterwards or before she could not 
 guess. But she was swift to recognize in its bitter fulness 
 the heartrending futility of retracing her steps to search 
 for the vanished money even though it was all that had 
 stood between her and the world, between a common room 
 with food for a week or two and starvation and the 
 streets. 
 
 It was a fact, established and irrefutable in her under- 
 standing, that she could never go back. . . . 
 
 Diligently exploring the bag, she brought to light a 
 scanty store of small change : three quarters, a nickel, seven 
 coppers eighty-seven cents wherewith to face the world ! 
 
 Further rummaging educed a handful of odds and ends, 
 from which, by the light of a corner lamp, she presently 
 succeeded in sorting out a folded scrap of paper bearing 
 a pencilled memorandum, faint almost to illegibility, so 
 that only with some difficulty could Joan decipher its 
 legend : " Maizie Dean (Lizzie Fogarty) 289 W. 45 St." 
 
 Slowly conning the address with mute, moving lips, until 
 she had it by heart, the girl trudged on to Madison Avenue 
 and there signalled and boarded a southbound surface-car. 
 It carried few passengers. She had a long seat all to her- 
 self, and about fifteen minutes wherein to debate ways 
 and means. ,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 33 
 
 She reckoned it several years since Lizzie Fogarty (pre- 
 decessor of faithless Gussie Inness, both at the stocking 
 counter and in Joan's confidence) suddenly, and with no 
 warning or explanation, had left the department store and 
 for fully eight months thereafter had kept her whereabouts 
 a mystery to her erstwhile associates though rumours 
 were not lacking in support of a shrewd suspicion that she 
 had " gone on the stage." The truth only transpired when, 
 one day, she drifted languidly up to the counter behind 
 which she had once served, haughtily inspected and se- 
 lected from goods offered her by a stupefied and indignant 
 Gussie, and promptly broke down, confessing the truth 
 amid giggles not guiltless of a suspicion of tears. Lizzie 
 was in " vodeveal," partner in a " sister-act " witness 
 her card " The Dancing Deans, Maizie & May." 
 
 Beyond shadow of doubt she had prospered. Not only 
 was she amazingly and awfully arrayed, but there was in 
 evidence an accomplishment believed to be singular to 
 people of great wealth, an " English accent " or what 
 Joan and Gussie ingenuously accepted as such. As prac- 
 tised by Miss Maizie Dean this embellishment consisted 
 merely in broadening every A in the language (when she 
 did n't forget) and speaking rapidly in a high, strained 
 voice. Its effect upon her former associates was to render 
 the wake she ploughed through their ranks phosphorescent 
 with envy. 
 
 Departing in good time to spare the girls the censure 
 of the floor-walker, she had left with Joan the pencilled 
 address and this counsel : " If ever you dream, of goin' 
 into the business, my deah, don't do anythin' before you 
 see me. That ad-dress will always make me, no mattah 
 wheah 'm woikin' : and I 'd do anythin' in the woild 
 for you. I know you 'd make good anywheres with that 
 shape and them eyes I " . . . 
 
 Of such stuff as this had Joan fashioned her dreams. 
 Confident in the generosity of Lizzie Fogarty, she relied 
 implicitly upon the willingness of Miss Maizie Dean to
 
 34 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 help her into the magic circle of " the profession." She 
 had no more doubt that Maizie would make it her business, 
 even at cost of personal inconvenience, to secure her an 
 engagement, than she had that tomorrow's sun would rise 
 upon a world tenanted by one Joan Thursby. Or if such 
 doubt entered her mind by stealth, she fought it down and 
 cast it forth with all the power of her will. For in Miss 
 Dean, nee Fogarty, now resided her sole immediate, hope 
 of friendly aid and advice. . . . 
 
 Alighting at Forty-fifth Street, Joan hastened west- 
 ward, past Fifth Avenue and Sixth to Longacre Square. 
 Here on the corner, she paused to don her coat; for the 
 low-swinging draperies of the painted skies had begun 
 to distil upon the city a gentle drizzle, soft and warm. 
 
 Only two hours ago a vortex of vivid animation, the 
 Square now presented a singular aspect of sleepy empti- 
 ness. With its high glittering walls of steel and glass, its 
 polished black paving like moire silk, its blushing canopy 
 of cloud, its air filled with an infinity of globular atoms 
 of moisture, swirling and weltering in a shimmer of in- 
 candescence: it was like a pool of limpid light, deep and 
 still. Few moving things were visible : now and again a 
 taxicab, infrequently a surface-car, here and there, singly, 
 a few prowling women, a scattering of predacious men. 
 
 Of these latter, one who had been skulking beneath the 
 shelter of the New York Theatre fire-escapes strolled idly 
 out toward Joan and addressed her in a whisper of loathly 
 intimacy. Fortunately she did not hear what he said. 
 Even as he spoke she slipped away from the curb and like 
 a haunted shadow darted across the open space and into 
 the kindly obscurity of the side-street. 
 
 Number 289 reared its five-storey brownstone front on 
 the northern side of the street, hard upon Eighth Avenue. 
 Joan inspected it doubtfully. Its three lower tiers of win- 
 dows were all dark and lightless, but on the fourth floor 
 a single oblong shone with gas-light, while on the fifth 
 as many as three were dully aglow. The outer doors, at
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 35 
 
 the top of the high, old-style stoop, were closed, and even 
 the most hopeful vision could detect no definite illumina- 
 tion through the fan-light. 
 
 Into the heart of Joan a wretched apprehension stole and 
 there abode, cold and crawling. From something in the 
 sedate aspect of the house she garnered grim and terrible 
 forebodings. 
 
 Nevertheless she dared not lose grasp on hope. Mount- 
 ing the stoop, she sought the bell-pull, and found it just 
 below a small strip of paper glued to the stone; frayed 
 and weatherbeaten, it published in letters in faded ink 
 scrawled by an infirm hand the information : " Rooms 
 to let furnished." 
 
 For some reason which she did not stop to analyze, this 
 announcement spelled encouragement to Joan. She 
 wrought lustily at the bell. 
 
 It evoked no sound that she could hear. Trembling 
 with expectancy, she waited several minutes, then pulled 
 again, and once more waited while the cold of dread 
 spread from her heart to chill and benumb her hands and 
 feet. She heard never a sound. It was no use she knew 
 it yet she rang again and again, frantically, with 
 determination, in despair. And once she vainly tried the 
 door. 
 
 The drizzle had developed into a fine, driving rain that 
 swept aslant upon the wings of a new-sprung breeze. 
 
 A great weight seemed to be crushing her: a vast, in- 
 visible hand relentlessly bearing her down to the earth. 
 Only vaguely did she recognize in this the symptoms of 
 immense physical fatigue added to those of intense emo- 
 tional strain: she only knew that she was all a-weary 
 for her bed. 
 
 Of a sudden, hope and courage both deserted her. Tears 
 filled her eyes: she was so lonely and forlorn, so help- 
 less and so friendless. Huddled in the shallow recess 
 of the doorway, she fought her emotions silently for a 
 time, then broke down altogether and sobbed without re-
 
 36 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 straint into her handkerchief. Moments passed uncounted, 
 despair possessing her utterly. 
 
 The street was all but empty. For some time none re- 
 marked the disconsolate girl. Then a man, with a handbag 
 but without an umbrella, appeared from the direction of 
 Longacre Square, walking with a deliberation which sug- 
 gested that he was either indifferent to or unconscious of 
 the rain. Turning up the steps of Number 289, he jingled 
 absently a bunch of keys. Not until he had reached the 
 platform of the stoop did he notice the woman in the 
 doorway. 
 
 Promptly he halted, lifting his brows and pursing his 
 lips in a noiseless whistle his head cocked critically 
 to one side. 
 
 Then through the waning tempest of her grief, Joan 
 heard his voice : 
 
 " I say ! What 's the matter ? " 
 
 Gulping down a sob and dabbing hastily at her eyes 
 with a sodden wad of handkerchief, she caught through 
 a veil of tears a blurred impression of her interrogator. 
 A man . . . She ceased instantly to cry and shrank hastily 
 out of his way, into the full swing of wind and rain. She 
 said nothing, but eyed him with furtive distrust. He made 
 no offer to move. 
 
 " See here ! " he expostulated. " You 're in trouble. 
 Anything I can do ? " 
 
 Joan felt that she was regaining control of herself. She 
 dared to linger and hope rather than to yield to her primi- 
 tive instinct toward flight, 
 
 " Nothing," she said with a catch in her voice " only 
 I I wanted to see Miss Dean ; but nobody answered the 
 bell." 
 
 " Oh ! " he said thoughtfully " you wanted to see Miss 
 Dean yes ! " as though he considered this a thor- 
 oughly satisfactory explanation. " But Madame Duprat 
 never does answer the door after twelve o'clock, you know. 
 She says people have no right to call on us after midnight.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 37 
 
 There 's a lot in that, too, you know." He wagged his 
 head earnestly. " Really ! " he concluded with animation. 
 
 His voice was pleasant, his manner sympathetic if some- 
 thing original. Joan found courage to enquire : 
 
 " Do you think perhaps she might be in ? " 
 
 " Oh, she never leaves the house. At least, I 've never 
 seen her leave it. I fancy she thinks one of us might move 
 it away if she got out of sight for a minute or so." 
 
 Puzzled, Joan persisted : " You really think Miss Dean 
 is in?" 
 
 " Miss Dean ? Oh, beg pardon ! I was thinking of 
 Madame Duprat. Ah . . . Miss Dean . . . now ... I 
 infer you have urgent business with her what ? " 
 
 " Yes, very ! " the girl insisted eagerly. " If I could 
 only see her ... I must see her ! " 
 
 " I 'm sure she 's in, then ! " the man declared in 
 accents of profound conviction. " Possibly asleep. But 
 at home. O positively ! " He inserted a key in the lock 
 and pushed the door open. " If you don't mind coming 
 in out of the weather I '11 see." 
 
 Joan eyed him doubtfully. The light was indifferent, 
 a mere glimmer from the corner lamp at Eighth Avenue ; 
 but it enabled her to see that he was passably tall and 
 quite slender. He wore a Panama hat with dark clothing. 
 His attitude was more explicitly impersonal than that of 
 any man with whom she had as yet come into contact : she 
 could detect in it no least trace either of condescension or 
 of an ingratiating spirit. He seemed at once quite self- 
 possessed and indefinitely preoccupied, disinterested, and 
 quite agreeable to be made use of. In short, he engaged 
 her tremendously. 
 
 But what more specifically prepossessed her in his 
 favour, and what in the end influenced her to repose some 
 slight confidence in the man, was a quality with which 
 the girl herself endowed him : she chose to be reminded in 
 some intangible, elusive fashion, of that flower of latter- 
 day chivalry who had once whisked her out of persecution
 
 38 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 into his taxicab and to her home. In point of fact, the 
 two were vastly different, and Joan knew it ; but, at least, 
 she argued, they were alike in this: both were gentlemen 
 rare visitants in her cosmos. 
 
 It was mostly through fatigue and helpless bewilder- 
 ment, however, that she at length yielded and consented 
 to precede him into the vestibule. Here he opened the 
 inner doors, ushering Joan into a hallway typical of an 
 old order of dwelling, now happily obsolescent. The floor 
 was of tiles, alternately black and white : a hideous checker- 
 board arrangement. A huge hat-rack, black walnut fram- 
 ing a morbid mirror, towered on the one hand; on the 
 other rose a high arched doorway, closed. And there was 
 a vast and gloomy stairway with an upper landing lost in 
 shadows impenetrable to the feeble illumination of the 
 single small tongue of gas flickering in an old-fashioned 
 bronze chandelier. 
 
 Listening, Joan failed to detect in all the house any 
 sounds other than those made by the young man and 
 herself. 
 
 " If you '11 be good enough to follow me " 
 
 He led the way to the rear of the hall, where, in the 
 shadow of the staircase, he unlocked a door and disap- 
 peared. The girl waited on the threshold of a cool and 
 airy chamber, apparently occupying the entire rear half 
 of the ground floor. At the back, long windows stood open 
 to the night. The smell of rain was in the room. 
 
 " Half a minute: I '11 make a light." 
 
 He moved through the darkness with the assurance of 
 one on old, familiar ground. In the middle of the room 
 a match spluttered and blazed: with a slight plup! a 
 gas drop-light with a green shade leapt magically out of 
 the obscurity, discovering the silhouette of a tall, spare 
 figure bending low to adjust the flame; which presently 
 grew strong and even, diffusing a warm and steady glow 
 below the green penumbra -of its shade. 
 
 The man turned back with his quaint air of deference.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 39 
 
 " Now, if you don't mind sitting down and waiting a 
 minute, I '11 ask Madame Duprat about Miss ah 
 your friend " 
 
 " Miss Dean Maizie Dean." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 With this he left the girl, and presently she heard his 
 footsteps on the staircase. 
 
 She found a deeply cushioned arm-chair, and subsided 
 into it with a sigh. The intensity of her weariness was 
 indeed a very serious matter with her. Her very wits 
 shirked the labour of grappling with the problem of what 
 she should do if Maizie Dean were not at home. . . . 
 
 Wondering incoherently, she stared about her. The 
 rich, subdued glow of the shaded lamp suggested more than 
 it revealed, but she was impressed by the generous pro- 
 portions of the room. The drop-light itself stood on a 
 long, broad table littered with a few books and a great 
 many papers, inkstands, pens, blotters, ash-trays, pipes: 
 all in agreeable disorder. Beyond this table was one 
 smaller, which supported a typewriting-machine. Against 
 the nearer wall stood a luxurious, if worn, leather-covered 
 couch. There were two immense black walnut bookcases. 
 The windows at the back disclosed a section of iron-railed 
 balcony. 
 
 Joan grew sensitive to an anodynous atmosphere of quiet 
 and comfort. . . . 
 
 Drowsily she heard a quiet knocking at some door up- 
 stairs ; then a subdued murmur of voices, the closing of a 
 door, footsteps returning down the long staircase. When 
 these last sounded on the tiled flooring, the girl spurred 
 her flagging senses and got up in a sudden flutter of doubt, 
 anxiety, and embarrassment. The man entering the room 
 found her so poised in indecision. 
 
 " Please do sit down," he said quietly, with a smile that 
 carried reassurance ; and, taking her compliance for some- 
 thing granted, passed on to another arm-chair near the long 
 table.
 
 40 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 With a docility and total absence of distrust that later 
 surprised her to remember, Joan sank back, eyes eloquent 
 with the question unuttered by her parted lips. 
 
 Her host, lounging, turned to her a face of which one 
 half was in dense shadow: a keen, strongly modelled face 
 with deep-set eyes at once whimsical and thoughtful, and 
 a mouth thin-lipped but generously wide. He rested an 
 elbow on the table and his head on a spare, sinewy hand, 
 thrusting slender fingers up into hair straight, not long, 
 and rather light in colour. 
 
 " I 'm sorry to have to report," he said gently, " that 
 1 The Dancing Deans, Maizie and May,' are on the road. 
 So I 'm informed by Madame Duprat, at least. They 're 
 not expected back for several weeks. ... I hope you 
 are n't greatly disappointed." 
 
 Her eyes, wide and dark with dismay, told him too 
 plainly that she was. She made no effort to speak, but 
 after an instant of dumb consternation, moved as if to rise. 
 
 He detained her with a gesture. " Please don't hurry : 
 you need n't, you know. Of course, if you must, I won't 
 detain you : the door is open, your way clear to the street. 
 But what are you going to do about a place to sleep 
 tonight ? " 
 
 She stared in surprise and puzzled resentment. A warm 
 wave of colour temporarily displaced her pallor. 
 
 " What makes you so sure I 've got no place to sleep ? " 
 she asked ungraciously. 
 
 He lifted his shoulders slightly and dropped his hand 
 to the table. 
 
 " Perhaps I was impertinent," he admitted. " I 'm 
 sorry. . . . But you have n't have you ? " 
 
 " No, I have n't," she said sharply. " But what 's 
 that " 
 
 " As you quite reasonably imply, it 's nothing to me," 
 he interrupted suavely. " But I 'd be sorry to think of you 
 out there alone in the rain when there 's no reason 
 why you need be."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 41 
 
 " No reason ! " she echoed, wondering if she had mis- 
 judged him after all. 
 
 Without warning the man tilted the green lamp-shade 
 until a broad, strong glow flooded her face. A spark of 
 indignation kindled in the girl while she endured his brief, 
 impersonal, silent examination. Sheer fatigue alone pre- 
 vented her from rising and walking out of the room 
 that, and curiosity. 
 
 He replaced the shade, and got out of the chair with a 
 swift movement that seemed not at all one of haste. 
 
 " I see no reason," he announced coolly. " I Ve got 
 to run along now I merely dropped in to get a manu- 
 script. I think you '11 be quite comfortable here and 
 there 'a a good bolt on the door. Of course, it 'a very 
 unconventional, but I hope you '11 be kind enough to over- 
 look that, considering the circumstances. And tomorrow, 
 after a good rest, you can make up your mind whether it 
 would be wiser to stick to your first plan or go home." 
 
 He smiled with a vague, disinterested geniality, and 
 added a pleading " Now don't say no ! " when he saw that 
 the girl had likewise risen. 
 
 " How do you know I Ve left home ? " she demanded 
 hotly. 
 
 " Well " his smile broadened " deductive faculty 
 Sherlock Holmes Dupin that sort of tommyrot, 
 you know. But it was n't such a bad guess now was 
 it?" 
 
 " I don't see how you knew," she muttered sulkily. 
 
 He ran his long fingers once or twice through his hair 
 in a manner of great perplexity. 
 
 " I can't quite tell, myself." 
 
 " It was n't my fault," she protested with a flash of 
 passion. " I lost my job today, and because I said I 
 wanted to go on the stage, my father put me out of the 
 house." 
 
 " Yes," he agreed amiably ; " they always do don't 
 they? I fancied it was something like that. But there
 
 42 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 is n't really any reason why you should n't go home to- 
 morrow and patch it up or is there ? " 
 
 She gulped convulsively : " You don't understand " 
 
 " Probably I don't," he conceded. " Still, things may 
 look very much otherwise in the morning. They generally 
 do, I notice. One goes to bed with reluctance and wakes up 
 with a headache. All that sort of thing. . . . But if you '11 
 listen to me a moment why, then if you want to go, I 
 shan't detain you. . . . My name is John Matthias. My 
 trade is writing things plays, mostly : I know it sounds 
 foolish, but then I hate exercise. I live sleep, that is 
 ah elsewhere down the street. This is merely my 
 work-room. So your stopping here won't inconvenience me 
 in the least . . ." 
 
 He snatched up a mass of papers from the table, folded 
 them hastily and thrust them into a coat pocket. 
 
 " That manuscript I was after. Good night. I do hope 
 you '11 be comfortable." 
 
 Before the amazed girl could collect herself, he had his 
 hat and handbag and was already in the hallway. 
 
 She ran after him. 
 
 " But, Mr. Matthias " 
 
 He glanced hastily over his shoulder while fumbling 
 with the night-latch. 
 
 " I can't let you " 
 
 " Oh, but you must really, you know." 
 
 He had the door open. 
 
 " But why do you how can you trust me with all 
 your things ? " 
 
 " Tut ! " he said reprovingly from the vestibule 
 " nothing there but play 'scripts, and they 're not worth 
 anything. You can't get anybody to produce 'em. I 
 know, because I 've tried." 
 
 He closed the inner door and banged the outer behind 
 him. 
 
 Joan, on the point of pursuing to the street, paused in 
 the vestibule, and for a moment stood doubting. Then,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 43 
 
 with a bewildered look, she returned slowly to the back 
 room, shut herself in, and shot the bolt. . . . 
 
 On the platform of the stoop, Mr. Matthias delayed long 
 enough to turn up his coat-collar for the better protection 
 of his linen, and surveyed with a wry grin the slashing rush 
 of rain through which he now must needs paddle un- 
 protected. 
 
 " Queer thing for a fellow to do," he mused dispas- 
 sionately. . . . 
 
 " Daresay I am a bit of an ass. ... I might at least 
 have borrowed my own umbrella. . . . But that would 
 hardly have been consistent with the egregious insanity of 
 the performance. . . . 
 
 11 1 wonder why I do these awful things ? ... If I only 
 knew, perhaps I could reform. ..." 
 
 Running down the steps, he set out at a rapid pace for 
 the Hotel Astor; which in due time received and har- 
 boured him for the night.
 
 AWAKENING at a late hour in a small bedroom bright 
 with sunlight, Mr. Matthias treated himself to a moment 
 of incredulity. Such surroundings were strange to his 
 drowsy perceptions, and his transitory emotions on finding 
 himself so curiously embedded might be most aptly and 
 tersely summed up in the exclamation of the old lady in 
 the nursery rhyme : " Lack-a-mercy, can this be I ? " 
 
 Being, however, susceptible to a conviction of singular 
 strength that he was himself and none other ; and by dint 
 of sheer will-power overcoming a tremendous disinclina- 
 tion to do anything but lie still and feel perfectly healthy, 
 sound, and at peace with the world: he induced himself 
 to roll over and fish for his watch in the pocket of the coat 
 hanging on a nearby chair. 
 
 The hour proved to be half-past ten. 
 
 He fancied that he must have been uncommonly tired 
 to have slept so late. 
 
 Then he remembered. 
 
 " One does n't need to get drunk to be daft," was the 
 conclusion he enunciated to his loneliness. 
 
 " I hope to goodness she does n't go poking through my 
 papers ! " 
 
 The perturbation to which this thought gave rise got 
 him out of bed more promptly than would otherwise have 
 been the case. None the less he forgot it entirely in an- 
 other moment, and had bathed and dressed and was knot- 
 ting his tie before a mirror when the memory of the girl 
 again flitted darkly athwart the glass of his consciousness. 
 
 " Wonder what it was that made me turn myself out of 
 house and home for the sake of that girl, anyway ? Some- 
 thing about her . . ."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 45 
 
 But try as he might he could recall no definite details 
 of her personality. She remained a shadow a hunted, 
 tearful, desperate wraith of girlhood: more than that, 
 nothing. 
 
 He wagged his head seriously. 
 
 " Something about her ! . . . Must 've been good-look- 
 ing ... or something ..." 
 
 With which he drifted off into an inconsequent and 
 irrelevant reverie which entertained him exclusively 
 throughout breakfast and his brief homeward walk: in 
 his magnificent, pantoscopic, protean imagination he was 
 busily engaged in writing the first act of a splendid new 
 play something exquisitely odd, original, witty, and 
 dramatic. 
 
 A vague smile touched the corners of his mouth; his 
 eyes were hazily lustrous; his nose was in the air. He 
 had forgotten his guest entirely. He ran up the steps of 
 Number 289, let himself in, trotted down the hall and 
 burst unceremoniously into his room not in the least 
 disconcerted to find it empty, not, indeed, mindful that it 
 might have been otherwise. 
 
 His hat went one way, his handbag into a corner with 
 a resounding bang. He sat himself down at his typewriter, 
 quickly and deftly inserted a sheet of paper into the car- 
 riage and ... sat back at leisure, his gaze wandering 
 dreamily out of the long, open windows, into the world 
 of sunshine that shimmered over the back-yards. 
 
 A subconscious impulse moved him to stretch forth a 
 long arm and drop his hand on the centre-table; after a 
 few seconds his groping fingers closed round the bowl of 
 an aged and well-beloved pipe. 
 
 He filled it, lighted it, smoked serenely. 
 
 Half an hour elapsed before he was disturbed. Then 
 someone knocked imperatively on the door. He recognized 
 the knock; it was Madame Duprat's. Swinging round 
 in his chair he said pleasantly : " Come in." 
 
 Madame Duprat entered, filling the doorway. She shut
 
 46 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 the door and stood in front of it, subjecting it to an almost 
 total eclipse. She was tall and portly, a grenadier of a 
 woman, with a countenance the austerity of whose severely 
 classic mould was somewhat moderated by a delicate, dark 
 little moustache on her upper lip. Her mien was regal 
 and portentous, sitting well upon the person of the widow 
 of a great if unrecognized French tragedian ; but her eyes 
 were kindly ; and Matthias had long since decided that it 
 needed a body as big as Madame Duprat's to contain her 
 heart. 
 
 " Bon jour, monsieur." 
 
 " Bon jour, madame." 
 
 This form of salutation was invariable between them; 
 but the French of Matthias rarely withstood much addi- 
 tional strain. He lapsed now into English, cocking an 
 eye alight with whimsical intelligence at the face of the 
 landlady. Madame possessed the gift (as it were an in- 
 heritance from the estate of her late husband) of creating 
 an atmosphere at will, when and where she would. That 
 which her demeanour now created within the four walls 
 of tlje chamber of Monsieur Matthias was rather electrical. 
 
 " Something 's happened to disturb madame ? " he haz- 
 arded. " What 's the row ? Have we discharged our chef ? 
 Is it that the third-floor front is behindhand with his rent ? 
 Or has Achilles that dachshund of Heaven ! turned 
 suffragette and proved it with pups ? " 
 
 " The row, monsieur," madame checked him coldly, 
 " has to do only with the conduct of monsieur himself ? " 
 
 " Eh ? " Matthias queried blankly. 
 
 " You ask me what ? " The hands of madame were 
 vivid with exasperation. " Is it that monsieur is not 
 aware he entertained a young woman in this room last 
 night?" 
 
 " Oh that ! " The cloud passed from monsieur's 
 eyes. He smiled cheerfully. " But it was quite proper, 
 indeed, madame. Believe me, I " 
 
 " Proper ! And what is propriety to me, if you please
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 47 
 
 at my age ? " madame demanded indignantly. " Am 
 I not aware that monsieur left my house almost imme- 
 diately after entering it and spent the night elsewhere ? 
 Did I not from my window see him running up the street 
 with his handbag through the rain ? But am I to figure 
 as the custodian of my lodgers' morals ? " The thought 
 perished, annihilated by an ample gesture. " My quarrel 
 with monsieur is that he left the young woman here 
 alone ! " 
 
 Matthias found the vernacular the only adequate vehicle 
 of expression : " I 've got to hand it to you, Madame 
 Duprat; your point of view is essentially Gallic." 
 
 " But what is the explanation of this conduct, mon- 
 sieur ? Am I to look forward to future escapades of the 
 same nature ? Do you intend to make of my house a 
 refuge for all the stray unfortunates of New York ? Am 
 I, and my guests, to be left to the mercies of God-knows- 
 who, simply because monsieur has a heart of pity ? " 
 
 " Oh, here ! " Matthias broke in with some impatience. 
 " It was n't as bad as that. It 's not likely to happen 
 again . . . and besides, the girl was a perfectly good, nice, 
 respectable girl. Madame should know that I would n't 
 take any chances with people I did n't know all about." 
 
 " Monsieur knew the young woman, then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; assuredly yes," Matthias lied nonchalantly. 
 
 By the happiest of accidents, his glance, searching the 
 table for a box of matches wherewith to relight his pipe, 
 encountered a sheet of typewriter paper on which a brief 
 message had been scrawled in a formless, untrained hand : 
 
 " Dear Sir" he read with relief, " thank you Your 
 friend, Joan Thursby." 
 
 He found the matches and used one before looking up. 
 
 " Miss Thursby," he said coolly, " is the daughter of an 
 eminently respectable family in reduced circumstances. 
 Thinking to better her condition, she proposed to become 
 an actress, but met with such violent opposition on the 
 part of her father a bigot of a man ! that she was
 
 48 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 obliged to leave her home in order to retain her self- 
 respect. Quite naturally she thought first of her only 
 friend in the profession, Miss Maizie Dean, and came 
 here to find her. The rest you may imagine. Was I to 
 turn her out to wander through the rain at two o'clock 
 in the morning ? Madame discredits her heart by suggest- 
 ing anything of the sort! " 
 
 Madame's expression of contrition seemed to endorse 
 this reproof. She hesitated with a hand on the doorknob. 
 
 " Monsieur is prepared to vouch for the young woman ? " 
 
 " Certainly," he assented, with an imperturbable coun- 
 tenance masking a creepy, crawly feeling that perhaps he 
 might be letting himself in for more than he bargained. 
 
 " Very good. I go, with apologies." Madame opened 
 the door. " Thursday, you said ? " 
 
 He repeated without bothering to correct her : " Joan 
 Thursday." 
 
 " Barbarous names of these mad Americans ! " 
 
 The door, closing, totally eclipsed the grenadier. 
 
 With thoughtful deliberation Matthias (smiling guilt- 
 ily) tore Joan's note into minute bits and, dropping them 
 in a waste-basket, dismissed her message and herself en- 
 tirely from his mind. 
 
 Five minutes later the typewriter was rattling cheerily. 
 
 But its staccato chattering continued without serious 
 interruption only for the time required to cover two pages 
 and part of a third. Then came a long interval of smoke- 
 soothed meditation, which ended with the young man 
 cheerfully placing fresh paper in the machine and start- 
 ing all over again. This time he worked more slowly, 
 weighing carefully the value of lines already written be- 
 fore recasting and committing them to paper ; but the third 
 sheet was covered without evident error, and a fourth, and 
 then a fifth. Indeed the type-bars were drumming heartily 
 on the last quarter of page 6, when suddenly the young 
 man paused, scowled, thrust back his chair and groaned 
 from his heart.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 49 
 
 He sat for a space, teetering on the rear legs of his 
 chair, his lips pursed, forehead deeply creased from temple 
 to temple. Then in a sepulchral tone uttering the single 
 word " Snagged! " he rose and began to pace slowly to 
 and fro between the door and the windows. 
 
 At the end of an hour he was still patrolling this well- 
 worn beat his way of torment by day and by night, if 
 the threadbare length of carpet were to be taken as a 
 reliable witness. And there 's no telling how long he might 
 have continued the exercise had not Madame Duprat 
 knocked once again at his door. 
 
 Roused by that sound, he came suddenly out of profound 
 speculations. Stopping short and bidding Madame enter, 
 he waited with hands thrust deep in his trouser-pockets 
 and shoulders hunched high toward his ears, a cloud of 
 annoyance darkening his countenance. 
 
 Madame Duprat came in with a " Pardon, monsieur," 
 and a yellow envelope. Placing this last upon the table, 
 she announced with simple dignity, " A telegram, if you 
 please," and retired. 
 
 Matthias strode to the table and with an air of some 
 surprise and excitement tore open the message. He found 
 its import unusual in more than one respect: it was not 
 a " day-letter," and it had been written with a fine, care- 
 less extravagance of emotion that recked naught whatever 
 of the ten-word limit. 
 
 He conned its opening aloud : ' ' Beast animal coward 
 ingrate poltroon traitor beast ' " 
 
 At this point he broke off to glance at the signature and 
 observe thoughtfully : " If Helena 's going in for this sort 
 of thing, I really must buy her a thesaurus : she 's used 
 ' beast ' twice in two lines. . . ." 
 
 He continued : " ' How dared you run away last night ? 
 You promised. I was counting on you. I am disgusted 
 with you and never want to see your face again. Return 
 at once. Perhaps you won't be too late after all. Impera- 
 tive. J insist that you return/ "
 
 50 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 The signature was simply: "Helena." 
 
 He said with considerable animation : " But damn it ! 
 I don't want to get married yet ! I don't see what I 've 
 done . . ." 
 
 Throwing back his shoulders and lifting a defiant chin, 
 he announced with invincible determination : " I won't go. 
 That 's all there is about it. I will not go ! . . . 
 
 " Besides/' he argued plaintively, " I could n't travel 
 like this clothes all out of shape from that drenching 
 last night no time to change ! " 
 
 Consultation of his watch gave flat contradiction to this 
 assertion. 
 
 " And besides, I 'm just getting this thing started 
 nicely ! " This with reference to the play. 
 
 With another groan even more soulful than the first he 
 sat down at the table, seized the telephone in a savage 
 grasp, and in prematurely embittered accents detailed a 
 suburban number to the inoffensive central operator. In 
 the inevitable three minutes' wait for the connection to 
 be put through he found ample opportunity to lash him- 
 self to a frenzy of exasperation. 
 
 " Hello ! " he roared suddenly. " Hel-lo, I say ! . . . 
 Who is this? . . . Oh, you, eh, Swinton? This is Mr. 
 Matthias. . . . No I say, no ! Don't call Mrs. Tanker- 
 ville. Have n't time. . . . Just tell her I 'm coming down 
 on the six-thirty. . . . Yes. . . . And send something to 
 meet me at the station. . . . Yes. Good-bye."
 
 VI 
 
 JOAN'S was an awakening of another order; like the 
 thoroughly healthy animal she was, the moment her eyes 
 opened she was vividly and keenly alive, completely ac- 
 quainted with her situation, in full command of every 
 faculty. 
 
 With no means of determining the time save by instinct, 
 she was none the less sure that the hour was n't late : not 
 late, at all events, for people who did n't have to be behind 
 counters by half-past eight. So she lay still for many 
 minutes, on the worn leather couch, listening intently. 
 There was a great hush in the lodging-house : not a foot- 
 fall, not a sound. Yet it was broad daylight a clear 
 and sunny morning. 
 
 Her quick eyes, reviewing the room in this new light, 
 realized the substance of a dream come true. She liked 
 it all : the high and dusty ceiling, the immense and gloomy 
 bookcases, the disorderly writing-table, the three sombre 
 and yellowing steel engravings on the walls, the bare, 
 beaten path that crossed the carpet diagonally from door 
 to window, the roomy and dilapidated chairs, even the 
 faint, intangible, ineradicable smell of tobacco that haunted 
 the air, even the generous cushion beneath her head. 
 
 Against this last she cuddled her cheek luxuriously, a 
 shadowy smile softening her lips, her lashes low. She was 
 enchanted by the novel atmosphere of this roomy cham- 
 ber, an atmosphere of studiousness and clear thinking. 
 And her thoughts focussed sharply upon her memories of 
 the early morning hours, especially those involving 
 the man who had put himself out to shelter her. She was 
 consumed with curiosity about him and all that concerned 
 him. In her inexperience she found it rather more than
 
 52 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 difficult to associate his courtesy, his solicitude and gen- 
 erosity with his aloofness, abstraction and detachment: 
 the type was new and difficult to classify. 
 
 Was it true, then, that Man flesh-and-blood Man as 
 differentiated from the romantic abstractions that swag- 
 gered through the chapters of the ten-cent weekly libraries 
 could be disinterested with Woman, content to serve 
 rather than be served, to give rather than take ? 
 
 On the one side stood That One of the taxicab adven- 
 ture, together with John Matthias : arrayed against these, 
 a host composed of Ben Austins and Mr. Winters and men 
 with knees beasts of prey who stalked or lay in ambush 
 along all the trails that webbed her social wilderness. 
 
 Were they truly different, Matthias and that other one ? 
 Or were they merely old enemies in new masks? How 
 was one to know ? . . . 
 
 A noise in the basement, the rattle of a kitchen range 
 being shaken clear of ashes, startled the girl to her feet 
 in a twinkling. However sharp her inquisitiveness and 
 her desire to see and to know more of this man, she en- 
 tertained no idea of lingering to be found there by 
 him. . . . 
 
 After bolting the door and before surrendering her tired 
 body to the invitation of the couch, she had yielded to the 
 temptation to make a brief tour of enquiry. The result 
 had satisfied her that Matthias had lied in one particular, 
 at least: unquestionably this was his workroom, but no 
 less surely the man lived as well as worked in it, much 
 if not all of the time. In its eastern wall Joan found a 
 door opening into a small bedroom furnished with almost 
 soldierly simplicity. And there were two large closets in 
 the southern wall of the chamber; in one she found his 
 wardrobe, a staggering array of garments, neatly arranged 
 in sharp contrast to the confusion of his desk ; the other 
 was a bath-room completely equipped, a dazzling luxury 
 in her eyes, with its white enamel, nickel-plate, glass and 
 porcelain fittings.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 53 
 
 She refreshed herself there after rising not without 
 a guilty sensation of trespass returning to the larger 
 room to complete her dressing; no great matter, since she 
 had merely laid aside skirt, coat, and shirtwaist, and loos- 
 ened her corsets before lying down. In a very little time 
 then, she was ready for the street ; but with her hands on 
 the doorknob and bolt, she hesitated, looking back, reluc- 
 tant to go a thankless guest. 
 
 Slowly she moved back to the centre-table, touching with 
 diffident fingers its jumble of manuscripts, typewriter- 
 paper, memoranda, and correspondence. There were let- 
 ters in plenty, a rack stuffed with them, others scattered 
 like leaves hither and yon, one and all superscribed with 
 the name of John Matthias, Esq., many in the handwriting 
 of women, a few scented, but very faintly. Joan wondered 
 about these women and his relations with them. Was he 
 greatly loved and by many ? It would not be strange, she 
 thought, if he were. . . . 
 
 Her temper curiously unsettled by these reflections, she 
 stood for a long time, staring and thinking. Then a re- 
 newed disturbance in the lower regions of the house sent 
 her packing but not until she had left an inadequate 
 scrawl of thanks, whose poverty and crudity she felt keenly. 
 Why had she never learned to write a hand of delicately 
 angular distinction to bear comparison with the hands that 
 had addressed those impeccably " correct " notes ? . . . 
 
 The hallway was deserted. She let herself hastily out, 
 believing she had escaped detection. 
 
 Sunlight swept the street from side to side, a pitiless 
 and withering blast. Already every trace of last night's 
 shower had vanished, blotted up by an atmosphere all 
 a-quiver with the impetuous passion of those early, slant- 
 ing rays. As if every living thing had been driven to 
 shelter, or dared not venture forth, the street was quiet 
 and empty. In violent contrast, the tides of life ran 
 brawling through Longacre Square on one hand ' and 
 Eighth Avenue on the other.
 
 54 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Joan turned toward the latter, moving listlessly enough 
 once she had gained the grateful shadow of its easterly 
 sidewalks. A clock in the window of a delicatessen shop 
 told her the hour was half-past seven, while the sight of 
 the food unattractively displayed proved a sharper re- 
 minder of breakfast-time. She had no other concern in 
 the world just then. It would be hours before she could 
 accomplish anything toward establishing her independence ; 
 and what steps she was to take toward that consummation 
 remained altogether nebulous in her understanding. 
 
 She had not gone far before a dairy lunch settled the 
 question as to where she was to breakfast. 
 
 It was a small, shabby, dingy place, its walls plastered 
 with white tiling and mirrors. Joan's order comprised a 
 cup of brownish-yellow liquid, which was not coffee, and 
 three weighty cakes known as " sinkers." These last might 
 have been crude, childish models in putty of the popular 
 American " hot biscuit," but were larger and slightly 
 scorched on top and bottom, and when pried open revealed 
 a composition resembling aerated clay. Joan anointed 
 them generously with butter and consumed them with evi- 
 dent relish. Her powers of digestion were magnificent. 
 The price of the meal was ten cents. She went away with 
 a sense of repletion and seventy-two cents. 
 
 She turned northward again. An empty day of arid 
 hours confronted her perturbed and questioning imagina- 
 tion. She was still without definite plans or notion which 
 way to turn for shelter. She knew only that everything 
 must be settled before nightfall: she dared not trust to 
 find another John Matthias, she could not sleep in the 
 streets or parks, and return to East Seventy-sixth Street 
 she would not. She had her own exertions to rely upon 
 and seventy-two cents : the one as woefully inadequate 
 as the other. 
 
 Near Columbus Circle she bought a copy of the New 
 York World for the sake of its " Help Wanted " adver- 
 tisements, and strolled on into Central Park.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 55 
 
 Here she found some suggestion of nature rising re- 
 freshed from its over-night bath to bask in sunlight. The 
 grass was nowhere scorched, and in shadowed spots still 
 sparkled with rain-drops. The air was still, steamy, and 
 heady with fragrance of vegetation. Upon this artificial, 
 rectangular oasis a sky of robin's-egg blue smiled benignly. 
 A sense of peace and friendly fortunes impregnated the 
 girl's being. Somehow she felt serenely sure that nothing 
 untoward could happen to her. The world was all too 
 beautiful and kindly. . . . 
 
 She discovered a remote bench and there unfolded her 
 newspaper and ran hastily through its advertising columns, 
 finding one reason or another for rejecting every opening 
 that seemed to promise anything in the nature of such 
 employment as she had theretofore known. There were 
 no cards from theatrical firms in need of chorus-girls, 
 and nothing else interested her. She was now obsessed by 
 two fixed ideas, as they might have been the poles of her 
 world: she was going on the stage; she was not going 
 back behind a counter. 
 
 Yet she must find a way to live until the stage should 
 open its jealous doors to her. . . . 
 
 The morning hours ebbed slowly, with increasing heat. 
 From time to time Joan, for one reason or another, would 
 drift idly on to another bench. 
 
 Once, as she sat dreaming with vacant eyes, she was 
 roused by the quick beating of muffled hoofs, and looked 
 up in time to see a woman on horseback pass swiftly along 
 a bridle-path, closely pursued by a man, likewise mounted. 
 The face of the horsewoman burned bright with pleasure 
 and excitement and her eyes shone like stars as she glanced 
 over-shoulder at her distanced escort. She rode well and 
 looked very trim and well turned out in her habit of light- 
 coloured linen. Joan thought her charming and un- 
 speakably blessed. 
 
 Later they returned; but now their horses walked se- 
 dately side by side; and the woman was smiling softly,
 
 56 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 with her eyes downcast, as she listened to her companion, 
 who bent eagerly close to her and spoke in a low and in- 
 timate voice. 
 
 For hours afterwards Joan was haunted by the memory, 
 and rent with envious longing. A hundred times she pic- 
 tured herself in the place of the horsewoman; and the 
 man at her side wore always the manner and the aspect 
 of John Matthias. . . . 
 
 About two o'clock in the afternoon she lunched meagrely 
 on crackers-and-milk at another dairy establishment on 
 Columbus Avenue reducing her capital to sixty-one 
 cents. Then, recrossing the park, she made her way back 
 through the sweltering side-streets toward her late home. 
 She arrived in time to see her father's burly figure lum- 
 bering heavily up the street. His gaze was to the side- 
 walk, his mind upon the poolrooms, his thick, pendulous 
 lower lip quivered with incessant, inaudible repetition of 
 race-track names and records. He would not have recog- 
 nized Joan had he looked directly at her. And he did n't 
 look. 
 
 She was safe, now, to make her final visit to the flat. 
 Thursby could be counted on not to return before six 
 o'clock. She hastened across the street and up the narrow, 
 dark and noisome stairway. . . . 
 
 Seated at the dining-table, over an array of dishes dis- 
 coloured with the residue of the mid-day stew, her mother, 
 seemingly more immaterial than ever, merely lifted shad- 
 owed and apathetic eyes to Joan's face as she entered. 
 Edna, on the contrary, jumped up with a hushed cry of 
 surprise not untouched by alarm. 
 
 "Joan!" 
 
 The girl assumed a confident swagger. It was borne in 
 upon her, very suddenly, that she must prove a ready liar 
 in answer to the storm of questions that was about to 
 break. 
 
 " Hello, people ! " she cried cheerfully. " How 's every- 
 thing 2 "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 57 
 
 " Did n't the Old Man meet you on the stairs ? " de- 
 manded Edna in a frightened breath. 
 
 " Nope : I waited till he 'd turned the corner," Joan 
 returned defiantly. " Anyway I ain't afraid of him. 
 What 'd he say, last night, after I was gone ? " 
 
 Edna started to speak, stammered and fell still, turning 
 a timid gaze to her mother. 
 
 " No more 'n he said before you went out," said 
 the latter listlessly. " He won't hear of your coming 
 back " 
 
 " A lot I care ! " Joan retorted with a fling of her head. 
 " All I 'm after 's my things. I Ve done enough for this 
 family. . . . Now I ? m going to look out for Number 
 One." 
 
 The mother made no response. She seemed no longer 
 to see Joan, whose bosom swelled and palpitated with a 
 suddenly-acquired sense of personal grievance. 
 
 " I 've done enough ! " she repeated mutinously. 
 
 Edna said in a tremulous voice : " I don't know what 
 we '11 do without you " 
 
 " Do as I done ! " Joan broke in hotly. " Go out and 
 get a job and slave all day long so 's your father won't 
 have to support his family. Go on and try it : I 'm sick 
 and tired of it ! " 
 
 She turned and strode angrily into the front rooms. 
 Edna followed, awed but inquisitive. 
 
 Pulling their bed out from the wall, Joan disentangled 
 from the accumulation of odds and ends beneath it a small 
 suit-case of matting, in which she began to pack her scanty 
 store of belongings : all in embittered silence, ignoring her 
 sister. 
 
 " Where 'd you stay last night ? " Edna ventured, at 
 length. 
 
 " With a friend of mine," Joan answered brusquely. 
 
 " Who ? " the other persisted. 
 
 Joan hesitated not one instant; the lie was required 
 to save her face.
 
 58 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Maizie Dean, if you got to know." 
 
 " Who 's Maizie Dean ? I never heard you speak of 
 her " 
 
 " Lizzie Fogarty, then," said Joan roughly. " She used 
 to work with me at the stocking counter. Then she went 
 on the stage. Now she 's making big money." 
 
 " Is she going to get you a job ? " 
 
 " Of course foolish ! " 
 
 "Where's she live?" 
 
 " Down in Forty-fifth Street, near Eighth Avenue." 
 
 " What 's the number of the house ? " 
 
 " What do you want to know for ? " 
 
 " Ain't you going back there ? " 
 
 Joan shut down the lid of the suit-case and began to 
 strap it. " Yes," she said with a trace of reluctance. 
 
 " I might wanta write to you," insisted Edna. " Any- 
 thing might happen and you not know " 
 
 " Oh, well, then," Joan admitted, with an air of ex- 
 treme ennui, " the number 's Two-eighty-nine. Catch that ? 
 Don't forget." 
 
 " I won't." 
 
 " Besides," Joan added, lifting her voice for the benefit 
 of the listener in the dining-room, " you don't need to be 
 so much in a rush to think I ain't ever coming back to 
 see you. You got no right to think that of me, after the 
 way I 've turned in my pay week in and week out, right 
 straight along. I don't know what makes you think I 've 
 turned mean. I 'm going to come and see you and ma 
 every week, and as soon 's I begin to make money you '11 
 get your share, all right, all right ! " 
 
 " Joan " the younger girl whispered, drawing nearer. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " They had a nawf ul row last night ma and pa 
 after you went." 
 
 " I bet he done all the rowing ! " 
 
 " He " Edna's thin, pale cheeks coloured faintly with 
 indignation " he said rotten things to her said it was
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 59 
 
 because you took after her made you want to go on the 
 stage." 
 
 " That 's like him, the brute ! " Joan commented between 
 her teeth. " What 'd she say ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Then he lit into Butch, but Butch stood up 
 to him and told him to shut his face or he 'd knock his 
 block off." 
 
 " And he did shut his face, did n't he ? " 
 
 Edna nodded vigorously. " Yeh but he rowed with 
 ma for hours after they 'd went to bed. I could hear 
 him fussing and swearing. She never answered one 
 word." 
 
 Reminiscences of like experiences of her own, long 
 white nights through which she had lain sleepless, listen- 
 ing to the endless, indistinguishable monologue of recrimi- 
 nation and abuse in the adjoining bedroom, softened Joan's 
 mood. 
 
 She returned to the dining-room. 
 
 Her mother's head had fallen forward on arms folded 
 amidst the odious disorder of unclean dishes. Through 
 a long minute Joan regarded with sombre eyes that un- 
 lovely and pitiful head, with its scant covering of greyish 
 hair stretched taut from nape to temple and brow and 
 twisted into a ragged knot at the back, with its hollowed 
 temples and sunken cheeks, its thin and stringy neck 
 emerging from the collar of a cheap and soiled Mother 
 Hubbard. With new intentness, as if seeing them for the 
 first time, she studied the dejected curve of those toil-bent 
 shoulders, and the lean red forearms with their gnarled 
 and scalded hands. 
 
 Dull emotions troubled the girl, pity and apprehen- 
 sion entering into her mood to war with selfishness and 
 obstinacy. 
 
 This drudge that was her mother had once been a woman 
 like herself, straight and strong and fashioned in clean, 
 firm contours of wholesome flesh. To what was due this 
 dreadful metamorphosis ? To the stage ? Or to Man ?
 
 60 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Or to both? . . . Must she in the end become as her 
 mother was, a battered derelict of womanhood, hopeless 
 of salvage? 
 
 Slipping to her knees, she passed an arm across the 
 thin, sharp shoulders of the woman. 
 
 " Ma . . ." she said gently. 
 
 The response was a whisper barely audible, her name 
 breathed in a sigh: " Joan . . ." 
 
 Beneath her warm, strong arm there was the faintest 
 perceptible movement of the shoulders. 
 
 " Listen to me, ma : I ain't going to forget you and 
 Edna. I am going to work hard and take care of 
 you." 
 
 The mother moved her head slightly, turning her face 
 away from her daughter. Otherwise she was wholly un- 
 responsive. Joan might have been talking to the deaf. 
 
 She divined suddenly something of the tragedy and 
 despair of this inarticulate creature whose body had borne 
 her, who had once been as her daughter was now. Before 
 her mental vision unfolded a vast and sordid tapestry 
 a patchwork-thing made up of hints, innuendoes and 
 snatches of half-remembered conversations, heretofore 
 meaningless, of a thousand-and-one insignificant circum- 
 stances, individually valueless, assembling into an almost 
 intelligible whole: picturing in dim, distorted perspective 
 the history of her mother, drab, pitiful, appalling. . . . 
 
 Abruptly, bending forward, Joan touched her lips to the 
 sallow cheek. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said stiffly; " I got to go." 
 
 She rose. Her mother did not move. Edna stared 
 wonderingly, as though a bystander at a scene of whose 
 meaning she was ignorant. Joan took up her suit-case 
 and went to the door. 
 
 " S'long, kid," she saluted her sister lightly. " Take 
 good care of ma while I 'm away. See you before long." 
 
 She hesitated again in the open doorway, with her hand 
 on the knob.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 61 
 
 " And tell Butch I said thanks." 
 
 She was half-way down to the next landing before she 
 became aware of Edna bending over the banisters. 
 
 "Joan " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 The girl paused. 
 
 " I 'most forgot : Butch said if you was to come in to 
 tell you to drop around to the store th'safternoon. Said 
 he had something to tell you." 
 
 " What ? " demanded Joan, incredulous. 
 
 " I dunno. He just said that this morning." 
 
 " All right. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye, Joan." 
 
 To eyes dazzled by ambition, the news-stand, shouldered 
 on either side by a prosperous delicatessen shop and a 
 more prosperous and ornate corner saloon, wore a look 
 unusually hopeless and pitiful : it was so small, so narrow- 
 chested, so shabby! 
 
 Its plate-glass show-window, dim with the accumulated 
 grime of years, bore in block letters of white enamel 
 with several letters missing the legend: 
 
 A THUE BY 
 
 Newsd ler & Stationer 
 igars & Con tionery 
 
 Before the door stood a wooden newspaper stand, painted 
 red and black, advertising the one-cent evening sheet which 
 furnished it gratis. A few dusty stacks of papers orna- 
 mented it. The door was wide open, disclosing an in- 
 terior furnished with dirt-smeared show-cases which housed 
 a stock of cheap cigars and tobacco, boxes of villainous 
 candy to be retailed by the cent's-worth, writing-paper in 
 gaudy, fly-specked packages, magazines, and a handful 
 of brittle toys, perennially unsold. The floor was seldom 
 swept and had never been scrubbed in all the nine years 
 that Thursby had been a tenant of the place.
 
 62 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 The establishment was, as Joan had anticipated, in sole 
 charge of Butch, who occupied a tilted chair, his lean 
 nose exploring the sporting pages of The Evening Journal. 
 Inevitably, a half-consumed Sweet Caporal cigarette or- 
 namented his cynic mouth. He greeted Joan with a 
 flicker of amusement. 
 
 " 'Lo, kid ! " he said : and threw aside the paper. 
 "What's doing?" 
 
 " Edna said you wanted to see me." 
 
 " Yeh : that 's right." Butch yawned liberally and 
 thrust his hat to the back of his head. 
 
 " Well ? " said the girl sharply. " What do you want ? " 
 
 Butch delayed his answer until he had inserted a fresh 
 cigarette between his lips, lighted it from the old, and in- 
 haled deeply. Interim he looked her over openly, with the 
 eyes of one from whom humanity has no secrets. 
 
 " Dja land that job ? " he enquired at length, smoke 
 trickling from his mouth and nostrils, a grim smile lurk- 
 ing about his lips. 
 
 " Have n't tried yet." 
 
 " But you 're goin' to ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " What line ? Chorus girl or supe in the legit ? " 
 
 " I 'm going to try to do anything that turns up," Joan 
 affirmed courageously. 
 
 " Try anythin' once, eh ? " murmured the boy with 
 profound irony. " Well, where you goin' to hang out till 
 you land ? " 
 
 The lie ran glibly off her tongue this time : " With 
 Maizie Dean Two-eighty-nine West Forty-fifth." 
 
 " That where you stayed last night ? " 
 
 " Yes . . ." she faltered, already beginning to repent 
 and foresee unhappy complications in event Butch should 
 try to find her at the address she had given. 
 
 The boy got up suddenly and stood close to her, search- 
 ing her face with his prematurely knowing eyes. 
 
 " Look here, kid ! " he said roughly. " Hand it to me
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 63 
 
 straight now: on the level, there ain't no man mixed up 
 in this ? " 
 
 She was^ able to meet his gaze without a tremor : " On 
 the dead level, Butch." 
 
 " That 's all right then. Only . . ." 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 " There '11 be regular trouble for the guy, if I ever find 
 out you 've lied to me." 
 
 " What business " 
 
 " Ah, cut that ! " snarled Butch. " You 're my sister 
 see ? And you 're a damn' little fool, and somebody 's 
 got to look out for you. And that means me. You go 
 ahead and try this stage thing all you like but duck the 
 men, duck 'em every time ! " 
 
 He eyed her momentarily from a vast and aloof coign 
 of vantage. She was dumb with resentment, oppressed 
 by amazement and a little in awe of the boy, her junior 
 though he was. 
 
 " Now, lis'en : got any money ? " 
 
 " No yes fifty cents," she stammered. 
 
 " That ain't goin' to carry you far over the bumps. 
 Who 's goin' to put up for you while you 're lookin' for 
 this job-thing ? Your frien' Maizie ? " 
 
 " I don't know I guess so yes : I 'm going to stay 
 with her." 
 
 " Well, you won't last long if you don't come through 
 with some coin every little while." 
 
 Without warning Butch produced a small packet of bills 
 from his trouser-pocket. 
 
 " Djever see them before ? " he enquired, with his mock- 
 ing smile. 
 
 Joan gasped : " My money ! " 
 
 " Uh-huh," Butch nodded. " Fell outa your bag when 
 you side-stepped the Old Man and beat it, last night. He 
 did n't see it, and I sneaked the bunch while he was n't 
 lookin'. G'wan take it." 
 
 He thrust the money into her fingers that closed convul-
 
 64. JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 sively upon it. For a moment she choked and gulped, on 
 the verge of tears, so overpowering was the sense of relief. 
 
 "O Butch !" 
 
 " Ah, cut that out. It 's your money, all right ain't 
 it?" 
 
 She began with trembling fingers to count the bills. 
 Butch tilted his head to one side and regarded her with 
 undisguised disgust. 
 
 " Say, you must have a swell opinion of me, kid, to 
 think I 'd hold out on you ! " 
 
 She stared bewildered. 
 
 " There 's twenty-two dollars here, Butch ! " 
 
 Her hand moved out as if offering to return the money. 
 With an angry movement he slapped it back and turned 
 away. 
 
 " That 's right," he muttered sourly. " I slipped an 
 extra ten in. I guess I gotta right to, ain't I ? You 're 
 my sister, and you '11 need it before you get through, all 
 right." 
 
 She lingered, stunned. " But, Butch ... I ought n't 
 to . . ." 
 
 "Ah, can that guff and beat it. The Old Man's 
 liable to be back any minute." 
 
 Seizing her suit-case, he urged her none too gently 
 toward the door. 
 
 " It 'a awful' good of you, Butch awful' good 
 
 " All right all right. But can the gush-thing till next 
 time." 
 
 Overwhelmed, Joan permitted herself to be thrust out 
 of the door; and then, recovering to some extent, masked 
 her excitement as best she could and trudged away across- 
 town, back toward Central Park. 
 
 Blind instinct urged her to that refuge where she would 
 have quiet and peace while she thought things out: a 
 necessity which had not existed until within the last fifteen 
 minutes. 
 
 Before her interview with Butch she had been penniless
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 65 
 
 and planless. But now she found herself in circumstances 
 of comparative affluence and independence. Twenty-two 
 dollars strictly economized surely ought to keep her fed 
 and sheltered in decent lodgings for at least three weeks ; 
 within which time she would quite as surely find employ- 
 ment of some sort. 
 
 It remained to decide how best to conserve her re- 
 sources. On the face of the situation, she had nothing 
 to do but seek the cheapest and meanest rooming-house 
 in the city. But in her heart of hearts she had already 
 determined to return to the establishment of Madame 
 Duprat, beyond her means though it might be, ostensibly 
 to await the return of the Dancing Deans, secretly that she 
 might be under the same roof with John Matthias. 
 
 And in the end it was to Number 289 that she turned. 
 At half-past four she stood again on the brownstone stoop, 
 waiting an answer to her ring. 
 
 And at the same moment, John Matthias, handsomely 
 garbed in the best of his wardrobe but otherwise invested 
 in a temper both indignant and rebellious, instituted a 
 dash from room to train, handicapped by a time-limit 
 ridiculously brief. 
 
 As the front door slammed at his back, he pulled up 
 smartly to escape collision with the girl on the stoop. He 
 looked at and through her, barely conscious of her pretty, 
 pallid face and the light of recognition in her eyes. 
 Then, with a murmured apology, he dodged neatly round 
 her, swung down the steps, and frantically hailed a passing 
 taxicab. 
 
 Joan, dashed and disappointed, saw the vehicle swing 
 in to the curb and heard Matthias, as he clambered in, 
 direct the driver to the Pennsylvania Station with all 
 possible haste. 
 
 She stared after the dwindling cab disconsolately. He 
 had n't even known her ! 
 
 In another minute she would have turned her back on 
 the house and sought lodgings elsewhere, but the door
 
 66 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 abruptly opened a second time, revealing Madame Duprat, 
 a forbidding but imperative figure, upon the threshold. 
 
 Timidly in her confusion the girl made some semi- 
 articulate enquiry as to the address of Miss Maizie Dean. 
 
 To her astonishment and consternation, the landlady un- 
 bent and smiled. 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed with unction. " Mademoiselle 
 is the friend of Monsieur Matthias, is it not ? Very good. 
 Will you not be pleased to enter? It is but this after- 
 noon that the Sisters Dean have returned so altogether 
 unexpectedly."
 
 VII 
 
 ALONE in the body of a touring-car, Helena Tankerville, 
 a slender and fair woman in white, as cool and fresh to 
 look upon as the day was hot and weary to endure, con- 
 sulted her bracelet-watch, shrugged recklessly, and lifted 
 her parasol an inch or so to enable her to level an im- 
 perious stare at the point where the straight, shining lines 
 of railroad track debouched from the western woodland; 
 as if expecting the very strength of her impatience to 
 conjure into sight the overdue train. 
 
 She was very pretty and prettily dressed and sure of 
 herself; there were evidences of temper and determina- 
 tion mixed with disquietude in her manner; and there 
 was no one in her present neighbourhood (except possibly 
 her chauffeur) of whose existence she considered it worth 
 her while to be aware. None the less, she was conscious 
 that she was visible. . . . 
 
 A faint puff of vapour bellied above the distant screen 
 of pines. Immediately a far, mellow, prolonged hoot 
 turned all faces toward the west. A rakish, low-lying 
 locomotive with a long tail of coaches emerged from the 
 woodland and, breathing forth vast volumes of smoke, 
 fled a pursuing cloud of dust, straight as an arrow to the 
 station; where, panting with triumph and relief, as one 
 having won a race, it drew in beside the platform. 
 
 Incontinently, upwards of two hundred people, the 
 majority of them men in apparently comfortable circum- 
 stances, well dressed to the standards of summer negli- 
 gence, swarmed out of the cars and ran hither and yon, 
 heedlessly elbowing one another and gabbling vocif- 
 erously as they sought accommodation in the long rank
 
 68 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 of station-wagons, 'buses, surreys, smartly appointed traps, 
 and motor-cars. 
 
 Helena, bending forward, overlooked them all with im- 
 perceptible disdain. The face she sought was not among 
 those that swam in review beneath her. And presently 
 encountering an overbold glance, she drew back with a 
 little frown of annoyance. Already the throng was thin- 
 ning; conveyances laden to the guards were drawing out 
 of the rank and rattling and rumbling off through stifling 
 drifts of dust ; no more passengers were issuing from the 
 coaches ; and already the parlour-car porters were picking 
 up their stools and preparing to swing back aboard the 
 train. The conductor waved his final signal. The bell 
 tolled its warning. The locomotive belched black smoke 
 and cinders and amid stentorian puffings began to move, 
 the coaches following to their tune of clanking couplings. 
 No sign of her refractory nephew. And still Helena 
 hesitated to give the order to drive home; John had 
 telephoned ; it was n't like him to be delinquent in his 
 promises. 
 
 The end of the last car was passing her when she saw 
 him. He appeared suddenly on the rearmost platform, 
 with the startled expression and air of a Jack-in-the-box; 
 dropped his suit-case over the rear rail; ran down the 
 steps; delayed an instant to gauge distance and speed: 
 and with nice calculation dropped lightly to the ground. 
 
 Pausing only to recover his luggage, he approached the 
 motor-car with a sheepish smile for his handsome young 
 aunt, who regarded him with an air of mingled bewilder- 
 ment and despair. 
 
 " Wel-1 ! " she exclaimed, as soon as he was near enough 
 to hear " of all things ! " 
 
 " Right you are ! " he affirmed gravely, tossing his hand- 
 bag into the car and following it. " Kick along, Davy," 
 he added, with a nod to the chauffeur; and gracefully 
 sank back upon the seat beside Helena. 
 
 Purring, the car began to grope its way through the
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 69 
 
 dust-fog. Matthias turned twinkling eyes to his aunt. 
 She compressed her lips and shook her head helplessly. 
 
 " Words inadequate, aunty ? " 
 
 " Quite ! " she said. " What were you doing on that 
 train, to come so near forgetting the station ? " 
 
 "Thinking," he explained: "wrapped in profound 
 and exhaustive meditation. I say, how stunning you 
 look!" 
 
 She gave him up; or one inferred as much from her 
 gesture. 
 
 " You 're impossible," she said in a tragic voice. 
 " Thinking ! . . . While / had to wait there and be 
 ogled by all those odious men ! " 
 
 " You must 've been ready to sink through the ground." 
 
 She eyed him stonily. " You did n't care ! " 
 
 " Even if I had n't been preoccupied, it would never 
 have entered my head that you seriously objected to being 
 admired." 
 
 She received this in injured silence. Matthias chuckled 
 to himself and settled more comfortably into his seat. 
 The motor-car turned off the main road from the station 
 to the village of Port Madison, down which the greater 
 number of its predecessors had clattered, and found un- 
 clouded air on a well-metalled lane bordered with aged 
 oaks and maples. Through a funnel-like dip between 
 hills, Matthias, looking past his aunt, caught a fleeting 
 glimpse of the cluttered roofs of Port Madison, its shallow, 
 land-locked harbour set with a little fleet of pleasure 
 boats, and the ineffable, burning blue of the distant 
 Sound. . . . 
 
 " I presume," Helena returned to the charge, disarm- 
 ingly aggrieved, " you think I ought to be grateful for 
 your condescending to return at all ! " 
 
 " Forgive me," he pleaded, not altogether insincerely ; 
 " I know it was n't right of me to run away like that, but 
 I could n't help it" 
 
 " You could n't help it ! " she murmured despairingly.
 
 70 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " That 's just the way of it. I got to thinking about 
 a play I wanted to write, yesterday afternoon, and 
 well, along about ten o'clock it got too strong for me. 
 I just had to get back to my typewriter. You know how 
 that is." 
 
 " I ? What do I know about your silly play-writing ? " 
 
 Laughing, he bent nearer and patted the gloved hand on 
 the cushions beside him. " You know perfectly well, 
 Helena dear, what it is to want to do something so bad 
 you simply can't help yourself. It 's the Matthias blood in 
 both of us. That 's why you ran off and married Tanker- 
 ville against everybody's advice. Of course, it did turn 
 out beautifully ; but you did n't stop to wonder whether 
 it would or not when you took it into your head to marry 
 him. The same with me : you decide that it 's high 
 time for your delightful sister-in-law to get married, and 
 you look round and fix on your dutiful nephew for the 
 bridegroom-elect wholly because you want it to be that 
 way." 
 
 " Don't you ? " she demanded sharply. 
 
 He took a moment to think this over. " I suppose I 
 do," he admitted almost reluctantly. " But ' 
 
 " You 're in love with her ! " Helena declared with 
 spirit. 
 
 " Quite true, but " 
 
 " Then why," she begged in tones of moderate exas- 
 peration " why do you object hang fire run away 
 like a silly, frightened schoolboy as soon as I get every- 
 thing arranged for you ? " 
 
 " But, you see, I 'm not in a position to get married 
 yet," he argued. " I have n't " 
 
 " How 's that ' not in a position' ? " she interrupted 
 testily. 
 
 " You keep forgetting I 'm the family pauper, the poor 
 relation, whereas Venetia has all the money there is, more 
 or less." 
 
 " There you are ! " Helena turned her palms out ex-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 71 
 
 pressively ; folded them in resignation. " What more 
 can you ask ? " 
 
 " Something more nearly approaching an equal footing, 
 at least." 
 
 " Jack ! " she turned to him with a fine air of inno- 
 cence " how much money have you got, anyway ? " 
 
 " Thirty-six hundred per annum, as you know very 
 well," he replied. " But, my dear, dear aunty (you 're 
 one of the most beautiful creatures alive and I 'm awfully 
 proud and fond of you) surely you must understand that 
 no decent fellow wants to go to the girl he 's in love with 
 and make a proposition like this : 1 1 've got thirty-six 
 hundred and you 've got three hundred and sixty thou- 
 sand ; let 's marry and divide.' ' 
 
 " How long have you been writing plays ? " 
 
 " Oh . . . several years." 
 
 " And how many have you written ? " 
 
 " Quite a few." 
 
 " And how much have you made at it ? " 
 
 " Next to nothing, but " 
 
 " Then why do you persist ? " 
 
 " Because it 's the thing I want to do." 
 
 " But you can't make any money at it " 
 
 " I may make a lot before long. Meanwhile, I like 
 it." 
 
 " But if you 'd only listen to reason and let Tanker- 
 ville " 
 
 " With all the best intentions in the world, dear Helena, 
 Tankerville could n't make me a successful business man. 
 It is n't in me. Permit me to muddle along in my own, 
 'special, wrong-headed way, and the chances iare I '11 
 make good in the end. But, once and for all, I refuse 
 positively to give up my trade and try to make sense of 
 Wall Street methods." 
 
 Helena moved her shoulders impatiently. For an in- 
 stant she was silenced. Then : " But marriage need n't 
 necessarily put an end to your playwriting. A good
 
 72 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 marriage as with Venetia ought even to help, I 
 should think." 
 
 " But you persist in forgetting I 'm not a fortune 
 hunter." 
 
 " But," she countered smartly, " Marbridge is." 
 
 He said : " Oh Marbridge ! " as if dumbfounded. 
 
 She smiled quietly, a very wise and superior smile. 
 
 To this point the car had been steadily ascending; 
 the noise of the motor, together with the frequent stutter- 
 ings of the exhaust with the muffler cut-out, had been 
 sufficient to disguise the substance of their communica- 
 tion from the ears of the operator. Now, however, they 
 surmounted the highest point and began the more gradual 
 descent to the Tankerville estate. And with less noise 
 there was consequently very little talking on the part 
 of the two on the rear seat. For which Matthias was n't 
 altogether sorry. He wanted time to think to think 
 about Venetia Tankerville in the new light cast upon her 
 by his aunt's concluding remark: as affected by her 
 friendship with Vincent Marbridge. 
 
 In the natural swing of events, it would never have 
 occurred to him to consider Marbridge's attentions seri- 
 ously. Nobody ever took Marbridge seriously, he be- 
 lieved, aside from a few exceptionally foolish women. . . . 
 
 Noiselessly the car slipped down a mile-long avenue 
 to the brow of a promontory. On either hand Tangle- 
 wood's long parked terraces fell away to the water: on 
 the left the harbour of Port Madison, on the right, Long 
 Island Sound. 
 
 Matthias was barely conscious of these things ; his mood 
 was haunted by an extraordinarily clear vision of Vin- 
 cent Marbridge: not tall, but by no means short; a 
 trifle stout, but none the less a well-knit figure of a man, 
 and tremendously alive; dark, with a broad, blunt, good- 
 humoured face and seal-brown eyes that were exceed- 
 ingly handsome and expressive; keen-witted and accom- 
 plished, knowing almost everybody and every place and
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 73 
 
 thing worth knowing; hedonist and egoist, selfish, un- 
 scrupulous, magnetic, fascinating. 
 
 Impressed, Matthias frowned. His aunt eyed him 
 covertly, with a sly, semi-affectionate, semi-malicious 
 smile shadowing her mouth. 
 
 Slackening its pace, the car took the wide semicircle of 
 the drive and slid sedately to a dead stop by the carriage- 
 block. Matthias pulled himself together, jumped out, and 
 gave his hand to his aunt. They turned toward the 
 house. 
 
 Tankerville's pretentious marble palace crowned the 
 brow of the headland with an effect as exquisite as a 
 dream of an ancient French chateau realized in snow. 
 For this its owner had his wife to thank. Helena, unable 
 to curb her husband's desire for the most expensive and 
 ostentatious place obtainable, had at least guided his choice 
 of design. It was too magnificent, it was overpowering, 
 but it was beautiful; and it was more than ever beau- 
 tiful at this hour, with its walls in part bathed in a 
 rose-pink light of sunset, in part shadowed as with a 
 wash of violet, and with all its admirable proportions 
 stark against the dusky sapphire of the Sound. 
 
 An unwonted stillness clung about the place. Matthias 
 wondered. 
 
 " It might be the palace of the Sleeping Beauty," he 
 said. " Why this deadly and benumbing silence ? 
 What " 
 
 " Oh, simply that Tankerville decided this morning 
 to take everybody down to Huntington for lunch. They 
 got away quite early, in the Enchantress. Come out on 
 the terrace; we'll look for them." 
 
 They passed through a wide, cool, panelled hallway. 
 
 " Why did n't you go ? " 
 
 " You know I hate the water. Besides, I had a head- 
 ache at least, I had one until the Enchantress got 
 under way; and furthermore I meant to stay at home 
 and meet you and talk it out."
 
 74 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Venetia went, of course ? " 
 
 " Of course and Marbridge and everybody ! " 
 
 He grunted thoughtfully. They descended to a terrace 
 which jutted airily out over the edge of a cliff, with a 
 sheer drop of a hundred and fifty feet to the beach. 
 
 Helena, dropping languidly into a wicker chair, mo- 
 tioned Matthias to the broad marble balustrade. 
 
 " Any sign of the Enchantress, O perturbed nephew ? " 
 
 He lingered there for an instant, marvelling with an 
 inexhaustible wonder at the magnificent sweep of the 
 view, then remembering, raked the waters until he dis- 
 covered Tankerville's power-cruiser standing in toward 
 the dock from the bottle-neck mouth of Port Madison 
 harbour. 
 
 Returning, he reported, seated himself near his aunt, 
 lighted a cigarette. 
 
 " Why did you ask him here anyway ? " he demanded 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Who ? " she parried mischievously. 
 
 " Marbridge, of course," he admitted, sulking in the 
 face of her manifest amusement. 
 
 " Jealous, Jackie ? " 
 
 " Oh if you insist." 
 
 She laughed. " The most encouraging symptom you Ve 
 yet betrayed ! . . . I did n't ask him. Tankerville did. 
 He likes him. The man 's amusing, after all." 
 
 " But you like him ? " 
 
 " He amuses me." 
 
 " He 's not precisely a tame cat ..." 
 
 " Dear boy ! " she laughed again, " I did n't fetch you 
 out here to worry about me. I 'm fire-proof. Venetia 's 
 quite another pair of shoes. Fret about her as much as 
 you like." 
 
 " When does he go Marbridge, I mean ? " 
 
 " Monday, I think. At least, I believe Tankerville 
 asked him for a week only." 
 
 " And that 's why you asked me, this particular week ? "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 75 
 
 " I thought you 'd be a good counter-irritant ; and 
 hoped you 'd come to your senses and secure Venetia 
 against all Marbridges for all time to come. You gave 
 me to understand you would." 
 
 " Pardon," he corrected a trifle stiffly : " I admitted 
 to you in strict confidence that I was in love with Venetia. 
 I never promised to ask her to marry me." 
 
 " Well, that 's what I understood you to mean. And 
 anyway, you 'd better. Neither Tankerville nor I can 
 control the girl ; she 's her own mistress and headstrong 
 enough to be a good match for any Matthias that ever 
 lived. If Marbridge ever convinces her that she likes 
 him . . ." 
 
 She concluded with an eloquent ellipsis. 
 
 " Probably," mused Matthias after prolonged delibera- 
 tion, " I 'd have lost my head before this if it had n't 
 been so full of that play." 
 
 Helena smiled indulgently. " It 's not too late . . . 
 I hope." 
 
 Troubled, he rose, walked to the balustrade, jerked his 
 cigarette into space, and returned. 
 
 " As between one fortune-hunter and another," he said 
 gloomily, " I 'm conceited enough to think myself the 
 safer bet." 
 
 His aunt smiled more openly : " See what Venetia 
 thinks." 
 
 " I will ! " said Matthias with a fine air of inalterable 
 determination.
 
 VIII 
 
 SINCE it was her whim and the winds indulged, Helena 
 had ordered that the rite of the late dinner be celebrated 
 by candlelight alone. Ten shaded candles graced the 
 places. In the centre of the table an ancient candelabrum 
 of gold added the mellow illumination of its seven ala- 
 baster arms, whose small flames yearned upward ardently, 
 with scarce a perceptible flicker, though every window was 
 wide to the whispering night. 
 
 One of these that faced Matthias framed a shimmering 
 sky of stars and the still black shield of the Sound, on 
 which the fixed and undeviating glare of a remote light- 
 house was reflected darkly, a long unwavering way of 
 light; he thought of a tall wax candle burning amid the 
 sanctified shadows of some vast and dark and still 
 cathedral. . . . 
 
 They were ten at table: from Helena's right, Pat 
 Atherton ( Tankerville's partner) a Mrs. Majendie, Mar- 
 bridge, a Mrs. Cardrow, Tankerville at the head; on 
 his right, Mrs. Pat Atherton, Matthias, Venetia Tanker- 
 ville, Majendie. The latter and his wife were almost 
 strangers to Matthias, having arrived only the previous 
 afternoon : but he thought them as pleasant and handsome 
 people as any of those with whom the Tankervilles liked 
 to fill their house. The Athertons were old friends; he 
 had known them well, long before Helena dreamed of 
 marrying Tankerville. Marbridge was an indifferently 
 familiar figure in the ways of his life; they frequented 
 the same clubs, and of late he had begun to encounter the 
 older man more and more frequently in his theatrical 
 divagations. Remained Mrs. Cardrow, a widow, the
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 77 
 
 acquaintance of a week's standing. Cardrow had been in 
 some way connected with the enterprises of Messrs. 
 Tankerville & Atherton ; how, Matthias did n't remember ; 
 a man of whom rumour said little that was good until it 
 began to say De mortuis . . . He had killed himself for 
 no accountable reason. His widow seemed to have sur- 
 vived bereavement with amazing grace. 
 
 Matthias admired her greatly. Women, he knew 
 Helena in their number mistrusted her for no cause 
 perceptible to him. He liked her, thought her little less 
 than absolutely charming. So, evidently, did Marbridge, 
 whose attitude toward her this evening was a little more 
 noticeably attentive than ever before. He seemed to exert 
 himself to interest and divert. His black eyes snapped. 
 As he talked his heavy body swayed slightly from the 
 hips, lending an accent to his animation. His laugh was 
 frequent and infectious. 
 
 She was a woman who smiled more than she laughed. 
 She smiled now, inscrutably, her beautiful, insolent eyes 
 half veiled with demure lashes, her face turned to Mar- 
 bridge, her chin a trifle high, bringing out the clear strong 
 lines of her throat and shoulders, which had the texture, 
 the pallor, and the firmness of fine ivory. Her eyes, when 
 she chose to discover them, were brown, her eyebrows 
 almost black, her hair dull gold, the gold of the candela- 
 brum the gold of artifice, on the word of Helena. 
 
 Perhaps it was to this odd colouring ivory and 
 brown, black and gold that Mrs. Cardrow owed most 
 of her strange and provoking quality. But there was 
 something else, something one could not define: at once 
 stimulating and elusive ; less charm than allure ; nameless ; 
 that attracted and repelled. . . . 
 
 These were thoughts set stirring by a dozen semi- 
 curious glances at the woman, in pauses in his con- 
 versation with Venetia. Matthias was in fact indifferent 
 to Mrs. Cardrow. But he was tremendously interested 
 in Venetia. It could hardly be otherwise since his
 
 78 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 talk with Helena. He was to marry Venetia. Amazing 
 thought ! 
 
 She was adorable. Of the other women, none compared 
 with Mrs. Cardrow: even Helena's beauty paled in con- 
 trast. But Venetia was to Mrs. Cardrow as dawn to 
 noon. One looked at Venetia and thought of a still sea 
 at daybreak, mobile to the young and fitful airs, radiant 
 with sunlight, breathless with apprehension of the long, 
 golden hours to come. One looked at Mrs. Cardrow and 
 thought of Woman. Venetia was dark, and the other 
 fair; Venetia was by no means a child, Mrs. Cardrow 
 not yet thirty. The gulf that set them apart was not 
 so much of years as of caste: they lived and thought 
 on different levels, mental if not social. Matthias liked 
 to think Venetia of the higher order. 
 
 He was to marry her. Incredible ! 
 
 And tonight her eyes were warm and kind for him, 
 and all for him. He could not see that there was any- 
 thing of self-interest in the infrequent glances she cast at 
 those who sat opposite, playing their time-old game 
 with such engaging candour. If she had thought much 
 of Marbridge, surely she must have betrayed some little 
 pique or chagrin. She was not blind; neither was she 
 patient and prone to self-effacement. Matthias had known 
 her long enough to have garnered vivid memories of her 
 resentment of slights, whether real or fancied. She was 
 unique and wonderful in many ways, but (he told him- 
 self in a catch-phrase of the hour) she was essentially 
 human. He could not have cared for a woman without 
 temper : he cared intensely for this girl- woman whose rare 
 loveliness seemed almost exotic in its singular scheme, 
 whose skin, fine of texture and colourless as milk-white 
 satin, was splashed with lips of burning scarlet, whose 
 eyes of deepest violet were luminous in the shadow of 
 hair of the richness and lustre of burnished bronze . . . 
 luminous and kind to him: he dared to hope greatly of 
 their sympathy.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 79 
 
 Through, dinner she had entertained him with a mirth- 
 ful, inconsecutive narrative of the adventures of the day. 
 ]N ow, as ices were served, her interest swerved suddenly 
 and found a new object in himself. 
 
 " Why did you run away last night ? " 
 
 " You really noticed it ? " 
 
 Light malice trembled on her lips : " Not till this 
 morning." 
 
 " You were so busy " an imperceptible nod indicated 
 Marbridge " I felt myself becoming ornamental. 
 Whereas, utility 's my proudest attribute. So I left you 
 dancing, and skipped by the light of the moon." 
 
 "Not really?" 
 
 " I assure you " 
 
 " Put out with me, I mean ? " 
 
 He sought her eyes again and found them veiled and 
 downcast. " Not the least in the world." 
 
 " Then, again, why ? " 
 
 " I wanted to get back to work. Besides, I had a 
 little business with a manager." 
 
 And so he had; but until this moment he had for- 
 gotten it. 
 
 " Play business ? " 
 
 " I 'm afraid I know no other." 
 
 " Is something new to be produced ? " 
 
 Matthias nodded : " Goes into rehearsal in August. 
 A melodrama I wrote some time ago f The Jade 
 God.' " 
 
 "Who produces it?" 
 
 " Rideout." 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 " A foolish actor : played a sketch of mine in vaudeville 
 for a couple of years and, because that got over, thinks 
 this piece must." 
 
 " But it will, won't it ? " 
 
 " I hope so ; but I 'm glad it 's not my money." 
 
 " And where will you open ? "
 
 80 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Heaven and the Shuberts only know. Hideout books 
 through the Shuberts, you understand." 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't." 
 
 " The Shuberts are the Independents the opposition 
 to the Syndicate headed by Klaw and Erlanger. You 
 see, the theatres of this country are practically all con- 
 trolled by one or the other combination. If you want 
 booking for your show, you 've got to take sides serve 
 God or Mammon." 
 
 " And which is which ? " 
 
 " The difference is imperceptible to the innocent by- 
 stander." 
 
 " But you '11 let us know ? " 
 
 " If we open within motoring distance of Town 
 rather ! " 
 
 Tankerville, edging his plump little body forward on 
 his chair, manoauvred his round and sun-scorched face 
 in vain attempts to catch his wife's eye past the inter- 
 vening candelabrum. Helena, however, divined his desire. 
 
 " Coffee in the card-room, George ? " 
 
 " Please ! " Tankerville bleated plaintively. 
 
 There was a concerted movement from the table. 
 
 Venetia lingered with Matthias. 
 
 " It 's auction, tonight. Shall you play ? " 
 
 " 'Fraid I '11 have to. So will you. Helena you 
 know " 
 
 " Of course. We must. Only " she sighed, petulant 
 " I 'd rather not. I 'd rather talk to you." 
 
 " Heroic measures ! " he laughed. " But consola- 
 tion note ! we 're two over two full tables. Therefore 
 we '11 have to cut in and out. That '11 give us some time 
 to ourselves." 
 
 " Yes," she agreed : " but it '11 be just our luck to 
 be disengaged at different times." 
 
 He paused in amused incredulity. " Do you really 
 want to talk to me as badly as all that ? " 
 
 She nodded, curtaining her eyes.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 81 
 
 " Very much," she said softly. 
 
 They entered the card-room and were summoned to 
 different tables. Matthias cut and edged Mrs. Cardrow 
 out by a single pip. How Venetia fared he did not learn, 
 more than that she was to play while Marbridge was to 
 stay out the first rubber. 
 
 He played even less intelligently than usual, with a 
 mind distracted. Venetia's new attitude, pleasant as had 
 been all their association, was a development of discon- 
 certing suddenness ; or else he had been witless and blind 
 beyond relief. And yet how could he say ? He was so 
 frequently misled by faculties befogged with dreaming, 
 that overlooked when they did not flatly deny the obvious : 
 it was possible that Helena had been more wise than he. 
 
 A sense of strain handicapped his judgment; whether 
 atmospheric or bred of his own emotion, he could not tell. 
 And yet, plumbing the deeps of his humour, he discovered 
 nothing there more exacting than bewilderment, more 
 exciting than hope. On the other hand, he could fix 
 upon nothing in the bearing of these amiable people to 
 lead him to believe that the feeling of tensity to which 
 he was susceptible was not the creation of his own fancy. 
 They played with a certain abandon of enjoyment, ab- 
 sorbed in their diversion. . . . 
 
 Looking past Venetia, at the other table Venetia 
 slim and tall and worshipful in a wonderful black gown 
 that rendered dazzling the whiteness of her flesh he 
 could see Mrs. Cardrow and Marbridge at the piano in 
 the drawing-room. The woman sat all but motionless, 
 white arms alone moving graciously in the half-light as 
 her deft hands wandered over the key-board. Marbridge, 
 his arms folded, lounged over the piano, his back to the 
 card-room. The eloquent movements of his round, dark 
 head, its emphatic nods and argumentative waggings, 
 seemed to indicate that he was bearing the burden of their 
 talk; but the music, hushed though it was, covered his 
 accents. The woman was looking up into his face with
 
 82 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 an expression of quick, pleased interest, her lips, half- 
 parted, smiling. 
 
 It did not occur to Matthias to wonder about the sub- 
 stance of their conversation. But for a sure clue to 
 the intrigue of Venetia's heart and his own he 
 would have given worlds. 
 
 Throwing down his cards, Tankerville announced with 
 satisfaction : " Game rubber. Jack, you go out 
 praise the Saints ! You 've cost Mrs. Pat close onto fifteen 
 dollars, more shame to you ! " 
 
 " Sorry ! " Matthias smiled cheerfully, rising. " You 
 would have me play." 
 
 " Hearkening and repentance ! " retorted Tankerville. 
 " Next time I marry, you can bet your sweet life I 'm 
 going to pick out a family of sure-'nough bridgers . . . 
 Call Mrs. Cardrow, will you now, like a good fellow." 
 
 But Mrs. Cardrow had already left the piano. Matthias 
 held a chair for her, and then, since the rubber at the 
 other table was not yet decided, strolled to a window. 
 
 The night tempted him. Almost unconsciously he 
 stepped out upon the terrace and wandered to the parapet. 
 
 Abstractedly he lighted a cigarette. When the tobacco 
 was aglow he held the match from him at arm's-length 
 over the abyss. Its flame burned as steadily as though 
 protected, flickering out only when, released, it fell. No 
 night ever more still than this: land and water alike 
 spellbound in breathless calm; even on the brow of that 
 high foreland where Tankerville had builded him his 
 lordly pleasure home, no hint of movement in the air! 
 And yet Matthias was conscious of nothing resembling 
 oppression. exhilaration, rather. He smiled vaguely 
 into the darkness. 
 
 From far below, echoing up from the placid waters of 
 Port Madison as from a sounding-board, came the tinkle- 
 tinkle of a banjo and the complaint of a harmonica. When 
 these were silent the wailing of violins was clearly aud- 
 ible, bridging a distance of over a mile across the harbour,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 83 
 
 from the ball-room of the country club. Far out upon 
 the Sound the night boat for Boston trudged along like 
 a slow-winging firefly; and presently its wash swept 
 inshore to rouse the beach below to sibilant and mur- 
 murous protest. In the east the vault of night was 
 pallid, azure and silver, with the promise of the reluctant 
 moon. 
 
 A hand fell gently upon his arm: Venetians. He had 
 not been aware of her approach, yet he was not startled. 
 He turned his head slowly, smiling. She said softly: 
 " Don't say anything wait till it rises." 
 
 They waited in silence. Her hand lingered upon 
 his arm; and that last, he knew, was trembling. The 
 nearness of her person, the intimacy of her touch, weighed 
 heavily upon his senses. 
 
 An edge of golden light appeared where the skies came 
 down to the sea; hesitated; increased. That wan and 
 spectral light, waxing, lent emphasis to the rare and 
 delicious wonder of her loveliness, to the impregnable 
 mystery of her womanhood. He regarded her with some- 
 thing near awe, with keen perception of his unworthiness : 
 as a spirit from Heaven had stooped to commune with him. 
 She lived; breathed; the hand upon his arm was warm 
 and strong . . . Incredible! 
 
 The gibbous disk swung clear of the horizon and 
 like some strange misshapen acrobat climbed a low-lying 
 lattice-work of clouds. The girl turned away to a huge 
 willow basket-chair. Matthias found its fellow and drew 
 near to her. He struggled to speak ; he fancied that she 
 waited for him to speak ; but his mind refused to frame, 
 his tongue to utter, aught but the stalest of banalities. 
 
 " ISTo dew tonight," he hazarded at length, shame-faced. 
 
 After an instant of silence she laughed clearly and 
 gently. " O romantic man ! " she said. " Now that you 
 have, shattered the spell if you please, a cigarette." 
 
 He supplied this need ; held a match ; delayed holding 
 it when it had served its purpose, enraptured with the
 
 84 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 refulgent wonder of that cameo of sweet flesh and blood 
 set against the melting shadows, silver and purple and 
 blue. 
 
 With a second low, light laugh, she bent forward and 
 daintily extinguished the flame with a single puff. 
 
 " I don't wish to be stared at . . ." 
 
 " Pardon," he said mechanically, startled. " But 
 . . . why?" 
 
 " Perhaps I 'm afraid you may see too much . . ." 
 
 " Impossible ! " he declared with conviction. 
 
 " Odd as it may sound," she said in a mocking voice, 
 " I have my secrets." 
 
 Her back was to the moon, her face a pallid oval framed 
 in ebony, illegible; but the moonlight was full upon 
 his face, and she who would might read. His disad- 
 vantage was obvious. It was n't fair. . . . 
 
 Lounging, she crossed her knees, puffed thrice and cast 
 the cigarette into the gulf. Abruptly she sat forward, 
 studying him intently. He was disturbed with a singular 
 uneasiness. 
 
 " Jack," said Venetia very quietly, " is it true that 
 you love me ? " 
 
 " Good lord ! " he cried, sitting up. 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 He blinked. His head was whirling. He said noth- 
 ing; sank back; quite automatically puffed with such 
 fury that in a trice he had reduced the cigarette to an 
 inch of glowing coal; scorched his fingers and threw it 
 from him. 
 
 Then he gasped stupidly : " Venetia ! " 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 She had not moved. The question had tne force of 
 stubborn purpose through its very monotony, a monotony 
 of inflexion no less than of repetition. Her accents were 
 both serious and sincere. She was in earnest; she meant 
 to know. 
 
 " But, Venetia "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 85 
 
 " Or have you been just making believe, all this long 
 time ? " 
 
 "It I why of course it 's true ! " he stammered 
 lamely. 
 
 " Then why have n't you ever told me so ? " 
 
 There sounded reproach, not unkindly, but real. He 
 shook his wits together. 
 
 " How could I guess you 'd care to know ? " 
 
 " Do you know me so little as to think I 'd resent it, 
 if I happened not to care ? " 
 
 "I don't know did n't think of it that way. In 
 fact you 've knocked me silly ! " 
 
 " But why ? Because I 've been straightforward ? 
 Dear boy ! " she lifted a hand to him : he took it in 
 trembling " you 're twenty-seven, I 'm twenty-three. We 
 know one another pretty well : we know ourselves at 
 least slightly. Why can't we face things facts as 
 man and woman, not as children ? What 's the good 
 of make-believe ? If this thing lies between us, let 's 
 be frank about it ! " 
 
 He hesitated, doubting, searching her face. Her look 
 was very sweet and kind. Of a sudden he cried " Vene- 
 tia ! " came to his knees beside her chair, snatched her 
 hand and crushed it between his own, to his lips. 
 
 " I love you I Ve always loved you ! " . . . 
 
 He felt the velvet of her lips, her breath, upon his 
 forehead; and made as if to clasp her to him. But she 
 slipped back, straightening an arm to fend him off. 
 
 " No," she whispered " not now not here. Dear 
 boy, get up ! Think this moonlight anybody might 
 see " 
 
 "I love you!" 
 
 " I know and, dear, I 'm glad so glad ! But 
 you made me ask you ! " 
 
 " I could n't help that, Venetia : I was afraid ; I 
 hardly dared to dream of this. You were you are 
 above, beyond "
 
 86 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Gently her hand sealed his mouth. 
 
 " Dear, silly boy ! Get up. If you won't, I must." 
 
 Releasing her hand, he rose. His emotion shook him 
 violently. At discretion, he dropped back into his chair. 
 He looked about him a little wildly, his glance embrac- 
 ing all the weird fantasy of the night: the cold, inac- 
 cessible, glittering vault of stars, the malformed and sar- 
 donic moon, the silken bosom of the Sound, the lace and 
 purple velvet draperies of the land. Down on the har- 
 bour the banjo and harmonica were ragging to tatters a 
 sentimental ballad of the day. From the house came a 
 burst of laughter Tankerville exultant in some success- 
 ful stratagem at cards. 
 
 His gaze returned to Venetia. She sat without mov- 
 ing, wrapped in the exquisite mystery of her enigmatic 
 heart, bewitching, bewildering, steadfastly reading him 
 with eyes veiled and inscrutable in liquid shadow. 
 
 Muttering " Preposterous ! " he dropped his head 
 between his hands. " I 'm mad mad ! " he groaned. 
 
 Without stirring, she demanded : " Why ? " 
 
 He shook his head free. " To have owned up 
 let this come to pass. I love you : but that 's all I dare 
 say to you." 
 
 " Is n't it, maybe, enough for me ? " 
 
 " I mean I 'm mad to marry you. But how can 
 I ask you to have me ? What have I to offer you \ The 
 position of wife to a poverty-stricken, half-grown play- 
 wright ! It 's out of reason. . . ." 
 
 " But possibly am I not the one to judge of that ? " 
 
 " No : I won't have you marry a man unable to provide 
 for you in the way to which you 've been educated. 
 It 's a point of honour " 
 
 "But I have " 
 
 " You must understand : I 've got to be able able ! 
 to humour your every whim. With things that way 
 what of your own you choose to spend on yourself won't 
 count. The issue is my ability to give you everything."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 87 
 
 " But that will come " 
 
 " When ? I can't promise I hardly dare hope " 
 
 " This new play is n't your only hope ? " 
 
 "No " 
 
 " Success or failure, you '11 keep on ? " 
 
 " Certainly . . ." 
 
 " Then it 's only a question of time." 
 
 " But you how can I ask you to wait ? " 
 
 " There 's no necessity " 
 
 " But it must be." He rose, unable to remain still. 
 " Give me six months : I 've got another piece of work 
 under way and others only waiting their turn. In six 
 months I can " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 The monosyllable brought him up sharply. He stared. 
 Her white arms, radiant in that clear, unearthly light, 
 lifted toward him. 
 
 " If you want me, dear," she said in a voice tense 
 with emotion " it must be now soon ! To wait 
 six months I that 's im " 
 
 The beautiful modulations of Helena Tankerville's 
 voice interrupted. 
 
 Standing in one of the windows to the card-room, 
 she said simply : " An exquisite night." 
 
 Then, coming out upon the terrace and seeing Venetia 
 and Matthias, she moved toward them. 
 
 " Oh, there you are, Jack. You 're wanted indoors." 
 
 Matthias, unable quickly to regain his poise, said 
 nothing. Venetia answered for him, calmly: 
 
 " He can't come." 
 
 "What, dear?" 
 
 " I say, he can't come, Helena. He 's engaged." 
 
 "Engaged!" 
 
 Recovering, Helena bore down upon them with a little 
 call of delight 
 
 " Not really ! . . . O my dears ! I 'm so glad ! " 
 
 She gathered Venetia into her arms.
 
 IX 
 
 UNEEMAEKED by any of these, Marbridge stepped out 
 upon the terrace. He was light of foot like most men of 
 his type; his voice, unctuous with the Southern drawl 
 which he affected together with quaint Southern twists of 
 speech, was the first warning they had of his approach. 
 
 " This is surely one powerful' fine night. I don't won- 
 der you-all like it better out here than " He checked 
 suddenly in both words and action : the women had started 
 apart. " Why ! " he added slowly, as though perplexed 
 " I hope I don't intrude . . ." 
 
 His quick dark eyes shifted rapidly from Helena to 
 Venetia, to Matthias, and again back to the women, dur- 
 ing a momentary lull of embarrassment. Then Helena 
 said quietly: 
 
 " Not in the least. But this makes you the first to 
 learn the news, Mr. Marbridge. Venetia and my nephew 
 are engaged to be married." 
 
 " Engaged ! " The man's chin slacked : his eyes 
 widened ; a cigarette fell unheeded from his fingers. He 
 smiled a trace stupidly. 
 
 " Why ! " he recollected himself almost instantane- 
 ously " this certainly is some surprise, but I do con- 
 gratulate you both ! " 
 
 With a stride he seized the hand Venetia could not 
 refuse him, and pressed it warmly. " You 're the luckiest 
 man I ever knew ! " he declared, turning to clasp hands 
 with Matthias. 
 
 Instinctively the latter met his powerful grasp with one 
 as forceful. " Thank you," he said, smiling gravely into 
 the other's eyes. Under his firm but pleasant regard they
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 89 
 
 wavered and fell, then steadied with a glint of temper. 
 Their hands fell apart. Marbridge stepped back. 
 
 " Perhaps I don't know you well enough, Mr. Matthias, 
 to congratulate Miss Tankerville as heartily as I do you; 
 but I 'm persuaded she 's not liable to make any serious 
 mistake." 
 
 Matthias nodded thoughtfully. " I understand : your 
 intentions are excellent. I 'm sure we both thank you. 
 Venetia ? " 
 
 " Mr. Marbridge is very amiable," said the girl, a hint 
 of mirth modifying her composure. " But I 'm afraid, 
 Helena," she added quickly "if you don't mind I 
 think I '11 go to my room." 
 
 To Marbridge she gave a quaint little bow that was 
 half an old-fashioned courtesy, robbed of formality by 
 her spirited smile: to Matthias her hand and a gentle 
 " Good night ! " Taking the arm of her sister-in-law, she 
 drew her toward the house. 
 
 Watching them until they disappeared, Marbridge 
 chuckled quietly. 
 
 " Took my breath away ! " he declared. " Why, I 
 never suspected for an instant . . . ! " He dropped 
 heavily but with characteristic grace into a chair. " It 
 takes you quiet boys to get away with the girls like 
 Venetia all fire and dash ! " 
 
 "Yes," said Matthias reflectively: "it does doesn't 
 it ? Have another cigarette ? " He offered his case. 
 " You dropped yours. . . ." 
 
 " Thanks. . . . She 's a thoroughbred, all right. I 
 reckon if I was n't a mite too middle-aged, maybe I 
 might 've set you a pace that you 'd 've found lively 
 going." 
 
 " Well, let 's be thankful nothing of that sort hap- 
 pened, at all events." 
 
 Marbridge looked up over his match and lifted his 
 brows ; but if in reality a retort trembled on his lips, he 
 thought better of it; and before either spoke again,
 
 90 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Tankerville was on the terrace, brandishing pudgy 
 arms. 
 
 " Hey, you ! " he called fretfully. " Don't you know 
 you 're holding us all up ? Come on in." . . . 
 
 But the game held less attraction for Matthias than 
 ever, and after another and final failure to establish 
 himself in Tankerville's good graces, he pocketed his losses, 
 relinquished his place to Marbridge and with even 
 less inclination for bed than for cards took himself 
 again out into the open night. But now the terrace was 
 all too small to contain his spirits. The need of action 
 movement, freedom, space was strong upon him. Strid- 
 ing away down the drive that wound like a broad band of 
 whitewash through its dark bordering lawns and darker 
 coppices, he found even the grounds of Tangle wood too 
 constricted for the extravagant energy that animated him ; 
 and took to the broad highways, with all Long Island 
 free to his tireless spirit. 
 
 For several hours or more he trudged valiantly hither 
 and yon, with little or no notion of whither he went 
 with his head in the stars and his feet in the dust and 
 kicking up a famous smother of it and in that time 
 was wittingly as near to happiness as he had ever been 
 in all his days. The faculty of coherent thought had 
 passed from him utterly, but it passed unmourned : Vene- 
 tia was his! This thought alone sufficed him. He had 
 neither time nor inclination to entertain those doubts, 
 those questionings and apprehensions which had beset 
 him in saner humour theretofore. It mattered nothing 
 now that he was poor and she wealthy, nothing that all 
 his efforts to make something of himself had thus far 
 proved vain and fruitless. She loved him: it was 
 enough . . . 
 
 He came to his senses, eventually, long enough to rec- 
 ognize anew the grounds of Tanglewood. Of a sudden 
 his impetuosity had run out; remained the pleasant lan- 
 guor of a healthy body thoroughly exercised, the peace
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 91 
 
 4 
 
 of a mind vexed by no insatiable desire. And still he 
 was not sleepy. Purposefully he retarded his footsteps, 
 approaching the house with stealth, eager to escape ob- 
 servation and gain his room unhindered. Tomorrow 
 would be soon enough to submit to the ordeal of con- 
 gratulations. . . . 
 
 It was with a shock of amazement that he saw the 
 house all quiet and dark. He pulled out his watch and 
 studied its face by moonlight, finding its evidence diffi- 
 cult to credit: twenty minutes past one in the morning! 
 
 Gingerly, keeping to the grass in order that the gravel 
 of the drive might not, by its crunching underfoot, be- 
 tray him or alarm some wakeful member of the house- 
 hold, he approached the front door, wondering if he were 
 locked out, and not without amusement at his self- 
 contrived predicament what to do if he were. To his 
 relief one-half of the double door stood a foot or two 
 ajar thanks, he had no doubt, to the thoughtfulness 
 of Helena or Tankerville. Blessing both on general prin- 
 ciples, he entered, shut the door and softly shot the bolt; 
 turned in deep obscurity to grope his way to the foot 
 of the stairs; but paused with a hand on the newel- 
 post and his breath catching in his throat. 
 
 In the hallway above a night-light was burning dim and 
 low but sufficiently diffused to show him the figure of a 
 woman silently descending the stairway. When he first 
 became aware of her she was indeed almost within arm's 
 length: a shape of shadow scarce three shades lighter 
 than the encompassing gloom . . . Venetia, possibly, hav- 
 ing waited and watched for him from her windows 
 overlooking the drive, stealing down to bid him that good 
 night they had perforce foregone in the presence of 
 Helena and Marbridge. . . . 
 
 That wild and extravagant surmise had no more than 
 entered his mind when he found the woman in his arms. 
 She gave herself into them with a gesture of abandonment, 
 with a little sigh that escaped in broken measure, mur-
 
 92 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 murous and fond. An arm that, lifting, flashed naked to 
 the shoulder as the sleeve of her negligee fell back, en- 
 circled his neck and drew down his head to hers. And 
 her mouth fastened to his with clinging lips. . . . 
 
 Half stunned bj receipt of that mad caress, one thought 
 shot like light through the turmoil of his senses : this was 
 never Venetia! 
 
 With an effort he straightened his neck against the 
 pressure of the woman's arm. She strove to overcome his 
 resistance, wooing him in accents hushed, shaking with 
 passion : 
 
 " Vincent . . . sweetheart . . . ! " 
 
 He interrupted hastily : " I beg pardon ! " The in- 
 adequacy of that stilted form disgusting him, he added: 
 " I am John Matthias." 
 
 Immediately the woman released him and, with a gasp, 
 sank back against the newel-post. Her breath came gustily, 
 with a sound like smothered sobbing. Pitifully he divined 
 her shame and terror ; and though he knew her very well, 
 beyond mistake, he said evenly : " Don't worry there 
 is n't any light." 
 
 In a stupefied voice she iterated : " No light ? " 
 
 " It 's so confounded' dark," he complained : " I 
 could n't tell you from Eve. So perhaps you 'd better 
 run back to your room now. . . ." 
 
 He turned away deliberately. Behind him, after a 
 pause of an instant, there rose a sound of soft rustling 
 draperies, a swift and hushed patter of footsteps on the 
 stairs. A moment or two later a latch clicked very gently 
 in the corridor above. 
 
 Quietly Matthias switched on a single light, returned 
 to the door, unbolted and quickly opened it. 
 
 He was not disappointed that this manoeuvre sur- 
 prised a shadow skulking in the penumbra of rose bushes 
 that bordered the steps, the shadow of a man who drew 
 back swiftly when he recognized Matthias. This last 
 stepped out, turned in the direction of the fugitive shadow,
 
 93 
 
 and pursuing at leisure, hailed in a quiet and natural 
 tone : " I say Marbridge ! that you ? " 
 
 Immediately he came upon Marbridge at a standstill 
 round the corner of the house, awaiting him in a curious 
 posture of antagonism: his feet well apart, heavy body 
 inclined a trifle forward, round dark head low between 
 his shoulders, hands clenched, upon his face a cloud of 
 anger. 
 
 Matthias greeted him suavely : " I was afraid I 'd locked 
 you out." Ignoring his attitude even as he seemed to 
 ignore the fact that Marbridge had changed from evening 
 dress to a suit of dark flannels, he added : " Coming in 
 now ? It 's a bit late." 
 
 Marbridge pulled himself together. " Perhaps you 're 
 right," he assented surlily. But it was with patent effort 
 that he mastered his resentment and accompanied Matthias 
 back to the doors. 
 
 " A fine night, what ? " Matthias filled in the awkward 
 silence. 
 
 " Yes," agreed Marbridge brusquely. " Too fine," he 
 amended " too fine to waste in bed." 
 
 " Sleepless, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Following him in, Matthias refastened the door. " Sev- 
 eral of us seem troubled with the same indisposition," he 
 observed coolly, swinging to face Marbridge. " That 's 
 why I bothered to call you in, you know." 
 
 Marbridge scowled : " Perhaps I don't get you . . ." 
 
 " She has gone back to bed," -Matthias explained pleas- 
 antly. " I did n't like to think of you waiting out there, 
 all alone." 
 
 Marbridge choked on a retort, turned and began slowly 
 to mount the stairs. 
 
 " Oh going ? Half a minute." 
 
 The man paused, and in silence looked down. 
 
 " I just happened to think perhaps you have n't a time- 
 table in your room," said Matthias amiably. " There are
 
 94 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 several early trains tomorrow, you know. I fancy the 
 eight-seven would suit you as well as any." 
 
 He got no answer other than a grunt. Marbridge re- 
 sumed his deliberate ascent, gained the upper floor, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Good night ! " Matthias called after him, softly ; and 
 turned out the light.
 
 MONDAY afternoon found Mr. Matthias back at his 
 desk and in a tolerably unhappy temper, tormented not 
 only by that conscience-stricken sensation of secret guilt 
 inseparable from a return to neglected work, but also 
 by a less reasonable, in fact inexplicable (to him) feeling 
 of discomfort; as though he were a trespasser upon the 
 premises rather than their lawful tenant. 
 
 Never before had he felt less at home, never more ill 
 at ease in the homely solitude of his workshop and 
 lodgings. 
 
 As for his work . . . He found page 6 of that prom- 
 ising young first act in the typewriter carriage, precisely 
 as it had been left on his receipt of Helena's peremptory 
 telegram. Removing the sheet, he turned back to the first 
 page, and read what had been written with such high and 
 eager hope; and looked his dashed bewilderment. Knit- 
 ting portentous brows, sedulously he reconsidered the 
 manuscript at length; then with a groan put it aside, 
 ran fingers through his hair till it rose rampant, and sat 
 scowling darkly at the wall, groping blindly and vainly 
 for the lost ends of that snapped thread of enthusiasm. 
 
 The first flush of confidence vanished, what he had 
 written owned heart-rending incoherence in his under- 
 standing. 
 
 However (he assured himself) it would come back to 
 him in time. Indeed, it was bound to. It was n't the 
 first time this sort of thing had happened to him, nor yet 
 the second : he was no raw novice to cry despair over such 
 an every-day set-back. 
 
 But what the devil was the matter with him ? All the
 
 96 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 way to Town he had been full of his theme, as keen-set 
 for work as a schoolboy for a holiday, and hardly less for 
 the well-worn comforts of his abode. And, lo! here sat 
 he with his head as empty as his hands, and that misfit 
 feeling badgering him to exasperation. 
 
 Instinctively he consulted a pipe and, through its at- 
 mosphere, the view from his windows: the never-failing, 
 tried and true, enheartening monotony of that sun-scorched 
 area of back-yards, grim and unlovely in the happiest 
 weather, cat-haunted and melancholy in all its phases. . . . 
 But today he essayed vainly to distil from contemplation 
 of it any of the rare glamour of yesterday's zeal and 
 faith. It was all gone, all! and the erratic mind of him 
 would persist in trailing off after errant thoughts of 
 Venetia Tankerville. 
 
 Surpassing inconsistency of the human heart! Three 
 hours ago, in her company, he had been able to control 
 and to behave himself, to anticipate with pleasure the 
 prospect of returning to his desk after escorting her from 
 the Pennsylvania to the Grand Central Station and put- 
 ting her aboard the train for Greenwich, whither she was 
 bound for a fortnight's visit. But now he could think 
 of nothing but Venetia: Venetia's eyes, her scarlet lips, 
 her exquisite hands, her hair of bronze; her moods and 
 whims, her laughter and her pensiveness, alike adorable; 
 Venetia in evening dress on the moon-drenched terrace of 
 Tanglewood; Venetia on the tennis-courts, all in white, 
 glorified by sunlight, an amazingly spirited, victorious 
 figure; Venetia with her hair blown across her eyes, at 
 the wheel of one of Tankerville's racing motor-craft; 
 Venetia in the gloom of the Grand Central Station, linger- 
 ing to say good-bye to her betrothed. . . . 
 
 It required several days for this stupid gentleman to 
 awaken to the fact that the name of his trouble was 
 merely love; that an acknowledged lover is a person 
 vastly different from a diffident and distant worshipper; 
 that, in short, the muse of the creative fancy is a jealous
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 97 
 
 mistress, prone to sulk and deny the light of her counte- 
 nance to a suitor who thinks to share his addresses with 
 another. 
 
 But this illuminating discovery did little to allay his 
 discontent: progress with his work alone could accom- 
 plish that; and the work dragged dolefully; he scored 
 only dismal failures in his efforts to produce something to 
 satisfy himse]f. And he had only six months to prove his 
 worth. The date of their marriage had been fixed for 
 .February; every detail of their plans had been worked 
 out under the masterful guidance of Helena; even the 
 steamer upon which they were to sail for Egypt had been 
 selected and their suite reserved. 
 
 In short he positively had to win out within the allotted 
 period of grace, who seemed able only to sit there, day 
 in and out, beside his typewriter, with idle hands, or, 
 with a vacant mind, to pace his trail of torment from 
 door to window: getting nowhere, stripped of every ves- 
 tige of his arduously acquired craftsmanship ... It was 
 maddening. 
 
 None the less, doggedly, savagely determined to over- 
 come this sentimental handicap, he worked long hours: 
 only to review the outcome of his labours with a sinking 
 heart. For all his knowledge of the stage, for all that 
 a long career of failures and half-hearted successes had 
 taught him, the play that slowly took shape under his 
 modelling lacked vitality the living fire of drama. 
 Technically he could find no disastrous fault with it; 
 but in his soul he knew it to be as passionless as a 
 proposition in Euclid. 
 
 He was a dreamer, but not even the stuff of dreams 
 could dull the clear perceptions of his critical intelli- 
 gence. . . . 
 
 Meantime, the superficial routine of work-a-day life 
 went on much as it had ever since he Had set up shop in 
 the establishment of Madame Duprat. His breakfasts 
 were served him in his rooms; for his other meals he
 
 98 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 foraged in neighbouring restaurants. A definite amount 
 of exercise was required to keep him in working trim. In 
 short, he was in and out of the house several times each 
 day. Inevitably, then, he encountered fellow lodgers, 
 either on the stoop or in the hallway; among them, and 
 perhaps more often and less adventitiously than in other 
 instances, one wistful young woman, shabbily dressed, in 
 whose brown eyes lurked a hesitant appeal for recogni- 
 tion. He grew acquainted with the sight of her, but he 
 was generally in haste and preoccupied, looked over her 
 head if not through her, stepped civilly out of her way 
 and went absently his own, and never once dreamed 
 of identifying her with that dreary and damp creature 
 of the rain-swept night whose necessity had turned him 
 out of his lodgings for a single night. 
 
 One day the second Thursday following his return 
 to Town he found himself waiting in the lobby of the 
 Knickerbocker, a trifle early for a luncheon engagement 
 with Kideout and his producing manager, Wilbrow: a 
 meeting arranged for the purpose of discussing the forth- 
 coming production of " The Jade God." The day was 
 seasonably insufferable with heat, but there was here a 
 grateful drift of air through open doors and windows. 
 Lounging in an arm-chair, he lazily consumed a cigarette 
 and reviewed the listless ebb and flow of guests with a 
 desultory interest which was presently, suddenly, and 
 rudely quickened. 
 
 Marbridge, accompanied by a woman, was leaving the 
 eastern dining-room. They passed so near to Matthias 
 that by stretching forth his foot he could have touched the 
 woman's skirt. But she did not see him; her face was 
 averted as she looked up, faintly smiling, to the face of 
 her companion. Marbridge, on his part, was attend- 
 ing her with that slightly exaggerated attitude of solicitude 
 and devotion which was peculiarly his with all women. 
 If he saw Matthias he made no sign. His dark and boy- 
 ish eyes ogled his companion; his tone was pitched low
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 99 
 
 to a key of intimacy ; he rolled a trifle in his walk, with 
 the insuppressible swagger of the amateur of gallantry. 
 
 They passed on and out of the hotel; and Matthias 
 saw the carriage-porter, at a sign from Marbridge, whistle 
 in a taxicab. 
 
 He turned away in disgust. 
 
 A moment or so later he looked up to find Marbridge 
 standing over him and grinning impudently as he of- 
 fered a hand. 
 
 " Why, how do you do, Matthias, my boy ? " 
 
 His voice, by no means subdued, echoed through the 
 lobby and attracted curious glances. 
 
 Matthias, ignoring the hand, lifted one of his own in 
 a gesture deprecatory. 
 
 " Softly ! " he begged. " Somebody might hear you." 
 
 Unabashed, Marbridge dropped into the chair beside 
 him. " How 's that ? Why should n't they ? " 
 
 " They might make the mistake of inferring that I liked 
 you," returned Matthias. 
 
 Marbridge, on the point of settling back, sat up with a 
 start. A dull colour flushed his plump, dark cheeks. For 
 an instant his hands twitched nervously and his full lips 
 tightened on a retort which he presumably deemed inad- 
 visable; for mastering his impulse, he sank back again, 
 and put a period to the display with a brief but not un- 
 easy chuckle. 
 
 " You 're all there with the acidulated repartee," he 
 observed appreciatively. " Some class to your work, my 
 boy ! " To which, Matthias making no comment, he added 
 with at least some effort toward an appearance of sincer- 
 ity : " Sorry you feel that way about me." 
 
 " Unfortunately, I do." 
 
 " Because I would n't act on your suggestion about that 
 time-table, eh ? " 
 
 " Because of the circumstances which moved me to drop 
 that hint." 
 
 A brief silence prefaced Marbridge's next remark:
 
 100 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " But damn it ! I could n't. It would 've made talk if 
 I 'd pulled out when you wanted me to." 
 
 " There would have been no occasion for any talk what- 
 ever if you 'd known how to comport yourself as the 
 guest of decent people." 
 
 And still Marbridge husbanded his resentment. 
 
 " Oh well ! " he said, aggrieved " women ! " 
 
 Matthias threw away his cigarette and prepared to rise. 
 
 " Hold on a bit," Marbridge checked him. " I want 
 to ask a favour of you. ... Of course, you 're right ; I 
 am a bad actor, and all that. I 'm sorry I forgot myself 
 at Tanglewood word of honour, I am ! " 
 
 " Well ? " Matthias suggested with an unmoved face. 
 
 " Look here . . ." Marbridge sat up eagerly. " I 
 think you 're a mighty good sort " 
 
 "Thanks!" 
 
 " You did n't blow about that business down there " 
 
 " I could n't very well could I ? with a woman 
 involved ! " 
 
 " Oh, you did the white thing : I 'm not disputing that. 
 But what I 'm worried about now is whether you 're as 
 good a sport as you seem." 
 
 "Meaning?" 
 
 Marbridge nodded significantly toward the sidewalk, 
 where he had put his late companion into the cab. " About 
 today : you won't find it necessary to ? " 
 
 " By God ! " Matthias's indignation brimmed over. 
 " If you 're so solicitous of the woman's good name, why 
 the devil do you allow her to be seen in your company ? " 
 
 " It is n't that," Marbridge persisted, keeping himself 
 well in hand. " After all, what 's a lunch at the Knick ? " 
 
 "Well ?" 
 
 " The trouble is, she 's supposed to be at Newport. 
 Majendie does n't know " 
 
 " You just can't help being a blackguard, can you, 
 Marbridge ? " Matthias enquired curiously. " You ought 
 to have bitten off your tongue before you named a name
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 101 
 
 in a public place like this." He rose, meeting with steady 
 eyes the vicious glare of the other. " One word more : 
 if I hear of your accepting another invitation to Tangle- 
 wood, I '11 forget to be what you call ' a good sport '." 
 
 Marbridge jumped up hotly. " Look here ! " he said 
 in accents that, though guarded, trembled, " I 've been 
 mighty patient with your insolence, and I 'm certainly not 
 going to forget myself here. But if you want to make a 
 book on it, I '11 lay you any odds you like that I '11 be 
 received at Tanglewood within the year, and you won't 
 say one single damn' word. Do you make me ? " 
 
 Matthias looked him up and down, smiled quietly, 
 swung on his heel, and moved across the lobby to greet 
 Hideout and Wilbrow. 
 
 His instinctive inclination to dismiss altogether from 
 his mind a subject so distasteful was helped out by a 
 conference which outlasted luncheon, involved dinner with 
 the two men of the theatre, and was only concluded in 
 Matthias's rooms shortly after midnight. 
 
 Wilbrow, considering the play from the point of view 
 of him upon whom devolved all responsibility for the 
 manner of its presentation (the scene painting alone ex- 
 cepted) and gifted with that intuitive sense du theatre 
 singular to men of his vocation, who very nearly monopo- 
 lize the intelligence concerned with the American stage 
 today Wilbrow had uncovered a slight, by no means 
 damning, flaw in the construction of the third act, and 
 had a remedy to suggest. This, adopted without opposi- 
 tion from the playwright, suggested further alterations 
 which Matthias could not deny were calculated to 
 strengthen the piece. In consequence, when at length they 
 left him, he found himself committed to a virtual re- 
 writing of the last two acts entire. 
 
 Groaning in resignation, he resolved to accomplish the 
 revision in one week of solid, uninterrupted labour, and 
 went to bed, rising the next morning to deny himself his 
 correspondence and the newspapers and to make arrange-
 
 102 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 ments with Madame Duprat to furnish all his meals until 
 his task was finished. These matters settled, and his tele- 
 phone temporarily silenced, he began work and, forgetful 
 of the world, plodded faithfully on by day and night until 
 late Thursday afternoon, when he drew the final page 
 from his typewriter, thrust it with its forerunners into 
 an envelope addressed to Bideout, entrusted this last to 
 a messenger, and threw himself upon the couch to drop 
 off instantly into profound slumbers of exhaustion. 
 
 At ten o'clock that night he was awakened and sat up, 
 dazed and blinking in a sudden glare of gas-light. 
 
 Stupidly, bemused with the slowly settling dust of 
 dreams, he stared, incredulous of the company in which 
 he found himself. 
 
 Madame Duprat, having shown his callers in and made 
 a light for them, was discreetly departing. George Tan- 
 kerville, whose vigorous methods had roused Matthias, 
 stood over him, with a look of deep and sympathetic 
 anxiety clouding his round, commonplace, friendly coun- 
 tenance. Wearing a dinner jacket together with linen 
 motor-cap and duster, oil-stained gauntlets on his hands, 
 with an implacable impatience betrayed in his very pose, 
 he cut a figure sufficiently striking instantly to engage at- 
 tention the unexpectedness of his call aside. Further- 
 more, he was accompanied by his wife : Helena, in a cos- 
 tume as unconventional as her husband's, stood at a little 
 distance, regarding Matthias with much the same look of 
 consternation and care. 
 
 " Great Scott ! " Matthias exclaimed, pulling his wits 
 together. " You are a sudden pair of people ! " With 
 a shrug and a sour smile he deprecated his clothing, which 
 consisted solely of a shirt, linen trousers, and a pair of 
 antiquated slippers. " If you 'd only given me some warn- 
 ing, I 'd Ve tried to dress up to your elegance," he 
 went on. 
 
 " Damn your clothes ! " Tankerville exploded. He 
 dropped a hand on Matthias's shoulder and swung him
 
 103 
 
 round to the light. " Tell us you 're all right that 's 
 all we want to know ! " 
 
 " All right ? " Matthias looked from one to the other, 
 deeply perplexed. " Why, of course I 'm all right. Why 
 not?" 
 
 With a little gasp of relief, Helena dropped into a 
 chair. Tankerville removed his hand and leaned against 
 the table, smiling foolishly. 
 
 " That 's all right, then," he said. " We tried to get 
 you on the telephone all afternoon, failed, were afraid 
 you 'd done something foolish, and took a run in to town 
 to make sure." 
 
 " What the dickens are you driving at ? " Matthias de- 
 manded. " I had my telephone cut off the other day 
 because I was working and did n't want to be interrupted. 
 I do that frequently. Why not ? What 's got into you 
 two, anyway ? Have you gone dotty ? " 
 
 " No," Helena replied with a grim, pale smile ; 
 " We 're sane enough and thank Heaven you are ! But 
 Venetia " 
 
 " Venetia ! " Matthias cried. " What about Venetia ? " 
 
 Tankerville avoiding his eye, it devolved upon Helena 
 to respond to Matthias's frantic and imperative look. 
 
 " Venetia," she said reluctantly " Venetia eloped 
 with Marbridge day before yesterday Tuesday. She 
 came in town in the morning to do some shopping, met 
 him and was married to him at the City Hall. They 
 sailed on the Mauretania yesterday. The papers did n't 
 get hold of it we knew nothing ! till this afternoon. 
 I was afraid she might have written you and you in 
 despair " 
 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 After a little, Matthias turned to a heap of unopened 
 correspondence on a side table and ran rapidly through 
 it, examining only the addresses. 
 
 "No," he said presently, in a level tone: "no she 
 did n't trouble to write me."
 
 XI 
 
 FOR several days the girl had haunted the stairs, the 
 hall, and door-step, alert to waylay Matthias, before sud- 
 denly she became aware that it was long since she had 
 either caught a glimpse of him or heard the syncopated 
 murmuring of the typewriter behind the closed door to 
 his back-parlour. 
 
 It required the lapse of another day or two before she 
 found courage to question (with laboured indifference) 
 the dilapidated chambermaid who sedulously neglected her 
 room for lack of a tip. From this far from garrulous 
 source she learned that Matthias had packed up and gone 
 out of town very suddenly, without mentioning where he 
 might be addressed during his absence. 
 
 Alone at the window of her tiny cell, Joan stared down 
 at the uninspiring vista of back-yards and disconsolately 
 recapitulated her sorry fortunes. 
 
 She was now close upon the end of the fortnight's resi- 
 dence in the hall bedroom ; before long she would have to 
 surrender another four dollars a week's rent in ad- 
 vance. Of the twenty-two dollars she had received from 
 Butch, eight remained in her purse. By dint of adhering 
 to a diet largely vegetarian, she had managed without 
 serious discomfort to keep within an expenditure of four 
 dollars per week for food. And twice Maizie Dean had 
 saved her the cost of an evening meal by inviting her to 
 dine out at the expense of friends in " the profession." 
 But a continuance of such favours was not to be counted 
 upon; and the problem of living a fourth week away 
 from home was one serious and importunate always 
 assuming she should fail to secure work before her money
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 105 
 
 ran out. She had no resources in any degree dependable : 
 Butch, even if willing, would probably not be able to ex- 
 tend her another loan ; she possessed nothing worth pawn- 
 ing ; and Maizie Dean had taken prompt occasion to make 
 it clear that, while she was willing to do anything inex- 
 pensive for a budding sister artiste, her tolerance would 
 stop short of financial aid. 
 
 " Take it from me, dear," she announced soon after 
 their first meeting: "there ain't no people in the world 
 quicker to slip you a live tip than folks in the business; 
 but you gotta make up your mind to pay your own keep. 
 They work too hard for their coin to give up any without 
 a howl you could hear from here to Hollum ; and anyway, 
 everybody 's always broke in the summer. If you don't 
 land somewhere before your cash runs low, you might 
 just 's well make up your mind to slip back into the chain- 
 gang behind the counter." 
 
 She had developed or changed amazingly in the 
 brief period of her public career. Joan experienced diffi- 
 culty in recognizing in her the warm-hearted Irish girl 
 who had initiated her into the duties of saleswoman in the 
 stocking department. She had hardened more than super- 
 ficially; she was now as artificial as her make-up, as the 
 hue of her ashen hair. The world to her was a desert 
 threaded by " circuits," life an arid waste of " open time " 
 punctuated with oases of " booking " ; and the fountain- 
 head of temporal power was located in the innermost 
 sanctum of the United Booking Offices. 
 
 Sitting on the edge of the bed, she crossed her knees 
 frankly, sucked thoughtfully at a cigarette, and waved an 
 explanatory hand: 
 
 " Here 's me and Mame, thinking we was all fixed for 
 the nex' six weeks, and then somethin' puts a crimp into 
 our bookin' and we 're out for Gawd knows how long 
 till next Fall, sure. That 's unless we want to take a trip 
 over the meal-ticket circuit fillin' in between filums,' 
 yunno. And if we do that it 's goin' to crab us with the
 
 106 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Orpheum people, sure ; we 'd never get back into the real 
 money class. So we gotta hold onto what little we got 
 until we kin see more time headed our way." . . . 
 
 On the other hand, she had been liberal with sage and 
 trustworthy counsel as to the best way to go about " break- 
 ing into the game." It was thanks to her that Joan was 
 now able to enter a theatrical employment agency without 
 fear and trembling, and to back her application for chorus 
 work with a glib and unblushing statement that she had 
 had experience " in summer stock out on the Coast." And 
 to the Sisters Dean, likewise, Joan owed her growing ac- 
 quaintance with the intricate geography of the theatrical 
 districts of New York, her ability to discriminate be- 
 tween players " resting " and the average run of Broad- 
 way loungers who cluttered the shady side of that thorough- 
 fare, from Twenty-fiftE Street north to Forty-seventh, 
 those shimmering summer afternoons, and her slowly 
 widening circle of nodding acquaintances among the lesser 
 peoples of the vaudeville world. 
 
 As a rule she was awake before anybody else in the 
 establishment of Madame Duprat ; not yet could she slough 
 the habit of early rising. Her breakfast she was accus- 
 tomed to get at the same dairy restaurant which had sup- 
 plied her first meal away from home, and at the same 
 moderate expense ten cents. By ten o'clock she would 
 be on Broadway, beginning her round of the agencies : a 
 courageous, shabby figure in the withering sun-blast, pa- 
 tient and indomitable through long hours of waiting in 
 crowded anterooms, undiscouraged by the brevity and 
 fruitlessness of the interviews with which her persistence 
 was sometimes rewarded, ignoring disappointment with 
 the same studied calm with which she had long since 
 learned to ignore the advances of loafers of the streets. 
 
 Hler lunches she would purchase wherever she might 
 happen to be at the noon hour or go without. By five 
 o'clock at the latest frequently much earlier she 
 would turn back to West Forty-fifth Street. For dinner
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 107 
 
 she sought again the establishment that provided her break- 
 fast. Her idle hours, both day and evening, she grew 
 accustomed to waste in the double bedroom (" second 
 floor front ") occupied by the Dancing Deans. 
 
 At such times the soi-disant sisters were rarely without 
 company. They were lively and agreeable creatures, by 
 no means unattractive, and so thoroughly theatric in every 
 effect of manner, speech, gesture, person, and thought, 
 that the most case-hardened member of the profession 
 could not but feel at home in their company. Conse- 
 quently, they were popular with both sexes of their asso- 
 ciates. Seldom did a day pass but they entertained sev- 
 eral callers, with all of whom they seemed to be on terms 
 of the most candid intimacy. 
 
 So Joan grew accustomed to being hailed, whenever she 
 opened the door of the sisters' room, with a formula that 
 varied little with repetition: 
 
 " Why, if it ain't the kid ! Hello, dearie come right 
 in and stop awhile. Say, lis'n : I want you to shake hands 
 with my friend, Charlie Quard. I guess you know who 
 Charlie is, all right ; you must of seen him of 'n played 
 leading juveniles with the Spangler Stock, I dunno how 
 long. Charlie, this is my little friend, Miss Thursday." 
 
 " In the business, I trust ? " 
 
 " Goin' to be before long. Just lookin' round." 
 
 " Well, I wish you luck, Miss Thursday. This is the 
 rottenest season / ever struck. There 's eighty people for 
 every job that blooms. Why, yunno, Maizie, I was talk- 
 ing only yesterday to Percy Williams, and Percy said " 
 
 At about this point Joan would ordinarily be forgotten, 
 and the gossip would rattle on through a stifling cloud of 
 cigarette smoke, while she sat and listened with grave, if 
 not always comprehending, attention. 
 
 And in this manner she met and grew familiar with the 
 personalities of an astonishing crew of minor vaudeville 
 folk, jugglers, dancers, patter comedians, balladists, coon 
 shouters, performers on weird musical instruments, mo-
 
 108 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 nologists, and an unclassified host of others, including a 
 liberal sprinkling of plain actors and actresses, the pen- 
 dulums of whose life alternated between small parts in 
 popular-price stock companies and smaller parts in so- 
 called dramatic sketches presented in vaudeville houses. 
 
 To them all (if they remembered her at all) she was 
 Joan Thursday. The translation from Thursby had been 
 almost inevitable. Thursday was by far the easier word 
 to remember; Joan soon grew tired of correcting the 
 friends of the Dancing Deans; and accepted the change 
 the more readily since it provided her with a real " stage 
 name", and so, in some measure, identified her with the 
 business to which her every aspiration was devoted. 
 
 Of all the population of this new world, perhaps the 
 most prominent in her eyes, aside from the saltatory sis- 
 ters, was Mr. Quard; or, to give him the fullest benefit 
 of the printed cards which (detaching them dexterously 
 from the perforated edges by which they were held 
 in an imitation-leather cover)' he distributed regardless of 
 expense : 
 
 Mr. Chas. Harborough Quard 
 Spangler Stock Co. Variety Artists Club 
 
 Brooklyn New York 
 
 He was a long, rangy animal, robustious, romantical; 
 with a taste in the question of personal decoration that 
 created compelling effects. His face was large, open, 
 boldly featured, his smile genial, his laugh constant and 
 unctuous. Something less than thirty, he had been on 
 the stage since childhood; with the training of an actor 
 of the old school, he combined immense vitality, an ample, 
 dashing air, enviable self-sufficiency, the temperament of 
 a tom-cat. 
 
 Any competent stage-director could have made much of 
 him ; but in an age when managers cast their productions 
 with types who " look " their parts in preference to players 
 who can act them, he found few chances to demonstrate
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 109 
 
 his ability outside the cheaper stock organizations; for 
 the only character he was physically fitted to portray was 
 that of an actor. 
 
 An ill-starred impulse had led him to resign his latest 
 stock connection in order to adventure in vaudeville with a 
 one-act sketch written to his order by a hack manufacturer 
 of such trash. Its " try-out week " in a provincial town 
 had elicited no offers from other managers, and in the 
 meantime his place in the stock company had been filled. 
 At present he had a little money saved up, no immediate 
 prospects of an engagement, good-humour, no illusions 
 whatever. 
 
 " It 's no good," he informed Miss May Dean on the 
 occasion of their first meeting : " I know where I get off, 
 all right. I can play anything they slip me, but these 
 Broadway guys can't see my kind of actor. Give me a 
 part I can sink my teeth into, and I '11 shake it until the 
 house climbs on the seats and howls. But that ain't what 
 they 're after, these days." 
 
 " The movies '11 get you, if you don't watch out," May 
 suggested cheerfully. 
 
 " That 's right ; and I 'd be a knock-out in a film gang, 
 too ; I 'm just their kind. That 's what 's become of all 
 the old boys who still think Fourteenth Street 's the 
 Hi alto, yunno. But me, I 'm too strong for the noise an 
 audience makes when they like you, or don't: I 'd just as 
 lief be hissed as get every hand in the house. Don't be- 
 lieve I could stand acting for a one-eyed box that did n't 
 say anything but ' clicJcety-clicJc/ I 'd rather travel with 
 the Uncle Tommers honest'." 
 
 He was publicly morose for a moment or two. Then 
 he roused : " Cheer up ! The worst is yet to come. Maybe 
 I can stick out till next spring, when Grady makes his 
 next all-star revival. Wonder what he '11 exhume this 
 time ? If it 's only something like ' The Silver King,' or 
 * East Lynne,' I may yet cop out a chance to play to a 
 two-dollar house. . . . Now, lis'n : I 'm going down on
 
 110 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 the stoop and smoke a cigarette while you girls colour 
 your maps for artificial light. The eats are on me 
 tonight" 
 
 " Does that take in my little friend ? " demanded Maizie, 
 with a nod toward Joan. 
 
 Quard threw Joan a kindly glance : " Sure. Now, 
 get a hustle on." 
 
 " But I can't," Joan protested. " I 'm sorry I 'd love 
 to but I 've got nothing fit to wear." 
 
 " You look pretty good to me as you stand," returned 
 Quard. " Forget it, kid, and kick in." 
 
 " That 'a right," Maizie insisted. " Besides, I '11 lend 
 you a hat and a fresh fichu ; you don't need any coat to- 
 night, it 's too rotten warm." 
 
 " Anyway," Quard said over his shoulder as he left 
 the room, " we ain't booked for Sherry's." 
 
 In witness whereof, he introduced the girls to an ob- 
 scure Italian boarding-house in Twenty-seventh Street, the 
 proprietress of which admitted them only after examina- 
 tion through a grille in the front door. Quard explained 
 to Joan that this precaution was necessary because the 
 house served " red ink " with the meals and without benefit 
 of a liquor license ; hence, only friends could be admitted. 
 
 They dined by gas-light in the back-yard, under an 
 awning which served the double purpose of excluding ob- 
 servation from the neighbouring dwellings and compress- 
 ing the heated air. Perhaps two dozen tables crowded the 
 enclosure. The male guests by common consent removed 
 their coats and hung them on nails in the fence. The 
 ladies emulated by discarding hats and all conventionali- 
 ties of a nature to impede free expression of their tem- 
 peraments. Maizie Dean even did without her English 
 accent. 
 
 The meal was of a sort only to be consumed with im- 
 punity by optimists and Italians: a heavy soup, and all 
 one could eat of it, spaghetti without end, a minute sec- 
 tion of lukewarm blotting paper with a remote flavour of
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 111 
 
 chicken, a salad, cheese and coffee, a half-bottle of atro- 
 cious red wine. Joan enjoyed it immensely; it has been 
 said that her powers of digestion were exceptional. 
 
 Everybody seemed to know everybody else. Conversa- 
 tion was free between tables. Personalities were bandied 
 back and forth amid intense glee. Quard, consuming 
 enormous quantities of wine, proved himself a general 
 favourite, a leading spirit. After dinner he called for a 
 virulent green cordial (which Joan tasted but could not 
 drink) and later returned to the wine. Before the end 
 of the evening he became semi-maudlin, and on leaving 
 exploited a highly humorous inability to walk a straight 
 line. On the corner of Broadway he halted suddenly, 
 bade the three women a slurred good night, and without 
 other ceremony swung himself aboard a Broadway car. 
 
 His rudeness excited no comment from the Dancing 
 Deans. They walked all the way home with Joan, unes- 
 corted. Joan was surprised to see by the clock in the 
 Herald building that it was almost eleven. She thought 
 she had never known an evening to pass so quickly and 
 so pleasantly. What little wine she had consumed seemed 
 to have affected her not at all, beyond rendering her keenly 
 appreciative of this novel experience. 
 
 But she suffered the next morning from a slight and, 
 to her, inexplicable headache. 
 
 It was four or five days later before she saw Quard 
 again. He called early in the evening but after din- 
 ner and sat chatting amiably with the women for up- 
 wards of an hour before the real purpose of his visit 
 transpired. 
 
 " I was talking to Reinhardt about an idea I got for a 
 sketch, day before yesterday," he announced suddenly. 
 " But he wanted fifty cash before he 'd touch it, and 
 seeing as it was him slipped me that other lemon, I told 
 him merrily where he could go and went home and wrote 
 it myself." 
 
 " You did n't ! " Maizie exclaimed admiringly.
 
 112 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " You bet your life I did," the actor asseverated with 
 conscious modesty. " Why not ? It 's no great stunt, 
 writing; and besides it's all old junk I 've done before, 
 only hashed up a new way. All I had to do was to cop 
 lines out of shows I 've played in sure-fire stuff, yunno 
 and write in names of characters. That 's nothing." 
 
 " Oh, no, nothin' at all ! " commented May Dean from 
 her perch on the window-sill. " What 's an author, any- 
 way ? Eight to five, girls, he 's got the 'script on him. 
 Get ready to duck." 
 
 " Wel-1 ! " Quard laughed " you beat me to it, all 
 right." He produced a sheaf of folded papers, smoothing 
 them out upon his knee. " I just thought I 'd see what 
 you thought of it. If it 's any good I 'm going to read 
 it to Schneider tomorrow and see what he '11 offer me." 
 
 " Who 's Schneider ? " Maizie asked blankly. 
 
 " Agent for the film circuits," Quard replied. 
 
 " You don't mean you 're thinkin' of fallin' for the 
 f our-a-day ! " 
 
 " I '11 try anything once ; I 'm not too proud to earn 
 my bed and board in the dull season, anyhow. Besides, 
 this thing would break into the Orpheum Circuit only 
 over the dead body of Martin Beck. I 'm no Georgie 
 Cohan. But it oughta sandwich in between the pictures 
 without anybody asking his ten cents back." 
 
 " You 've got your nerve with you," Maizie commented 
 darkly. 
 
 " Let him rave," May advised, exhaling cigarette smoke 
 voluminously. " Shoot ! " 
 
 Taking this for consent, Quard rattled the sheets of 
 paper, tilted back his chair, and began to read. 
 
 His voice was flexible and sonorous; instinctively he 
 declaimed the lines, extracting from each its full value. 
 Now and again he lent emphasis to a phrase with an 
 eloquent hand. But to Joan the composition was quite 
 incoherent. She attended with wonder and a feeling 
 of impatience because of her inability to understand
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 113 
 
 what Quard seemed to relish with so much enthusiasm. 
 It was, in fact, a worthless farrago of nonsense. 
 None the less the two dancers laughed at encouraging 
 intervals. 
 
 Flattered, Quard rose, removed his coat and began 
 to act the lines, striding up and down the narrow space 
 between the foot of the double-bed and the marble mantel- 
 piece. The night was hot ; a single gas-jet illumined the 
 centre of the room; Quard perspired freely. For all 
 that, his stenographic acting gave the thing some slight 
 accent of humanity. It became a trifle, a mere trifle, 
 more intelligible. 
 
 Seated on the window-sill, en profile to the room, her 
 slight, wiry body attired sketchily in a kimono and short 
 skirt, May Dean swung her legs and stared out into the 
 darkness, an ironic smile hovering round her thin lips. 
 Maizie lounged on the bed, tracing a meaningless pattern 
 on the counterpane with a thin and rouge-stained fore- 
 finger. Joan occupied the only chair other than that at 
 the disposal of the actor. She was very tired, and her 
 attention wandered, even though Quard managed to draw 
 it back now and then by some vivid trick of elocution or 
 gesture. Vaguely sensitive to the magnetism of the man, 
 her thoughts were occupied more with indefinite specula- 
 tions about his personality than with the semi-plagiaristic 
 and wholly commonplace concoction of cheap sentiment 
 and tried-and-true " gags " which he professed to have 
 written. 
 
 Physically he attracted her. Divested of his coat, his 
 chest swelled impressively beneath a pink-striped silk shirt. 
 When he lifted an arm, the clinging sleeve moulded itself 
 to an admirable biceps. As he strode to and fro the 
 stuff of his thin summer trousers shaped itself to legs 
 that might have proved enviable to Sir Willoughby Pat- 
 terne himself. His wide-lipped mouth disclosed an ex- 
 cellent outfit of large, white, strong teeth. His jet-black 
 hair curled engagingly at his temples and over his gen-
 
 114 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 erous pink ears. She liked his big, muscular, mobile 
 hands. . . . 
 
 She started suddenly, to discover that he had concluded 
 and was facing her with an expectant expression, and 
 sat up and smiled faintly, with embarrassment, trying to 
 remember what it had all been about. 
 
 From the window, May Dean drawled languidly : " Is 
 that the finish ? " 
 
 Quard waved an arm. " Curtain ! " he said ; and sat 
 down. 
 
 " My Gawd ! " observed May thoughtfully. 
 
 He laughed uncomfortably : " As bad as all that ? " 
 
 " It 'd make a wonderful chaser," Maizie commented 
 without lifting her eyes from the counterpane. 
 
 Quard turned desperately back to Joan. " What do you 
 think of it, Miss Thursday ? " 
 
 " I think so too," she said with all the animation she 
 could muster. The other women laughed aloud. She 
 flushed and added : " I mean, I think it 's wonderful. I 
 don't know what a chaser is." 
 
 " A chaser, dearie," Maizie explained in tones of acute 
 commiseration, " is an act put on in the continuous houses 
 to chase out the chair-warmers and make room for more." 
 
 " Well," said Quard, shuffling the manuscript, " I don't 
 care if it is a chaser, so long as it stakes me to the eats 
 till something else turns up."
 
 XII 
 
 ON that day when she discovered the disappearance of 
 John Matthias, Joan left the house later than had been 
 her wont, and returned earlier, after a faint-hearted 
 and abortive attempt to interview the stage-manager of 
 a new musical production then being assembled to re- 
 hearse against an early opening in the Autumn. 
 
 The Deans were out. She had no place to go other than 
 to her bare and lonely room, and she felt uncommonly 
 hopeless and friendless. Subconsciously she had been 
 holding in reserve, as a last hope, an appeal to the gen- 
 erosity of Matthias. He was a playwright, an intimate 
 of managers: surely he would be able to suggest some- 
 thing, no matter how poorly paid or inconspicuous. Now, 
 with the date of his return indefinite, she felt unjustly 
 bereft of that last resource. 
 
 She spent two weary, wretched hours on her bed, 
 harassed by a singularly fresh and clear perception of 
 her unfitness, for the first time made conscious that she 
 had actually possessed no reasonable excuse for her deter- 
 mination to go on the stage. Her qualifications, which 
 hitherto might have been expressed, according to her own 
 estimate, by the algebraic X, now assumed a value only 
 to be indicated by a cipher. She had a good strong 
 voice, it 's true, but no ear whatever for music ; she did n't 
 " know steps " (Maizie's term, denoting ability for 
 eccentric dancing) and of the art of acting she was com- 
 pletely ignorant. In fact, her theatrical ambitions had 
 been founded more upon need of money than upon 
 any real or fancied passion for the stage. Other girls 
 had done likewise and bettered themselves: Joan knew 
 no reason why she should fall short of their enviable
 
 116 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 achievements; but she was innocent of dramatic feeling 
 and even of any real yearning for applause. Only her 
 looks, of which she was confident, were to be counted upon 
 to carry her beyond the stage doors. 
 
 She thought of her home, of her mother, her father, 
 Edna and Butch, with a dull and temperate regret. Since 
 that first afternoon she had never attempted to revisit 
 them, and she felt now no inclination toward returning. 
 Still, her thoughts yearned back to the miserable flat as 
 to an assured shelter: there, at least, she had been safe 
 from rude weather and positive hunger. 
 
 As things were with her, another week would find her 
 destitute, but there was still the chance that something 
 would turn up within that week. She felt almost sure that 
 something would turn up. In this incurable optimism 
 resided almost her sole endowment for the career of an 
 actress : this, and a certain dogged temper which would n't 
 permit her to acknowledge defeat until every possible 
 expedient had been explored. . . . 
 
 Toward evening she heard footsteps on the stairs. To 
 her surprise they paused by her door, upon which fell a 
 confident knock. Jumping up from her bed in a flurry, 
 she answered to find Quard on the threshold. 
 
 No one had been farther from her thoughts. She 
 stared, agape and speechless. 
 
 " Hello, Miss Thursday ! " said the actor genially. 
 " Can I come in ? " 
 
 He entered, cast a comprehensive glance round the 
 poor little room, deposited his hat upon the bed and him- 
 self beside it. Leaving the door open, and murmuring 
 some inarticulate response, Joan turned back to her one 
 chair. 
 
 " Hope I don't intrude," Quard rattled on cheerfully. 
 " The girl told me the Deans was out and you in, so I 
 took a chance and said I 'd come right up." 
 
 "I I 'm sorry Maizie is n't home," stammered the 
 girl.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 117 
 
 " I ain't." Quard's eyes looked her over with open 
 admiration. " I did n't want to see either of 'em, really. 
 What I wanted was a little confab with you." 
 
 "With me!" 
 
 " Surest thing you know. I wanta talk business. I 
 don't guess you 've landed anything yet ? " 
 
 Joan shook her head blankly. 
 
 " Well, I got a little proposition to make you. Yunno 
 that sketch I wrote and you liked so much the other 
 night ? " 
 
 "Yes . . ." 
 
 " Well, I got hold of Schneider yesterday, and read 
 it to him, and he says he can get me four or five weeks' 
 booking at least, if I can put it over at the try-out. How 
 does that strike you ? " 
 
 " Why I 'm glad," Joan faltered, still mystified. 
 " It must be fine to get something to do." 
 
 " Well, I have n't got it yet ; and of course, maybe 
 I won't get it. One of the first things you gotta learn in 
 this business is, never spend your pay envelope till you 
 got it in your mitt. And in this case, a lot depends 
 on you." 
 
 " I don't get you," Joan returned frankly. " What 've 
 I got to do with it ? " 
 
 Quard smiled indulgently, offered her a cigarette, 
 which she refused, and lighted one for himself. 
 
 " If I can't get you to play the woman's part," he 
 said, spurting twin jets of smoke through his nostrils, 
 " it 's all up unless I can hitch up with summonelse 
 just like you." 
 
 " You mean you want me to to act ? " 
 
 " Right, the very first time outa the box ! Yunno, 
 it 's this way with these cheap houses : they can't afford 
 to pay much for a turn, even a good one and this one 
 of ours is going to be about as bum as any act that ever 
 broke through : take that from me. So it 's up to me 
 to find somebody who '11 work with me for little enough
 
 118 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 money to leave something for myself, after I Ve squared 
 up with the agent and stage-hands, and all that. You 
 make me now ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I have n't any experience " 
 
 " That 's just it : if you had, I could n't afford you. 
 But you gotta start sometime, and it won't do you no 
 harm to get wise to what little I can teach you. Now 
 the most I can count on dragging down for this act is 
 sixty a week. I want twenty-five of that for myself. 
 Fifteen more will fix the agent and the rest. That 
 leaves twenty for you. It ain't much, but it 's a long 
 sight better than nothing." 
 
 " But how do you know I can do it ? " 
 
 " That '11 be all right. I know all about acting - 
 anyway, I know enough to show you how to put across 
 anything you '11 have to do in this piece. Now how 
 about it ? " 
 
 "Why, I'll be glad " 
 
 " Good enough. Now here : I Ve had this dope type- 
 written, and here 's your copy. Let 's run through it 
 now, and tonight you can start in learning. Tomorrow 
 we '11 have a rehearsal, and just as soon 's we got our 
 lines pat, we '11 let Schneider have a pipe at it. Don't 
 worry. It ain't going to be hard." 
 
 Thus reassured, but still a trifle dubious, Joan ac- 
 cepted a duplicate of the manuscript, and composed her- 
 self to follow to the best of her ability Quard's second 
 reading. 
 
 This time he took less pains with his enunciation, 
 scanned the lines more rapidly, and frequently interrupted 
 himself in order to explain a trick of stage-craft or to 
 detail with genuine gusto some bit of business which he 
 counted upon to prove especially telling. 
 
 In consequence of this exposition, Joan acquired a 
 much clearer understanding of the nature of the sketch. 
 It concerned two persons only: a remarkably successful 
 stage dancer, to be played by Joan; her convict hus-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 119 
 
 band, fresh from the penitentiary, by Quard. Scene: 
 the dressing-room of the dancer. Time: just after the 
 dancer's " turn." Joan, discovered " on ", informs the 
 audience of her fortunate circumstances through the 
 medium of a brief soliloquy. Enter Quard (shambling 
 gait, convict pallor, etc.) to inform her that she has 
 been living in the lap of luxury during the eight years 
 that he has been serving time : " I 'm goin' to have my 
 share now!" Comedy business: humorously brutal 
 attitude toward wife; slangy description of prison life. 
 ("They'll simply eat that up!" Quard.} More 
 comedy business involving a gratuitous box of property 
 cigars and a cuspidor. Suddenly and without shadow of 
 excuse, husband accuses wife of infidelity. Indignant 
 denials; wife exhibits portrait of child born after com- 
 mitment of husband, and of whose existence he has here- 
 tofore been ignorant : "It was for him I fought my 
 way to the top of the ladder : he has your eyes ! " In- 
 continently husband experiences change of heart; kisses 
 photograph; snuffles into cap crushed between hands; 
 slavers over wife's hand; refuses her offer of assistance; 
 announces he will go West to " make a man of my- 
 self ! " before returning to claim his wife and child. 
 And the Curtain falls upon him in the act of going out, 
 all broken up. 
 
 " Of course," Quard admitted, " it 's bunk stuff, but 
 we can put it across all right. I 'm going to call it 
 The Convict's Return and bill it as by Charles D'Arcy 
 and Company. You '11 be the company. I don't want 
 to use my name, because it ain't going to do me any good 
 to have it known I 've taken to this graft, and if I 'm 
 lucky no one 's going to spot me through my make-up." 
 
 Suddenly apprised by the failing light that the hour 
 was growing late, he pocketed the manuscript and rose. 
 
 " Come on out and eat business dinner. We '11 talk 
 things over, and I '11 fetch you home early, so 's you 
 can start getting up on your lines."
 
 120 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 They dined again at the Italian boarding-house. 
 Quard drank but sparingly, considerably to the relief of 
 Joan. . . . 
 
 She was home by half -past eight, her head buzzing with 
 her efforts to remember all he had told her, and sat up 
 till three in the morning, conning the inhuman speeches 
 of her part until she had them by rote; no very wonder- 
 ful accomplishment, considering that the sketch was to 
 play less than fifteen minutes, and that two-thirds of its 
 lines were to be delivered by Quard. 
 
 But once with head on pillow, it was not her role 
 that she remembered, but the man: his coarsely musical 
 tones, his eloquent white hands, the overt admiration that 
 shone in his eyes whenever he forgot his sketch and re- 
 membered momentarily Joan the woman. She felt sure 
 he liked her. And she liked him well. Of the merits 
 of his enterprise she knew nothing, but he had succeeded 
 in inspiring her with confidence that he knew what he 
 was about. 
 
 She drifted off into sleep, comforted by the conviction 
 that she had found a friend. 
 
 By the time of her return from breakfast, the next 
 morning, Quard was waiting for her at the lodging- 
 house. He had already arranged with Madame Duprat 
 for the use of the front parlour for rehearsals, pending 
 its lease to some fortuitous tenant ; and here he proceeded 
 to work out the physical action of the sketch. His grati- 
 tude to Joan for knowing her part was almost affecting; 
 he himself was by no means familiar with his own and her 
 prompt response to cues he read from manuscript facili- 
 tated his task considerably. When they adjourned for 
 luncheon he announced himself persuaded that they would 
 be ready to " open " within a week. 
 
 Within that period Joan learned many things. She 
 was a tractable and docile student, keen-set to profit by 
 the scraps of dramatic chicanery which formed the major 
 part of Quard's stage intelligence. He himself had a
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 121 
 
 very fair memory and had been drilled by more than one 
 competent stage-director whose instructions had stuck in 
 his mind, forming a valuable addition to his professional 
 equipment. Joan soon learned to speak out clearly; to 
 infuse some little semblance of human feeling into several 
 of her turgid lines; to suffer herself to be dragged by 
 one wrist round the room on her knees, by the romantical 
 convict; to time her actions by mental counting; to 
 " feed lines " to her partner in a rapid patter through 
 the passages of putative comedy. She learned also to 
 answer to " dearie " as to her given name, and to submit 
 to being handled in a way she did not like but which, 
 from all that she could observe, was considered neither 
 familiar nor objectionable as between people of the stage. 
 And she learned, furthermore, that May Dean's opinion 
 of the venture was never to be drawn beyond a mildly 
 derisive " My Gawd ! " while Maizie's ran to the sense 
 that it was all a chance and Joan a little fool if she did n't 
 grab it and anyway Joan was old enough to take care 
 of herself with Charlie Quard or any man living! 
 
 And it was Maizie who was responsible for insisting 
 that Joan wheedle an advance of ten dollars from Quard, 
 ostensibly toward the purchase of costume and make-up. 
 But when this had been successfully negotiated, the dancers 
 advised Joan to save it against an emergency, and between 
 them provided her with an outfit composed of cast-offs: 
 a black satin decollete bodice, an accordion-pleated short 
 skirt of the period of 1890, wear-proof silk stockings, a pair 
 of broken-down satin slippers with red heels, a japanned 
 tin make-up box with a broken lock, and a generous supply 
 of cheap grease-paint and cold cream. 
 
 Joan's debut occurred within the time-limit set by 
 Quard and before an audience of two, not counting a 
 few grinning stage-hands. The two were the agent 
 Schneider, and the manager of a small moving-picture 
 house in the Twenty-third Street shopping district; on 
 the half -lighted stage of which their " try-out " took
 
 122 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 place at half -past ten of a rainy and disheartening morn- 
 ing. The judges sat in the darkened auditorium, staring 
 apathetically and chewing large cigars. Joan, though a 
 little self-conscious, was not at all nervous, and remem- 
 bered her lines perfectly; better than this, she looked 
 very fetching indeed in her makeshift costume. Quard 
 forgot several of his speeches, floundered all over the 
 stage, and in a frantic effort to redeem himself clowned 
 his part outrageously. Nevertheless they were engaged. 
 
 Convinced of their failure, Joan had only succeeded 
 in removing her make-up and struggling into her shabby 
 street clothing, when Quard knocked at the door of her 
 dressing-room. He had played without make-up, and 
 consequently had been able to catch the manager and 
 agent before they could escape. Lounging in the door- 
 way, he breathed a spirit of congratulation strongly 
 tainted with fumes of whiskey. 
 
 " We 're on ! " he declared exultantly. " What 'd I 
 tell you ? You need n't have changed, because we 're 
 going to stick here, and open today. One of the turns 
 on this week's bill fell down ,at the last minute, and so 
 we cop this chance to fill in. We go on after the first 
 films about a quarter of one ; and then at four-thirty, 
 seven-thirty, ten-forty-five. Now whadda yunno about 
 that?" 
 
 Joan gulped and shook her head, her eyes a little 
 misty. For the first time she began to perceive that she 
 had counted desperately on success. 
 
 " I think we 're awful' lucky ! " she said faintly. 
 
 " Lucky nothing ! I knew I could get away with it 
 always providing I had you to play up to." 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 " That 's right. After we 'd fixed things up I took 
 Schneider down to the corner and bought him a drink. 
 He said I dunno as I ought to tell you this, but any- 
 way he said the sketch was punk (God knows it is) 
 and never would 've gone if it had n't been for you. He
 
 1 What 's the matter with you, anyway ?" he demanded, hotly. 
 
 Page 123
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 123 
 
 said all the women would go crazy about you you 'd 
 got the prettiest shape he 'd seen in a month of Sundays. 
 Yunno they get most of their afternoon houses from the 
 women shoppers down here." 
 
 He paused and after a moment added meditatively: 
 " Of course, you can't act for shucks." 
 
 Joan, looking down, said nothing. Quard dropped 
 a hand intimately across her shoulder and infused a 
 caressing note into his voice. 
 
 " I guess I 'm a bad little guesser eh, dearie ? " 
 
 Joan stood motionless for an instant. His hand seemed 
 as if afire, as if burning through her shirtwaist the 
 flesh of her shoulder. And she resented passionately the 
 intimacy of his tone. Of a sudden she shook his hand 
 off and moved a pace or two away. 
 
 " Let me alone," she said sullenly. 
 
 Quard started and jerked out a " What ? " 
 
 " I said, let me alone," she repeated in the same man- 
 ner, looking him steadily in the face. 
 
 He coloured darkly, mumbled something indistinguish- 
 able, and flashed into a short-lived fit of temper. 
 
 " What 's the matter with you, anyway ? " he demanded 
 hotly. 
 
 " Nothing," she replied quietly ; " only I don't want 
 to be pawed." 
 
 " ~No ? " he exclaimed with sarcasm. " Is that 
 straight ? " 
 
 " Yes, that 's straight and so 'm I ! " 
 
 Recollecting himself, Quard attempted to carry off his 
 discomfiture with a shrug and a laugh : " Oh, all right. 
 Don't get huffy. I did n't mean anything." 
 
 " I know you did n't, but don't do it again." 
 
 He turned out into the corridor ; hesitated. " Well 
 let it go at that, can't you ? " 
 
 " All right," she said sulkily : " you let it go at 
 that." 
 
 Quard tramped off without saying anything more, and,
 
 124 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 whatever his resentment and disappointment, schooled 
 himself to control them, and met her half-way to a 
 reconciliation when the approaching hour of their first 
 public appearance brought them together in the wings. 
 
 And by this time Joan had been sufficiently diverted 
 by other experiences to have regained her normal poise. 
 The dingy, stuffy, and evil-smelling dressing-room to 
 which she had been assigned had suffered an invasion 
 of three other women : two worn and haggard clog-dancers 
 and a matronly ballad-singer who, having donned an 
 excessively soiled but showy evening gown, had settled 
 down calmly to her knitting: an occupation which had 
 interfered not in the least with her flow of animated and 
 not unkindly gossip. Joan gathered that her voice was 
 the main support of a small family, consisting of : a 
 shiftless husband and three children, for the younger of 
 whom the mother was knitting a pair of small, pink 
 bootees. These last had immediately enlisted the sym- 
 pathetic interest of the clog-dancers, one of whom boasted 
 of the precocity of her only child, a boy of eight living 
 with his grandmother in Omaha, while the other told 
 simply of the death of two children, due to neglect on 
 the part of those to whom she had been obliged to entrust 
 them while on the road. . . . 
 
 Joan was the first to reach the entrance to the dingy 
 " kitchen-set " which was to figure as a star dressing- 
 room for the purposes of their sketch (and, for the pur- 
 poses of subsequent offerings, as the drawing-room of a 
 mansion on Fifth Avenue and the palm room of a fash- 
 ionable hotel). About ten times the size of any dressing- 
 room ever constructed, it was still atmospherically cheer- 
 less and depressing. She looked it over momentarily 
 to make sure that the various simple properties were in 
 place, and turned to find Quard approaching. Beneath 
 the jaunty assurance which even his hang-dog make-up 
 could n't wholly disguise, she was able to detect traces 
 of some uneasiness and anxietv.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 125 
 
 It was a fact that he had grown a trifle afraid of her. 
 
 The discovery impressed her as so absurd that she 
 smiled; and instantly the man was himself again. He 
 thrust out a hand, to which with covert reluctance she 
 entrusted her own. 
 
 " All right now ? " he asked cheerfully. 
 
 She nodded: "All right." 
 
 " Good enough. Let 's see what kind of a house we Ve 
 got." 
 
 He found a peep-hole near the proscenium arch and 
 peered intently through it for a moment or two; then 
 beckoned Joan to take his place. But she could make 
 but little of what seemed a dark well filled with flicker- 
 ing shadows. She turned away. 
 
 " Only a handful out there/' Quard assured her. " It 's 
 too early for much of a crowd. No good getting nervous 
 about this bunch." 
 
 " I 'm not," she asserted quietly. 
 
 And she was n't ; no less to her own surprise than to 
 Quard's, she was conscious of no trace of the stage- 
 fright she had heard so much about. Indeed a singular 
 feeling of indifference and disappointment oppressed 
 her; it was all so unlike what she had looked forward 
 to as the setting for her first appearance in public. The 
 dreary and tawdry atmosphere behind the scenes of the 
 dilapidated little theatre ; the weary and subdued accents 
 in which her dressing-room associates had discussed their 
 offspring; the tinkle-tankle-tinkle-wJiang of a painfully 
 automatic piano in the orchestra-pit; her own shabby 
 second-hand costume; the brutal grotesqueness of 
 Quard's painted countenance at close range these owned 
 little in common with those anticipations roused by the 
 glitter and glamour of that fleshy show on the New York 
 Theatre roof garden. She felt cheated; in perspective, 
 even the stocking-counter seemed less uninviting. . . . 
 
 A muffled outbreak of laughter and brief murmur of 
 applause filtered through the curtain. The piano stopped
 
 126 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 with a crash. Quard nodded and, touching her elbow, 
 urged her toward the entrance. 
 
 " Film 's finished. Ready and steady, old girl." 
 
 " I 'm all right," she said sullenly. " Don't you worry 
 about me." 
 
 She heard the curtain rise with a rustling as of mighty 
 wings penetrated by the shrill squeal of an ungreased 
 block; held back a moment; and walked on, into a 
 dazzling glare of footlights, conscious of no emotion 
 whatever beyond desire to get finished with her part and 
 return to the dressing-room. At the designated spot, near 
 the centre of the stage, she paused, faced the audience 
 with her trained smile and mouthed the opening lines 
 with precisely the proper intonation. . . . 
 
 The curtain fell at length amid a few, scattering hand- 
 claps that sounded much like faint-hearted firecrackers 
 exploding at a distance. Joan rose from the chair in 
 which she had been seated in a posture simulating aban- 
 donment to tears of joy, and walked soberly off the 
 stage barely anticipating a few stage-hands, who rushed 
 on to make the changes necessary for the next act. 
 
 Quard was waiting for her. 
 
 " Well," he said, " it did n't go so bad, did it? " 
 
 " No," she agreed listlessly. 
 
 " Anyhow, they did n't throw things at us." 
 
 " No." She endeavoured to smile, with indifferent 
 success. 
 
 " I got a lot more laughs with that spittoon business 
 than I thought I would," he continued thoughtfully as 
 they turned back toward the dressing-rooms. 
 
 Joan made no reply, but when she stopped at the door 
 of her dressing-room, Quard added tentatively: 
 
 " Anyway, it beats clerking in a department store, 
 does n't it ? " 
 
 With some hesitation she replied : " I don't 
 know ..."
 
 XIII 
 
 IMMEDIATELY after her second public appearance in 
 " The Convict's Return," Joan removed her make-up, 
 changed to street dress and scurried through the rain 
 to a Child's restaurant, not far from the theatre. In her 
 excitement she had forgotten lunch and she was now 
 thoroughly hungry. But she lingered purposely over the 
 meal and even for some time after she had finished, pre- 
 occupied with self-dissection. 
 
 She was at last ! an actress ; but she was none the 
 less singularly discontented. In a very brief time she had 
 travelled a great way from the Joan Thursby of East 
 Seventy-sixth Street; a world of emotion and experience 
 already dissociated them ; but she seemed to have profited 
 little by the journey. She felt sure that she had started 
 the wrong way to prove her ability to act. And foreseeing 
 nothing better than her present circumstances, she ques- 
 tioned gravely an inscrutable future. 
 
 Instinctively she felt uneasy about this intimate, daily 
 relationship with Quard. She was n't afraid of him, but 
 she was a little afraid of herself because she liked him. 
 Though still she dwelt in secret longing upon the image, 
 half real, half fanciful, of a lover gentle and strong and 
 fine such an one as John Matthias might prove for 
 all that, Charlie Quard had the power to stir her pulses 
 with a casual look of admiration, or with some careless 
 note of tenderness in his accents. 
 
 The shower slashed viciously at the restaurant windows. 
 At that hour there were few other patrons in the estab- 
 lishment, no lights to relieve the dismal greyness of the 
 afternoon, and no sounds other than an infrequent clash 
 of crockery, the muffled shuffling of waitresses' feet, and
 
 128 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 their subdued voices, the melancholy and incessant crepi- 
 tation of the downpour. 
 
 Joan was sensible to the approach of an exquisite de- 
 spondency ; and in alarm, fearing to think too deeply, she 
 arose, ran back to the theatre and on impulse paid her way 
 in through the front, to watch the flickering phantasma- 
 goria of the flying films and to sit in judgment on the antics 
 of her fellows on the variety bill. She was in no hurry 
 to return to the dressing-room, with its smells of grease- 
 paint, scented powder, ordinary perfumes, sweat, stale 
 cigarette-smoke, gin, and broken food. One of the clog- 
 dancers claimed a tubercular tendency, for which she as- 
 serted gin to be a sovereign specific; but as the day ran 
 on was even forgetting, at times, to cough by way of an 
 overture to recourse to the bottle. The other, viewing this 
 proceeding with public disfavour, had opened up an ap- 
 parently inexhaustible and hopelessly monotonous store of 
 reminiscence of the privations she had endured in conse- 
 quence of " Fanny's weakness." Joan gathered that the 
 two were forever being dropped from one bill after an- 
 other because of Fanny's weakness. 
 
 And of this she had five more days to anticipate and 
 to endure. . . . 
 
 She crawled back to Forty-fifth Street at half-past 
 eleven, that night, so dog-tired that she had neither the 
 heart nor the strength to call on the Deans with her good 
 news; this though there were sounds of discreet revelry 
 audible through the door of the second-floor front. . . . 
 
 Somehow the week wore out without misadventure. 
 Joan walked through her part with increasing confidence. 
 Quard left her very much to herself when they were off 
 the stage; indeed, he spent no more time in the theatre 
 than was absolutely necessary. What he did out of it 
 she did not know, but from the frequency with which he 
 played his part with an alcoholic breath, she surmised 
 that he was solacing himself in conventional manner for 
 his degradation to " the four-a-day."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 129 
 
 On the third day the clog-dancers were dispensed with 
 for the reason forecast, their place being taken by 
 two female acrobats of a family troupe, who lolled about 
 for eleven hours at a stretch in their grimy pink tights 
 and had little to say either to Joan or to the matronly 
 lady with the robust voice and the knitting. But the 
 change was a wholesome one for the dressing-room. 
 
 The following week Charles D'Arcy & Company played 
 at another house of equal unpretentiousness, on the East 
 Side, and the week after that was divided between two 
 other theatres. And on Wednesday of the fourth week 
 they were then in Harlem what Joan had vaguely fore- 
 seen and hoped against, happened. 
 
 Quard turned up in the morning with red-rimmed eyes, 
 a flushed face and a thick tongue blatantly advertising a 
 night of sleepless drunkenness. By sheer force of an ad- 
 mirable physique and the instinct of a trained actor, he 
 contrived to play the first turn without mishap, snatched 
 a little sleep in his dressing-room, and seemed almost his 
 everyday self at the next repetition. But after that he 
 left the theatre to drug his jangling nerves with more 
 whiskey ; and appeared at the final repetition so stupefied 
 that he would not have been permitted to go on the stage 
 but for remissness on the part of the stage-manager. Be- 
 fore he had been five minutes on view he was hooted off 
 and the curtain was rung down amid an uproar. 
 
 Once back in her dressing-room (where she was alone, 
 since their act was the last on the bill and the rest of the 
 performers had already left the theatre) Joan gave way 
 to a semi-hysterical tempest of tears. It was her first 
 experience at close quarters with a man in hopeless in- 
 toxication, and while Quard's surrender was too abject to 
 terrify, she was faint with disgust of him and incensed 
 beyond measure with him for having subjected her to those 
 terrible five minutes before a howling audience. With 
 this, she was poignantly aware that henceforth their offer- 
 ing was " cold " : by morning Quard's name would be
 
 130 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 upon the black-list and further booking impossible to 
 secure. She might as well count herself once more out 
 of work, and now in even less hopeful circumstances than 
 when first she had struck out for herself; for then she 
 had been buoyed up by the fatuous confidence of complete 
 inexperience, and then she had been comparatively affluent 
 in the possession of twenty-two dollars. Now she knew 
 how desperately hard was the way she must climb, and 
 she had less than five dollars. What little she had been 
 able to set aside out of her weekly wage had gone to 
 purchase some sorely needed supplements to her meagre 
 wardrobe. 
 
 It was some time before she could collect herself enough 
 to dabble her swollen eyes with cold water, scrub off her 
 make-up, and change for the street. 
 
 She stole away presently across an empty and desolate 
 stage and through the blind, black alley leading from the 
 stage-door to One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth Street. She 
 felt somewhat relieved and comforted by the clean night 
 air and the multitude of lights the sense of normal life 
 fluent in its accustomed, orderly channels. It seemed, in 
 her excited fancy, like escaping from the foul, choking 
 atmosphere of a madhouse. . . . 
 
 The theatre was near Third Avenue, toward which Joan 
 hurried, meaning to board a southbound car and transfer 
 to Forty-second Street. But as she neared the corner she 
 checked sharply, and (simple curiosity proving stronger 
 than her impulse to fly across the street) went more 
 slowly only a few yards behind a figure that she knew 
 too well a swaying figure with weaving feet 
 
 Vastly different from the carefully overdressed, dandi- 
 fied person he had been at their first meeting, Quard stum- 
 bled on, his hands deep in pockets, head low between his 
 shoulders, a straw hat jammed down over his eyes. Ob- 
 viously he was without definite notion of either his where- 
 abouts or his destination. Passers-by gave him a wide 
 berth.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 131 
 
 He seemed so broken and helpless that pity replaced 
 horror and indignation in the heart of the girl. After 
 all, he had n't been unkind to her ; but for him she would 
 long since have gone to the wall ; and ever since their 
 clash on the day of the try-out, he had treated her with 
 a studied respect which had pleased her, apprehensive 
 though she had remained of a renewal of his advances. 
 
 Suddenly, and quite without premeditation, she darted 
 forward and plucked Quard by the sleeve just as he was 
 on the point of staggering through the swinging doors of 
 a corner saloon. If her impulse had been at all articulate, 
 she would have said that this was, in such extremity, 
 the least she could do to try to save him from himself. 
 
 " Charlie ! " she cried. " No, Charlie don't be a 
 fool ! " 
 
 The man halted and, turning, reeled against the door- 
 post. " Wasmasr ? " he asked thickly. Then recognition 
 stirred in his bemused brain. " Why, it 's lil Joan 
 Thursh'y . . ." 
 
 " Come away," she insisted nervously. " Don't be a 
 fool. Don't go in there. Go home." 
 
 He moved his head waggishly. " Thash where 'm goin' 
 home soon 's I brace up a bit." 
 
 " Come away ! " Joan repeated sharply, dragging at his 
 cuff. " Do you hear ? Come away. A walk '11 straighten 
 you out better 'n anything else." 
 
 " Walk, eh ? " Quard lifted his chin and lurched away 
 from the door-post. " Y' wanna take walk with me ? All 
 right " indulgently "I '11 walk with you, lil one, 
 's far 's y' like." 
 
 " Come, then! " she persisted. " Hurry it 's late." 
 
 He yielded peaceably, with a sodden chuckle; but as 
 he turned the lights of the saloon illumined his face 
 vividly for an instant, and provided Joan with a fresh 
 and appalling problem. The man had forgotten to re- 
 move his make-up; his mouth and jaws were plastered 
 with a coat of bluish-grey paint, to suggest a week's
 
 132 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 growth of beard when viewed across footlights; there 
 were wide blue rings round his eyes, and splashes of 
 some silvery mixture on his dark hair. His face was 
 a burlesque mask, so extravagant that it could not well 
 escape observation in any steady light. It was impossible 
 for Joan to be seen publicly with him in a street-car, 
 for instance. But now that she had taken charge of 
 him, she could n't gain her own consent to abandon the 
 man to the potentially fatal whims of his condition. For 
 a moment aghast and hesitant, in another she recognized 
 how unavoidable was the necessity of adopting the sug- 
 gestion his stupefied wits had twisted out of her pleadings : 
 she would have to walk with him a little way, at least 
 until he could recover to some slight extent. 
 
 Indeed, even had she desired to, she would probably 
 have found it difficult to get rid of him just then ; for in 
 an attempt to steady himself, Quard grasped her arm 
 just above the elbow ; and this grip he maintained firmly 
 without Joan's daring to resent it openly. She was to 
 that extent afraid of his drunkenness, afraid of his un- 
 certain temper. 
 
 Submissively, then, she piloted him to the south side 
 of the street, where with fewer lighted shop-windows there 
 was consequently less publicity, and to Lexington Avenue, 
 turning south and then west through the comparative 
 obscurity of One-hundred-and-twenty-fourth Street. Nei- 
 ther spoke until they had traversed a considerable dis- 
 tance and turned south again on Lenox Avenue. The 
 streets were quiet, peopled with few wayfarers ; and these 
 few hurried past them with brief, incurious glances if 
 not with that blind indifference which is largely char- 
 acteristic of the people of New York. Quard suffered 
 himself to be led with a docility as grateful as it had 
 been unexpected. It was apparent to the girl that he 
 was making, subconsciously at least, a strong effort to 
 control his erratic feet. He retained her arm, however, 
 until they were near One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street:
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 133 
 
 when, noticing the lights of a corner drug-store, the girl 
 held back. 
 
 A swift glance roundabout discovered nobody near. 
 
 " Where 's your handkerchief, Charlie ? " she demanded. 
 
 " Where 's whash ? Whashmasser ? " 
 
 " I say," she repeated impatiently, " where 's your hand- 
 kerchief ? Get it out and scrub some of that paint off your 
 face. Do you hear ? You look like a fool." 
 
 " 'M a fool," Quard admitted gravely, fumbling through 
 his pockets. 
 
 " Well, I won't be seen with you looking like that. 
 Hurry up ! " 
 
 Her peremptory accents roused him a little. He found 
 his handkerchief and began laboriously and ineffectually 
 to smear his face with it, with the sole result of spread- 
 ing the colour instead of removing it. In this occupation, 
 he released her arm. With a testy exclamation, Joan 
 snatched the handkerchief from him and began to scour 
 his cheeks and jaws, heedless whether he liked it or not. 
 To this treatment he resigned himself without protest 
 with, in fact, almost ludicrous complaisance, lowering his 
 head and thrusting it forward as if eager for the scrubbing. 
 
 For all her willingness she could accomplish little with- 
 out cold cream. When at length she gave it up, his jowls 
 were only a few shades lighter. She shrugged with de- 
 spair, and threw away the greasy handkerchief. 
 
 "It's no use," she said. "It just won't come off! 
 You '11 have to go as you are." 
 
 "Whash that? Go where?" 
 
 " jSTow listen, Charlie," she said imperatively : " see 
 that drug-store on the corner? You go in there and ask 
 the man to give you something to straighten you 
 out." 
 
 Quard nodded solemnly, fixed the lighted show-window 
 with a steadfast glare, and repeated : " So'thin' to 
 straighten m' out." 
 
 " That 's it. Go on, now. I '11 wait here."
 
 134 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 He wagged a playful forefinger at her. " Min' y' do," 
 he mumbled, and wandered off. 
 
 " And Charlie ! get him to let you wash your 
 face," she called after the man. 
 
 Waiting in the friendly shadow of a tree, she watched 
 him anxiously through the window; saw him turn to 
 the soda-fountain and make his wants known to the clerk, 
 who with a nod of comprehension and a smile of con- 
 tempt began at once to juggle bottles and a glass. 
 
 Singularly enough, it never occurred to the girl to 
 seize this chance to escape. She was now accepting the 
 situation without question or resentment. Quard seemed 
 to her little better than an overgrown, irresponsible child, 
 requiring no less care. Somebody had to serve him instead 
 of his aberrant wits. To leave him to himself would be 
 sheer inhumanity. . . . But she reasoned about his case 
 far less than she felt, and for the most part acted in 
 obedience to simple instinct. 
 
 She saw him drain a long draught of some whitish, 
 foaming mixture, pay and reel out of the store. He had, 
 of course, forgotten (if he had heard) her plea to remove 
 the remainder of his make-up. She was angry with him 
 on that account, as angry as she might have been with 
 a heedless youngster. But she did not let this appear. 
 She moved quickly to his side. 
 
 " Come on," she said quietly, turning southward ; 
 " you 've got to walk a lot more." 
 
 He checked, mumbled inarticulately, staring at her with 
 glazed eyes, but in the end yielded passively. In silence 
 they continued to One-hundred-and-tenth Street, Joan 
 watching him furtively but narrowly. The drug worked 
 more slowly than she had hoped. Primarily, in fact, it 
 seemed only to thicken the cloud that befogged his wits. 
 But by the time they had gained the last-named street, 
 she noticed that he was beginning to walk with some little 
 more confidence. 
 
 He now seemed quite ignorant of her company strode
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 135 
 
 on without a word or glance aside. They crossed to 
 Central Park and, entering, began to thread a winding 
 path up the wooded rises of its northwestern face. 
 Momentarily, now, there was an increasing assurance ap- 
 parent in the movements of the man. He trudged along 
 steadily, but with evident effort, like one embarrassed 
 by a heavy weariness. His breathing was quick and 
 stertorous. 
 
 The park seemed very quiet. Joan wondered at this, 
 until she remembered that it must have been nearly mid- 
 night when they stopped at the drug-store. She had 
 noticed idly that the clerk had interrupted preparations 
 to close in order to wait on Quard. 
 
 They met nobody afoot, not even a policeman; but 
 here and there, upon benches protected by umbrageous 
 foliage, figures were vaguely discernible ; men and women, 
 a pair to a bench, sitting very near to one another when 
 not locked in bold embraces. Joan heard their voices, 
 gentle, murmurous, fond. These sights and sounds, the 
 intimations they distilled, would at a previous time have 
 moved the girl either to derision or to envy; now she 
 felt only a profoundly sympathetic compassion, new and 
 strange to her, quite inexplicable. 
 
 Near the top of the hill they found a bench set in 
 the stark glare of an arc-light, and therefore unoccupied. 
 Upon this Quard threw himself as if exhausted. He said 
 nothing, seemed wholly oblivious of his companion. Im- 
 mediately he was seated his chin dropped forward on his 
 chest, his hat fell off, his arms and legs dangled inertly. 
 He appeared to sink at once into impregnable slumber; 
 yet Joan was somehow intuitively aware that he wasn't 
 asleep. 
 
 She herself was very weary, but she could n't leave him 
 now, at the mercy of any prowling vagabond of the park. 
 Picking up his hat, she sat down beside him with it in 
 her lap, glad of the chance to rest. She was at once and 
 incongruously not sleepy and thoughtless. Convinced that
 
 136 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Quard was coming to himself, she was no longer troubled 
 by solicitude; her wits wandered in a vast vacuity, sensi- 
 tive only to dull impressions. She felt the immense hush 
 that brooded over the park, a hush that was rendered 
 emphatic by the muffled but audible and fast drum- 
 ming of the man's over-stimulated heart, straining its 
 utmost to pump and cleanse away the toxic stuff in his 
 blood; the infrequent rumble and grinding of a surface- 
 car on Central Park West seemed a little noise in com- 
 parison. Now and again a long thin line of glimmering 
 car-windows would wind snakily round the lofty curve 
 of the Elevated structure at One-hundred-and-tenth Street. 
 Beyond, the great bulk of the unfinished cathedral on 
 Morningside Heights loomed black against a broken sky 
 of clouds. 
 
 At one time a policeman passed them, strolling lazily, 
 helmet in hand while he mopped his brow. His stare 
 was curious for the two silent and ill-assorted figures on 
 the bench. Joan returned it with insolent and aggressive 
 interest, as if to demand what business it was of his. He 
 grinned indulgently, and passed on. 
 
 She had lost track of time entirely when Quard stirred, 
 sighed, lifted his head and sat up with a gesture of deep 
 despondency. The movement roused her from a dull, 
 lethargic, waking dream. 
 
 " Feeling better, Charlie ? " she asked with assumed 
 lightness. 
 
 He nodded and groaned, without looking at her. 
 
 " Able to go home yet ? " 
 
 " In a minute," he said drearily. 
 
 " Where do you live ? " she persisted. 
 
 He waved a hand indifferently westward. " Over there 
 Ninety-sixth Street." 
 
 " Think you '11 be able to walk it ? " 
 
 " Oh, I 'm all right now." He groaned again, and 
 leaned forward, elbow on knee, forehead in his hand. 
 " I feel like hell," he muttered.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 137 
 
 " The best thing for you is to get to bed and get some 
 sleep," said the girl, stirring restlessly. 
 
 He snapped crossly : " Wait a minute, can't you ? " 
 
 She subsided. 
 
 " I guess you know I 've gummed this thing all up, 
 don't you ? " he asked at length. 
 
 " Yes, I guess you have," she replied, listless. 
 
 " And, of course " bitterly - " it 's all my fault . . ." 
 
 To this she answered nothing. 
 
 " Well, I 'm sorry," he pursued in a sullen voice. " I 
 guess I can't say any more 'n that." 
 
 She sighed : " I guess it can't be helped." 
 
 He leaned back again, explored a pocket, brought to 
 light a roll of money, with shaking hands stripped off four 
 bills. " Well, anyway, there 's your bit." 
 
 Taking the bills, she examined them carefully. " That 's 
 a whole week," she said, surprised. 
 
 11 All right ; it 's coming to you." 
 
 With neither thanks nor further protest, she put the 
 money away in her pocketbook. 
 
 " You 've acted like a brick to me," he continued. 
 
 " Don't let 's talk about that now " 
 
 " I don't want you should think I don't appreciate it. 
 If it had n't been for you, I don't know when I 'd 've got 
 home chances are, not till tomorrow night, anyway. 
 The old woman 3 d 've been half crazy." 
 
 Joan kept silence. 
 
 " My mother," he amended, with a sidelong glance. 
 " There 's only the two of us." 
 
 " Well," said the girl rising, " if that 's so, you 'd better 
 get home to her ; she won't be any too happy until she sees 
 you and not then." 
 
 Reluctantly he got to his feet. " She thinks I 'm a 
 great actor," he observed bitterly ; " and I 'm nothing 
 but a damn' drunken " 
 
 Joan interrupted roughly : " Ah, can that bunk : it '11 
 keep till tomorrow and maybe you '11 mean it then."
 
 138 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 He subsided into silence, whether offended or penitent 
 she neither knew nor cared. She gave him his hat, avoid- 
 ing his look, and without further speech they found their 
 way out to the gate at One-hundred-and-third Street. Here 
 Joan paused to await an Eighth Avenue car. 
 
 " You 'd better walk all the way home, even if you don't 
 feel like it," she advised Quard brusquely. " It won't do 
 you any harm, and that map of yours is a sight." 
 
 " All right," he assented. He moved tentatively a foot 
 or so away, checked, turned back. " I suppose this is 
 good-bye ? " he said, offering his hand. 
 
 " I guess it is," she agreed without emotion. Barely 
 touching his clammy and tremulous fingers, she hastily 
 withdrew her own. 
 
 A southbound car was swinging down to them, not a 
 block distant. Quard eyed it with morose disfavour. 
 
 " At that," he said suddenly, " maybe this would n't 've 
 happened if you had n't been so stand-offish. I only 
 wanted to be friends " 
 
 In her exasperation Joan gave an excellent imitation of 
 Miss May Dean's favourite ejaculation. "My Gawd!" 
 she said scornfully " if you can't think of any better 
 excuse for being a souse than to blame it on me . . . 
 Good night ! " 
 
 The car pulled up for her. She climbed aboard left 
 him staring.
 
 XIV 
 
 THOUGH it was after three in the morning when Joan 
 got home, she was n't, as she had thought to be, the only 
 waking person in the house. She had no sooner entered 
 than, fagged though she was, she grasped this knowledge 
 with a thrilling heart. 
 
 Beneath the door of the back-parlour a thin yellow line 
 of light shone, as brilliant in the obscurity as the rim of 
 a newly minted coin. She paused ; and there came to her 
 ears the swift staccato chattering of a typewriter. 
 
 Of a sudden she remembered how long it was since John 
 Matthias had been anything but an abstraction in the 
 background of her consciousness. He might have been at 
 home for days: she had neither known nor thought of 
 him, so wrapped up had she been with the routine of her 
 work and the formless intrigue of emotions stimulated by 
 the personality of Charlie Quard. 
 
 But now Charlie had eliminated himself from her life 
 (she was quite sure that she would never see him again) 
 while to the man labouring late, behind that closed door, 
 she must be even more a dim reminiscence than ever 
 before. 
 
 It stung her pride to think that Matthias had been able 
 to forget her so easily. And she regretted bitterly that 
 she herself had been so ready to let the image of her 
 absent-minded benefactor fade upon the tablets of her 
 memory. 
 
 By way of mute apology and recompense she hastened 
 to enshrine anew in her heart her ideal of a gentleman; 
 and it was fashioned in the likeness of John Matthias. 
 And she resolved not to let another day pass without ap-
 
 140 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 preaching him. She was sure he would help her if he 
 could; and she was very anxious to make him realize 
 her again. 
 
 But morning found her in quite another humour, one 
 as diffident as different. And promptly she made a dis- 
 covery so infinitely dismaying that it put the man alto- 
 gether out of her mind for the time being. The Deans, 
 she learned, had on the previous day received an offer 
 for an engagement at a summer park in the Middle 
 West, and had accepted, packed up and departed, all in 
 an afternoon. 
 
 So she was more lonely than ever she had been since 
 leaving home. The bedroom of the Dancing Deans, that 
 salon where those stars of remote and lowly constellations 
 had assembled to afford Joan her only glimpses of social 
 life, was empty, swept and garnished. Those whom she 
 had met there, and who had been nice to her, those scatter- 
 brained, kind-hearted, shiftless denizens of the vaudeville 
 half -world, were once again removed from her reach. 
 
 She spent that day and the next on the streets, trudging 
 purposefully through the withering heat of August, once 
 more a figure of the pageant which marches that most 
 dolorous way, theatrical Broadway in the dog-days; one 
 with the groups of idling actors with their bluish jowls and 
 shabby jauntiness, one with and yet aloof from that drift 
 of inexplicable creatures of stunted bodies and shoddy 
 finery, less women than children, wistful of mien, with 
 their strange, foreign faces and predatory eyes, bold and 
 appealing to men, defiant to women. . . . 
 
 Nothing came of it : the agencies took no more interest 
 in her fortunes than they had before she could truthfully 
 lay claim to stage experience. Each night she crawled 
 home, faint with fatigue and the burden of the broiling 
 day, to relish the bitter flavour of the truth that she would 
 never go far without influence. 
 
 The third day she spent at home, resting and furbish- 
 ing up her wardrobe to make a good appearance in the
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 141 
 
 evening. Toward nightfall she bathed, did up her hair 
 in a new and attractive way, shrewdly refrained from 
 dressing her face with rouge and powder after the fashion 
 the Deans had taught her, and clothed herself simply and 
 sweetly in her best skirt and a fresh shirtwaist both re- 
 cent purchases. 
 
 In the deepening gloom of evening she mounted guard 
 alone upon the stoop. 
 
 Circumstances could not have proved more favourable; 
 and since her eyes were quick to distinguish the tall and 
 slender figure of Matthias the moment he turned out of 
 Longacre Square, the length of the block away, she had 
 ample time to prepare herself. And yet it was with grow- 
 ing consternation that she watched his approach, and when 
 at last he ran lightly up the steps, she was so hampered 
 by embarrassment that the words she had framed to ad- 
 dress him went unuttered, and her tentative movement to 
 rise was barely perceptible a start, a sinking back. So 
 that Matthias, in his preoccupation, received only a faint 
 impression that he had somehow disturbed the girl (who- 
 ever she might be) and lifting his hat, murmured an in- 
 articulate word of apology and brushed past her into the 
 vestibule. As the door of the back-parlour was noisily 
 closed, tears of anger and mortification started to Joan's 
 eyes. Then promptly temper overcame that which had 
 daunted her calmer mood. Before she knew it she was 
 knocking at Matthias's door. 
 
 He answered immediately and in person, with his coat 
 off and his collar unfastened by way of preparation for a 
 long night's work. Staring blankly, he said " Oh ? " in a 
 mechanical and not at all encouraging manner. 
 
 " Mr. Matthias " Joan began with a slight, deter- 
 mined nod. 
 
 " Oh good evening," he stammered. 
 
 Seeing him more at loss than herself, her self-confidence 
 returned in some measure. " You don't remember me, 
 Mr. Matthias," she asserted with a cool smile.
 
 142 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 He shook his head slowly : " So sorry I Ve got a 
 shocking memory. It '11 come back to me in a minute. 
 Won't you ah come in ? " 
 
 Joan said " Thanks," in a low voice, and entered. " I 
 am Joan Thursday," she added with a hint of challenge 
 in voice and glance. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss Thursday of course ! Won't you sit 
 down ? " 
 
 Matthias offered her an easy chair, but the girl was 
 quite aware, as she accepted it, that he was still vainly 
 racking his memory for some clue to the identity of 
 Joan Thursday. 
 
 " You were very kind to me one night about six weeks 
 ago," she said, choosing her words carefully in order not 
 to offend his fastidious taste. " Don't you remember ? It 
 was a rainy night, and I had nowhere to go, and you let 
 me stay here " 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, his face lighting up. " Of course, 
 I remember now. Joan Thursday to be sure ! You 
 left me a little note of thanks. I 've often wondered what 
 became of you." 
 
 " I Ve been living here, right in this house, ever since." 
 
 " You don't mean it. How very odd ! I should think 
 we 'd have met before this, if that 's the case." 
 
 " You 've had plenty of chances," she laughed, feeling 
 a little more at ease. She rested her head against the back 
 of the chair and regarded him through half -lowered lashes, 
 conscious that the lamplight was doing full justice to her 
 prettiness. " I 've seen you dozens of times." 
 
 " That 's funny ! " he observed, genuinely perplexed. 
 " I don't see how that could have happened ! " 
 
 " You were always too busy thinking about something 
 else to look at poor me," she returned; and then, intui- 
 tively sensitive to the affectation of the adjective " poor " 
 (a trick picked up from one of Maizie's women friends) 
 she amended it hastily : " at me, I mean." 
 
 " Well, I don't understand it, but I apologize for my
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 143 
 
 rudeness, just the same," he laughed ; and sat down, under- 
 standing that the girl wanted something and meant to stay 
 until she got it, wondering what it could be, and a little 
 annoyed to have his working time thus gratuitously in- 
 terrupted. " So," he ventured, " you fixed things up to 
 stop here, did you ? At least, I seem to remember you 
 ah were n't in very good form, financially, that night 
 we met." 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I fixed it up all right. I 'd lost 
 my money, but the next day I found it again, and I came 
 back here because I did n't know where else to go, and 
 besides there was my friends upstairs the Deans, you 
 know." 
 
 " Oh, yes, to be sure. And did they help you find work 
 on the stage ? You did want to go on the stage, if I 'm 
 not mistaken." 
 
 " Yes ; that 's why I left home, you know. But they 
 did n't help me any the Deans did n't at least, not 
 exactly; though it was through them I met a fellow who 
 took me on for a vaudeville turn." 
 
 " Why, that 's splendid ! " said Matthias, affecting an 
 enthusiasm which he hardly felt. " And you made 
 good eh ? " 
 
 " Well " she laughed a little consciously "I guess 
 I did make good. But he did n't. H'e was a boozer, and 
 they threw us out of the bill last Wednesday." 
 
 " That 's too bad," said Matthias sympathetically. " I 
 see." 
 
 And truly he did begin to see : she was out of a job and 
 wanted assistance to another. It was n't the first time 
 nor yet merely the hundredth that he had been ap- 
 proached on a similar errand. People seemed to think 
 that simply because he wrote plays which, if produced 
 at all, scored nothing more than indifferent successes at 
 best! he could wheedle managers into providing berths 
 for every sorry incompetent who caught the footlight fever. 
 It was very annoying. Not that he would n't be glad to
 
 144 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 place them all, given time and influence; but he had 
 neither. 
 
 Joan, watching him closely, saw his face darken, guessed 
 cunningly the cause. And suddenly the buoyant assur- 
 ance which had been hers up to this stage in their inter- 
 view deserted her utterly. No longer enheartened by faith 
 in the potency of her good looks and the appeal of her 
 necessity, she became again the constrained and timid girl 
 of unreasonable and inarticulate demands. 
 
 After a brief silence, Matthias looked up with a 
 smile. 
 
 " I don't suppose you have anything else in sight ? " 
 
 Joan shook her head. 
 
 " And you need a job pretty hard eh ? " 
 
 " Oh, I do ! " she cried. " I have n't hardly any money, 
 and the Deans have gone away, and the agencies won't pay 
 any attention to me " 
 
 " I understand," he interrupted. " Half a minute : 
 I '11 try to think of something." 
 
 Unconsciously he began to pace the way his feet had 
 worn from door to window. 
 
 " How old are you ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 She started and instinctively lied : " Twenty . . ." 
 
 His surprise was unconcealed : " Really ? " 
 
 She faltered unconvincing amendment : " Nearly." 
 
 " No matter," he said briskly. " It comes to the same 
 thing : you 're under twenty. The stage is no place for 
 girls of your age. Don't you think you 'd better chuck it 
 go home ? " 
 
 Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head, her 
 eyes misty with disappointment. 
 
 " Besides, you 're too good looking . . ." 
 
 Struck by her unresponsiveness, he paused to glance at 
 her, and noted with consternation the glimmer of tears in 
 her lashes. 
 
 " Oh, I say ! Don't cry we '11 find something for 
 you, never fear ! "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 145 
 
 " I 'm sorry," she gulped. "I I did n't mean to ... 
 Only, I can't go home, and I must find something to do, 
 and you 'd been so kind to me, once, I thought " 
 
 " And I will ! " he asserted heartily. " I 'm only trying 
 to advise you. ... I don't want to preach about the im- 
 morality of the theatre. A sensible girl is as safe on the 
 legitimate stage as she would be in a business office 
 safer ! But theatrical work has other effects on one's moral 
 fibre, just as disastrous, in a way. It 's lazy work ; barring 
 rehearsals, you won't find yourself driven very hard 
 unless ambition drives you, and you 've got uncommon 
 ability and mean to get to the top. Otherwise, you won't 
 have much to do, even if constantly engaged. You '11 get 
 average small parts ; you may be on in one act out of three 
 or four. But even if you appear in every act, you '11 only 
 be in the theatre three hours or so a day. The rest of it 
 you '11 waste, nine chances out of ten. You '11 lie abed 
 late, and once up it won't seem worth while starting any- 
 thing before it 's time to show up at the theatre. That 's 
 the real evil of stage life : to every hard-working actor it 
 turns out a hundred five hundred too lazy even to 
 act their best, of no real use either to themselves or to the 
 world." 
 
 He checked and laughed in a deprecatory manner. " I 
 did n't mean to speechify like this, but I do know what 
 I 'm talking about." 
 
 Joan had listened, admiring Matthias intensely, but 
 thoroughly sceptical of his counsel, to the tenor of which 
 she paid just sufficient heed to perceive that doubts ad- 
 mitted would condemn her cause. 
 
 " I mean to succeed," she said in an earnest voice : " I 
 mean to work hard, and I do believe I '11 make good, if I 
 ever get a chance." 
 
 " Then that 's settled ! " assented Matthias promptly. 
 " The thing to do now is to find out what you can do with 
 a chance." 
 
 He pawed the litter of papers on the table, and pres-
 
 146 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 ently brought to light a typed manuscript in blue paper 
 covers. 
 
 " This," he said, rustling the leaves, " is the first act 
 of a play we 're going to put on early in September. It 
 goes into rehearsal in a week or ten days. There 's a small 
 part in the first act a stenographer in a law office a 
 slangy, self -sufficient girl you might be able to play. 
 As I say, it 's small ; but it 's quite important. It 's the 
 fashion nowadays, you know, to write pieces with small 
 casts and no parts that are n't vital to the action. If you 
 should bungle, it would ruin the first act and might kill 
 the play. But I 'm willing to try you out at rehearsals 
 with the distinct understanding that if you don't fit pre- 
 cisely you '11 be released and somebody else engaged who 
 we 're sure can play it." 
 
 "That's all I ask," said the girl. "You you're 
 awful' kind " 
 
 " Nonsense : I 'd rather have you than anyone else I 
 can think of just now, because you 're pretty, and pretty 
 women help a play a lot ; and the man who 's putting 
 this piece on would rather have you because he '11 get you 
 for less money than he 'd have to pay an actress of expe- 
 rience. So, if you make good, all hands will be pleased." 
 
 " Shall I begin to study now ? " Joan asked, offering to 
 take the manuscript. 
 
 " Not necessary. Your part will be given you when 
 the first rehearsal is called. I merely want to refresh my 
 memory, to see how much you '11 have to do." 
 
 He ran hastily through the pages. 
 
 " As I thought : you are on at the opening for about 
 ten minutes, and near the end of the act for a two-minute 
 scene. Twelve minutes' work a day for, say, twenty-five 
 dollars a week : that is n't bad. You '11 be out of the 
 theatre by half-past nine every night. . . . You see the 
 point I 've been trying to make ? " 
 
 " Yes," Joan assented. " It seems very easy. I hope 
 I can do it."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 147 
 
 " I 'm sure you can," said Matthias. " But how are 
 you going to live between now and the opening ? " 
 
 Joan's eyes were blank. 
 
 " Have you any money ? " he insisted. 
 
 " A very little," she faltered " eighteen dollars " 
 
 " You won't get pay for rehearsals ; and they '11 last 
 three weeks ; after we open it will be another week before 
 the ghost walks. That 's say six weeks you Ve 
 got to scrape through somehow. Eighteen dollars won't 
 cover that. Perhaps you 'd better go back to your old job 
 until we start." 
 
 " I was fired from the last, and it would take more 
 than two weeks for me to find anything like it, I know." 
 
 " And there you are ! " 
 
 Matthias tossed the manuscript back to the table, waved 
 his hands eloquently and threw himself into a chair, re- 
 garding her with his whimsical, semi-apologetic smile. 
 
 " I 'm afraid," he added after a minute, " I Ve reached 
 the end of my string. Further suggestions will have to 
 come from you." 
 
 " I don't know," said the girl doubtfully. " Maybe I 
 can think of something maybe something will turn up." 
 
 " I hope so. Perhaps even I may invent something. 
 If I do, I '11 let you know, Miss Thursday." 
 
 He arose, his manner an invitation to go, to which she 
 could n't be blind. 
 
 She got up, moved slowly toward the door. 
 
 " I hope I have n't bothered you much put you out 
 of your writing " 
 
 " Oh, that 's all right," he interrupted insincerely. 
 
 " And you have been awful' good to me." 
 
 " Please don't think of it that way." 
 
 He was holding the door for her, but on the threshold 
 she hesitated. 
 
 " Unless," she ventured half-heartedly " unless I 
 could help you some way with your work." 
 
 " Help me ? " he exclaimed, at once amazed and amused.
 
 148 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " I mean, copying if you ever have any." 
 
 " Typewriting ? " 
 
 She nodded, with a flush of hope. " When I was a 
 kid I mean, before I left school I studied a while 
 at a business college nights, you know. They taught 
 me typewriting by the touch system, but I could n't seem 
 to get the hang of shorthand, and so had to give it up and 
 go to work in a store." 
 
 " Now that is a helpful thought ! " he cried, turning 
 back into the room. " Wait a minute. There may be 
 something in this. Let me think." 
 
 But his deliberation was very brief. 
 
 " It can be done ! " he announced in another moment. 
 " I have got a lot of stuff to be copied. You see, about 
 a month ago I ..." 
 
 He checked, his eyes clouding without cause apparent 
 to the girl. 
 
 " Well ! " he went on with a nervous laugh "I did n't 
 feel much like work. Guess I must 've done too much of 
 it, for a while. Anyway, I found I had to quit, and went 
 out of town for a while. Of course I could n't stop work 
 really a man can't, if he likes his job and so I took 
 some manuscripts along and revised them in long-hand. 
 Now they ought to be copied I 'd been thinking of send- 
 ing them out to some public stenographer but if you 
 want the work, it 's yours."
 
 XV 
 
 NEVER had any of her difficulties been adjusted in a 
 manner more satisfactory to Joan. She rose at once from 
 an abyss of discouragement to sunlit peaks of happiness. 
 Installing a rented type-writing machine in the room 
 adjoining her own (temporarily without a tenant and 
 willingly loaned by Madame Duprat) she tapped away 
 industriously from early morning till late at night, sedu- 
 lously transcribing into clean type-script the mangled 
 manuscripts given her by Matthias. By no means a 
 rapid worker, after renewing acquaintance with the ma- 
 chine she made up for slowness by diligence and long 
 hours. And the work interested her: she thought the 
 plays magnificent; and a novel which Matthias gave her 
 when his stock of old plays ran low she considered superb. 
 It was his first and only book, and had not as yet been 
 submitted to the mercies of a publisher. But to Joan it 
 was something more than a book ; it was a revelation, her 
 primal introduction to the world of the intellect. From 
 poring over its pages, she grew hungry for more, thrilled 
 by the discovery that she could find interest and pleasure 
 in reading. 
 
 She began to borrow extensively from the circulation 
 branch of the Public Library in Forty-second Street, and 
 to read late into the night, defying the prejudices of 
 Madame Duprat on the question of gas consumption. . . . 
 
 Refusing an offer of public stenographer rates, she had 
 asked for ten dollars a week. This Matthias paid her, 
 under protest that the work was worth more to him. The 
 arrangement was, however, a fortunate one; for though 
 at first Joan earned more than she received, after rehear-
 
 150 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 sals of " The Jade God " had started she was seldom 
 able to give more than two or three hours a day to the 
 copying. 
 
 These rehearsals furnished her with impressions vastly 
 different from those garnered through her experience 
 with " The Convict's Return." 
 
 The company assembled for the first time on a mid- 
 August morning, in the author's study. There were 
 present eight men, aside from Matthias and the manager, 
 his producing director and his press agent, and four 
 women, including Joan. After brief introductions, the 
 gathering disposed itself to attention, and Matthias, rock- 
 ing nervously in his revolving desk-chair, read the play 
 aloud. To most of those present the work was new and 
 unfamiliar; they listened with intense interest, keenly 
 alive to the possibilities of the various parts for which 
 they had been cast. 
 
 But Joan was not of these; she had typed all the 
 parts and knew not only the story but her own slight 
 though significant role (as she would have said) "back- 
 wards." Sitting in a shadowed corner, she devoted her- 
 self to studying those with whom her lines were to be 
 cast. 
 
 The leading lady was an actress who, after several 
 attempts to star at the head of her own company, was 
 reduced to playing second to the young and handsome 
 matinee hero of several seasons ago, planning to return 
 in triumph to the stage after an unsuccessful effort to 
 retire from it into the contented estate of well-financed 
 matrimony. Through their widely published photographs 
 Joan was familiar with the features of both. 
 
 She thought the star charming; good-humoured, good- 
 looking, well-mannered, slight and graceful, he had all 
 the assurance of a Charlie Quard and none of his vain 
 swagger. 
 
 But Joan decided on sight to detest the leading woman. 
 She was a pale, ashen blonde, with a skin as colourless
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 151 
 
 as snow, level dark brows, sharp blue eyes set close to 
 the bridge of her pointed nose, and a thin-lipped, violent 
 mouth. The first impression she conveyed was one of 
 dangerous temper; the second, that she had been happy 
 in her choice of photographers. Throughout the reading, 
 she sat negligently on the arm of a chair, swinging a 
 foot and staring out of the window with an air of im- 
 mitigable disdain. 
 
 Of the other women, one was a grey-haired, sweet-faced 
 lady of perhaps fifty years, whose eyes softened winningly 
 whenever they encountered Joan's, the other an unlovely 
 creature of middle-age and long stage experience, who 
 seemed to have no interest in life aside from her unfolding 
 part. The remainder of the company, of a caste hall- 
 marked by the theatre, offered nothing novel to Joan's 
 eyes aside from a fat, red-faced lump of a youth who 
 was to act a thick-witted, sentimental office-boy, in love 
 with the stenographer (Joan). This one she decided 
 to tolerate on suspicion; he resembled a type which she 
 had found difficult, apt to impertinence and annoying 
 attentions. 
 
 Hideout, the man financially responsible for the pro- 
 duction, was an English actor of reputation and con- 
 siderable ability. Carrying his stoutish body with an 
 ease that almost suggested slenderness: with his plump, 
 blowsy face, twinkling eyes and fat nose of a comedian: 
 the insuppressible staginess of his gesture would have 
 betrayed his calling anywhere. Now and again Joan 
 surprised an anxious expression lurking beneath his 
 humorous smile; she had inferred from some casual 
 remark made by Matthias that Hideout was staking all 
 he possessed on the success of this play. 
 
 The producing manager, Wilbrow, was a short, lean- 
 bodied American, with lantern jaws, large intent eyes, 
 and a nervous frown. Joan was impressed with the 
 aloof pleasantness of his manner: she was to know him 
 better.
 
 152 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 The reading over, the company was dismissed with in- 
 structions to report at ten the next morning at an obscure 
 dance-hall masquerading under the name of an opera 
 house, situate in the immediate neighbourhood, between 
 Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Several lingered to affix sig- 
 natures to contracts Joan of their number ; and when 
 these were gone, there remained in conference the star, 
 the leading woman, Matthias, Hideout, and Wilbrow. 
 
 Going out to dinner that night, Joan passed Matthias 
 bidding good-bye to the leading woman in the hallway. 
 He seemed tired and wore a harassed look; and later, 
 when the girl delivered the outcome of her day's copy- 
 ing, he had a manner new to her, of weary brusqueness. 
 
 The first rehearsal proper was held in a stuffy and ill- 
 ventilated room, so dark that it was necessary to use the 
 electric lights even at high noon. The day was fortunately 
 cool, otherwise the place had been insufferable. There 
 was little attempt at acting; the company devoted itself, 
 under Wilbrow's patient direction, to blocking in the 
 action. They had no stage simply that bare, four- 
 square room. Half a dozen chairs and a few long benches 
 were dragged about to indicate entrances and properties. 
 Nobody pretended to know his part not even Joan, who 
 knew hers perfectly. The example of the others, who 
 merely mumbled from the manuscripts in their hands, 
 made the girl fear to betray amateurishness by discover- 
 ing too great an initial familiarity with her lines. So 
 she, too, carried her " 'script," and read from it. When 
 not thus engaged, she sat watching and noting down 
 what was going on with eager attention. 
 
 But she took away with her a depressing sense of having 
 engaged in something formless and incoherent. 
 
 But succeeding rehearsals beginning with the second 
 corrected this misapprehension. That afternoon de- 
 veloped Wilbrow suddenly into a mild-mannered, semi- 
 apologetic, and humorous tyrant. He discovered an in- 
 dividual comprehension of what was required for the
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 153 
 
 right development of the play, and an invincible deter- 
 mination to get it. He never lost either temper or 
 patience, neither swore nor lifted his voice; but having 
 indicated his desire, wrought patiently with its subject, 
 sometimes for as long as an hour, until he had succeeded 
 in satisfying it. He worked coatless, with his long black 
 hair straggling down over his forehead and across his 
 glasses : an incredibly thin, energetic, and efficient figure, 
 dominated by a penetrating and masterful intelligence. 
 Not infrequently, taking the typed part from the hands 
 of one of his puppets, he would himself give a vivid sketch 
 of its requirements through the medium of intonation, 
 gesture, and action. And to Joan, at least, the effects 
 he created by these means were as striking in the feminine 
 roles as in the masculine. Utterly devoid of self-con- 
 sciousness, he had the faculty of seeming for the moment 
 actually to be what he sought to suggest: one forgot the 
 man, saw only what he had in mind. 
 
 Another thing that surprised the girl more than 
 a little was the docility with which her associates sub- 
 mitted to his dictation and even invited it. She had heard 
 of actors " creating " roles ; but in this company no one 
 but the producer seemed to be creating anything. The 
 others came to rehearsals with minds so open that they 
 seemed vacuous; not one, whether the star, his leading 
 woman, or any of their supporting players, indicated the 
 least comprehension of what they were required to portray 
 or the slightest symptom of original conception. What 
 Wilbrow told them and then showed them how to do, they 
 performed with varying degrees of success. So that Joan 
 at last came to believe the best actors those most suscep- 
 tible to domination, least capable of independent thought. 
 As he gradually became acquainted with his lines and the 
 business Wilbrow mapped out for him, the star began to 
 give more compelling impersonations at each rehearsal; 
 but to the girl he never seemed more than a carbon filament 
 of a man, burning bright with incandescence only when
 
 154 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 impregnated with the fluid genius of a superior mentality. 
 So, likewise, with the leading woman. . . . 
 
 As for herself, Joan was hardly happy in her endeavour 
 to please. Having unwisely formed her own premature 
 conception of her part, and lacking totally the technical 
 ability to express it, she ran constantly afoul of Wil- 
 brow's notions. She was called upon first to erase her 
 own personality, next to forget the personality which she 
 had meant to delineate, and finally to substitute for both 
 these one which Wilbrow alone seemed able to see and 
 understand. She strove patiently and without complaint, 
 but in a stupefying welter of confusion. While on the 
 pretended stage she was constantly terrified by Wilbrow's 
 mild but predominant regard, which rendered her only 
 awkward, witless, and ill-at-ease. Then, too, her attempts 
 to imitate his brilliant and colourful acting were received 
 with amusement, not always wholly silent, by the rest 
 of the company. She seemed quite unable to follow his 
 lead; and toward the end of the first week, throughout 
 the whole of which (she was aware from the calm resigna- 
 tion of Wilbrow's attitude) she had improved not one 
 whit, she began to despair. 
 
 Inasmuch as she appeared only in the first act, she was 
 customarily excused from attendance at the rest of each 
 rehearsal, and spent this extra time at home, over her 
 typewriter; thus maintaining the fiction of earning her 
 weekly stipend. 
 
 On Saturday afternoon, however, as soon as her " bit " 
 had been rehearsed, there occurred one of those quiet, 
 aloof conferences between Wilbrow, Hideout, and Mat- 
 thias, which she had learned to recognize as presaging 
 a change in the cast. Twice before, such consultations 
 had resulted in the release of subordinate actors who 
 had proved unequal to their parts. Now from the au- 
 thor's uneasy and distressed eye, which alternately sought 
 and avoided her, Joan divined that her own fate was 
 being weighed in the balance. And her heart grew heavy
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 155 
 
 with misgivings. None the less, she was permitted to 
 leave with no other advice than that the rehearsals would 
 resume on the following Monday, at nine in the morning, 
 on the stage of a Broadway theatre. 
 
 She hurried home in a mood of wretched anxiety and 
 creeping despair. Wilbrow had indisputable excuse for 
 dissatisfaction with her; Hideout was quite humanly 
 bent on getting the best material his money could purchase 
 and she was far from that ; while Matthias could n't 
 reasonably protest against her dismissal for manifest 
 incompetency. And dismissal now meant more to Joan 
 than the loss of her coveted chance to appear in a first- 
 class production; it meant not only the loss of the living 
 she earned as typist and she had been engaged with 
 the understanding, implicit if not explicit, that Matthias 
 had only enough extra work to occupy her until the open- 
 ing of his play ; dismissal from the cast of " The Jade 
 God," in short, meant the loss to her of Matthias. 
 
 There was no longer in her heart any doubt that she 
 loved him. The admiration conceived in her that first 
 night, when he had turned himself out to afford her 
 shelter, had needed only this brief period of propinquity 
 to ripen into something infinitely more deep and strong. 
 And from the first she had been ready and willing to 
 adore his very shadow upon an excuse far less encouraging 
 than his kindly though detached interest in her welfare. 
 In her cosmos Matthias was a being as exotic as a Mar- 
 tian, his intelligence of an order that passed understand- 
 ing. His thoughts and ways of speech, his interests and 
 amusements (as far as she could divine them) the deli- 
 cacy of his perceptions, and the very refinements of his 
 mode of life, all new and strange to her, invested him 
 with a mystery as compelling to her imagination as the 
 reticences of a strange and beautiful woman have for the 
 mind of a young man. She worshipped him with a 
 hopeless and inarticulate longing, and was content with 
 this for the present; but hourly she dreamed of a day
 
 156 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 when through his aid she should have lifted herself to a 
 position in which she would seem something more to him 
 than a mere, forlorn shop-girl out of work and scratching 
 for a living. If only she might hope to become an actress 
 of recognized ability . . . ! 
 
 It was a truism in her conception of life that the estate 
 of actress was a loadstone for the hearts of men. 
 
 If success were to be denied her . . . ! 
 
 In her bedroom, behind a locked door, she hurried to 
 her pillow and to tears. She had known many an hour 
 darkened by the fugitive despairs of youth; but never 
 until this day had she been so despondently sorry for 
 herself. 
 
 Later, the banal ticking of her tin alarm-clock pene- 
 trated her consciousness, and she remembered that she 
 had work to do to be finished before evening, if her 
 promise to Matthias were to be kept. She rose, splashed 
 face and eyes with cold water, and went to her type- 
 writer in the adjoining room. 
 
 She had really very little to do in order to complete 
 her task only a few pages of scored and interlined 
 manuscript to reduce to clean copy; but her mind was 
 not with her work. Time and again she found herself 
 sitting with idle hands, thoughts far errant; and now 
 and then she had to dry her eyes before she could pro- 
 ceed : so stubbornly did she cling to the sorry indulgence 
 of self-pity! Once, even, she was so overcome by con- 
 templation of her sufferings that she bowed her head 
 upon the table where the manuscript lay, and wept without 
 restraint for several minutes without restraint and, 
 toward the last, with kindling interest in the discovery 
 that her tears were bedewing a freshly typed page. 
 
 If Matthias were to notice, would he understand ? And, 
 understanding, what would he think ? . . . 
 
 With shame-faced reluctance she destroyed the blotched 
 page and typed it anew. 
 
 It was dark before she finished; and she was glad of
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 157 
 
 this when she gathered up the manuscript to take to her 
 employer. With no light in his room other than that 
 of the reading-lamp with the green shade, her stained 
 and flushed cheeks and swollen eyes would escape de- 
 tection. It was not that she would n't have welcomed 
 sympathetic interest, but a glance in the mirror showed 
 her she had wept too unrestrainedly not to have depre- 
 ciated the chiefest asset of her charm her prettiness. 
 
 However, she could not well avoid the meeting: the 
 work must be delivered ; but if she were lucky she would 
 find him in one of his frequent moods of abstraction, and 
 their interview need only be of the briefest. Never- 
 theless, she would have sent the work to him by the 
 chambermaid if her week's wage had not been due that 
 night. 
 
 She waited a moment, listening at the door to the 
 back-parlour; but there was no sound of voices within; 
 and reassured, she knocked. 
 
 His response " Come in ! " followed with unex- 
 pected promptness. She obeyed, though with misgivings 
 amply justified as soon as she found herself in the room, 
 which was for once well-lighted, two gas-jets on the 
 chandelier supplementing the green-shaded lamp. 
 
 Matthias was bending over a kit-bag on the couch, 
 hastily packing enough clothing to tide him over Sunday. 
 He threw her an indifferent glance and greeting over 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " Hello, Miss Thursday ! I was beginning to wonder 
 whether you 'd forgotten me. I 'm going to run down 
 to Port Madison until Monday morning last chance 
 I '11 have for a day in the country for some time, prob- 
 ably. Chances are, Wilbrow will keep us at work next 
 Sunday. Got that 'script all ready ? " 
 
 Joan, depositing it on the table, murmured an affirma- 
 tive in a voice uncontrollably unsteady. Before entering 
 she had been quite sure of her ability to carry off the 
 short interview without betraying her harrowed emotions.
 
 158 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 But to find the man about whom they centred packing to 
 leave town to leave her ! added the final touch of 
 misery to her mood. And the inflection of her response 
 could not have failed to strike oddly on his hearing. 
 
 Uttering a wondering "Hello!" he straightened up 
 and swung round to look at her. And a glance sufficed: 
 his smile faded, was replaced by a pucker of sympathy 
 between his brows. 
 
 " Why, what 's the trouble ? " 
 
 Joan averted her face. " N-nothing," she faltered. 
 Her lip trembled, her eyes filled anew. She dabbed at 
 them with a wadded handkerchief. 
 
 Matthias hesitated. He drew down the corners of his 
 mouth, elevated his brows, and scratched a temple slowly 
 with a meditative forefinger. Then he nodded sharply 
 and, crossing to the door, closed it. 
 
 " Tell me about it," he said, coming back to the girl. 
 " Things not going to suit you, eh ? " 
 
 She shook her head, looking away. "I I ! " she 
 stammered "I can't act ! " 
 
 " O nonsense ! " he interrupted with kindly impatience. 
 u You must n't get discouraged so easily. Naturally it 
 comes hard at first, but you '11 catch on. Everything of 
 this sort takes time. I was saying the same thing to 
 Wilbrow today." 
 
 " Yes," she mumbled, gulping "I I know. I 
 was watching you. H-he and Mr. Hideout wanted to 
 fire me, did n't they ? " 
 
 " What ? Oh, no, no ! " Matthias lied unconvincingly. 
 "They they were just wondering ... I assured 
 them " 
 
 " But you had n't any right to ! " the girl broke in 
 passionately. " I can't act and and I know it, and 
 you know it, as well as they do. I can't I just can't ! 
 It 's no use ... I 'm no good . . ." 
 
 Of a sudden she flopped into a chair, rested her head 
 on arms folded on the table, and sobbed aloud.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 159 
 
 Matthias shook his head and (since she could not see 
 him) permitted himself a gesture of impotent exaspera- 
 tion. This was really the devil of a note! Women were 
 incomprehensible : you could n't bank on 'em, ever. Here 
 was he preparing to catch a train, and not too much time 
 at that . . . 
 
 But a glance at the clock reassured him slightly; he 
 had still a little leeway. All the same, he did n't much 
 relish the prospect of being compelled to invest his spare 
 minutes in attempting to comfort a silly, emotional girl. 
 And, besides, somebody in the hallway might hear her 
 sobbing. . . . 
 
 This last consideration took him somewhat reluctantly 
 to her side. " There, there ! " he pleaded, intensely irri- 
 tated by that feeling of helplessness which always afflicts 
 man in the presence of a weeping woman, whether or 
 not he has the right to comfort her. " There don't cry, 
 please, Miss ah Thursday. You 're all right 
 really, you are. You you 're ah doing all this 
 quite needlessly, I give you my word." 
 
 He might as well have attempted to stem a mountain 
 torrent. 
 
 " I wish I could make you understand this is all quite 
 unnecessary," he groaned. 
 
 "I I 'm so mis' able ! " came a wail from the huddled 
 figure. 
 
 " I 'm sorry," he said uncomfortably " awfully sorry, 
 truly. But you I 'm not afraid you won't make good, 
 and I don't intend to let you go until you 've had every 
 chance in the world. That 's a promise." 
 
 He ventured to give her quaking shoulder a light, 
 encouraging pat or two, and rested his hand upon the 
 corner of the table. 
 
 " Come, now brace up please. I " 
 
 With a strangled sob Joan sat up, caught his hand and 
 carried it to her lips. Before he could recover from his 
 astonishment it was damp with her tears and kisses.
 
 160 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Instantly he snatched it away. 
 
 " You you 're so good to me ! " she cried. 
 
 Matthias, horrified, stepped back a pace or two, as if 
 to insure himself against a repetition of her offence, and 
 quite mechanically dried his hand with a handkerchief. 
 And then, in a flash, he lost his temper. 
 
 " What the devil do you mean by doing that to me ? " 
 he demanded harshly. " Look here you stop this 
 nonsense. I won't have it. I why it 's outra- 
 geous ! What right have you got to to do anything like 
 that?" 
 
 The shock of his anger brought the girl to her senses. 
 Her tears ceased in an instant, as if automatically. She 
 rose, mopping her face with her handkerchief, swallowed 
 one last sob, and moved sullenly toward the door. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I you've been very 
 kind to me I forgot myself. I 'm sorry." 
 
 " Well . . ." he said grudgingly, in his irritation. 
 " But don't let it happen again." 
 
 " There 's no chance of that," the girl retorted with a 
 brief -lived flash of spirit. " Good night." 
 
 " Good night," he returned. 
 
 She was gone before he recovered; and then compunc- 
 tion smote him, and he followed her as far as the hallway. 
 
 In the half-light of the flickering gas-jet, he saw her 
 only as a shadow slowly mounting the staircase. And a 
 glance toward the front door discovered indistinct shapes 
 of lodgers on the stoop. 
 
 " Miss Thursday ! " he called in a guarded voice. 
 
 She heard, hesitated a single instant, then with quick- 
 ened steps resumed the ascent. 
 
 He called once again, but she refused to listen, and he 
 returned to his study in a state of insensate rage ; which, 
 however, had this time himself for its sole object 
 Joan's transgression quite lost sight of in remorse for his 
 brutality. He could not remember ever having spoken 
 to any woman in such wise: no man had any right to
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 161 
 
 speak to any woman in such, a manner, for any cause, 
 however exasperating. 
 
 Tremendously disgusted with himself, and ashamed, he 
 tramped the floor so long, trying to quiet his conscience, 
 and made so many futile attempts to apologize to the girl 
 by word of hand one and all either too abject or too 
 constrained that he had lost his train before he pro- 
 duced the lame and halting effort with which he was at 
 length fain to be content. 
 
 A later train was bearing him under the East River 
 to Long Island when Joan read his message. 
 
 A servant had taken it to the girl's room and, knock- 
 ing without receiving an answer, concluded that Joan 
 was out and slipped it under the door. 
 
 When the descending footsteps were no longer audible, 
 Joan rose from the bed, lighted the gas, and with blurred 
 vision deciphered the lines : 
 
 " DEAK Miss THUBSDAY : Please forgive me for my unmannerly 
 exhibition of temper. I regret exceedingly my inability to make you 
 understand how sorry I am to have hurt your feelings. 
 
 " And do please understand that there is no grave dissatisfaction 
 with your work at rehearsals. Remember that you have two weeks 
 more in which to show what you can do. 
 
 " I shall hope that you are not too deeply offended to overlook my 
 loss of temper and to continue typing my book ; if possible I M like 
 to have another chapter by Monday night. 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 "JOHN MATTHIAS." 
 
 " P. S. I enclose what I 'd completely forgotten the regular 
 weekly amount $10." 
 
 She fell asleep, at length, with this note crushed between 
 her pillow and her cheek.
 
 XVI 
 
 HER work proved invaluable distraction for the greater 
 part of that long and lonely Sunday. When not at her 
 typewriter she was tormented by alternate fits of burning 
 chagrin and of equally ardent gratitude toward Matthias. 
 Had this last been in town and chanced to meet her, she 
 must either have quitted him definitely or have betrayed 
 her passion unmistakably even to the purblind eyes of a 
 dreaming dramatist. As it was, the girl had time to calm 
 down, to recognize at once his disinterestedness and her 
 own folly. If her infatuation did but deepen in contem- 
 plation of his generosity, she none the less regained poise 
 before bedtime and with it her determination to succeed 
 in spite of her stupidity, if only to justify his kindness. 
 
 But the morning that took her back to rehearsals found 
 her in a mood of dire misgivings. She would have for- 
 feited much anything other than their further associa- 
 tion to have been spared the impending encounter with 
 Matthias. And although the author was not present when 
 she reached the theatre, her embarrassment hampered her 
 to a degree that rendered her attempts td act more than 
 ever farcical. 
 
 Wilbrow, seated in a chair on the " apron " of the 
 stage, his back to the lifeless footlights, did not interrupt 
 her once ; but despair was patent in his attitude, and de- 
 spair informed his eyes, and not long after her scene was 
 finished the producer for the first time betrayed indica- 
 tions of temper. 
 
 " Elaine ! " he said abruptly in a chilling voice to one 
 of the minor actors " don't you know there 's a window 
 over there up left centre ? " 
 
 The player thus addressed, who had been idling purpose-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 163 
 
 lessly near the centre of the stage, looked up with a face 
 of blank surprise. 
 
 " Sure/' he said " sure I know it." 
 
 " That 's something, at least ! " Wilbrow commented 
 acidly. " I 'm glad you remember it. If I 'm not mis- 
 taken, I Ve reminded you of that window twice every day 
 since Monday." 
 
 " Yes," agreed the other with a look of painful concen- 
 tration ; " I guess that 's right, too." 
 
 " And yet you can't remember what I 've told you just 
 as often that I want you to be up there, looking out of 
 the window, when Sylvia enters ! " 
 
 The actor turned out expostulatory palms. " But, Mr. 
 Wilbrow, what for ? I don't see " 
 
 " Because," the producer interrupted incisively, " the 
 stage directions indicate it; because the significance of 
 this scene requires you to be there, looking out, unaware 
 of Sylvia's entrance; because you look better there; be- 
 cause it dresses the stage ; because you 're in the way any- 
 where else ; because I God help me ! because I 
 want you to ' be there ! " 
 
 A smothered giggle broke from a group of players tech- 
 nically off-stage. Wilbrow glared icily toward that 
 quarter. 
 
 " Yes, I know," Elaine agreed intelligently. " But 
 how do I get there ? " 
 
 The front legs of Wilbrow's chair rapped the boards 
 smartly as he jumped up. In silence, he grasped Elaine's 
 arm and with a slightly exaggerated melodramatic stride 
 propelled him to the indicated spot, released him, and 
 stood back. 
 
 " Walk ! " he announced with an inimitable gesture of 
 tolerant contempt; and went back to his chair. Not a 
 line of his face had changed. He sat down, nodded to the 
 leading woman. 
 
 "All right, Mary," he said; and to another actor: 
 " Now, the cue for Sylvia, please ! "
 
 164 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Joan shivered a little. 
 
 Matthias did not come in until after the girl had fin- 
 ished her part in the afternoon rehearsal. She caught 
 sight of him in the darkened auditorium just as she went 
 off ; and hurried from the house in tremulous dread. 
 
 But a meeting was inevitable; and that evening, just 
 before the dinner hour, found her reluctantly knuckling 
 the door of the back-parlour. The voice of Matthias bade 
 her enter, and she drew upon all her scant store of courage 
 as she turned the knob. To her immense relief he was 
 not alone. Hideout and Moran, the scene painter, were 
 in consultation with Matthias over two small model stages 
 set with painted pasteboard scenery. 
 
 Matthias greeted her with a preoccupied smile and 
 nod. 
 
 " Oh, good evening, Miss Thursday. More 'script, eh ? 
 Thank you." 
 
 Silently Joan gave him the manuscript and left the 
 room. But the door had no sooner closed than it was re- 
 opened and again closed. She turned to face this dreaded 
 crisis. 
 
 His smile was friendly and pleasant if a trace uncer- 
 tain. He made as if to offer his hand, and thought better 
 of it. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Thursday ... I sent you a note . . ." 
 
 She nodded, timid eyes avoiding his. 
 
 " Am I forgiven ? " 
 
 "I I if you '11 forgive me " she faltered. 
 
 " Then that 's all right ! " he cried heartily. " I 'm 
 glad," he added with unquestionable sincerity " and 
 sorry I was such a brute. I ought to have understood 
 what a strain you 'd been under. Shall we say no more 
 about it ? " 
 
 She nodded again : " Please . . . ' 
 
 " Good ! " He offered his hand frankly, subjected hers 
 to a firm, cool pressure, and moved back to his study door. 
 " Good night."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 165 
 
 She whispered her response, and ran upstairs to her 
 room, almost beside herself with delight. 
 
 It was all right! 
 
 Best of all, the advances had come from him; he it 
 was who had sued for pardon where the fault was hers 
 clear proof that he thought enough of her to wish to 
 retain her friendship ! 
 
 With a glad and comforted heart she settled down to 
 attack anew the vexatious problem of her role in " The 
 Jade God." 
 
 But for all her worry and good will, the next morning's 
 rehearsal of her scenes passed off in the same terrible 
 silence as had marked Monday's. And in the same after- 
 noon the storm broke. 
 
 After plodding through her first scene, Joan was about 
 to go off when Wilbrow called her. 
 
 " Miss Thursday," he said quietly, " one of three things 
 has got to happen now: either you '11 follow my instruc- 
 tions, or you '11 quit, or I will. I 've told you what I 
 want so many times that I 'm tired repeating myself. 
 ISTow we 're going to go over that scene again and again, 
 if it takes all afternoon to get what I 'm after. But, be- 
 fore we start, I will ask you to bear one thing in mind: 
 this is n't an ingenue part ; there 's no excuse for acting 
 it like a petulant school-girl. Even pretty stenographers 
 are business-like in real life sometimes and we 're 
 trying to secure some semblance of real life in this pro- 
 duction. In other words, I want you to forget Billie 
 Burke and try to act like a human being who 's a little 
 sore on her job and her employer, but not sore enough 
 to chuck it just yet. Now, if you please begin right 
 at the beginning." 
 
 For an instant Joan stood hesitant, on the verge of re- 
 fusing. There seemed to be no satisfying this man: he 
 either did n't or would n't understand ; she tried desper- 
 ately to please him and her sole reward was to be held 
 up to the derision of the entire company! It was in-
 
 166 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 tolerable ! And of a sudden she hated Wilbrow with every 
 atom of her being. But ... if she were to talk back or 
 refuse to go on, Matthias would be forfeited from her life. 
 
 She choked down her chagrin, resisted the temptation 
 to wither Wilbrow with a glare, and sulkily resumed her 
 place in the chair beside another chair that was politely 
 presumed to be her typewriter desk. 
 
 At once the fat boy whom she detested crossed the in- 
 definite line dividing the scene from " off-stage," and leer- 
 ing insolently, spoke the opening line of the play. Seeth- 
 ing with indignation, the girl looked up and in cutting 
 accents shot her reply at him. She was pleased to sur- 
 prise a look of dumb amazement in his eyes. At all 
 events, she had succeeded in letting him know just how 
 she felt toward him! And this success inspired her to 
 further efforts. She rattled through the remainder of the 
 scene with the manner of a youthful termagant. 
 
 When she had finished, Wilbrow said nothing beyond: 
 " Again, please." 
 
 The demand served only to deepen her resentment, 
 and the second repetition differed not materially from the 
 first. 
 
 Ceasing to speak, she flounced away, but Wilbrow's voice 
 brought her back. 
 
 " Very good, Miss Thursday," he said mildly " very 
 good indeed. But why in the name of Mike ! if you 
 could do it why would n't you until now ? " 
 
 " Because," Joan stammered " because ! " 
 
 But she did n't dare say what she wished to, and checked 
 her tongue in a fit of sulks more eloquent than any words 
 she could have found. 
 
 Wilbrow waited an instant, then laughed quite cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 " The usual reason, eh ? I might have guessed you had 
 a sure-'nough one concealed about you. . . . That 's all 
 for today. Tomorrow morning at nine." 
 
 Privately pondering this experience, Joan surprised its
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 167 
 
 secret, and drew from, it a conclusion that was to have an 
 important influence upon her professional future : in order 
 to act convincingly, she must herself feel the emotions ac- 
 credited to her part. As applied to her individual tem- 
 perament, at that stage of its development, this rule had 
 all the inflexibility of an axiom. Others might as 
 others do act in obedience to the admonitions of their 
 intelligence: Joan could at that stage act only according 
 to the promptings of her emotional self. 
 
 So she encouraged herself to hate Wilbrow with all her 
 heart, to despise him without ceasing night or day; no 
 charitable thought of the manager was suffered to gain 
 access to her humour at any hour. And so admirably did 
 she succeed in impregnating her mind with virulent dis- 
 like of the man, that she afforded him no end of amuse- 
 ment. She made a point of coming to the rehearsals early 
 enough to infuriate herself with contemplation of him in 
 the flesh; and of walking up and down, before and be- 
 tween her scenes, thinking evil of him. The twinkle with 
 which his eyes followed her, in place of their erstwhile 
 calm indifference or resignation, worked only to intensify 
 her rancour. Curiously enough, a clear comprehension of 
 the illogical absurdity of it all made her temper even 
 more bitter. 
 
 One day just before the final rehearsals, Wilbrow, meet- 
 ing her at the stage-door, planted his slender body squarely 
 in her way. 
 
 " Good morning ! " he said cheerfully, with a semi- 
 malicious smile. " My congratulations, Miss Thursday ! 
 You 're doing nobly." 
 
 " Thanks," Joan said curtly, pausing perforce. 
 
 " You ought to be very grateful to me. Are you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I wonder what you 'd do under the direction of a man 
 you happened to like ? " 
 
 " I don't know." Joan gave him a sullen look. " Will 
 you please let me pass."
 
 168 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Delighted." He moved aside with mocking courtesy. 
 " I ask only one thing of you : don't fall in love with me 
 before our first night. I have n't got time to sour another 
 sweet young thing's amiable disposition. . . . Keep on 
 hating me as hard as you like and we '11 make at least 
 a half-portion actress of you yet." . . . 
 
 Toward the end of the second week, Joan began to 
 notice that Hideout was growing less assiduous in attend- 
 ance. At first inclined to lay this to his satisfaction with 
 the progress to her the production seemed to be taking 
 on form and colour in a way to wonder at she later 
 overheard a chance remark of one of her associates, to 
 the effect that Hideout was himself rehearsing with an- 
 other company. 
 
 " Well," someone commented, " if it was my coin back 
 of this show, I 'd stick by it if I had to play the office- 
 boy." 
 
 " I guess," was the reply, " Hideout ain't got any 
 too much outside what he 's sunk in this production. 
 Should n't wonder if he needs what he 's to get with 
 Minnie Aspen." 
 
 " Mebbe. He 's a good trouper. What does he drag 
 down, anyway ? " 
 
 " Four hundred a week." 
 
 " Nix with those Lambs' Club figures. I mean regular 
 money." 
 
 " Oh, two hundred and fifty, sure." 
 
 " Now you 've said something." . . . 
 
 During the third week it was announced that " The 
 Jade God " would open in Altoona on the following Mon- 
 day. And at the same time Joan discovered that she was 
 expected to provide her own costume, a simple affair but 
 unhappily beyond the resources of either her wardrobe or 
 her pocketbook. In despair she took the advice of Mrs. 
 Arnold (the sweet-faced lady of fifty, whom Joan counted 
 her only friend on the company) and approached Hideout's 
 personal representative, Druggett, with a demand for an
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 169 
 
 advance. With considerable reluctance Druggett surren- 
 dered fifteen dollars, and promised her as much more on 
 Monday, toward expenses on the road. And again on the 
 advice and introduction of Mrs. Arnold, the girl suc- 
 ceeded in satisfying her needs at an instalment-plan 
 clothing-house: paying eight dollars down on a bill of 
 about forty and agreeing to remit the balance at the rate 
 of four dollars each week. 
 
 The final dress-rehearsal was called for Saturday morn- 
 ing. They were to leave New York Sunday night. But 
 on Friday afternoon a sense of uneasiness and uncertainty 
 invaded the temper of the organization. Wilbrow neg- 
 lected the players to engage in protracted conferences with 
 Matthias, Hideout, Moran, and Druggett, out of earshot, 
 at the back of the auditorium. One or two weather- 
 wise " troupers " hazarded gloomy surmises as to the 
 nature of the " snag " : that most favoured involved a 
 " shake-up with the Shuberts " over some change in 
 their route. With a singular unanimity the prophets of 
 disaster either avoided or overlooked the actual cause of 
 the trouble. 
 
 At ten o'clock the next morning a little late Joan, 
 with her costume in the dilapidated wicker suit-case, hur- 
 ried into the theatre to find the company scattered about 
 the stage in poses variously suggestive of restless dejection. 
 Neither the star nor the leading woman was present, and 
 there was no scenery in sight, other than that belonging to 
 the production which occupied the same stage nightly. 
 Hideout was nowhere to be seen, but the author, the pro- 
 ducer, and Druggett were engaged in earnest but inaudible 
 argument " out front." From their manner Joan inferred 
 that Druggett was advocating some course actively opposed 
 by Wilbrow and passively by Matthias. The group broke 
 up before she found opportunity to question her associates. 
 Druggett, in manifest dudgeon, turned sharply and 
 marched out of the house, while Wilbrow strode purpose- 
 fully back to the stage by way of the passage behind the
 
 170 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 boxes, Matthias following with an air of profound disgust 
 and despondency. 
 
 From the centre of the stage the producer addressed the 
 little gathering. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen ! " he said sharply ; and waited 
 until he had all their attention. " There '11 be no re- 
 hearsal today, and and unless something quite unex- 
 pected happens, we won't open Monday. The truth is, 
 there is n't money enough behind this show to finance it 
 beyond Altoona. Moran can't collect on his scenery, and 
 won't deliver. Mr. Matthias has offered to fix Moran 
 up if we agree to go out, but I can't see it that way. Mr. 
 Hideout's proposition is that we go on the road and run 
 our chances of making expenses but I don't have to tell 
 you people what a swell show we 'd have of breaking even 
 on a tank route at this season of the year hot weather 
 still with us, and all that. We might but that 's about 
 all you can say. And I don't think any of us want to 
 count ties from Altoona. . . . 
 
 " Mr. Druggett thinks that Mr. Hideout will be able to 
 make a deal with the Shuberts, but I doubt it. Just 
 now they 're all tied up with their own productions and 
 have no time to waste on a gambling risk like this. Of 
 course, if I 'm wrong, you '11 all be notified. But I 
 would n't, if I were you, pass up another engagement on 
 the off-chance of this thing panning out after all. 
 
 " I 'm sorry about this we 're all sorry, naturally. 
 We all lose. Mr. Matthias here loses as much as any of 
 us the rights in a valuable property for several months, 
 at the inside. I 'm out fifteen hundred dollars I was to 
 get for putting the show on. And Hideout 's out the two 
 thousand real coin he 's invested in expectation of back- 
 ing which failed to materialize. Personally I refused to 
 shoulder the responsibility of letting you go out in igno- 
 rance of the real state of affairs. That 's all." 
 
 He hesitated an instant, as if not satisfied that he had 
 dealt fully with the situation, and glanced a little ruefully
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 171 
 
 from face to face of the company. But for the moment 
 none made any comment. And with an uncertain nod to 
 the author, Wilbrow turned and disappeared through the 
 stage-door. 
 
 Matthias waited a trifle longer, as though anticipating 
 trouble with the disappointed players; but there was no 
 feeling manifest in their attitude toward him other than 
 sympathy for a fellow-sufferer. And presently he con- 
 sulted his watch and followed the stage-director. 
 
 Those left in the theatre discussed the contretemps in 
 subdued and regretful accents, betraying surprisingly little 
 rancour toward anyone connected with it. Even Hideout 
 escaped with slight censure. He was, in the final analysis, 
 one of them an incurable optimist who had erred only 
 in banking too heavily on hope and promises. 
 
 By twos and threes they gathered up their belongings 
 and straggled off upon their various ways, a sorry, philo- 
 sophic crew. Within ten minutes their dissociation was 
 final and absolute.
 
 XVII 
 
 LATE in the evening, Matthias gave it up, and shaking 
 off Hideout (whose only hope had resided in the author's 
 anxiety to save his play) betook himself to an out-of-the- 
 way restaurant to idle with a tasteless meal. 
 
 He was at once dog-weary and heart-sick. 
 
 The net outcome of some ten hours of runnings to and 
 from, of meetings and schemings, of conferences by tele- 
 phone and of communications by telegraph with those who 
 had promised financial support to Hideout's project, was 
 an empty assurance, indifferently given by the Shuberts, 
 to the effect that, if nothing happened to make them think 
 otherwise, they might possibly be prepared to consider the 
 advisability of producing " The Jade God " about the first 
 of January. 
 
 The truth of the situation was that neither the Shuberts 
 nor any other managerial concern was likely (as Wilbrow 
 put it) " to look cross-eyed at the piece " until they could 
 get full control of it; which would be in some three 
 months, when Hideout's contract to produce would expire 
 by limitation. And since Hideout might be counted upon 
 to hold on to his contract rights till the last minute and 
 leave nothing else undone in the effort to recoup his already 
 substantial losses, it was useless to consider the play as 
 anything but a property of potential value relegated in- 
 definitely to abeyance. 
 
 Matthias believed in the play with all his heart. Dur- 
 ing the last three weeks he had watched it come to life and 
 assume the form he had dreamed for it, coloured with the 
 rich hues of his imagination and quick with the breath of 
 living drama. And because he possessed in some measure
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 173 
 
 that rare faculty of being able to weigh, justly the work of 
 his own hand, and had looked upon this and seen that it 
 was good, he had counted on it to win him that recognition 
 which, more than money, his pride craved partly by way 
 of some compensation for what it had suffered at the hands 
 of Venetia Tankerville. 
 
 He was still sore with the hurt of that experience. 
 Privately he doubted whether he would ever wholly re- 
 cover from it ; but the doubt was a very private one, never 
 discovered even to his most sympathetic friends, not even 
 to Helena, whose scorn of her sister-in-law remained im- 
 measurable. Fortunate in having been able to afford those 
 several weeks in the wooded hills of Maine, in their fra- 
 grant and passionless silences Matthias had found peace 
 and regained confidence in his old, well-tried, wholesome 
 code of philosophy; which held that though here and 
 there a man ill-used by chance or woman might be found, 
 the world was none the less sound and kind at heart, and 
 good to live in. 
 
 For all that, he could not easily endure the thought 
 of Venetia's lowering herself to use him to further her 
 love affair with Marbridge; of Venetia going from his 
 arms and lips to the lips and arms of that insolent animal, 
 Marbridge : the one amused by her successful cunning, the 
 other contemptuous in his conquest. And he often won- 
 dered with what justice he judged the woman. It com- 
 forted him a little, at times, to believe that she had not 
 acted so cruelly altogether as a free agent, to think her 
 meeting with Marbridge in New York a freak of chance 
 and fate, her elopement an unpremeditated and spon- 
 taneous surrender to the indisputable magnetism of the 
 man. Marbridge commanded the reluctant admiration 
 of men who did not like him who knew him too well 
 to like him. How much more easily, then, might he not 
 have overcome the scruples of a girl untutored in the 
 knowledge of her own heart . . . 
 
 Or had it all been due merely to the fact that John
 
 174 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Matthias was not a man to hold the love of women ? Such 
 men exist, antipathetic to the Marbridges of the world. 
 Was he of their unhappy order, incapable of inspiring 
 enduring love? 
 
 He could review a modest cycle of flirtations with 
 women variously charming and willing to be amused, light- 
 hearted attachments and short-lived, one and all, those 
 that might have proved more lasting broken off without 
 ill-will on either side though always by the woman. 
 Venetia alone had named Love to him as if it stood to 
 her for something higher and more significant than the 
 diversion of an empty hour Venetia who was now in 
 Italy, the bride of Marbridge! 
 
 And yet, oddly enough, it was n't his memories of 
 Venetia and his regrets and wounded self-esteem that ren- 
 dered insipid his belated dinner and made him presently 
 abandon it in favour of the distracting throngs of Broad- 
 way. They were thoughts of another woman altogether 
 that urged him forth and homeward a poignant sym- 
 pathy for Joan Thursday, the friendless and forlorn, whose 
 high anticipations had with his own that day gone crashing 
 to disaster. He could n't remember what had made him 
 think of her, but now that he did, it was with disturbing 
 interest. 
 
 He found himself suddenly very sorry for the girl 
 much more sorry for her than for himself. What to him 
 was at worst a staggering reverse, to her must seem 
 calamitous beyond repair. 
 
 It was n't hard to conjure up a picture of the child, piti- 
 fully huddled upon her bed, in tears, heart-broken, deso- 
 late, perhaps (since he had not been home to pay her) 
 supperless and hungry! 
 
 Matthias quickened his stride. His suddenly awakened 
 and deep solicitude tormented him. He had received evi- 
 dence that Joan's was a nature tempestuous and prone to 
 extremes : he did n't like to contemplate the lengths to 
 which despair might drive her.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 175 
 
 Through the texture of this new-found care ran a 
 thread of irritation that it should have proved a care to 
 him. He realized that he must of late have been giving 
 a deal of thought to the girl. Formerly he had been 
 aware of her much as he was of Madame Duprat; such 
 kindness as he had shown her had been no greater than, 
 and of much the same order as, he would have shown a 
 stray puppy. Tonight he found himself unable to con- 
 template her as other than a vital figure in his life a 
 creature of fire and blood, of spirit and flesh, at once 
 enigmatic and absolute, owning claims upon his consider- 
 ation no less actual because passive. He who had pledged 
 his ability and willingness to find her a foothold on the 
 stage, was responsible for her present distress and disap- 
 pointment. And if his good offices had been sought rather 
 than voluntary, still was he responsible ; for she would n't 
 have dreamed of seeking them if he had n't in the first 
 place insisted on putting her under obligation to him. He 
 had in a measure bidden her to look to him; now it was 
 his part to look out for her. 
 
 Hardly a pleasant predicament : Matthias resented it bit- 
 terly, with impatience conceding the weight of that doc- 
 trine which teaches the fatal responsibility of man for 
 his hand's each and every idle turn. He had paused to 
 pity a stray child of the town; and because of that, he 
 now found himself saddled with her welfare. A situation 
 exasperating to a degree ! And, he argued, it was merely 
 this subconscious sense of duty which had of late held 
 the girl so prominently in his mind ever since, in fact, 
 that night when she had broken down and impulsively 
 kissed his hand. Just that one hot-headed, frantic, 
 foolish act had primarily brought home to Matthias his 
 obligations as the object of her unsought, unwelcome 
 gratitude. . . . 
 
 He found Joan waiting on the stoop: a silent and 
 vigilant figure, aloof from the other lodgers a woman 
 and two or three men lounging on the steps. And as these
 
 176 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 moved aside to give Matthias way, Joan rose and slipped 
 quietly indoors, where in the hall she turned back with a 
 gesture that too clearly betrayed the strain and tensity of 
 her emotions ; but, to his gratification, she was dry of eye 
 and outwardly composed. 
 
 " You were waiting for me ? " he asked ; and taking 
 assent for granted rattled on with a show of cheerful 
 contrition : " Sorry I 'm late. There were ten dozen stones 
 we had to turn, you know." 
 
 Her eyes questioned. 
 
 He smiled, apologetic : " No use ; Hideout simply can't 
 swing it." 
 
 " I 've finished typewriting that book," she announced 
 obliquely. 
 
 " Have you ? That 's splendid ! Will you bring it to 
 me ? And then we can have a little talk." 
 
 She nodded "I '11 go fetch it right away " and 
 scurried hastily up the stairs as he went on to his room. 
 
 Leaving the door ajar and lighting his reading-lamp, 
 Matthias closed the shutters at the long windows, adjusting 
 their slats for ventilation. Then for some minutes he was 
 left to himself. Resting against the edge of his work-table, 
 he studied ruefully a cigarette which he was too indifferent 
 or too distracted to continue smoking. Smouldering 
 between his fingers, its slender stalk of pearly vapour 
 ascended with hardly a waver in the still air, to mushroom 
 widely above his head. It held his eyes and his thoughts 
 in dreaming. 
 
 He was thinking, simply and unconsciously, of the 
 Joan he had just realized in the half-light of the hallway: 
 a straight, slim creature with eyes like troubled stars, her 
 round little chin held high as if in mute defiance of out- 
 rageous circumstance; vividly alive; giving a strange 
 impression, as of some half-wild thing, at once timid and 
 spirited, odd and beautiful. 
 
 To the sound of a light tap on the open door, the girl 
 herself entered, a mute incarnation of that disturbing
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 177 
 
 memory. She put down the manuscript before acknowl- 
 edging his silent and intent regard. But becoming aware 
 of this, her eyes wavered and fell, then again steadied to 
 his. He was vastly concerned with the surprising length 
 of her dark silken lashes and the delicate shadows on her 
 warm, rich flesh. And he was sensitive to the virginal 
 sweetness and fluent grace of her round and slender body. 
 Vaguely he divined that the calm courage of her bearing 
 was merely a naive mask for a nature racked by intense 
 feeling. . . . 
 
 " That 's the last," she said quietly, indicating the 
 manuscript. " I finished up this evening," she added, 
 superfluously yet without any evidence of consciousness. 
 
 " Thank you. I 'm glad to get it." Ransacking his 
 pockets, Matthias found money, and paid her for the 
 week. 
 
 " I suppose that '11 be all ? " she asked steadily. " I 
 mean, you won't want any more typewriting done for a 
 while ? " 
 
 " I don't know," he said slowly. " We '11 have to ... 
 talk things over. Today has changed everything. . . . 
 If you don't mind, I '11 shut the door : people all the time 
 passing through the hall . . ." 
 
 She shook her head slightly to indicate a mild degree 
 of impatience with his punctiliousness about that blessed 
 door. Unconscious of this, having closed it, he returned 
 to her, frowning a little as he reviewed her circumstances 
 with a mind that seemed suddenly to have lost its cus- 
 tomary efficiency of grasp. 
 
 He found her eyes and lost them again, glancing aside 
 in inexplicable embarrassment. 
 
 " I 'm sorry," he said slowly, looking down at the manu- 
 script she had just delivered, and abstractedly disarrang- 
 ing it with thin, long fingers " awfully sorry about the 
 way things have turned out. I " 
 
 She interrupted him sharply : " O no, you 're not ! " 
 
 He looked up quickly, amazed and disconcerted by the
 
 178 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 hint of anger in her tone. A little tremor ran through 
 her body and she lifted her chin a trace higher while she 
 met his stare with eyes hot and shining. Red spots like 
 signals blazed in her either cheek. 
 
 Confused, he stammered : " I beg your pardon ! " 
 
 " I say you 're not sorry. You 're glad. You 're glad, 
 just like anybody else might be. / don't blame you." 
 
 She shot these words at him like bullets, with a dis- 
 turbing display of passionate resentment. He opened his 
 lips to speak, and thinking better of it, or else not thinking 
 at all in his astonishment, gaped witlessly, wholly inca- 
 pable of conceiving what had got into the girl. 
 
 With a flush of scornful satisfaction her eyes remarked 
 these evidences, so easily to be misinterpreted; then 
 quickly she lowered her head and turned away, lean- 
 ing against the table, her back to the light and face in 
 shadow. 
 
 " I don't blame you," she repeated in a sullen murmur. 
 
 He demanded blankly : " My dear girl, what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 " I mean . . . Why, just that you 're glad to get rid 
 of me! " she returned, looking away. He noticed the 
 nervous strength with which her hands closed over the 
 edge of the table, the whitening of their small knuckles. 
 . . . " It 's perfectly natural, I guess. I 've been a nuis- 
 ance so long, you 've got every right to be tired of having 
 me hang around " 
 
 " But, my dear young woman ! " 
 
 She interrupted impatiently : " Oh, don't call me that. 
 It don't mean anything. I guess I know when I 'm not 
 wanted. I '11 go now and never bother you any more." 
 
 Moving a pace or two away, she resumed before Mat- 
 thias could muster faculties to cope with this emergency: 
 
 " All the same, I don't want you to think I don't ap- 
 preciate how good you Ve been to me and patient, and 
 all that. I am grateful honest' but I 'm not as dumb 
 as you think : I know when I 'm in the way, all right ! "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 179 
 
 " But you entirely misunderstand me " 
 
 " O no, I don't ! You 've made yourself plain enough, 
 if you did n't think I had sense enough to see. It don't 
 take brains to see through a man who 's only trying to be 
 polite and kind all the time bored " 
 
 "But, Miss Thursday " 
 
 She turned toward the door. 
 
 He made a gesture of open exasperation. This was all 
 so unfair ! He had only meant to be kind and considerate 
 and and everything like that ! And now she had drawn 
 against him one of those unique and damnable indictments 
 which seem to be peculiarly the product of a certain type 
 of feminine mentality, and against which man is consti- 
 tutionally incapable of setting up any effective defence, 
 reason and logic alike being arbitrarily ruled out of court 
 by the essential injustice of the charge. She chose to 
 accuse him of having adopted toward her a mental attitude 
 of which he was wholly guiltless; and there was no way 
 by which he might persuade her of his innocence ! 
 
 And it was so confoundedly clear that she considered 
 herself, temporarily at least, abused and altogether justi- 
 fied of her complaint! 
 
 " Please," he begged, " don't go yet. Give me a 
 chance ! " 
 
 Her hand was on the knob. She hesitated, with an air 
 of expectant and generous concession. 
 
 " You 're really quite unfair," he began ; but paused 
 to regain control of himself and to wonder a little, blindly, 
 why it was that he tolerated her impudence for it 
 could n't be called anything less. It would be much more 
 sensible and quite just to bow to her construction of their 
 indefinite relations and let her go her ways without more 
 argument. 
 
 In spite of everything, he could not refrain from one 
 last attempt to set himself right. 
 
 " I don't quite know what to say to you," he resumed 
 patiently, " when you insist on putting thoughts into my
 
 180 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 head that never were there. I 've really wanted to help 
 you " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 The monosyllable brought him up startled and staring. 
 " Why ? I hardly know . . ." 
 
 " Did n't you know better ? " 
 
 " I don't understand you " 
 
 Her eyes were wide and dark to his ; all trace of petu- 
 lance had faded from her manner. " You ought to. You 
 ought to know," she insisted quietly, " that a man like 
 you can't be just kind to a girl like me without . . . Oh ! " 
 she cried, " I suppose it would 've been different if the 
 show had gone out and everything but now, with that 
 hope gone and nothing more to do for you with no 
 prospects but to lose you the only friend I Ve got in 
 the world ! " 
 
 Her voice broke at a high pitch, and she fell silent, turn- 
 ing away to stare with swimming eyes down at the table. 
 He saw her trembling violently, her lips quivering. 
 His amazement was extraordinary and bewildering. He 
 heard his voice, as it might have been another's, saying: 
 " Does it really mean so much to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, can't you see ! " 
 
 With a little, helpless motion of her hands, she lifted 
 quickly to him a face of flushed and tear-dimmed love- 
 liness. Another man might have been numb to its appeal : 
 to Matthias it proved irresistible, coming sharp upon the 
 shock of comprehending that she offered him her love, 
 herself. 
 
 In a stride, hardly knowing what he did, he folded the 
 girl in his arms. She lay therein for an instant as though 
 bewitched by the exquisite wonder of this consummation 
 of her fondest, maddest dreams ; then in a breath became 
 a woman reanimate and wild with love, clinging to him 
 with all her strength, in an ecstasy of impassioned 
 tenderness. 
 
 Bending his head, Matthias found her lips.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 181 
 
 " My dear, dear girl ! " he murmured. 
 
 " Oh," she breathed, " I have loved you always 
 always ! " 
 
 " If I had only known, if I had only guessed ! " 
 
 " How could you ? / did n't know . . . not till a little 
 while ago. . . . And even then, I could n't have told you 
 . . . only the thought of losing you . . . my dear, my 
 dear!" 
 
 " I never guessed . . ." 
 
 " You 're not sorry ? You 're not angry with me ? " 
 
 " Angry ? I adore you ! " 
 
 " You will love me always ? " 
 
 " Always and forever." 
 
 " And never send me away from you ? " 
 
 " You shall never leave me but of your own will." 
 
 "I think I was going mad with the thought of losing 
 you!" 
 
 "My beloved girl!" . . . 
 
 The dusky stillness of the room was murmurous with 
 whispers, sighs, terms of endearment half smothered and 
 all but inaudible. 
 
 To these a foreign and alarming sound: a rapping at 
 the door. 
 
 Matthias lifted his head, wincing from the interruption. 
 The girl in his arms moved feebly, as if to disengage. He 
 held her for a moment still more close. Her heart sounded 
 sonorously against his bosom. " Hush ! " he said in a low 
 and warning voice. And then the rapping was repeated. 
 At once he released her. She moved away, blushing and 
 dishevelled, the fragrant freshness of her starched linen 
 waist a crumpled disorder, her hair in disarray, 4 her crim- 
 son face one of many evidences of the tumult of her senses. 
 
 In the hallway a man's voice said : " He must be in. 
 There 's a light " 
 
 A woman answered impatiently : " Of course he 's in ; 
 but the chances are he 's asleep." She called in a louder 
 tone : " Jack Jack Matthias ! "
 
 182 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Recognizing the voice of his aunt, that person, groaned 
 aloud " O Lord ! " stole a glance at Joan, hesitated, 
 shrugged, as if to say : There 's no help for it ! Then he 
 answered the door. 
 
 Helena swept in with a swirl of impatient skirts. 
 " Good heavens ! " she cried. " What ails you, Jackie ? 
 We knocked half a dozen times. Were you ? " 
 
 Her glance encountering Joan, the words dried on her 
 lips. 
 
 Tankerville, at her heels, jerked a motor gauntlet from 
 his fat hand in order to grasp that of Matthias. " Sur- 
 prised you eh ? " he chuckled " getting in so late. 
 Well, it 's all accidental. We were bound home been 
 visiting the Hastings for a week, you know but the car 
 broke down just this side of Poughkeepsie and delayed 
 us and . . ." 
 
 He became distressfully aware of his wife's silence, 
 simultaneously ascertained the cause of it, and cut his 
 speech short in full stride. 
 
 Matthias laughed a little, quietly: no good trying to 
 carry off this situation ; by many a clue aside from Joan's 
 confusion, they were betrayed. 
 
 " You 've caught us," he said cheerfully. " We may 
 as well own up. Helena, this is Joan Miss Thursday 
 my fiancee. And Joan, this is my aunt, Mrs. Tanker- 
 ville and her husband." 
 
 And immediately he was conscious of the necessity 
 of bridging the pause that would inevitably hold these 
 three confounded, pending adjustment to his amazing 
 announcement. 
 
 " We had intended to keep it quiet for a while," he 
 pursued evenly, shutting the door. . . . " Helena, let me 
 help you with that cloak. . . . But since you 've declared 
 yourselves in, we can only ask you to hold your peace 
 until we 're ready. I 'm sure we can count on you both." 
 
 Tankerville puffed an explosive : " Oh certainly ! " 
 
 Helena glanced shrewdly from Joan to Matthias. He
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 183 
 
 smiled his confidence in her, knowing that he might count 
 upon her doing the right thing to put the girl at ease 
 just as positively as he might count upon her violent oppo- 
 sition to the match as soon as she discovered that he had 
 engaged himself to her pet abomination, a woman of the 
 stage. 
 
 With a bright nod to him, she turned back to Joan; 
 drew slowly near to her; dropped kindly hands upon the 
 shoulders of the girl. 
 
 " But, my dear ! " she exclaimed in a tone of expostula- 
 tion " you are beautiful ! "
 
 XVIII 
 
 ESCORTING his aunt to the car, Matthias helped her in, 
 closed the door, and then, with a grin of amused resigna- 
 tion masking that trepidation to which he was actually a 
 prey, folded his arms on the top of the door and invited 
 the storm with one word of whimsical accent: " Well ? " 
 
 " Is it true ? " she demanded, as if downright in- 
 credulous. 
 
 " Most true," he insisted with convincing simplicity. 
 
 The tip of one gloved finger to her chin, Helena con- 
 sidered remotely. 
 
 " She 's very beautiful," she conceded, " and sweet and 
 fetching and hopelessly plebeian. She 'd be wonderful 
 to have around, to look at; but to listen to ... Oh my 
 dear ! what are you thinking of ? " 
 
 " Cut it," Tankerville advised from his corner. " None 
 of your funeral, old lady." 
 
 " That consideration never yet hindered a Matthias," 
 his wife retorted "or a Tankerville, either, as far as 
 I Ve been gifted to observe. However " she turned 
 again to her nephew " you are presumably in love, 
 and I hope you '11 be happy, if ever you marry her. I 
 shan't interfere don't be afraid but ... I could 
 murder Venetia for this ! " 
 
 " Good night," said Matthias, offering his hand. 
 
 But instead of taking it, his aunt leaned forward, caught 
 his cheeks between both hands, and kissed him publicly. 
 
 " Good night," she murmured in a tragical voice. " And 
 Heaven help you ! . . . When is it going to be ? " 
 
 " We have n't settled that yet," he laughed ; " but you 
 may be sure I shan't marry until I 'm able to support my 
 wife in a manner to which she 's unaccustomed."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 185 
 
 He returned to Joan with until lie recrossed the 
 threshold of his study a thought ironic concerning the 
 inconsistency of Helena's veneration of caste with her 
 union to fat, good-natured, pretentiously commonplace 
 George Tankerville. For that matter, the Matthias 
 dynasty itself was descended from a needy, out-at- 
 elbows English adventurer who had one day founded the 
 family fortunes by taking title to Manhattan real estate 
 in settlement of a gambling debt and on the next had died 
 in a duel the only act of thoughtful provision against 
 improvidence registered in his biography. So Matthias 
 was n't much disposed to reverence his pedigree : social 
 position, at least as a claim upon his consideration, meant 
 little to him: the only class distinctions he was inclined 
 to acknowledge were those created by the intellect and 
 of the heart. In his private world people were either in- 
 telligent or stupid, either kindly or (stupidly) egoistic. 
 To the first order, with humility of soul he aspired; for 
 the other he was, without condescension, heartily 
 sorry. . . . 
 
 But there was nothing half so analytical as this in his 
 temper when he rejoined Joan: only wonder and re- 
 joicing and delight in her. 
 
 He found her near the door, tense and hesitant, as 
 though poised on the point of imminent flight. There 
 was in her wide eyes a look almost of consternation; they 
 seemed to glow, shot with the fire of her lambent thoughts. 
 A doubting thumb and forefinger clipped her chin ; a thin 
 line of exquisite whiteness shone between her scarlet lips. 
 
 Closing the door, he opened his arms. She came to 
 them swiftly and confidently. Doubts and fears vanished 
 in the joy of his embrace ; she was no longer lonely in a 
 world unfriendly. 
 
 From the eloquent deeps of their submerged and blended 
 senses, words now and again floated up like bubbles to the 
 surface of consciousness: 
 
 " You still love me ? "
 
 186 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 " It was n't pity impulse Jack ? " 
 
 " It was love. It is love. It shall be love, dear heart, 
 forever and always." . . . 
 
 " You told her your aunt we were engaged ! " 
 
 "Aren't we?" 
 
 A convulsive tightening of her arms. . . . 
 
 A whisper barely articulate : " You really . . . want 
 me . . . enough to marry me ? " 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 " But . . ." 
 
 " Is n't that enough ? " 
 
 " But I am only me : nothing : a girl who dares to 
 love you." 
 
 " Could any man ask more ? " 
 
 " You . . . What will your friends say ? . . . You '11 
 be ashamed of me." 
 
 " Hush ! That 's treason." 
 
 " But you will you won't be able to help it " 
 
 A faint, half-hearted cry of protest: words indistin- 
 guishable, silenced by lips on lips ; a space of quiet. . . . 
 
 " How shall I make myself worthy of you ? " 
 
 " Love me always." 
 
 " How shall I dare to meet your family, your 
 friends ? " 
 
 " You will be my wife." 
 
 " But that won't be for a long time . . ." 
 
 " Yes, we must wait be patient, Joan." She lifted 
 her head, wondering. " But don't fear ; love will sus- 
 tain us." 
 
 " I will be patient. You '11 have to give me time to 
 learn how not to disgrace you " 
 
 " What nonsense ! " 
 
 " I mean it. I must be somebody. I 'm nobody now." 
 
 " You are my dearest love." 
 
 " I must be more, to be your wife. Give me time to 
 learn to act. When I am a success "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 187 
 
 " No more of that ! " There was definite resolution in 
 the interruption. " You must give up all thought of the 
 stage." 
 
 " But I want to " 
 
 " It 's not the place for you for my wife that is 
 to be." 
 
 " But we 're not to be married for a long time, you 
 say." 
 
 " I 'm a poor man, dear I have enough for one, not 
 enough for two. It may be only weeks, it may be months 
 or years before my work begins to pay." 
 
 " But meantime I must live support myself, some- 
 how." 
 
 " You will leave that to me ? " 
 
 " I must do something be independent " 
 
 " Won't you leave it all to me ? I will arrange every- 
 thing " 
 
 " I '11 do whatever you wish me to." 
 
 " And forget the stage ? " 
 
 " I don't know I '11 try, Jack." 
 
 " You must, dear one." 
 
 It was not a time for disagreements. Joan clung more 
 closely to him. The issue languished in default, was for- 
 gotten for the time. . . . 
 
 Transports ebbed: the faintest premonitory symptoms 
 of a return to something resembling sanity made their ap- 
 pearance ; of a sudden Matthias remembered the hour. 
 
 " Do you know," he said with tender gravity, having 
 consulted his watch, " it 's after eleven ? " 
 
 " It does n't seem possible," she laughed happily. 
 
 " And I 'm hungry," he announced. " Are n't you ? " 
 
 She dared to be as frank as he : " Famished ! " 
 
 " Come along, then ! Run, get your hat. It gives us 
 an excuse for at least two hours more." . . . 
 
 By the time she had repaired the damage this miracle 
 had wrought with her appearance, Matthias had walked 
 to the Astor and brought back a taxicab. The attention
 
 188 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 affected Joan with a poignant and exquisite sense of 
 happiness. 
 
 It was only her second ride in a motor vehicle. The 
 top being down, they sat very circumspectly apart; but 
 Matthias captured her hand and eye spoke to eye with 
 secret laughter of delight, each reading the other's longing 
 thought. The speed of the cab and its sudden slackening 
 as it picked its path down Broadway, the flow of cool air 
 against her face, the swimming maze of lights through 
 which they sped, the sense of luxury and protection, added 
 the last touch of delirious pleasure to Joan's mood. 
 
 iMatthias had chosen the cafe of " Old Martin's," at 
 Twenty-sixth Street, the first place that suggested itself 
 as one where they could sup without the girl being made 
 to feel out of place in her modest workaday attire ; but his 
 thoughtfulness was misapplied: Joan was exalted beyond 
 such annoyances; and those feminine glances which she 
 detected, of pity, disdain, and jealousy, she took compla- 
 cently as envious tributes to her prettiness and her 
 conquest. 
 
 From a seat against the wall, in a corner, she reviewed 
 the other patrons of the smoke-wreathed room with a 
 hauteur of spirit that would have seemed laughable had 
 it been suspected. She thought of herself as the hand- 
 somest woman there, and the youngest, of Matthias as the 
 most distinguished man and the luckiest. The circum- 
 stances of the place and her partner enchanted her to 
 distraction. 
 
 The food Matthias ordered she devoured heedlessly; 
 but there was a delicious novelty in the experience of 
 sipping her first glass of champagne. It was, for that 
 matter, the first time she had ever tasted good wine, or 
 any kind of alcoholic drink other than an occasional glass 
 of lukewarm beer, cheap and nasty to begin with and 
 half-stale at best, and that poisonous red wine of the 
 Italian boarding-house to which Charlie Quard had intro- 
 duced her. She had never dreamed of anything so deli-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 189 
 
 cious as this dry and exhilarating draught with its exotic 
 bouquet and aromatic bubbles. 
 
 With a glowing face and dancing eyes she nodded to 
 Matthias over the rim of her goblet. 
 
 " When we are rich," she laughed softly, " I 'm never 
 going to drink anything else ! " 
 
 He smiled quietly, enjoying her enjoyment; but, when 
 emptied, the half-bottle he had ordered was not renewed. 
 
 There was without that enough intoxication in his fond- 
 ness, in the simulacrum of gaiety manufactured by the 
 lights, the life, the laughter, and in the muted, inter- 
 weaving strains of music. Joan felt that she was living 
 wonderfully and intensely, a creature of an existence 
 transcendent and radiant. 
 
 It was after one when another taxicab whisked them 
 homeward through the quieting streets. She sat as close 
 as could be to her lover and would not have objected on 
 the grounds of " people looking " had he put an arm 
 round her. Though he did n't, she was not disappointed, 
 sharing something of his mood of sublimely sufficient con- 
 tentment. But when he bade her good night at the foot of 
 the stairs in the deserted and poorly lighted hallway, 
 she gave herself to his caresses with a passion and abandon 
 that startled and sobered Matthias, and sent him off to 
 his room and bed in a thoughtful frame of mind. 
 
 Lying awake in darkness until darkness was dimly tem- 
 pered by the formless dusk that long foreruns the dawn, he 
 communed gravely with his troubled heart. 
 
 " Things can't go on this way as they Ve started. 
 There 's got to be sanity. ... It 's myself I Ve got to 
 watch, of course," he said with stubborn loyalty to his 
 ideal. " I must n't forget I 'm a man nine years older 
 nearly ten. . . . Why, she 's hardly more than a kid- 
 die. . . . She does n't know . . . I 've got to watch 
 myself . . ." 
 
 And in her room, four floors above, Joan sat as long 
 before her bureau, chin cradled on her slim, laced fingers,
 
 190 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 eyeing intently the face shown her by gaslight in the one 
 true patch of the common, tarnished mirror. 
 
 When at length she rose, suddenly conscious of a heavy 
 weariness, she lingered yet another long moment for one 
 last fond look. 
 
 " It 's true," she told herself with a little nod of con- 
 viction ; " I am beautiful. She said I was ... he thinks 
 I am . .1 must be. , ."
 
 XIX 
 
 FOE a long time Joan lay snug between the sheets, star- 
 ing wide-eyed into the patch of lustrous blue morning sky 
 framed by the window, reviewing this new and wonderful 
 adventure of her heart from a point of view remote, de- 
 tached, and critical. Thoughts recurred that in the excite- 
 ment and ardour of the night had been passed over and 
 neglected ; and from them she derived a new, strange, and 
 intoxicating sense of power. 
 
 Her first waking thought was as her last before sleep- 
 ing : I am 'beautiful. 
 
 Her second, not / love him, but He loves me. 
 
 And her third grew out of the second : / can make him 
 do what pleases me. 
 
 Yesterday a lowly supplicant at the shrine of love: 
 today Love's very self, adored and desired by an erst- 
 while divinity now humbled to the level of humanity ! 
 
 A fit of petulance, beauty in tears, a whispered word 
 of passion: strange and strangely simple incantation to 
 have turned a world upside down! How easily was man 
 suppled to the spell ! 
 
 The sense of power ran like wine through her being: 
 she felt herself invincible, an adept of love's alchemy ; she 
 had surprised its secret, and now the world of man's heart 
 lay open to the practices of her disastrous art. For a mo- 
 ment she experienced an almost terrifying intimation of 
 empires ripe for conquest that lay beyond Matthias; but 
 from this she withdrew her troubled gaze; nor would she 
 look again; not yet . . . 
 
 She considered his mad extravagance of last night 
 taxicabs, champagne, tips! Was he, then, able to afford
 
 192 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 such expenditures ? In her understanding they went oddly 
 with his pretensions to decent poverty. Or had he merely 
 lost his head under the influence of her charms ? This 
 last theory pleased her ; she adopted it with reservations : 
 the question remained one to be cleared up. 
 
 He disapproved of a career upon the stage for her ? 
 . . . Joan smiled indulgently: that matter would be ar- 
 ranged in good time. She meant to have her way. . . . 
 
 At a tap on her door she changed suddenly from the 
 aloof egoist to a woman athrill before the veil of por- 
 tentous mysteries. She sat up in bed, called out to know 
 who was knocking, gave permission to the chambermaid to 
 enter, and received a note in the hand of Matthias. 
 
 " Past twelve o'clock" she read, " and still no sign of 
 you, sweetheart. I give you thirty minutes to dress and 
 come to me. If you dorii, I 'II come for you. After 
 breakfast, we 'II run out of town for the day our first 
 day together! MATTHIAS." 
 
 Half wild with delight, she hurried through her toilet 
 and ran down-stairs to find her lover waiting in the hall- 
 way, watch in hand. 
 
 He closed it with a snap, and made her a quaintly 
 ceremonious bow. " In two minutes more ! " he ob- 
 served in a tone of grave menace. " But before we go 
 out, have the kindness to step into my humble study. I 
 have somewhat to say to you." 
 
 She appeared to hesitate, to be reluctant and pre- 
 occupied. 
 
 " What about ? " she demanded distantly. 
 
 But her dancing eyes betrayed her. 
 
 " Business," he said, sententious. His gesture indicated 
 a vigilant universe of eavesdroppers. " Nobody's but our 
 own!" 
 
 Nevertheless, there was none to spy upon them as he 
 drew her gently by the waist, down the hall and into the 
 back-parlour. She yielded with a charming diffidence. 
 
 In his embrace the sense of power slipped unheeded
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 193 
 
 from her ken; returned the deep, obliterating rapture of 
 overnight. Lips that first submitted, soon gave in return, 
 then demanded . . . 
 
 She clung heavily to him, a little faint and breathless 
 with a vague and sweet and nameless longing. . . . 
 
 At breakfast in a neighbouring restaurant, Matthias dis- 
 closed his plans for the day, involving a motor trip down 
 along the north shore of Long Island, dinner at Hunting- 
 ton, a return by moonlight. Joan, enchanted by the pros- 
 pect the sum of whose experience outside Manhattan 
 Island was comprised in a few trips to Coney Island 
 consented with a strange mingling of eagerness and 
 misgivings; the thought of the cost troubled a conscience 
 still haunted by memories of last night's prodigality. 
 
 " I did n't know you had an automobile." 
 
 " I have n't ; I 'm chartering one for the day." 
 
 " But . . . but . . . won't it be awf 'ly expensive ? " 
 
 " Don't worry, dear." 
 
 " But, you know, you are n't rich." 
 
 " I 'm a magnate of happiness, at all events : and to- 
 day is our day, the first of our love, sweetheart. For 
 twelve long hours we 're going to forget everything but 
 our two selfish selves. Why fret about tomorrow? It 
 always does manage to take care of itself, somehow. And 
 frankly, I don't care to be reminded of its existence today ; 
 for tomorrow I work." . . . 
 
 A day of quicksilver hours slipping ever from their 
 jealous grasp ; of hours volatile and glamorous : in Joan's 
 half-dazed consciousness, a delectable pageant of scenes, 
 sensations and emotions no sooner comprehended than dis- 
 placed by others no less wonderful . . . 
 
 Abed long after midnight, visions besieged her bewilder- 
 ingly: a length of dusty golden highway walled by green 
 forest, with a white bridge glaring in sunlight at the bot- 
 tom of a hill ; the affrighting onrush of great motor-cars 
 meeting their own, and the din and dust of their passage ; 
 the bright harbour of Huntington, blue and gold in a frame
 
 194 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 of gold and green, viewed from the marble balustrade of 
 the Chateau des Beaux Arts; the wrinkled, kindly, com- 
 prehending face of a waiter who served them at dinner; 
 the look in her lover's eyes as she repeated, on demand, 
 guarded avowals under cover of the motor's rumble; the 
 ardent face of a boy who had seemed unable to cease 
 staring at her in the restaurant; silver and purple of 
 the road by night; wheeling ranks of lights dotting the 
 desolation of suburban Brooklyn; the high-flung span of 
 Queensboro' Bridge, a web of steel and concrete strung 
 with opalescent globes; the glare of the city's painted 
 sky ; the endless pulsing of the motor ; their last caress on 
 parting at the foot of the stairs. . . . 
 
 On the morrow she went back to her typewriter like 
 Cinderella to her kitchen. But what work Matthias was 
 able to invent for her was neither arduous nor urgent; 
 she was able to take her time on it, and wasted many an 
 hour in dreaming. Her mind was, indeed, more engaged 
 with thoughts of new frocks than with the circumstances 
 of her love or her services to her lover. 
 
 She was to receive thenceforward twenty-five instead of 
 ten dollars a week. Matthias had experienced little diffi- 
 culty in over-ruling her faint protestations: they were 
 to be together a great deal, he argued, and she must be able 
 to dress at least neatly ; moreover, by requiring her prom- 
 ise to marry him at some future time when his fortunes 
 would permit, he had in a measure made her dependent 
 upon him ; she could n't reasonably be asked to wait for 
 long on a bare pittance. 
 
 His arguments were reinforced by one he knew nothing 
 of, a maxim culled from the wisdom of Miss Maizie Dean : 
 It was up to a girl to look out for herself first, last, and 
 all the time. The platitude had made an ineffaceable im- 
 pression upon Joan's sense of self-preservation. And if 
 Matthias were able to afford nightly dinners for two at 
 good restaurants, in addition to theatre tickets several 
 times a week, he ought to be able to afford a decent
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 195 
 
 compensation to his stenographer ; especially when it was 
 his wish that she refrain from attempting to earn more 
 money on the stage. 
 
 It was, however, true that no offer had come to Joan 
 of other theatrical work, and that the issue of her am- 
 bition remained in abeyance, a subject which she did n't 
 care to raise and which Matthias, since that first night, 
 had considered settled. 
 
 Customarily they met each evening about half-past six 
 at some distance from their lodgings : a precaution against 
 gossip on the part of the other inmates of the Maison 
 Duprat. Thence they would go to dine at some favourite 
 restaurant, where food was good and evening dress not 
 obligatory the cafe of their first supper by preference, 
 or else the Lafayette, in University Place, the Brevoort 
 House, or one of a few minor French establishments 
 upon which Matthias had conferred the approval of a 
 discriminating taste. Thereafter, if he meant to work, 
 they would take a taxicab for a brief whirl through 
 Central Park or up Riverside Drive to Grant's Tomb 
 and back. Or if he considered attendance upon some 
 first representation important enough to interfere with 
 his work, as forming part of the education of a student 
 of contemporaneous drama, they would go to a theatre, 
 where he always contrived to have good but inconspicu- 
 ous seats. 
 
 In all, Joan must have attended with him eight or nine 
 first-nights ; and since Matthias refused to waste his time 
 on musical comedy, they witnessed for the most part plays 
 dealing with one phase or another of social life in either 
 London or New York. From these Joan derived an amount 
 of benefit which would have surprised anyone ignorant 
 of the quickness of perception and intelligent adaptability 
 characteristic of the American girl, however humble her 
 origin. The poorest plays furnished her with material 
 for self-criticism and improvement. As plays, indeed, 
 she was but vaguely interested in them, but as schools of
 
 196 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 deportment, they held her breathlessly attentive. She 
 never took her gaze from the stage so. long as there re- 
 mained upon it an actress portraying, however indiffer- 
 ently, a woman of any degree of cultivation whatever. 
 Gestures, postures, vocal inflections, the character of their 
 gowns and the manner in which they contrived to impart 
 to them something of their wearer's personality, the man- 
 agement of a tea-cup or a fashion of shaking hands: all 
 these were registered and stored away in the girl's memory, 
 to be recalled when alone, reviewed, dissected, modified to 
 fit her individually, practised, and eventually to be 
 adopted with varying discretion and success. 
 
 She who was to be the wife of a man of position, was 
 determined that his friends and associates should find little 
 to censure in her manners. For long Helena Tankerville 
 figured to Joan as an impeccable model of tact, distinction, 
 taste, and gentlewomanliness. To become as Helena was, 
 summed up the dearest aspirations of the girl. She began 
 to be very guarded in her use of English, eschewed as far 
 as her means permitted the uniform style of costume to 
 which New York women are largely prone, dressed her 
 hair differently and upon no superstructure other than its 
 own, and spent long hours manicuring and observing the 
 minor niceties of the feminine toilet. 
 
 Paradoxically, with the obtuseness characteristic of a 
 certain type of imaginative man, Matthias appreciated 
 and was grateful for the improvement in his fiancee with- 
 out realizing it objectively; what pleased his sensitive 
 tastes, he accepted as normal expressions of innate good- 
 breeding; what jarred, he glossed with charity. It was 
 inconceivable that he should love any woman but one 
 instinctively fine: he endowed Joan with many a grace 
 and many a virtue that she did not possess; and this 
 implicit assertion of his, that she was all that the mistress 
 of his heart ought to be, incited her to more determined 
 efforts to resemble all that by birth and training she was 
 not.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 197 
 
 It was some time before the novelty palled and she grew 
 restive under the strain of it all. . . . 
 
 " I had a talk with Hideout today," he observed during 
 dinner, on an evening about a fortnight subsequent to the 
 disbanding of " The Jade God " company. " He 's dicker- 
 ing with Algerson thinks the thing may possibly come 
 to a deal before long." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " Joan enquired with quick 
 interest. 
 
 " Algerson wants to buy Hideout's interest in the play 
 at a bargain to himself, of course. Hideout is holding 
 out for a better offer, but he 's hard pressed, and I rather 
 think he '11 close with Algerson within a few days." 
 
 " Who 's Algerson ? " Joan asked, after an interval de- 
 voted to ransacking her memory for some echo of that 
 name ; resulting in the conviction that she had never 
 heard it before. 
 
 " He runs a chain of stock companies out on the Pacific 
 Coast, and now he 's anxious to branch out into the pro- 
 ducing business." 
 
 " And if he gets ' The Jade God ' when will he put 
 it on?" 
 
 " Can't say have n't seen him. I 'm not supposed to 
 know he 's interested as yet ; though of course they '11 
 have to come to me before the deal can be ratified." 
 
 "But you'll consent?" 
 
 " Rather ! Especially if Algerson will take over Ride- 
 out's contract as it stands. It provides for pretty good 
 royalties, and as a prospective bridegroom I 'm very much 
 interested in such sordid matters." 
 
 Joan traced a meaningless pattern on the cloth with a 
 tine of her fork; glanced surreptitiously at Matthias; 
 remembered that toying with the tableware was n't good 
 form, and quietly abandoned the occupation. 
 
 " I wonder . . ." she murmured abstractedly. 
 
 " You wonder what ? " Matthias prompted when she 
 failed to round out her thought.
 
 198 
 
 She laughed uneasily. " I was just wondering if if 
 he gets the piece Algerson would give me a chance at 
 my old part ? " 
 
 " Not with my consent," said Matthias promptly. " You 
 know. I don't want you to stick at that game." 
 
 " But I 'm tired doing nothing," she pouted prettily. 
 
 Matthias shook his stubborn head. " Besides," he added 
 quickly, " Algerson will probably try the show out in one 
 of his stock houses before he goes to the expense of organ- 
 izing a new and separate production. I mean, he '11 use 
 people already on his pay roll, and not engage outsiders 
 until he knows pretty well whether he 's got a success or 
 a failure on his hands." 
 
 " You think he will produce out West ? " 
 
 " Probably." 
 
 " And will you have to go ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I shan't unless I get some guarantee of 
 expenses. Although ... I don't know . . . perhaps I 
 ought to. Wilbrow and I are the only people who know 
 how the thing ought to be done, and Algerson most cer- 
 tainly won't pay what Wilbrow asks for making a pro- 
 duction and his expenses to the Coast and back, besides. 
 ... It would be a shame to let a valuable property go 
 smash for want of intelligent supervision." 
 
 " Then you may go, after all ? " 
 
 " I can't say until something definite is arranged. I '11 
 have to think it over." 
 
 Joan sighed. 
 
 A week elapsed before the subject came up again. 
 
 Matthias had been out all day ; Joan, with no typing to 
 engage her, had sought surcease of ennui with a book and 
 an easy chair in the back-parlour. But the story was 
 badly chosen for her purpose. Its heroine, like herself, had 
 in the beginning been merely a girl of the people, little if 
 any better equipped for the struggle to the top : Joan could 
 see no reason why she should not rise with a rapidity as 
 wonderful, given but the chance denied her through the un- 
 reasonable prejudice of her lover.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 199 
 
 And presently the book lay open and neglected in her 
 lap, while her thoughts engaged mutinously with this ob- 
 struction to her desires, seeking a way to circumvent it 
 without imperilling her conquest. 
 
 Joan was proud and sure of her power over Matthias, 
 but she realized that in spite of it she didn't as yet fill 
 his life; there existed in his nature reticences her imagi- 
 nation might not plumb; and until chance, or the confi- 
 dence only to be engendered through long, slow processes 
 of intimate association, should make these known to her, 
 she hesitated to join issue with his will. 
 
 And yet . . . she was continually restless and discon- 
 tented. Sometimes she felt that the old order of uncer- 
 tainty and stifled longings had been better for her soul; 
 that she could n't much longer endure the tension of living 
 up to the rigorous standards of Matthias and his kind; 
 that she might even be happier as the object of a passion 
 less honourable and honest than that which he offered her. 
 
 But never before this day had she admitted so much to 
 herself, even in her most secret hours of egoistic self- 
 communion. . . . 
 
 Matthias came in briskly, in a glow of high spirits, 
 shortly before sunset; and immediately, as always, her 
 every doubt and misgiving vanished like mists in the morn- 
 ing-glow of his love. 
 
 Throwing hat and stick upon the couch, he went directly 
 to her chair, knelt beside it, gathered her to him. She 
 yielded with a sedate yet warm tenderness perhaps the 
 more sincere today because of a conscience stricken by 
 the memory of her late disloyalty of thought. And some- 
 thing of her fond gravity and gentleness penetrated and 
 sobered his own mood. He held her very close for many 
 minutes. But when he drew back at ann's-length to wor- 
 ship her with his eyes, she turned her head aside quickly, 
 if not quickly enough to deceive him. He was instant to 
 detect the glimmer of tears in her long lashes, the childish 
 tremor of her sweet lips, and again drew her to him.
 
 200 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " My dearest one ! " he whispered with infinite gentle- 
 ness and solicitude. " What is it ? Tell me." 
 
 " Nothing," she breathed brokenly in return. " Noth- 
 ing only I guess I 'm a little blue lonely with- 
 out you, dear. I 'm afraid I need either to be at work or 
 with you always." 
 
 " Then be comforted, sweetest girl ; the time won't be 
 long, now I believe in my very soul." 
 
 " Till when ? " She leaned back in her chair, ex- 
 amining his face with eyes that shone with infectious fire 
 of his confident excitement. " Till when ? What do you 
 mean ? Something has happened ! " 
 
 " You 're right," he laughed exultantly : " two big things 
 have happened to me today. Wylie has accepted ' To- 
 morrow's People ' : we signed the contract this afternoon ; 
 he 's to put it on about the first of the year." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad!" 
 
 " But that is n't all : Algerson has bought Bideout's 
 contract and is to produce ( The Jade God ' in Los Angeles 
 as soon as it can be got ready." 
 
 "Dearest!" 
 
 There was an interval. . . . 
 
 " Only," he said presently, " it 's going to mean a little 
 real loneliness for you, dear not more than a few 
 weeks " 
 
 " Why ? " she demanded sharply. 
 
 " Because I 've promised Algerson to superintend the 
 rehearsals. I could n't well refuse. You know how much 
 it means to us, dear heart." 
 
 " When do you leave ? " 
 
 "Monday the Twentieth Century Limited for Chi- 
 cago, then on to Los Angeles." 
 
 " And you '11 be gone, altogether, how long ? " Joan per- 
 sisted tensely. 
 
 " With good luck, about a month. If we strike a snag, 
 of course, I may have to stop over a week or so longer. 
 It 's hard to say."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY; 201 
 
 " Then I 'm to be left here alone with nothing 
 to do but wait perhaps more than a month ! " 
 
 " I 'm afraid so, dear. It 's for both of our sakes. So 
 much depends " 
 
 " Jack ! " Placing her hands on his shoulders, Joan 
 held him off. " Take me with you," she pleaded earnestly. 
 
 " Think a moment, sweetheart. You must see how im- 
 possible it is. For one thing, it would n't O it 's all 
 very well to say ' Conventions be hanged ! ' but it 
 would n't look right. We 're not married." 
 
 " Take me with you, Jack," she repeated stubbornly. 
 
 He shook his head. " And, fairly and squarely, dear, 
 I can't afford it. I have n't got enough money. Even if 
 we were married, I 'd have to leave you here." 
 
 For a moment longer the girl kept her hands upon his 
 shoulders, exploring his face with eyes that seemed sud- 
 denly to have been robbed of much of their girlishness. 
 Then : " Very well," she said coldly, and releasing him, she 
 sat back and averted her countenance. 
 
 Matthias got up, distressed and perplexed. 
 
 " You can't mean your love won't stand the strain 
 of a few weeks' separation, Joan ! " 
 
 She made no answer. He shrugged, moved to the work- 
 table, found a cigarette and lighted it. 
 
 " Surely you can wait that long " 
 
 " I '11 do my best," she interrupted almost impatiently. 
 " If it can't be, it can't. So don't let 's talk any more 
 about it.". 
 
 " I 'd give a good deal to be able to arrange things the 
 way you wish," he grumbled. " But I don't see . . ." 
 
 She was silent. He paced the worn path on the carpet 
 for a few moments, then turned aside to his desk and stood 
 idly examining a little collection of correspondence which 
 had been delivered in his absence. One or two letters he 
 opened, skimmed through without paying much atten- 
 tion to their contents, and tossed aside. A third brought 
 from him an exclamation : " Hello ! "
 
 202 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " What is it ? " Joan enquired indifferently. 
 
 " What do you say to running down to Tanglewood over 
 Sunday?" 
 
 " Tanglewood ? " 
 
 "My Aunt Helena's home down at Port Madison, 
 Long Island, you know. She has just written, asking us. 
 It would be rather fun. Would you like to go ? " 
 
 A blunt negative was barely suppressed. Curiosity 
 made Joan hesitate, and temporarily to forego further 
 petulance. 
 
 " I 've got nothing to wear," she doubted uncertainly. 
 
 " Rot : you don't need anything but shirtwaists and 
 skirts. There won't be anybody but you, Helena, George 
 Tankerville and myself." Matthias leaned over the back 
 of her chair and caught her face between his hands. " It '11 
 be a splendid holiday for us, before I start. Say yes 
 sweetheart ! " 
 
 Joan turned up her face to his, lifting her arms to en- 
 circle his neck. She nodded consent as he bent his lips 
 to hers.
 
 XX 
 
 AT times Joan was more than half inclined to doubt 
 the reality of some of those unique phases of existence to 
 which her love affair introduced her. Some experiences 
 seemed beyond belief, even to an imagination stimulated 
 by inordinate ambition and further excited by incessant 
 novel-reading and theatre-going. 
 
 On the Friday morning following the receipt of Helena's 
 invitation she went shopping, squandering upwards of 
 three weeks' savings with that delicious abandonment to 
 extravagance which is possible only to a woman of su- 
 premely confident tomorrows. The hundreds she was in 
 subsequent days to disburse as thoughtlessly never afforded 
 her one-half the pleasure that accompanied the expenditure 
 of those seventy hoarded dollars. (For aside from the rent 
 of her room, her association with Matthias had spared her 
 nearly every other expense of daily life.) 
 
 Among other things, she purchased for twenty-five dol- 
 lars a simple evening frock eminently adapted to her re- 
 quirements. A tolerably faithful copy of a foreign model, 
 it had been designed to fetch a much higher price than 
 that at which Joan was able to acquire it at an end-of-the- 
 season bargain sale. She tried it on before deciding, and 
 had the testimony of the department store mirrors that it 
 was wonderfully becoming to her years and type of beauty. 
 And it was the only garment of its kind that she had ever 
 owned. 
 
 As she hurried, tardily, to keep an appointment with 
 Matthias for lunch at Martin's, she told herself that she 
 would never know greater happiness. She could not rid 
 her mind of that wonderful frock and the figure she had 
 cut in it, posing in the dressing-room.
 
 204 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 But after luncheon over which they lingered until 
 they were quite alone in the eastern dining-room with 
 some hesitation, and having assured himself that there was 
 not even a waiter near at hand, Matthias fumbled in one 
 of his waistcoat pockets, produced a small leather-covered 
 case, and passed it across the table. 
 
 " I 'd meant to keep this till we got home," he said with 
 an awkward smile. " But I don't think I can wait. . . ." 
 
 Joan opened the box and drew the longest breath of 
 her life. Her heart seemed to leap and then stand stock- 
 still for a full minute before she grasped the magnificence 
 of his present : her engagement ring ! 
 
 Then and there the girl lost all touch with the tough 
 verities of life; and throughout the day and until she 
 lost consciousness in bed that night, a sensual enchant- 
 ment held dominion over all her being. . . . 
 
 Nor was the great adventure of the visit to Tanglewood 
 of a nature calculated to dissipate that glamour save, 
 perhaps, in one untoward circumstance which, wholly un- 
 foreseen, could not have been provided against. 
 
 A woman less shrewd and intelligent than Helena 
 Tankerville, and one as violently opposed to the match, 
 might have planned that short week-end visit to influence 
 and discourage the girl rather than Matthias. But Helena 
 knew that contrast would have the desired effect only 
 upon the man; to whom its significance would be in in- 
 verse ratio to the emphasis lent it. So with infinite tact 
 and thoughtfulness Joan's way was made smooth for her 
 from the moment she alighted from the train until the 
 moment of her leave-taking; and this without the least 
 tangible suggestion that any especial consideration was 
 being shewn her. The smallness of the party sanctioned 
 informality; and George Tankerville's obtuse kindness 
 of heart (which permitted him to see nothing in the 
 stratagems of his wife other than a desire to put the girl 
 completely at her ease) facilitated matters immensely. 
 
 Joan was spared the embarrassment of a maid was,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 205 
 
 indeed, given no reason to believe there were any such 
 servants attached to the establishment. Suffered to unpack 
 her modest effects and dispose of them herself, she re- 
 ceived at Helena's hands the indispensable service of 
 " hooking-up." And her unpretentious, pretty frock was 
 by no means overshadowed by Helena's or by the uncere- 
 monious dinner jackets of the men; while the simplicity 
 of the evening meal put her thoroughly at her ease, whose 
 recently acquired but rather extensive acquaintance with 
 New York restaurant ways and waiters robbed the atten- 
 tions of a butler of their terrors. 
 
 Nor was it, possibly, altogether a matter of chance that 
 neighbouring friends telephoned an after-dinner invita- 
 tion to Helena and Tankerville to run over and make 
 up a table at auction: so that Joan was left alone with 
 her lover to become acquainted with and at home among 
 the charms of Tanglewood. . . . 
 
 But it was n't until the first hours of a still and splen- 
 did September Sunday that her sense of wonder was quite 
 ravished by the place: its foreign and luxurious atmos- 
 phere, the half-wild loveliness of its grounds, the per- 
 fection of its appointments and the uniquity of its 
 location. Then the sense of unreality resumed full sway 
 over her perceptions: she seemed to move and have her 
 being in a strange, new world of rare and iridescent 
 witchery. And Helena was at pains to leave her no time 
 for doubts or analysis. They motored in the morning 
 to the South Shore and back, and after luncheon took 
 the Enchantress for a short spin up the Sound, returning 
 for tea upon the terrace. . . . 
 
 Tankerville and Matthias were wrangling amiably about 
 the least comfortless routes overland to the Pacific; 
 Helena, with binoculars at the balustrade, was simulating 
 an extravagant interest in the manoeuvres of two small 
 yachts far in the distance (and, in the breathing-space 
 thus cunningly contrived, wildly ransacking a rather 
 extensive fund of resource for some subject which might
 
 206 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 prove a common ground of interest between herself and 
 her guest) and Joan, in the depths of a basket-chair, 
 while seeming smilingly to attend to the light banter of 
 the men, was deeply preoccupied in consideration of her 
 extraordinary sensation of comfort and security in this 
 exotic environment. She was deliciously flattered by 
 appreciation of her own ease and adaptability. The con- 
 clusion seemed inevitable that, somehow, strangely, Nature 
 had meant her for just such an existence as this. 
 
 The terrace was aflood with the golden glow of the 
 westering sun the season so far advanced that there 
 was no discomfort in its warmth. The Sound shone like 
 a sapphire, still and vast, and the cup of the skies bending 
 over it was flawless sapphire banded at its rim with an 
 exquisite shade of amethyst. Ashore, the wooded slopes 
 were all aflame in the mortal passion of Indian summer. 
 
 In the stirless, suave, and aromatic air hung an im- 
 palpable yet ineluctable hint of melancholy. . . . 
 
 From landward, with unusual resonance in the deep 
 quiet of that hour, sounded the long, dull, whining purr 
 of a motor-car. 
 
 Helena lowered the glasses, turned an ear to the sound, 
 and came slowly back to the tea-table and Joan. Her 
 faint smile, together with a slight elevation of her deli- 
 cately darkened brows, indicated surprise. 
 
 Engrossed in their argument, Matthias and Tankerville 
 gave no heed to the threatened visitation. 
 
 JResentfully, Joan detached her attention from the dia- 
 mond Matthias had given her, and at discretion tossed 
 aside a cigarette which she had been pretending to like 
 because Helena smoked quite openly, and it was conse- 
 quently the smart thing to do. 
 
 Undoubtedly the car was stopping on the drive. Helena 
 moved a few paces toward the house, paused, waited. A 
 woman's laugh with an accent of cheerful excitement 
 came to them. Joan saw Helena start and noticed Mat- 
 thias break off a sentence in the middle and swing round
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 207 
 
 in his chair. Immediately a woman ran through the 
 doorway to the terrace, a light dust-wrap streaming from 
 her shoulders. A man followed, but at the time Joan 
 hardly noticed him. The woman absorbed all her interest, 
 even though it was an interest compounded of jealousy 
 and hostility. She was unquestionably the loveliest crea- 
 ture Joan had ever seen. Without moving, but staring, 
 the girl sat transfixed with distrust and poignant envy. 
 
 With a cry of wonder " Venetia ! " Helena ran 
 to greet these unpresaged guests. 
 
 Meeting, the two women indulged in an embrace almost 
 theatrically perfunctory. The commonplaces of such 
 situations were breathlessly exchanged. Then Helena, dis- 
 engaging, turned to the man and extended a hand. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Marbridge ... ! " she cried with a light 
 note of semi-reproof in her laughter. 
 
 At this, with a brightening smile, Marbridge bent 
 over her hand, saying something indistinguishable to 
 Joan. 
 
 She was watching the meeting between Matthias and 
 Venetia Marbridge. 
 
 He held both her hands, and she permitted him to 
 retain them, for a longer moment of silent greeting than 
 Joan thought necessary. But this circumstance alone 
 betrayed whatever constraint was felt by either. A smile, 
 vague and perhaps not lacking a thought of tender sadness, 
 touched the lips and eyes of Venetia. Matthias returned 
 his twisted and indefinitely apologetic grin. 
 
 " More than ever charming, Venetia ! " 
 
 " Thank you, Jack." 
 
 If there were any hint of challenge in her tone or her 
 straightforward eyes, Joan did n't detect it. 
 
 George Tankerville submitted with open resignation to 
 the embrace of his sister. 
 
 " I suppose I Ve got to stand for this," he observed 
 with philosophy. " Do you mean me to infer that you 're 
 humble and contrite ? "
 
 208 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " ~Not in the least," Venetia retorted defiantly. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said he. " That being the case, I 
 extend to you my belated blessing. How did you leave 
 things on the other side ? " 
 
 " Much as usual and by steamer." 
 
 " When 'd you get back ? " 
 
 " Last Monday . . ." 
 
 Venetia became openly aware of Joan. Matthias 
 interposed. 
 
 " Miss Thursday my fiancee. Joan, this is Mrs. 
 Marbridge." 
 
 "Truly?" 
 
 The shock told; she had been playing off very deftly 
 a painful contretemps, but this announcement dashed 
 Venetia. Momentarily she hesitated, scarlet lips apart 
 but inarticulate, widening eyes of violet a shade darker, 
 with if possible a pallor deeper even than that most 
 striking attribute of her beauty. But the check could 
 have been apparent only to the initiate or to a strongly 
 intuitive intelligence. 
 
 " I am so glad ! " she cried with sincerity " so glad 
 for both of you ! " Impulsively she caught Joan's hands, 
 drew the girl to her " May I, my dear ? We 're to be 
 great friends, you know ! " kissed her ; then swinging 
 round " Vincent ! " she called gaily. " Such news ! 
 Do come here immediately ! " 
 
 Marbridge showed a face strongly marked with the 
 enquiry of his heavy, lifting eyebrows. His glance com- 
 prehended Joan with kindling interest. With Helena he 
 approached, his heavy body rolling a little in spite of the 
 elasticity of his stride. 
 
 " My husband, Vincent Marbridge. Vincent, this is 
 Joan Thursday. She 's engaged to Jack Matthias. Is n't 
 it wonderful? And aren't they both fortunate? And 
 is n't she pretty ? " 
 
 Marbridge's unctuous and intimate smile accompanied 
 his reply : " Yes to all twice yes to your last question."
 
 Miss Thursday my fiancee. Joan, this is Mrs. Marbridge." 
 
 Page 208
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 209 
 
 His warm strong hand closed over Joan's diffident fingers. 
 " My heartiest congratulations to you both. . . . Ah, 
 Mr. Matthias, how are you ? So we meet again at 
 Tanglewood ! " 
 
 The hands of the two men touched and fell apart. 
 But this clue was wasted upon Joan, who stood silently 
 abashed and sullen with consciousness of her own inept 
 awkwardness as contrasted with the amiable aplomb of 
 these people with whom good breeding was a cult, the 
 practice of the art of self-possession its primary rite. 
 
 To Marbridge she stammered : " Pleased to meet you." 
 And immediately felt her face burning and as if she could 
 faint for sheer mortification. 
 
 It was Helena who, pitiful for the gaucherie of the 
 girl, saved the situation by raising the issue of tea. Vene- 
 tia demurred: they were, it seemed, visiting friends in 
 Southampton; had driven over only for a call of a mo- 
 ment; would be late for dinner if they tarried. But 
 Marbridge settled the question by dropping solidly into 
 a chair and announcing that there he was and there would 
 stay pending either tea or a highball. Venetia, unable 
 to disguise a flush of resentment, showed her back to her 
 husband and devoted herself to George Tankerville. As 
 Helena summoned a servant, Marbridge hitched his chair 
 closer and inaugurated a rather one-sided conversation 
 with Joan. 
 
 Again in her basket-chair, knees daintily crossed in 
 imitation of a pose mentally photographed from the stage, 
 Joan experienced renewed consciousness of her attractions, 
 and with it regained a little ease. It could scarcely be 
 otherwise under the wondering regard that Marbridge bent 
 upon the girl." His admiration was unconcealed, and to 
 Joan at first the sweeter since it was diverted from his 
 wife. 
 
 But insensibly the situation began to affect her less 
 pleasantly. She grew sensitive to an effect of strain in 
 the atmosphere, made up in equal parts of Venetia's
 
 210 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 indignation, Matthias's annoyance, Helena's suave but 
 quite fruitless efforts to interpose and distract the interest 
 of Marbridge to herself. 
 
 And there was a confusing and disturbing element of 
 familiar and personal significance in the man's unde- 
 viating and brazen stare. Truly, in the older sense of 
 the word, impudent, it hinted an understanding so com- 
 plete as to be almost shameful worse, it educed a real 
 if unspoken response from the girl; unwillingly she 
 admitted the existence of a bond of sympathy between 
 herself and this man whom she had never seen before, 
 a feeling more true and intimate than that which her 
 association with Matthias had inspired, than any she had 
 ever known. For a time she fought against this im- 
 pression, in a bewilderment that evoked from her only 
 witless and hesitant responses. Then suddenly encoun- 
 tering his eyes actually against her will she was 
 stricken dumb and breathless by comprehension of their 
 intent; in effect, they stripped her: bodily and mentally 
 they made her naked to this man. 
 
 Nor was this the sum: for the merest fraction of a 
 moment Joan felt herself answering: in her bosom a 
 strange oppression, strangely troubling and sweet; in 
 her own eyes a kindling light, sympathetic, shame- 
 less. . . . 
 
 Instantly quenched: distress and affronted modesty 
 incarnadined her face, veiled her eyes. Almost uncon- 
 sciously she turned away. Indistinctly she saw the white 
 face of Venetia, set and hard, with a scornful lip for 
 her husband. Shifting to view the object of his admira- 
 tion, it showed no change of expression. Her voice cut 
 incisively through his lazy, drawling accents. 
 
 " This is quite impossible," she said coolly, consulting 
 a jewelled watch on her slender, gloved wrist. " If we 
 stay another instant we shall be unforgivably late. But " 
 to Helena " thank you so much, dear, for wanting 
 us to stop. . . . Vincent, I am going."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 211 
 
 She moved slowly toward the house. Marbridge kept 
 his seat. 
 
 " .Nonsense ! " he expostulated. " Plenty of time. 
 Tea 's just coming. And I 'm dying the death of a dog 
 with thirst." 
 
 " I am going," Venetia repeated in an uninflected voice. 
 
 His dark face darkening, Marbridge glanced to Helena, 
 to Tankerville, ignored Matthias, looked back to Joan: 
 gaining as little encouragement from her, as from his 
 host and hostess, since she dared not again meet his 
 gaze. With a movement of his heavy shoulders and a 
 chuckle he heaved himself out of the chair. 
 
 " Oh, all right," he called indulgently to his wife : 
 " coming ! . . . All women are crazy, anyhow," he con- 
 fided to the others. " You 've got to let 'em have their 
 own way. So good night. Hope I '11 have the pleasure 
 of seeing you-all soon again." 
 
 He extended a hand to Helena who gave him cool 
 fingertips and paused before Joan. 
 
 " Au revoir, Miss Thursday . . ." 
 
 The girl was unconscious of the proffered hand. Her 
 eyes averted, she murmured a good night. 
 
 His smile broadening, Marbridge turned to Matthias; 
 received from him a look that was as good as a kick, gave 
 back a grin of graceless effrontery; and swinging, linked 
 arms with Tankerville. 
 
 " Come along, George take a look at our new car. 
 She 's a wonder ! " 
 
 Civilly playing his part, Tankerville submitted. 
 
 They disappeared Marbridge gabbling cheerfully 
 into the house. Joan uncurtained her eyes. Her lover, 
 with a face of thunder, was looking toward his aunt ; who 
 made a slight negative motion of her head, with an 
 admonitory flutter of one hand: a servant with a tray 
 was drawing near. Matthias answered her with a gesture 
 of controlled wrath ; turned to the balustrade ; stood there 
 staring straight into the angry sunset glow.
 
 212 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 On the drive a motor snorted, snored, drew away with 
 a whine diminuendo. . . . 
 
 Throughout the remainder of Joan's visit the incident 
 was not once referred to. But it had had its curious and 
 disturbing effect upon the girl. She remembered it all 
 very vividly, reviewed it with insatiable inquisitiveness. 
 From this she derived a feeling, which she resented, of 
 having witnessed a scene fraught with significance in- 
 decipherable to her.
 
 XXI 
 
 A LITTLE after the hour of four on Monday afternoon, 
 Joan emerged from that riotous meander of hideous 
 wooden galleries, ramps, passages, sheds, and vast echoing 
 caves of gloom, which in those days encumbered the site 
 of the new Grand Central Station ; and with a long breath 
 of relief turned westward on Forty-second Street. 
 
 She walked slowly and without definite aim; yet she 
 had never felt so keenly the quickness and joy of being 
 alive. Her idle fancy invested with a true if formless 
 symbolism her escape from that amazing labyrinth of 
 shadows to the clear, sweet sunlight of the clamorous, 
 busy street: as if she had eluded and cast off convention 
 and formality, the constraint of a settled future and the 
 strain of aspirations to be other than as Nature had 
 fashioned her; and was free again of the enchanting 
 ease of being simply herself. 
 
 She had within five minutes said good-bye to her be- 
 trothed; her lips were yet warm with their parting kiss, 
 her eyes still moist and so, the more bewitching 
 with the facile tears through which she had watched his 
 train draw out of the station. 
 
 He was not to be back within a month ; more probably 
 his return would not occur within five or six weeks. . . . 
 
 She was contrarily possessed by two opposed humours: 
 one approximately saturated with an exquisite melan- 
 choly and a sense of heroic emotions adequately expe- 
 rienced; and the other, of freedom untrammelled by re- 
 strictions of any sort. 
 
 Overruling her faint-hearted protests, Matthias had 
 left her the sum of six weeks' wages (or allowance) in
 
 214 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 advance, by way of provision against emergencies and 
 delays. Joan had this magnificent sum of one hundred 
 and fifty dollars intact in her pocket-book: more money 
 than she had ever at least, seriously dreamed of 
 possessing at one time. Temporarily it represented to 
 her imagination, level-headed as she ordinarily was in 
 consideration of money matters, wealth almost incalcu- 
 lable. It thrilled her tremendously to contemplate this 
 tangible proof of her lover's unquestioning trust and gen- 
 erosity and at the same time it irked her with gnaw- 
 ing doubts of her worthiness. For continually the knowl- 
 edge skulked in the dark backwards of her consciousness 
 that only lack of opportunity restrained her from active 
 disloyalty to his prejudices. 
 
 Though she had disguised it from him, and even in 
 some measure from herself, she knew that love had not 
 quenched but had quickened her ambition for the stage. 
 To be desired by one man only stimulated her longing 
 to be desired inaccessibly beyond the impregnable bar- 
 rier of footlights by all men. 
 
 She wondered how far her strength and constancy 
 would serve her to resist, were opportunity to come her 
 way during the absence of Matthias, when distance 
 should have sapped the strength of his influence and lone- 
 liness had lent an accent to her need for occupation and 
 companionship. 
 
 Furtively she closed her left hand, until she could feel 
 the diamond in his ring, turned in toward the palm be- 
 neath her glove: as if it were a talisman. . . . 
 
 Turning north on Broadway, she breasted the full 
 current of the late afternoon promenade. Where the 
 subway kiosks encroach upon the sidewalk, in front of 
 what had been Shanley's restaurant, there was a distinct 
 congestion of footfarers: Joan was obliged to move more 
 slowly, crowded from behind, close on the heels of those 
 in front, elbowed by pedestrians bound the opposite way. 
 
 Abruptly she caught sight of Wilbrow, approaching.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 215 
 
 Almost at the same instant he saw her. Momentarily his 
 eyes clouded with an effort of memory; then he placed 
 her, his lantern cheeks widened with an ironic grin, and 
 he lifted his hat with elaborate ceremony. Joan flushed 
 slightly, smiled brightly in response, and tossed her head 
 with a spirited suggestion of good-humoured tolerance. 
 In another moment, wondering why she had done this, 
 she realized that it had been due simply to a subconscious 
 valuation of the man's interest, in the event she should 
 ever again decide to try her luck on the stage. . . . 
 
 Crossing at Forty-third Street, she turned again north 
 on the sidewalk in front of a building given over almost 
 entirely to tHe offices of theatrical businesses: a sidewalk 
 darkened the year round with groups of actors sociably 
 " resting." 
 
 One of these groups, as Joan drew near, broke up on 
 the urgent suggestion of a special policeman detailed for 
 the purpose ; and a member of it, swinging with a laugh 
 to " move on," stopped short to escape collision with the 
 girl. Then he laughed again in the friendliest fashion, 
 and offered his hand. She looked up into the face of 
 Charlie Quard. 
 
 " Well ! " he cried heartily, " I always was a lucky 
 guy ! I Ve been thinking about you all day wondering 
 what 'd become of you." 
 
 Joan smiled and shook hands. " I guess it was n't 
 worrying you much," she retorted. " If you 'd wanted to, 
 you knew where to find me." 
 
 Quard needed no more encouragement. Promptly 
 ranging alongside and falling into step : " That 's just 
 it," he argued ; " I knew where to start looking for you, 
 all right, but I was kinda afraid you might be in when 
 I called, and did n't know whether you 'd snap my head 
 off or not." 
 
 " That 's likely," the girl countered amiably. There 
 was a distinctly agreeable sensation to be derived from this 
 association with one upon whom she could impose her
 
 216 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 private estimate of herself. " What made you want to 
 see me all of a sudden ? " 
 
 " Then you ain't sore on me ? " 
 
 " What for ? " she evaded transparently. 
 
 " Oh, you know what for, all right. I 'm sore enough 
 on myself not to want to talk about it." 
 
 " Well," said Joan indifferently, " I guess it 's none 
 of my business if you 're such a rummy you can't hold 
 onto a job. Only, of course, I don't have to stand for 
 that sort of foolishness more than once." 
 
 " You said something then, all right," Quard approved 
 humbly. " I can't blame you for feeling that way about 
 it. But le' me tell you an honest fact: I ain't touched 
 a drop of anything stronger'n buttermilk since that night 
 so help me Klaw and Erlanger ! " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Well, I guess I must 've took a tumble to myself. 
 Anyhow, when I got over the katzen jammer thing, I 
 thought it all out and made up my mind it was up to 
 me to behave for the balance of my sentence." 
 
 " Is that so ? " Joan asked, pausing definitely on the 
 corner at Forty-fifth Street. 
 
 " I know I can," Quard asserted convincingly. " Be- 
 lieve me, Joan, I hate the stuff ! I 'd as lief stake myself 
 to a slug of sulphuric. No, on the level : I 'm booked for 
 the water- tank route for the rest of my natural." 
 
 " 1 'm awful glad," observed the girl maliciously. 
 " It 's so nice for your mother. Well . . . g'daf ter- 
 noon ! " 
 
 " Hold on ! " Quard protested. " I '11 walk down to the 
 house with you." 
 
 " No, you won't," she returned promptly. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I don't want you to." 
 
 " Oh, you don't ! " he murmured blankly, pulling down 
 the corners of his wide, expressive mouth. 
 
 " So sorry," she parroted. " G'dafternoon."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 217 
 
 She was several steps away before the man recovered 
 from this rebuff. Then, with a face of set intent, he 
 gave chase. 
 
 "I say Miss Thursday!" 
 
 Joan accepted with a secret smile this sudden change 
 from the off-hand manner of his first addresses. " Miss 
 Thursday, eh ? " she said to herself ; but halted none 
 the less. 
 
 " Well ? " with self-evident surprise. 
 
 u Look here lis'n! " insisted Quard: " I got to have 
 a talk with you." 
 
 " What about ? " 
 
 " Oh, this is no good place. When can I see you ? " 
 
 " Is it quite necessary, Mister Quard ? " 
 
 He wagged an earnest head at her : " That 's right. 
 What are you doing tonight ? " 
 
 " Oh, I got an engagement with some friends of mine," 
 she said with spontaneous mendacity. 
 
 "Well, then, when?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; you might as well take your 
 chances call round sometime in two or three days." 
 
 " And I got to be satisfied with that ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 Quard shook his head helplessly : " I M like to know 
 what 's come over you. . . ." 
 
 " Why, what 's the matter ? " The temptation to lead 
 him on was irresistible. 
 
 " You 've changed a lot since I seen you last. What 
 you been doing to yourself ? " 
 
 She bridled. ..." Maybe it 's you that is changed. 
 Maybe you 're seeing things different, now you 're sober." 
 
 Quard hesitated an instant, his features drawn with 
 anger. Then abruptly: "Plenty!" he ejaculated, and 
 as if afraid to trust himself further, turned and marched 
 back to Broadway. 
 
 Smiling quietly, Joan made her way home. On the 
 whole, the encounter had not been unen joy able. She had
 
 218 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 not only held her own, she had condescended with striking 
 success. 
 
 Later, she repented a little of her harshness ; she had 
 been hardly kind, if Quard were sincere in his protesta- 
 tions of reform ; and a little tolerance might have earned 
 her an evening less lonely. 
 
 It was spent, after a dinner which proved unexpectedly 
 desolate, lacking the companionship to which of late she 
 had grown accustomed, in the back-parlour (to which 
 Matthias had left her the key) and in discontented efforts 
 to fix her interest on a novel. Before ten o'clock she gave 
 it up, and climbed to her room, to lie awake for hours in 
 mute rebellion against her friendless estate. She might, 
 it was true, have kept a promise made to her lover just 
 before his departure, to look up and renew relations with 
 her family. But the more she contemplated this step, 
 the less it attracted her inclination. There 'd be v another 
 row with the Old Man, most likely and . . . anyway, 
 there was plenty of time. Besides, they 'd want money,, 
 if they found out she had any ; and while a hundred and 
 fifty was a lot, there was no telling when she 'd get more. 
 
 Eventually she fell asleep while reviewing her meeting 
 with Quard and turning over her hazy impression that 
 it would n't hurt her to be less stand-offish with him, next 
 time. 
 
 In the morning she settled herself at her typewriter in 
 a fine spirit of determination to keep her mind occu- 
 pied with the work in hand and incidentally to rid her 
 conscience of it until the feeling of loneliness wore off 
 or at least till its reality became a trifle less unpalatable 
 through familiarity. But not two pages had been typed 
 before the call of the sunlit September day proved seduc- 
 tive beyond her will to resist; a much-advertised "Pro- 
 menade des Toilettes" at a department store claimed the 
 rest of the morning ; and after lunch she " took in " a 
 moving-picture show. 
 
 But again her evening was forlorn. Theatres allured,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 219 
 
 but she hardly liked to go alone. In desperation she cast 
 back mentally to the friends of the old days, and after 
 rejecting her erstwhile confidant and co-labourer at the 
 stocking counter, Gussie Innes (who lived too near home, 
 and would tell her father, who would pass it along to 
 the Old Man) Joan settled upon one or two girls, resident 
 in distant Harlem, to be hunted up, treated to a musical 
 comedy, and regaled with a narrative of the rise and 
 adventures of Joan Thursday until their lives were poi- 
 soned with corrosive envy. 
 
 But the first mail of Wednesday furnished distractions 
 so potent that this project was postponed indefinitely and 
 passed out of Joan's mind, never to be revived. It brought 
 her two letters: manufacturing an event of magnitude 
 in the life of a young woman who had yet to write her 
 first letter and who had thus far received only a few 
 scrappy and incoherent notes from boyish admirers. 
 
 There was one from Matthias, posted in Chicago the 
 preceding morning. Her first love letter, it was scanned 
 hurriedly, even impatiently, and put aside in favour of 
 a fat manila envelope whose contents consisted of a type- 
 written manuscript and a note in scrawling longhand: 
 
 "FBIEND JOAN 
 
 " I hope you are not still mad with me and sorry T got 
 hot under the collar Monday only I thought you might of been 
 a little easy on me because, I am strictly on the Water Wagon 
 and this time mean it 
 
 "What I wanted to talk to you about was a Sketch I got hold 
 of a while ago you know you picked the other one only that was 
 punk stuff compared with this I think Please read this and tell 
 me what you think about it if you like it, I think I will try 
 it out soon, if it 's any good it 's a cinch to cop out Orpheum time 
 for a Classy Act like this 
 
 " Your true friend 
 
 "CHAS. H. QUABD. 
 
 " P.S. of course I mean I want you to act the Womans part it 
 you like the Sketch, what do you think ? "
 
 220 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Well ! " the girl commented " of all the nerve ! 
 I wonder what he thinks I am, anyivay ? " 
 
 Her tone, however, was not one of immitigable resent- 
 ment, and was accompanied by a curious little smile. 
 
 She examined the manuscript, whose blue cover of 
 theatrical convention bore a title " The Lie," an explana- 
 tory line, " A Play in One Act," and the name of the 
 author one quite strange to Joan and which she 
 promptly put forever out of memory. 
 
 A little conscience-stricken and irresolute, she dropped 
 the play, took up Matthias's letter, and read it again. 
 
 It was a characteristically affectionate, confidential, 
 and hopeful communication, tersely and well phrased; 
 but she found her interest in it quite as perfunctory on 
 this second reading as on the first, distracted as she was 
 by consciousness of the unread manuscript and its poten- 
 tial value to her ambition. 
 
 At length, a little impatiently, she turned again to 
 " The Lie." 
 
 Its twenty-odd type-darkened pages told a story in- 
 tensely and, even to an amateur judgment, unusually 
 dramatic, culminating in a scene of surprising strength. 
 The author had wasted no time angling for " laughs," 
 or on any point not vital to his purpose; from the first 
 line the action was swift and certain. Of the five charac- 
 ters only two were " principals," and of these the woman's 
 role was the stronger. 
 
 Struck by this last, Joan read the little melodrama 
 again and again but only once from the standpoint of 
 the audience. After that first reading she was always the 
 woman, fighting for her happiness founded upon a lie, 
 and eventually saved by a lie. She saw herself in every 
 situation, heard her own voice uttering every impassioned 
 and anguished line assigned to the wife. 
 
 Quard, of course, meant to play the blackmailer. Joan 
 could see how admirably the part was fitted to his robust 
 and florid personality. . . .
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 221 
 
 It was afternoon before she realized the flight of time. 
 
 She turned back to Quard's note, a trifle disappointed 
 that he had n't suggested an hour when he would call for 
 her answer. 
 
 Adjusting her hat before the mirror, preparatory to 
 going out to lunch, she realized without a qualm that 
 there was no longer any question of her intention as be- 
 tween Quard's offer and the wishes of Matthias. What- 
 ever the consequences she meant to play that part but 
 on terms and conditions to be dictated by herself. 
 
 But in the act of drawing on her gloves, she checked, 
 and for a long time stood fascinated by the beauty and 
 lustre of the diamond on her left hand. A stone of no 
 impressive proportions, but one of the purest and most 
 excellent water, of an exceptional brilliance, it meant a 
 great deal to one whose ingrained passion for such adorn- 
 ments had, prior to her love affair, perforce been satisfied 
 with the cheap, trashy, and perishable stuff designated in 
 those days by the term " French novelty jewellery." Sub- 
 consciously she was sensitive to a feeling of kinship with 
 the beautiful, unimpressionable, enigmatic stone: as 
 though their natures were somehow complementary. 
 Actively she knew that she would forfeit much rather 
 than part with that perfect and entrancing jewel. With 
 nothing else in nature, animate or inert, would it have 
 been possible for her to spend long hours of silent, wor- 
 shipful, sympathetic communion. 
 
 If she were to persist in the pursuit of her romantic 
 ambition, it might bring about a pass of cleavage be- 
 tween herself and her lover; it was more than likely, 
 indeed; she knew the prejudices of Matthias to be as 
 strong as his love, and this last no stronger than his 
 sense of honour. Tacitly if not explicitly, she had given 
 him to understand that she would respect his objections 
 to a stage career. He would not forgive unf aith least 
 of all, such clandestine and stealthy disloyalty as she 
 then contemplated.
 
 222 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 The breaking of their engagement would involve the re- 
 turn of the diamond. 
 
 Intolerable thought! 
 
 And yet . . . 
 
 Staring wide-eyed into her mirror, she saw herself ir- 
 resolute at crossroads : on the one hand Matthias, marriage, 
 the diamond, a secure and honourable future ; on the other, 
 Quard, " The Lie," disloyalty, the loss of the diamond, 
 uncertainty a vista of grim, appalling hazards. . . . 
 
 And yet she had four weeks, probably six, perhaps 
 eight, in which to weigh the possibilities of this tremendous 
 and seductive adventure. " The Lie " might fail. . . . 
 
 In that case, Matthias need never know.
 
 XXII 
 
 As she drew near to Longacre Square, Joan saw Quard 
 detach himself from an area-railing against which he had 
 been lounging across the street, and move over to inter- 
 cept her. Since she had anticipated that he might waylay 
 her in some such manner, if he did n't call at the house, 
 she was not surprised by this manoeuvre; but she was 
 a little surprised and not a little amused (if quite pri- 
 vately) to see him throw away his cigar as they drew to- 
 gether, and lift his hat. Such attentions from him were 
 distinctly novel and gratifying. 
 
 Complacent, and at the same time excited beneath a 
 placid demeanour, she greeted him with a cool little nod. 
 
 He grinned broadly but nervously. f 
 
 " I was wondering if you would n't happen along 
 soon. . . ." 
 
 " Is that so ? " Joan returned blandly. 
 
 " Mind my walking with you ? " 
 
 " No-o," the girl drawled. 
 
 " Of course, if I 'm in the way " 
 
 " Oh, no I 'm just looking for some place to lunch." 
 
 " Well, I 'm hungry myself. Why not let me set up 
 the eats?" 
 
 " All right," she assented indifferently. 
 
 "Fine! Where '11 we go ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know . . ." 
 
 " Anywheres you say." 
 
 " Well, Rector's is right handy." 
 
 " That suits me," Quard affirmed promptly. 
 
 But Joan's sidelong glance discovered a look of some 
 discomfiture.
 
 224 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " I guess you got my letter, all right ? " he pursued 
 as they crossed to the sidewalk of the New York Theatre 
 Building. 
 
 " Oh, yes," Joan replied evenly, after a brief pause. 
 
 " Wha'd you think of the piece ? " 
 
 " Oh . . . the sketch ! Why, it seems very interesting. 
 Of course," Joan added in a tone of depreciation, " I 
 did n't have much time just glanced through it, you 
 know " 
 
 " I felt pretty sure you 'd like it ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I thought it quite interesting," said the girl 
 patronizingly. 
 
 She seemed unconscious of his quick, questioning glance, 
 and Quard withdrew temporarily into suspicious, baffled 
 silence. 
 
 In the pause they crossed Forty-fourth Street and en- 
 tered the restaurant. 
 
 It was rather crowded at that hour, but by good chance 
 they found a table for two by one of the windows ; where 
 a heavily-mannered captain of waiters, probably thinking 
 he recognized her, held a chair for Joan and bowed her 
 into it with an empressement that secretly delighted the 
 girl and lent the last effect to Quard's discomfiture. 
 
 " Please," she said gravely as the actor, with the captain 
 suave but vigilant at his elbow, knitted expressive eyebrows 
 over the menu " please order something very simple. I 
 hardly ever have much appetite so soon after breakfast." 
 
 "I ah how about a cocktail ? " Quard ventured, 
 relief manifest in his smoothened brow. 
 
 " I thought you " 
 
 " Oh, for you, I mean. Mine 's ice'-tea." 
 
 " I think," said Joan easily, " I would like a 
 Bronx." 
 
 And then, while Quard was distracted by the importance 
 of his order, she removed her gloves and, with her hands 
 in her lap hidden beneath the table, slipped off the ring 
 and put it away in her wrist-bag : looking about the room
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 225 
 
 the while with a boldness which she could by no means 
 have mustered a month earlier, in such surroundings. 
 
 Distrustful of her cocktail, when served, for all her 
 impudence in naming it, she merely sipped a little and 
 let it stand. 
 
 The mystery of the change in her worked a trace of 
 exasperation into Quard's humour. He eyed her nar- 
 rowly, with misgivings. 
 
 " I guess you ain't lost much sleep since we blew up," 
 he hazarded abruptly. 
 
 " Whatever do you mean ? " drawled Joan. 
 
 " You look and act 's if you 'd come into money since I 
 saw you last." 
 
 " Perhaps I have," she said with provoking reserve. 
 
 " Meaning mind my own business," he inferred 
 morosely. 
 
 " Well, now, what do you think ? " 
 
 "I well, I 'd be sorry to think what some folks 
 might," he blundered. 
 
 Joan's eyes flashed ominously. " Suppose you quit wor- 
 rying about me; I guess I can take care of myself." 
 
 " I guess vou can," he admitted heavily. " Excuse 
 me." 
 
 " That 's all right and so 'm I." Joan relented a 
 little ; lied : " I have come into some money not much." 
 Her gaze was as clear and straightforward as though her 
 mouth had been the only authentic well-spring of veracity. 
 " Let it go at that." 
 
 " That 's right, too." His face cleared, lightened. 
 " Le's get down to brass tacks : how about that sketch ? " 
 
 " Did n't I say it seemed very interesting ? " 
 
 He nodded with impatience. " But you ain't said how 
 my proposition strikes you. That 's what I want to know." 
 
 " You have n't made me any proposition." 
 
 " Go on ! Did n't you read my note ? " 
 
 " Sure I did ; but you only said you wanted me for 
 the woman's part."
 
 226 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Ain't that enough ? " 
 
 She shook her head with a pitying smile. " You got to 
 talk regular business to me. I ain't as easy as I was 
 once ; I know the game better, and I don't need a job so 
 bad. How much will you pay ? " 
 
 He hesitated: named reluctantly a figure higher than 
 that which he had had in mind : " Thirty-five dollars . . ." 
 
 " Nothing doing," said Joan promptly. 
 
 " But look here : you 're only a beginner " 
 
 " It 's lovely weather we 're having, for September, 
 is n't it ? " 
 
 " I 'd offer you more if I could afford it, but " 
 
 " Have you heard anything from Maizie since she left 
 town ? " 
 
 " Damn Maizie ! How much do you want, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Fifty and transportation on the road." 
 
 He checked; whistled guardedly and incredulously; 
 changed his manner, bending confidentially across the 
 table : " Listen, girlie, yunno I 'd do anything in the world 
 for you " 
 
 " Fifty and transportation ! " 
 
 " But I had to pay the guy what wrote this piece fifty 
 for a month's option. If I take it up I gotta slip him a 
 hundred more and twenty-five a week royalty as long 's we 
 play it : and there 's three others in the cast, outsida you 
 and me. David '11 want fifty at least, and the Thief thirty- 
 five and the servant twenty-five : there 's a hundred and 
 thirty-five already, including royalty. Add fifteen for tips 
 and all that : a hundred and fifty ; fifty to you, two-hun- 
 dred. The best I can hope to drag down is three, and 
 Boskerk '11 want ten per cent commission for booking us, 
 leaving only seventy for my bit and I 'm risking all I 
 got salted away to try it out." 
 
 He paused with an air of appeal to which Joan was 
 utterly cold. 
 
 " It 's a woman's piece," she said tersely ; " if you get 
 a sure-'nough actress to play it, she '11 want a hundred at
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 227 
 
 least, if she 's any good at all. You 're saving fifty if you 
 get me at my price." 
 
 This was so indisputably true that Quard was staggered 
 and temporarily silenced. 
 
 " And," Joan drove her argument shrewdly home with 
 unblushing mendacity " Tom Wilbrow says it 's only 
 a question of time before I can get any figure I want to 
 ask, in reason." 
 
 Quard's eyes started. " Tom Wilbrow ! " he gasped. 
 
 " He rehearsed me in ' The Jade God ' before Hideout 
 went broke. I guess you heard about that." 
 
 The actor nodded moodily. " But I did n't know you 
 was in the cast. . . . Look here : make it " 
 
 " Fifty or nothing." 
 
 After another moment of hesitation, Quard gave in with 
 a surly " All right." 
 
 At once, to hide his resentment, he attacked with more 
 force than elegance the food before him. 
 
 Joan permitted herself a furtive and superior smile. 
 The success of her tactics proved wonderfully exhilarating, 
 even more so than the prospect of receiving fifty dollars 
 a week; she would have accepted fifteen rather than lose 
 the opportunity. She had demonstrated clearly and to her 
 own complete satisfaction her ability to manage men, to 
 bend them to her will. . . . 
 
 There was ironic fatality in the accident which checked 
 this tide of gratulate reflection. 
 
 From some point in the restaurant behind Joan's back, 
 three men who had finished their lunch rose and filed 
 toward the Broadway entrance. Passing the girl, one 
 of these looked back curiously, paused, turned, and re- 
 traced his steps as far as her table. His voice of spirited 
 suavity startled her from a waking dream of power tem- 
 pered by policy, ambitions achieved through adulation 
 of men. . . . 
 
 " Why, Miss Thursday, how do you do ? " 
 
 'Flashing to his face eyes of astonishment, Joan half
 
 228 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 started from her chair, automatically thrust out a hand 
 of welcome, gasped : " Mr. Marbridge ! " 
 
 Quard looked up with a scowl. Marbridge ignored him, 
 having in a glance measured the man and relegated him to 
 a negligible status. He had Joan's hand and the knowl- 
 edge, easily to be inferred from her alarm and hesitation, 
 that she remembered and understood the scene of last Sun- 
 day, and was at once flattered and frightened by that 
 memory. His handsome eyes ogled her effectively. 
 
 " Please don't rise. I just caught sight of you and 
 could n't resist stopping to speak. How are you ? " 
 
 " I " Joan stammered " I 'm very well, thanks." 
 
 " As if one look at you would n't have told me you were 
 as healthy as happy more charming than both! You 
 are eh not lonesome ? " 
 
 His intimate smile, the meaning flicker of his eyes 
 toward Quard, exposed the innuendo. 
 
 "Oh, no, I " 
 
 " Venetia was saying only yesterday we ought to look 
 you up. She wants to call on you. Where do you put up 
 in town ? " 
 
 Almost unwillingly the girl gave her address 
 knowing in her heart that the truth was not in this 
 man. 
 
 " And, I presume, you 're ordinarily at home round 
 four in the afternoon ? " She nodded instinctively. " I '11 
 not forget to tell Venetia. Two-eighty-nine west Forty- 
 fifth, eh ? Right-O ! I must trot along. So glad to have 
 run across you. Good afternoon." . . . 
 
 Regaining control of her flustered thoughts, Joan found 
 Quard eyeing her with odd intentness. 
 
 " Friend of yours ? " he demanded with a sneer and 
 a backward jerk of his head. 
 
 " Yes the husband of a friend of mine," she replied 
 quickly. 
 
 The actor digested this information grimly. " Swell 
 friends you 've got, all right ! " he commented, not without
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 229 
 
 a touch of envy. " Now I begin to understand . . . 
 W T hat 's Marbridge going to do for you ? " 
 
 " Do for me ? Mr. Marbridge ? Why, nothing," she 
 answered blankly, in a breath. " I don't know what you 
 mean." 
 
 " That 's all right then. But take a friendly tip, and 
 give him the office the minute he begins to talk about 
 influencing managers to star you. I 've heard about that 
 guy, and he 's a rotten proposition grab it from me. 
 He 's Arlington's silent partner and you know what 
 kind of a rep. Arlington 's got." 
 
 " No, I don't," Joan challenged him sharply. " What 's 
 more, I don't care. Anyway, I don't see what Arlington's 
 reputation 's got to do with my being a friend of Mar- 
 bridge's wife." 
 
 " No more do I," grumbled Quard " not if Mar- 
 bridge believes you are."
 
 XXIII 
 
 BEFORE leaving the restaurant Quard outlined in detail 
 his plans for producing " The Lie " for vaudeville pres- 
 entation. He named the other two actors, spoke of hiring 
 a negro dresser who would double as the servant, and 
 indicated his intention of engaging a producing director of 
 the first calibre who, he said, thought highly of the play. 
 
 Joan was a little overcome. Peter Gloucester was a pro- 
 ducer quite worthy to be named in the same breath with 
 Wilbrow. 
 
 " Well, he believes in the piece," Quard explained 
 " the same as me and he says he '11 give us ten after- 
 noon rehearsals for a hundred and fifty. It '11 be worth it." 
 
 " You must think so," said Joan, a little awed. 
 
 " You bet I do. This means a lot to me, anyway ; I 
 gotta do something to keep my head above out-of-town 
 stock or the movies again." Mentioning his recent ex- 
 perience, he shuddered realistically. " But if this piece 
 ain't actor-proof, I 'm no judge. Gloucester says so, too. 
 And to have him tune it up into a reg'lar classy act will 
 be worth ... something, I tell you! " 
 
 His hesitation was due to the fact that Quard was 
 secretly counting on the representations of his agent, 
 Boskerk, who insisted that, properly presented, the sketch 
 would earn at least four hundred and fifty dollars a week, 
 instead of the sum he had named to Joan. 
 
 But Joan overlooked this lamely retrieved slip ; she was 
 all preoccupied with a glowing sense of gratification grow- 
 ing out of this endorsement of her first surmise, that 
 Quard had only waited on her consent to go ahead. The 
 thought was unctuous flattery to her conceit, inflating it
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 231 
 
 tremendously even in the face of a shrewd suspicion that 
 it was sentiment more than an exaggerated conception of 
 her ability that made Quard reckon her cooperation indis- 
 pensable. That the man was infatuated with her she was 
 quite convinced ; on the other hand, she did n't believe him 
 sufficiently blinded by passion to imperil the success of his 
 venture by giving her the chief part unless he believed she 
 could play it " actor-proof " or no. 
 
 " Lis'n, girlie," Quard pursued after one meditative 
 moment : " could you begin rehearsing tomorrow ? " 
 
 " Of course I could." 
 
 " Because if we don't, we lose three days. . . ." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Well," Quard explained with a sheepish grin, " I 
 guess I ain't any more nutty than the next actor you '11 
 meet on Broadway ; but I 'd as lief slip my bank-roll to 
 the waiter for a tip as start anything on a Friday. And 
 Sat'day and Sunday 's busy days for the Jinx, too. I got 
 too much up to wish anything mean onto this piece ! " . . . 
 
 At his suggestion they left the dining-room by the hotel 
 entrance on Forty-fourth Street, and Joan waited in the 
 lobby while Quard telephoned Gloucester. 
 
 " It 's all right," he announced, beaming as he emerged 
 from the booth " Pete 's ready to commence tomorrow 
 aft'noon. Now I got to hustle and round up the rest of 
 the bunch." 
 
 " Where will it be ? " asked Joan. 
 
 " Don't know yet I '11 'phone you where in the morn- 
 ing, at the latest." . . . 
 
 Hastening 'home, Joan plunged at once into the study 
 of her part, with the greater readiness since the occupa- 
 tion was anodynqus to an uneasy conscience. Though she 
 was always what is known as a " quick study," this new 
 role was a difficult one; by far the longest, and unques- 
 tionably the most important, it .comprised fully half the 
 total number of " sides " in the manuscript nearly half 
 as many again as were contained in Quard's part, the next
 
 232 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 in order of significance. And her application, that first 
 day, was hindered by a perplexing interruption in the early 
 evening, when a box was delivered to her containing a 
 dozen magnificent red roses and nothing else neither i 
 card nor a line of identification. At first inclining to credit 
 Quard with this extravagance, on second thought she re- 
 membered Marbridge, whom she felt instinctively to be 
 quite capable of such overtures. And her mind was largely 
 distracted for the rest of the night by empty guesswork 
 and futile attempts to decide whether or not she ought to 
 run the risk of thanking Quard when next they met. 
 
 Eventually she made up her mind to let the sender fur- 
 nish the clue ; and inasmuch as Quard never said anything 
 which the most ready imagination could interpret as a 
 reference to the offering, she came in time to feel tolerably 
 satisfied that the anonymous donor must have been 
 Marbridge. 
 
 It was to be long, however, before this surmise could 
 be confirmed; although, on getting home Saturday night, 
 after a hard day's work and a late dinner with Quard, 
 she was informed that a gentleman had called and asked 
 for her during the afternoon, but had left neither word 
 nor card. The same thing happened on Monday, under 
 like circumstances; after which the attempts to see her 
 were discontinued. 
 
 And then, Joan noticed that Venetia did n't call. . . . 
 
 Interim, the task of whipping " The Lie " into shape 
 went on so steadily that she had little leisure to waste 
 wondering about Marbridge or feeling flattered by his 
 interest; and she even ceased, except at odd moments, to 
 regard Quard as a man and therefore a possible conquest : 
 Gloucester drilled the actors without mercy and spared 
 himself as little. 
 
 A pursy body, with the childish, moon-like face of a 
 born comedian, he applied himself to the work with the 
 extravagant solemnity of a minor poet mouthing his own 
 perfumed verses at a literary dinner. During rehearsals
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 233 
 
 his manner was immitigably austere, aloof, inspired; but 
 however precious his methods, he achieved brilliant effects 
 in the despised medium of clap-trap melodrama ; and under 
 his tutelage even Joan achieved surprising feats of emo- 
 tional portrayal and this, singularly enough, without 
 learning to despise him as she had despised Wilbrow. 
 
 She learned what either Wilbrow had lacked the time 
 to teach her or she had then been unable to learn: how 
 to assume the requisite mood the moment she left the wings 
 and drop it like a mask as soon as she came off-stage 
 again. She was soon able to hate and fear Quard with 
 every fibre of her being throughout their long scenes of 
 dialogue, and to chat with him in unfeigned amiability 
 both before and after. And her liking and admiration for 
 the man deepened daily, as Gloucester deftly moulded 
 Quard's plastic talents into a rude but powerful im- 
 personation. 
 
 Partly because of the brevity of the little play, which 
 enabled them to run through it several times of an after- 
 noon as soon as they were familiar with its lines, and 
 partly because Gloucester was hard up and in a hurry 
 to collect his fee, the company was prepared well within 
 the designated ten days. And through the agent Boskerk's 
 influence, they were favoured with an early opportunity 
 to present it at a " professional try-out " matinee, a weekly 
 feature of one of the better-class moving-picture and vaude- 
 ville houses. 
 
 The audiences attracted by such trial performances are 
 the most singular imaginable in composition, and of a 
 temper the most difficult with the possible exceptions of 
 a London first-night house bent on booing whatever the 
 merits of the offering, and a body of jaded New York 
 dramatic critics and apathetic theatre loungers assembled 
 for the fourth consecutive first-night of a week toward the 
 end of a long, hard winter. 
 
 On Tuesday afternoons and nights (as a rule) they 
 foregather in the " combination houses " of New York,
 
 234 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 animated (save for a sprinkling of agents and bored man- 
 agers) by a single motive, the desire to laugh. prefer- 
 ably at, but at a pinch with, those attempting to win their 
 approbation. Their sense of humour has been nourished 
 on the sidewalk banana-peel, the slap-stick and the patch 
 on the southern exposure of the tramp's trousers; and 
 while they will accept with the silence of curiosity, if not 
 of respect, and at times even applaud, straight " legiti- 
 mate " acting, the slightest slip or evidence of hesitation 
 on the part of an actoi, the faintest suggestion of bathos 
 in a line, or even the tardy adjustment of one of the wings 
 after the rise of the curtain, will be hailed with shrieks 
 of delight and derision. 
 
 Before an assemblage of this character, " The Distin- 
 guished Romantic Actor, Chas. H. Quard & Company," 
 presented " The Lie " as the fifth number of a matinee 
 bill. 
 
 Waiting in the wings and watching the stage-hands 
 shift and mano3uvre flats and ceiling, and arrange furni- 
 ture and properties at the direction of the David (who 
 doubled that role with the duties of stage manager) 
 Joan listened to the dreadful wails of a voiceless vocalist 
 who, on the other side of the scene-drop, was rendering 
 with sublime disregard for key and tempo a ballad of 
 sickening sentimentality ; heard the feet of the audience, 
 stamping in time, drown out both song and accompaniment, 
 the subsequent roar of laughter and hand-clapping that 
 signalized the retirement of the singer, and experienced, 
 for the first and only time, premonitory symptoms of 
 stage-fright. 
 
 Through what seemed a wait of several minutes after the 
 disappearance of the despised singer who, half-reeling, 
 half-running, with tears furrowing her enameled cheeks, 
 brushed past Joan on her way to her dressing-room 
 the applause continued, rising, falling, dying out and re- 
 viving in vain attempts to lure the object of its ridicule 
 back to the footlights.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 235 
 
 At a word from David, the stage-hands vanished, and at 
 his nod Joan moved on. David seated himself and opened 
 a newspaper while the girl, trembling, took up a position 
 near a property fireplace, with an after-dinner coffee-cup 
 and saucer in her hands. She was looking her best in the 
 evening frock purchased for the week-end at Tanglewood, 
 and was in full command of her lines and business; but 
 there was a lump in her throat and a sickly sensation in 
 the pit of her stomach as the cheap orchestra took up the 
 refrain of a time-worn melody which had been pressed into 
 service as curtain music. 
 
 Peering over the edge of his newspaper, David spoke 
 final words of kindly counsel : " Don't you mind, what- 
 ever happens. Make believe they ain't no audience." 
 
 The house was quiet, now, and the music very clear. 
 
 Kneeling within the recess of the fireplace, almost near 
 enough to touch her hand, Quard begged plaintively: 
 " For the love of Gawd, don't let their kidding queer you, 
 girlie. Remember, Boskerk promised he 'd have Martin 
 Beck out front ! " 
 
 Joan nodded gulped. 
 
 The curtain rose. Through the glare of footlights the 
 auditorium was vaguely revealed, a vast and gloomy amphi- 
 theatre dotted with an infinite, orderly multitude of 
 round pink spots, and still with the hush of expectancy. 
 Joan thought of a dotted lavender foulard she had re- 
 cently coveted in a department-store; and the ridiculous 
 incongruity of this comparison in some measure restored 
 her assurance. Turning her head slowly, she looked at 
 David, who was properly intent on his newspaper, smiled, 
 and parted her lips to speak the opening line. 
 
 From the gallery floated a shrill, boyish squeal: 
 
 " Gee! pipe the pippin!" 
 
 The audience rocked and roared. Joan's heart sank; 
 then, suddenly, resentment kindled her temper; she grew 
 coldly, furiously angry, and forgot entirely to be afraid of 
 that stupid, bawling beast, the public. But her faint,
 
 236 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 charming smile never varied a fraction. Turning, she 
 spoke the first line, heedless of the uproar; and as if 
 magically it was stilled. A feeling of contempt and su- 
 periority further encouraged her. She repeated the words, 
 which were of no special value to the plot merely a trick 
 of construction to postpone the ringing of a telephone-bell 
 long enough to let the audience grasp the relationship of 
 those upon the stage. 
 
 In a respectful silence, David looked up from the news- 
 paper and replied. The telephone-bell rang. Turning to 
 the instrument on the table beside him, he lifted the re- 
 ceiver to his ear and the plot began to unfold. 
 
 David, the husband, in his suburban home, was being 
 called to New York on unexpected business with a client 
 booked to sail for Europe in the morning. It was night; 
 reluctant to go, he none the less yielded to pressure, rang 
 for the coachman and ordered a carriage, in the face of 
 the protests of Joan, his wife. She was to be left alone 
 in the house with their little son ; for the maids were out 
 and the coachman slept beyond call in the stable. Reas- 
 suring her with his promise to return at the earliest possi- 
 ble moment, David departed. . . . 
 
 A brief and affectionate passage between the two was 
 rendered inaudible by derisive laughter; but this was 
 almost instantly silenced when Quard showed himself at 
 a window in the back of the set, peering furtively in at 
 the lonely woman in the unguarded house. 
 
 An excellent actor when properly guided, and fresh from 
 the hands of one of the most astute producers connected 
 with the American stage, without uttering a word Quard 
 contrived to infuse into this first brief appearance at the 
 window a sense of criminal and sinister mystery which 
 instantly enchained the imagination of the audience. 
 
 In the tense silence of the house, the nervous gasp of 
 a high-strung woman was distinctly audible. But it passed 
 without eliciting a single hoot. 
 
 Darting round to the door, Quard entered and addressed
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 237 
 
 Joan. She cried out strongly in mingled terror and hor- 
 ror. A few crisp and rapid lines uncovered the argument : 
 Quard was the woman's first husband, who had married 
 and deserted her all in a week and whom she had been 
 given every reason to believe dead. Ashamed of that mad 
 union with a dissolute blackguard, she had concealed it 
 from the husband of her second marriage. Now she was 
 confronted with the knowledge that her innocently biga- 
 mous position would be made public unless she submitted 
 to blackmail. Promising in her torment to give the man 
 all he demanded, she induced him to leave before the re- 
 turn of the servant. . . . Alone she realized suddenly the 
 illegitimacy of the child of her second marriage. 
 
 At this, a scene-curtain fell, and a notice was flashed 
 upon it informing the audience that the short moment it 
 remained down indicated a lapse of five hours in the 
 action. 
 
 Already the interest of the audience had become so 
 fixed that it applauded with sincerity. 
 
 Hurrying to her dressing-room, Joan stepped out of 
 her pretty frock and into a negligee. The removal of 
 a few pins permitted her hair to fall down her back, a 
 long, thick, plaited rope of bronze. Then grasping a 
 revolver loaded with blanks, she ran back to the second 
 left entrance. 
 
 The scene-curtain was already up ; on the stage, in semi- 
 darkness, the Thief, having broken into the house by way 
 of the back window, was attempting to force the combina- 
 tion of a small safe behind a screen. . . . Quard, kneeling 
 to peer through the fireplace, lifted a signalling hand to 
 Joan. David stamped loudly, off-stage. In alarm, the 
 Thief hid himself behind the screen; and Joan came on, 
 with a line of soliloquy to indicate that she had been 
 awakened by the noise of- the burglar's entrance. As she 
 turned up the lights by means of a wall-switch, Quard re- 
 entered by way of the window, in a well-simulated state 
 of semi-drunkenness which had ostensibly roused his dis-
 
 238 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 trust and brought him back to watch and threaten his 
 wife anew. . . . 
 
 Here happened one of those terrible blunders which 
 seem almost inseparable from first performances. 
 
 As Joan wheeled round to recognize Quard, her hand 
 nervously contracted on the revolver, and it exploded 
 point-blank at Quard's chest. Had it been loaded he must 
 inevitably have been killed then and there; and when, 
 pulling himself together, Quard managed to go on with 
 the business springing upon Joan and wresting the 
 weapon from her the audience betrayed exquisite ap- 
 preciation of the impossibility, and shrieked and whooped 
 with joy unrestrained. 
 
 It was some minutes before they were able audibly to 
 take up the dialogue. And this was fortunate, in a way; 
 for the shock of that unexpected explosion had caused 
 Quard to " dry up " as the slang of the stage terms 
 nervous dryness of the throat whether or not accompanied 
 by forgetfulness. He required that pandemoniac pause in 
 which to recover; and even when able to make himself 
 heard, he repeated hoarsely and with extreme difficulty 
 the line called to him by David who was holding the 
 prompt-book, in the fireplace. 
 
 But the instinct of one bred to the stage from childhood 
 saved him. And with comparative quiet restored, he 
 braced up and played out the scene with admirable verve 
 and technique. Joan was well aware that, stronger though 
 her role might be, the man was giving a performance that 
 overshadowed it heavily. 
 
 He was drunk and he was brutal : David had telephoned 
 that he was at the railroad station and would be home in 
 a few minutes ; Quard, not content with promises, insisted 
 on money, of which the woman had none to give him, or 
 her jewels, which were locked away in the safe. When 
 she refused to disclose the combination or to open the safe, 
 Quard in besotted rage attempted to force her to open it. 
 Struggling, they overturned the screen, exposing the Thief.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 239 
 
 Through a breathless and silent instant the two men faced 
 one another, Quard bewildered, the Thief seeing his way 
 of escape barred. Then simultaneously they fired 
 Quard using the woman's revolver. One shot only took 
 effect the Thief s and that fatally. Quard fell. Joan 
 seized the arm of the Thief and urged him from the house ; 
 as he vanished through the window, she picked up the 
 revolver which Quard had dropped, and turned to the 
 door. Frantic with alarm, David entered. Joan reeled 
 into his arms, screaming : " I have killed a burglar ! " 
 
 On this tableau the curtain fell and rose and fell 
 again and again at the direction of the house-manager 
 deferring to an enthusiastic audience. Crude and raw 
 as was this composition, the surprise of its last line and 
 the strength with which it was acted, had won the un- 
 stinted approval of a public ever hungry for melodrama. 
 
 Quard, revivified, bowing and smiling with suave and 
 deprecatory grace, Joan in tears of excitement and de- 
 light, and the subordinate members of the company in 
 varying stages of gratification over the prospect of prompt 
 booking and a long engagement, were obliged to hold the 
 stage through nine curtain-calls. . . . 
 
 On her way back to her dressing-room Joan was halted 
 by a touch on her shoulder. She paused, to recognize 
 Gloucester, of whose presence in the house she had been 
 ignorant. 
 
 " Very well done, my dear," he said loftily ; " very well 
 done. You 've got the makings of an actress in you, if 
 you don't lose your head. Now run along and dry your 
 eyes, like a good girl, and don't bother me with your 
 silly gratitude." 
 
 With this he brusquely turned his back to her. 
 
 But Quard, overtaking her in the gangway, without 
 hesitation or apology folded her in his arms and kissed 
 her on the lips. And Joan submitted without remon- 
 strance, athrill and elate. 
 
 " Girlie ! " he cried exultantly " you 're a wonder !
 
 240 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 I knew you could do it ! . . . But, O my Gawd ! you nearly 
 finished me when you let that gun off right in my 
 face!" . . . 
 
 Somehow she found her way home alone, and shut her- 
 self up in the hall-bedroom to calm down and try to 
 review the triumph sensibly. 
 
 Unquestionably she had done well. 
 
 Quard had done much better but no wonder! She 
 was n't jealous : she was glad for his sake as well as for 
 her own. 
 
 Of course, this meant a great change. There was to 
 come the day of reckoning with Matthias. . . . She had 
 four letters of his, not one of which she had answered. 
 ... If " The Lie " got booking, and she went on the 
 road with it as she knew in her soul she would : nothing 
 now could keep her off the stage she would almost cer- 
 tainly lose Matthias. 
 
 Quard, however, would remain to her ; and of Quard she 
 was very sure. That he loved her with genuine and gen- 
 erous devotion was now the one clear and indisputable 
 fact in her unstable existence. If only he would refrain 
 from drinking . . . 
 
 He was to telephone as soon as he received any en- 
 couraging news ; and he had expected definite word from 
 Boskerk before the afternoon was over. In anticipation 
 of being called down-stairs at any minute, Joan remained 
 in her street dress, aching for her bed though she was with 
 reaction and simple fatigue. But it was nearly eight 
 o'clock before she was summoned. 
 
 " That you, girlie ? " the answer came to her breathless 
 "Hello?" 
 
 " Yes yes, Charlie. What is it ? " 
 
 " I Ve seen Boskerk in fact, I 'm eating with him 
 now. It 's all settled. We 're to open next Monday some- 
 where in New England Springfield, probably ; and 
 we get forty weeks solid on top of that." 
 
 "I'm so glad!"
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 241 
 
 " Sure you are. We 're all glad, I guess." 
 
 " And Charlie " she stammered. 
 
 " Hello ? " 
 
 " Are you are you all right ? " 
 
 " Sure I 'm all right. Good night, girlie. Take care 
 of yourself. See you tomorrow." 
 
 " Good night," said Joan. 
 
 Hooking up the receiver, she leaned momentarily 
 against the wall, feeling a little faint and ill. 
 
 Was it simply overtaxed imagination that had made 
 her believe she detected a slight constraint in Quard's 
 voice a hesitation assumed to mask blurred enunciation ?
 
 XXIV 
 
 BUT when Joan met Quard in the morning her anxious 
 eyes detected in his assured bearing none of the nervous 
 unrest, in his clear eyes and the even tone of his coarse, 
 pasty-pale skin none of the feverish stains, that are symp- 
 tomatic of alcoholic excesses. 
 
 Surprised and grateful, she treated the man with a 
 tenderness and sweetness she had otherwise been too wary 
 to betray. . . . 
 
 By Thursday it was settled that they were to open on 
 Monday at Poli's Theatre in Springfield, for an engage- 
 ment of a week. If the audiences there endorsed the ver- 
 dict of the first, Boskerk promised Quard a full season's 
 booking. 
 
 From the Springfield house he was to receive three 
 hundred and fifty dollars. He permitted Joan to under- 
 stand, however, that his fee would be no more than the 
 sum he had first mentioned three hundred dollars. 
 
 It was decided to leave New York by a Sunday train 
 which would put them down in Springfield in the middle 
 of the afternoon, enabling the company to find suitable 
 lodgings before meeting to run through their lines in the 
 evening. They would have an opportunity for a sketchy, 
 scrambly rehearsal on the stage Monday morning, but 
 dared not depend on that; for the greater part of their 
 allotted period would necessarily be consumed in the 
 selection of a practicable " set " from the stock of the 
 theatre, in making arrangements for suitable furniture 
 properties, and in drilling the house electrician in the 
 uncommonly heavy schedule of light cues any one of 
 which, if bungled, was calculated seriously to impair the 
 illusion of the sketch. 
 
 Joan thoughtfully stipulated for twenty-five dollars ad-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 243 
 
 vance, against expenses. Quard protested, alleging finan- 
 cial straits due to his already heavy outlay, but the girl 
 was firm. True, she still had (unknown to him) one hun- 
 dred and twenty-five dollars; but not until near the end 
 of their week at Springfield would they know whether or 
 not they were to get further booking. 
 
 In the end the actor ungraciously surrendered. 
 
 She made her preparations for leaving her hall-bed- 
 room with a craft and stealth worthy of a burglar pre- 
 paring to break prison. 
 
 If her break with Matthias was to become absolute, 
 she was determined not to leave any clue whereby she 
 might be traced. 
 
 An enquiry as to the best place to take a dress to be 
 dry-cleaned furnished sufficient excuse for lugging away 
 one well-filled suit-case, which Joan left at a cheap the- 
 atrical hotel a few blocks farther uptown and east of 
 Broadway, where she simultaneously engaged a room for 
 Saturday night. And on Saturday afternoon she carried 
 away a second suit-case containing the remainder of her 
 wardrobe, informing Madame Duprat that she was going 
 to visit her folks for a day or two. 
 
 But first she had to undergo a bad quarter-hour in the 
 back-parlour. 
 
 The sense of her treachery would not lift from her 
 mood. Perhaps she felt its oppression the more heavily 
 because of her uncertainty : she could n't yet be sure she 
 was n't committing herself to a step of irrevocable error ; 
 she was only sure that she was doing what she wanted 
 to do with all her heart, whatever evil might come of it. 
 And there would be more ease in companionship with 
 Quard; with him she could have her own way in every- 
 thing, could always be her natural self and still retain 
 his respect and her own. On the other hand, she could 
 not look up to him, and was by no means as fond of him 
 as of Matthias. Her fiancee was without reproach: he 
 loved her; but his respect she could never own. Dimly
 
 244 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 she recognized this fact; though he thought he respected 
 her, and did truly honour her as his promised wife, he 
 was his own dupe, passion-blinded. Actually, they were 
 people of different races, their emotional natures differ- 
 ently organized, their mental processes working from 
 widely divergent views of life. 
 
 Even in this instance, Joan's perception of the gulf be- 
 tween them was more emotional than thoughtful. . . . 
 
 She moved slowly about the room, resentfully distressed, 
 touching with reluctant fingers objects indelibly associated 
 in her memory with the man of her first love. 
 
 Sitting at his desk, she enclosed in a large envelope his 
 letters. Two had arrived since Thursday; but these she 
 had not opened. She hardly understood why she desired 
 not to open them; she still took a real and deep interest 
 in his fortunes; but she was desperately loath to read 
 the mute reproach legible, if to her eyes alone, between 
 his lines. 
 
 She meant to leave him a note of her own, tenderly 
 contrite and at the same time firmly final; but in spite 
 of a mood saturate with an appropriately gentle and gen- 
 erous melancholy, she could not, apparently, fix it down 
 with ink on paper. Eventually she gave it up : destroyed 
 what she had attempted, and sealed the packet, leaving 
 Matthias no written word of hers save his name on the 
 face of the envelope. 
 
 There remained the most difficult duty of all. 
 
 With painful reluctance, Joan removed the ring from 
 her finger (where it had been ever since she had last parted 
 with Quard) and replacing it in its leather-covered case, 
 sat for a long time looking her farewell upon that brilliant 
 and more than intrinsically precious jewel. 
 
 At length, closing the case, she placed it on top of the 
 envelope, rose and moved to the door. There she hesitated, 
 looking back in pain and longing. 
 
 There was no telling what might happen to it before 
 Matthias returned. A prying chambermaid . . .
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 245 
 
 And then it was quite possible that " The Lie " would 
 not last out the week in Springfield. 
 
 Quard had more than once pointed out : " There 's noth- 
 ing sure in this game but the fact that you 're bound to 
 close sooner 'n you looked for." 
 
 " Maybe I '11 be back inside a week," Joan doubted. 
 
 There was always that chance; and she had already 
 left one door open against her return. 
 
 " Anyway, it is n't safe, there. And I can mail it to 
 him, registered, when I 'm sure he 's home." 
 
 Turning back, she snatched up the leather case and 
 darted guiltily from the study and out of the house.
 
 XXV 
 
 
 
 THE stage-wise have long since learned to discount a 
 " slump " in the next performance to follow a brilliantly 
 successful premiere: the phenomenon is as inevitable as 
 poor food on a route of one-night stands. 
 
 At Springfield, on Monday afternoon, " The Lie " was 
 presented in a manner of unpardonable crudity. Quard 
 forgot his lines and extemporized and " gagged " desper- 
 ately to cover the consequent breaks in the dialogue ; leav- 
 ing poor Joan hopelessly at sea, floundering for cues that 
 were never uttered. 
 
 At the last moment it was discovered that nothing had 
 been provided to simulate, at the beginning of the second 
 scene, the sound of a clock striking twelve, off-stage. The 
 property man could offer nothing better than an iron 
 crowbar and a hammer ; the twelve strokes, consequently, 
 resembled nothing in the world other than a wholly un- 
 temperamental crowbar banged by a dispassionate ham- 
 mer. Fortunately, the effect was so thin and dead that 
 it convulsed only the first few rows of the orchestra. 
 
 The light cues went wrong when they were not alto- 
 gether ignored ; and once, when Joan having indicated in 
 a brief soliloquy her depression on being left alone in the 
 gloomy house, gave the cue " I must have more light," at 
 the same time touching a property switch on the wall, 
 every light in the house other than the red " exit " lamps 
 was " blacked out." And at all other times the required 
 changes either anticipated or dragged far behind their 
 cues. 
 
 The Thief forgot to load his revolver, with the result 
 that Quard fired the only shot in their duel and then
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 247 
 
 fell dead. This so rattled David that he anticipated his 
 first entrance and rushed on the stage only to back off 
 precipitately while Joan was urging the Thief to go and 
 leave her to shoulder his crime. 
 
 The only misadventure that failed to attend upon the 
 performance was a traditional one of the stage : the theatre 
 cat by some accident did not walk upon the scene at a cli- 
 max and seat itself before the footlights to wash its face. 
 
 Nevertheless the sketch " got over " at the matinee, re- 
 ceiving three curtain calls ; and at night when the little 
 company, conscious of its crimes, pulled itself together and 
 acted with an intensity of effort only equalled by that of 
 its first performance in ]STew York the house gave the 
 piece a rousing reception. 
 
 Thereafter they played it well and consistently, with 
 increasing assurance as days passed and use bred the 
 habit in them all. 
 
 On Thursday Quard heard from Boskerk, and an- 
 nounced that the company would return to IsTew York 
 the following Monday to play a six weeks' engagement in 
 the Percy Williams nouses, beginning with a fortnight in 
 Manhattan and winding up in Greenpoint, Long Island. 
 He added that Boskerk was busy arranging a subsequent 
 tour which would take them to the Pacific Coast and back. 
 He did not add that the agent had successfully demanded 
 as much as four hundred and fifty dollars a week for the 
 offering from many of the more prosperous houses on their 
 list ; from which figure the price ranged down to as little as 
 three hundred in some of the smaller inland towns. But 
 even at this minimum, Quard had so scaled his salary list, 
 contrary to his representations to Joan, that his gross 
 weekly profit (excluding personal living expenses) would 
 seldom be less than one hundred dollars a week. 
 
 Back in New York, Joan established herself temporarily 
 at a small and very poor hotel on the west side of Harlem. 
 Since their engagement took her no farther south than 
 Sixty-third Street and Broadway during its first week,
 
 248 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 and the second week was played at One-hundred-and^ 
 twenty-sixth Street and Seventh Avenue, she felt toler-> 
 ably insured against meeting either Matthias or any mem- 
 ber of her own family. 
 
 She really meant to go home some time and see how her 
 mother and Edna were doing, but from day to day put it 
 off, if with no better excuse on the ground that she was too 
 tired and too busy. 
 
 As a matter of fact she was in the habit of waking up 
 at about ten, but never rose until noon; spent the hours 
 between three and four and nine and ten in the theatre; 
 and was ordinarily abed by half -past twelve or one o'clock. 
 Up to the matinee hour, and between that and the night, 
 she managed without great difficulty to kill time, spending 
 a deal of it, and a fair proportion of her earnings, in the 
 uptown department stores. She dined with Quard quite 
 frequently, and almost invariably after the last perform- 
 ance they supped together, often in company with friends 
 of his for the most part vaudeville people whom he 
 had previously known or with whom he struck up fervent, 
 facile friendships of a week's duration. 
 
 They were a quaint, scandalous crew, feather-brained, 
 irresponsible and, most of them, destitute of any sort of 
 originality ; but their spirits were high as long as they had 
 a pay-day ahead, their tongues were quick with the patter 
 of the circuits, and their humour was of an order new and 
 vastly diverting to Joan. She had with them what she 
 called a good time, and soon learned to look leniently upon 
 the irregular lives of some who entertained her. Once 
 or twice she was invited to " parties ", sociable gather- 
 ings in flats rented furnished, at which she learned to re- 
 gard the consumption of large quantities of bottled beer as 
 a polite and even humorous accomplishment, and to permit 
 a degree of freedom in song and joke and innuendo that 
 would have seemed impossible in another environment. 
 
 Probably she would have felt less tolerant of these mat- 
 ters had Quard betrayed the least tendency to " fall off
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 249 
 
 the wagon." But in her company, at least, he refrained 
 sedulously from drink; and since his was one of those 
 constitutions whose normal vitality is so high and con- 
 stant that alcohol benumbs rather than stimulates its func- 
 tions, he shone the more by contrast with their occasionally 
 befuddled companions. 
 
 Joan admired him intensely for the steadfastness of 
 his stand, and still more when she saw how established 
 was the habit of regular if not always heavy drinking in 
 the world of their peers. No one but herself pretended 
 for a moment to regard the reformation of Quard as any- 
 thing but a fugitive whim; and now and again she was 
 made aware that his abstinence was resented. She once 
 heard him contemptuously advised to " chuck the halo and 
 kick in and get human again." At another time he ex- 
 plained a false excuse given in her presence for refusing 
 an invitation : " It 's no use trying to travel with that 
 gang unless you 're boozing. They got no use for me un- 
 less I 'm willing to get an edge on. What 's the use ? " 
 
 There was a surliness, a resentment underlying his tone. 
 Intuitively Joan bristled. 
 
 " No use," she said sharply. " You know what you 're 
 up against better than they do. You Ve got to stick to 
 the soft stuff if you want to keep going." 
 
 " Oh, I know/' he grumbled. " But it ain't as easy as 
 you 'd think." 
 
 " All right," she retorted calmly ; " but I give you fair 
 warning, I '11 quit you the very first time you come around 
 with so much as a whiff of the stuff on you." 
 
 " You don't have to worry," he responded. " I 'm on 
 all right. . . . But," he added abruptly, " you need n't 
 run away with any notion this piece would head for the 
 storehouse if you was to quit it. The woods are full of 
 girls who 'd jump at your chance." 
 
 Joan answered only with an enigmatic smile. It is 
 doubtful if Quard himself realized, just then, as keenly 
 as the girl did, the depth and strength of his infatuation.
 
 250 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 But Joan did not doubt her power. Neither did she 
 overestimate it. 
 
 It was toward the end of their " time " in New York 
 that she learned of the failure of " The Jade God," the 
 information coming to her through the medium of one of 
 those coincidences which would be singular anywhere but 
 on the stage. An actress in a farcical sketch, which fol- 
 lowed the intermission preceded by " The Lie," was as- 
 signed to use Joan's dressing-room when the latter was 
 through with it. Naturally, the two struck up a chatting 
 acquaintance. Joan one time replied to a question with 
 the information that " The Lie " was booked for the 
 Pacific Coast, and (Matthias in mind) confessed to some 
 curiosity regarding Los Angeles. The other actress ad- 
 mitted ignorance of the West, but had only that morning- 
 received a letter from a sister who was playing with the 
 Algerson stock company in Los Angeles. The letter con- 
 tained a clipping describing the immediate and disastrous 
 collapse of " The Jade God," which had been withdrawn 
 after its third repetition. Reading the review, Joan was 
 puzzled to recognize some of its references ; she was fairly 
 familiar with the play, but here and there she encountered 
 strictures which seemed to involve scenes she could n't re- 
 member. But of the fact of the failure there could be no 
 doubt 
 
 She was genuinely sorry. Her first impulse was to seek 
 Matthias, if he were in town, and tell him of her sym- 
 pathy; her second (discarded with even less ceremony 
 than the first) to write to him. Two things held her back : 
 sheer moral cowardice, that would not let her face the 
 man whom she had failed even as had his play; and the 
 impossibility of explaining that she loved the stage more 
 than him or anything else in the world except his ring. 
 And while she never faltered from meaning to return 
 this last " before long," she could not yet bring herself to 
 part with it Always it was with her, on her finger when 
 at home and alone, in her pocket-book when abroad or with
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 251 
 
 Quard ; still in her imagination retaining something of its 
 vaguely talismanic virtue; standing to her for something 
 fanciful and magic, which she could not name, a visible 
 token of the mystical powers that worked for her good 
 fortune. . . . 
 
 It was mid-October: sweetest of all seasons in New 
 York ; a time of early evenings and long, clear gloamings 
 beneath skies of exquisite suavity and depth ; of crisp and 
 heady days whose air is wine in a crystal chalice ; when 
 thoughts are long and sweet, gentle with the beauty and the 
 sadness of aging autumn. 
 
 At the first hint of winter Joan's heart turned in longing 
 to the thought of furs. She wasted hours studying adver- 
 tisements, and many more going from place to place, exam- 
 ining, rejecting, coveting. Her fancy was not modest: a 
 year ago she would have been delighted with the meanest 
 strip of squirrel for a neckpiece; to-day she felt a little 
 ashamed even to price the less expensive furs, and would 
 make no attempt to purchase until she had saved up enough 
 money to meet her desires. 
 
 And then, one morning they were playing at the 
 Orpheum Theatre in Brooklyn a messenger brought her 
 a package from one of the Fulton Street stores and required 
 a signed receipt. It contained a handsome coat of imitation 
 seal with a collar of rich black fur and lined with golden 
 Brocade. Fitting her perfectly, it enclosed her in generous 
 warmth from throat to ankle. Accompanying it was the 
 card of " Mr. Charles Harborough Quard, Presenting ' The 
 Lie,' the Sketch Sensation of the Year, Address c/o 
 Jas. K. Boskerk, St. James Building, N. Y." 
 
 Not since that day when she had received his ring from 
 Matthias had she been so happy. 
 
 Meeting Quard in the gangway outside her dressing- 
 room, before the matinee performance, she showed her 
 gratitude by lifting her face for his kiss. 
 
 In the world in which they existed, kisses were common- 
 places, quite perfunctory, of little more significance than
 
 252 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 a slap on the shoulder between acquaintances. Not so 
 Joan's : she had set a value upon her caresses, a standard 
 peculiarly inflexible with respect to Quard. None the 
 less, this was not the second time he had known her 
 lips. But the occasion was one rare enough to render 
 him appreciative. 
 
 He wound an arm round her, and held her tight. 
 
 "Like it, eh, girlie?" 
 
 "I love it!" 
 
 " Then I 'm satisfied." 
 
 " But how did you guess what I "wanted most ? " 
 
 " Maybe I did a little head-work to find out." 
 
 "It's dear of you!" 
 
 " So long 's you think so, I 've got no kick coming." 
 
 She disengaged, drew a pace or two away. 
 
 " But what made you do it, Charlie ? " 
 
 " Well, I can't afford to have my leading lady out of 
 the cast with a cold." 
 
 Joan shook her head at him in gay reproof. 
 
 "Or do you want me to tell you what you know al- 
 ready that I 'm crazy about you ? " 
 
 " Foolish ! It 's time we were dressing ! " 
 
 But her laugh was fond, and so was the look she threw 
 over her shoulder as she evaded his arms and vanished 
 into her dressing-room. 
 
 Quard lingered a moment, with a fatuous smile for 
 the panels of the closed door, and wagged his head 
 doggishly. He felt that he was winning ground at 
 a famous rate the difficulties, the coolness and craft 
 of his antagonist, considered. And in a way he was 
 right, though perhaps not precisely the way he had in 
 mind. 
 
 Even before his princely gift, Joan had been thinking 
 a great deal about him, and very seriously. Instinctively 
 she foresaw that their relationship could not long con- 
 tinue on its present basis of simple good-fellowship. 
 Quard was n't the sort to be content at arm's-length : he
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 253 
 
 must either come closer or go farther away, and might 
 be depended upon not to adopt the latter course until the 
 former had proved impracticable. 
 
 And Joan did n't want him to go farther away. She 
 was positive about this. But she was also very sure that 
 the arm's-length relationship must be abridged only un- 
 der certain indispensable conditions decorously and 
 soon, if at all: else she must be the one to withdraw, 
 lest a worse thing befall her. It was a problem of two 
 factors: Quard's nature and her own; she had her- 
 self to reckon with no less than with him; and herself 
 she distrusted, who was no stronger than her greatest 
 weakness. He attracted her. She often caught herself 
 thinking of him as she had thought of no other man 
 not Matthias, not the Quard of " The Convict's Re- 
 turn," not even Marbridge except, perhaps, for one 
 shameful instant. 
 
 Something in the lawless, ranging, wanton grain of this 
 man called to her with a call of infinite allure : something 
 latent in her thrilled to the call and answered. . . . That 
 way lurked danger, disguised, but deadly. 
 
 They moved on to Greenpoint, thence to Trenton for a 
 week. 
 
 Daily Quard's attentions became more constant, 
 intimate and tender. They were much together, and now 
 far more exclusively together than had been possible in 
 New York, where acquaintances commandeered so much 
 of their time. In Trenton they lodged at the same hotel, 
 the other members of the company finding cheaper accom- 
 modations at greater distance from the theatre. This 
 increased their close and confidential association. They 
 fell into the habit of breakfasting together. Quard, al- 
 ways first to rise, would telephone to Joan's room, ascer- 
 tain how soon she would be dressed, and order for both 
 of them accordingly. In return for this privilege he had 
 that of paying for both meals. 
 
 A negro waiter spoke of Joan one morning, in her
 
 254 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 presence, as " the Missus." When he had retired out of 
 earshot, their eyes sought one another's; constraint was 
 swept away in laughter. 
 
 " We might 's well be married, the way we 're together 
 all the time," Quard presently ventured. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know about that," Joan retorted 
 pertly. 
 
 " I mean, the way other people see us. I should n't be 
 surprised if everybody in the hotel thought we was mar- 
 ried, girlie." 
 
 Joan coloured faintly. . . . 
 
 " Well, the room-clerk knows better," she said defi- 
 nitely. " I 'd like another cup of coffee, please." 
 
 Quard snapped his fingers loudly to attract the atten- 
 tion of the waiter. 
 
 He grew aware of an awkward silence: that the 
 thoughts of both were converging to a common point. 
 
 " Folks are fools that get married in the profession," 
 he observed consciously. " It 's all right if you 've got 
 a husband or I 've got a wife at home " 
 
 " I don't see it," Joan interrupted smartly. " Any- 
 way, I have n't. Have you ? " 
 
 The actor stared, confused. " Have I what ? " 
 
 " Got a wife at home ? " Joan repeated, laughing. 
 
 " No nothing like that I " he asserted with intense 
 earnestness. " I mean, it 's all right if you 've got some- 
 body keeping a flat warm for you, some place not too far 
 off Broadway ; but if you marry into the business 
 good night! You got all the trouble of being tied up for 
 life, and that 's all." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Managers don't want husband and wife in the same 
 company. They 're always fighting each other's battles 
 when they ain't fighting between themselves. So you 're 
 always playing different routes, and the chances are they 
 never cross except it 's inconvenient and you get caught 
 and nominated for the Alimony Club."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 255 
 
 "Do you belong?" 
 
 " Did n't I just tell you nothing like that ? " Quard 
 protested with unnecessary heat. 
 
 " Well," Joan murmured mischievously, " you seem to 
 know so much about it. I only wondered." . . . 
 
 Their place on the bill was near the end, that week: 
 a trick bicyclist followed them, and moving-pictures 
 wound up the performance. Consequently, by the time 
 they were able to leave the theatre in the afternoon the 
 sun was already below the horizon. They emerged the 
 same evening from the stage-door to view a cloudless sky 
 of pulsing amber, shading into purple at the zenith, melt- 
 ing into rose along the western rim of the world. A wash 
 of old rose flooded the streets, lifting the meanest struc- 
 tures out of their ugliness, lending an added dignity to 
 rows of square-set, old-fashioned residences of red-brick 
 with white marble trimmings. 
 
 " Which way are you going ? " Quard enquired as they 
 approached the corner of a main thoroughfare. " Back 
 to the hotel ? " 
 
 " No ; I 'm sick of that hole," Joan replied with a 
 vivid shudder. " I 'm going to take a walk. Want to 
 come ? " 
 
 " I was just going to ask you." 
 
 They turned off toward the Delaware. 
 
 It was the twenty-first of November winter still a 
 month away; yet the breath of winter was in the air. 
 It came up cool and brisk from the river, enriching the 
 colour in Joan's cheeks that were bright and glowing 
 from the scrubbing she always gave them after removing 
 grease-paint with cold cream. The blood coursed tingling 
 through her veins. Her eyes shone with deepened lustre. 
 They walked with spirit, in step, in a pensive silence 
 infrequently disturbed. 
 
 " Of course," Quard presently offered without preface, 
 " it 's different in vodeveal, if you stick to it." 
 
 "What's different?"
 
 256 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Being married." 
 
 Joan's eyes widened momentarily. Then she laughed 
 outright. " Gee ! You don't mean to say you 've been 
 chewing that rag ever since breakfast ? " 
 
 " Ah, I just happened to think of it again," said Quard 
 with the air of one whose motives are wantonly 
 misconstrued. 
 
 Nevertheless, he would n't let the subject languish. 
 
 " There 's plenty of family acts been playing the cir- 
 cuits Gawd knows how long," he pursued, with a vast 
 display of interest in the sunset glow. " Look 't the 
 Cohans, before George planted the American flag in Long- 
 acre Square and annexed it to the United States. And 
 they ain't the only ones by a long shot. I could name a 
 plenty that '11 stick in the big time until their toes curl. 
 It 's all right to trot in double-harness so long 's you 
 manage your own company." 
 
 " Well ? " Joan asked with a sober mouth and mis- 
 chievous eyes. 
 
 "Well what?" 
 
 " If you 're getting ready to slip me my two-weeks' 
 notice, why not be a man and say so ? " 
 
 " What would I do that for ? " Quard demanded 
 indignantly. 
 
 " Because you 're thinking about getting married ; and 
 there 's only room for one leading lady in any company 
 I play in." 
 
 " Quit your kidding," the man advised sulkily ; " you 
 know I could n't get along without you." 
 
 " Yes," Joan admitted calmly, " I know it, but I did n't 
 know you did." 
 
 Quard shot a suspicious glance askance, but her face 
 was immobile in its flawless loveliness. 
 
 He started to say something, choked up and recon- 
 sidered with a painful frown. A mature man's perfect 
 freedom is not lightly to be thrown away. And yet . . . 
 he doubted darkly the perfection of his freedom. . . .
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 257 
 
 They held on in silence until they came to Kiverside 
 Park. 
 
 Over the dark profile of the Pennsylvania hills the 
 sky was jade and amethyst, a pool of light that dwindled 
 swiftly in the thickening shades of violet. Below them, 
 as they paused on a lonely walk, the river stole swiftly, 
 like a great black serpent writhing through the shadows. 
 A frosty wind swept steadily into their faces, making 
 cool and firm the flesh flushed with exercise. There was 
 no one near them. A train of jewelled lights swept over 
 the railroad bridge and vanished into the night with a 
 purring rumble that lent an accent to their isolation. 
 Joan hugged about her voluptuously her wonderful coat, 
 stole a glance warm with gratitude at the face of Quard. 
 He intercepted it, and edged nearer. Aglow and eager, 
 she murmured something vapid about the prettiness of 
 the sky. 
 
 He answered only with the arm he passed about her. 
 She suffered him, lashes veiling her eyes, her head at 
 rest in the hollow of his shoulder. The man stared down 
 at her exquisite, suffused face, luminous in the last light 
 of gloaming. 
 
 " Joan," he said throatily " girlie, don't you love 
 me a little ? " 
 
 Her mouth grew tremulous. 
 
 "I ... don't . . . know," she whispered. 
 
 " I love you ! " he cried suddenly in an exultant voice 
 "I love you!" 
 
 He folded her, unresisting, in both his arms, covering 
 her face with kisses, ardent, violent kisses that bruised 
 and hurt her tender flesh but which she still sought and 
 hungered for, insatiable. She sobbed a little in her happi- 
 ness, feeling her body yield and yearn to his, transported 
 by that sweet, exquisite, nameless longing. . . . 
 
 Then suddenly she was like a steel spring in his em- 
 brace, writhing to free herself. Wondering, he tried to 
 hold her closer, but she twisted and fended him off with
 
 258 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 all the power of her strong young arms. And still won- 
 dering, he humoured her. She drew away, but yet not 
 wholly out of his clasp. 
 
 "Charlie! "she panted. 
 
 "Darling!" 
 
 " How do you get married in New Jersey ? " 
 
 He pulled up, dashed and a little disappointed, and 
 laughed nervously. 
 
 " Why, you get a license and then well, almost any- 
 body '11 do to tie the knot." 
 
 She nodded tensely : " I guess a regular minister will 
 be good enough for us." 
 
 " I guess so," he demurred ; and with another laugh : 
 " I was n't thinking serious' about it, but I guess 1 
 might 's well be married as the way I am." 
 
 " Well," she said quietly, " we 've got to. It 's the 
 only way . . ."
 
 XXVI 
 
 AND then, suddenly, the face of life was indescribably 
 changed: Joan Thursday seemed but a memory, a slight 
 and somehow wistful shadow in the shadowed depths of 
 that darkling mirror, yesterday; in her place another 
 creature altogether reigned, the Joan Quard of today, 
 woman, actress, wife ; with a gold band round her finger ; 
 mature, initiate of mysteries, ripe in wisdom; strong, 
 poised serenely, clear of eye; with added graciousness in 
 her beauty, conscious of added powers over Man, but 
 discreet in their employment. 
 
 She thought a great deal about herself in those days: 
 not, perhaps, more than had been common with her in 
 that so-dead yesterday, but much, and more profoundly; 
 reading a new meaning into the riddle of existence, so 
 changed had all things become since her marriage. 
 
 Before her pensive vision Life unfolded rare, golden- 
 vista' d promises. 
 
 With another man, or in another stratum of society, 
 she might have fulfilled herself wonderfully, even unto 
 her salvation. . . . 
 
 To begin with, she was very happy. Pond to distrac- 
 tion of her husband, she never doubted that he worshipped 
 her ; he gave her quick wits no cause to entertain a doubt. 
 They were together always, inseparable. She felt that 
 nature must truly have fashioned them solely for one 
 another, and could not forget her wonder that their pas- 
 sion should be so mutual, so complete. She loved him 
 to distraction : all his traits, his robust swagger, his sono- 
 rous and flexible tones, the flowery eloquence of his ges- 
 ture, his broad, easy-going, tolerant good-humour, the way
 
 260 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 he wore his clothes and the very cut and texture of them. 
 And she ruled him like a despot. 
 
 Quard submitted without complaint. She was all his 
 fancy had painted her, and something more; recognizing 
 dimly that she excelled him variously (although he was 
 quite incapable of analyzing these distinctions) he served 
 her humbly, with unconscious deference to her many 
 excellences. She was by way of making him a better 
 wife than he deserved. If at times conscious of some 
 little irk from her amiable but inflexible autocracy, he 
 reminded himself that she was a finer woman than any he 
 had ever known, well worth humouring : it was n't on every 
 corner a fellow 'd pick up one like Joan. 
 
 He liked to follow her into hotel lobbies and restau- 
 rants and watch people turn to eye her, the men with 
 sudden interest, the women with instinctive hostility. It 
 even amused him to quell a too-ambitious stare with a 
 fixed, grim, and truculent regard backed by the menace 
 of his powerful physique. It gave a man standing, license 
 to swagger, to own a woman like Joan. 
 
 He came to pander oddly to this vanity would leave 
 Joan to go to their room alone, while he strolled off to 
 a bar to meet some crony or acquaintance of the day, 
 tell his best story, and then suddenly excuse himself: 
 
 " Well, s'long. The wife 's waiting for me." 
 
 The response rarely failed : " Ah, let her wait ; have 
 another drink. Did I ever tell you " 
 
 A lifted, deprecatory palm, a knowing look : " No 
 guess I '11 kick along ; y 3 see, she 's some wife. . . ." 
 
 Conscious only of his adoration, Joan was enchanted 
 by their mode of life, with its constant shifts of scene, 
 its spice of vagabondage. She believed she could never 
 tire of travelling. 
 
 Railroad journeys, with their inevitable concomitants 
 of dirt, noise, and discomfort, never discouraged her: 
 she really liked them; they were taking her somewhere 
 it did n't much matter where. She even derived a
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 261 
 
 sort of pleasure from such (nauseating experiences as 
 rising to catch a train at four-thirty in the morning, 
 against their " long jumps." And there was keen delight 
 in napping in a parlour-car chair or with a head upon 
 her husband's shoulder in a day-coach, to wake all drowsy, 
 breathe air foul with coal-smoke, and peer through a 
 black window-pane (shadowed by her hand) to catch a 
 glimpse of some darkly fulgent breadth of strange water, 
 or the marching defile of great alien hills, or a sweep of 
 semi-wooded countryside bleached with moonlight re- 
 membering that, only a few short months ago, the world 
 of her travels had been bounded by Fort George on the 
 north, Coney Island on the south, knowing neither east 
 nor west. 
 
 She was discovering America: even as she was dis- 
 covering Life. . . . 
 
 Their route from Trenton took them south through 
 Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore, Washington, Rich- 
 mond, and Norfolk ; whence they doubled back by steamer 
 to New York, took a Sound boat to Fall River, played 
 Boston, and drifted through New England in bitter cold 
 weather, eventually striking westward again via Albany, 
 Buffalo, and the middle country. 
 
 Quard drew her attention to the fact that it was " a 
 liberal education." . . . 
 
 Sometimes she thought pityingly of Matthias, and 
 wondered if he knew she was married and what she was 
 doing; and whether he were angry, or heart-broken, or 
 eaten up with morbid jealousy; and how he would act 
 should chance ever throw them together again. She was 
 sorry for him: he had lost her. If only he had been a 
 little more enterprising . . . She wondered what would 
 have happened if Matthias had been more enterprising; 
 he could have possessed her at any time during the brief 
 period of their infatuation. If he had married her then, 
 would she be as contented as she was now, with Charlie ? 
 She doubted it ; Quard was so completely his opposite. . . .
 
 262 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 She ceased to worry about the ring. She meant to 
 return it some day, perhaps. Though she did not wear 
 it and had never so much as mentioned Matthias to 
 Quard, it remained a possession whose charms tugged 
 at her heart-strings. At times she amused herself formu- 
 lating idle little intrigues, with the object (if ever set in 
 motion) of excusing the appearance of the jewel upon 
 her hand. But all her schemes seemed to possess some 
 fatal flaw, and she was desperately afraid of the truth. 
 Meanwhile, the ring lay perdue at the bottom of a work- 
 basket of woven sweet-grass which she had purchased 
 shortly after her marriage; twisted in an old, empty 
 needle-paper and mixed in with a worthless confusion of 
 trash, such as women accumulate in such receptacles, its 
 hiding place was well calculated to escape detection by 
 even an informed purloiner. 
 
 Quard's tardy engagement ring was set with an inferior 
 diamond flanked by artificial pearls. Joan despised it 
 secretly. For a long time it was the sole blemish on the 
 bright shield of her happiness. . . . 
 
 And then, the night of their opening day in Cincinnati, 
 Quard escorted her from the theatre to the hotel, left her 
 at the door, and turned back to " see a friend " who hap- 
 pened to be playing on the same bill. 
 
 This was quite the usual thing, and Joan went con- 
 tentedly off to her room and in due course to bed, confi- 
 dent that Quard would return within an hour. 
 
 Five hours later she awoke to startled apprehension 
 of the facts, first that she must have dropped off to sleep 
 without meaning to, next that Quard had not returned, 
 finally that it was past four o'clock in the morning. 
 
 With a little shiver of sickening premonition she rose, 
 slipped into a dressing-gown, called a bell-boy, and in- 
 structed him to look for her husband. Some time later 
 the boy reported that the bar was closed and the gentle- 
 man not to be found. 
 
 It was broad daylight when Quard staggered in with
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 263 
 
 the assistance of the same bell-boy and his negro dresser. 
 His eyes were glazed, his face ghastly, his mind wan- 
 dered: he was as helpless as a child. With the aid of 
 the boys, Joan managed to undress the man and put him 
 to bed. At once he fell asleep, with the cold stump of a 
 half-burned cigar obstinately clenched between his teeth. 
 It was an hour before the muscles of his jaw relaxed 
 enough to release it. 
 
 Dressing, Joan left the hotel, swallowed some coffee 
 and rolls, tasteless to her, in a nearby restaurant, and 
 wandered about until eight o'clock, when she found a 
 drug-store open, and consulted the clerk. He advised 
 bromo seltzer and aromatic spirits of ammonia. Armed 
 with these, she returned to her husband, and shortly after 
 noon, daring to delay no longer, roused him by sprinkling 
 cold water in his face all other methods having failed 
 even to interrupt his stertorous breathing. Even then it 
 was some time before she could induce him to swallow 
 the medicine, and it required no less than three powerful 
 doses, together with much black coffee and followed by a 
 cold bath, to restore him to presentable condition. In 
 the end, however, she succeeded in getting him to the 
 theatre in time for the matinee. 
 
 Through it all she uttered no single word of reproach, 
 but waited on the man with at least every outward sign 
 of sympathy and devotion. 
 
 His remorse (when another nap at the hotel after the 
 matinee had brought him to more complete realization of 
 wjiat had happened) was touching and, as long as it 
 lasted, unquestionably sincere. Joan accepted without 
 comment his lame explanation as to the manner of his 
 temptation and fall during an all-night session at poker 
 " with the boys," and gave genuine credulity to his pro- 
 testations that it would never, never happen again. 
 
 But three weeks later in Chicago he repeated the per- 
 formance, though under somewhat less distressing cir- 
 cumstances. As before, he left her in the lobby, " to
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 finish his cigar and chin with Soandso." Within an hour 
 he was half-led, half-carried to their room, in a hopelessly 
 sodden condition. The actor with whom he had been 
 drinking accompanied him, apparently quite sober, but 
 puzzled; and after Quard had been helped to bed, ex- 
 plained to the girl that her husband's collapse had been 
 incomprehensibly due to no more than three drinks. 
 
 " I never seen nothin' like it ! " the man expostulated, 
 with an air of grievance. " There he was, standin' up 
 against the bar, with his foot on the rail, laughin' and 
 kiddin', same 's the rest of us ; and he 'd only had three 
 whiskeys though I will say they was man-size drinks ; 
 and then, all of a sudden, he turns white as a sheet and 
 starts mumblin' to himself, and we all thinks he 's joshin' 
 until he keels over, limp 's a rag. If the stuff gets to 
 him like that, he 's got no business touchin' it, 
 ever ! " 
 
 These experiences continued at varying intervals; and 
 presently Joan began to understand that Quard had not 
 only primarily a weakness to tempt him, but a constitu- 
 tional inability to assert his will-power after he had sui 
 rendered to the extent of a single drink. One modest 
 dose of alcohol seemed to exercise upon him a sort oi 
 hypnotic power, driving him on whether he would or not 
 to the next, the next, and the next until the nadir of 
 unconsciousness was reached. It was not that he in- 
 variably succumbed to moderate indulgence, but that one 
 started he rarely stopped until his identity was cor 
 pletely submerged. Indeed, the way of alcohol with hii 
 seemed never twice to follow the same route; but it 
 end was invariably the same. 
 
 Hoping against hope, fighting with him, pleading, 
 reasoning, threatening with him, even praying, Joan en- 
 dured for a long time much longer than, in retrospec- 
 tive days, seemed possible even to her; for she was 
 honestly fond of her husband, far more so than she was 
 ever of any other living being save herself.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 265 
 
 They reached San Francisco the third week in April. 
 For some time Quard had been drinking rather method- 
 ically but stealthily. A threat made by Joan, while he 
 was sobering up from his last debauch, to the effect that 
 on repetition of the offence she would leave him without 
 an hour's notice, had frightened the man to the extent 
 of making him hesitate to add one drink to another 
 except at intervals long enough to retard the cumulative 
 effect; but never a day passed on which, in spite of her 
 watchfulness, he did not contrive to throw several sops 
 to the devil in possession, if without ever quite losing his 
 wits. 
 
 Detected with reeking breath, he would adopt one of 
 three attitudes: he was a man, subject to the domination 
 of no woman and of no appetite, had learned his lesson 
 and now knew when to stop ; or he was sorry had n't 
 stopped to think and would n't let it go any further ; 
 or nothing of the sort had happened, he had drunk nothing 
 except a glass of soda-fountain nerve-tonic, or possibly it 
 was his cigar that she smelled. With the first, Joan had 
 no patience; and since she had a temper, it was the last 
 resort in Quard's more sober stages, seldom employed 
 save when potations had made him either indifferent or 
 vicious. In his contrition, whether real or assumed, she 
 tried hard to believe. But his lies never deceived her: 
 to these she listened in the silence of contempt and 
 despair. 
 
 On the Wednesday afternoon of their week in San Fran- 
 cisco, the girl did a bit of shopping after the matinee ; it 
 was half after five before she returned to the hotel, and 
 walked into their room to find Quard, with his coat off, 
 seated in a chair that faced the door. His back was to 
 the windows, through which the declining sun threw a 
 flood of blinding golden light, so that Joan's dazzled vision 
 comprehended only the dark silhouette of his body. 
 
 She said " Hello, dearie ! " lightly enough in the ab- 
 straction of reviewing some especially pleasing purchases,
 
 266 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 closed the door, walked over to the bureau, put down her 
 handbag and a small parcel, and removed her hat. Then 
 the fact that Quard had not answered penetrated her 
 reverie. Disposing of her hat, she looked half casually 
 over her shoulder, to discover that he had n't moved. 
 Two surmises struck through her wonder: that he had 
 fallen asleep waiting for her; with poignant apprehen- 
 sion, that he had been drinking again. But this seemed 
 hardly likely: he had been entirely rational and unin- 
 toxicated during the matinee. 
 
 She said sharply: " What 's the matter ? " 
 
 Quard made no answer. 
 
 With a troubled sigh she moved to his chair and bent 
 over him. His eyes, wide and blazing, met hers with a 
 look of inflexible hostility and rage; his mouth was set 
 like a trap, his lips, like his face, were almost colourless. 
 The air was pungent with his breath, but intuitively she 
 divined that it was not drunkenness alone which had 
 aroused this temper, the more dismaying since it was 
 for the time being under control. 
 
 From the look in his eyes she started back as from a 
 blow. 
 
 " Charlie ! what 's the matter ? " 
 
 Quard opened his lips, gulped spasmodically, closed 
 them without speaking. The muscles on the left side of 
 his face twitched nervously. 
 
 Abruptly he shot up out of his chair, strode to the 
 door, locked it and pocketed the key. His face as he 
 turned was terrible to see. 
 
 She shrank away, but his eyes held hers in the fascina- 
 tion of fright. 
 
 " Why Charlie ! what " 
 
 He interrupted with an imperative gesture, took a step 
 toward her, and shook his hand in her face. Between his 
 thumb and forefinger glittered something exquisitely 
 coruscant in the sunlight. 
 
 " What 's that ? " he demanded in a quivering voice.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 267 
 
 She moved her head in assumed bewilderment, stag- 
 gered to recognize the symbol of her broken troth with 
 Matthias. 
 
 " I don't know. What is it ? You keep moving it 
 around so, I can't see . . ." 
 
 "There, then!" he cried, steadying the hand under 
 her nose. 
 
 Instinctively her gaze veered to her trunk. Its lid was 
 up. On the floor lay her work-basket in the litter of its 
 former contents. Her indignation mounted. 
 
 " What were you doing in my trunk ? " she demanded 
 hotly. 
 
 Quard's eyes clouded under the impact of this counter 
 attack. Momentarily his dazed expression made it very 
 plain that he had taken advantage of her absence to drink 
 heavily. And this was even more plain in the blurred 
 accents, robbed of the sharpness rage had lent them, 
 in which he endeavoured to justify himself. 
 
 " I wanted shew on s'pender button wanted 
 work-basket . . ." 
 
 Anger returned ; his voice mounted : " And I found 
 this! What is it?" 
 
 Joan snatched at the ring, but he drew back his hand 
 too quickly for her. 
 
 " It 's mine. Give it to me ! " 
 
 " Where 'd you get it ? Tha'sh what I wanna know ! " 
 
 " None of your business. Give it " 
 
 " T" hell it ain't my business. I 'm your husband 
 gotta right to know where you get diamonds " he 
 sneered " diamonds like this ! I never bought it." 
 
 " ISTo," she flamed back ; " you 're too stingy ! " 
 
 " Stingy, am I ? " He faltered swaying. " Tha'snough. 
 I 'm tightwad, so s'nother guy gets chansh to buy you 
 diamonds. Tha's way of it, hey ? " 
 
 " You give me that ring, Charlie," Joan demanded 
 ominously. 
 
 " You got anotha good guess coming. What I '11 give
 
 268 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 you is jush two minutes to tell me name of the fellow 't 
 give it to you." 
 
 " Don't be a fool, Charlie!" 
 
 " I don't intend to be fool any longer. You tell 
 me or " 
 
 He checked, searching his befuddled mind for a com- 
 pelling threat. 
 
 With a shift of manner, Joan extended her hand in 
 pleading. 
 
 " Give me the ring, Charlie, and be sensible. I have n't 
 done anything wrong. I can explain." 
 
 " Well . . ." Grudgingly he dropped the ring into her 
 palm. But immediately her fingers had closed upon it, 
 mistrust again possessed him. " Now, you tell me 
 
 " Very well," she interrupted patiently. " You need n't 
 shout. I don't mind telling you now. It 's my engage- 
 ment ring." 
 
 " Your what? " sharply. 
 
 " My engagement ring. I was engaged last summer to 
 Mr. Matthias, before we began to rehearse the sketch." 
 
 " Engaged ? " he iterated stupidly. " Engaged for 
 what?" 
 
 " Engaged to be married. He was in love with me. I 
 meant to marry him until you and I met the second 
 time " 
 
 " Meant to marry who ? " 
 
 "Mr. Matthias. We " 
 
 " Matthias ? What Matthias ? " 
 
 " John Matthias, the author the playwright. He 
 wrote ' The Jade God/ ' 
 
 Quard wagged his head cunningly. " Y' mean to tell me 
 you was engaged to that guy, and did n't marry him ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I married you, did n't I, dear ? " 
 
 " And if that 's true, how 't happen you did n't give 'm 
 back his ring? Eh?" 
 
 " I meant to, Charlie, but he was out of town and I 
 didn't know his address."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 269 
 
 " That 's likely ! " The actor laughed harshly. " Tha'sh 
 good one, that is ! You going to marry him, and did n't 
 know his address. Expect me to believe that ? " 
 
 "It's true, Charlie it's God's truth." 
 
 "You're a liar!" 
 
 "Charlie !" 
 
 " I say, you 're a liar ! Wha'sh more, I mean it." 
 
 Quard waved his hand, palm down, to indicate his 
 scornful disposition of her yarn. Then he staggered, 
 steadied himself by clutching the back of a chair, and con- 
 scious how this betrayed his condition, worked himself 
 into a towering rage to cover it. 
 
 " I know better. 'F you 'd ever got a chance to marry 
 that feller, you 'd 've jumped at it. He 'd never 've 
 got away. You wouldn't 've given him no more chance 
 'n you did me you 'd 've pulled wool over his eyes same 
 way. / know what 'm talking about. You 're a liar, a 
 dam' dirty little liar, tha's what you are." 
 
 Joan's colour deserted her face entirely. 
 
 " Charlie ! don't you say that to me again." 
 
 " And what '11 you do ? Think I care ? I know 
 what you '11 do, all right, because I 'm going make you 
 do it." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Wha's more, I know now who gave you that ring. 
 I was fool not to guess it before. I did n't give it to 
 you no! Mist' Matthias didn't give it to you no! 
 But somebody did give it to you eh? Tha's right, 
 is n't it ? And his name 's name was Vincent Mar- 
 bridge! Wasn't it?" 
 
 He thrust his inflamed face close to hers, leering 
 wickedly. 
 
 " Marbridge ! " Joan echoed blankly. 
 
 " Vincent Marbridge tha's the feller ? t give you 
 the ring. He 's the feller 't could do it, too got all 
 the money in the world enough to buy dozens 'r rings 
 enough to buy you all them good clothes you got hold
 
 270 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 of after you threw me down and before I was ass enough 
 to take up with you again! A' that, you were a fool not 
 to get more outa him." 
 
 The insult ate like an acid into the pride of the girl. 
 She flushed crimson, then in an instant paled again. Her 
 eyes grew cold and hard. 
 
 "That will do," she said bitterly. "You've said 
 enough too much. After all I 've endured from you 
 your drunkenness, your " 
 
 There was a maniac glare in the eyes of the man as he 
 thrust his face still closer. 
 
 " And what '11 you do, eh ? " he shouted violently. 
 "What '11 you do?" 
 
 She turned her face aside, in disgust of his reeking 
 breath. 
 
 " And what '11 you do ? Tell me that ! " 
 
 "I'll leave you " 
 
 " You betcha life you '11 leave me. I knew that before 
 you come into this room ! " 
 
 " And I 'm sorry I did n't go long ago " 
 
 " The hell you are ! " In a gust of uncontrollable 
 frenzy, Quard struck her sharply over the mouth. " You 
 go d' you hear ? you damn' " 
 
 In blind fury Joan flung herself upon him, sobbing, 
 biting, scratching, kicking. He reeled back before that 
 unexpected assault, then, sobered a trifle by its vicious- 
 ness, caught her wrists, held her helpless for an instant, 
 and threw her violently from him. She fell to her knees, 
 lurched over on her side. . . . 
 
 The door slammed: he was gone. 
 
 She knew the man too well not to know he would make 
 instantly for the nearest bar ; the only question was what 
 guise intoxication would assume in him, this time. It was 
 possible that he would drink himself raving mad and re- 
 turn fit for murder. 
 
 She must make her escape with all possible expedi- 
 tion.
 
 
 The door slammed. He was gone. Page 270
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 271 
 
 Instantly Joan sat up, dried her eyes, convulsively 
 swallowed her sobs, and felt of her bruised mouth. 
 
 Before her on the carpet the diamond ring winked 
 sardonically in the sunset light. 
 
 She pondered savagely the wide and deep damnation 
 it had wrought in her life. 
 
 It seemed impossible that only a few minutes had 
 elapsed since she had entered this room, an affectionate, 
 patient, and not unhappy wife. Now she sifted her heart 
 and found in it not one grain of the love it had once 
 held for Quard. This alone would have rendered irrevo- 
 cable her decision to leave him. 
 
 The thing was over settled finished. 
 
 She gave a gesture of finality. 
 
 With all her heart she hoped that the sketch would go 
 to the devil without her. . . . 
 
 Rising, she went to the mirror, to stare incredulously 
 at the face it presented for her inspection, a cruel carica- 
 ture, lined, distorted, blowsy, stained with tears. At this 
 vision, hysteria threatened again. 
 
 With a great effort she fought it down, and controlled 
 and smoothed out the muscles of her face. Now she was 
 more recognizable. Even her mouth was not seriously 
 disfigured; he had struck with the flat of his hand only; 
 her lips were sore and slightly but not markedly swollen. 
 A veil would disguise them completely. 
 
 At the wash-stand she devoted some very valuable mo- 
 ments to sopping her face with cold water, and par- 
 ticularly her mouth and eyes. The treatment toned 
 down the inflammation of weeping, rendered her flesh 
 firm and cool once more, and left her with a feeling of 
 spiritual refreshment, with nerves again under control 
 and her will even more inalterably fixed than before. 
 
 Rouge and powder completed her rejuvenescence. 
 
 Turning to her trunk, she took out the tray and 
 paused with a low cry of consternation. From the tum- 
 bled and disordered state of its contents, it was plain
 
 272 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 that, having discovered the ring, Quard had searched 
 diligently for further confirmation of his suspicions. 
 
 With quickening breath, the girl dropped to her knees 
 and hastily but thoroughly ransacked and turned out upon 
 the floor all her belongings. Within a brief period she 
 satisfied herself of one appalling fact: Quard had not 
 only insulted and struck her and cast her off he had 
 stooped to rob her. Her hands were tied: she had not 
 money enough to leave him. 
 
 Probably, with the low cunning and fallacious reason- 
 ing of dipsomania, he had pouched her savings with 
 that very thought in mind. Meaning to break with her, 
 to have his scene and satisfy his lust for brutality, he 
 had also planned to prevent Joan's leaving the cast of 
 " The Lie " until a successor could be found and broken 
 in. Penniless (he had argued) she would be obliged to 
 play on, at least until Saturday, to earn her fare back 
 East. 
 
 It was Quard's practice to carry his money in large bills 
 folded in a belt of oiled silk which he wore buckled round 
 his waist, beneath his underclothing with a smaller 
 fund for running expenses in a leather bill-fold more 
 accessibly disposed. But Joan (finding a money-belt 
 uncomfortable because of her corsets) had adopted the 
 shiftless plan of secreting her savings in a pocket con- 
 trived for that purpose in an old underskirt. And since 
 she had always held her husband rigidly to account for 
 her individual fifty dollars per week, she had managed 
 thus to set aside about three hundred dollars. Unfor- 
 tunately, it had been their habit to carry duplicate keys to 
 one another's luggage by way of provision against loss. 
 
 So that now she was left with less than twenty dollars in 
 her pocket-book. 
 
 She paced the floor in wrathful meditation, pondering 
 means and expedients. Once or twice she noticed the 
 ring, but passed it several times before she paused, picked 
 it up, and abstractedly placed it on her finger.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 273 
 
 It did not once occur to her that she could raise money 
 by hypothecating the jewel at a pawn-shop: by hook or 
 crook she was determined to regain her own money. She 
 was wondering what good it would do her to threaten 
 Quard with arrest. Had a wife any right to her earn- 
 ings, under the law ? 
 
 After a time, she opened her handbag, found her 
 personal bunch of keys, and unlocked her husband's 
 trunk. Her pains, however, went for nothing; she in- 
 vestigated diligently every pocket of his clothing without 
 discovering a piece of money of any description. But 
 one thing she did find to make her thoughtful Quard's 
 revolver. . . . 
 
 Removing this last, she relocked the trunk and rang 
 for a bell-boy. Then she put the weapon on the bureau 
 and covered it with her hat. 
 
 The youth who answered had an intelligent look. Joan 
 appraised him narrowly before trusting him. She opened 
 negotiations with a dollar tip. 
 
 " I want you to find my husband for me," she said. 
 " If he 's anywhere around the hotel, he '11 probably be in 
 the bar. But look everywhere, and then come and tell 
 me. You needn't say anything to him. I just want to 
 know where he is. Do you understand ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'm." 
 
 " You 'd know him if you saw him Mr. Quard, the 
 actor ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'm." 
 
 "That's all. Hurry." 
 
 As soon as the boy was gone she turned again to her 
 luggage, selecting indispensable garments and toilet ar- 
 ticles and packing them in a suit-case. By the time a 
 knock sounded again upon the door, she had the case 
 strapped and locked. 
 
 " He ain't nowhere about the house, ma'm," the bell- 
 boy reported. " He was in the bar a while, but he 's 
 went out."
 
 274 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Joan nodded, was dumb in thought. 
 
 " Do you want as I should go look for him, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Can you leave the hotel ? " Joan asked quickly. 
 
 " I 'm just going off-duty now, ma'm ; the night shift 
 came on about ten minutes ago, at six o'clock." 
 
 " And you think you could possibly find him ? " 
 
 " He took a cab, ma'm. The driver's stand is in front 
 of the hotel. If I can find him, I can find where your 
 husband went. Anyhow, it ain't hard to follow up a 
 gentleman as " 
 
 " As drunk ! " Joan put in when the boy hesitated. 
 
 " Yes, ma'm." 
 
 Joan weighed the chance distrustfully; but it was at 
 least a chance, and this was no time to be careful. Tak- 
 ing a five-dollar gold-piece from her scanty store, she gave 
 it to the boy. 
 
 " Go find him," she said. " And if he seems to know 
 what he's doing just hang around until he doesn't: 
 he won't keep you waiting long. Then bring him to me. 
 But first take this suit-case down to the Union Ferry 
 house, check it in the baggage-room, and give me the 
 check when you bring him back. And don't say any- 
 thing to anybody." 
 
 " Yes, ma'm no, ma'm." 
 
 Supperless, she sat down to wait, Quard's revolver 
 ready to her hand. 
 
 Twilight waned; night fell; hours passed. Motion- 
 less and imperturbable, Joan waited on, the tensity of her 
 mood betrayed only by the burning of her baleful, dan- 
 gerous eyes. 
 
 At half-past nine a noise of scuffling feet, gruff voices 
 and heavy breathing in the hallway, following the clash 
 of an elevator gate, brought her to her feet. Going to 
 the bureau, she opened a drawer and put the revolver 
 away. 
 
 There would be no need of that, now. 
 
 Answering a knock, she threw the door wide. Two
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 275 
 
 porters staggered in, one with the shoulders, one with the 
 feet of Quard. The bell-boy followed. When they had 
 lugged to the bed that inert and insensate thing she had 
 once loved, Joan tipped the men and they departed. The 
 boy lingered. 
 
 " Is there anything more I can do, ma'm ? " 
 
 " Where did you find him ? " 
 
 " Down on the Coast. I don't know what would n't Ve 
 happened to him if you hadn't sent me after him. He 
 was up an alley had been stuck up by a couple of 
 strong-arms. I seen 'em making their get-away just as 
 I come in sight." 
 
 She uttered a cry of despair : " Robbed you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'm. He ain't got as much 's a nickel on him." 
 
 Overwhelmed, Joan sank into a chair. The boy avoided 
 her desolate eyes; he was a little afraid she might want 
 part of the five dollars back. 
 
 " Had n't I better send the hotel doctor up, ma'm ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," she muttered dully. 
 
 " Yes, ma'm. And here 's the check for your suit- 
 case. Nothing else ? Good night, ma'm." 
 
 The door closed. 
 
 Of a sudden, Joan jumped up and ran to the bed in 
 the alcove. 
 
 Quard's condition was pitiable, but in her excited no 
 compassion. His face was pallid as a death-mask save 
 on one cheek-bone, where there was an angry and livid 
 contusion. His hands were scratched, bleeding, and filthy, 
 his clothing begrimed and torn, his pockets turned inside 
 out. He seemed scarcely to breathe, and a thin froth 
 flecked his slack and swollen lips. 
 
 With feverish haste she unbuttoned his shirt and 
 trousers and tugged at his undershirt. Then she sobbed 
 aloud, a short, dry sob of relief. She had discovered 
 the money-belt. In another minute she had unbuckled 
 and withdrawn it from his body. She took it to the other 
 room, to the light, and hastily undid its fastenings.
 
 276 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 There were perhaps two dozen fresh, new bills, for the 
 most part of large denominations, folded once length- 
 wise to fit into the narrow silken tube; but someone 
 knocked before she found time to reckon up their sum. 
 
 Hastily cramming the money, together with the tell-tale 
 belt, into her handbag, Joan took a deep breath and said 
 "Come in!" 
 
 There entered a grave man of middle-age, carrying a 
 physician's satchel. 
 
 He said, with a slight inclination of his head : " Mrs. 
 Quard, I believe ? " 
 
 " Yes," Joan gasped. She nodded toward the alcove : 
 " Your patient 'a in there." 
 
 He murmured some acknowledgment, turning away to 
 the bedside. For several minutes he worked steadily over 
 the drunkard. While she waited, her wits awhirl, Joan 
 mechanically pinned on her hat. 
 
 Presently the physician stepped back into the room, 
 removed his coat, turned back his cuffs, and produced a 
 pocket hypodermic. With narrowing eyes he recognized 
 Joan's preparations for the street. 
 
 " Is he all right, doctor ? " she said with a feint of 
 doubt and fear. 
 
 " He 's in pretty bad shape, but I guess we can pull 
 him round, all right. But I need your help. You were 
 going out ? " 
 
 She met his eyes steadily. " I was only waiting to 
 hear how he was. I 've got to hurry off to the theatre. 
 I 'm late now. If we miss the performance tonight, we 
 may lose our booking. And he 's just been held up 
 all we 've got 's what 's coming to us next Saturday." 
 
 " I see. And you can do without him ? " 
 
 " His understudy '11 take his part we '11 manage 
 somehow." 
 
 " Then I am afraid I shall have to call in assistance 
 a trained nurse." 
 
 " Do, please, doctor."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 277 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 He moved toward the telephone. 
 
 " I '11 be back in about an hour." 
 
 " Very well, Mrs. Quard." 
 
 He stared, perplexed, at the door, when she had shut 
 it. ... 
 
 Avoiding the elevator and lobby, she slipped down the 
 stairs and through a side door to the street. 
 
 In ten minutes she was at the Union Ferry. 
 
 Within an hour she was in Oakland, purchasing through 
 tickets for her transcontinental flight.
 
 XXVII 
 
 WHEN lie had finished breakfast, Matthias lighted a 
 pipe, and setting his feet anew in the groove they had 
 worn diagonally from door to window, began his matu- 
 tinal tramp toward inspiration. 
 
 But this morning found his brain singularly sluggish: 
 thoughts would not come; or if they showed themselves 
 at all, it was only to peer mischievously at him round some 
 distant corner which, when turned, discovered only an 
 empty impasse. 
 
 Distressed, he tamped down his pipe, ran long fingers 
 through his hair, and wrapped himself in clouds of smoke. 
 Then a breath of cool, sweet air fanned his cheek, and he 
 looked round in sharp annoyance. It was like that fool 
 maid to leave the windows open and freeze him to 
 death ! And truly enough, they were both wide open from 
 top to bottom ; though, for all that, he was n't freezing. 
 And outside there was a bright crimson border of potted 
 geraniums on the iron-railed balcony. He had n't no- 
 ticed them before; Madame Duprat must have set them 
 out before he was up. Curious whim of hers! Cu- 
 rious weather! 
 
 Disliking inconsistencies, he stopped in one of the win- 
 dows to investigate these unseasonable phenomena. 
 
 In one corner of the back-yard a dilapidated bundle of 
 fur and bones, conforming in general with a sardonic 
 Post-Impressionist's candid opinion of a tom-cat, lay 
 blinking lazily in a patch of warm yellow sunlight. 
 
 In the next back-yard a ridiculous young person in 
 bare-legs, blue denim overalls and a small red sweater,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 279 
 
 was industriously turning up the earth with a six-inch 
 trowel, and chanting cheerfully to himself an improvisa- 
 tion in honour of his garden that was to be. 
 
 At an open window across the way a public-spirited and 
 extremely pretty young woman appeared with a towel 
 pinned round her shoulders and let down her hair, a 
 shimmering cascade of gold for the sun's rays to wanton 
 with and, incidentally, to dry. 
 
 Somewhere at a distance a cracked old piano-organ was 
 romping and giggling rapturously through the syncopated 
 measures of Tin Pan Alley's latest " rag." 
 
 A vision drifted before Matthias' eyes, of the green 
 slopes of Tanglewood, the white chateau on its windy 
 headland, the ineffable blue of the Sound beyond. . . . 
 
 Incredulous, he turned to consult his calendar: the 
 day was Wednesday, the seventeenth of April. 
 
 It was true, then: almost without his knowledge the 
 bleak and barren Winter had worn away and Spring had 
 stolen upon Town, flaunting, extravagant, shy and seduc- 
 tive, irresistible Spring. . . . 
 
 For a little Matthias held back in doubt, with reluc- 
 tant thoughts of his work. Then all in a breath he 
 caught up hat and stick, slammed the door behind him, 
 and blundered forth to fulfill his destiny. . . . 
 
 She was seated on a bench, in a retired spot sheltered 
 from the breeze, open to the sun, when Matthias, having 
 swung round the upper reservoir, came at full stride 
 down the West Drive, his blood romping, his eyes aglow, 
 warm colour in his face: for the first time in half 
 a year feeling himself again, Matthias the lover of the 
 open skies divorced from Matthias of the midnight lamp 
 and the scored and intricate manuscripts that Matthias 
 whom the world rejected. 
 
 At a word, her companion rose and moved to intercept 
 him; and at the sound of his name, Matthias paused, 
 wondering who she could be, this strange, sweet-faced 
 woman, plainly dressed.
 
 280 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Yes ? " he said, lifting his hat. " I am Mr. Matthias 
 
 yes " 
 
 " Mrs. Marbridge would like to speak to you." 
 
 His gaze veered quickly in the direction indicated by 
 her brief nod. He saw Venetia waiting, and immediately 
 went to her, in his surprise forgetful of the woman who 
 had accosted him. This last moved slowly in the other 
 direction and sat down out of ear-shot. 
 
 " This is awfully good of you, Venetia," he said, bend- 
 ing over her hand. " I did n't see you, of course was 
 thinking of something else " 
 
 " But I was thinking of you," she said. " I 've been 
 wanting to see you for a long time, Jack." 
 
 " Surely Helena could have told you where to find 
 me. . . ." 
 
 " I knew we 'd run across one another, somehow, some- 
 where, sometime today or tomorrow, without fail. So 
 I was content to do without the offices of Helena. Do 
 sit down. I want so much to talk to you." 
 
 " Most completely yours to command," he said lightly, 
 and took the place beside her. 
 
 But his heart was on his lips and in his eyes, and Vene- 
 tia was far from blind. 
 
 " Then tell me about yourself," she asked. " It 's been 
 so long since I Ve had any news ! " 
 
 " Is it possible ? I should have imagined my doting 
 aunt " 
 
 She interrupted with a slight, negative smile and shake 
 of her head : " Helena does n't approve of me, you know, 
 and of late there has been a decided coolness between 
 the families. I 'm afraid George fell out with Vincent 
 for some reason not too hard to guess, perhaps." 
 
 He looked away, colouring with embarrassment. 
 
 " So," she pursued evenly " about yourself: are you 
 married yet ? " 
 
 Matthias started, laughed frankly. " You did n't know 
 about that, either ? . . . Well, it 's true even Helena
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 281 
 
 could n't have told you much, for I told her nothing. . . . 
 
 No, I 'm neither married, nor like to be." 
 " She was so very sweet and pretty " 
 " Joan was wholly charming," he agreed gravely, " but 
 
 well, I fancy it was inevitable. We were lucky enough 
 to be obliged to endure a separation of some weeks before, 
 instead of after, marriage; and so we had time to think. 
 At least, she must have foreseen the mistake we were on 
 the point of making, for the break was her own doing 
 
 not mine." 
 
 " You think it would have been a mistake ? " 
 " Oh, unquestionably. I confess I 'd not have known 
 it, probably, until too late, if she had n't made me think 
 when she threw me over. I hope it does n't sound caddish 
 
 but I was conscious of a distinct sense of relief when 
 I got back from California and found she 'd cleared out 
 without leaving me a line." 
 
 " I think I understand. And did you never hear from 
 her?" 
 
 " Not from by accident, of her. She was predestined 
 for the stage I can see that clearly now, though I 
 objected then. She was offered a chance during my 
 absence, jumped at it, and made a sort of a half-way hit 
 in a very successful sketch which, oddly enough, I hap- 
 pened to have written under a pseudonym. It had 
 been kicking round my agent's office for a year ; he did n't 
 believe in it any more than I did; and I disbelieved in 
 it hard enough to be ashamed to put my own name to it. 
 That 's often the way with a fellow's work ; one always 
 believes in the cripples, you know. . . . Well, some actor 
 chanced to get hold of the 'script one day, fell in love 
 with it and put it on with Joan as his leading woman. If 
 it had been anybody else's sketch, I 'd never have known 
 what became of her, probably. As it was, I knew nothing 
 until I got back from the Coast. ... I believe they got 
 married very shortly after it was produced ; and now 
 they 're playing it all over the country. Odd, is n't it ? "
 
 282 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Very," Venetia smiled. " And so your heart was n't 
 broken ? " 
 
 He shook his head and laughed : " No ! " 
 
 But a spasm of pain shot through his eyes and deceived 
 the woman a little longer. 
 
 " And what have you been doing ? " she pursued, mean- 
 ing to distract him. " I mean, your work ? " 
 
 He shrugged. " Oh, I 've had an average luckless year. 
 To begin with, Rideout fell down on his production of 
 ' The Jade God ' the only time it ever had a chance to 
 get over and a man named Algerson bought his con- 
 tract and put it on at his stock theatre in Los Angeles. 
 That 's why I went out there to see it butchered." 
 
 " It failed ? " 
 
 " Extravagantly ! " 
 
 " But did n't you once have a great deal of confidence 
 in it?" 
 
 " Every play is a valuable property until it 's pro- 
 duced," he answered, smiling. " This one was killed by 
 its production. Nothing was right: it needed scenery, 
 and what they gave it had served a decade in stock; it 
 needed actors, and what actors were accidentally permitted 
 to get into the cast got the wrong roles ; finally, it needed 
 intelligent stage direction, and that was supplied by the 
 star, whose idea of a good play is one in which he speaks 
 everybody's lines and his own. Then they rewrote most 
 of the best scenes and botched them horribly." 
 
 " You could n't stop them ? " 
 
 " When I attempted to interfere, I was told civilly to 
 go to the devil. Under my contract, I could have stopped 
 them: but that meant suing out an injunction, which in 
 turn meant putting up a bond, and I did n't have the 
 money." 
 
 " I 'm so sorry, Jack ! " 
 
 " Oh, it 's all in the game. I learned something, at 
 least. But the greatest harm it did me was to sap the 
 faith of managers here. One man Wylie who was
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 283 
 
 under contract to produce my ' Tomorrow's People/ paid 
 me on January first a forfeit of five hundred dollars rather 
 than run the risk after ' The Jade God.' " 
 
 " And so you lost both plays ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; I still have ' Tomorrow's People/ and only 
 a short time ago signed up with a manager who is n't 
 afraid of his shadow. We '11 put it on next Autumn." 
 
 " And you believe in that, too ? " 
 
 " I know it will go," Matthias asserted with level con- 
 fidence. " It 's only a question of intelligence at the pro- 
 ducing end and I 've arranged to get that." 
 
 " And meanwhile you 've been working ? " 
 
 " Oh " he spread out his hands " one does n't stop, 
 you know. It 's too interesting ! " 
 
 And then he laughed again. " But, you see, you flatter 
 a fellow into talking his head off about himself ! Forgive 
 me, and let me do a little cross-examining. How are you ? 
 And what have you been doing? You you know, 
 Venetia you 're looking more exquisitely pretty than 
 ever ! " 
 
 And so she was more strangely lovely than ever in 
 all the long span of their friendship: with a deeper 
 radiance in her face, a clearer, more translucent pallor, 
 in her eyes a splendour that lent new dignity to their 
 violet-shadowed mystery. 
 
 " I 'm glad of that," she said quietly. She folded 
 listless hands in her lap, her eyes seeking distances. " I 'm 
 going to be very happy ... I think . . ." 
 
 He looked up sharply. 
 
 That she was n't happy now, he could well understand : 
 that Marbridge was behaving badly was something rather 
 too broadly published by the very publicity of his methods. 
 Marriage had not been permitted to interfere at least, 
 not after his return from Europe with the ordinary 
 tenor of his bachelor ways. Matthias himself had seen 
 him not infrequently in theatres and restaurants, but only 
 once in company with Venetia most often he had been
 
 284 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 dancing attendance upon a Mrs. Cardrow: she who had 
 given her lips to Matthias, thinking him Marbridge, that 
 long-ago night at Tanglewood. She was said to be stage- 
 struck ; and Marbridge was rumoured to be deeply, though 
 quietly, involved in the financing of certain theatrical 
 enterprises. 
 
 Surely, then, Venetia must know what everybody knew, 
 and be unhappy in that knowledge. 
 
 But now she was so calmly confident that she was 
 " going to be happy " ! 
 
 He wondered if she were contemplating divorce. . . . 
 
 And then in a flash he understood. That woman who 
 had stopped him was not of Venetia's caste ; if he guessed 
 not wildly, she was a nurse. And \ r enetia afoot instead 
 of in her limousine . . . 
 
 She turned her eyes to his, smiling with a certain 
 diffident, sweet sedateness. " You did n't know, 
 Jack?" 
 
 He shook his head, looking quickly away. 
 
 " But you Ve guessed ? " 
 
 " Yes," he replied in a low voice. 
 
 Her hand fell lightly over his for a single instant. 
 " Then be glad for me, Jack," she begged gently. " It 's 
 it 's compensation." 
 
 " I understand," he said, " and I 'm truly very glad. 
 It 's kind of you to to tell me, Venetia." 
 
 " It changes everything," she said pensively : " all my 
 world is changed, and I am a new strange woman, seeing 
 it with new eyes. I have learned so much and in so 
 short a time I can hardly believe it. To think, it 's 
 not a year since that time at Tanglewood ! " 
 
 " Please ! " he begged. 
 
 " Oh, I did n't mean to hurt you, Jack. But it 's 
 that I wanted to talk to you about. You won't mind, 
 when you understand, as I have learned to under- 
 stand. ... I tell you, I 'm altogether another woman. 
 Marriage is like learning to live in a foreign land, but
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 285 
 
 motherhood is another world. I find it difficult to realize 
 Venetia of a year ago : she 's like some strange creature 
 I once knew but never quite understood. And yet, little 
 as I understood her, I can make excuses for her: I know 
 her impulses were not bad. I know, better than she 
 knew . . . she loved you, Jack." 
 
 " You must not say that, Venetia ! " 
 
 " But it 's true, my dear, most true," she insisted in 
 her voice of gentle magic. " The rest . . . was just mad- 
 ness, the sort of madness that some men have the power to 
 
 to kindle in women. It 's a deadly power, very terrible, 
 and they who have it use it as carelessly as children 
 playing with matches and gunpowder " 
 
 " Oh, I understand, Venetia, I understand ! Don't " 
 " No let me tell you. I 've got to, Jack. I 've 
 had this so long in my heart to tell you ! . . . You must 
 be patient with me, ,this once, and listen. . . . You must 
 know that I loved you then when I ran to you threw 
 myself into your arms made you ask me to marry you 
 and promised I would and and thought that I was safe 
 from him because of my promise. But I did n't know 
 myself nor him. He seemed able to make his will my 
 law so easily so strangely ! . . . Even when I ran away 
 with him, I knew that happiness could never come of 
 it. ... It was just the madness ... I couldn't help 
 myself ... I just could not help myself. . . . And then 
 
 ah, but I have paid for my madness many times 
 over! . . ." 
 
 For the moment he could n't trust himself to speak. The 
 woman bent forward to gain a glimpse of his half-averted 
 face, and searched it anxiously with her haunted eyes. 
 
 "You do understand, Jack? . . . You for- 
 give . . .?" 
 
 " There is n't any question of forgiveness," lie said. 
 " And I always understood half-way. You know that 
 
 you must have known it, or you could n't have said 
 what you have to me."
 
 286 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 The woman laughed a little, tender, broken laugh. 
 
 " I am so glad ! " she said softly. " Perhaps it 's 
 wrong. . . . But you 've made me a little happier. I 
 have needed so desperately someone to confess to some- 
 one on whose sympathy I could count. And Jack 
 the only one in the world was you. . . . You 
 you 've helped." 
 
 She rose, holding out both hands to him, and as he 
 took them and held them tight he saw that her lovely 
 eyes were wide and dim with tears. 
 
 " You 've proved my faith in you," she said " my 
 gentle man my knight sans peur et sans reproche ! " 
 
 He bent his head to her hands, but before his lips could 
 touch them, very gently she drew them away, and turned 
 and left him. 
 
 Bareheaded and wondering, for a long time he stood 
 staring at the spot where, in company with the nurse, she 
 had disappeared.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 As soon as the porter had made up the lower berth in 
 the section Joan had reserved for her sole accommodation 
 
 in spite of the strain of thrift ingrained in her nature 
 
 she retired to it, buttoned securely the heavy plush 
 portieres, and prepared for rest by reducing herself to 
 that state of semi-undress in which she had learned to 
 travel by night. Then, by the light of the small electric 
 lamp above her pillow, she turned out the contents of her 
 handbag and counted the money she had stolen from 
 Quard. 
 
 The sum of it, more than twenty-one hundred dollars, 
 staggered her. She had n't dreamed that Quard possessed 
 so much ready cash. 
 
 Carefully folding the bills of larger denomination into 
 a neat, flat packet, she wrapped them in a handkerchief 
 and hid them in the hollow of her bosom, secured by a 
 safety-pin to her ribbed silk undervest. The remainder, 
 more than enough to cover all ordinary expenses en route 
 to New York, she disposed of more accessibly, half in 
 her handbag, half in one of her stockings. 
 
 Then extinguishing the light, she lay back, but not to 
 sleep. The pressure of her emotions was too strong to 
 let her lose touch with consciousness. As a general rule, 
 sleeping-cars had no terrors for Joan; never a nervous 
 woman, her thoroughly sound and healthy organization 
 permitted her to sleep almost at will, even under such 
 discouraging circumstances as those provided by modern 
 railway accommodations. But that night she lay awake 
 till dawn flushed the windows with its wash of grey, awake 
 and staring wide of eye into the gloom of her section,
 
 288 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 listening to the snores of conscienceless neighbours, and 
 thinking, thinking thinking endlessly and acutely. 
 
 But they were thoughts singularly uncoloured by re- 
 morse for what she had done or fear of its consequences. 
 
 She was not in the least sorry she had taken Quard's 
 money; she was glad. The mere amount of it was proof 
 enough for Joan that her husband had lied to her about 
 the earnings of the sketch, had lied from the very be- 
 ginning; otherwise he could by no means have laid by 
 so much in the term of their booking to date. And for 
 that, he deserved to suffer. She was only sorry he might 
 not be made to understand how heavily he was paying 
 for those months of deception. But that was something 
 Quard would never know: with the story of the bell-boy 
 he must be content; he must go through life placing the 
 blame of his misfortune upon the heads of those nameless 
 " stick-up men " of the Barbary Coast. 
 
 Nor was he likely to suffer otherwise. Joan was con- 
 fident the man would manage somehow to find his feet 
 financially, almost as soon as physically. A telegram to 
 his agent, Boskerk, would bring him aid if all else failed ; 
 the play was too constant an earner of heavy commis- 
 sions for Boskerk to let it fall by the wayside for lack 
 of a few hundred dollars. So was it too strong a " draw " 
 on the vaudeville circuits to be blacklisted and barred by 
 managers because of the temporary break-down : something 
 which Quard would readily explain and excuse (and Joan 
 could imagine how persuasively) with his moving yarn of 
 foot-pads and knock-out drops. Nor would it be more than 
 a temporary break-down; with Quard restored to his 
 senses, the absence of the leading woman would prove 
 merely a negligible check. Joan entertained no illusions 
 as to her indispensability : once, in Denver, when she 
 had been out of the cast for two consecutive performances, 
 suffering with an ulcerated tooth, another actress had 
 gone on and actually read the part from manuscript with- 
 out materially lessening the dramatic effect of the playlet
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 289 
 
 as a whole. Other women by the score could be found 
 to fill her place acceptably enough, if few as handsomely 
 (Joan soothed her pride with this reservation). " The 
 Lie " would go on its conquering way without her 
 never fear! 
 
 And Quard ? Joan curled a lip : he would n't pine 
 away for her. She had come to know too well his shallow 
 bag of tricks; and life to him was not life if he lacked 
 one before whose dazzled vision he could air his graces 
 and accomplishments strut and crow and trail a hand- 
 some wing in the dust. Looking back she could see very 
 clearly, now, how love had waned as soon as lust was 
 sated in the man. That night in Cincinnati had been 
 the turning point: he had refrained from drink only as 
 long as his wife continued to intoxicate his senses. 
 
 And Joan ? ... In the stifling gloom of her curtained 
 section the girl stretched luxuriously, breathed deep, and 
 smiled a secret, enigmatic smile. No more than he, would 
 she waste herself away with grief and longing. She was 
 no longer another's but now her own mistress : a free ad- 
 venturer, by the gold band upon her finger licensed to 
 cruise with letters of marque. 
 
 Shortly before sunrise she fell asleep, still smiling, and 
 slept on sweetly well into mid-morning. Then, rising, 
 she refreshed herself in the wash-room, and went to a late 
 breakfast with countenance as clear and firm and bright 
 as if she had never known a wakeful hour. 
 
 The eyes of men followed her wherever she moved, 
 and when she was seated alone in her section, dreaming 
 over a magazine or gazing pensively out of the window, 
 men discovered errands that took them to and fro in her 
 vicinity more often than was warranted by any encourage- 
 ment she gave them. For she gave them none, she ignored 
 them every one. She was through with Man for good 
 and all! 
 
 It was a brand new role, and to play it diverted her 
 immensely for the time being. . . .
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 She spent the greater part of her waking hours, during 
 the next few days, planning what she would do with all 
 that money. Clothes, of course, figured ever first in these 
 projections, and then a suite of rooms at some ostentatious 
 hotel, and taxicabs when she went out to call on managers. 
 How many times had n't she heard Maizie Dean solemnly 
 aifirm that " a swell front does more to put you in right 
 than anything else, with them lowlifers " ? 
 
 And again she was pleasurably diverted by a vision of 
 herself, extravagantly gowned, returning to recount her 
 Odyssey to an admiring audience composed of Ma, Edna, 
 and, perhaps, Butch ; at the close of which she would dis- 
 tribute largesse, not forgetting to return Butch's loan 
 with open-handed interest, and go on her way rejoicing, 
 pursued by envious benedictions. . . . 
 
 New York received her like a bridegroom, clothed in 
 April sunshine as in a suit of golden mail, amazingly 
 splendid and joyous. After that weary grind of inland 
 towns and cities, differing one from another only in de- 
 grees of griminess, greyness, and dullness, New York 
 seemed Paradise Regained to Joan. She had not believed 
 it could seem so beautiful, so magnificent, so sensuously 
 seductive. 
 
 In the exaltation of that delirious hour she plunged 
 madly into a department store near the Pennsylvania Sta- 
 tion, even before securing lodgings, and bought herself a 
 pair of cheap white kid gloves, simply for the sheer volup- 
 tuousness of possessing once again something newly pur- 
 chased in New York. 
 
 It was the beginning of an orgy. Joan had n't thought 
 how shabby and travel-worn she must seem until she 
 donned those fresh and staring gloves and saw them in 
 relief against the wrinkled and dusty garments she had 
 worn across the continent. 
 
 Thoughtful, she sought a nearby mirror and looked 
 herself over, then shook her head and turned away to 
 check her suit-case at the parcels desk and surrender her-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 291 
 
 self body and mind to the sweet dissipation of clothing 
 herself afresh from top to toe. . . . 
 
 But first of all she visited the hairdressing and mani- 
 curing department: she meant to be altogether spick-and- 
 span before venturing forth to woo and win anew this old 
 and misprized lover, her New York. 
 
 It was the head saleswoman of the suit department whose 
 remote disdain led Joan deeper into extravagance. 
 
 The girl had selected a taffeta costume which, while 
 by no means the most expensive or the handsomest in 
 stock, possessed the advantage of fitting well her average 
 figure, requiring no alterations. On paying for it she 
 announced her desire to put it on at once and have her 
 old suit sent home. 
 
 " Reully ? " drawled the saleswoman, disappointed in 
 her efforts to induce the girl to buy a higher-priced suit 
 which did require alterations. Conjuring a pencil from 
 the fastnesses of her back-hair, she produced an order 
 pad. " Miss what did you say ? Ah, Thursday ! 
 Thanks. What numba, please ? 7s it in the city ? " 
 
 Joan flushed, but controlled her impulse to wither and 
 blast this insolent animal. 
 
 " The Waldorf-Astoria," she said quietly though 
 never once had she ventured within the doors of that es- 
 tablishment and withdrew in triumph to make her 
 change of clothing. 
 
 And having committed herself to this extent, she en- 
 joyed ordering everything sent to that hotel, which in 
 her as yet somewhat naive understanding was synonymous 
 with the last word in the sybaritism of metropolitan 
 life. 
 
 Her long experience on the road had served thoroughly 
 to break her in to the ways of hotels, however, and she 
 betrayed no diffidence in the matter of approaching the 
 room-clerk for accommodations. Nor did she, apparently, 
 find anything dismaying in the price she was asked to 
 pay for a bedroom with private bath. It was only when,
 
 292 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 at length relieved of the attentions of the bell-boy whose 
 unconcealed admiration alone was worth the quarter Joan 
 gave him as a tip, she had inspected first her new quarters 
 and then herself in a pier-glass, that the girl gave herself 
 over to alternate tremors of self-approval and trepidation. 
 These last were only increased when she reckoned up the 
 money she had left, and appreciated how much she had 
 spent in that one wild afternoon of shopping. 
 
 On the other hand, < she reminded herself, a complete 
 new wardrobe was a necessity to one whose former outfit 
 was lost beyond recall. Quard would never have for- 
 warded the clothing she had left behind in San Francisco, 
 even if she could have found the effrontery to write and 
 demand it. And if she had expended upwards of five 
 hundred dollars since reaching New York, there was less 
 extravagance in that than might have been suspected ; she 
 had purchased cannily in almost every instance and, at 
 worst, but few things that she could well have done with- 
 out in that sphere of life to which she felt herself called. 
 
 The excitement of unwrapping thbse parcels which 
 began presently to arrive in shoals, and of reviewing such 
 purchases as she had not worn to the hotel on her back, 
 in time completely reassured her. It was with the com- 
 posure of restored self-confidence and esteem that she 
 presently went down to dinner. 
 
 Conscious that she was looking her handsome best in 
 a modish afternoon gown, she was able to receive the at- 
 tentions of the head-waiter with just the proper degree 
 of indifference, to order a simple meal and consume it 
 appreciatively without seeming aware that she dined in 
 strange surroundings. 
 
 But all the while she was consumed with admiration 
 of herself for her audacity, as well as with not a little 
 awe-stricken wonder at the child of fortune, who in the 
 space of one brief year of less, indeed, than that full 
 period had risen from the stocking-counter of a depart- 
 ment store and the squalor and poverty of East Seventy-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 293 
 
 sixth Street to the dignity of a leading woman and the 
 affluence of lodging at the Waldorf ! 
 
 True, she now lacked an engagement; but she had to 
 support her demands for new employment the prestige of 
 a successful season with " The Lie " " the vaudeville 
 sensation of the year," as Quard had truthfully de- 
 scribed it. 
 
 Need she fret herself with vain questionings of an in- 
 scrutable future, who had made such amazing progress 
 in so short a time? 
 
 Surely she was justified in assuming that the end for 
 her was not yet, that she was dedicated to some far richer 
 and more gorgeous destiny than any she had ever con- 
 ceived in her most wild imaginings. 
 
 She had only to watch herself: she was her own sole 
 enemy, with her fondness for the admiration of men and 
 their society. Let them realize that weakness, and she was 
 lost, doomed to the way too many capable girls had gone, 
 to the end of infamy and despair. But if only she had 
 the wit and art to make men think her weakness 
 theirs . . . 
 
 And that much Joan was sure she possessed: she be- 
 lieved she had learned to know Man better than herself. 
 
 She meant to go far, now, a great deal farther than 
 she had ever thought to go in those quaint, far-off days 
 when the crown of her ambition had been to paint her 
 pretty face, wear silken tights upon her pretty legs, and 
 beat a drum in the chorus of Ziegfield's Follies.
 
 XXIX 
 
 AFTEE dinner Joan treated herself to the experience of 
 lounging in one of the corridors of the hotel, the one (she 
 fancied: she wasn't sure) known through the Town as 
 " Peacock Alley." 
 
 She pretended to be waiting for somebody, made her 
 gaze seem more abstracted than demure. Inwardly she 
 quivered with the excitement, the exaltation of forming 
 a part of that rich and sensuous scene. 
 
 There were women all about her, many women of 
 all ages and from every grade of society, alike in one 
 respect alone, that they were radiantly dressed and, like 
 Joan, found pleasure in sunning themselves in the soft, 
 diffused glow of the many shaded electric lamps as well 
 as in the regard, as a rule less shaded, of that endless 
 parade of men who moved, sometimes alone, again with 
 other men, more commonly with women, continually from 
 one part to another of the hotel. 
 
 Muted strains from an excellent orchestra, not too near, 
 added the final touch of enchantment to this ensemble. 
 
 Entranced though, indeed, seeming little more conscious 
 of her surroundings than one in a day-dream, Joan was 
 acutely sensitive to all that passed in her vicinity. Not 
 a woman came within the range of her vision without 
 being critically inspected, dissected, analyzed, catalogued, 
 both as to her apparel and as to the foundations for her 
 pretensions to social position or beauty. Not a man 
 strolled by, were he splendid in evening dress or merely 
 " smart " in the ubiquitous " sack suit " of the period, 
 without being scrutinized and appraised with a minute 
 attention to detail that would have flattered him had it 
 been less covert.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 295 
 
 Joan felt the lust for this life burning like a fire 
 through all her being: there was nothing she could im- 
 agine more desirable than to live always as lived, ap- 
 parently, these hundreds of well-groomed, high-spirited, 
 carefree people. . . . 
 
 She had been steeping her soul in the blandishments 
 of this atmosphere for fully half an hour, and was be- 
 ginning to think it time to return to her room, when she 
 was momentarily startled out of her assumed preoccupa- 
 tion by sight of one who had n't been far from her thoughts 
 at any time since her break with Quard. 
 
 He came walking her way from the general direction 
 of the bar, with another man both attired as richly as 
 masculine conventions permit in America, and not alto- 
 gether unconscious of the fact, each in his way guilty of 
 a mild degree of swagger. Of the two, the one betray- 
 ing the most ease and freedom from ostentation was one 
 known to Joan, chiefly through the medium of his portraits 
 published in The Morning Telegraph and other theat- 
 rical organs, as " Arlie " Arlington, a producing man- 
 ager locally famous both for his wit and the shrewdness 
 and success with which he contrived to gauge, year in, 
 year out, public taste in musical comedies. Broadway 
 had tagged him " the only trustworthy friend of the Tired 
 Business Man." Infrequently Arlington adventured in 
 plays without music or dancing, but as a rule with far 
 less success. 
 
 His companion, the man whom, Joan felt, she had 
 been subconsciously waiting for ever since entering the 
 hotel, was Vincent Marbridge. 
 
 She was impressed with the appositeness of his appear- 
 ance there to her unexpressed desire, this man who had 
 been so plainly struck by her charms at first sight and 
 who was credited with silent partnership in many of 
 Arlington's enterprises. And comprehending for the first 
 time fully how much she had been subjectively counting 
 on meeting him again and enlisting his sympathies his
 
 296 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 sympathies at least she steeled herself against the shock 
 of recognition, lest she betray her fast mounting anxiety. 
 He must not for a moment be permitted to suspect she 
 considered him anything but the most distant of ac- 
 quaintances or believed him to have been the anonymous 
 author of that magnificent gift of roses. . . . 
 
 But Marbridge passed without seeing her, at all events 
 without knowing that he saw her. Rolling a little as he 
 walked, with that individual sway of his body from the 
 hips, he leaned slightly toward Arlington and gesticulated 
 with immense animation while recounting some inaudible 
 anecdote which seemed to amuse both men mightily. And 
 in the swing of his narrative his glance, wandering, flick- 
 ered across Joan's face and on without in the least com- 
 prehending her as anything more than a lay figure in a 
 familiar setting. 
 
 But Arlington, less distracted, looked once keenly, and 
 after he had passed turned to look again. 
 
 In spite of this balm to her vanity, Joan flushed with 
 chagrin. She knew in her heart that Marbridge had not 
 other than inadvertently slighted her; yet she felt the 
 cut as keenly as though it had been grossly intentional. 
 
 Nevertheless she waited there for many minutes more, 
 in the hope that he would return and this time know her. 
 
 At length, however, she saw the two men again, at some 
 distance, standing by the revolving doors at the Thirty- 
 third Street entrance. Both now wore top-coats and hats. 
 Marbridge was still talking, and Arlington listening with 
 the same expression of faintly constrained but on the whole 
 genuine amusement. And almost as soon as Joan discov- 
 ered them, they were joined by two women in brilliant 
 evening gowns and wraps. An instant later the party 
 was feeding itself into the inappeasable hopper of the 
 revolving door, and so disappeared. 
 
 A prey to a sudden sensation of intense loneliness and 
 disappointment and with this a trace of jealousy ; for 
 in spite of the distance she had been able to see that both
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 297 
 
 women were very lovely Joan got up and returned to 
 her room. . . . 
 
 An hour later she rose from a restless attempt to go 
 to sleep, went to the telephone and asked the switchboard 
 operator to find out whether or not Mr. Vincent Mar- 
 bridge was a guest of the hotel. 
 
 The answer was in the affirmative, if modified by the 
 information that the party was n't in just then. 
 
 Intensely gratified, the girl went back to bed and 
 promptly fell asleep formulating ingenious schemes to 
 meet Marbridge by ostensible accident. 
 
 On the following day she lunched at the hotel, spent 
 two fruitless hours in its public corridors between tea 
 time and time to dress for dinner, and another in Pea- 
 cock Alley after dinner, seeing nothing whatever of 
 Marbridge. 
 
 And the day after provided her with a fatiguing repe- 
 tition of this experience. 
 
 She began to be tremendously bored by this mode of ex- 
 istence, to sense the emptiness, the vapidity of hotel life 
 for a friendless woman. 
 
 Once or twice she revived and let her fancy play 
 about her project to revisit her family in the guise of 
 Lady Bountiful, but only to defer its execution against 
 the time when she could go to them with another en- 
 gagement to drive home the stupendous proportions of 
 her success. 
 
 Besides (she told herself) they seemed to be worrying 
 along without her, all right. If they cared anything about 
 her, they could have written, at least; Edna had the 
 West Forty-sixth Street address. . . . 
 
 Not once or twice but many a time and oft she found 
 herself yearning back to the homely society of the 
 Sisters Dean's salon in the establishment of Madame 
 Duprat. And though she held back from revisiting the 
 house through fear of meeting Matthias, she wasted many 
 an hour promenading Broadway from Thirty-eighth
 
 298 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Street north to Forty-eighth, in the hope of encountering 
 Maizie or May or one of their friends. 
 
 But it was singularly her fate to espy not one familiar 
 face among the multitude her wistful eyes reviewed dur- 
 ing those dreary mid-afternoon patrols. 
 
 Everybody she knew, it would seem, was either busy 
 or resting out of town. 
 
 On her fourth morning at the Waldorf, reading The 
 Morning Telegraph over the breakfast tray in her room, 
 Joan ran across an illuminating news item that carried 
 a Buffalo date line. It chronicled the first performance 
 of Arlington's most recent venture, " Mrs. Mixer," an- 
 nounced as a satirical comedy of manners by an author 
 unknown either to Joan or to fame, and projected by 
 Arlington as a vehicle to exploit the putative talents of 
 ]STella Cardrow, " the stage's latest recruit from the Four 
 Hundred." The Buffalo performance was, it appeared, 
 the first of a fortnight's trial on the road, following which 
 the production was to be withdrawn pending a metropoli- 
 tan debut in the Autumn. 
 
 The story of the first night was infused with a thinly 
 sarcastic humour. 
 
 " After the final curtain," it pursued, " the audience 
 filed reverently from the house, omitting flowers, and 
 Arlie Arlington broke a track record reaching the nearest 
 Western Uni6n office to summon several well-known ante- 
 mortem specialists of New York to the bedside of the 
 patient. Meanwhile, Vincent Marbridge was hastily or- 
 ganized into a posse of one to prevent Undertaker Cain 
 from laying hands upon the sufferer and carting it off to 
 what might prove premature interment in the mausoleum 
 of his celebrated storage warehouses." . . . 
 
 Dropping the paper, Joan went directly to the telephone 
 and asked the office to have her bill ready within an hour's 
 time. 
 
 From this she turned to pack her new possessions in 
 a trunk as new.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 299 
 
 It had never occurred to her that Marbridge might 
 have left the hotel. 
 
 Now she said that it was " just her luck ! " . . . 
 
 By one o'clock that afternoon she had shifted bag and 
 baggage to a stuffy and poorly furnished bedchamber in 
 a crowded, noisy, and not overclean theatrical hotel situ- 
 ated on a corner of Longacre Square. 
 
 This establishment consisted of an old and rambling 
 structure of four storeys, of which the street floor was 
 given over to tradesmen. An all-night drug-store held 
 the corner shop, while other subdivisions were occupied 
 by a " tonsorial parlor," a dairy-lunch room in the favour 
 of many taxicab chauffeurs, a boot-blacking business, and 
 a theatrical hair-dresser's. Next door, off Broadway, 
 stood one of those reticent brown-stone residences with 
 perennially shuttered windows and a front-door to all ap- 
 pearances hermetically sealed, but negotiable, none the 
 less, to those whom fortune had favoured with the pass- 
 word and sufficient money and witlessness to make them 
 welcome with proprietors of crooked gambling layouts. 
 Across the street rose the side wall of a theatre, decorated 
 with an angular iron fire-escape. 
 
 The day was almost unseasonably warm, but the hour 
 appointed when the city should blossom out in awnings 
 had not arrived. Joan's room was hot with sunlight that 
 mercilessly enhanced the shabbiness of all its appoint- 
 ments, from the stained and threadbare carpet to the 
 cheap bureau with its mottled, dark mirror, and the 
 scorched and blistered edges of its top where cigarettes 
 had been suffered to burn out, forgotten. 
 
 But when Joan had unpacked and disposed of her be- 
 longings, she went to the window as she was, in a loose 
 kimono generously open at the throat, and stood there 
 for a long time, contentedly looking out. 
 
 Taxicabs darted or stood with motors sonorously rum- 
 bling in the street below. Round the corner, Longacre 
 Square roared with the traffic of its several lines of sur-
 
 300 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 face-cars and its unending procession of motor-driven 
 vehicles. The windows of the theatre across the way were 
 open, and through them drifted the clatter of a piano 
 with the surge of half a hundred feminine voices repeat- 
 ing over and over the burden of a chorus betraying the 
 fact that a rehearsal was in progress. At one of the open 
 fire-escape exits lounged a youth in his shirt-sleeves, smok- 
 ing a cigarette, and conversing amiably with a young 
 woman in a stiffly-starched white shirtwaist, ankle-length 
 skirt, and brazen hair: principals, Joan surmised, wait- 
 ing for their turn, when the chorus had learned its busi- 
 ness acceptably. 
 
 Nearer at hand, in the room to the right of Joan's, a 
 woman with a good voice was humming absently an aria 
 from " La Tosca," while to the left another woman was 
 audible, her strained and nervous accents stuttering 
 on in an endless monologue of abuse, evidently aimed at 
 the head of a husband who, if he had been " drinking 
 again," retained at least wit enough to attempt no sort 
 of interruption or rejoinder. 
 
 Joan smiled in comprehension. 
 
 Breathing long and deep of tepid air flavoured strongly 
 with dust and the effluvia of dead cigars and cigarettes, 
 she turned away from the window, lifted her arms and 
 spread them wide, luxuriously. 
 
 " Thank God ! " she murmured with profound sincerity 
 " for a place you can stretch in ! "
 
 XXX 
 
 WITH scant delay Joan began to pick up acquaintances : 
 nothing is easier in that milieu to which the girl dedicated 
 herself. 
 
 The process of widening her circle began with meeting 
 the girl whom Joan had heard singing in the adjoin- 
 ing bedchamber. They passed twice in the corridors of 
 the Astoria Inn before Joan had been resident there 
 twenty-four hours, and on the second occasion the girl 
 with the voice nodded in a friendly way and enquired 
 if Joan did n't think the weather was simply awf 'ly lovely 
 today. Joan replied in the affirmative, and their ac- 
 quaintanceship languished for as long as twelve hours. 
 Then, toward six in the evening, the girl presented her- 
 self at Joan's door in a condition of candid deshabille, 
 wishing to borrow a pair of curling-irons. Being accom- 
 modated, she came on into the room, perched herself on 
 the edge of the bed, and made herself known. 
 
 Her name was Minnie Hession and she had been sing- 
 ing in the chorus for seven years. Originally a prettyish, 
 plump-bodied brunette, she was at present what she her- 
 self termed " black-and-tan " : in the middle of the process 
 of " letting her hair go back." Her father was Chief 
 of Police of some Western city (name purposely with- 
 held: Joan was, however, assured that she would be 
 surprised if she knew what city) and her folks had heaps 
 of money and had been wild with her when she insisted 
 on going on the stage. 
 
 " But, goodness, dearie, when you Ve got tempryment, 
 whatcha goin' to do ? Nobody outsida the business ever 
 understands."
 
 302 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 All the same, much as the folks disapproved of her 
 carving out a career for herself, whenever she got hard 
 up all she had to do was telegraph straight back 
 home. . . . 
 
 She was, of course, at present without employment; 
 but Joan was advised to wait until Arlie Arlington got 
 back into Town; Arlie never forgot a girl who had not 
 only a good voice but some figure, if Miss Hession did 
 say it herself. 
 
 They went shopping together the following afternoon, 
 and in the evening dined together at a cheap Italian res- 
 taurant, counterpart of that to which Quard had first 
 introduced Joan and the Sisters Dean. Joan paid the 
 bill, by no means a heavy one, and before they went home 
 stood treat for " the movies." 
 
 After that their friendship ripened at a famous rate, 
 if exclusively at Joan's expense. 
 
 Before it had endured a week Joan had loaned Minnie 
 ten dollars. Toward the end of its first fortnight she 
 mortally offended the girl by refusing her an additional 
 twenty, and the next day Minnie moved from the Astoria 
 Tun without the formality of paying her bill or even of 
 giving notice. The management philosophically confis- 
 cated an empty suit-case which she had been too timorous 
 to attempt to smuggle out of the house everything else 
 in her room had mysteriously vanished and considered 
 the incident closed. In this the management demonstrated 
 its wisdom in its day and generation: it never saw Miss 
 Hession again. 
 
 Nor did Joan. 
 
 But through the chorus girl, as well as independently, 
 Joan had contracted many other fugitive friendships. She 
 never lacked society, after that, whether masculine or 
 feminine. Men liked her for her good looks and un- 
 affected high spirits ; women tolerated her for two reasons, 
 because she was always willing to pay not only her own 
 way but another's, and because she was what they con-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 303 
 
 sidered a " swell dresser " : her presence was an asset to 
 whatever party she lent her countenance. 
 
 Frankly revelling in freedom regained, and intoxicated 
 by possession of a considerable amount of money, she 
 let herself go for a time, quite heedless of expense or 
 consequence. Within a month she had become a familiar 
 figure in such restaurants as Burns', Churchill's, and 
 Shanley's; and her laughter was not infrequently heard 
 in Jack's when all other places of its class boasted closed 
 doors and drawn blinds. 
 
 Inevitably she acquired a somewhat extensive knowl- 
 edge of drink. Most of all she learned to love that cham- 
 pagne which Matthias had been too judicious to supply 
 her and from which she had abstained out of considera- 
 tion for Quard's weakness. But now there was no reason 
 why she should not enjoy it in such moderation as was 
 practised by her chosen associates. She preferred certain 
 sweetish and heady brands whose correspondingly low cost 
 rendered them more easy to obtain. . . . 
 
 But with all this she never failed to practise a certain 
 amount of circumspection. In one respect, she refrained 
 from growing too confidential about herself. That she 
 had been the leading woman with " The Lie " was some- 
 thing to brag about: the very cards which she had been 
 quick to have printed proclaimed the fact loudly in imi- 
 tation Old English engraving. But that she had been 
 wife to its star was something which she was not long in 
 discovering was n't generally known. The success of the 
 sketch was a by-word of envy among actors facing the 
 prospect of an idle summer; and the route columns of 
 Variety told her that, in line with her prediction, Quard 
 had somehow surmounted his San Francisco predicament 
 and was continuing to guide the little play upon its tri- 
 umphal course. But Quard himself had always been too 
 closely identified with stock companies of the second class 
 to have many friends among those with whom his wife 
 was now thrown : actors for the most part of the so-called
 
 304 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 legitimate stage, with, scant knowledge or experience 
 (little, at least, that they would own to) of theatrical 
 conditions away from Broadway and the leading theatres 
 of a few principal cities. So Joan kept her own counsel 
 about her matrimonial adventure: its publication could 
 do her no good, if possibly no harm; and she preferred 
 the freedom of ostensible spinsterhood. Her wedding- 
 ring had long since disappeared from her hand, giving 
 place to the handsome diamond with which Matthias had 
 pledged her his faith. 
 
 Furthermore, such dissipation as she indulged in was 
 never permitted to carry her beyond the border-line which, 
 in her understanding, limited discretion in her relations 
 with men. She enjoyed leading them on, but marriage 
 had made her too completely cognizant of herself to per- 
 mit of any affair going beyond a certain clearly defined 
 point: she couldn't afford to throw herself away. And 
 more than once she checked sharply and left an undrained 
 glass, warned by her throbbing pulses that she was re- 
 sponding a trace too ardently to the admiration in the 
 eyes of some male companion of the evening. 
 
 But there were only two whom she held dangerous to 
 her peace of mind, one because she was afraid of him, 
 the other because she admired him against her will. 
 
 The first was an eccentric dancer and comedian calling 
 himself Billy Salute. A man of middle-age and old be- 
 yond his years in viciousness, the gymnastic violence of 
 his calling in great measure counteracted the effects of 
 his excesses and kept him young in body. He was a 
 constant and heavy but what was known to Joan's circle 
 as a safe drinker; drunkenness never obliterated his 
 consciousness or disturbed his physical equilibrium; in 
 spite of its web of wrinkles, his skin remained fair and 
 clear as a boy's, and retained much of the fresh colour- 
 ing of youth. But his eyes were cold and hard and pro- 
 foundly informed with knowledge of womankind. His 
 regard affected Joan as had Marbridge's, that day at
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 305 
 
 Tanglewood ; under its analysis she felt herself denuded ; 
 pretence were futile to combat it : the man knew her. 
 
 He made no advances; but he watched her closely 
 whenever they were together; and she knew that he was 
 only waiting, patient in the conviction that he had only 
 to wait. 
 
 And thus he affected her with such fear and fascination 
 that she avoided him as much as possible; but he was 
 never far out of her thoughts ; he lingered always on the 
 horizon of her consciousness like the seemingly immobile 
 yet portentous bank of cloud that masks the fury of a 
 summer storm. . . . 
 
 The other man pursued her without ceasing. He was 
 young, not over twenty-five or six an age to which Joan 
 felt herself immeasurably superior in the knowledge and 
 practice of life and happened to be the one man of her 
 acquaintance who was neither an actor nor connected with 
 the business side of the stage. By some accident he 
 had blundered from newspaper reporting to writing for 
 cheaply sensational magazines, and from this to writing 
 for the stage. It is true that his achievements in this last 
 quarter had thus far been confined to collaboration with 
 a successful playwright on the dramatization of one of 
 his stories ; but that did n't lessen his self-esteem and 
 assertiveness. He claimed extraordinary ability for him- 
 self in a quite matter-of-fact tone, and on his own word 
 was on terms of intimacy with every leading manager 
 and star in the country. Nobody Joan knew troubled to 
 contradict his pretensions, and despite that wide and 
 seasoned view of life she believed herself to possess she 
 was still inexperienced enough to credit more than half 
 that he told her, never appreciating that, had the man 
 been what he claimed, he would have had no time to 
 waste toadying to actors. 
 
 He might, if not discouraged, prove very useful to her. 
 
 In fact, he promised to repeatedly. 
 
 More than this, his attentions flattered her more than
 
 306 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 she would have cared to confess even to herself. He did n't 
 lack wit, was n't without intelligence, and the power of his 
 imagination could n't be denied ; thus he figured to her as 
 the only man of mental attainments she had known since 
 Matthias. It was something to be desired by such as this 
 one, even though his abnormally developed egotism some- 
 times seemed appalling. 
 
 It manifested itself in more ways than one: in his 
 strut, in the foppishness of his dress, in his elaborate 
 affectation of an English accent. He was a small person 
 by the average standard, and slender, but well-formed, 
 and wore clothing admirably tailored if always of an 
 extreme cut. His cheeks were too fleshly, almost plump: 
 something which had the effect of making his rather deli- 
 cate features seem pinched. Near-sighted, he wore cus- 
 tomarily a horn-rimmed pince-nez from which a wide 
 black ribbon dangled like a mourning-band. 
 
 His name was Hubert Fowey. 
 
 So Joan tolerated him, encouraged him moderately 
 through motives of self-interest, checked him with laughter 
 when he tried to make love to her, secretly admired him 
 even when his conceit was most fatiguing, and wondered 
 what manner of women he had known to make him think 
 that she would ever yield to his insistence. . . . 
 
 She had been nearly six weeks in New York when she 
 awoke one morning to rest in languorous regret of a late 
 supper the preceding night, and to wonder whither she 
 was tending, spurred to self-examination by that singu- 
 larly clear introspective vision which not infrequently 
 follows intemperance at least, when one is young. 
 
 She was reminded sharply that, since returning to 
 Town, she had made hardly a single attempt to find 
 work, beyond having her professional cards printed. 
 
 And this was the edge of Summer. . . . 
 
 Where would the Autumn find her? 
 
 Slipping quickly out of bed, she collected her store of 
 money, and counted it for the first time in several weeks.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 307 
 
 The sum total showed a shocking discrepancy between 
 cold fact and the small fortune she had all along been 
 permitting herself to believe she possessed. Even allow- 
 ing for these heavy initial purchases on returning to New 
 York, her capital had shrunk alarmingly. 
 
 She began anew, that day, the rounds of managers' 
 offices. 
 
 Also, she laid down for her guidance a rigid schedule 
 of economies. Only by strict observance thereof would 
 she be able to scrape through the Summer without work 
 or financial assistance from some quarter. 
 
 Characteristically, she mourned now, but transiently, 
 that she had so long deferred going to see her mother 
 and Edna something now obviously out of the question ; 
 they would want money, to a certainty, and Joan had 
 none to spare them. 
 
 A few days later she moved to share, half-and-half, 
 the expenses of a three-room apartment on Fiftieth Street, 
 near Eighth Avenue, with a minor actress whom she had 
 recently met and taken a fancy to. Life was rather less 
 expensive under this regime; the young women got their 
 own breakfasts and, as a rule, lunches that were quite 
 as meagre : repasts chiefly composed of crackers, cold meats 
 from a convenient delicatessen shop, with sometimes a 
 bottle of beer shared between two. If no one offered a 
 dinner in exchange for their society, they would dine 
 frugally at the cheaper restaurants of the neighbourhood. 
 But their admirers they shared loyally: if one were 
 invited to dine, the other accompanied her as a matter 
 of course. 
 
 An arrangement apparently conducive to the most com- 
 plete intimacy; neither party thereto doubted that she 
 was in the full confidence of the other. There were, none 
 the less, reservations on both sides. 
 
 Harriet Morrison, Joan's latest companion, was a girl 
 whose very considerable personal attractions and innate 
 love of pleasure were balanced by greenish eyes, a firm
 
 308 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 jaw, and the sincere conviction that straight-going and 
 hard work would lead her to success upon the legitimate 
 stage. She knew Joan for an incurable opportunist with 
 few convictions of any sort other than that she could act 
 if given a chance, and that men, if properly managed, 
 would give her that chance. For one so temperamentally 
 her opposite, Hattie could n't help entertaining some un- 
 spoken contempt. On the other 'hand, she believed Joan 
 to be decent, as yet; and halving the cost of living per- 
 mitted her to indulge in the luxury of a week-end at the 
 seaside once or twice a month. 
 
 One day near the first of July the two, happening to 
 meet on Broadway after a morning of fruitless search for 
 engagements, turned for luncheon into Shanley's new 
 restaurant by way of an unusual treat. 
 
 They had barely given their order when Matthias came 
 in accompanied by a manager who had offices in the 
 Bryant Building, and sat down at a table not altogether 
 out of speaking-distance. 
 
 To cover her discomfiture, which betrayed itself in 
 flushed cheeks, Joan complained of the heat : an explana- 
 tion accepted by Hattie without question, since Matthias 
 had not yet looked their way. 
 
 Joan prayed that he might not; but the thing was 
 inevitable, and it was no less inevitable that he should 
 look at the precise instant when Joan, unable longer to 
 curb her curiosity, raised her eyes to his. 
 
 For a moment she fancied that he did n't recognize 
 her. But then his face brightened, and he nodded and 
 smiled, coolly, perhaps, but civilly, without the least evi- 
 dence of confusion. They might have been the most 
 casual acquaintances. 
 
 And, indeed, the incident would probably have passed 
 unremarked but for the promptings of Joan's conscience. 
 She was sure the glance of Matthias had shifted from her 
 face to the hand on which his diamond shone, and had 
 rested there for a significant moment.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 309 
 
 As a matter of fact, nothing of the sort had happened. 
 Matthias was absorbed in negotiations concerning an old 
 play which had caught the fancy of the manager. Joan, 
 though he knew her at sight, was now too inconsiderable 
 a figure in his world for him to recall, offhand, that he 
 had ever made her a present. 
 
 Nevertheless the girl coloured furiously, and blushed 
 again under the inquisitive stare of her companion. 
 
 "Who's that?" 
 
 " Who ? " Joan muttered sullenly. 
 
 " The fellow who bowed to you just now." 
 
 " Oh, that ? " Joan made an unconvincing effort at 
 speaking casually : " A man named Matthias a play- 
 wright, I believe." 
 
 " Oh," said the other girl quietly. " Never done any- 
 thing much, has he ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You don't know him very well ? " 
 
 There was a touch of irony in the question that struck 
 sparks from Joan's temper. 
 
 " That 's my business ! " 
 
 " I 'm sure I beg your pardon," Hattie drawled 
 exasperatingly. 
 
 And the incident was considered closed, though it did n't 
 pass without leaving its indelible effect upon their as- 
 sociation. 
 
 With Joan it had another result: it made her think. 
 Retrospectively examining the contretemps, after she had 
 gone to bed that night, she arrived at the comforting con- 
 clusion that she had been a little fool to think that Mat- 
 thias " held that old ring against her." He had n't been 
 her lover for several weeks without furnishing the girl 
 with a fairly clear revelation of his character. He was 
 simple-hearted and sincere; she could not remember his 
 uttering one ungenerous word or being guilty of one un- 
 generous action, and she did n't believe he could make 
 room in his mind for an ungenerous thought.
 
 310 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Now if she were to return it, he would think that fine 
 of her. . . . 
 
 Of course, she must take it back in person. If she 
 returned it by registered mail, he would have reason to 
 believe her afraid to meet him that she had been 
 frightened by his mere glance into sending it back. 
 
 Not that she hadn't every right in the world to keep 
 it, if she liked: there was no law compelling a girl 
 to return her engagement ring when she broke with a 
 man. 
 
 But Matthias would admire her for it. 
 
 Moreover, it was just possible that he hadn't as yet 
 arrived at the stage of complete indifference toward her. 
 And he had " the ear of the managers." 
 
 Nerving herself to the ordeal, two days later, she dressed 
 with elaborate care in the suit she had worn on her flight 
 from Quard. Newly sponged and pressed, it was quite 
 presentable, if a little heavy for the season ; moreover, it 
 lacked the lustre and style of her later acquisitions. It 
 would n't do to seem too prosperous . . . 
 
 It was a Saturday afternoon, and Hattie had taken her- 
 self off to a nearby ocean beach for the week-end; some- 
 thing for which Joan was grateful, inasmuch as it enabled 
 her to dress her part without exciting comment. 
 
 To her relief, a servant new to the house since her 
 time, answered her ring at the bell of Number 289, and 
 with an indifferent nod indicated the door to the back- 
 parlour. 
 
 Behind that portal Matthias was working furiously 
 against time, carpentering against the grain that play to 
 discuss which he had lunched at Shanley's ; the managerial 
 personage having offered to consider it seriously if certain 
 changes were made. And the playwright was in haste 
 to be quit of the job, not only because he disapproved 
 heartily of the stipulated alterations, but further because 
 he was booked for some weeks in Maine as soon as the 
 revision was finished.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 811 
 
 Humanly, then, he was little pleased to be warned, 
 through the medium of a knock, that his work was to 
 suffer interruption. 
 
 He swore mildly beneath his breath, glanced suspi- 
 ciously at the non-committal door, growled brusque per- 
 mission to enter, and bent again over the manuscript, 
 refusing to look up until he had pursued a thread of 
 thought to its conclusion, and knotted that same all ship- 
 shape. 
 
 And when at length he consented to be aware of the 
 young woman on his threshold, waiting in a pose of pa- 
 tience, her eyes wide with doubt and apprehensions, his 
 mind was so completely detached from any thought of 
 Joan that he failed, at first, to recognize her. 
 
 But the alien presence brought him to his feet quickly 
 enough. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said with an uncertain nod. 
 " You wished to see me about something ? " 
 
 Closing the door, Joan came slowly forward into 
 stronger light. 
 
 " You don't remember me ? " she asked, half perplexed, 
 half wistful of aspect. " But I thought the other day 
 at Shanley's " 
 
 " But of course I remember you," Matthias interrupted 
 with a constrained smile. " But I was n't ah ex- 
 pecting you not exactly you understand." 
 
 " Oh, yes," Joan replied in subdued and dubious ac- 
 cents "I understand." 
 
 She waited a moment, watching narrowly under cover 
 of assumed embarrassment, the signs of genuine astonish- 
 ment which Matthias felt too keenly to think of conceal- 
 ing. Then she added an uneasy: 
 
 " Of course . . ." 
 
 " Of course ! " Matthias echoed witlessly. " You 
 wanted to see me about something," he iterated, wander- 
 ing. With an effort he pulled himself together. " Won't 
 you sit down ah Joan ? "
 
 312 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Thank you," said the girl. " But I 'm afraid I 'm 
 in the way," she amended, dropping back into the old, 
 worn, easy-chair. 
 
 " Oh, no I " 
 
 The insincerity of his disclaimer was manifest in an 
 apologetic glance toward the manuscript and a hasty thrust 
 of fingers up through his hair. Joan caught him up 
 quickly. 
 
 " Oh, but I know I am, so I shan't stay," she said, 
 settling herself comfortably. " I only ask a minute or 
 two of your time. You don't mind ? " 
 
 " Mind ? Why, I certainly not." 
 
 She looked down as if disconcerted by his honest, per- 
 plexed, questioning eyes. 
 
 " I was afraid you might, after after what 's hap- 
 pened " 
 
 He fumbled for a cigarette, beginning to feel more 
 calm, less nervous than annoyed. The fact of her 
 unruffled self-possession had at length penetrated his 
 understanding. 
 
 " E"o," he said slowly, rolling the cigarette between his 
 palms, " I don't mind in the least, if I can be of service 
 to you." 
 
 " But I was very foolish," Joan persisted, " and and 
 unkind. I 've been sorry ever since . . ." 
 
 " Don't be," Matthias begged, his tone so odd that she 
 looked up swiftly and coloured. 
 
 Thus far everything had gone famously, quite as re- 
 hearsed in the theatre of her optimistic fancy; but the 
 new accent in his voice made her suddenly fear lest, after 
 all, the little scene might not play itself out as smoothly 
 as it had promised to. 
 
 " Don't be," Matthias repeated coolly. " It 's quite all 
 right. Take my word for it : as far as I 'm concerned 
 you 've nothing at all to reproach yourself with." 
 
 Her flush deepened. " You mean you did n't 
 care ! "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 313 
 
 Matthias smiled, but not unkindly. " I mean," he 
 said slowly " neither of us really cared." 
 
 " Speak for yourself " Joan cut in with a flash of 
 temper ; but he obtained her silence with a gentle gesture. 
 
 " Please ... I mean, we both lost our heads for a 
 time. That was all there was to it, I think. Naturally 
 it could n't last. You were wise enough to see that first 
 and ah did the only thing you decently could, when 
 you threw me over. I understood that, at once." 
 
 " But I," she began in a desperate effort to regain 
 lost ground "I was afraid you 'd hate and despise 
 me " 
 
 "Not a bit, Joan believe me, not for an instant. 
 When I had had time to think it all out, I was simply 
 grateful. I could never have learned to hate or despise 
 you as you put it whatever happened ; but if you 
 had n't been so sensible and far-sighted, the affair might 
 have run on too far to be remedied. In which case we 'd 
 both have been horribly unhappy." 
 
 This was so far from the attitude she had believed he 
 would adopt, that Joan understood her cause to be worse 
 than forlorn: it was lost; lost, that is, unless it could 
 be saved by her premeditated heroic measure. 
 
 Fumbling in her bag, she found his ring. 
 
 " Perhaps you 're right," she said with a little sigh. 
 " Anyhow, it 's like you to put it that way. . . . But 
 what I really came for, was to return this." 
 
 She offered the ring. He looked, startled, from it to her 
 face, hesitated, and took it. " O thanks ! " he said, add- 
 ing quite truthfully : " I M forgotten about that " ; and 
 tossed it carelessly to his work-table where, rolling across 
 the face of a manuscript, it oscillated momentarily and 
 settling to rest, seemed to wink cynically at its late 
 possessor. 
 
 Joan blinked hastily in response : there was a transient 
 little mist before her eyes; and momentarily her lips 
 trembled with true emotion. The scene was working out
 
 314 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 more painfully than she had ever in her direst misgivings 
 dreamed it might. 
 
 Deep in her heart she had all along nursed the hope 
 that he would insist on her retaining the ring. That 
 would have been like the Matthias of her memories ! 
 
 But now he seemed to think that she ought to be glad 
 thus to disburden her conscience and by just so much 
 to modify her indebtedness to him! 
 
 Struck by this thought, Joan gasped inwardly, and 
 examined with startled eyes the face of Matthias. It 
 was her first reminder of the fact that he had left her 
 one hundred and fifty unearned dollars. She had for- 
 gotten all about that till this instant. Otherwise, she 
 would have hesitated longer about calling. She wondered 
 if he were thinking of the same thing; but his face af- 
 forded no index to his thoughts. He was n't looking at 
 her at all, in fact, but down, in abstraction, studying the 
 faded pattern of the carpet at his feet. 
 
 She wondered if perhaps it would advance her interests 
 to offer to return the money, to pay it back bit by bit 
 when she found work. But wisely she refrained from act- 
 ing on this suggestion. 
 
 " I 'm sorry I was so long about bringing it back," she 
 resumed with an artificial manner. " I was always mean- 
 ing to, you know, and always kept putting it off. You 
 know how it is when you 're on the road : one never seems 
 to have any time to one's self." 
 
 " I quite understand," Matthias assured her gravely. 
 
 She grew sensitive to the fact that he was being patient 
 with her. 
 
 " But I really must n't keep you from your work," she 
 said, rising. " You you knew I was working, did n't 
 you?" 
 
 " I heard," Matthias evaded "in a roundabout way 
 that you were playing in vaudeville." 
 
 The girl nodded vigorously. " Oh, yes ; I was all 
 over, playing the lead in a sketch called ' The Lie.' It
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 315 
 
 was a regular knock-out. You ought to have seen how 
 it got over. It 's still playing, somewhere out West, I 
 guess." 
 
 " You left it, then ? " Matthias asked, bored, heartily 
 wishing her out of the house. 
 
 She was aching to know if he had learned of her mar- 
 riage. But then she felt sure he could n't possibly have 
 heard about it. Still, she wondered, if he did know, would 
 it modify his attitude toward her in any way ? 
 
 " Yes," she resumed briskly, to cover her momentary 
 hesitation, " I left it the week we played 'Frisco. I had 
 to. The star and I could n't seem to hit it off, somehow. 
 You know how that is." 
 
 " And yet you must have managed to agree with him 
 pretty well, from all I hear." 
 
 " What did you hear ? " 
 
 (Did he really know, then?) 
 
 " Why," Matthias explained ingeniously, " you must 
 have been with the sketch for several months, by your 
 own account. You could n't have been bickering all that 
 time." 
 
 Confidence returned. ..." Oh, that ! Yes, of course. 
 But I could see it coming a long ways ahead. So I quit, 
 and came back to look for another engagement. You " 
 
 She broke off, stammering. 
 
 " Beg pardon ? " Matthias queried curiously. 
 
 Joan flushed again. " You don't know of anything I 
 could do, just now, I suppose ? " 
 
 He shook his head. " Not at present, I 'm afraid." 
 
 " If you should hear of anything, it would be awful' 
 good of you to let me know." 
 
 " Depend upon me, I shall." 
 
 " Care of The Dramatic Mirror will always get me." 
 
 " I shan't forget." 
 
 " Well . . ." She offered him her hand with a splen- 
 didly timid smile. " I suppose it 's good-bye for good 
 this time."
 
 316 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Matthias accepted her hand, shook it without a tremor, 
 and released it easily. 
 
 " I 've a notion it is, Joan," he admitted. 
 
 She turned toward the door, advanced a pace or two, 
 and paused. 
 
 " They say Arlington 's going to make a lot of new 
 productions next Fall . . ." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Well, I was wondering if you would n't mind putting 
 in a good word for me." 
 
 " I would be glad to, but unfortunately I don't know 
 Mr. Arlington." 
 
 " But you know Mr. Marbridge, and everybody says 
 he 's Arlington's silent partner." 
 
 Matthias looked as uncomfortable as he felt. 
 
 " I am not sure that is true," he said slowly, " and 
 well, to tell the truth, Marbridge and I are n't on the 
 best of terms. I 'm afraid I could n't influence him in 
 any way except, perhaps, to prejudice him." 
 
 "Oh!" Joan said blankly. . . . 
 
 It came to her, in a flash, that the two men might have 
 quarrelled about her, thanks to the obvious fascination 
 she had exerted over Marbridge, that age-old day at 
 Tanglewood. 
 
 " I suppose," she ventured pensively, " I might go to 
 see him Mr. Marbridge myself ? " 
 
 " I 'm afraid I can't advise you." 
 
 This time the accent of finality was unmistakable. 
 Joan bridled with resentment. After all, he 'd no real 
 call to be so uppish, simply because she hadn't let him 
 stand between her and her career. . . . 
 
 " You don't really think I ought to go and see him, 
 do you ? " 
 
 " I wish you would n't ask me, Joan." 
 
 " But I Ve got no one to advise me. ... If you don't 
 think it wise, I wish you 'd say so. I thought perhaps 
 it was a chance .
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 317 
 
 Matthias shrugged, excessively irritated by her per- 
 sistence. " I can only say that I would n't advise any 
 woman to look to Marbridge for anything honourable," 
 he said reluctantly. 
 
 " Oh ! " the girl said in a startled tone. 
 
 " But I 'm sorry you made me say that. It 'a none 
 of my affair. Please forget I said it." 
 
 " But you make it so hard for me." 
 
 " I ? " he cried indignantly "I make it hard for 
 you ! " 
 
 " Well, I come to you for advice friendly advice 
 and you close in my very face the only door I can see 
 to any sort of work. It 's it 's pretty hard. I can act, 
 I know I can act ! I guess I proved that when I was with 
 Charlie Mr. Quard the star of ' The Lie,' you know. 
 I couldn't 've stuck as long as I did if I hadn't had 
 talent. . . . But back here in New York, all that does n't 
 seem to count. Here I 've been going around for two 
 months, and all they offer me is a chorus job with some 
 road company. But Arlington ... he employs more 
 girls than anybody in the business. I know he 'd give me 
 a chance to show what I can do, if I could only get to 
 him. And then you tell me not to try to get to him the 
 only way I know." 
 
 Abruptly Joan ceased, breathing heavily after that long 
 and, even to her, unexpected speech. But it had been 
 well delivered: she could feel that. She clenched her 
 hands at her sides in a gesture plagiarized from a sou- 
 brette star in one of her infrequent scenes of stage ex- 
 citement; and stood regarding Matthias with wide, 
 accusing eyes. 
 
 His own were blank. . . . 
 
 He was trying to account to himself for the fact that 
 this girl seemed to have the knack of making him feel 
 a heartless scoundrel, even when his stand was morally 
 impregnable, even though it were unassailable. 
 
 Here was this girl, evidently convinced that he had not
 
 318 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 dealt squarely with her, believing that he deliberately 
 withheld out of pique, perhaps aid in his power to 
 offer her. . . . 
 
 He passed a hand wearily across his eyes, and turned 
 back toward his work-chair. 
 
 " You 'd better sit down," he said quietly, " while I 
 think this out." 
 
 Without a word the girl returned to the arm-chair 
 and perched herself gingerly upon the edge of it, ready 
 to rise and flee (she seemed) whenever it should pardon- 
 ably suggest itself to Matthias that the only right and 
 reasonable thing for him to do was to rise up and mur- 
 der her. . . . 
 
 On his part, sitting, he rested elbows upon the litter 
 of manuscript, and held his head in his hands. 
 
 He was sorry now that he had yielded to the tempta- 
 tion to be plain-spoken about Arlington and Marbridge. 
 But she had driven him to it; and she was an empty- 
 headed little thing and ought really to be kept out of 
 that galley. On the other hand, he was afraid that if he 
 allowed himself to be persuaded to help her find a new 
 engagement, she would misunderstand his motives one way 
 or another most probably the one. He could n't afford 
 to have her run away with the notion that his affection 
 for her had been merely hibernating. He had not only 
 himself, he had Venetia to think of, now. To her he had 
 dedicated his life, to a dumb, quixotic passion. Some 
 day she might need him; some day, it seemed certain, 
 she would need him. She was presently to have a child ; 
 and Marbridge was going on from bad to worse; things 
 could not forever endure as they were between those two. 
 And then she would be friendless, a woman with a child 
 fighting for the right to live in solitary decency . . . 
 
 But Joan! ... If she were headed that way, toward 
 the Arlington wheel within the wheel of the stage, even 
 at risk of blame and misunderstanding Matthias felt that 
 he ought to do what could be done to set her back upon
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 319 
 
 the right road. It was too bad, really. And it was none 
 of his business. The girl had given herself to the theatre 
 of her own volition, after all. Or had she ? Had the 
 right of choice been accorded her ? Or was it simply that 
 she had been designed by Nature especially for that busi- 
 ness, to which women of her calibre seemed so essential ? 
 Was she, after all, simply life-stuff manufactured hastily 
 and carelessly in an old, worn mould, because destined 
 solely to be fed wholesale into the insatiable maw of the 
 stage ? 
 
 He shook his head in weary doubt, and sighed. 
 
 " Probably," he said, fumbling with a pen and avoiding 
 her eyes "I presume you 'd better come back in a 
 day or two say Tuesday. That will give me time to 
 look round and see what I can scare up for you. Or 
 perhaps Wednesday would be even better. . . ." 
 
 He dropped the pen and rose, his manner inviting ner 
 to leave. 
 
 " Wednesday ? " she repeated, reluctantly getting up 
 again. 
 
 " At four, if that 's convenient." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, it is. And . . . thank you so much 
 . . . Jack." 
 
 " No, no," Matthias expostulated wearily. 
 
 " !No, I mean it," she insisted. " You 're awf 'ly sweet 
 not to be unkind to me." 
 
 " Believe me, I could never be that." 
 
 " Then g'daf ternoon." 
 
 " Good afternoon, Joan." 
 
 But as he moved to open the door, his eyes were caught 
 by the flash from a facet of the diamond ; and the thought 
 came to him that its presence there assorted ill with his 
 latest assurance to the girl. Catching it up, he offered it 
 to Joan as she was about to go. 
 
 " And this," he said, smiling " don't forget it, 
 please." 
 
 Automatically her hand moved out to take it, but was
 
 320 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 stayed. Her eyes widened with true consternation, and 
 she gasped faintly. 
 
 " You you don't mean it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do. Please take it. I 've really no use for 
 it, Joan, and well, you and I know what professional 
 life means." He grinned awry. " It might be of service 
 to you some day." 
 
 With a cry of gratitude that was half a sob, but with 
 no other acknowledgment, the girl accepted the gift, stum- 
 bled through the door in a daze, and so from the house.
 
 XXXI 
 
 So it seemed that all men were much alike. Joan knew 
 but two types, the man who lived by his brains and the 
 man who lived by his wits, but had no more hesitation 
 in generalizing from these upon masculine society as a 
 whole than a scientist has in constructing a thesis upon 
 the habits of prehistoric mammalia from the skull of a 
 pterodactyl and the thigh-bone of an ichthyosaurus. . . . 
 
 They were all much alike: if you knew how to get 
 round one kind, you knew how to win over the other; 
 there was a merely negligible difference in the mode of 
 attack. You appealed to their sympathies, or to their 
 sentiments, or their appetites, and if these failed you 
 appealed to their pride in their self-assumed role of the 
 protectors. 
 
 It was no great trick, once you had made yourself 
 mistress of it. 
 
 By this route Joan achieved the feat of looking down 
 on Matthias; and that was not wholesome for the girl, 
 leaving her world destitute of a single human soul that 
 commanded her respect. 
 
 She had needed only to stir up his jealousy of Mar- 
 bridge and his innate chivalry . . . 
 
 As if she did n't know what Arlington's companies were 
 like ! The facts were notorious ; nobody troubled to blink 
 them ; Arlington's employees least of all. It was n't their 
 business to blink the facts; a girl without following had 
 as little chance of securing a place in one of his choruses 
 as a girl without a pretty figure. 
 
 But, of course, a handsome girl with a good figure . . . 
 
 Joan glanced in a shop window, en passant; but she
 
 322 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 saw nothing of the display of wares. The plate glass 
 made a darkling mirror for the passers-by: Joan could 
 see that her refurbished travelling suit fitted her be- 
 comingly, even though it was a trifle passe. 
 
 She hurried home and changed it, and hurried forth 
 again to keep an appointment with Hubert Fowey. 
 
 They dined at a pretentious hotel, in an " Orange 
 Garden " whose false moonlight and tinkling, artificial 
 fountain manufactured an alluring simulacrum of roman- 
 tic night, despite the incessant activities of a ragtime - 
 bitten orchestra and the inability of the ventilating system 
 to infuse a hint of coolness into the heavy, superheated 
 air. 
 
 Joan had little appetite the day had been too over- 
 poweringly hot but she was very thirsty; and Fowey 
 provided a brand of champagne less sweet and heady 
 than she would have chosen, and consequently more 
 insinuative. 
 
 During the meal Billy Salute appeared at a table 
 across the room and invisible to Fowey, whose back was 
 toward it, but still not far enough removed to prevent 
 Joan from recognizing that look in the dancer's eyes 
 which she resented so angrily. She did n't once look at 
 the man; but she never quite lost sight of him, and was 
 well aware that he was ridiculing Fowey to his com- 
 panion an actor, by many an indication, but a stranger 
 to Joan. 
 
 Provoked, she demonstrated her contempt of Salute by 
 flirting outrageously with Fowey. Unconscious of her 
 motive, that aspiring little dramatic author lost his head 
 to some extent. Now and again his voice trembled when 
 he spoke to her, and once he mumbled something about 
 marriage, but checked at discretion, and let his words trail 
 off inarticulately. 
 
 Joan was not to be denied. 
 
 " What did you say ? " she demanded, with her most 
 distracting smile.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 323 
 
 " Oh, nothing of any importance," muttered Fowey, his 
 face reddening. 
 
 " But you did say something. I only caught part of 
 it. Hubert, I want to know! " 
 
 It was the first time she had used his given name. 
 
 "I I only wondered if you were married," he stam- 
 mered. " You talk so cursed little about yourself ! " 
 
 " Does it matter ? " she parried, surrender in her eyes. 
 
 He choked and gulped on his champagne. 
 
 " But you 're not, are you ? " he persisted. 
 
 "What's that to you?" 
 
 He hesitated and changed the subject, fearful lest his 
 tongue compromise him. 
 
 " What shall we do now ? Don't say a roof garden. 
 Let 's get out of this infernal smother. I vote for a 
 taxi ride to Manhattan Beach." 
 
 Joan assented. 
 
 Leaving, they passed Salute's table. Joan gave the 
 dancer a distant and chilling greeting, and swept haugh- 
 tily past, ignoring his offer to rise. The insolent irony of 
 his eyes was incredibly offensive to her. They said : " I 
 am waiting, I am patient, I make no effort, I am in- 
 evitable." 
 
 She swore in her soul that she would prove them 
 wrong. 
 
 In the taxicab Fowey made some slighting reference to 
 the dancer. 
 
 " He 's the devil ! " Joan declared with profound 
 conviction. 
 
 But she wouldn't explain her reasons for so naming 
 him. 
 
 When occasion offered, in the more shadowed stretches 
 of their course to the sea, Fowey attempted to kiss her. 
 But she would have none of him then, fending him off 
 by main strength and raillery ; and she was pleased with 
 the discovery that she was stronger than he. Yet another 
 evidence of the inferiority of man!
 
 324 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 At the beach, Fowey ordered a claret cup. Joan de- 
 manded an ice and drank sparingly; but when again in 
 the motor-car, homeward-bound, she was abruptly smitten 
 with amazement to find herself in Fowey's arms, sub- 
 mitting to his kisses if not returning them. 
 
 For a time she remained so and let him talk love to her. 
 
 It was pleasant, to be wanted. . . . 
 
 Arrived at the little flat, she had to prevent Fowey's 
 following her in, again by main strength, slamming the 
 door in his face. 
 
 Bolting the door, she turned to a mirror " to see what 
 a fright she must have looked." But it seemed a radiant 
 vision that smiled back at her. 
 
 She thought hazily of Hubert Fowey. 
 
 " That kid ! " she murmured, not altogether in con- 
 tempt, but almost compassionately. 
 
 It was a shame to tease him so. ... 
 
 Not until the next day, that dawned upon her con- 
 sciousness amid the thunders of a splitting headache, did 
 she appreciate how far the affair had gone. 
 
 Penitent, she vowed reformation. She was n't going 
 to let any man think he could make a fool of her, much 
 less that conceited little whippersnapper. 
 
 As it happened, she did n't see the amateur dramatist 
 again for some days. He, too, had vowed reformation, 
 and on much the same moral grounds. 
 
 Her appointment with Matthias, for Wednesday at 
 four, Joan failed to keep. And since that was her own 
 affair, and since she had not left him her address, Mat- 
 thias kept to himself the word that he had for her and, in 
 accordance with his original intention, boarded the Bar 
 Harbor Express that same evening, and forgot New York 
 for upwards of ten weeks. 
 
 It had rained all day Tuesday, and Wednesday was 
 overcast but dry and, by contrast with what had been, 
 cool. Dressing for her interview with Matthias, Joan 
 donned a summery gown of lawn, liberally inset with
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 325 
 
 lacework over her shoulders and bosom: a frock for 
 the country-house or the seashore, never for the Broadway 
 pavements. None the less it was quite too pretty to be 
 wasted on Matthias alone. She set out to keep her ap- 
 pointment with an hour to spare, purposing to employ 
 the interval by running, at leisure, the gauntlet of mas- 
 culine admiration on Broadway as far south as Thirty- 
 eighth Street. For this expedition she would have pre- 
 ferred company; but Hattie, having looked her over, 
 announced that she couldn't dress up to Joan's style, 
 did n't mean to try, and did n't care to be used as a 
 foil; furthermore, it was much more sensible to loaf 
 round the flat in little or no clothing at all, and read 
 up on Pinero. 
 
 From the Astor Theatre corner Joan struck across 
 Broadway to the eastern sidewalk, chiefly to avoid the 
 throng of loungers in front of the Bryant Building : it is 
 good to be admired, but Joan had little taste for the form 
 of admiration that becomes vocal at once intimately and 
 publicly. 
 
 Half-way down the New York Theatre Building block, 
 she turned abruptly and scuttled like a frightened quail 
 into the lobby, from the back of which, turning, she was 
 able to see, without being, seen by, Quard. 
 
 Brief as the term of their dissociation was, in mere point 
 of elapsed time, Joan had so completely divorced herself 
 from her husband that she was actually beginning to 
 forget him; physically no less than mentally she was 
 beginning to forget him. An outcast from her life, he 
 no longer had any real existence in her world. By some 
 curious freak of sophistry she had even managed to 
 persuade herself she was never to see him again. Thus 
 it seemed the most staggering shock she had ever expe- 
 rienced, to recognize the man's head and shoulders loom- 
 ing above the throng before the entrance to the moving- 
 picture show, just south of the lobby to the New York 
 Theatre proper.
 
 326 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 But Quard had n't seen her. He was with companions, 
 a brace of vaudeville actors whom Joan knew through him. 
 But while she waited for them to pass, two other friends 
 accosted the three, directly before the lobby entrance, and 
 they paused to exchange greetings. Quard slapped both 
 newcomers on their shoulders, and kept his hand on the 
 last he slapped, bending forward and engaging their inter- 
 est with some intimate bit of ribaldry. He had been 
 drinking Joan saw that much at a glance not heavily, 
 but enough to render his good-fellowship boisterous. 
 
 Otherwise he looked well. He was hardly to be iden- 
 tified with that sodden wreck which had been brought from 
 the Barbary Coast back to the woman he had insulted 
 and abused. His colour was good, his poise assured. He 
 was wearing new clothing a loud shepherd's-plaid effect 
 which Joan couldn't possibly have forgotten. No one 
 could possibly have forgotten it. And he had acquired 
 a dashing Panama hat which at least looked genuine at 
 that slight distance. Useless to have wasted pity on the 
 man: he had fallen, but not far, and he had fallen on 
 his feet. 
 
 Joan eyed him with fear, despair, and loathing. 
 
 Had he come to render New York too small to contain 
 them both? 
 
 She skulked in the farthest corner of the lobby, in shad- 
 ows, not quite round the corner of the elevator shaft 
 where she could just see and ran least risk of being seen 
 and waited. But the group on the sidewalk seemed to 
 have settled down to a protracted session. When Quard 
 had finished talking, and the laughter had quieted down, 
 another fixed the attention of the group with a second 
 anecdote, of what nature Joan could well surmise. 
 
 Of course, it was only a question of time before Quard 
 would propose a drink. 
 
 Then she would be free to proceed to her appointment. 
 
 But through some oversight the suggestion remained 
 temporarily in abeyance; and Joan was unlucky in that
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 327 
 
 none of the policemen appeared, who are assigned to the 
 business of keeping actors moving in that neighbourhood. 
 
 After a minute or two Quard shifted his position so 
 that he could, by simply lifting his eyes, have looked 
 directly into the lobby. 
 
 At this Joan turned in desperation and entered the cage 
 of an elevator, which happened just then to be waiting 
 with an open gate. 
 
 There were several theatrical enterprises with offices on 
 one of the upper floors : no reason why Joan should n't 
 wait in one of these until it would be safe to venture forth 
 again. There was Arlington's, for instance. 
 
 Joan's was no strange figure there. She had long since 
 made several attempts to see Arlington or one of his 
 lieutenants; but her professional cards, borne in to them 
 by a disillusioned office-boy, had educed no other response 
 than " Mist' Arlington says they 's nothin' doin' just' 
 present." 
 
 But it was as good a place as any for Joan's purpose, 
 and there could be no harm trying again. 
 
 The same world-weary boy received her card when she 
 entered the suite of offices. He considered it, and Joan 
 as well, dispassionately. 
 
 " Whoja wanna see ? " he mumbled with patent effort. 
 
 Joan's prettiest smile was apparently wasted upon the 
 temperament of an anchorite. 
 
 " Mr. Arlington, please." 
 
 The boy offered to return the card : " He ain't in." 
 
 " That 's what you always tell me." 
 
 " He ain't never in." 
 
 " Very well," said Joan sweetly : " I '11 wait." 
 
 The boy started to say something pointed, hesitated, 
 regarded her with dull suspicion, and suddenly enquired: 
 
 " Whaja wanna see 'm 'bout? " 
 
 " A matter of private business." 
 
 " Ah," drawled the boy with infinite disgust, " tha's 
 what they all say ! " An embittered grimace shaped upon
 
 328 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 his soiled face. " Lis'n ! " he said, almost affably " if 
 yuh '11 think up a good one, I '11 fetch this inta his 
 sec't'ry. Now cud anythin' be fairer 'n that ? " 
 
 " I '11 go you," Joan retorted, falling in with his spirit. 
 " Tell him a friend of Mr. Marbridge's wants to see 
 him." 
 
 She esteemed this a rather brilliant bit of diplomacy, 
 and at the same time considered herself stupid not to 
 have thought of it before. But it failed to move the 
 office-boy. His head signalled a negative. 
 
 " Havta do better 'n that," he announced. " If I fell 
 for eVry wren what claims she 's a nintimate frien' of 
 Mista Marbridge " 
 
 " But I am a friend of his truly I am ! " Joan in- 
 sisted warmly. 
 
 The boy rammed a hand into a trouser's-pocket. 
 " Betcha " he began ; but reconsidered. " Yuh never 
 can tell 'bout a skirt," he reminded himself audibly. 
 " But, jus' to prove I 'm a sport, I '11 go yuh." 
 
 Motioning Joan through the door of the reception 
 room, he shambled off with an air of questioning his own 
 sanity. 
 
 The reception room was perhaps thirty feet long by 
 fifteen wide: an interior room, lighted, and none too 
 well, by electricity, ventilated, when at all, through the 
 doorways of adjoining offices. A row of cane-seated chairs 
 was aligned against the inner wall. In the middle of 
 the floor stood a broad and substantial table of oak ; it was 
 absolutely bare. Here and there a few unhappy litho- 
 graphs, yellowing " life-size " photographs of dead or 
 otherwise extinguished stars, and a framed play-bill or 
 two of Arlington's earlier ventures, decorated the dingy 
 drab wall. There was no floor-covering of any description. 
 
 In this room herded some two-score people of the stage, 
 waiting hopefully for interviews that were, as a rule, 
 granted to not more than one applicant in ten: a hetero- 
 geneous assemblage, owning a single characteristic in
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 329 
 
 common : whenever, at the far end of the room, the door 
 opened leading to the offices of the management, every 
 head turned that way, and every voice was hushed in 
 reverence. 
 
 Yet it was seldom that the door disclosed anything more 
 unique than a second office-boy, even more dejected than 
 the first, who, peering through, would, after examining 
 the card in his hand for the name of the applicant, pain- 
 fully recite some stereotyped phrase worn smooth 
 " Mista Brown ? Y'ur party says t' come back next 
 week ! " " Miss Holman ? Y'ur party 's went out 'n' 
 won't be back th'safternoon ! " " Miss Em'rson ? Mista 
 Arlington says ever'thin's full up just'present. Call 'n 
 ag'in ! " or more infrequently : " Mista Grayson 's t' step 
 in, please." . . . 
 
 Joan found a vacant chair. 
 
 She had no hope whatever of being admitted to the 
 Presence, despite the unexpected condescension of the 
 office-boy. Marbridge's name might prove the Open 
 Sesame; but she doubted that vaguely: "it wouldn't be 
 her if that happened ! " 
 
 The atmosphere was stifling with heat complicated by 
 stale human breath and the reek of perfumery, all strati- 
 fied with layers of tobacco smoke which entered over the 
 transoms of the communicating offices. Above the muted 
 murmurings of the unemployed's apprehensive voices 
 could be heard the brisk chattering of two or three type- 
 writing machines; and telephone bells rang incessantly, 
 near and far, one taking up the tune as soon as another 
 ended. The throng of applicants shuffled their feet un- 
 easily, expectantly, morosely. 
 
 Joan was so uncomfortable and oppressed that she was 
 tempted to rise and go without waiting for the discounted 
 answer. Only dread of encountering Quard restrained 
 her. The longer she delayed, the slighter the chance of 
 finding him still in front of the theatre. . . . 
 
 Her thoughts drifted into reverie dully coloured with
 
 330 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 misgivings. She thought of Charlie Quard as a bird of 
 ill-omen whose appearance could presage nothing but suf- 
 fering and disaster; ignoring altogether the truth, that 
 through his good offices alone, however tainted with self- 
 interest, she had been suffered to enter into the profession 
 whose ranks she had elected to adorn; with that other 
 truth, that she owed him for the clothing she wore, the 
 food she ate, the very roof that sheltered her and meant 
 never to repay. . . . 
 
 The voice of the second office-boy chanted her name 
 twice before she heard it. 
 
 " Miss Thursd'y ? . . . Miss Joan Thursd'y ? " 
 
 Joan started to her feet. 
 
 "Yes ?" 
 
 " Th' party you ast for says please t' step this way ! "
 
 xxxir 
 
 BETWEEN gratification and misgivings, Joan followed 
 her guide in a flutter of emotion. When intending nothing 
 more than to provide an excuse for using the anteroom 
 as a temporary refuge, she hadn't for an instant ques- 
 tioned her right to use Marbridge's name. But now that 
 it appeared she was to gain thereby the boon of an audience 
 with Arlington, she was torn by doubts. 
 
 After all, her acquaintance with Marbridge had been 
 one of the most tenuous description. True, the man had 
 seemed attracted by her at the time; but that was many 
 months ago; and only recently he had looked her fair in 
 the face without knowing her. She had really gained her 
 advantage through false pretences. And when Marbridge 
 learned of this, would he not resent it? Had she not, 
 through her presumption, put herself in the way of de- 
 feating her own ends? 
 
 She brought up before a closed door in a state of ner- 
 vousness not natural with her. 
 
 " You 're to wait a minute," her guide advised. 
 
 She was thankful he was n't the guardian of the outer 
 defences : just at present she was in no fit mood to bandy 
 persiflage successfully. 
 
 But she was uncomfortably conscious that this present 
 boy eyed her curiously as he threw open the office door. 
 
 She entered, and he closed it after her. 
 
 The room was untenanted, but a haze of cigar smoke in 
 the air indicated that it had been only recently vacated. 
 It was handsomely furnished, carpeted and decorated. 
 The broad, flat-topped desk in one corner boasted an 
 elaborate display of ornate desk hardware. In the middle
 
 382 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 of the blotting-pad a sheaf of letters lay beneath a bronze 
 paperweight of unique design. All in all, an office owning 
 little in common with the generality of those to which 
 Joan had theretofore penetrated. . . . 
 
 She sat herself down uneasily. 
 
 A door communicating with the adjoining office, though 
 a solid door of oak, was an inch or so ajar. Through it 
 penetrated sounds of masculine voices in conversation 
 but nothing distinguishable. 
 
 Five minutes passed. Then the conference in the next 
 room broke up amid laughter ; the doorknob rattled ; and 
 Joan rose automatically. 
 
 Marbridge entered. 
 
 For a moment, in her surprise and consternation, Joan 
 could only stare and stammer. But obvious though her 
 agitation was, Marbridge ignored it gracefully. Shutting 
 the door tight, he advanced with an outstretched hand and 
 a smile there was no resisting with, in short, every 
 normal evidence of friendly pleasure in their meeting. 
 
 " Well, Miss Thursday ! " he said, gratification in his 
 carefully modulated voice. " This is public-spirited of 
 you!" 
 
 Joan shook hands limply, her face crimson beneath his 
 pardonably admiring stare. 
 
 "I thank you but " 
 
 " Really," he went on smoothly, " I consider it mighty 
 nice of you to look me up. Fancy your remembering 
 me! Do sit down. We must have a chat. Fortunately, 
 you Ve caught me in an off-hour." 
 
 Retaining her hand coolly enough, he introduced the 
 girl to a capacious lounge-chair beside the desk, then 
 settled himself behind it. 
 
 Joan shook her wits together. 
 
 "You'reawflykind ' 
 
 "I kind ? " Marbridge denied the implication with 
 an indulgent smile. " My dear Miss Thursday, if you 
 get to know me well and I sincerely hope you will
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 333 
 
 some day you '11 find there 's not a spark of human 
 generosity in my system. I think only of my own pleas- 
 ure. How can there be kindness to you in my seizing 
 this chance to improve our acquaintance? I declare, I 
 thought you 'd forgotten me ! " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " Joan protested. 
 
 " Really ? That 's charming of you. But tell me about 
 yourself. How long have you been back ? " 
 
 " Not long," Joan replied instinctively to the first 
 stock question that marks every other similar meeting in 
 the theatrical district of New York. " That is I mean 
 a couple of months." 
 
 " Oh, then you did n't stay with ' The Lie ' ? " 
 
 " You knew about that ? " 
 
 Marbridge nodded briskly. " Indeed, I did ! Pete 
 Gloucester told me all about you how splendidly you 
 were doing at rehearsals and then, one afternoon in 
 Chicago, I saw the sketch billed and dropped in at the 
 theatre for the sole purpose of seeing you. And if I 
 had n't had a train to catch, I 'd have come right round 
 back to congratulate you. Fact! You were wonderful. 
 You were more than wonderful: you were downright 
 adorable, and no mistake ! " 
 
 Under the tonic stimulus of his flattery, Joan recovered 
 her self-possession with surprising readiness so swiftly 
 that she almost forgot to cover the phenomenon with pro- 
 longed evidences of pretty confusion. 
 
 She looked down, her colour high, and smiling traced 
 with a gloved forefinger an invisible seam in her skirt; 
 and then, looking up shyly, she appraised Marbridge with 
 one quick, shrewd, masked glance. 
 
 Her instinct had not misled her : this man esteemed her 
 at a high value. 
 
 " It 's awf 'ly kind of you to say so," she murmured 
 demurely. 
 
 Marbridge bent forward, leaning on the desk, his gaze 
 ardent.
 
 334 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " I only say what I think, Miss Thursday. I 
 watched you act that afternoon and so far as I was 
 concerned, you were the whole sketch ! and made up 
 my mind then and there you were a girl with a great 
 big future." 
 
 " Oh, but really, Mr. Marbridge " 
 
 " Give you my word ! I said to myself then and there : 
 ' Here 's a little woman worth watching, and if ever I 
 get a chance to lend her a helping hand and don't do 
 it, I 'd better quit fussing with this theatrical game.' 
 And that was the effect of seeing you play just once, 
 mind you ! " 
 
 " I 'm afraid you 're a dreadful kidder, Mr. Mar- 
 bridge." 
 
 His injured look was eloquent of the injustice that 
 she did him. 
 
 " You don't believe me ? Very well, Miss Thursday 
 wait ! Some day I '11 surprise you." He swung back 
 in his chair, smiling genially. " Some one of these days 
 you '11 set your heart on something I have the say in 
 and then you '11 be able to judge of my sincerity." 
 
 " If I dared believe you," Joan told him boldly, " I 
 might put you to the test sooner than you think." 
 
 " Well, and why not ? I 'm ready."* 
 
 But as Joan would have gone on, the desk-telephone 
 rang sharply, and Marbridge, excusing himself with a 
 mumbled apology, turned to the instrument and lifted 
 the receiver to his ear. 
 
 " Hello. . . . Who ? . . . Oh, send her in to see Mr. 
 Arlington. . . . Oh, he did, eh ? ... Well, say I 'm 
 not in either. . . . Yes, gone for the day." 
 
 Replacing the instrument, he swung round again. 
 " There 's proof already," he informed her cheerfully. 
 " That was Nella Cardrow one of the biggest proposi- 
 tions on our list star of l Mrs. Mixer.' And I 'm put- 
 ting her off solely to show you how sincerely I 'm in- 
 terested in what you have to say to me." He bent forward
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 335 
 
 again, confidentially. " Now tell me : what can I do for 
 you?" 
 
 " Give me a job," Joan informed him honestly. 
 " That 's all I want just now work a part in any- 
 thing you have influence with." 
 
 "Then you have left 'The Lie'?" Marbridge per- 
 sisted incredulously. 
 
 Joan nodded. " I had to. I could n't stand it any 
 longer." 
 
 " But without you why, I don't know what they 
 were thinking of, to let you go ! " 
 
 " I just could n't get along with the star, and that 's 
 all there was to it," Joan declared. " He was a boozer 
 and well, I had to quit." 
 
 "And the sketch " 
 
 " Oh, it went on, all right, I guess." 
 
 " Without you ! Well, that 's hard to credit. How- 
 ever . . ." Marbridge leaned back and for a moment 
 stared thoughtfully out of the window. " I really can't 
 think of anything we 've got open just now that 's good 
 enough to offer you." 
 
 " Please don't think of me that way, Mr. Marbridge," 
 Joan pleaded earnestly, more than half deceived. " I 'm 
 ready for anything, to get a chance to show these people 
 what I can do. Anything however small just so it 
 gives me a show I don't care what ! " 
 
 Marbridge preserved admirably his look of intent 
 gravity. " Let me think a moment," he requested, purs- 
 ing his full lips. 
 
 Joan watched him closely through that brief silence, 
 her mood one of curious texture, compounded in almost 
 equal parts of hope and doubt, of wonder and misgivings, 
 of appreciation of her own courage and shrewdness, and 
 of admiration for Marbridge. 
 
 He was by no means what she would have termed 
 handsome, but he was uncommonly individual, a per- 
 sonality that left an ineffaceable impression of strength
 
 336 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 and masculinity; and with this he had an air of being 
 finished and complete, as though he not only knew better 
 than most how to take care of himself in all ways, but 
 slighted himself in none. She thought his mode of dress 
 striking, combining distinction and taste to an extraor- 
 dinary degree. . . . And when in his abstraction he 
 pinched his chin gently between thumb and forefinger, 
 she was impressed with the discovery that a man's hand 
 could be at once well-manicured and muscular. . . . 
 
 He turned back abruptly with a sparkle of enthusiasm 
 in his bold and prominent eyes. 
 
 " By George, I think I have it . . . ! " 
 
 " Yes ? " she breathed excitedly. 
 
 He considered an instant longer, shook his head, and 
 jumped up. " I must consult Arlington first," he de- 
 clared. " I would n't care to commit him without his 
 consent. No don't get up. Just excuse me one minute. 
 I '11 be right back." 
 
 And before she could protest had she entertained the 
 faintest idea of doing anything of the sort he left the 
 room by the same door which had admitted him. 
 
 Immediately she was again aware of a rumble of voices 
 in the next office, but now it was even more indefinite. 
 
 And again she waited a full five minutes alone. . . . 
 
 When Marbridge rejoined her, it was with an air 
 apologetic and disappointed. 
 
 " It 's too bad," he announced, aggrieved, " but it seems 
 Arlington has really gone for the day. I shan't see him 
 before evening, likely, possibly not until tomorrow. So 
 I must ask you to trouble yourself to come back, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 " Mind ! " Joan laughed, rising. " Oh, I guess not." 
 
 " Well," Marbridge assured her, " I don't think you '11 
 have any wasted time to regret. But I can't promise 
 anything until I 'm sure Arlington has n't made other 
 arrangements, or until I 've managed to put a crimp into 
 'em if he has."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 337 
 
 " But you must n't do that " 
 
 " Hush ! " Marbridge paused to chuckle infectuously. 
 " There 's one trouble," he amended, more gravely, " and 
 that is, I have n't got any too much time. I 'm booked 
 to sail for Europe Saturday, and have got so many little 
 things to attend to, I 'm running round in circles. But 
 don't you fret : I Ve got this matter right next to my 
 heart, Miss Thursday, and I 'm going to put it through 
 if it humanly can be done. Now let me think when I 
 can ask you to call again." 
 
 " Any time that suits your convenience, Mr. 
 Marbridge." 
 
 " Well, it 's a question. I 'd like mighty well to have 
 you lunch with me before I go, but . . . The truth is, I 
 have n't got hardly a minute unengaged. You just hap- 
 pened to catch me right, today. ... I wonder if you 
 could call in Friday, say, about half -past three ? " 
 
 " Of course I can, but I don't want you to " 
 
 " Did n't I tell you, hush ! " Marbridge interrupted, 
 mock-impatient. " Not another word. Remember what 
 I told you about how I felt that day I saw you act, out in 
 Chicago. The time, 's coming when I 'm going to be pow- 
 erful' glad you gave me this chance to give you a lift, 
 Miss Thursday. And then " he paused in the act of 
 opening the door, and took Joan's hand, subjecting it to 
 a firm, friendly pressure before continuing " and then, 
 perhaps, I '11 be coming round and begging favours of you." 
 
 For an instant Joan's eyes endured, without a tremor, 
 the quick searching probe of the man's. 
 
 She nodded quietly, saying in a grave voice : " I guess 
 you won't have to beg very hard not for anything I 
 could ever do for you, Mr. Marbridge." 
 
 His smile was as spontaneous and bright as a child's. 
 " It 's a bargain ! " he declared spiritedly. " And you 
 can bet your life I won't forget my end of it ! . . . Good 
 afternoon, Miss Thursday. Remember Friday at 
 three-thirty." . . .
 
 XXXIII 
 
 As one result of her interview with Marbridge, Joan 
 returned to her quarters in a state of thoughtfulness which 
 was responsible not only for her forgetting the appoint- 
 ment with Matthias and the risk she ran of encountering 
 Quard at every corner, but also for her unquestioning 
 acceptance of Hattie's absence from the flat in the face 
 of her expressed determination not to go out that 
 afternoon. 
 
 Hattie, however, was nothing loath to explain her change 
 of mind when she blew in cheerfully shortly before 
 dinner-time. 
 
 " Hello ! " she exclaimed, tossing her hat one way and 
 her parasol another. " Did you miss me ? " 
 
 Joan looked up blankly from the depths of her musing. 
 " No," she said dully. " Why ? " 
 
 " Well, you went off half -peeved because I would n't 
 go trapesing with you and then I went out after all." 
 
 "Oh I 'd forgotten," Joan admitted without much 
 interest. 
 
 " Well, I did n't mean to go out, but Billy Emerson 
 sent me a tip and ... I bet you can't guess who I 've 
 seen." 
 
 Joan shook her head. 
 
 "Arlington!" 
 
 " Arlington ! " Joan exclaimed. 
 
 "Well, and why not?" 
 
 " Nothing only I thought you were n't looking for 
 anything in musical shows." 
 
 " No more am I, and it was n't a musical show I went 
 to see him about. Billy sent me a card of introduction
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 339 
 
 with the tip, and Arlington saw me and well, I guess 
 it 's just about settled. I 'm to understudy Nella Cardrow 
 in ' Mrs. Mixer.' Arlington would n't promise, but told 
 me to come in Saturday morning, and the understanding 
 is he '11 have contracts ready to sign then. I do believe 
 my luck 's turned at last ! " 
 
 " But," Joan argued, perplexed, " I don't under- 
 stand. ... Of course, it 's fine to get the job, and all 
 that and I 'm awf ' ly glad for you, Hattie but you 
 act as excited as if it was the title role you expected to 
 play." 
 
 "Maybe I do," Hattie retorted. "That's what an 
 understudy 's for, is n't it to play the star part in case 
 of an emergency ? " 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 " Anyhow, I don't mind telling you that 's what I 'm 
 looking forward to." 
 
 " You mean you think Mrs. Cardrow ? " 
 
 " Now don't you ask me any questions ; I can't tell you 
 what I think ; it 's a secret." Having made this state- 
 ment, Hattie sat down on the edge of the bed, lighted a 
 cigarette, vacillated one second, and proceeded to divulge 
 the secret : " You see, I called around to thank Billy 
 Emerson, after my talk with Arlington, and he told me 
 the whole story in confidence. Nobody 's to know it yet, 
 so you must n't breathe a word to anybody ; but the thing 's 
 all fixed, and ISTella Cardrow 's never going to play ' Mrs. 
 Mixer ' before a Broadway audience. She could n't play 
 it anyhow 's just a plain-boiled dub never did any- 
 thing before she persuaded Marbridge to put her on in 
 this show. It 's his money that 's behind it, mostly 
 Arlington 's too wise to risk much on an uncertain prop- 
 osition like the Cardrow. Marbridge just hides behind 
 Arlington." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Well, I guess he figures home would be none the 
 happier if Friend Wife knew he was footing the bills for
 
 340 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Nella Cardrow's show. He and Cardrow, Billy Emerson 
 says, are just about as friendly as the law allows and 
 that is n't all." 
 
 " But," Joan persisted stupidly, " if that 's the case, I 
 don't see what makes you think he '11 throw her down to 
 give you the part " 
 
 " If they ever caught anybody on Broadway as innocent 
 as you pretend to be," Hattie commented with a scorn 
 for grammar as deep as for Joan's obtuseness " they 'd 
 arrest 'em, that 's all ! Who ever told you Marbridge was 
 the kind of a guy to stick to a woman forever not to 
 say when she 's losing money for him ? Billy Emerson 
 saw the show when they put it on up in Buffalo, a while 
 ago, and he says the play 's a wonder but Cardrow can't 
 even look the part, much less act it. He says if they ever 
 let her loose on the stage of a Broadway theatre well, 
 Marbridge and Arlington can just kiss their investment 
 a fond farewell. For reasons of his own, Marbridge is n't 
 ready to break with Cardrow yet, but he knows he 's got 
 a big success on his hands in this ' Mrs. Mixer ' with her 
 out of it. So they 're going right ahead, just as if she 
 was to be the star, but when the show opens it '11 be little 
 Miss Understudy who '11 do all the acting." 
 
 The actress tossed aside her cigarette and bent for- 
 ward, regarding Joan with mock solicitude. 
 
 " Does it begin to penetrate, dearie ? " 
 
 " It sounds to me like a pretty mean trick to play on 
 Mrs. Cardrow," Joan suggested. 
 
 " Don't you worry about her. She '11 survive, all right. 
 And anyhow, when you've been as long in this game as 
 I have, you '11 realize that the motto of the profession is 
 ' Everybody for himself and the devil take the hinder- 
 most M I 've waited seven years for this chance, and 
 I 'm not going to let it get past me through any senti- 
 mental considerations, not if I know myself. And you 'd 
 do just the same thing in my place, too." 
 
 " I don't see what right you 've got to say that "
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 341 
 
 " Then you don't know yourself as well as I know 
 you," Hattie laughed. " But listen : I ought n't to 
 have told you all this. You won't say anything, will 
 you, dear ? " 
 
 " No, I won't say anything." . . . 
 
 NOT did Joan consider it necessary to repay confidence 
 with confidence by confessing the fact of her coincidental 
 interview with Marbridge. The reflection that they must 
 have been in adjoining offices at much the same time, in 
 spite of Marbridge's assertion that Arlington was out, 
 counselled reticence, even if envy had n't served to impose 
 silence upon Joan. And she was profoundly envious of 
 Hattie's good fortune. 
 
 Why could it not have been her own, instead ? 
 
 If Marbridge honestly esteemed her abilities one-half 
 as highly as he had pretended to, why could he not have 
 seen to it that Joan Thursday rather than Hattie Morri- 
 son was selected for Mrs. Cardrow's understudy? 
 
 Still, the matter was not yet definitely settled. Hattie's 
 contract remained a thing of the future, and she might be 
 congratulating herself prematurely. 
 
 Struck by this reflection, Joan withdrew even more 
 jealously into her reserve. . . . 
 
 But she anticipated her appointment for Friday after- 
 noon with an impatience that lent each hour the length 
 of three, and when the time drew near prepared herself 
 for it with such exacting attention to the minutiae of her 
 toilet that a final survey in a cheval-glass sent her forth 
 radiant with consciousness that she had never looked more 
 charming. 
 
 To her surprise and somewhat to her disappointment, 
 Marbridge did n't receive her alone. She was shown into 
 Arlington's office, finding there Marbridge in company 
 with the great man himself. 
 
 Entrenched behind his desk, Arlington did n't move 
 when she entered, and only when Marbridge formally 
 presented Joan deigned to rise half out of his chair and
 
 342 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 extend to her, across the mahogany barrier, a hand almost 
 effeminately white, soft, and bedizened with rings. 
 
 " Pleasure to meet you, Miss Thursday, I 'm sure," he 
 drawled, his clasp as languid as the glance with which he 
 looked Joan over; and sank wearily back into his chair. 
 " I 've been hearing wonderful things about you ah 
 from Mr. Marbridge." 
 
 " He 's very kind," said Joan in her best manner. 
 
 " Not at all," Marbridge protested. " I Ve only been 
 describing how splendid your work was in ' The Lie.' 
 But Mr. Arlington is the original of the gentleman from 
 Missouri : you 've got to show him. However, I know 
 you can so that 's all right." 
 
 " Oh, I hope so," Joan replied with becoming diffidence 
 "if I ever get a chance." 
 
 " You '11 get that, never fear," Arlington observed dis- 
 passionately. " Marbridge has fixed it all up for you. 
 It 's a risk, a pretty big risk to take with an actress of 
 your ah comparative inexperience, but as a rule I 
 find it advisable to give Marbridge his head when he sets 
 his heart on anything." 
 
 " You 're awf 'ly good," Joan murmured. 
 
 " Don't think it," Arlington returned in a tone of 
 remote amiability, teetering in his chair. " I 've nothing 
 whatever to do with it, beyond engaging you and being 
 responsible for your salary. It 's all Marbridge's doing." 
 
 He examined with a perplexed air his highly polished 
 fingernails. . . . 
 
 " You 're to have a small part in a new comedy we 're 
 putting on next September," he announced, " and at the 
 same time you will understudy the star Nella Cardrow 
 in ' Mrs. Mixer.' Your salary will be sixty a week unless 
 through some accident you 're called upon to play the title 
 role regularly and accidents will happen in the best 
 regulated theatrical enterprises. In which case you '11 
 draw one-hundred a week for the first season. There are 
 some details which Marbridge will explain to you and
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 343 
 
 if you '11 drop in any time Monday and ask for Mr. 
 Grissom he will have your contracts ready. And now if 
 you '11 excuse me, I 've an appointment." 
 
 Consulting his watch, he rose and moved round from 
 behind his desk. " Good day, Miss Thursday," he said 
 with a shadow of a formal smile. " I shall see much of 
 you, no doubt, when the rehearsals begin." 
 
 " Oh, thank you thank you ! " Joan cried. 
 
 Arlington disclaimed title to her gratitude with a weary 
 gesture. " Don't thank me, please thank Marbridge. 
 . . . You won't be long, Vin ? " he added, at the door. 
 
 " I '11 be with you in ten minutes." 
 
 " Eight you are. Good afternoon, Miss ah Thurs- 
 day." . . ,_ 
 
 Alone with Marbridge, Joan began impulsively to pro- 
 test her thanks, but on glancing up, fell silent, abashed 
 by an expression that glowed in the man's eyes like a 
 reflection of firelight. 
 
 She lowered demure lashes to cloak her confusion, a 
 smile about her lips at once sophisticated and timid: a 
 distractingly pretty woman fully conscious of her allure 
 and of his attraction for her: a vision of provoking 
 promise. 
 
 Marbridge drew a deep breath. 
 
 " If you persist in looking like that," he said in a voice 
 that trembled between laughter and a sigh " don't 
 blame me if I forget myself and take you in my arms 
 and kiss you. There are limits to my endurance . . ." 
 
 Joan looked up, smiling. 
 
 " Well " she said with a little nervous laugh 
 "Well, what of it?"
 
 XXXIV 
 
 BEFORE Joan left Marbridge, they had arrived at an 
 understanding which was not less complete and satis- 
 factory in that it was largely implicit. 
 
 Without receiving any definite explanation of the cir- 
 cumstances complicating the production of " Mrs. Mixer," 
 Joan carried away with her a tolerably clear notion 
 thereof, both confirming and supplementing the second- 
 hand information of Hattie Morrison. 
 
 Mrs. Cardrow owned a heavy interest in the play, Joan 
 had gathered; and there existed, as well, a contract be- 
 tween her and Arlington which would have to be elimi- 
 nated before it would be possible to go ahead and make 
 the production with another actress in place of the erst- 
 while star. Some very delicate diplomatic manoeuvring 
 was indicated. . . . 
 
 Interim, Joan was to be privately drilled by Peter 
 Gloucester for some weeks prior to calling together the 
 full company to rehearse for the September production. 
 Gloucester was just then out of Town, but she would be 
 advised when and where to meet him on his return. 
 
 Marbridge was to be absent from New York until the 
 middle of September or longer; but he promised to 
 be back a week or two before the opening performance. 
 
 There were other promises exchanged . . . 
 
 With her future thus schemed, the girl was very well 
 content, who had attained by easy stages to one of mental 
 development in which those primary moral distinctions 
 upon which she had been reared were no longer per- 
 ceptible or, if perceptible, had diminished to purely 
 negligible stature.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 345 
 
 It was not in nature for her to disdain or reject her 
 bargain on moral grounds : she knew, or recognized, none 
 that applied. 
 
 For over a year during the most impressionable period 
 of her life, Joan Thursday had breathed the atmosphere 
 of the stage. She had become thoroughly accustomed 
 to recognize without criticism those irregular unions and 
 -egular disunions that characterized the lives of her asso- 
 ciates. She had observed many an instance where the 
 most steadfast and loyal love existed without bonds of 
 any sort, and as many where it existed in matrimony, and 
 as many again where neither party to a marriage made 
 aught but the barest pretence of fidelity. 
 
 She had remarked that material and artistic success 
 seemed to depend upon neither the observance nor the 
 disregard of sexual morality. She knew of husbands 
 and wives against whom scandal uttered no whisper and 
 whose talents were considerable, but who had struggled 
 for years and would struggle until the end without win- 
 ning substantial recognition. And she knew of the reverse. 
 The one unpardonable sin in her world was the sin of 
 drunkenness, and even it was venial except when it " held 
 the curtain " or prevented its rising altogether. 
 
 As far as concerned her attitude toward herself, she 
 considered Joan Thursday above reproach, seeing that she 
 had withdrawn from her marriage long before even as 
 much as contemplating any man other than her husband. 
 She held that she was now free, at liberty to do as she 
 liked, untrammelled by opinion whether public or private : 
 that she had outgrown criticism. 
 
 True, Quard might divorce her. But what of that ? If 
 he did, Joan Thursday would n't suffer. If he did n't, 
 he himself would be the last to pretend he was leading 
 a life of celibacy because of her defection. 
 
 Marbridge she really liked ; his appeal to her nature was 
 stronger than that of any man she had as yet encountered. 
 He attracted her in every way, and he excited her
 
 346 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 curiosity as well. He was a new type but in what 
 respect different from other men? He was famously 
 successful with women: why? He had wealth, cultiva- 
 tion of a certain sort (real or spurious, Joan could n't 
 discriminate) and social position; and this flattered, that 
 such an one should reject the women of his own sphere 
 for Joan Thursday late of the stocking counter. 
 
 And if she could turn this infatuation of his to material 
 profit, while at the same time satisfying the several appe- 
 tites Marbridge excited in her : why not ? Other women 
 by the score did as much without censure or obvious cause 
 for regret. Why not she ? 
 
 How many women of her acquaintance women whose 
 interests, running in grooves parallel to hers, were in- 
 telligible to Joan would have refused the chance that 
 was now hers through Marbridge? Not one; none, at 
 least, who was free as Joan was free; not even Hattie 
 Morrison, whose views upon the subject of such arrange- 
 ments were strong, whom Joan considered straitlaced to 
 the verge of absurdity. Hattie, Joan believed, would have 
 jumped at the opportunity. 
 
 But of course, denied, Hattie would be sure to decry 
 it, and with the more bitterness since Joan had won it 
 in the wreck of Hattie's hopes. 
 
 And here was the only shadow upon the fair prospect 
 of Joan's contentment. She who had questioned Hattie's 
 right to become a party to the conspiracy against Mrs. 
 Cardrow how could she ever go home and face the girl, 
 with this treachery on her conscience ? 
 
 True : Hattie did n't know, would n't know before 
 morning, might never learn the truth during the term of 
 their association. 
 
 None the less, to be with Hattie that night would be to 
 sit with a skeleton at the feast of her felicity. . . . 
 
 On impulse Joan turned to the left on leaving the New 
 York Theatre building, and moved slowly, purposelessly, 
 down Broadway.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 347 
 
 It was an afternoon of withering heat: the pavements 
 burning palpably through the paper-thin soles of her pretty 
 slippers, and the air close with the smell of hot asphaltum. 
 The rays of the westering sun made nothing of the fabric 
 of Joan's white parasol, their heat penetrating its sheer 
 shield as though it were glass. Mankind in general sought 
 the shadowed side of the street and moved only reluctantly, 
 with its coat over its arm, a handkerchief tucked in be- 
 tween neck and collar effectually choking off ventila- 
 tion and threatening " sun-stroke." 
 
 Waiting upon the northeast corner of Forty-second 
 Street for the traffic police to check the cross-town tide, 
 Joan felt half-suffocated and thought longingly of the 
 seashore. . . . 
 
 Once across the street, she turned directly in beneath 
 the permanent awning of the Knickerbocker Hiotel, and 
 entered the lobby, making her way round, past the en- 
 trance to the bar, to the recess dedicated to the public 
 telephone booths. 
 
 A semi-exhausted and apathetic operator looked up re- 
 luctantly as Joan approached, with one glance appraising 
 her from head to heels. At any other time the dainty 
 perfection of Joan's toilet would have roused antagonism 
 in the woman ; today she found energy only sufficient for a 
 perfunctory mumble. 
 
 " What numba, please ? " 
 
 Joan hesitated, feeling herself suddenly upon the verge 
 of dangerous indiscretion, but stung by the operator's 
 look of jaded disdain, took her courage in hand and 
 pursued her original intention. 
 
 " One Bryant," she said. 
 
 The operator jammed a plug into one of the rows 
 of sockets before her and iterated the number mechan- 
 ically. 
 
 In another moment she nodded, indicating the rank 
 of booths. 
 
 " Numba five One Bryant," she said.
 
 348 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Joan shut herself in with the sliding door and took up 
 the receiver. 
 
 " Hello Lambs' Club? " she enquired. ..." Is Mr. 
 Fowey in the club? . . . Will you page him, please. 
 . . . Miss Thursday. . . . Yes, I '11 hold the wire." 
 
 The booth was hermetically sealed. Perspiration was 
 starting out all over her body. And somewhere in that 
 airless box, probably at her feet, lurked a long unburied 
 cigar. She thrust the door ajar, but only to close it im- 
 mediately as Fowey's voice saluted her. 
 
 "Hello?" 
 
 " Hello, Hubert," Joan drawled, with a little touch of 
 laughing mockery in her accents. 
 
 " Is that you, Joan really ? " the voice demanded 
 excitedly. 
 
 " Real-ly ! " she affirmed. " What 're you doing there, 
 shut up all alone by yourself in that stupid club, Hubert ? " 
 
 Prefaced by a brief but intelligible pause, the man's 
 response came briskly : " Where are you now, anyway ? " 
 
 " That does n't matter," she retorted. She had meant 
 to ask him to meet her at the hotel, but reconsidered, 
 fearing lest Marbridge might chance to see them. " What 
 really matters is that this is my birthday and I 'm going 
 to give a party. Have you got anything better to do ? " 
 
 "No " " 
 
 " Then meet me in half an hour on the southbound 
 platform of the Sixth Avenue L at Battery Place." 
 
 " Battery Place ! What in thunder " 
 
 " Never mind tell you all about it when we meet. 
 Will you come ? " 
 
 "Will I! Well, rawther!" 
 
 "Half an hour, then " 
 
 ' I '11 be there, with bells on ! " 
 
 " Then good-bye for a little Hubert." 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 Fowey reached the point of assignation only one train 
 later than Joan.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 349 
 
 As he hurried down the platform, almost stumbling in 
 his impatience to join her, the girl surveyed with sudden 
 dislike and regret his slight, dandified figure fitted with 
 finical precision into clothing so ultra-English in fashion 
 that it might have belonged to his younger brother. And 
 the confident smile that lighted up his pinched, eager coun- 
 tenance seemed little short of offensive. She was sorry 
 now that she had yielded to the temptation to make use 
 of him: he was so insignificant in every way, so violently 
 the opposite in all things of the man who now filled all 
 her thoughts Marbridge ; and so transparent that even 
 she could read his mind: he entertained not the least 
 tangible doubt that now, after the manner in which they 
 had last parted, she had at length wakened to appreciation 
 of his irresistible charms, that her requesting him to meet 
 her was but the preface to surrender. 
 
 But she permitted nothing of her thoughts to become 
 legible in her manner. After all, she had only wanted an 
 escort for the evening, an excuse to postpone that unavoid- 
 able return to the company of the girl she had betrayed; 
 and Fowey had seemed the most convenient and the least 
 dangerous man she could think of. If in the inflation of 
 his insufferable conceit he dreamed for an instant another 
 thing . . . Well, Joan promised herself, he 'd soon find 
 out his mistake! . . . 
 
 Keeping up the fiction of her imaginary birthday, she 
 outlined her plans: they would take one of the Iron 
 Steamboat Company's boats from Pier 1, North River 
 a short walk from the station to Coney Island. When 
 that resort palled, they would drive to Manhattan Beach 
 and dine, perhaps " take in " Pain's Fireworks ; and 
 return to New York by the same route. 
 
 Fowey's objections were instant and sincere and well- 
 grounded: the boats would be crowded beyond endurance 
 with an unwashed rabble liberally sown with drunks and 
 screaming children. If she would only let him, he 'd get 
 a taxicab or even a touring-car.
 
 350 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Quietly but firmly Joan overruled him. It must be 
 her party or no party, as she proposed or not at all. 
 
 He yielded in the end, but the event proved him right 
 in all he had foretold. Joan was very soon made sorry 
 she had n't suffered herself to be gainsaid. 
 
 They had half an hour to wait for the boat, and the 
 waiting-room upon the second-storey of the pier was like 
 an oven, packed with a milling, sweating mob exactly ful- 
 filling Fowey's prediction. They were elbowed, shoul- 
 dered, walked upon, and at one time openly ridiculed by 
 a gang of hooligans, any one of whom would have made 
 short work of Fowey had he dared show any resentment. 
 
 Upon the boat, when at length it turned up tardily to 
 receive them, conditions were little better, save that the 
 open air was an indescribable relief after the reeking 
 atmosphere of the pier. Fowey managed to secure two 
 uncomfortable folding stools, upon which they perched, 
 crowded against the rail of the upper deck; a wretched 
 " orchestra " wrung infamous parodies of popular songs 
 from several tortured instruments; children scuffled and 
 howled ; burly ruffians in unclean aprons thrust themselves 
 bodily through the throng, balancing dripping trays laden 
 with glasses of lukewarm beer and " soft drinks " and 
 bawling in every ear their seductive refrain " Here 'a 
 the waiter ! Want the waiter ? Who wants the waiter ? " 
 and an alcoholic, planting his chair next to Joan's, 
 promptly went to sleep, snoring atrociously, and threatened 
 every instant to topple over and rest his head in her lap. 
 
 A single circumstance modified in a way Joan's regret 
 that she had n't heeded Fowey's protests. 
 
 As the boat swung away from the pier, a larger steam- 
 ship of one of the coastwise lines, outward bound from 
 its dock farther up the North River, passed with leeway 
 so scant that the dress and features of those upon its 
 decks were clearly to be discerned. And at the moment 
 when the two vessels were nearest, Joan discovered one 
 who stood just outside an open cabin door, leaning upon
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 351 
 
 the rail with an impressively nonchalant pose, and smok- 
 ing a heavy cigar. He wore clothing of a conspicuous 
 shepherd's-plaid, and his pose was an arrested dramatic 
 gesture. 
 
 In a moment a woman emerged from the open door 
 behind him and joined him at the rail, placing an intimate 
 hand on his forearm and saying something which won 
 from him a laugh and a look of tender admiration: a 
 handsome, able-bodied woman, expensively but loudly 
 dressed, her connection with the stage as unquestionable 
 as was his. 
 
 Joan dissembled the odd emotion with which she recog- 
 nized the man, and turned to Fowey. 
 
 " What boat is that, do you know, Hubert ? " 
 
 Fowey raked her with an indifferent glance, fore and 
 aft. " Belongs to the New Bedford Line," he announced 
 " can't make out her name connects at ISTew Bedford 
 for the boats to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Ever 
 been up that way ? " 
 
 "No. What 'sit like?" 
 
 " Pretty islands. Don't know Martha's Vineyard very 
 well, but Nantucket 's my old stamping-ground. Go up 
 there in the middle of the summer about now and 
 you '11 find every actor and actress you ever heard of, and 
 then some. Great place. Wish we were going there." 
 
 " Don't be silly." . . . 
 
 The boats were drawing apart. Joan looked back for 
 the last sight she was ever to have of her husband. 
 
 Though she could n't have known this, she sighed a 
 little, in strange depression. 
 
 Perplexed, she tried vainly to analyze her emotion : was 
 it regret or jealousy ? 
 
 Of a sudden, in the heart of that immense crowd, with 
 Fowey attentive at her elbow, she was conscious of a 
 feeling of intense loneliness.
 
 XXXV 
 
 WHEN, after a long and tedious voyage over a sea as 
 flat as a plate and unflawed by a single cooling drift of 
 air, the steamboat was made fast to the end of that long 
 iron pier which juts out from the flat, low coast of Coney 
 Island, its passengers rose en masse and crowded toward 
 the gangways. Joan and Fowey, attempting to hang back 
 until the crowd had thinned out sufficiently to enable them 
 to go ashore in comfort, were caught in the swirl of it 
 and swept along willy-nilly. 
 
 Once on the pier-head the multitude had more elbow 
 room and spread out, the main body streaming headlong 
 shorewards, keen-set for the delights promised by the two 
 great amusement parks which had grown up in the heart 
 of that frontier settlement of gin-mills, dance-halls, side- 
 shows, eating-houses, and dives unspeakable. 
 
 Joan and Fowey followed more at their leisure, con- 
 straint and silence between them like a wall. The girl 
 was deeply disappointed with the expedition, as far as it 
 had gone, doubting whether anything better would follow, 
 and still labouring under that unaccountable depression 
 which had settled down upon her spirits at sight of 
 Quard on the New Bedford boat. Fowey, no less dis- 
 gusted, was puzzled by his companion's attitude, at once 
 tolerant and aloof, keenly watchful for an opening through 
 which to pursue his conquest, and wondering how it would 
 end. If she were simply bent on tantalizing him again, 
 for her own amusement . . . 
 
 He swore angrily but inaudibly. 
 
 Near the shore end of the pier they delayed to watch 
 the antics of the hundreds of bathers churning the shallows
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 353 
 
 in front of huge and hideous bathing establishments. In 
 countless numbers, they dotted the sea like flies and dark- 
 ened the sun-baked, unclean sands, into which their feet 
 had trodden the wreckage of ten thousand lunches. 
 
 Fowey said something inexpensively cynical about the 
 resemblance of the scene below to a congregation of 
 bacilli crawling upon a slide beneath a microscope. 
 
 Joan heard without response, either vocal or mental. 
 She resented bitterly the superior attitude adopted by 
 her companion. For her part, she would have asked 
 nothing better than to mingle with the throng and taste 
 those crude pleasures so dear to its simple heart and, 
 had she but dared admit it, to her own. But she had 
 Fowey to live up to. 
 
 Very heartily she regretted the impulse which had dic- 
 tated her invitation. She had been far happier alone 
 though it would have been strange had she been suffered 
 to remain long alone. 
 
 By the time they left the pier, the evening was so far 
 advanced that the myriad lights of the tawdry town were 
 flashing into being. They debouched into a roaring mob 
 which filled the wide avenue from curb to curb, packed so 
 densely, though in constant motion, that trolley cars and 
 automobiles forced a way through it only at a snail's pace 
 and with great difficulty. Encouraged by the excessive 
 heat which rendered Town intolerable to all who had 
 the means to escape it, the week-end swarming had begun 
 in all sincerity. In spite of the terrific congestion which 
 already obtained in all the streets and avenues and beaches, 
 piers, amusement parks, catch-penny shows, saloons, and 
 restaurants, scarcely a minute passed without the arrival 
 at some one of the trolley terminals of a car packed to 
 the guards with more visitors. 
 
 A good-natured if rowdy mob, for the most part, with 
 only a minimum element of the downright vicious in its 
 composition, it was none the less bent on amusement in 
 its cheapest form, that is to say, at somebody else's ex-
 
 354 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 pense. It gathered thickest round the places of free enter- 
 tainment, where acrobats performed on open-air stages or 
 crawled upon high, invisible wires, or where slides were 
 supplied gratis for public diversion: grinning always, but 
 howling with delight when treated to real misadventure, 
 as when some girl, negotiating a bamboo slide upon a 
 grass mat, her skirts wrapped tight about her, would lose 
 balance and shoot headlong, sprawling, to the level; the 
 greater the exposure, the greater the diversion. . . . 
 
 Nor was Fowey permitted to escape unteased: his 
 conspicuous clothing, and the broad black ribbons dang- 
 ling from his horn-rimmed glasses were too tempting to 
 be resisted. Once his Panama was smashed down over 
 his eyes ; and his glasses were so frequently jerked by their 
 moorings from his nose that he was fain at length to 
 pocket them and poke owlishly along at Joan's guidance. 
 
 Dazzled to blindness by those ten million glaring bulbs 
 which lifted up tier upon tier against the blank purple 
 skies; deafened by an indescribable cacophony of bands, 
 organs, bells, horns, human tongues incessantly clatter- 
 ing; suffering acutely from the collective heat of the 
 multitude added to that of the still and muggy night; 
 buffeted and borne hither and yon at the will of the mass : 
 they contrived in the end to engage an open, horse-drawn 
 vehicle, of the type colloquially known in those days as 
 " low-neck hack," and ordered themselves driven to the 
 Manhattan Beach Hotel. 
 
 When presently they had gained the darkling peace of 
 a long road between marsh-lands, Fowey resumed with his 
 glasses his hateful cynicism. 
 
 " That was considerable treat, all right," he said 
 pensively. 
 
 " Glad you liked it," Joan replied with the curtness of 
 chagrin. 
 
 " We '11 go back and have some more after dinner," 
 he suggested. 
 
 " Thanks I Ve had plenty."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 355 
 
 " No, but really ! " he insisted. " We have n't seen half 
 of it " 
 
 "Oh, shut up!" 
 
 Her anger was real ; and when he would have mollified 
 the girl with soft words and an arm that sought to steal 
 round her waist, she repeated her injunction with added 
 coarseness and struck his hand away with a force that he 
 felt. 
 
 In spite of this, he schooled himself to patience. 
 
 Dinner, served perfunctorily by a weary waiter and 
 consumed upon the verandah of the hotel at a table, the 
 best they could command, far removed from the compara- 
 tive coolness and ease of those beside the railing, did little 
 if anything to modify Joan's temper. 
 
 She, who had set out, believing herself the happiest of 
 mortals, to spend an evening of real enjoyment, felt utterly 
 wretched and forlorn. 
 
 Moment by moment her distaste for Fowey was gaining 
 strength. She was put to it to listen to his bragging 
 and to make response civilly. She did not relish her food, 
 her company, or her surroundings; and in utter ennui 
 tried to stimulate herself with her favourite brand of sweet 
 champagne, insisting on another bottle when they had 
 emptied one between them. It served only to stimulate a 
 fictitious gaiety in her, one swift to wane. 
 
 For all this, she was reluctant to contemplate going 
 home. Anything were preferable to that at least until 
 she could feel reasonably sure of finding Hattie abed and 
 asleep. 
 
 They finished their meal at an hour too late to make it 
 worth while to patronize one of the open-air entertain- 
 ments with which she had promised herself diversion; 
 and since she would neither go home nor, at Fowey's 
 mischievous suggestion, return to Coney Island, they moved 
 to another table, nearer the railing, and whiled away one 
 more hour listening to the band music over their cigar- 
 ettes and liqueurs.
 
 356 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Toward eleven o'clock, Joan suddenly announced that 
 she was sick of it all and ready to go. Fowey re- 
 vived his preference for a motor-car, and got his way 
 against scanty opposition. In a saner humour, Joan 
 would have stuck to her original plan. As it was, she 
 accepted the motor ride with neither gratitude nor 
 graciousness. 
 
 Curiously enough, once established in the car, her hat 
 off, the swift rush of night air cooling her moist brows, 
 her head resting back against the cushions, she permitted 
 Fowey to repeat his ardent love-making which had made 
 their previous ride together memorable. Her dislike of 
 him was no less thorough-paced, but had passed from an 
 active to a passive stage; she was at once too indifferent 
 to resist him and so bored that she welcomed anything 
 that promised excitement. She suffered his kisses, con- 
 fident in her power to control him, and drew a certain 
 satisfaction from reminding him, now and again forcibly, 
 that there were limits to her toleration. But for the most 
 part she lay in his arms in passive languor, her eyes 
 half closed, and tried to forget him, or rather to believe 
 him someone else, one whose embraces she could have 
 welcomed . . . 
 
 When they came to lighted streets, she bade Fowey 
 " behave," and would not permit him even so slight a 
 lapse from decorum as that of " holding hands." 
 
 She sat up, rearranging the disorder of her hair, ad- 
 justed her hat, surreptitiously restored the brilliance of 
 her lips with a stick of rouge. 
 
 The man drew back sullenly into his corner, 
 fuming. . . . 
 
 At her door, dismissing the car, he followed her up to 
 the stoop. 
 
 " Joan "he began angrily. 
 
 She turned back from using her latch-key, with a won- 
 dering, child-like stare. 
 
 " Yes, Hubert ? " she enquired with hidden malice.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 357 
 
 " You 're not you 're not going to send me off like 
 this ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " she demanded with fine assumption of 
 simplicity. " It 's awful' late." 
 
 Fowey seized her wrist. 
 
 " Now, listen to me ! " 
 
 Joan broke his grasp with little or no effort. 
 
 " Silly boy ! " she said. " Do you really want to come 
 in and visit a while before you say good night ? " 
 
 Her look was false with a winning softness. Fowey 
 stammered. 
 
 " You you know " 
 
 " Then come along ! " she said, with a laugh ; and turn- 
 ing fled lightly before him up the darkened stairway. 
 
 She had opened the door to the tiny private hallway 
 of the flat when he overtook her, panting. She paused, 
 with a warning finger to her lips. 
 
 " S-sh ! " she warned. " Don't wake Hattie ! " 
 
 He swore viciously, discountenanced; and she laughed 
 and, leaving the door wide, went on into the small sitting- 
 dining-room, meanly exulting in the discomfiture she had 
 planned, knowing quite well that he had either forgotten 
 Hattie or believed her to be spending this week-end out of 
 Town, as before. 
 
 In the act of lighting the gas, she heard the door 
 close and saw Fowey come, white and shaken, into the 
 room. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said gaily. " I '11 make sure she is n't 
 awake " 
 
 Removing her hat, she passed on into the adjoining 
 bedroom, and stopped short with a sensation of sinking 
 dismay. The room was empty, the bed she shared with 
 Hattie untouched. So much was visible in the faint light 
 entering through windows that opened on a well. 
 
 Wondering, Joan struck a light. Its first glimmer re- 
 vealed to her the fact that Hattie's trunk was gone. The 
 flare of the gas-jet disclosed greater changes in the aspect
 
 358 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 of the room, due to the disappearance of Hattie's toilet 
 articles and knick-knacks. 
 
 Hattie had left, bag and baggage had gone for good ! 
 
 But why? 
 
 Had she discovered Joan's treachery? Or what had 
 happened ? 
 
 And in her surprise and perplexity, the girl was con- 
 scious anew of that sense of loneliness. She had been 
 afraid to return to the one whom she had betrayed so 
 lightly ; but now she was afraid to be without her. 
 
 Going back to the adjoining room, she found Fowey 
 standing beside the table and with a slight smile examining 
 a sheet of paper. 
 
 " I found this lying here," he announced, handing it 
 over " did n't realize it was anything until I 'd read 
 half of it" 
 
 His smile was again confident, bright with premature 
 pride of conquest. But Joan didn't heed it. She was 
 reading rapidly what had been written, swiftly and in a 
 sprawling hand, upon the half sheet of note-paper. 
 
 " By rights I ought to stay until you come back, whenever you 
 have the cheek to, and tell you what I think of you I saw B. E. 
 this evening and he told me all about it but I want never to see 
 you again the rent 's paid up till next Wednesday then you 
 can stick or get out I don't care which and I wish you joy of 
 your bargain ! H. M." 
 
 " You Ve been scrapping with Hattie, eh ? " Joan heard 
 Fowey say in an amused voice. 
 
 Without answering, she let the sheet of paper fall to 
 the table, and stood with head bowed in thought, suffering 
 acutely the humiliation inspired by Hattie's contemptuous 
 dismissal. 
 
 " What was the trouble ? " Fowey pursued. " Not that 
 I 'm sorry " 
 
 " Oh, nothing much," Joan interrupted. " We just had 
 a difference of opinion, and she had to fly off the handle 
 like this. It does n't matter."
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 359 
 
 " It matters to me," Fowey announced significantly. 
 
 ]STow Joan looked up, for the first time appreciating 
 her position. 
 
 " Oh . . ." she said blankly. 
 
 Fowey was advancing, with extended arms. She raised 
 a hand to fend him off. 
 
 " Don't ! " she begged. " Please don't. I can't . . . 
 You must go, now of course. I 'm sorry. Good 
 night." 
 
 He paused, and she saw his face pale and working with 
 passion ; his small eyes blazing behind their thick lenses ; 
 his hands clenched by his sides, but not tightly, the fingers 
 twitching nervously ; his whole body trembling and shaken 
 beyond control. 
 
 She was conscious of an incongruous, unnatural, in- 
 explicable feeling of pity for him. 
 
 " Please be a good boy," she pleaded, " and go away." 
 
 " No, I 'm damned if I do. You asked me up here 
 I know now just to tease me. But that 's no good. I 
 won't go ! " He advanced another pace, his tone and 
 manner changing. " O Joan, Joan ! " he begged 
 " don't treat me so cruelly ! You know I 'm mad about 
 you. Does n't that mean anything to you, more than a 
 chance to torment me ? My God ! what kind of a woman 
 are you? I can't stand this. Flesh and blood couldn't. 
 I 'm only human. All this week I 've kept away from you 
 simply because I realized what you were " 
 
 " What am I ? " Joan cut in quickly. 
 
 Fowey choked again, with a gesture of impotent 
 exasperation. 
 
 " You," he almost shouted " you 're the woman I 
 love and who 's driving me mad mad I tell you ! " 
 
 " Hubert ! You mean that ? You really love me ? " 
 
 " You know I do. You know I 'm crazy about you. 
 Have n't you seen it from the first ? " 
 
 Hesitating, Joan experienced a sense of one in deep 
 waters. There was a sound as that of distant surf in
 
 360 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 her ears. All through her body pulses were throbbing 
 madly. 
 
 She struggled still a little, instinctively; but Fowey 
 advantaged himself of that instant of indecision. He held 
 her in his arms, now; her face was stinging beneath 
 his kisses. 
 
 Almost unconsciously, she lifted her arms and clasped 
 them round his neck, drawing his face to hers. 
 
 " You poor kid ! " she murmured fondly, her eyes 
 closed ..." You poor kid . . ."
 
 XXXVI 
 
 WITHOUT knowing how she had come there, Joan found 
 herself standing beside the outer doorway, in the narrow 
 hall; one hand hugging about her the kimono she must 
 have snatched up by instinct, while yet not fully wakened, 
 the other hand fumbling with the lock; sleep clouding 
 her brain like a fog, fatigue weighting her eyelids and 
 chaining her limbs, panic hammering in her bosom. 
 
 Overhead the doorbell was ringing imperatively, without 
 interruption, even as it must have been ringing for many 
 minutes before she was consciously awake. 
 
 Dimly she felt that this alarm by night must portend 
 something strange and terrible. 
 
 And still she held her hand, wondering. Who could 
 it be ? Not Quard : for she had seen him leave New 
 York. Never Marbridge : that were unthinkable ! Hattie 
 Morrison, perhaps . . . And that meant . . . 
 
 The bell ground on implacably. 
 
 At length she found courage to adjust the chain-bolt 
 and open the door to the limit permitted by that guard. 
 
 In the outer hallway a gas-jet burned, turned low, dif- 
 fusing just enough illumination to show her the figure, 
 somehow indefinitely familiar in spite of its style, of a 
 man in a chauffeur's uniform: a young and wiry man 
 clothed in khaki coat and breeches and leather leggins, 
 and wearing a cap with visor shadowing heavily his 
 narrow, sharp-featured countenance. 
 
 As the door opened he removed his finger from the 
 bell-push, and drove home recognition with his voice. 
 
 " Miss Thursby live here ? I got a message for her." 
 
 Joan gasped : " Butch ! "
 
 362 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " It 's me, all right," her brother admitted crisply in 
 his well-remembered tone of irony. " You certainly are 
 one sincere little sleeper. I been ringing here " 
 
 " How did you get in ? " 
 
 "Rang up the janitor if that matters. Lis'n: you 
 betta hustle into your clothes quick 's you can if you wanta 
 get home in time to say good-bye to the old woman." 
 
 "Mother!" Joan shrilled. "What what's the 
 matter ?" 
 
 " Dyin'," Butch told her briefly and without emotion. 
 " She said she wanted to see you. So get a move on. My 
 car 's waitin', and I dassent leave it alone. Hustle 
 y' understand ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " Joan promised with a sob. " I '11 hurry, 
 Butch " 
 
 "See you do, then!" 
 
 The boy swung about smartly and disappeared down 
 the well of the stairway. 
 
 Joan closed the door, and leaned against it, panting. 
 Suppose he had wanted to come in ! ... 
 
 For the moment, this was her sole coherent thought. 
 
 Then, rousing, she crept stealthily back to the dark- 
 ened bedroom, gathered up her clothing with infinite 
 precautions against noise, and returned to the sitting- 
 room to dress in feverish haste. . . . 
 
 There was an open taxicab waiting in front of the 
 door. As she came out, Butch bent over and cranked the 
 motor. Straightening up, he waved her curtly into the 
 body of the car. 
 
 " Jump in and shut the door," he ordered briefly, climb- 
 ing into the driver's seat. 
 
 "But Butch " 
 
 " Doncha hear me ? Get in and shut that door. We 
 got no time to waste chinnin' here." 
 
 Abashed and frightened, the girl obeyed. 
 
 Immediately Butch had the cab in motion, tearing east- 
 ward at lawless speed through streets whose long ranks
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 363 
 
 of yawning windows, seen fugitivelj in the formless dusk 
 of early morning, seemed to look down leering, as if in- 
 formed w 7 ith terrible intelligence. 
 
 She shut out the sight of them with hands that covered 
 her face until the swift rush of cool air steadied and 
 sobered her, so that she grew calmer in the knowledge that, 
 in veritable fact (and this was all that really mattered) 
 " nobody knew." . . . 
 
 Then, sitting up, she composed herself, and with deft 
 fingers completed the adjustment of her garments. By the 
 time she had finished her toilet, aided by a small mirror 
 inset between the forward windows, Butch was stopping 
 the cab before the East Seventy-sixth Street tenement. 
 
 Bending back, he unlatched the door and swung it open. 
 
 " You go on up," he ordered. " I '11 be around before 
 long gotta run this machine back to the garage." 
 
 Joan stepped quickly to the sidewalk, and shut the 
 door. 
 
 " All right," she responded, and added, almost timidly, 
 avoiding her brother's eyes : " Thank you, Butch." 
 
 He grunted unintelligibly and, as Joan moved up the 
 stoop, threw in the power again and drew swiftly away 
 down the street. 
 
 For an instant Joan held back in the vestibule, sickened 
 to recognize anew the home of dirt and squalor she had 
 fled, a long lifetime since, it seemed, and struggling with 
 almost invincible repugnance for the ordeal awaiting her 
 at the head of those five weary flights. 
 
 Then, more through instinct than of her will, her finger 
 pressed the call-button beneath the Thursby letter box. 
 
 The latch clicked. She pushed the door open, moved 
 reluctantly into the shadows and addressed herself wearily 
 to the stairs, inhaling with a keen physical disgust the 
 heavy and malodorous atmosphere in which her youth had 
 been shaped toward womanhood. 
 
 As the dining-room door admitted her, she checked 
 again, almost tempted to question the soundness of those
 
 364 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 faculties which insisted that more than a year had passed, 
 rather than an hour or two, since she had left that mean 
 and sordid place. 
 
 Above the dining-table blazed and wheezed a single 
 gas-jet, whose ragged bluish flame was yet sufficiently 
 strong to turn to the colour of night the dull dawnlight 
 outside the airshaft windows. It revealed to her not a 
 single article of furniture other than as memory placed 
 it, and showed her, seated on the far side of the table, 
 her father lifting a heavy and sullen face from the note- 
 book between his soiled fat fingers, that inevitable sheaf 
 of dope lying at his elbow. 
 
 There was no sort of greeting, in proper sense, between 
 these two. For a little neither spoke. Joan hesitated, 
 with shoulders against the panels of the door, in an atti- 
 tude instinctively defiant and defensive. Thursby looked 
 her up and down, a louring sneer marking his recogni- 
 tion of his daughter's finery. 
 
 Suddenly, explosively, she found her tongue : " How 's 
 ma?" 
 
 Thursby jerked a thumb in the direction of the 
 bedrooms. 
 
 " She died an hour ago," he said slowly, " just after 
 Ed went to find you. Edna 's in there." 
 
 Joan made a gesture of horror. 
 
 " My God ! " she said throatily, and turned away. 
 
 A moment later, loud cries of lamentation ringing 
 through the flat testified that she had found her sister.
 
 xxxvn 
 
 WITH peculiar irony, the passing of that pallid, vague, 
 and ineffectual character, Mrs. Thursby, proved the signal 
 for the dissolution of the family which, denying her both 
 respect and affection during her life, had none the less 
 lost, in losing her, its sole motive or excuse for unity. 
 
 The return from the cemetery was accomplished toward 
 noon of a July day whose heavily overcast sky seemed 
 only to act as a blanket over the city, compressing its 
 heated and humid atmosphere until the least exertion was 
 to be indulged in only at the cost of saturated clothing. 
 
 The four were crowded in common misery within a 
 shabby, stuffy, undertaker's growler. 
 
 Thursby occupied the back seat with his eldest daugh- 
 ter, notwithstanding the fact that, since apprising her of 
 her mother's death, the morning of her return, he had 
 addressed no word to her directly. He sat now with fat 
 and mottled hands resting on his knees, his waistcoat 
 unbuttoned, exposing soiled linen, his dull and heavy gaze 
 steadfastly directed through the window. 
 
 Opposite him, on the forward seat, Edna wept silently 
 and incessantly into a black-bordered handkerchief. 
 
 Butch, beside her, looked serious and depressed in a 
 suit of black clothing borrowed for the occasion. 
 
 Nobody spoke from the time they re-entered the car- 
 riage, after the burial, until they left it. Joan huddled 
 herself into her corner, putting all possible space between 
 herself and her father. A sense of lassitude was heavy 
 upon her. She meditated vaguely on the strangeness 
 of life, its inscrutable riddle, the enigma of its brief and 
 feverish transit from black oblivion through light to black
 
 366 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 oblivion. But the problem only wearied her. She dropped 
 it from time to time and tried to think of other things; 
 as a rule this resulted in her speculations centering about 
 Butch. 
 
 The boy mystified her, awed her a little with a sug- 
 gestion of spirit and strength, character and intelligence, 
 conveyed by a forceful yet unassuming manner. It was 
 a new manner, strangely developed in the year that spaced 
 her knowledge of him, only to be explained by his sudden 
 determination to go seriously to work and make some- 
 thing of himself; and the motive for that remained in- 
 explicable, and would ever as far as concerned Joan. For 
 the personal reticence that had always sealed his cynical 
 mouth was more than ever characteristic of the boy to- 
 day; and the sympathy which once had existed between 
 himself and Joan was become a thing of yesterday and 
 as if it had never been. His attitude toward her was 
 touched with just a colour of contempt, almost too faint 
 to be resented; she shrank from it, feeling that he saw 
 through her shallowness, that he knew her, not as Mar- 
 bridge knew her, perhaps, or as Billy Salute, but thor- 
 oughly and intimately, and far better than she would ever 
 know herself. 
 
 She knew now through Edna that within the last 
 twelve-month Butch had learned his trade of chauffeur 
 and pursued it with such diligence that, aside from being 
 the main support of the family which she had deserted, 
 he was half-owner of his taxicab and in a way to acquire 
 an interest in a small garage. . . . 
 
 When the carriage stopped, the father was the first 
 to alight. With no word or look for either of his daugh- 
 ters, and only a semi-articulate growl for Butch, to the 
 effect that they 'd see one another again at dinner, he 
 pulled his rusty derby well forward over his haggard, 
 haunted eyes, thrust his hands deep into trouser-pockets, 
 and slouched ponderously away in the direction of his 
 news-stand. Before he turned the avenue corner, Joan,
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 367 
 
 looking after him while she waited for Butch to settle 
 with the driver, saw Thursby produce his packet of 
 dope and, moistening a thumb, begin to con it as he 
 plodded on. 
 
 So, pursuing his passion to the end, he passed forever 
 from her life, yet never altogether from her memory; in 
 which, as time matured the girl, his inscrutable per- 
 sonality assumed the character of a symbol of aborted 
 destiny. What he had been, whence he had sprung, what 
 he might have become, she never learned. . . . 
 
 Then, preceded by Edna, followed by Butch, she 
 climbed for the last time those weary stairs. 
 
 Arrived in the flat, Butch shut himself into his room 
 to change to working clothes. He could not afford to 
 waste an afternoon, he said. Joan and Edna sat down 
 in the dark and dismal dining-room, conferring in hushed 
 voices until he rejoined them. He came forth presently, 
 the inevitable cigarette drooping from his thin, hard lips, 
 and sat down, his spare, wiry body looking uncommonly 
 well set-up and capable in the chauffeur's livery. 
 
 After a little hesitation, Joan mustered up courage to 
 say her say, if with something nearly approaching appeal 
 in the way that she addressed this taciturn and self- 
 sufficient man who had replaced her loaferish brother. 
 
 " I 've been telling Edna," she said, " that I 'm going 
 to take care of her from now on." 
 
 " That so ? " Butch exhaled twin jets of smoke from 
 his nostrils. " How ? " he enquired without prejudice. 
 
 " Well . . . she 's coming to live with me " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " I don't know. I 'm leaving where you found me. 
 By the way, how did you know where to look for me, 
 Butch?" 
 
 " Seen you one day when you was livin' in the Astoria 
 Inn. There 's a dairy lunch on the ground floor where I 
 gen'ly eat. After that I kept an eye on you." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Joan thoughtfully, wondering how much
 
 368 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 that eye had seen of the brief but lurid existence 
 she had led before coming partially to her senses and 
 moving to share Hattie Morrison's lodgings. " Well, I '11 
 find a good place, and Edna can stay with me and act as 
 my maid until she 's old enough to find something to do 
 for herself." 
 
 " On the stage, eh ? " 
 
 " I guess so. I 'm getting on, you know. Chances are 
 I could give her a boost." 
 
 Butch shook his head : " Nothin' doin'." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 He was unmoved by the flash of hostility in Joan's 
 manner. 
 
 " I guess," he said after a deliberate pause, " we don't 
 have to go into that. Anyway, I got other plans for 
 Edna. She 's goin' to the country, up-State, to spend the 
 summer on a farm family of a fellow I know. After 
 that, if she 's strong enough, she can come back and keep 
 house for me, if she wants to, or go to work any way she 
 chooses that 's not my business. Only understand 
 me she is n't going to go into the chorus until she 's 
 old enough to know what she 's doin', and strong enough 
 to stand the racket. That 's settled." 
 
 Rising, he jerked the stub of his cigarette through the 
 airshaft window, and slowly drew on his gauntlets. 
 
 " You do what packin' you wanta, kid," he advised 
 Edna, " before three o'clock thisaft'noon. I '11 be back for 
 you then. Your train leaves at four. You '11 travel along 
 with the mother of this friend of mine Mrs. Simmons, 
 her name is." 
 
 As he had said, the matter was settled. Joan conceded 
 the point without bickering, with indeed a feeling of mean 
 relief. Moreover, she was afraid of Butch. . . . 
 
 The flat in Fiftieth Street had gained associations in- 
 sufferably hateful. She returned to it only long enough 
 to pack up and move out. Incidentally she found, read, 
 and destroyed without answering, a note from Fowey
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 369 
 
 suggesting an assignation. Her paradoxical dislike for 
 the man had deepened into detestation. She both hoped 
 and intended never to see him again. 
 
 She moved before nightfall, leaving no address, and 
 established herself in an inexpensive but reputable board- 
 ing establishment, little frequented by the class of the- 
 atrical people with which she was acquainted, and where 
 a repetition of her escapade was impossible. On the third 
 day following she began rehearsing privately with Glouces- 
 ter, and threw into the work all she could muster of 
 strength, patience, and intelligence, leaving herself, at the 
 end of each day's work, too exhausted in mind and body 
 to indulge in any of the pleasures to which her tastes 
 inclined. 
 
 Fowey, unable to trace her and seeing nothing of the 
 girl in those restaurants and places of amusement she had 
 been wont to frequent, in time gave up the chase; and 
 before the first presentation of " Mrs. Mixer " the news- 
 papers supplied Joan with the news of his clandestine 
 marriage and subsequent flight to Europe with a widow 
 whose fortune doubtless promised compensation for the 
 fact that she had a son nearly as old as her latest husband.
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 THE rehearsals of " Tomorrow's People " were arranged 
 to begin on the twenty-third day of September ; and since 
 all the important roles had been filled before he left Town, 
 and Wilbrow, whom he could trust, had charge of all 
 other details, Matthias delayed his home-coming until the 
 twenty-second. 
 
 Not until the twentieth did he emerge from the wilder- 
 ness up back of the Allagash country into the comparative 
 civilization of Moosehead Lake. In eight weeks he had 
 not written a line, received a letter, or read a newspaper. 
 But, as he telegraphed Helena from the Mt. Kineo House, 
 he was so healthy that he was ashamed of it. 
 
 The day-letter telegram she sent in reply was delivered 
 on the train. Its news, though condensed, was reassur- 
 ing: Venetia was well and her boy developing into a 
 famous ruffian; the two were making a visit at Tangle- 
 wood, and on the return of Marbridge from his summer in 
 Europe would move back to New York, where Venetia 
 was to reassume charge of his town-house. 
 
 Thus satisfied as to the welfare of the woman he loved, 
 Matthias gave himself up completely to the production of 
 his play; and through the following four weeks lived in 
 the theatre by day, dreamed of it by night, thought, talked, 
 and wrote only in its singular terminology. 
 
 Few facts unconnected with his own play penetrated his 
 understanding, in all that period. But, dining with Wil- 
 brow one night at the general table in the Players, he 
 overheard Gloucester railing bitterly at the ill-fortune 
 which had induced him to pledge himself to stage a modern 
 satirical comedy for Arlington and to train for the lead-
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 371 
 
 ing part a raw and almost inexperienced stage-struck 
 girl. 
 
 He detailed his trials in vivid phrases : 
 
 " As far as I know, she 's never played in anything 
 except a bum vaudeville sketch, and I had hell's own time 
 making her fit to play that. And yet she 's got the in- 
 effable nerve to keep picking at my way of doing things 
 on the general ground that it ain't Tom Wilbrow's. Seems 
 he had the privilege of rehearsing her for a five-side part 
 in that punk show of Jack Matthias', that went to pieces 
 out on the Coast last Summer. If Wilbrow wasn't lis- 
 tening with all his ears, over there, I 'd tell you what I 
 said to the young woman the last time she threw him in 
 my face. . . . What? . . . Oh, nobody you ever heard 
 of. Calls herself Thursday Joan Thursday. ... Of 
 course I rowed with Arlington about her, but he only 
 shrugged and grinned and said she had to play it and 
 I 'd got to make her play it offered to bet me a thou- 
 sand over and above my fees I could n't do it. ... Sure, 
 I took him up. Why not ? I '11 make her act it yet. I 
 could make a Casino chorus boy act human if I was n't 
 so squeamish. . . . Oh, Marbridge one of his discov- 
 eries. I saw him handing her gently into that big, brazen 
 touring-car of his, in front of Rector's, night before last. 
 Fragile 's the word l handle with care ! ' 
 
 Wilbrow, interrogated, supplied the context. Arlington 
 had bought up, through a third party, Mrs. Cardrow's in- 
 terest in " Mrs. Mixer," advising her to sell out because 
 the play had already scored one failure and promising her 
 another play in which she would stand better chance to win 
 New York audiences. This was an old comedy from the 
 French, revamped, and was even then being rehearsed with 
 a scrub company and a scratch outfit of scenery, the pro- 
 duction to be made on the same night that " Mrs. Mixer " 
 was to tempt fate with Joan Thursday; the designated 
 date being the twenty-fifth of October, a Wednesday. 
 
 Matthias promptly dismissed the matter from his mind :
 
 372 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 he speculated a little, hazily about Marbridge, in his con- 
 stitutional inability to understand that gentleman, felt 
 more than ever sorry for Venetia and wondered how much 
 longer she would stand it all and plunged again into 
 his preoccupation. 
 
 " Tomorrow's People " was announced for production 
 on Monday, October the twenty-third. But after the dress- 
 rehearsal on Sunday certain changes recommended them- 
 selves as advisable to the judgment of the author, who 
 persuaded the management to postpone the opening night 
 until Wednesday. At ten minutes to twelve on that night 
 the final curtain fell upon a successful representation ; an 
 audience in its wraps blocked the aisles until after mid- 
 night, applauding and demanding the author; who, how- 
 ever, was not in the theatre. 
 
 He had, in fact, not been near it since the curtain, 
 falling on the first act, had persuaded him of the general 
 friendliness of an audience and the competency of the com- 
 pany. This culmination of a nerve-racking strain which 
 had endured without respite for over a month found him 
 without courage to await the verdict. He took to the 
 streets and walked himself weary in vain effort to refrain 
 from circling back toward the building whose walls housed 
 his fate. 
 
 At length, in desperation hoping to distract his thoughts 
 from the supreme issue, he purchased a ticket of admission 
 to another theatre, above whose entrance blazed the an- 
 nouncement " Mrs. Mixer," and stationed himself at the 
 back of the orchestra to witness the last part of the 
 performance. 
 
 He saw the self-confidence of Gloucester supremely 
 justified: the satiric farce marched steadily, scene by 
 scene, to a success that was to keep it on Broadway through 
 the winter and make the name of Joan Thursday a house- 
 hold word throughout the Union. Her personal success was 
 as unquestionable as her beauty; she played with grace, 
 vivacity, charm, and distinction; and only to the initiate
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 373 
 
 of the theatre was it apparent that Gloucester had found 
 in her the perfect medium for the transmission of his 
 art. Matthias could see, in company with a few of the 
 more discriminating and stage-wise, that she employed 
 not a gesture, intonation or bit of business which had not 
 originated with Gloucester ; she brought to her role on her 
 part nothing but beauty and an unshakable self-confidence 
 so thoroughly ingrained that it escaped suggesting self- 
 consciousness. The triumph was, rightly, first Gloucester's, 
 then the play's ; but the public acclaimed the actress, and 
 the one acidulated critic who hailed her, the following 
 morning, as " at last ! the perfect human kinetophone 
 record ! " was listened to by none, least of all by the sub- 
 ject of his sarcasm. Marbridge, in a stage box, led the 
 applause at the conclusion of each act; and at the end 
 of the play Arlington came in person before the curtain, 
 leading by the hand the gracefully reluctant Joan, and 
 in a few suave sentences thanked the audience for its 
 appreciation and a beneficent Providence for granting 
 him this opportunity of fixing a new star in the theatrical 
 firmament : the name of " this little girl," he promised 
 (bowing to Joan) would appear in letters of fire over the 
 theatre, the next ni^ht. . . . 
 
 Pausing in the lobby to light a cigarette before leaving, 
 Matthias overheard one of Arlington's lieutenants con- 
 fiding to another the news of the ruinous failure of the 
 third initial production of that night. 
 
 Half an hour later he met Wilbrow by appointment in 
 a quiet, non-theatrical club, and received from him con- 
 firmation of rumours which had already reached him of 
 his own triumph with "Tomorrow's People." 
 
 " You 're a made man now," Wilbrow told him with 
 sincere good will and some little honest envy ; " by to- 
 morrow morning the pack will be at your heels, yapping 
 for a chance to put on every old 'script in your trunk." 
 
 " I suppose so," Matthias nodded soberly. 
 
 " But there 's one comfort about that," Wilbrow pur-
 
 374 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 sued cheerfully : " whatever the temptation, you won't 
 give 'em anything but sound, sane, workmanlike stuff. 
 You 've proved yourself one of the two or three, at most, 
 playwrights in this country who are able to think and to 
 make an audience think without losing sight of the fact 
 that, in the last analysis, ' the play 's the thing.' We 've 
 got plenty of authors nowadays who can turn out first- 
 chop melodrama, and we 've got a respectable percentage 
 of 'em who write plays so full of honest and intelligent 
 thought that it gives the average manager a headache to 
 look at the 'script; but the men who can give us the 
 sort of drama that not only makes you think but holds 
 you on the front edge of your seat waiting to see what 's 
 coming next . . . Well, they 're few and far between, and 
 you 're one of 'em, and I 'm proud to have had a hand in 
 putting you before the public ! " 
 
 " You 've got nothing on me, there," Matthias grinned : 
 " I 'm proud you had. And if I can get my own way 
 after this " 
 
 " You don't need to join the I-Should- Worries on ac- 
 count of that ! " 
 
 " You '11 be the only man who will ever produce one 
 of my plays." 
 
 Between one o'clock and two they parted. Matthias 
 trudged home, completely fagged in body, but with a 
 buoyant heart to sustain him. 
 
 Venetia would be glad for him. . . . 
 
 He was ascending the steps of Number 289 when a 
 heavy touring-car, coming from the direction of Longacre 
 Square, swung in to the curb and stopped. Latch-key in 
 hand, Matthias paused and looked back in some little 
 surprise: the lodgers of Madame Duprat were a motley, 
 lot, but as far as he knew none of them were of the class 
 that maintains expensive automobiles. But this car, upon 
 inspection, proved to be tenanted by the chauffeur alone; 
 who, leaving the motor purring, jumped smartly from his 
 seat and ran up the steps.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 375 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir/' lie said, touching his cap, 
 " but I 'm looking for a gentleman named Matthias " 
 
 " I am Mr. Matthias." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. I 've been sent to fetch you. It 's 
 er important, I fancy," the man added, eyeing 
 Matthias curiously. 
 
 " You 've been sent to fetch me ? But who sent you ? " 
 
 " My employer, sir Mr. Marbridge." 
 
 " Marbridge ! " Matthias echoed, startled. Without 
 definite decision, he turned and ran down the steps in 
 company with the chauffeur: Venetia in need of him, 
 perhaps ..." What 's happened ? " he demanded. " Is 
 Mrs. Marbridge ? " 
 
 " If you '11 just get in, sir," the man replied, " I '11 
 tell you as much as I know on the way. It '11 save 
 time." 
 
 He opened the door of the tonneau, but Matthias turned 
 from it, walked round the car, and climbed into the seat 
 beside the driver's. With a nod of satisfaction, the chauf- 
 feur joined him, threw in the power, and deftly swung 
 the ponderous vehicle about. 
 
 " Well ? " Matthias asked as the machine shot across- 
 town. 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir," the man replied after a moment 
 " but I 'd rather not say anything, if it 's all the same to 
 
 you." 
 
 " It is n't," Matthias insisted curtly. " I 'm not on 
 sufficiently friendly terms with Mr. Marbridge for him 
 to send for me without explanation." 
 
 " Yes, sir; but you see, part of my job is to keep my 
 mouth shut." 
 
 " I 'm afraid I shall have to ask you to forget that 
 duty to some extent, or else stop the car and let me 
 out." 
 
 u Very good, sir. I don't suppose I can do any harm 
 telling what little I know. After supper tonight, Mr. 
 Marbridge told me to take the car to the garage and not
 
 376 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 to expect a call for it until sometime tomorrow morning; 
 but when I got there, he was already wanting me on 
 the telephone. He said there 'd been an accident, and 
 told me to find Mr. Arlington first and then you, and 
 ask you to come immediately." 
 
 " But why me ? " Matthias asked, more of himself than 
 of the driver. 
 
 " He did n't say, sir." 
 
 " Did he state what sort of an accident ? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " You found Mr. Arlington ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; he was n't in when I asked at his hotel. 
 But I left a message before coming on for you." 
 
 Matthias sat up with a start. Instead of turning up 
 Broadway the man was steering his car straight across 
 Longacre Square. Before he had time to comment on this 
 fact they were speeding on toward Sixth Avenue. 
 
 " Look here," he cried, " you 're not taking me to Mr. 
 Marbridge's home ! " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "But " 
 
 " Mr. Marbridge had n't gone home when he telephoned 
 me, sir." 
 
 " Where is he, then ? " 
 
 " We '11 be there in a minute, sir an apartment house 
 on Madison Avenue." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Matthias thoughtfully. " Was Mr. Mar- 
 bridge ah alone when you left him tonight ? " 
 
 " I 'd rather not say, sir, if you don't mind." 
 
 Troubled by an inkling of the disaster, Matthias com- 
 posed himself to patience. 
 
 Turning south on Fifth Avenue, the car passed Thirty- 
 fourth Street before swinging eastward again. It stopped, 
 eventually, in the side street, just short of the corner of 
 Madison Avenue, before a private entrance to a ground- 
 floor apartment, such as physicians prefer. But Matthias 
 could discern no physician's name-plate upon the door at
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 377 
 
 which his guide knocked, or in either of the flanking 
 windows. 
 
 Opening, the door disclosed a panelled entry tenanted 
 by a white-lipped woman in the black and white uniform 
 of a lady's-maid. Her frightened eyes examined Matthias 
 apprehensively as he entered, followed by the chauffeur. 
 
 This last demanded briefly: "Doctor been?" 
 
 The maid assented with a nervous nod : " Ten minutes 
 ago, about. He 's with the lady now " 
 
 " Lady ! " the chauffeur echoed. " But I thought it 
 was Mr. Marbridge " 
 
 " I mean the other lady," the maid explained " the 
 one what done the shooting. When Mr. Marbridge got 
 the gun away from her, he locked her up in the bathroom, 
 and then she had hysterics. The doctor 's trying to make 
 her hush, so 's she won't disturb the other tenants, but . . . 
 You can hear yourself how she 's carrying on." 
 
 In a pause that followed, Matthias was conscious of 
 the sound of high-pitched and incessant laughter, slightly 
 muffled, emanating from some distant part of the flat. 
 
 He asked abruptly : " Where is Mr. Marbridge ? " 
 
 The maid started and hesitated, looking to the chauffeur. 
 
 " This is Mr. Matthias," that one explained. " Mr. 
 Marbridge sent for him." 
 
 " Oh, yes excuse me, sir. This way, if you please." 
 
 Opening a door on the right, the woman permitted 
 Matthias to pass through, then closed it. 
 
 He found himself in a dining-room of moderate propor- 
 tions and handsomely furnished. Little of it was visible, 
 however, outside the radius of illumination cast by an elec- 
 tric dome which, depending from the middle of the ceil- 
 ing, focussed its rays upon a small round dining-table 
 of mahogany. This table was quite bare save for a mas- 
 sive decanter of cut-glass standing at the edge of a puddle 
 of spilt liquor: as if an uncertain hand had attempted 
 to pour a drink. Near it lay a broken goblet. 
 
 On the farther side of the table a woman with young
 
 378 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 and slender figure stood in a pose of arrested action, 
 holding a goblet half-full of brandy and water. Her fea- 
 tures were but indistinctly suggested in the penumbra of 
 the dome, but beneath this her bare arms and shoulders, 
 rising out of an elaborate evening gown, shone with a 
 soft warm lustre. Matthias remembered that gown : Joan 
 Thursday had worn it in the last act of " Mrs. Mixer." 
 But she neither moved nor spoke, and for the time being 
 he paid her no further heed, giving his attention entirely 
 to Marbridge. 
 
 Sitting low in a deeply upholstered wing-chair out 
 of place in the dining-room and evidently dragged in for 
 the emergency Marbridge breathed heavily, chin on 
 his chest, his coarse mouth ajar, his face ghastly with a 
 stricken pallor. His feet sprawled uncouthly. The 
 dress coat and waistcoat he had worn lay in a heap 
 on the floor, near the chair, and both shirt and undershirt 
 had been ripped and cut away from his right shoulder, 
 exposing his swarthy and hairy bosom and a sort of tem- 
 porary bandage which, like his linen, was darkly stained. 
 Closed when Matthias entered, his eyes opened almost in- 
 stantly and fixed upon the man a heavy and lacklustre 
 stare which at first failed to indicate recognition. 
 
 Matthias heard himself crying out in a voice of horror : 
 " Good God, Marbridge ! How did this happen ? " 
 
 The man stirred, grunted with pain, and made a dep- 
 recatory gesture with his left hand. 
 
 " Need n't yell," he said thickly : " I 've been shot . . . 
 done for . . ." 
 
 His gaze shifted heavily to the woman. With effort he 
 enunciated one word more : " Drink . . ." 
 
 As though by that monosyllable freed from an enchain- 
 ing spell, Joan started, moved quickly to his side and held 
 the goblet to his lips. 
 
 He drank noisily, gulping and slobbering; overflowing 
 at either corner of his mouth, the liquor dripped twin 
 streams upon his naked bosom.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 379 
 
 Mechanically Matthias put his hat down on the 
 table. 
 
 He experienced an incredulous sensation, as though he 
 were struggling to cast off the terror and oppression of 
 some particularly vivid and coherent nightmare. 
 
 From the farther room that noise persisted of monoto- 
 nous and awful laughter. 
 
 Marbridge ceased to swallow and grunted. Joan re- 
 moved the glass and drew away without looking at Mat- 
 thias. At a cost of considerable will-power, apparently, 
 the wounded man collected himself and levelled at 
 Matthias his louring, but now less dull, regard. 
 
 " Oh, it 's you, is it ? " he said ungraciously. " Well, 
 you '11 do at a pinch. ... I wanted Arlington . . . but 
 you if he could n't be found." 
 
 " Well," said Matthias stupidly, " I 'm here. . . . The 
 doctor 's seen you, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes did what he could for me no use wasting 
 effort it 's my cue to exit." 
 
 " Oh, come ! It 's not as bad as that ! " 
 
 " The hell it ain't. The doctor knows I know. Not 
 that it matters. It was coming to me and I got it." 
 
 "Where's the doctor?" Matthias insisted. "Why 
 is n't he attending you now ? " 
 
 " He 's in the other room . . . trying to silence that 
 crazy woman. . . . She plugged me and . . . went into 
 hysterics . . ." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " ISTella Cardrow. . . . Had the devil of a time with 
 her before doctor came . . . trying to keep her from rush- 
 ing out and giving herself up ... all this in the 
 papers. . . . But all right now : we '11 hush it up." 
 
 " Then that 's what you want of me ? " 
 
 " Wait," Marbridge grunted. " Where 's that girl ? " 
 
 Joan moved back to his side. " What can I do ? " she 
 said; and these were all the words Matthias heard her 
 utter from first to last of that business.
 
 380 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 Marbridge nodded at her with a curling lip : " You 
 can get out ! " 
 
 She turned sharply and left the room, banging the 
 door. 
 
 " That 'a the kind she is," Marbridge commented. 
 " You were lucky to get rid of her as easy as you did. . . . 
 Give me more brandy, will you, like a good fellow and 
 be stingy with the water. I 've got to ... hold out a 
 couple of hours more." 
 
 Matthias served him. 
 
 " I presume Venetia knows nothing about this, yet ? " 
 
 Having drunk, Marbridge shook his head. " Not yet. 
 Now, listen . . . You guessed it: I want you to help 
 hush this up, for Venetia's sake. . . . Rotten mess do 
 no good if it gets in the papers only humiliation for 
 her. Will you ?" 
 
 " What is it you want me to do ? " 
 
 " Help me home and keep your mouth shut. . . . You 
 see, this is my place ; I 've had it years ; very handy 
 private entrance all that. . . . Nella used to meet me 
 here. That 'a how she came to have a key. I 'd forgotten. 
 . . . Well, I got tired of her, and she could n't act, and 
 Arlington was sore about that. So we planned to get rid 
 of her. I guess you must 've heard. It was a dirty 
 business, all round. . . . And tonight, when her play 
 went to pieces, just as we 'd planned it should, she saw 
 how she 'd been bilked and lost her head. . . . Came 
 here, let herself in quietly, without the maid's hearing 
 her, and shot me when I came in with Joan. I managed 
 to get the gun away before she could turn it on herself, 
 and locked her up. Then hysterics. . . . Well, I 'm 
 finished. I asked for it, and got it. ... No : no remorse 
 bunk, no deathbed repentance, nothing like that ! But I 
 realize I 've been a pretty rotten proposition, first and last. 
 Never mind. . . . What I 'm getting at 's this : nobody 
 need suffer but me. That 's where you come in. For 
 Venetia's sake. You and Arlington and the doctor can
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 381 
 
 cover it all up between you. Arlie can quiet that girl 
 Joan and the doctor 's all right ; he '11 want a pretty 
 stiff cheque to fix the undertaker and that 's all right, 
 too. Then you 've got to scare Nella Cardrow so 's she 
 won't give herself away, and buy my chauffeur and that 
 maid out there, Sara. . . . But first off, you '11 have to 
 help doctor get me home and in bed. I 'm the sort that 's 
 got to die in the house." 
 
 His chin dropped again. 
 
 " Well ... I guess it 's a good job ... at that . . ." 
 
 He shivered. 
 
 The hall-door opened and Arlington entered, followed 
 by a lean man with worried eyes who proved to be the 
 doctor.
 
 XXXIX 
 
 SHORTLY before seven o'clock, that same morning, a 
 limousine car pulled up quietly just short of the corner 
 of Madison Avenue, and its occupant, with a word on 
 alighting to his driver, addressed himself briskly to the 
 door of the ground-floor flat. 
 
 He was a handsome, well dressed, well-set-up and well- 
 nourished animal of something more than middle-age: 
 a fact which the pitilessly clear light of early morning 
 betrayed, discovering lines and hollows in his clean-shaven 
 countenance which would ordinarily have escaped notice. 
 
 But he had passed that time of life when he could suffer 
 a sleepless night of anxiety without visibly paying for it. 
 
 His intention to announce himself by ringing the 
 bell was promptly anticipated, the door opening before 
 his finger could touch the button. He checked momentarily 
 in obvious surprise, then jauntily lifted his hat as he 
 stepped hurriedly inside. 
 
 " Why, my dear ! " he addressed the woman who held 
 the door " up so early ! " 
 
 " I have n't been to bed, of course, Mr. Arlington," 
 Joan informed him. 
 
 "Well," he observed, not without envy, "you don't 
 look it." 
 
 " I 've been packing all night," she returned. " Of 
 course I can't stay here, after what 's happened." 
 
 " Of course not," he agreed sympathetically. 
 
 Having closed the outside door, she moved before him 
 into a small drawing-room which adjoined the entry-hall 
 on the left, and when he had followed shut its door with 
 particular care.
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 383 
 
 " Sara 's still packing," she explained, turning to Ar- 
 lington. "Well?" 
 
 He hesitated, looking her over with a doubtful eye. 
 But she was, at least outwardly, quite cool and collected, 
 her manner exhibiting no undue amount of anxiety. 
 
 Still, a certain amount of make-believe would seem no 
 more than decent. . . . 
 
 " Look here," he said almost sharply " you 're feel- 
 ing all right, eh ? " 
 
 " Quite only tired as a dog ; and naturally " 
 
 " I understand," he interrupted. " But you '11 be fit 
 to go on tonight, you think ? " 
 
 " Don't worry about that," Joan advised him decidedly. 
 " I 'm hoping to get a nap before evening, but even if I 
 don't, I know the first duty of an actress is always to her 
 public." 
 
 " Yes," Arlington agreed briefly, avoiding her eyes. . . . 
 " Still, I must ask you to be prepared." 
 
 Joan's figure stiffened slightly, and her dark eyes 
 widened. 
 
 " Dead ? " she questioned in a low voice. 
 
 Arlington nodded. " I 'm sorry . . . About half an 
 hour after we got him home." 
 
 The girl sat down suddenly and buried her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried in a stifled voice " how awful ! " 
 
 " There ! " Arlington moved over and rested a hand 
 familiarly on her shoulder. " Brace up. You '11 forget 
 all about this before long." 
 
 " O no never ! " she moaned through her fingers. 
 
 " But you will," he insisted, looking down at her with 
 an odd expression. " To begin with, I 'm going to make 
 it my business to see that you forget. You must. You 
 can't do justice to your genius, if you keep harping on 
 this accident. It was n't your fault, you know. Just as 
 soon as I 've arranged a few details . . . By the way, 
 how 's the Cardrow woman ? "
 
 384 JOAN THURSDAY 
 
 " Asleep," Joan answered. " She has n't made a bit 
 of trouble since the doctor gave her that dope whatever 
 it was." 
 
 " Good. He '11 be along presently with a nurse he can 
 trust. And by that time I '11 have you out of the way. 
 I know just the place for you, a little flat uptown, on 
 Fifty-ninth Street, overlooking the Park. You '11 be very 
 quiet and comfortable there, and near the theatre besides." 
 
 " I 'm glad of that. I was thinking, of course, I 'd 
 have to go to some hotel . . . and I did n't want to." 
 
 " And quite natural. You want to be alone until you 
 feel yourself again. ... I '11 find you a good maid, and 
 make everything smooth for you. You 're not to fret 
 about anything, and if you 're troubled you must come 
 right to me." 
 
 " You 're awf 'ly kind." 
 
 " Don't look at it that way, please." 
 
 " How can I ever thank you ? " 
 
 " Oh, we '11 talk that over some other time." Arlington 
 removed his hand from her shoulder and went back to 
 the table, upon which he had deposited a bundle of news- 
 papers. " There 's no doubt of your success," he pursued 
 soothingly. " Your notices are the finest I 've seen in 
 years. I brought you the lot of them in case you care " 
 
 Joan uncovered her face and looked up quickly. " Oh, 
 do let me see them ! " 
 
 Arlington placed the papers in her eager hands. 
 
 " They 're all folded with your reviews uppermost." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ever so much ! " 
 
 But in the act of opening the bundle, Joan hesitated 
 and let it fall into her lap. 
 
 " There 's nothing about ? " she questioned fearfully. 
 
 " No, and won't be," he promised. " Besides, these 
 were already on the presses by the time it happened. . . . 
 You need n't worry," he resumed, moving to a window 
 and looking abstractedly out, hands clasped behind him; 
 " the affair will be kept perfectly quiet. Everybody 's
 
 JOAN THURSDAY 385 
 
 been seen and fixed, except the Cardrow, and the doctor 
 has already given us a certificate of death under the knife 
 operation for appendicitis, imperatively required at an 
 hour's notice. . . . By the way, I don't suppose you know, 
 but Marbridge did n't leave any papers or anything of 
 that sort lying round here, did he \ " 
 
 There was no answer. He heard a paper rustle, and 
 looking round saw the girl with her attention all absorbed 
 by one of her notices. 
 
 " Well," he said after a moment, " I '11 go and have a 
 talk with that maid, Sara." 
 
 " All right," she returned abstractedly. 
 
 " You 're all ready to leave when I Ve fixed things 
 up with her ? " 
 
 " Yes," she returned, without looking up. 
 
 He hesitated a moment by the door, remarking the flush 
 of colour that was deepening in her cheeks; then with a 
 mystified shake of his head, he left the room very quietly. 
 
 She remained alone for upwards of half an hour, in 
 the course of which time she read all the reviews once 
 and some of the more enthusiastic twice. 
 
 Then carefully folding the papers, she put them aside 
 and sat thinking. 
 
 She thought for a long time without moving, her eyes 
 shining as they looked ahead, out of the stupid and sordid 
 turmoil of yesterday into the golden promise of tomorrow. 
 
 She thought by no means clearly, with a brain confused 
 by praise and sodden with fatigue; but above the welter 
 of her thoughts, a single tremendous fact stood out, solid 
 and unshakable, like a mountain towering about cloud- 
 wrack : 
 
 She was a Success. 
 
 THE END.
 
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