She must make the best bargain--or series of bargains--she could.And as her necessities were pressing she must lose no time.She understood now the instinct that had forced her to fly from South Fifth Avenue, that had overruled her hesitation and had compelled her to accept the good-natured, prosperous man's invitation....There was no other way open to her.
She must not evade that fact; she must accept it.Other ways there might be--for other women.But not for her, the outcast without friends or family, the woman alone, with no one to lean upon or to give her anything except in exchange for what she had to offer that was marketable.She must make the bargain she could, not waste time in the folly of awaiting a bargain to her liking.Since she was living in the world and wished to continue to live there, she must accept the world's terms.To be sad or angry either one because the world did not offer her as attractive terms as it apparently offered many other women--the happy and respected wives and mothers of the prosperous classes, for instance--to rail against that was silly and stupid, was unworthy of her intelligence.She would do as best she could, and move along, keeping her eyes open;and perhaps some day a chance for much better terms might offer--for the best--for such terms as that famous actress there had got.She looked at Mary Rigsdall.An expression in her interesting face--the latent rather than the surface expression--set Susan to wondering whether, if she knew Rigsdall's _whole_ story--or any woman's whole story--she might not see that the world was not bargaining so hardly with her, after all.Or any man's whole story.There her eyes shifted to Rigsdall's companion, the famous playwright of whom she had so often heard Rod and his friends talk.
She was startled to find that his gaze was upon her--an all-seeing look that penetrated to the very core of her being.
He either did not note or cared nothing about her color of embarrassment.He regarded her steadily until, so she felt, he had seen precisely what she was, had become intimately acquainted with her.Then he looked away.It chagrined her that his eyes did not again turn in her direction; she felt that he had catalogued her as not worth while.She listened to the conversation of the two.The woman did the talking, and her subject was herself--her ability as an actress, her conception of some part she either was about to play or was hoping to play.Susan, too young to have acquired more than the rudiments of the difficult art of character study, even had she had especial talent for it--which she had not--Susan decided that the famous Rigsdall was as shallow and vain as Rod had said all stage people were.
The waiter brought the cocktails and her stout young companion came back, beaming at the thought of the dinner he had painstakingly ordered.As he reached the table he jerked his head in self-approval."It'll be a good one," said he.
"Saturday night dinner--and after--means a lot to me.I work hard all week.Saturday nights I cut loose.Sundays I sleep and get ready to scramble again on Monday for the dollars." He seated himself, leaned toward her with elevated glass."What name?" inquired he.
"Susan."
"That's a good old-fashioned name.Makes me see the hollyhocks, and the hens scratching for worms.Mine's Howland.
Billy Howland.I came from Maryland...and I'm mighty glad I did.I wouldn't be from anywhere else for worlds, and I wouldn't be there for worlds.Where do you hail from?""The West," said Susan.
"Well, the men in your particular corner out yonder must be a pretty poor lot to have let you leave.I spotted you for mine the minute I saw you--Susan.I hope you're not as quiet as your name.Another cocktail?""Thanks."
"Like to drink?"
"I'm going to do more of it hereafter."
"Been laying low for a while--eh?"
"Very low," said Susan.Her eyes were sparkling now; the cocktail had begun to stir her long languid blood.
"Live with your family?"
"I haven't any.I'm free."
"On the stage?"
"I'm thinking of going on."
"And meanwhile?"
"Meanwhile--whatever comes."
Billy Howland's face was radiant."I had a date tonight and the lady threw me down.One of those drummer's wives that take in washing to add to the family income while hubby's flirting round the country.This hubby came home unexpectedly.I'm glad he did."He beamed with such whole-souled good-nature that Susan laughed."Thanks.Same to you," said she.
"Hope you're going to do a lot of that laughing," said he.
"It's the best I've heard--such a quiet, gay sound.I sure do have the best luck.Until five years ago there was nothing doing for Billy--hall bedroom--Wheeling stogies--one shirt and two pairs of cuffs a week--not enough to buy a lady an ice-cream soda.All at once--bang! The hoodoo busted, and everything that arrived was for William C.Howland.Better get aboard.""Here I am."
"Hold on tight.I pay no attention to the speed laws, and round the corners on two wheels.Do you like good things to eat?""I haven't eaten for six months."
"You must have been out home.Ah!--There's the man to tell us dinner's ready."They finished the second cocktail.Susan was pleased to note that Brent was again looking at her; and she thought--though she suspected it might be the cocktail--that there was a question in his look--a question about her which he had been unable to answer to his satisfaction.When she and Howland were at one of the small tables against the wall in the restaurant, she said to him:
"You know Mr.Brent?"
"The play man? Lord, no.I'm a plain business dub.He wouldn't bother with me.You like that sort of man?""I want to get on the stage, if I can," was Susan's diplomatic reply.
"Well--let's have dinner first.I've ordered champagne, but if you prefer something else----""Champagne is what I want.I hope it's very dry."Howland's eyes gazed tenderly at her."I do like a woman who knows the difference between champagne and carbonated sirup.
