PART ONE - CHAPTER II

by Kathleen Norris

　　In summer the rear parlour that was Mrs. Page's bedroom was a rather dimand dreary place; such light as it had fell through one long, highwindow that gave only upon a narrow air shaft; it was only in mid-Julythat the actual sunlight—a bright and fleeting triangle—touched theworn red carpet and the curly-maple bed. In winter the window gavealmost no light at all. Julia dressed by gaslight ten months out of theyear, and had to sit up in her warm blankets and stare at the clock on acertain January morning in her fifteenth year, to make sure whether itsaid twenty minutes of eleven or five minutes of eight o'clock. It wasfive minutes of eight—no mistake about it—but eight o'clock was earlyfor the Pages, mother and daughter. Julia sighed, and cautiouslystretched forth an arm, a bare, shapely little arm, with bangles on theround wrist and rings on the smooth fingers, and picked a book from thefloor. Cautiously settling herself on the pillows she plunged into hernovel, now and then pushing back a loose strand of hair, or bringing herpretty fingernails close to her eyes for an admiring and criticalscrutiny.

　　An hour passed—another hour. The clock in the front room struck asilvery ten. Then Julia slammed her book noisily together, and gave asharp push to the recumbent form beside her.

　　"Ah—no—darling!" moaned Mrs. Page, tortured out of dreams."Don't—Julie—"

　　"Aw, wake up, Mama!" the daughter urged. Whereupon the older womanrolled on her back, yawned luxuriously, and said, quite composedly:

　　"Hello, darling! What time is it?"

　　Emeline had aged in seven years; she looked hopelessly removed fromyouth and beauty now, but later in the day, when her hair would be takenout of its crimping kids, her sallow cheeks touched with rouge, and herveined neck covered by a high collar, a coral chain, and anostrich-feather ruff, some traces of her former good looks might bevisible. She still affected tight corsets, high heels, enormous hats.But Emeline's interest in her own appearance was secondary now to herfierce pride and faith in Julia's beauty. Drifting along the line ofleast resistance, asking only to be comfortable and to have a good time,Emeline had come to a bitter attitude of resentment toward George,toward the fate that had "forced" her to leave him. Now she began lazilyto fasten upon Julia as the means of gratifying those hopes andambitions that were vain for herself. Julia was beautiful, Julia wouldbe a great success, and some day would repay her mother for thesacrifices she had made for her child.

　　Emeline dressed, went about, flirted, and gossiped still; she likedcocktails and cards and restaurant dinners; she was an authority on allthings theatrical; her favourite pose was that of the martyred mother."All I have left," Emeline would say, kissing her daughter effectively,before strangers. "And only God knows what it has cost me to keep mygirlie with me!"

　　Julia would grin good-naturedly at this. She had no hallucinations abouther mother. She knew her own value, knew she was pretty, and was gladwith the simple and pathetic complacence of fourteen. Julia at eight hadgone to dancing school, in the briefest skirts ever seen on a smallgirl, and the dirtiest white silk stockings. She had sung a shrilllittle song, and danced a little dance at a public benefit for thewidows of three heroic firemen, when she was only nine. Her lovely mophad been crimped out of all natural wave; her youthful digestion menacedby candy and chewing gum; her naturally rather sober and pensivedisposition completely altered, or at least eclipsed. Julia couldchatter of the stage, could give a pert answer to whoever accosted her,could tell a dressmaker exactly how she wanted a gown made, at twelve.While her mother slept in the morning, before the girl learned to sleeplate, too, the child would get up and slip out. Her playground wasO'Farrell Street, dry and hot in summer, wrapped in soft fog fourmornings a week the year round, reeking of stale beer, and echoing tothe rattle of cable cars. The little Julia flitted about everywhere:watching janitors as they hosed down the sidewalks outside the saloons,or rinsed cuspidors; watching grocers set out their big signs for theday; watching little restaurants open, and first comers sit down togreat cups of coffee and plates of hot cakes. Perhaps the sight of foodwould remind the little girl of her own empty stomach; she wouldstraggle home just as the first sunshine was piercing the fog, andloiter upstairs, and peep into the bedroom to see what the chances of ameal might be.

　　Emeline usually rolled over to smile at her daughter when she heard thedoor open, and Julia would be sent to the delicatessen store for thecomponent parts of a substantial meal. Julia loved the cramped, clean,odorous shop that smelled of wet wood and mixed mustard pickles andsmoked fish. A little cream bottle would be filled from an immense canat her request, the shopkeeper's wife wiping it with a damp rag and abony hand. And the pat of butter, and the rolls, and the sliced ham, andthe cheese—Herr Bauer scratched their prices with a stubby pencil on anoily bit of paper, checked their number by the number of bundles, gaveJulia the buttery change, and Julia hurried home for a deliciousloitering breakfast with her mother. Emeline, still in her limp,lace-trimmed nightgown, with a spotted kimono hanging loosely over it,and her hair a wildly tousled mass at the top of her head, presided at aclear end of the kitchen table. She and Julia occupied only two rooms ofthe original apartment now; a young lawyer, with his wife and child, hadthe big front room, and the dining-room was occupied by two mysteriousyoung men who came and went for years without ever betraying anything oftheir own lives to their neighbours. Julia only knew that they wereyoung, quiet, hard working, and of irreproachable habits.

　　But she knew the people in the front room quite well. Mrs. RaymondToomey was a neat, bright, hopeful little woman, passionately devoted toher husband and her spoiled, high-voiced little son. Raymond Toomey wasa big, blustering fool of a man, handsome in a coarse sort of way,noisy, shallow, and opinionated. Whenever there were races, the Toomeyswent to the races, taking the precocious "Lloydy," in his velvetFauntleroy suit and tasselled shoes, and taking "Baby," a shiveringlittle terrier with wet, terrified eyes. Sometimes Mrs. Toomey came outto the kitchen in the morning, to curl her ostrich feathers over the gasstove, or join Mrs. Page in a cup of coffee.

　　"God, girlie, that goes to the spot," she would yawn, stirring her cup,both elbows on the table. "We had a fierce day yesterday, and Ray took alittle too much last night—you know how men are! He had a stable tipyesterday, and went the limit—like a fool! I play hunches—there's nosuch thing as a tip!"

　　And sometimes she would put a little printed list of entries beforeJulia and say:

　　"Pick me a winner, darling. Go on—just pick any one!"

　　Julia soon reached the age when she could get her own breakfast, andthen, mingled with a growing appreciation of the girl's beauty, hermother felt that gratitude always paid by an indolent person to one ofenergy. She knew that her child was finer than she was, prettier, moreclever, more refined. She herself had never had any reserves; she hadalways screamed or shouted or cried or run away when things crossed her,but she saw Julia daily displaying self-control and composure such asshe had never known. There were subtleties in Julia: her sweet firmyoung mouth closed over the swift-coming words she would not say, herround, round blue eyes were wiser already than her mother's eyes.

　　The girl had grown very handsome. Her joyous, radiant colouring wascontradicted by her serious expression, her proud, unsmiling mouth. Hereyes were dark, her colouring softly dark; she had the velvety, tawnyskin that usually accompanies dark hair. Yet her hair was a pure andexquisite gold. She wore it fluffed over her ears, cut in a bang acrossher forehead, and "clubbed" on her neck, in a rather absurd andartificial fashion. But the effect of her grave little face and severeexpression, with this opulent gold, and her red lips and round blueeyes, was very piquant. Even powder, earrings, and "clubbing" her hairdid not rob Julia of the appearance of a sweet, wilful, and petulantchild. Besides the powder and earrings, she indulged in cologne, inopen-work silk stockings and high heels, in chains and rings andbracelets; she wore little corsets, at fourteen, and laced them tight.

　　Julia's mind, at this time, was a curious little whirlpool. She had thenatural arrogance of her years; she felt that she had nothing to learn.She had an affectionate contempt for her mother, and gave advice moreoften than she accepted it from Emeline. Julia naturally loved order andcleanliness, but she never came in contact with them. Emeline sometimesdid not air or make her bed for weeks at a time. She washed only suchdishes as were absolutely necessary for the next meal. She never sentout a bundle to the laundry, but washed handkerchiefs and some underwearherself, at erratic intervals, drying them on windows, or the backs ofvarious chairs. Emeline always had a pair or more of silk stockingssoaking in a little bowl of cold suds in the bedroom, and occasionallycarried a waist or a lace petticoat to the little French laundress onPowell Street, and drove a sharp bargain with her. Julia accepted thesituation very cheerfully; she and her mother both enjoyed their lazy,aimless existence, and to Julia, at least, the future was full of hope.She could do any one of a dozen things that would lead to fame andfortune.

　　The particular day that opened for her with two hours of quiet readingprogressed like any other day. The mother and daughter arose, got theirbreakfast in the kitchen, and sat long over it, sharing the papers, thehot coffee, the cream, and dividing evenly the little French loaf.Julia's nightgown was as limp as her mother's, her kimono as dirty, andher feet were thrust in fur slippers, originally white, now gray. Buther fresh young colour, and the rich loops and waves of her golden hair,her firm young breasts under her thin wraps, and the brave blue of hereyes made her a very different picture from her mother, who satopposite, a vision of disorder, feasting her eyes upon the girl.

　　There was a murder story, of which mother and daughter read every word,and a society wedding to discuss.

　　"The Chases went," said Julia, dipping her bread in her coffee, her eyeson the paper. "Isn't that the limit!"

　　"Why, Marian Chase was a bridesmaid, Julie!"

　　"Yes, I know. But I didn't think the Byron Chases would go to MaudePennell's wedding! But of course she's marrying an Addison—that helps.'Mrs. Byron Chase, lavender brocade and pearls,'" read Julia. "Well,Maude Pennell is getting in, all right!"

　　"What'd Mrs. Joe Coutts wear?" Emeline asked. Among the unknown membersof the city's smartest set she had her favourites.

　　"'Mrs. Joseph Foulke Coutts,'" Julia read obligingly. '"Red velvet robetrimmed with fox.'"

　　"For heaven's sake, Julie—with that red face!"

　　"And Miss Victoria Coutts in pink silk—she's had that dress for a yearnow," Julia said. "Well, Lord!" She yawned luxuriously. "I wouldn'tmarry Roy Addison if he was made of money—the bum!" She pushed thepaper carelessly aside. "What you going to do to-day, Ma?" she askedlazily.

　　"Oh, go out," Emeline answered vaguely, still reading a newspaperparagraph. "Gladys has had to pay over a quarter of a million for thatfeller's debts!" said she, awed.

　　"Well, that's what you get for marrying a duke," Julia answeredscornfully. "Let's pile these, Ma, and get dressed."

　　They went into the bedroom, where the gas was lighted again, the bureaupushed out from the wall, that the mirror might catch the best light,and where, in unspeakable confusion, mother and daughter began to dress.Julia put on her smart little serge skirt, pushing it down over her hipswith both hands. Then she fixed her hair carefully, adjusted her hat,tied on a spotted white veil, and finally slipped into amuch-embroidered silk shirtwaist, which mother and daughter decided wasdirty, but would "do." Rings, bangles, and chains followed, a pair oflong limp gloves, a final powdering, and a ruff of pink feathers. Juliawas not fifteen and looked fully seventeen, to her great delight. Shegave herself a sober yet approving glance in the mirror; the corners ofher firm yet babyish mouth twitched with pleasure.

　　She locked the doors, set an empty milk bottle out on the unspeakablydreary back stairway, and flung the soggy bedding over the foot of thebed. Then mother and daughter sauntered out into the noontime sunshine.

　　It was their happiest time, as free and as irresponsible as childrenthey went forth to meet the day's adventures. Something was sure tohappen, the "crowd" would have some plan; they rarely came home againbefore midnight. But this sunshiny start into the day Was most pleasantof all, its freshness, its potentialities, appealed to them both. It wasa February day, warm and bright, yet with a delicious tingle in the air.

　　"Leave us go up to Min's, Julie; some of the girls are sure to be there.There's no mat. to-day."

　　"Well—" Julia was smiling aimlessly at the sunlight. Now she pattedback a yawn. "Walk?"

　　"Oh, sure. It's lovely out."

　　It was tacitly understood that Julia was to be an actress some day, whenshe was older, and the boarding-house of Mrs. Minnie Tarbury, to whichthe Pages were idly sauntering, was inhabited almost entirely bytheatrical folk. Emeline and Julia were quite at home in the shabbyovercrowded house in Eddy Street, and to-day walked in at the basementdoor, under a flight of wooden stairs that led to the parlour floor, andsurprised the household at lunch in the dark, bay-windowed front room.

　　Mrs. Tarbury, a large, uncorseted woman, presided. Her boarders, girlsfor the most part, were scattered down the long table. Luncheon wasproperly over, but the girls were still gossiping over their tea. Fliesbuzzed in the sunny window, and the rumpled tablecloth was covered withcrumbs. Mrs. Tarbury kissed Mrs. Page, and Julia settled down betweentwo affectionate chorus girls.

　　"You know you're getting to be the handsomest thing that ever lived,Ju!" said one of these. Julia smiled without raising her eyes from theknives and forks with which she was absently playing.

　　"She's got the blues to-day," said her mother. "Not a word out of her!"

　　"Is that right, Ju?" somebody asked solicitously.

　　"Just about as right as Mama ever gets it," the girl said, still withher indifferent smile. Because her mother was shallow and violent, shehad learned to like a pose of silence, of absent-mindedness, andbecause of the small yet sufficient income afforded by the rented roomsand from alimony, Julia was removed from the necessity that drove theseother girls to the hard and constant work of the stage, and could affordher favourite air of fastidious waiting. She was going to be an actress,yes, but not until some plum worthy of her beauty and youth was offered.Meanwhile she listened to the others, followed the history of thefavourites of the stage eagerly, and never saw less than four shows aweek. Julia, at Juliet's age, had her own ideas as to the interpretationof the Balcony Scene, and could tell why she thought the art of MissRehan less finished than that of Madame Modjeska. But personally shelacked ambition, in this direction at least.

　　However, she joined in the girls' talk with great zest; a manager was tobe put in his place, and several theories were advanced as to histreatment.

　　"I swear to God if Max don't give me twenty lines in the next, I'll goon to New York," said a Miss Connie Girard dispassionately. "There's aparty I know there rents a house that Frohman owns, and he'd give me aletter. What I want is a Broadway success."

　　"That time we played—you know, seven weeks running, in Portland," saida stout, aging actress, "the time my little dance made such a hit, youknow—"

　　"Mind jer, Max never come near us this morning," interrupted a Miss RoseRansome firmly. "Because he knew what he done, and he wasn't looking fortrouble! He wrote a notice—"

　　"One of the Portland papers, in c'menting on the show—" the dancerresumed.

　　"Say, Julie, want to walk down to Kearney with me?" Miss Girard said,jumping up. "I want to get my corsets, and we might drop in and see ifwe can work Foster for some seats for to-night."

　　"I've got a date to-night," said Julia, with a glance at her mother.

　　"What's that?" Emeline said sharply.

　　"Why, Mama, I told you I was going to the Orpheum with the Rosenthals—"

　　"She's going with the whole bunch," Mrs. Page commented, with a shrug."I can't stand them, but she can!"

　　"I think Mark Rosenthal's a darling," some girl said, "I want to tellyou right now there's not anybody can play the piano as good as he can."

　　"That's right," Julia said, very low.

　　"Well, excuse me from the bunch!" Mrs. Page said lazily.

　　"But we've got a real pretty little blush, just the same!" Mrs. Tarburysaid, smiling at Julia. The girls shouted, and Julia grew still morered. "Never mind, baby love!" said the older woman soothingly. "It'sjust Aunt Min's nonsense! Say, but listen, Julia!" Her tone grewsuddenly intense. "I meant to ask you something—listen. Say, nofooling, Artheris wants to know if you would take a job."

　　"Twenty a week, and twenty towns a month," Julia said, still ruffled."No, I would not!"

　　"No, this isn't anything like that, dearie," explained Mrs. Tarbury."There's going to be a big amachure show for charity at the Grand nextmonth, and they want a few professionals in it, to buck up the others.All the swells are going to be in it—it's going to be somethingelegant! Of course they'd pay something, and it'd be a lot of fun foryou! Artheris wants you to do it, and it wouldn't hurt you none to havehim on your side, Julia. I promised I'd talk to you."

　　"One performance?" Julia asked. "What play?"

　　"I'd do it in a minute," said the stout actress from Portland, whosedance had been so gratifying a success, "but I'm signed up."

　　"One night, dear," Mrs. Tarbury said. "I don't think they've decided onthe play."

　　"I don't know," Julia hesitated. "What d'ye think, Mama?"

　　"I think he's got his gall along," Mrs. Page admitted. "One night!—andto learn the whole thing for that. I'll tell you what to tell him—youtell him this: you say that you can't do it for one cent less'n ahundred dollars!"

　　"Lay down, Towse!" said Connie Girard, and Mrs. Tarbury expressed thesame incredulity as she said benevolently: "What a pipe dream, Em—she'slucky if she gets ten!"

　　"Ten!" squeaked Julia's mother, but Julia silenced her by sayingcarelessly:

　　"I'll tell you what, Aunt Min. If Con and I get through in time we'll goin and see Artheris to-day. I'd do it for twenty-five—"

　　"You would not!" said her mother.

　　"Well, you might get twenty-five," Mrs. Tarbury said, mollified, "ifit's a long part."

　　"If it don't take a lot of dressing," Julia said thoughtfully, as sheand Miss Girard powdered their noses at the dark mirror of thesideboard.

　　"Don't you be fool enough to do it for a cent under fifty," Emelinesaid.

　　Julia smiled at her vaguely, and added to her farewells a daughterly,"Your hat's all right, Mama, but your veil's sort of caught up over yourear. Fix it before you go out. We'll be back here at five—"

　　"Or we'll meet you at Monte's,'" said Connie.

　　The two girls walked briskly down Eddy Street, conscious of their owncharms, and conscious of the world about them. Connie was nearlynineteen, a simple, happy little flirt, who had been in and out of loveconstantly for three or four years. Julia knew her very well, andadmired her heartily. Connie had twice had a speaking part in the pastyear, and the younger girl felt her to be well on her way toward fame.Miss Girard's family of plain, respectable folk lived in Stockton, andwere somewhat distressed by her choice of a vocation, but Connie wasreally a rather well-behaved girl,—and a safe adviser for Julia.

　　"Say, listen, Con," said Julia, presently, "you know Mark Rosenthal?"

　　"Sure," said Connie. "Look here, Ju!" She paused at a window. "Don't youthink these Chinese hand bags are swell!"

　　"Grand. But listen, Con," said Julia, shamefacedly honest as a boy."He's got a case on me——"

　　"On you?" echoed Connie. "Why, he's twenty!"

　　"I know it," Julia agreed.

　　"But, my Lord, Ju, your Mother won't stand for that!"

　　"Mama don't know it."

　　"Well, I don't think you ought to do that, Ju," Connie began gravely.But Julia, with sudden angry tears in her eyes, stopped her.

　　"I've not done anything!" she said crossly. And suddenly Connie saw thetruth: that Julia, in spite of paint and powder, rings and "clubbed"hair, was only a little girl, after all, still unsexed, still youngenough to resent being teased about boys.

　　"What's he do?" she asked presently.

　　"Well, he—he—I have supper with them sometimes"—Julia's words pouredout eagerly—"and he'll kiss me, you know—"

　　"Kiss you! The nerve!"

　　"Oh, before them all, I mean—like he always has done. His mother justlaughs. And then, last week, when he asked me to go to Morosco's withthem, why, it was just us two—the others had gone somewhere else."

　　"Well, of all gall!" said Connie, absorbed.

　　"And I've been up there with him thousands of times," said Julia. "MaybeHannah'd be there, or Sophy, but sometimes we'd be alone—while he wasplaying the piano, you know."

　　"Well, now you look-a-here, Julie," said Connie impressively, "you cutout that being alone business, and the kissing, too. And now how aboutto-night? Are you sure his whole family is going to-night?"

　　"Well, that's just it, I'm not," Julia confessed, flattered by Connie'sinterest.

　　"Then you don't go one step, my dear; just you fool him a bunch! You seeyou're like a little boy, Ju: kisses don't mean nothing to you, yet. Butyou'll get a crush some day yourself, and then you'll feel like a foolif you've got mixed up with the wrong one—see?"

　　"Sure," said Julia, hoarse and embarrassed. Yet she liked the sensationof being scolded by Connie, too, and tried shyly, as the conversationseemed inclined to veer toward Connie's own affairs, to bring it back toher own.

　　The little matter of the corsets being settled, they sauntered throughthe always diverting streets toward the office of Leopold Artheris,manager of the Grand Opera House, and a very good friend of both girls.

　　They found him idle, in a bright, untidy office, lined with the picturesof stage favourites, and with three windows open to the sun and air.

　　"You're placed, I think, Miss Girard?" said he, giving her a fat littlepuffy hand. He was a stout, short man of fifty, with a bald spot showingunder a mop of graying curls, and a bushy moustache also streaked withgray.

　　"If you call it placed," said Connie, grinning. "We open Monday inSacramento."

　　"Aha! But why Sacramento?"

　　"Oh, we've got to open somewhere, I suppose! Try it out on the dog, youknow!" Connie said, with a sort of bored airiness.

　　"And you, my dear?" said Artheris, turning toward Julia.

　　"She's come to see you about that amachure job," said Connie, reachingover to grab a theatrical magazine from the desk, and running her eyecarelessly over its pages. Artheris's blandly smiling face underwent aninstant change. He elevated his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and noddedwith sudden interest.

　　"Oh—to be sure—to be sure! The performance of 'The Amazons' for theHospital—yes, well! And what do you think of it, Miss Page?" he said.

　　Julia stretched out her little feet before her, shrugged, and brought anindifferent eye to bear upon the manager.

　　"What's there in it?" she asked.

　　"Well, now, that you'd have to settle with them," smiled Mr. Artheris.

　　"Oh, rot!" said Connie cheerfully. "You manage that for her; what doesshe know? Go on!"

　　"But, my dear young lady, I have nothing to do with it!" the manprotested. "They come to me and wish to hire my theatre, lights, ushers,orchestra, and so, and they ask me if I know of a young actress who willtake a part—to give them all confidence, you see"—he made encouraginggestures with his fat little hands—"to—to carry the performance, asit were!"

　　"What part?" asked Connie shrewdly.

　　"The part of—of—a splendid part, that of the Sergeant," said Artherischeerfully.

　　"Yes, I know that part," Connie said grimly.

　　"The idea is to have Miss Julie here understudy all the parts," said themanager quickly. "These amateurs are very apt to disappoint, do you see?They feel that there would be a sense of security in having aprofessional right there to fill in a gap."

　　"Why, that would mean she'd have to learn practically the whole play,"said Connie. "They ought to be willing to pay a good price for that. Ofcourse Miss Page is only seventeen," she continued, a calculating eye onJulia, whose appearance did not belie the statement.

　　"No objection at all—they are all very young! Come now, what do yousay, Miss Page?"

　　"Oh, I don't know," said Julia discontentedly. "I'm not so crazy aboutacting," she went on childishly. "I'm not so sure I want all theseswells to stand around and impose on me—" She hesitated, uncertain andvague. "And I don't believe Mama'd be so anxious," she submitted lamely.

　　Just then the door of Mr. Artheris's office was opened, and a man put inhis head. He was a young man, tall, thin, faultlessly dressed, andpossessed of an infectious smile.

　　"Excuse me, Mr. Artheris," beamed the intruder, "but could I have a lookat the stage? Far be it from me to interrupt or any little thing likethat," he continued easily, "but my Mother'd have me dragged out andshot if I came home without seeing it!"

　　"Come in, come in, Mr. Hazzard," said Artheris cordially; "you're justthe man we want to see! Miss Girard—Miss Page—Mr. Hazzard. Mr. Hazzardis managing this very affair—manager, isn't that it?"

　　"God knows what I am!" said Carter Hazzard, mopping his forehead, andappreciative of Miss Page's beauty and the maturer charms of MissGirard. "I'm bell-hop for the whole crowd. My sister plays Thomasine,her steady is Tweenwayes, and my Mother's a director in the hospital.Fix it up to suit yourselves; you'll see that I'm every one's goat."

　　Both the girls laughed, and Artheris said:

　　"I am glad you came in, for Miss Page is the young lady of whom I spoketo you. Unfortunately, it seems that she has just promised to sign acontract with the Alcazar people."

　　"Oh, shucks! Can't you put it off until after the fifteenth?" asked Mr.Hazzard in alarm.

　　"Too much money in it," Connie said, shaking her head.

　　"Well—well, we expected to—to pay, of course," Carter said,embarrassed at this crudeness. And Julia, blushing furiously, muttered,"Oh—it wasn't the pay!"

　　"In a word, Miss Page's price is twenty-five dollars a night," saidArtheris. "Could your people pay it?"

　　"Why—why, I suppose we could," Hazzard said uncomfortably. "It's—it'sfor a charity, you know," he ended weakly.

　　"Well, Miss Page's usual price is fifty; she's already reduced it half!"Connie said briskly.

　　Julia was now bitterly ashamed of her manager and her friend; her facewas burning.

　　"I'll do it, of course," she promised. "And we'll arrange the termsafterward!"

　　"Good work!" said Hazzard gayly. In a few moments, when they all wentout to look at the stage, he dropped behind the others and began to walkbeside her.

　　"You're sure you're old enough to be on the stage, Miss Page; no GerrySociety scandal at the last minute?" he asked banteringly. "You lookabout twelve!"

　　Julia flashed him an oblique look.

　　"The idea! I'm nearly seventeen!" she said, with an uncertain littlelaugh. His ardent eyes embarrassed her.

　　"Honest?" said Carter Hazzard, in a low, caressing tone. He laid hisfingers on her arm. "What's your hurry?" he asked.

　　"We ought to keep with the others," Julia stammered, scarlet cheeked buthalf laughing. At the same instant his inclination to cut across herpath brought her to a full stop. She backed against a heavily tasselledand upholstered old armchair that chanced to be standing in the wings,and sitting down on one of its high arms, looked straight up into hiseyes. The others had gone on; they were alone in the draughty wings.

　　"Why ought we?" said Hazzard, still in a low voice full of significance,his eyes on her shoulder, where he straightened a ruffle that was caughtunder a chain of beads. "If you like me and I like you, why shouldn't wehave a little talk?"

　　However young she might appear, the inanities of a flirtation were afamiliar field to Julia. She gave him a demure and unsmiling glance frombetween curled lashes, and said:

　　"What would you like to talk about?"

　　By this time their faces were close together; a sort of heady lightnessin the atmosphere set them both to laughing foolishly; their voicestrembled on uncertain notes. An exhilarating sense of her own sex andcharm thrilled Julia; she knew that he found her sweet and young andwonderful.

　　"I'd like to talk about you!" said Carter Hazzard. Julia found hisaudacity delightful; she began to feel that she could not keep up withthe dazzling rush of his repartee. "You know, the minute I saw you—" headded.

　　"Now, don't tell me I'm pretty!" Julia begged, with another flashinglook.

　　"No—no!" the man exclaimed, discarding mere beauty with violence."Pretty! Lord! what does prettiness matter? Of course you're pretty, butdo you know what I said to myself the minute I saw you? I said, 'I'llbet that little girl has brains!' You smile," said Mr. Hazzard, withpassionate earnestness, "but I'll swear to God I did!"

　　"Oh, you just want me to believe that!" scoffed Julia, dimpling.

　　What they said, however, mattered as little as what might be said by thetwo occupants of a boat that was drifting swiftly toward rapids.

　　"Why do you think an unkind thing like that?" Carter askedreproachfully.

　　"Was that unkind?" Julia countered innocently. At which Mr. Hazzardobserved irrelevantly, in a low voice:

　　"Do you know you're absolutely fascinating? Do you? You're just the kindof little girl I want to know—to be friends with—to have for a pal!"

　　Julia was quite wise enough to know that whatever qualifications shepossessed for this pleasing position could hardly have made themselvesevident to Mr. Hazzard during their very brief acquaintance, and she wasnot a shade more sincere than he as she answered coquettishly:

　　"Yes, that's what they all say! And then they—" She stopped.

　　"And then they—what?" breathed Carter, playing with the loose ribbonsof her feather boa.

　　"Then they fall in love with me!" pouted the girl, raising round eyes.

　　Carter was intoxicated at this confession, and laughed out loud.

　　"But you're too young to play at falling in love!" he warned her. "Howold are you—seventeen? And you haven't told me your name yet?"

　　"You know my name is Miss Page," smiled Julia.

　　"And do you think I'm going to call you that?" Carter reproached her.

　　"It might be Jane," she suggested.

　　"Yes, but it isn't, you little devil!" Suddenly the man caught both herwrists, and Julia got on her feet, and instinctively flung back herhead. "You're going to kiss me for that!" he said, half laughing, halfvexed.

　　"Oh, no, I'm not!" A sudden twist of her body failed to free her, andthe plume on her hat brushed his cheek.

　　"Oh, yes, you are!" He caught both wrists in one of his strong hands,and put his arm about her shoulders like a vise, turning her face towardhim at the same time. Julia, furious with the nervous fear that thisscuffling would be overheard, and that Carter would make her ridiculous,glared at him, and they remained staring fixedly at each other for a fewmoments.

　　"You dare!" she whispered then, held so tightly that Carter could hearher heart beat, "and I'll scream loud enough to bring every one in theplace!"

　　"All right—you little cat!" he laughed, freeing her suddenly. Juliatossed her head and walked off without speaking, but presently anoblique swift glance at him showed his expression to be all penitent andbeseeching; their eyes met, and they both laughed. Still laughing, theycame upon Artheris and Connie, and all walked out together on thedeserted stage.

　　The great empty arch was but dimly lighted, draughty, odorous, andgloomy. Beyond the extinguished footlights they could see the curvedenormous cavern of the house, row upon row of empty seats. In theorchestra box two or three men, one in his coat sleeves, were disputingover an opera score. High up in the topmost gallery some one wasexperimenting with the calcium machine; a fan of light occasionallyswept the house, or a man's profile was silhouetted against a sputter ofblue flame.

　　Artheris and young Hazzard paced the stage, consulted, and disagreed.Connie practised a fancy step in a wide circle, her skirt caught up, herface quite free of self-consciousness. Julia sat on a box, soberlylooking from face to face.

　　Something had happened to her, she did not yet know what. She wasfrightened, yet strangely bold; she experienced delicious chills, yether cheeks were on fire. Love of life flooded her whole being in waves;she was wrapped, lulled, saturated, in a new and dreamy peace.

　　Julia felt a sudden warm rush of affection for Connie—dear old Con—thebest friend a girl ever had! She looked about the theatre; how she lovedthe old "Grand!" Above all possible conditions in life it was wonderfulto be Julia Page, sitting here, the very hub of the world, a being tolove and be loved.

　　There, at that hour, she came to that second birth all women know; shewas born into that world of drifting sweet odours, blending andiridescent colours, evasive and enchanting sounds, that is the kingdomof the heart. Julia did not know why, from this hour on, she was nolonger a little girl, she was no longer dumb and blind and unseeing. Buta new and delightful consciousness woke within her, a new sense of herown importance, her own charm.

　　When she and Connie strolled out again, it was, for Julia at least, intoa changed world. The immortal hour of romance touched even sordidMission Street with gold. Julia walked demurely, but conscious of everyadmiring glance she won from the passers-by, conscious of a score ofswallows taking flight from a curb, conscious of the pathetic beauty ofthe little draggled mother wheeling home her sleepy baby, the settingsunlight glittering in the eyes of both.

　　"He's nothing but a big spoiled kid, if you want to know what I think,"said Connie, ending a long dissertation to which Julia had only halflistened.

　　"He—who?" asked Julia, suddenly recalled from dreams, and feeling herheart turn liquid within her. A weakness seized her knees, a deliciouschill ran up her spine.

　　"Hazzard—the smarty!" Connie elucidated carelessly.

　　"Oh, sure!" Julia said heavily. She made no further comment.

　　She and Connie wandered in and out of a few shops, asking prices, andfingering laces and collars. They went into the dim, echoing old libraryon Post Street, to powder their noses at the mirror downstairs; theywent into the music store at Sutter and Kearney, and listened for a fewmoments to a phonograph concert; they bought violets—ten cents for agreat bunch—at the curb market about Lotta's fountain.

　　The sweetness of the dying spring day flooded the city, and its veryessence pierced Julia's heart with a vague pain that was a pleasure,too. Presently she and Connie walked to California Street, and climbed asteep block or two to the Maison Montiverte.

　　Julia and her mother, and a large proportion of their acquaintances,dined chez Montiverte perhaps a hundred times a year. There was aregular twenty-five-cent dinner that was extremely good, there was afifty-cent dinner fit for a king, and there were specialties de lamaison, as, for example, a combination salad at twenty cents that was ameal in itself. Irrespective of the other order, the guest of the MaisonMontiverte was regaled with boiled shrimps or crabs' legs while hewaited for his dinner, was eagerly served with all the delicious Frenchbread and butter that he could eat, and had a little cup of superb blackcoffee without charge to finish his meal. Brilliant piano music sweptthe rooms whenever any guest cared to send the waiter with a five-centpiece to the old mechanical piano, and sprightly conversation, carriedon from table to table, gave the place that tone that MonsieurMontiverte considered to be its most valuable asset. Monsieur himselfwas a dried-up little rat of a man, grizzled, and as brown as a walnut.Madame was large and superb and young, smooth faced, brown haired, regalin manner. It was said that Madame had had a predecessor, a lady nowliving in France, whose claim upon Jules Montiverte was still valid.However that might be, it did not seem to worry Jules, nor his calm andlovely companion, nor their two daughters, black-eyed baby girls, whoseheavy straight hair was crimped at the ends into bands of brownish-blackfuzz, and who wore white stockings and tasselled boots, and flounced,elaborately embroidered white dresses on Sundays. Whatever their barsinister, the Montivertes flourished and grew rich, and a suspicion ofsomething irregular, some high-handed disposition of the benefit ofclergy, helped rather than hurt their business.

　　Julia and Connie were early to-night, and took their regular places at along table that was as yet surrounded only by empty chairs. Madame, whowas feeding bread and milk to a black-eyed three-year-old at a littletable in a corner, nodded a welcome, and a young Frenchwoman, puttingher head in through a swinging door at the back, nodded, too, and said,showing a double row of white teeth:

　　"Wait—een?"

　　"Yes, we'll wait for the others!" Connie called back. She and Julianibbled French bread, and played with their knives and forks while theywaited.

　　The dining-room had that aspect of having been made for domestic andadapted to general use that is so typically un-American, yet so dear tothe American heart. An American manager would have torn down partitions,papered in brown cartridge, curtained in pongee, and laid a hardwoodfloor. Monsieur Montiverte left the two drawing-rooms as they were: ashabby red carpet was under foot, stiff Nottingham curtains filtered thebright sunlight, and an old-fashioned paper in dull arabesques of greenand brown and gold made a background for framed dark engravings,"Franklin at the Court of France," and "The Stag at Bay," and otherpictures of their type. The tablecloths were coarse, the china and glassheavy, and the menus were written in blue indelible pencil, in a curlyFrench hand. From the windows at the back one could look out upon aniron-railed balcony, a garden beyond, and the old, brick, balconiedhouses of the Chinese quarter. At the left the California Street cablecar climbed the hill, and the bell tower of old St. Mary's rose sombreand dignified against the soft sunset sky. At the right were the Park,with a home-going tide pouring through it at this hour, and KearneyStreet with its jangling car bells, and below, the square roofs of thewarehouse district, and the spire of the ferry building, and the bayframed in its rim of hills. Montiverte owned the house in which heconducted his business; it was one of the oldest in the city, built bythe French pioneers who were the first to erect permanent homes in thenew land. This had been the fashionable part of town in 1860, but itsstately old homes were put to strange uses in these days.Boarding-houses of the lowest class, shops, laundries, saloons, and suchrestaurants as Jules Montiverte's overran the district; the Chinesequarter pressed hard upon one side, and what was always called the "bad"part of town upon the other. Yet only two blocks away, straight up thehill, were some of San Francisco's most beautiful homes, the brownstonemansion, then the only one in California, that some homesick Easternerbuilt at fabulous cost, the great house that had been recently given foran institute of art, and the homes of two or three of the railroadkings.

　　Patrons of Montiverte began to saunter in by twos and threes. Some ofthese the girls knew, and saluted familiarly; others were strangers, andignored, and made to feel as uncomfortable as possible. Julia's beautywas always the object of notice, and she loved to appear entirelyunconscious of it, to sparkle and chatter as if no eyes were upon her.Emeline came in, with one or two older women, and Julia looked up from agreat bowl of soup to nod to her.

　　"Sign up?" asked Emeline languidly. And two or three strangers,obviously impressed by the term, waited for the answer.

　　"Oh, I guess I'll do it to please Artheris!" Julia said. The girl wasfairly aglow to-night, palpitating and thrilling with youth and the joyof life. Everything distracted her—everything amused her—yet now andthen she found a quiet moment in which to take out her little memoriesof the afternoon, and to review them with a curiously palpitating heart.

　　"If you like me and I like you ... I want to talk about you ... do youknow you're absolutely fascinating? ... you're going to kiss me forthat! ..." She could still hear his voice, feel his arm about her.

　　Somebody producing free seats for the Alcazar Theatre, Julia allowedherself to drift along with the crowd. They were late for theperformance, but nobody cared; they had all seen it before, and aftercommenting on it in a way that somewhat annoyed their neighbours,straggled out, in the beginning of the last act, giggling and chewinggum. Julia, raising bewildered, sweet, childish eyes to the stars abovenoisy O'Farrell Street, was brought suddenly to earth by a touch on herarm.

　　It was a dark, tall young man who stepped out of a shadowy doorway toaddress her, a man of twenty, perhaps, with all the ripe and sensuousbeauty of the young Jew. His skin was a clear olive, his magnificentblack eyes were set off with evenly curling lashes, and his firm mouth,under its faint moustache, made a touch of scarlet colour among the richbrunette tones. He was dressed with a scrupulous niceness, and carried along light overcoat on his arm.

　　"Julia!" he said sombrely, coming forward, his eyes only for her.

　　"Why, hello, Mark!" Julia answered. And with a little concern creepinginto her manner she went on, "Why, what is it?"

　　Young Rosenthal glanced at her friends, and, formally offering her hisarm, said seriously: "You will walk with me?"

　　"We were going down to Haas's for ice-cream sodas," Julia submittedhesitatingly.

　　"Well, I will take you there," Mark said. And as the others, noddinggood-naturedly at this, drifted on ahead, Julia found herself walkingdown O'Farrell Street on the arm of a tall and handsome man.

　　It was the first time that she had done just this thing—or if not thefirst time, it had never seemed to have any particular significancebefore. Now, however, Julia felt in her heart a little flutter ofsatisfaction. Somehow Mark did not seem just a commonplace member of the"Rosenthal gang" to-night, nor did she seem "the Page kid." Mark was aman, and—thrilling thought!—was angry at Julia, and Julia, hanging onhis arm, with a hundred street lights flashing on her little powderednose and saucy hat, was at last a "young lady!"

　　"What's the matter, Mark?" she asked, by way of opening theconversation.

　　"Oh, nothing whatever!" Mark answered, in a rich, full voice, and withelaborate irony. "You promised to go to the Orpheum with me, and Iwaited—and I waited—and you did not come. But that is nothing, ofcourse!"

　　Julia's anger smote her dumb for a moment. Then she jerked her arm fromhis, and burst out:

　　"I'll tell you why I didn't meet you to-night, Mark Rosenthal, and ifyou don't like it, you know what you can do! Last week you asked mewould I go to Morosco's with you, and I said yes, and then when it cameright down to it—your mother wasn't going, and Sophy and Hannah weren'tgoing, and Otto wasn't going—and I tell you right now that Mama don'tlike me to go to the theatre—"

　　"Well, well, well!" Mark interrupted soothingly, half laughing, halfaghast at this burst of rebuke from the usually gentle Julia. "Don't beso cross about it! So—" He put her arm in his again. "I like to haveyou to myself, Julia," he said, his boyish, handsome face suddenlyflushing, his voice very low. "Do you know why?"

　　"No," said Julia after a pause, the word strangling her.

　　"You don't, eh?" Mark said, with a smiling side glance.

　　"Nope," said Julia, dimpling as she returned the look, and shutting herpretty lips firmly over the little word.

　　"Do you know you are ador-r-rable?" Mark said, in a sort of eager rush."Will you go to Maskey's with me, instead of joining the others atHaas's?" he asked, more quietly.

　　"Well," Julia said. She was her own mistress. Her mother had gone homeduring the play with Mrs. Toomey, who complained of a headache. So,grinning like conspirators, they stayed on the south side of the streetuntil it joined Market, and then went by the fountain and the bignewspaper buildings, and slipped into the confectioner's. Julia sent anapproving side glance at herself in the mirror, as she drew a satisfiedbreath of the essence-laden air. She loved lights, perfumes, voices—andall were here.

　　An indifferent young woman wiped their table with a damp rag, as shetook their order, both, with the daring of their years, deciding uponthe murderous combination of banana ice-cream and soda with chopped nutsand fruit. Julia had no sooner settled back contentedly to wait for it,than her eye encountered the beaming faces of her late companions, who,finding Haas's crowded, had naturally drifted on to Maskey's.

　　Much giggling and blushing and teasing ensued. Julia was radiant as arose; every time she caught sight of her own pretty reflection in thesurrounding mirrors, a fresh thrill of self-confidence warmed her. Sheand Mark followed the banana confection with a dish apiece of raspberryice-cream, and afterward walked home—it was not far—to the house inwhich they both lived.

　　"And so we don't quarrel any more?" Mark asked, in the dim hallwayoutside her door.

　　"Not if you won't play mean tricks on me!" Julia pouted, raising herface so that the dim light of the gas jet that burned year in and yearout, in the blistered red-glass shade, fell upon the soft curves of herface.

　　It was a deliberate piece of coquetry, and Julia, although neither henor any other man had ever done it before, was not at all surprised tohave Mark suddenly close his strong arms about her, and kiss her, with asort of repressed violence, on the mouth. She struggled from his hold,as a matter of course, laughed a little laugh of triumph and excitement,and shut herself into her own door.

　　Emeline was lying in bed, looking over some fashion and theatricalmagazines. Upon her daughter's entrance she gave a comfortable yawn.

　　"Did Mark find you, Julie? He was sitting on the stairs when I got home,mad because you didn't go out with them."

　　"Yep, he found me!" Julia answered, still panting.

　　"It strikes me he's a little mushy on you, Julie," Emeline said, lazily,turning a page. "And if you were a little older, or he had more of ajob, I'd give him a piece of my mind. You ain't going to marry his sort,I should hope. But, Lord, you're both only kids!"

　　"I guess I can mind my own business, Mama," Julia said.

　　"Well, I guess you can," Emeline conceded amiably. "Look, Ju, at thesize of these sleeves—ain't that something fierce? Get the light out assoon as you can, lovey," she added, flinging away her magazine, androlling herself tight in the covers, with bright eyes fixed on the girl.

　　Ten minutes later Emeline was asleep. But Julia lay long awake,springtime in her blood, her eyes smiling mysteriously into the dark.