The Dust [71]
no wrinkles--has a kind of an old young--or do I mean young old?--look. You've led such a serious life."
"Um. That's the devil of it."
"You're looking particularly young to-night."
"Same to you, Urse."
"No, I'm not bad for thirty-four. People half believe me when I say I'm twenty-nine." She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders. "I've still got my skin."
"And a mighty good one it is. Best I ever saw-- except one."
She reflected a moment, then smiled. "I know it isn't Josephine's. Hers is good but not notable. Eyes and teeth are her strongholds. I suppose it's--the other lady's."
"Exactly."
"I mean the one in Jersey City."
He went on brushing his hair with not a glance at the bomb she had exploded under his very nose.
"You're a cool one," she said admiringly.
"Cool?"
"I thought you'd jump. I'm sure you never dreamed I knew."
He slid into his white waistcoat and began to button it.
"Though you might know I'd find out," she went on, "when everyone's talking."
"Everyone's always talking," said he indifferently.
"And they rattle on to beat the band when they get a chance at a man like you. Do you know what they're saying?"
"Certainly. Loosen these straps in the back of my waistcoat--the upper ones, won't you?"
As she fussed with the buckles she said: "But you don't know that they say you're going to pieces-- neglecting your cases--keeping away from your office --wasting about half of your day with your lady love. They say that you have gone stark mad--that you are rushing to ruin."
"A little looser. That's better. Thanks."
"And everyone's wondering when Josephine will hear and go on the rampage. She's so proud and so stuck on herself that they're betting she'll give you the bounce."
"Well--" getting into his coat--"you'd delight in that. For you don't like her."
"Oh--so--so," replied Ursula. "She's all right, as women go. You know we women don't ever think any too well of each other. We're `on.' Now, I'm frank to admit I'm not worth the powder to blow me up. I can't do anything worth doing. I don't know anything worth knowing--except how to dress and make a fool of an occasional man. I'm not a good house- keeper, nor a good wife--and I'd as lief go to jail for two years as have a baby. But I admit I'm n. g. Most women are as poor excuses as I am, yet they think they're GRAND!"
Norman, standing before his sister and smiling mysteriously, said: "My dear Urse, let me give you a great truth in a sentence. The value of anything is not its value to itself or in itself, but its value to some one else. A woman--even as incompetent a person as you----"
"Or Josephine."
"--or Josephine--may seem to some man to be pricelessly valuable. And if she happens to seem so to him, why, she IS so."
"Meaning--Jersey City?"
His eyes glittered curiously. "Meaning Jersey City," he said.
A long silence. Then Ursula: "But suppose Josephine hears?"
He stood beside the doorway, waiting for her to pass out. His face expressed nothing. "Let's go down. I'm hungry. We were talking about it this afternoon."
"You and Jo!"
"Josephine and I."
"And it's all right?"
"Why not?"
"You fooled her?"
"I don't stoop to that sort of thing."
"No, indeed," she laughed. "You rise to heights of deception that would make anyone else giddy. Oh, I'd give anything to have heard."
"There's nothing to deceive about," said he.
She shook her head. "You can't put it over me, Fred. You've never before made a fool of yourself about a woman. I'd like to see her. I suppose I'd be amazed. I've observed that the women who do the most extraordinary things with men are the most ordinary sort of women."
"Not to the men," said he bitterly. "Not while they're doing it."
"Does SHE seem extraordinary to YOU still?"
He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "What you heard is true. I'm letting everything slide--work --career--everything. I think of nothing else. Ursula, I'm mad about her--mad!"
She threw back
"Um. That's the devil of it."
"You're looking particularly young to-night."
"Same to you, Urse."
"No, I'm not bad for thirty-four. People half believe me when I say I'm twenty-nine." She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders. "I've still got my skin."
"And a mighty good one it is. Best I ever saw-- except one."
She reflected a moment, then smiled. "I know it isn't Josephine's. Hers is good but not notable. Eyes and teeth are her strongholds. I suppose it's--the other lady's."
"Exactly."
"I mean the one in Jersey City."
He went on brushing his hair with not a glance at the bomb she had exploded under his very nose.
"You're a cool one," she said admiringly.
"Cool?"
"I thought you'd jump. I'm sure you never dreamed I knew."
He slid into his white waistcoat and began to button it.
"Though you might know I'd find out," she went on, "when everyone's talking."
"Everyone's always talking," said he indifferently.
"And they rattle on to beat the band when they get a chance at a man like you. Do you know what they're saying?"
"Certainly. Loosen these straps in the back of my waistcoat--the upper ones, won't you?"
As she fussed with the buckles she said: "But you don't know that they say you're going to pieces-- neglecting your cases--keeping away from your office --wasting about half of your day with your lady love. They say that you have gone stark mad--that you are rushing to ruin."
"A little looser. That's better. Thanks."
"And everyone's wondering when Josephine will hear and go on the rampage. She's so proud and so stuck on herself that they're betting she'll give you the bounce."
"Well--" getting into his coat--"you'd delight in that. For you don't like her."
"Oh--so--so," replied Ursula. "She's all right, as women go. You know we women don't ever think any too well of each other. We're `on.' Now, I'm frank to admit I'm not worth the powder to blow me up. I can't do anything worth doing. I don't know anything worth knowing--except how to dress and make a fool of an occasional man. I'm not a good house- keeper, nor a good wife--and I'd as lief go to jail for two years as have a baby. But I admit I'm n. g. Most women are as poor excuses as I am, yet they think they're GRAND!"
Norman, standing before his sister and smiling mysteriously, said: "My dear Urse, let me give you a great truth in a sentence. The value of anything is not its value to itself or in itself, but its value to some one else. A woman--even as incompetent a person as you----"
"Or Josephine."
"--or Josephine--may seem to some man to be pricelessly valuable. And if she happens to seem so to him, why, she IS so."
"Meaning--Jersey City?"
His eyes glittered curiously. "Meaning Jersey City," he said.
A long silence. Then Ursula: "But suppose Josephine hears?"
He stood beside the doorway, waiting for her to pass out. His face expressed nothing. "Let's go down. I'm hungry. We were talking about it this afternoon."
"You and Jo!"
"Josephine and I."
"And it's all right?"
"Why not?"
"You fooled her?"
"I don't stoop to that sort of thing."
"No, indeed," she laughed. "You rise to heights of deception that would make anyone else giddy. Oh, I'd give anything to have heard."
"There's nothing to deceive about," said he.
She shook her head. "You can't put it over me, Fred. You've never before made a fool of yourself about a woman. I'd like to see her. I suppose I'd be amazed. I've observed that the women who do the most extraordinary things with men are the most ordinary sort of women."
"Not to the men," said he bitterly. "Not while they're doing it."
"Does SHE seem extraordinary to YOU still?"
He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "What you heard is true. I'm letting everything slide--work --career--everything. I think of nothing else. Ursula, I'm mad about her--mad!"
She threw back