The Project Gutenberg eBook of Overstuffed This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Overstuffed Author: Helen R. Hull Illustrator: James M. Preston Release date: October 28, 2026 [eBook #79874] Language: English Original publication: Springfield: P. F. Collier & Son Company, 1925 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79874 Credits: Jens Sadowski. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive. *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVERSTUFFED *** Overstuffed Helen R. Hull Illustrations: James Preston Collier’s, vol. 75, May 2, 1925, pp. 7-9, 37-39. Florence yawned, patting her lip cautiously with a batiked silk handkerchief. “You haven’t much time, Howard.” She shifted among the rose pillows of the chaise-longue, taking a short breath against the confines of her slimmo-corset. Howard was counting handkerchiefs into his handbag, a brisk little man, incongruous in the setting of frilled lace lamp shades and pink silk hangings. He liked to pack his own bags now. “So I know where to lay my hands on things”—although a few years ago, when he started on the road, Florence had done it for him. “Um.” He laid folded pajamas on top. “Where’s ’at toothbrush holder? Lord, if I’m not sick of packing, packing.” He swung around on neat feet. “Give my address as No. 6, lower. Might as well, Flossie. I’m getting sick of it. You—have you thought any more about that idea of my staying here?” Florence sat up, the heels of her satin pumps clicking sharply at the edge of the rug. “What is there to think, at the salary you said they’d give you for a store job?” Howard pulled at the edge of his vest; it crawled back into familiar wrinkles. “We might make out.” “When it’s all we can do now, with you making almost twice that!” The enameled bracelets jingled along Florence’s plump white arms. “Howard, what is there to think? You want me in rags, and living maybe in the Bronx?” “I’m getting sick of it.” He turned and snapped shut the bag. “And we don’t save a cent, no matter what I make.” “Save! I do the best I can, with rents what they are, and being sick, and trying to look nice for you.” Her hand fluttered with a gleam of veneered finger nails to her bosom. [Illustration: “Save! I do the best I can, with rents what they are, and being sick, and trying to look nice”] “Well.” Howard looked at her, his face sagging, his little mustache dragging downward. “Coming home for over Sunday once a month or so, living in hotels and sleepers! I had indigestion fierce this last trip. I can’t earn so much if I take this store job. But I might enjoy it some. We could get a little place in Yonkers, maybe, or Jersey. Two hundred for this soap box! And I not in it twelve days a year.” “If you grudge me a little comfort—” Florence touched her handkerchief cautiously to her eyelids. “I don’t complain about your being gone day after day. Some women—I can’t live alone in the country somewhere.” “There, Flossie.” Howard patted her shoulder. “I want you should be happy. They didn’t offer me so much here. There. Give us a smile. I can’t go off and leave you crying.” Florence eased herself into his arms. “I do the best I can,” she said. She opened her dark eyes plaintively. “A man likes to stay home. But got to make money.” Howard hugged her, patted her hair, fumbled for his watch—an absent-minded gesture which interrupted the embrace. “Have to cut along.” He lifted his coat from the back of a chair and pulled it on. “Some coffee, Daddy, before you start?” He shook his head. “Coffee’s on the side of the train and the devil, keeping me awake. No. Now you go to bed and sleep good. And get out and see folks. Have a good time while your old man’s away. Not too good.” He kissed her with methodical tenderness. “Write me at Pittsburgh. I’ll send my route to-morrow. Bye-bye.” He lifted his bags, his hat far back on his head, his worried forehead gleaming under the boudoir lamp. Florence pulled the hat forward, picked a bit of lint from his shoulder, and opened the door. “Be careful what you eat and you won’t have indigestion. Oh”—she reached for a flat box on the dressing table—“you forgot the tablets I got for you.” She tucked them into his pocket. “Be a good daddy. Bye-bye.” She stood at the door listening to the faint cough which meant he felt bad to leave her, the final click of the elevator door. Then she closed the apartment door and slipped the chain into its groove. If a man didn’t have a woman standing behind him and pushing, he’d just sit down every time. Take Howard! No real ambition. Wanting to give up his traveling just because he didn’t like sleepers! [Illustration: She closed the apartment door and slipped the chain into its groove] She stepped in front of the long mirror, smoothing the black satin over her slender hips. If she were like some women, with their demands! She curved her neck slightly, observing the effect of the long jet earrings. With her looks and figure, she might have had anyone for a husband. And she never complained. Never, that is, except just enough to keep Howard going. She bent closer to the glass, staring at the line of her sleek bob, rubbing one finger investigatingly across the base of her neck. Piquant, the hairdresser said. That neck shave was a nuisance. The telephone rang briskly from the next room. With an eager lunge Florence reached the stand, pulled open the ruffled skirts of the telephone doll. “Yes? Hello?” “Mrs. Barker? Good evening.” “Oh, hello, Roy! You all right?” What a soft, dark voice the boy had! “Lonesome, that’s all. When do I see you?” “You lonesome? Oh-h.” “Awful. Say, I guess I’m going to pull off that rehearsal. I want to talk it over with you.” “You been working too hard? Sound tired, sort of.” She stared at the china head of the telephone doll, seeing instead a thin, romantically pale face, dark hair brushed back with a negligent air. “It’s hard, trying to break through to a manager. How about to-morrow some time? I’d ask you to dinner, but I put every cent in those costumes.” “Poor boy! I tell you. Come up here. I’ll cook you a little dinner.” “You know, I’d like that. Just you and me. I want to talk things over. There’s a rehearsal fee. I thought you’d have advice.” “Seven o’clock?” “That’s great. Well, see you then. Ta-ta!” “Oh, Roy!” But he had hung up. Florence sat still, her fingers touching the phone, her eyes, nervously brilliant, staring about at the living-room. Overstuffed velvet chairs, small lacquer tables, elaborate silk lamps; the room panted uneasily! To-morrow! She undressed slowly—she unsnapped the satin and pink rubber bands. Perhaps she was getting—well, plump. That little bulge at the back of her neck. Still, if you dieted, it showed first of all in your face. It was only that her figure was feminine, and fashion, nowadays, said no hips at all. She pulled a rose negligee about her shoulders and brushed her hair with leisurely strokes. That last henna dip hadn’t been so good. With a hand mirror she stared at the little trough of parting she had made down the crown of her small head. A purplish glint. Still, you might as well try to bring out those bronze tints. The mirror laid aside, her jars of cream open, her fingers began their ritualistic rhythm on chin, cheek, temple. Only two months since she first met Roy—at a tea room where he was dancing partner. She had gone in after the movies with some of her crowd, and the manager had introduced him. He was different from most men: so idealistic. She didn’t care, personally, much for dancing. Her crowd went in for bridge, or Mah Jong. But the tea room was handy, after matinées. And she was interested in Roy’s career. He had genius, if only once he had a fair trial. She was patting her face with smart little slaps, and her thoughts took on the staccato of that sound. Be careful not to let the crowd know about him. Cats. Nothing to do. Tear you to bits. Jealous too. Why? She screwed shining metal covers into place. Only last week she had told Mrs. Florney and Mrs. Rippler that if she missed two afternoons with them, she’d never dare show her face again, because a chance like that to talk her over would ruin her! They had laughed, but it was true. Not that there was anything to know about Roy. He was so young. Her thought broke off, irritatedly. He wasn’t much younger—Still—like a dear younger brother. She folded down the silk and lace bedspread, raised the window a cautious few inches, and stretched herself comfortably in bed. Howard was staid and matter of fact—from the core of his heart out. She was young—scarcely past thirty. Roy had said, “Flappers bore me so. Unfinished. A real woman, like you....” She sighed, languorously. When Roy was starring in his own company she could sit in a box—he kissing his hand to her over the footlights, the audience staring up at the beautiful woman who was his inspiration. * * * * * Florence was eating breakfast in the little white box of a kitchen when Dottie, the colored maid, came in. “Late, Dottie.” Florence curled her finger out from the handle of her coffee cup. “And I want you to hurry this morning, especially. I have a busy day.” “Ain’t no mo’n five minutes late.” Dottie stalked into the bathroom to remove her street apparel. “Had to wait on that ole coal man for my bag of coal, I did.” “You do the bedroom first and then I can dress. And don’t scant the corners because you are late.” A grunt from Dottie. “Did you hear me?” “Yas’m, I hear you. Never did scant corners. Fo’ to a-room, an’ I does ’em all fo’.” Florence poured a second cup of coffee. The sun laid a golden streak across the white table, dazzling back from the percolator. Pleasant, having just crisp toast and coffee. Howard always wanted something heavy, and he wouldn’t eat in the kitchen. All the fuss of setting a table! Thank heaven, the day was fair. It was hard to get taxis in the rain. They all went clattering past you. The telephone buzzed. “Dottie, you answer.” Pleasant little pretense, having your cleaning woman answer the phone. Florence followed her into the living-room. “Yas’m, she’s right here. Right here behin’ me.” An instant of hope that Roy’s soft voice would float over the wire. No—Mrs. Rippler. Florence settled into the chair, ready for a long, intimate talk, an animated prologue to the day. A fur coat sale? Yes, she was interested. Squirrel or caracul. She was terribly busy this morning, with the maid in and all. A new film at their favorite house? Yes, luncheon, of course. Eleven-thirty, then, at the north entrance of the Waldorf. “D’ you want me rub this furniture down with oil?” Dottie stood belligerently in the doorway. “Not to-day. You must hurry. I have an important engagement.” “Yas’m.” Dottie’s wide mouth shut sardonically over her reply. “I’se done in the bedroom.” Florence closed the door and drew a low chair up to the dresser. She opened the bottom drawer and reached under piles of flat linen. There it was, her bank book. The linen drawer was the one place she was sure Howard would never stumble upon. Entries and withdrawals since the second year of her married life. The book was in a way a miracle, a tribute to her skill—that she could, with anyone as careful of pennies as her husband, manage to save a cent for herself. Every woman needed a little something her husband didn’t know about. Not that she’d ever fallen so low as to ask shopkeepers to make additions to their bills. She knew women who did that. But, then, you had to slip the storekeepers a commission. No, just being careful, shaving things here and there. She remembered that dentist’s bill. It had looked easy to change the 18 to 78, as it was in handwriting. But Howard suspected that. She had had quite a time dissuading him from going right down to the dentist’s about his exorbitant charge. She looked at the present account. Enough for that fur coat—if she could manage to explain it. Easier to explain a hat or a dress. She had a reputation for bargains. But a coat, when Howard had definitely said he couldn’t afford it this year? Squirrel? No—caracul; a soft collar framing her face, a gardenia.... Lunching with Roy. Her old Hudson seal was shabby, and so common. She’d certainly earned it, managing so well. Four hundred-odd dollars ought to get something good, on a sale. She slipped the bank book into the sanctuary of the sheet and closed the drawer. She peered out between the rose silk curtains. Yes, it was a good day. The roofs stood out sharp-angled with shadows; beyond chimneys and tanks someone’s laundry made white patches in the sunlight. Florence began luxuriously the ritual of dressing. She floated, ecstatic, in an atmosphere of rose silk. Through the closed door came faint knockings and thumpings of Dottie’s progress. She liked that new rouge—class to its orange tint. Her new black satin—she squirmed into it, smoothed it down. Not many women had a neck like hers, firm and creamy; she squinted sidewise at her reflection. That wasn’t a bulge at the base of her neck—Just the curve of her shoulders. Earrings, bracelets. Glad they’d come in again. Her ecstasy drooped as she seized a shoe horn and inserted her foot into the buckled pump. She waited a moment, wriggling her free toes before she pried on the second slipper. Dottie dragged her mops and brooms through the tiny hall. “I have to go very soon, Dottie.” Florence rubbed her nails briskly. “Cain’t go mo’n so fast, Mis’ Barker.” * * * * * Florence frowned. But, then, all help was impertinent these days. Let’s see. She glanced about the room. She wanted one of those darling lace-edged lamps for the head of the bed. Otherwise it was perfect. Oh—a note to Howard. She perched on the edge of the chaise-longue, the ink bottle near her on the dressing-table. “Dear Howard: It is lonesome without you again. I’ve had a busy morning trying to get Dottie to do things properly. I’m going out for a little air now.” She patted a fat pink pillow into smooth roundness, letting the pen stand in the ink bottle. What else to say? “I’ll pay the bills you left the money for and I hope it goes around. Take your pills and don’t overeat. From your loving Wife.” She put on the close black hat, with the long feather which touched her cheek becomingly. The earrings were good with that. Then she pulled on the seal coat. Its lines weren’t bad; she wheeled slowly before the mirror. But seal was common. She folded the collar carefully about her shoulders. “You done, Dottie?” “I’se willing to go. I smeared the mop aroun’ some. Since you’s obliged to hustle off.” Dottie appeared in the doorway, poking a dangling button through the top buttonhole of her coat. Nastrikat, she said, given her by one of her ladies. “It’s a very scant two hours.” Mrs. Barker counted out ninety cents accusingly. “I hope you’ll be prompt next week.” “Yas’m. ’Bout two minutes scant.” Dottie was looking at the china clock. “That clock isn’t right.” “Where’s mah car fares?” “Now, Dottie, last time you admitted you collected car fare twice in one day. I haven’t any more change.” Mrs. Barker snapped the clasps of her beaded bag. “Lan’ sakes, Mis’ Barker, I come way down here jes’ for you this morning!” But Mrs. Barker had gone on into the living-room to hunt for a stamp, and after a minute the door slammed upon Dottie’s retreat. * * * * * There was one stamp in the lacquered cigarette box on the table, crumpled, but still affixable. Pushing her long French kid glove under the bracelets, Mrs. Barker set the latch and started forth on her busy day. She would have to stop at the bank to cash the check Howard had left. It wasn’t large enough to cause her any worry about carrying the money around. Down the street sounded the metallic whirr-ang of riveting, of great dull red girders being swung up, straddling the air, clanked into place. Another of those new apartment hotels. If only Howard—She pattered across to the shack labeled Renting Office. “How much are your suites?” She held the door ajar, staring brightly at innumerable blue prints spread on table and walls, crisply alluring in the dim air. The agent turned from his smoky oil heater. “Four thousand up, modom.” He drew a stubby finger along a price list. Florence nodded. “And service?” “Oh, yeuh. Service. High-toned restaurant on the ground floor. Dinner served in your own suite by trained butlers for slight additional fee.” He shifted his cigar. Outside and above her rose the clang and whirring, with tiny human voices of workmen scratching at the metal din. “Look at the plans?” “Not this morning.” Florence withdrew reluctantly. “Some other time. I’m interested.” She left her name and address; the agent would mail her a floor plan as soon as they were printed. She pattered on toward Broadway, sighing. Just what she’d like. A taxi squeaked under hasty brakes, and the driver leaned out, inquiringly. Florence shook her head. Why, even taxi drivers recognized the kind of person she was. She cashed the check, crammed the bills into her bag. Outside the bank she fingered her change purse and dropped a nickel into the cup of a crippled beggar. With a glow of generosity, she clicked through the subway turnstile. No use spending money on a taxi, when she was alone. Her friends were waiting for her in the hotel lobby. She saw them break off their chatter—about her of course—and turn upon her with little spurts of words. My dear, how well you look! Isn’t that a new hat? No we just came. Four of them, curiously alike. Pigeon shoulders encased in furs, faces colored into identical masks, gloves sausage-smooth over empty gestures. Florence became one of them, her own pleasure in the bright day, the slow crowds along the avenue, mounting fourfold. The thought of Roy separated her a little from them. If they should find out about him! But that could wait; that was her own secret dream. Meantime it was good to drift past brilliant windows, to stand a moment. My dear, isn’t that adorable, that sleeve! And that Spanish shawl! Now you are really the Spanish type. A huge window of a jeweler’s establishment, backed with palms, a table set with gold service for a formal dinner. They stood there, avid-eyed, until Mrs. Florney declared, “Vulgar, don’t you think?” and Mrs. Rippler’s prompt, “I’ll say it is!” broke the spell, and they walked on, relieved. * * * * * The fur sale: Slender mannequins twirling on supercilious heels, arms extended droopily under gleaming fur. The four sat on carved chairs, high heels boring into velvet carpets. “You can’t do better than a good seal, for a dressy garment. Mole and ermine for evening.” Mrs. Wentz was talking in her high hysterical emphasis. “A short sport model for the street.” Florence lifted a thin eyebrow toward Mrs. Rippler. They knew that Mrs. Wentz bought muskrat, if she did talk. The salesman, obsequious, dapper, urged Mrs. Barker into the coat herself. “Made for you!” She was the center of the group, the lovely fur, glowing and golden, elevating her into gracious elegance. Her fingers crept for the price tag, and she squinted under beaded lashes. “This is the lowest figure?” She moved reluctantly out of elegance into her own old coat. “You wouldn’t hold it a day or so?” Always that chilly little moment, when the deference of the salesman curdled into suspicion. Could she persuade Howard out of those extra hundreds? They were on the street again, sustained by each other, full of animated chatter. Luncheon now. That tea room where you looked down on the avenue. “Let’s get out of this awful crowd: down here in the thirties.” The noon hour had poured out dingy mobs for every corner: sallow, small people, huddled together, gesticulating. “They ought to keep such people off the avenue.” Mrs. Rippler elbowed indignantly through the crowd. “Loft workers!” “Foreigners too!” added Florence. Luncheon restored them. They had their favorite table, one near the casement windows above the street; beneath them the busses and shiny black blobs of cars jerked spasmodically to the tune of the traffic whistle, like figures in a puppet dance; on the sidewalk smaller blobs of color went swimming along—hats, faces, shoulders. Sitting there, gazing through the gauze curtains, they felt themselves stimulated, exaggerated. This was all theirs, the street, the weaving of traffic, the gay shop windows opposite, the waitress in crisp white and black, the pleasantness of salad, tea, pastry, scented cigarettes, the gusts of chatter. “Wonderful place, New York.” Mrs. Florney’s fingers smoothed her throat meditatively in a massage gesture. “So many advantages.” “Just one more little cake.” Florence reached for it. “We’ve been walking about so much.” “They say there’s a new way of reducing.” Mrs. Rippler took a cake. “You just put it in your bath. I think dieting is dangerous, myself.” A little agitation about dividing the check. After that higher mathematics they wriggled into their coats, retouched their faces, gathered up their bags and gloves. “Ten per cent for a tip seems too much for one of these girls.” Florence counted out small change reluctantly. “Of course, in a restaurant where you have a real waiter—” They agreed, and their heels clattered across to the elevator. A taxi engulfed them giggling as they crowded together within. They were part of the city processional, rolling through the sunlight. * * * * * They swept impressively through the portals of the moving-picture house, up the wide stairway, into the mysterious and scented gloom. The uniformed ushers, the monogrammed velvet curtains of the stage were theirs too, subtle and delightful catering to them. The orchestra was playing. Florence Barker snuggled down into her secret, formless dreaming. Roy and music. His slim figure moving beautifully across the stage. She was sorry for the other women. Mrs. Rippler’s profile looked sharp in this twilight where rouge faded, leaving only outlines. They were settled down, dull. The bright afternoon slid away, down the beaten track of the feature picture. A long story of a woman wrecking her home through her wanton desire for a career. Her gowns were less spectacular than usual. Finally her children had gone to violent ends, she had seen the error of her ways, and begged her husband’s forgiveness in a scene of abandoned repentance. The four women rose, stretching softly, yawning, moving out with the crowd. “Personally, I like a good love story, myself.” Mrs. Wentz shook her head. “Trouble enough in real life, I say.” “Some women are so foolish, wanting to work.” Mrs. Florney shrugged. “Why get married then?” Mrs. Rippler fastened her collar with an irritated jerk. They had been cheated: no romance, no love. “A woman’s place is in her home.” Um-m. They were all sure of that. “Do we have tea?” They stood a moment at the entrance; down the diagonal of the street electric signs made ineffectual dabs of light against the clear, remote blue of the evening sky. “I must hurry along.” Florence shook hands in a cordial flutter of farewell. “An old friend’s dropping in. Call me up!” Reckless to hurry away. They would have tea—and talk her over. She hailed a taxi, waved to them, rattled off. Roy didn’t eat enough, so devoted to his art. She would have a good dinner for him. Steak, salad; she’d coax a bottle of sherry from that delicatessen man. She planned happily all the way up Broadway. The next corner; she rapped on the glass behind the driver. Ugh! Queer the way a meter always jumped another dime just as you stopped the cab. * * * * * She wiggled her feet out of pumps into house slippers, drew a brilliant green rubber apron over her head, and began an intense and busy hour, trotting from living-room to kitchen and back. The gate-legged table looked jolly and inviting with freesias in the center and her heavy silver. “Mr. Osney,” announced the hall operator, and she flew into the bedroom for pumps, fresh rouge, and a whisk at her hair. Roy at the door, slim, handsome, arm crooked for his walking stick, bending over her hand. “Sweet of you to ask me.” He lounged in a wide velvet chair, smoking. Romance and filet mignon. A dinner _a deux_—she called it _a dear_. “It’s the goods all right, a little dinner like this, when you’re feeling no one gives a damn.” “Mustn’t ever feel that way, Roy. More steak? Mushrooms? You need someone to take care of you. You’re too nervous.” * * * * * Spring in the faint sweetness of the freesias. Florence wasn’t hungry. That was funny, when this was her favorite dinner. The wine prickled down her throat, raw and sharp. It added not a tingle to the excitement which thrilled her. She loved the way Roy’s thin fingers crumbled a roll. Cruel and elegant. “I want to hear about the rehearsal.” She refilled his wineglass, placed the smoking stand at his elbow, turned back at the doorway for a glimpse of his dark face in pale drifts of smoke. “After dinner.” He stared somberly. “Not now. Let’s be happy.” “You haven’t been turned down?” “Oh, no!” He dismissed that with a rebuking frown. “I haven’t had a showing yet. Something else. Later.” When she had cleared away the table and set the coffee service on the vermilion lacquered stand, she settled herself in a corner of the divan, patting a pillow behind her shoulders. “May I?” Roy sank down beside her. “I’d like to be near you. You seem to care—what happens to me.” His hand, descending, encountered hers, closed over it. “Dear boy!” Florence quivered softly. “Tell me. What’s troubling my boy?” “You’ll think I’m not much good.” His long eyelids lowered over speculative eyes. “But you do want to know?” His fingers caressed her palm. “Perhaps I could help you.” “Cute little bobbed head.” He brushed her cheek with one finger tip. “It’s about rehearsal. I told you they’d promised to give me a chance, if I could get costumes. These modern business methods!” He flung his hand against his forehead. “A man like me has no chance against them. Your encouragement started me. But an artist and a business man! Ha!” “Poor boy!” Florence could feel the pain in his taut fingers. “Is it the costumes, Roy?” “Worse than that. I got the costumes, and I got the act ready to present. You know, I showed you part of it last week. And now they refuse to give me a showing unless I put up money for the theatre. Think of it! What can I do? Money!” “You have to pay for a rehearsal?” Florence’s hand felt deserted. “Five hundred dollars. For a guaranty. My hope gone. All my dreams!” He dropped swiftly to his knees beside her, his hands clasping her knees. “Florence, such a paltry sum. I thought you’d be so proud of me.” [Illustration: “Florence, such a paltry sum! I thought you’d be so proud of me.” Florence felt a tiny jar of suspicion. Five hundred dollars!] Florence felt a tiny jar of suspicion in the blissful pounding of her heart. Five hundred dollars! But he didn’t know she had it. Only an instant, and she was again suffused in tenderness. How tragic he was! “Here, Roy. Come up here.” She tugged at his hands, drew him to the divan beside her. “Poor boy.” She touched the deep frown between his brows, and he pulled her hand down to his lips. If she loved him, she ought to help him. A queer little pain, unlike the facile discomfort from which tears rose, unlike anything she had felt for years, was boring through layers into her heart. “Maybe I could help you.” “Just being here helps me.” Roy peered at her under a hand clenched to his forehead. “But this is different. Commercial. I tried to borrow. No one will believe me when I say I’ll be worth thousands in a few weeks. Why, a musical-comedy star is worth anything! I’d planned so many things for you.” He laid his cheek against her arm in pitiful despair. “Roy—” Florence sighed; that shining dark head blotted out the picture of herself in new furs. “If I—that is, I have a little money.” “Borrow from you?” Roy sat erect. “Florence!” Into the velvet of his voice crept a wiry vibration. “Just let me help my boy. They give it back to you, don’t they?” * * * * * “My first week’s salary would be three times that. But take money from a woman? A man couldn’t do that.” “I can help my boy, can’t I?” Florence was determined now. “It’s just a little bank account of my own. I don’t need it right now.” “You are too good.” His nostrils flared. “How much is it?” “Not much. A woman has to pinch and scheme so.” Suddenly she hated Howard. If he had been generous, successful, she might have all the boy needed and more. “You don’t know anything about that, do you? Not quite five hundred. Almost four-fifty. Would that help?” “If I could bring myself to take it.” Roy jumped to his feet, strode across the room, stood fingering the gold fringe of a lamp. “You’d have it and interest, the first week. You wouldn’t despise me, if I took it?” “Why, listen, Roy! I’d just feel I’d had a little part in your success.” “You’re a wonderful little woman.” He strode back, leaned above her, kissed her lips expertly, not too quickly. “I shouldn’t have done that.” His frown was noble. “But”—he lifted his hands in graceful resignation—“I must go. If I should stay—” His withdrawal, his restraint, was more thrilling than a second kiss. “Don’t go.” Ah, that air of hopeless passion! “We—we should plan about the money.” “They’ll give me a try-out this week.” “I’ll have to get it. It’s a savings account. To-morrow I could get it.” “Yes. Cash is always better. You know—no record. I’ll give you a note, of course. But I’ll keep the record here.” He pressed one hand against the left side of his slim-waisted coat. “You’ve rescued me.” He was going! With a little cry Florence fluttered after him, to the door. He took both her hands, gazing into her eyes with intent masterfulness. “To-morrow evening?” he murmured. “We must be careful—or who knows? But a woman like you—” He drew her closer, kissed her, a long kiss flavored with tobacco, melancholy romance, reckless sweetness; then he was gone. Florence stood motionless until the ecstatic thrill, in slowly widening ripples, drifted beyond poignancy. Then she snapped off the lights, closed the kitchen door upon the disorder there, and went into her bedroom. She passed through the rites of undressing with a vague yielding to habit which did not dull the edges of her dream. He was so beautiful and sad. Howard never was sad except when he had indigestion. She shut away that methodical, neat figure. Suppose Roy said he couldn’t live without her? She held the negligee about her white shoulders. A studio, immense, elegant, indefinitely like one she had seen in a moving picture—and herself in trailing evening gown, receiving guests for Roy. Finally she put out the lights, except the rose night lamp, and crossed to the window. Dark roofs, the night sky of the city with stars washed pale in the reflected glow of smoky light. She sank down in the satin armchair, an elbow on the window sill, chin cupped in her hand. Roy loved her. She nibbled, half frightened, at crumbs in a forbidden future. Howard—what would he do? But that was the hard crust of reality, and she wouldn’t set her teeth in that. Roy—and his dancing. She was sitting in a box, dropping roses down to the stage.... * * * * * A sneeze startled her into alertness. Another sneeze, tickling, exploding. Good heavens, how long had she sat there? The steam gone off, the room chilly. She hurried into bed, rubbing at the crick in her shoulder. Ker-choo! Foolish of her. She’d be all right in the morning. What was it you said? I am getting better and better. But in the morning she wasn’t better. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to invoke the glamour of the evening. It was cold, remote, far more shadowy than the ache behind her eyeballs. A cup of coffee! Reluctantly, pitying her forlorn loneliness, she stumbled out of bed. The mirror showed her heavy, dull eyes. The kitchen was a dismaying sight. No one to lift a hand for her. Not even Dottie, till day after to-morrow. She opened the hall door, shivering. Cream and mail, left by the elevator boy. She couldn’t hurry, she felt so wretched. She turned the gas high under the coffeepot, and presently dragged herself back to bed, coffee and letters in her hand. The hot liquid warmed her a little. Just ads—no, a letter from Howard. Just like a man, writing you all about how bad he felt, as if you never needed sympathy yourself. Threatening to give up his trip unless he felt better. * * * * * Absorbed in the details of her suffering, she was startled into a cry as the telephone shrilled at her. “Hello?” She was plaintive. “That you, dear?” It was Roy. “Just wanted to tell you I’ve arranged that rehearsal. All set for to-morrow evening. Told them a friend was backing me. When can I see you? To-night I have to work on my act.” “I don’t know.” She was huddled in the chair. “Roy, I—” “What’s wrong?” How shrill his voice sounded! It hurt her head. “I’ve an awful cold. Flu, I’m afraid. I can’t go out.” “But, Florence, listen! I’ve got everything arranged. Unless you’ve changed your mind. Maybe you didn’t mean it last night.” “I meant it.” She felt tears on her hot cheeks. “It’ll do you good to get out. Get some air. Just a step to the bank.” “I don’t know.” Of course, if he’d told them he’d have the money—“I’ll try.” “That’s the girl! You’ll be all right. I’ll drop in this afternoon.” He wasn’t very considerate. She wiped the tears from her eyes, gentle, self-pitying tears. The bank closed at two; eleven now. She felt under the concealing sheets for the bank book, and sat down at her dressing table, hugging her dressing gown over her breast. She would try to dress. As she stooped to pull on chiffon stockings, she thought her head would roll off, it ached so. She’d lie down again. She woke, after uneasy dozing, her throat like hot sandpaper. Propping herself on an elbow, she peered at the china clock. Almost two. What was it she had meant to do? The bank. Well, it was too late. She’d have to tell Roy she’d been so ill she had slept. Surely he’d understand. She’d send a note down to the desk for him. She didn’t want to see him—didn’t, above all, want him to see her. She felt queer when she stood up, wobbly, billowy. But she scrawled and sealed the note, wavered across the hall to the elevator, and gave it to the grinning boy. She’d like a cup of tea. But she hated to open the door of the kitchen. If Howard were there, he’d make tea for her. That terrible phone, shrilling again! The operator announced Mr. Osney. “Give him my note.” “He’s on his way up. Said you expected him.” “Florence, let me in, dear. Just a minute. See, I brought you these.” He pushed at the door. Footsteps down the hall; she had to let him in. “I left you a note.” She huddled away from him into a corner of the divan. She was so cold! “I’m sick. The bank was shut when I woke up.” Roy unrolled the paper, dropped jonquils on her knees. Street-corner flowers, dry and crinkled at the tips. He sat down opposite her. “I got the note. Say, I’m sorry you don’t feel so good. But I had to see you. It’s serious. If you cared, you wouldn’t let just a cold—” * * * * * His eyes wandered over her, cruel and hard; like a bird’s eyes, shallowly bright. Florence didn’t want him staring at her. He was too healthy. “Some other time.” In the back of her neck she felt a sneeze begin. “You could endorse your account over to me. I’ll say I’m investing it for you. No one will question that.” “Ak-choo!” Florence hid her face in her handkerchief. “Please go ’way.” “But you promised me the money. It won’t take you but a minute.” How could he sit there, ignoring her misery? “Can’t you think of me one minute?” She meant to sound playful, but her dry throat turned her words into a complaint. “Instead of money?” “You aren’t too sick to write your name, are you?” he urged. The balloon that was her head floated dizzily, burst, leaving a shred of an idea where it had floated. “Is all you care about, the money?” She leaned forward, beating one hand on her knee. “Is it?” As she stared at him, her feverish wretchedness insulated her from his romantic charm, and she saw him hard, indifferent. “Say”—his face had sharpened furtively—“has somebody been queering me with you? Doing me dirt? You offered me the cash, didn’t you?” He glanced toward the door, a leap of alarm in his eyes. Why, he was afraid of something, afraid she’d heard something. Florence remembered that little flicker of suspicion the night before. Suddenly she knew. The froth was skimmed off. Even then, perhaps, if he had protested, hadn’t fidgeted there, alarm and distaste twitching in his face— “Oh!” she cried out. “That’s all you’ve ever wanted. Money! There isn’t even a rehearsal. You made it up! You lied about it.” He had risen nimbly, edging toward the door. “You don’t feel well,” he said hastily. “Wait till you are yourself.” “This is me,” retorted Florence, her voice burring over the sandpaper of her throat. Her face was white, save for that one spot of rouge. “What made you think I had any money? Oh, it’s all been lies and cheating.” “You women all have money.” Roy turned the doorknob, pulled the door gently inward; his exit assured, he spoke in restored bravado, his small teeth flashing. “You all have it, cheated off your husbands. Lazy, pampered, overstuffed cheats. Call me a cheat? Huh! I work hard for what I get.” And he slammed the door upon an agile retreat. Florence kicked at the jonquils. Her rage shuddered off into cold discomfort. If she hadn’t been sick, she would never have blundered into any accusation. He would have had her fooled. She fled to the bedroom, crawled into bed. Oh, you couldn’t trust anybody! She lifted her head at the sound of a key in the lock, followed by the clump of something heavy on the floor, the shuffle of feet. “Who’s that?” she cried out. “It’s me, Flossie.” Howard stood beside the bed, his hat pushed back. “You sick? Why, Flossie!” “Oh, Howard!” she reached out for his hand. Neat, substantial, honestly solicitous. “Oh!” “Why, Flossie.” He stroked her cheek. “You feel hot.” “It’s just a cold.” She clung to his hand. “What you home for?” “I wrote you I thought I’d come back.” He sat down on the chair beside the bed. “I didn’t feel first rate. I feel better now. You been alone all day?” She nodded. “Here, I’ll fix you something hot. You lie still.” She heard him thumping about the kitchen. Presently he returned with a tray which he set on the little stand. “You drink that.” He propped pillows behind her shoulders. “’S funny, how I feel good as soon as I get home to you.” Florence gulped at the tea. “Taste good? Yeuh.” His eyes were affectionate, tender, with tiny wrinkles spraying from the corners. “There, I feel better.” She set the cup down. “Lonesome here, if you’re sick.” She felt an unaccustomed humility toward him. He never grinned at her, never pretended. “Now you lie still and I’ll fix up the kitchen.” Yes, he would do even that. She listened to the vague sounds of awkward industry. “Howard!” He came to the door, a dishtowel draped across his checked vest. “What did you come back for?” “Well, yesterday I felt miserable. I’m all right, now I’m home.” He walked slowly toward the bed, his forehead wrinkling. “A doctor out there said I’d ought to give up the road for a while. He said I’d be all right if I stayed home a while. “It’d be mighty nice, some ways. A little house, and coming home every night, and going places with you.” He broke off apologetically. “Want some more tea?” He bent to retrieve something his fidgeting toe had brushed. “You got a bank account?” Howard was puzzled. “I didn’t want you to know.” Frantically she buried it under the covers. Panic, fever-thick, engulfed her. If Howard turned on her, despising her! Suddenly she knew that steady, loyal devotion of his as the one thing between her and whirling nothingness. “I wanted to surprise you—saving a little—when you thought I was just extravagant.” “Why, Flossie!” * * * * * He sounded doubtful, still puzzled. “You think I’m just selfish—spend money. I tried to save it—to help you. For that house ... you wanted.” “Why, Flossie!” Howard dropped to the edge of the bed, dabbing awkwardly with one hand at her shoulder. “Why, I thought you wouldn’t hear to it—our getting a little place!” He gave a low whistle of incredulous delight. “And you—all the time you were planning for it. Say, you had me fooled!” He patted her shoulder. “What you crying for?” “I wanted to surprise you.” “You did, all right. Why, this last week”—he gulped, and hurried on—“I even wondered if you cared much how bad I felt. That shows how little a man knows; now, don’t it?” (Admiration, pride, in his eyes.) “We won’t talk about it now. You get better first. Don’t want my Flossie sick.” “It’s terrible, being all alone.” Her lip quivered again. “Yeuh, that’s how I felt.” He got to his feet, looking down at her with wordless, grateful adoration. “Say, my wife’s the goods, all right. Now you lie still and rest.” He retreated slowly to the kitchen. “You must of had quite a party,” he called back. Florence, pulling the satin comforter up to her chin, pretended not to hear him. It wasn’t right, his cleaning up after that dinner! “Gee, I feel like a million dollars, Flossie!” Howard stood in the doorway, brandishing the towel. Well, no one could say she wasn’t a good wife. Transcriber’s Notes Transcribed from Collier’s, vol. 75, May 2, 1925, pp. 7-9, 37-39. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain. The original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVERSTUFFED *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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