Hot Night in the City

The steward vanished, closing the door behind him with a thoroughly miffed click, followed by a defiant snap of his fingers, a dental mutter of outrage, an incensed extension of his neck, a petulant out thrust of his lower lip, and a disdainful flare of his nostrils, which catalogue of manly outrage he displayed only after he was sure he was safe from her.

'You were pretty hard on him,' the young man said, not without a certain astonished respect.

'And you were pretty compliant. What did you think his little wink meant?'

'Oh, he didn't mean anything. Not really. That's just how men are.'

'Exactly!'

'Well... after all...'

'What?'

'Well, what should he think? You're young and attractive... in your way... and you're not wearing a wedding ring. And then there's the matter of your—'

'What makes you think I'm not wearing a wedding ring? I haven't taken my gloves off yet.'

'No, but naturally I assumed... Are you? Married, I mean?'

'As it happens I am not. And then there's the matter of my... what?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'After that twaddle about my wedding ring, you said, 'And then there's the matter of your...' My what?'

'Well, your dress, to be frank.'

'And what about my dress?'

'I will not be cross-questioned in that imperious tone.'

'You shall! What about my dress?'

'Well, it's very... ah... modern.'

'Modern?'

'Short, then. It's short. Short!'

'My dress comes to exactly three inches from the ground. I refuse to obey the dictates of fashion that oblige a woman to drag her dresses in the mud—and much worse than mud—just to assure men that her reputation is sufficiently unassailable to make her worthy of their attentions... attentions that are, of course, designed to urge her to do something that will damage her reputation.'

'I wouldn't dream of denying any woman her right to wear what she wants to wear. But if a woman shows three inches of ankle to every passerby, then she must accept—'

'I accept nothing! And it's not three inches of ankle. It's three inches of tightly buttoned shoe.'

'Ah, so you say. But when you stepped down from the cab, there was a bit of leg visible above the shoe.'

'An inch or two of stocking. Of thick, black stocking.'

'Are you sure it's not a blue stocking? And are you sure it's a stocking, and not a bloomer?'

'Oh, so you have something against bluestockings and against the courageous Miss Bloomer?'

'I am a thoroughly modern man, and if I had my way, every woman would be as liberated as the bluest of the bluestockings, and God bless them all. But you can't blame the majority of men for—'

'I certainly can blame them. And I do! And as for you... Ha!'

'Ha?'

'You claim to be a modern man. And yet, even while rushing to save your brother from the clutches of the sweetest, gentlest little romantic fool in the world, you took time to notice exactly how many inches of ankle I revealed while alighting from the cab. How like a man! Men like you are the reason I became an actress.'

He blinked and pressed his hand to his chest. 'I am the reason you became—?'

'I'd rather not discuss it further.' She turned away from him and looked fixedly out at the horizontal blur of snow streaking across the patch of gaslight. She focused back to the surface of the window and saw his reflected face, his eyes looking at her with intensity.

'Well? What is it?' she asked the window.

'Are you really an actress?'

'Does that seem so impossible?'

'No, but... I'm in theater myself. I'm a playwright. And also,' he added with a dismissive shrug, 'an occasional critic for newspapers.'

'Critic, eh? I might have known.'

'Meaning?'

'That I might have known.'

'Where have you worked? Perhaps I have seen you. I may even have reviewed you.'

'I am with Andre Antoine's Theatre Libre,' she said with pride.

'Oh,' he said with a falling note. 'Strindberg, Zola, Ibsen, all that lot. Plays of 'social significance.' ' There was a shudder in his voice.

'You disapprove of social drama? Or is it significance that frightens you?'

'I disapprove of the phony realism. Of the way the actors mutter and scratch themselves and turn their backs on the audience. That's every bit as affected in its way as the most smoke-cured of the hams rolling their 'r's' and tearing a scene to tatters with their bare teeth. What have you appeared in?'

'Oh... lots of things.'

'Such as?'

'Well, I was in Hedda Gabler, for one. And A Doll's House. And Therese Raquin.'

'I saw the Theatre Libre production of Hedda Gabler. In fact, I wrote a review of it. But I don't remember you.'

'I didn't say I played a major role in Hedda.'

'Even in a supporting role, I'd remember that splendid mane of cupric hair, and that sassy uptilted nose.'

'Well, my part was... well, actually, the director wanted me to concentrate on the internal aspects of my character. On what was seething beneath the surface so powerfully that to express it in words would be redundant.'

'I see. You're saying you didn't have any lines.'

'I'm saying that I played an intensely sensitive young serving girl who was aware of the family's innermost suffering. I reflected my sensitivity and awareness to the audience, and I believe they felt my.... ah... my...'

'I see. Have you had any speaking parts?'

'Well... no. Not as such. I'm still learning my craft. It's my first season with Andre.'

'Great heavens! Your brilliant career with 'Andre' is barely off the ground, and yet you're willing to let it slump while you run off to the Pyrenees to save your poor consumptive sister from the fate you claim is worse than the fate worse than death.'

'I find your snide comments neither amusing nor illuminating. I can see why you chose to become a critic.'

'I write reviews only to broaden my knowledge of theater... and to earn a bit of money. As I told you, I am a playwright.'

'Oh? And what have you written?'

'Oh... dozens of things.'

'Such as?'

'Well... for instance, I permitted the Gaiete Theatre to perform one of my pieces just last month.'

'The Gaiete? But they do nothing but low farces.'

'I'm not ashamed to admit that my play was a farce. A tightly written, uproariously funny farce, as a matter of fact.'

'And you have the cheek to turn your nose up at social realism. You who offer nothing but asinine romps, improbable coincidences, mistaken identity, and trite screen-scenes featuring wayward husbands caught hiding from avenging wives, all this crammed into three frantic acts of babble and confusion!'