Ashe could not restrain his admiration.
“This is genius!”
“Oh, no!”
“Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle, and that patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wicked coincidences, solves the mystery; and there am I, with another month’s work done.”
She looked at him with interest.
“Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?”
“Don’t tell me you read him!”
“I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm that publishes Home Gossip, and I can’t help seeing his cover sometimes while I am waiting in the waiting room to see the editress.”
Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood’s chum on a desert island. Here was a real bond between them.
“Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades in misfortune—fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we be friends?”
“I should be delighted.”
“Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves a little?”
“But I am keeping you from your work.”
“An errand of mercy.”
She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like everything else, it may be an index to character. There was something wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this girl did it. She neither seated herself on the extreme edge of the easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did she wallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the weekend. She carried herself in an unconventional situation with an unstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire.
Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, a girl in a first-floor front may be excused for showing surprise and hesitation when invited to a confidential chat with a second-floor front young man whom she has known only five minutes. But there is a freemasonry among those who live in large cities on small earnings.
“Shall we introduce ourselves?” said Ashe. “Or did Mrs. Bell tell you my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?”
“I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn’t it?”
“Good heavens, no! Surely you don’t think anyone’s name could really be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame. My real name is Marson—Ashe Marson. And yours?”
“Valentine—Joan Valentine.”
“Will you tell me the story of your life, or shall I tell mine first?”
“I don’t know that I have any particular story. I am an American—”
“Not American!”
“Why not?”
“Because it is too extraordinary, too much like a Gridley Quayle coincidence. I am an American!”
“Well, so are a good many other people.”
“You miss the point. We are not only fellow serfs—we are fellow exiles. You can’t round the thing off by telling me you were born in Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?”
“I was born in New York.”
“Surely not! I didn’t know anybody was.”
“Why Hayling, Massachusetts?”
“That was where I was born.”
“I’m afraid I never heard of it.”
“Strange. I know your home town quite well. But I have not yet made my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall. I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure? I think that is a shameful thing to say.”
“What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means of making a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories—an empire builder?”
“How do you know it’s your only means of making a living? Why don’t you try something new?”
“Such as—”
“How should I know? Anything that comes along. Good gracious, Mr. Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, with chances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side—”
“I must be deaf. The only thing I have heard shrieking to me on every side has been Mrs. Bell—for the week’s rent.”
“Read the papers. Read the advertisement columns. I’m sure you will find something sooner or later. Don’t get into a groove. Be an adventurer. Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is.”
Ashe nodded.
“Continue,” he said. “Proceed. You are stimulating me.”
“But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? Surely London is enough to do it without my help? You can always find something new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my own resources about five years ago—never mind how. Since then I have worked in a shop, done typewriting, been on the stage, had a position as governess, been a lady’s maid—”
“A what! A lady’s maid?”
“Why not? It was all experience; and I can assure you I would much rather be a lady’s maid than a governess.”
“I think I know what you mean. I was a private tutor once. I suppose a governess is the female equivalent. I have often wondered what General Sherman would have said about private tutoring if he expressed himself so breezily about mere war. Was it fun being a lady’s maid?”
“It was pretty good fun; and it gave me an opportunity of studying the aristocracy in its native haunts, which has made me Home Gossip’s established authority on dukes and earls.”
Ashe drew a deep breath—not a scientific deep breath, but one of admiration.
“You are perfectly splendid!”
“Splendid?”
“I mean, you have such pluck.”
“Oh, well; I keep on trying. I’m twenty-three and I haven’t achieved anything much yet; but I certainly don’t feel like sitting back and calling myself a failure.”
Ashe made a grimace.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve got it.”
“I meant you to,” said Joan placidly. “I hope I haven’t bored you with my autobiography, Mr. Marson. I’m not setting myself up as a shining example; but I do like action and hate stagnation.”
“You are absolutely wonderful!” said Ashe. “You are a human correspondence course in efficiency, one of the ones you see advertised in the back pages of the magazines, beginning, ‘Young man, are you earning enough?’
