A shout of alarm went up, and there was a rush to the edge just as his head appeared above water. He was swimming easily, and, perceiving this, the young lady who had apparently been the cause of the accident leaned over the pier and made a megaphone of her hands.
“I’ll be in at half past four,” she cried.
And with a cheerful wave of her hand, which the engulfed gentleman was unable to return, she adjusted her monocle, threw one haughty glance at the gathered crowd, and walked leisurely from the scene.
II
The five dogs, the three maids, and the French orphan were installed in the largest suite at the Ritz, and Rags tumbled lazily into a steaming bath, fragrant with herbs, where she dozed for the greater part of an hour. At the end of that time she received business calls from a masseuse, a manicure, and finally a Parisian hairdresser, who restored her haircut to criminal’s length. When John M. Chestnut arrived at four he found half a dozen lawyers and bankers, the administrators of the Martin-Jones trust fund, waiting in the hall. They had been there since half past one, and were now in a state of considerable agitation.
After one of the maids had subjected him to a severe scrutiny, possibly to be sure that he was thoroughly dry, John was conducted immediately into the presence of m’selle. M’selle was in her bedroom reclining on the chaise-longue among two dozen silk pillows that had accompanied her from the other side. John came into the room somewhat stiffly and greeted her with a formal bow.
“You look better,” she said, raising herself from her pillows and staring at him appraisingly. “It gave you a color.”
He thanked her coldly for the compliment.
“You ought to go in every morning.” And then she added irrelevantly: “I’m going back to Paris tomorrow.”
John Chestnut gasped.
“I wrote you that I didn’t intend to stay more than a week anyhow,” she added.
“But, Rags—”
“Why should I? There isn’t an amusing man in New York.”
“But listen, Rags, won’t you give me a chance? Won’t you stay for, say, ten days and get to know me a little?”
“Know you!” Her tone implied that he was already a far too open book. “I want a man who’s capable of a gallant gesture.”
“Do you mean you want me to express myself entirely in pantomime?”
Rags uttered a disgusted sigh.
“I mean you haven’t any imagination,” she explained patiently. “No Americans have any imagination. Paris is the only large city where a civilized woman can breathe.”
“Don’t you care for me at all any more?”
“I wouldn’t have crossed the Atlantic to see you if I didn’t. But as soon as I looked over the Americans on the boat, I knew I couldn’t marry one. I’d just hate you, John, and the only fun I’d have out of it would be the fun of breaking your heart.”
She began to twist herself down among the cushions until she almost disappeared from view.
“I’ve lost my monocle,” she explained.
After an unsuccessful search in the silken depths she discovered the illusive glass hanging down the back of her neck.
“I’d love to be in love,” she went on, replacing the monocle in her childish eye. “Last spring in Sorrento I almost eloped with an Indian rajah, but he was half a shade too dark, and I took an intense dislike to one of his other wives.”
“Don’t talk that rubbish!” cried John, sinking his face into his hands.
“Well, I didn’t marry him,” she protested. “But in one way he had a lot to offer. He was the third richest subject of the British Empire. That’s another thing—are you rich?”
“Not as rich as you.”
“There you are. What have you to offer me?”
“Love.”
“Love!” She disappeared again among the cushions. “Listen, John. Life to me is a series of glistening bazaars with a merchant in front of each one rubbing his hands together and saying ‘Patronize this place here. Best bazaar in the world.’ So I go in with my purse full of beauty and money and youth, all prepared to buy. ‘What have you got for sale?’ I ask him, and he rubs his hands together and says: ‘Well, Mademoiselle, today we have some perfectly be‑oo‑tiful love.’ Sometimes he hasn’t even got that in stock, but he sends out for it when he finds I have so much money to spend. Oh, he always gives me love before I go—and for nothing. That’s the one revenge I have.”
John Chestnut rose despairingly to his feet and took a step toward the window.
“Don’t throw yourself out,” Rags exclaimed quickly.
“All right.” He tossed his cigarette down into Madison Avenue.
“It isn’t just you,” she said in a softer voice. “Dull and uninspired as you are, I care for you more than I can say. But life’s so endless here. Nothing ever comes off.”
“Loads of things come off,” he insisted. “Why, today there was an intellectual murder in Hoboken and a suicide by proxy in Maine. A bill to sterilize agnostics is before Congress—”
“I have no interest in humor,” she objected, “but I have an almost archaic predilection for romance. Why, John, last month I sat at a dinner-table while two men flipped a coin for the kingdom of Schwartzberg-Rhineminster. In Paris I knew a man named Blutchdak who really started the war, and has a new one planned for year after next.”
“Well, just for a rest you come out with me tonight,” he said doggedly.
“Where to?” demanded Rags with scorn. “Do you think I still thrill at a nightclub and a bottle of sugary mousseaux? I prefer my own gaudy dreams.”
“I’ll take you to the most highly-strung place in the city.”
“What’ll happen? You’ve got to tell me what’ll happen.”
John Chestnut suddenly drew a long breath and looked cautiously around as if he were afraid of being overheard.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said in a low, worried tone,
