I suppose the folks you write about are all right. They sound pretty queer to me. I don’t pretend to know anything about San Francisco, though. But I don’t see how you are going to hold down a job and keep up with the way they seem to spend their time, though I will not say anything about dancing. You know I could not do it and stay in the church, but I do not mean to bring that up again in a letter. You were mighty fine and straight and sincere about that, and if you do not feel the call to join I would not urge you. But I do not think I would like your new friends. I would rather a girl was not so pretty, but used less slang when she talks.
The words gained force by echoing a stifled opinion of her own. With no other standard than her own instinct, she had had moments of criticising Louise and momma. But she had quickly hidden the criticism in the depths of her mind, because they were companions and she had not been able to find any others. Now they stood revealed through Paul’s eyes as glaringly cheap and vulgar.
Her longing for a good time, if she must have it with such people, appeared weak and foolish to her. She felt older and steadier when she went home that night. Then, just as she entered the door, the telephone rang and Louise called that Gilbert Kennedy wanted to speak to her.
It was impossible to analyze his fascination. Uncounted times she had gone over all he had said, all she could conjecture about him, vainly seeking an explanation of it. The mere sound of his voice revived the spell like an incantation, and her halfhearted resistance succumbed to it.
Before the dressing-table, hurrying to make herself beautiful for an evening with him, she leaned closer to the glass and tried to find the answer in the gray eyes looking back at her. But they only grew eager, and her reflection faded, to leave her brooding on the memory of his face, half mocking and half serious, and the tired hunger of his eyes.
“Have a heart, for the lovea Mike!” cried Louise. “Give me a chance. You aren’t using the mirror yourself, even!” She slipped into the chair Helen left and, pushing back her mass of golden hair, gazed searchingly at her face. “Got to get my lashes dyed again; they’re growing out. Say, you certainly did make a hit with Kennedy!”
“Where’s the nail polish?” Helen asked, searching in the hopeless disorder of the bureau drawers. “Oh, here it is. What do you know about him?”
“Well, he’s one of those Los Angeles Kennedys. You know, old man was indicted for something awhile ago. Loads of money.” Louise, dabbing on cold-cream, spoke in jerks. “His brother was the one that ran off with Cissy Leroy, and his wife shot her up. Don’t you remember? It was in all the papers. I used to know Cissy, too. She was an awful good sport, really. Don’t you love that big car of his?”
Helen did not answer. In her revulsion she felt that she was not at all interested in Gilbert Kennedy, and she had the sensation of being freed from a weight.
Momma, slipping a rustling gown over her head, spoke through the folds. “He’s a live wire,” she praised. She settled the straps over her shoulders, tossing a fond smile at Helen. “Hook me up, dearie? Yes, he’s a live wire all right, and you’ve certainly got him coming.”
A sudden thought chilled Helen to the fingertips. She fumbled with the hooks.
“He isn’t married, is he?”
“Married! Well, I should say not! What do you think I am?” momma demanded. “Do you think I’d steer you or Louise up against anything like that?” Her voice softened. “I know too well what unhappiness comes from someone taking another lady’s husband away from his home and family, though he does pay the alimony regular as the day comes around, I will say that for him. I hope never to live to see the day my girl, or you either, does a thing like that.” There was genuine emotion in her voice. Helen felt a rush of affectionate pity for her, and Louise, springing up, threw her bare arms around her mother.
“Don’t you worry, angel momma! I see myself doing it!” she cried.
At such moments of warmhearted sincerity Helen was fond of them both. She felt ashamed while she finished dressing. They were lovely to her, she thought, and they accepted people as they were, without sneaking little criticisms and feelings of superiority. She did not know what she thought about anything.
Her indecisions were cut short by the squawk of an automobile-horn beneath the windows. With last hasty slaps of powder-puffs and a snatching of gloves, they hurried down to meet Mr. Kennedy at the door, and again Helen felt his charm like a tangible current between them. Words choked in her throat, and she stood silent in a little whirlpool of greetings.
There were three indistinct figures already in the tonneau; a glowing cigar-end lighted a fat, jolly face, and two feminine voices greeted momma and Louise. Hesitating on the curb, Helen felt a warm, possessive hand close on her arm.
“Get out, Dick. Climb in back. This little girl’s going in front with me.” The dominating voice made the words like an irresistible force. Not until she was sitting beside him and a docile young man had wedged himself into the crowded space behind, did it occur to her to question it.
“Do you always boss people like that?”
They were racing smoothly down a slope,
