One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Har- mony was overdue, Medora had a headache, the pro- fessor had tried to borrow two dollars from her, her art dealer had sent back all her water-colors unsold, and -- Mr. Binkley asked her out to dinner.
Mr. Binkley was the gay boy of the boarding- house. He was forty-nine, and owned a fishstall in a downtown market. But after six o'clock he wore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux arts. The young men said he was an 'Indian.' He was supposed to be an accomplished habitue of the inner circles of Bohemia. It was no secret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a drawing printed in Puck. Often has one thus obtained his entree into the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entree and roast.
The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at Mr. Binkley's side at nine o'clock. She was as sweet as a cluster of dried autumn grasses in her pale blue -- oh -- er -- that very thin stuff -- in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box- pleated voile skirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit of rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in her brown walrus, pebble-grain band-bag.
And Mr. Binkley looked imposing and dashing with his red face and gray mustache, and his tight dress coat, that made the back of his neck roll up just like a successful novelist's.
They drove in a cab to the Cafe Terence, just off the most glittering part of Broadway, which, as every one knows, is one of the most popular and widely patronized, jealously exclusive Bohemian re- sorts in the city.
Down between the rows of little tables tripped Medora, of the Green Mountains, after her escort. Thrice in a lifetime may woman walk upon clouds once when she trippeth to the altar, once when she first enters Bohemian halls, the last when she marches back across her first garden with the dead hen of her neighbor in her band.
There was a table set, with three or four about it. A waiter buzzed around it like a bee, and silver and glass shone upon it. And, preliminary to the meal, as the prehistoric granite strata heralded the pro- tozoa, the bread of Gaul, compounded after the for- mula of the recipe for the eternal bills, was there set forth to the hand and tooth of a long-suffering city, while the gods lay beside their nectar and home-made biscuits and smiled, and the dentists leaped for joy in their gold-leafy dens.
The eye of Binkley fixed a young man at his table with the Bobemian gleam, which is a compound of the look of the Basilisk, the shine of a bubble of Wurzburger, the inspiration of genius and the plead- ing of a panhandler.
The young man sprang to his feet. 'Hello, Bink, old boy! be shouted. 'Don't tell me you were go- ing to pass our table. Join us -- unless you've an- other crowd on hand.'
'Don't mind, old chap,' said Binkley, of the fish- stall. 'You know how I like to butt up against the fine arts. Mr. Vandyke -- Mr. Madder -- er -- Miss Martin, one of the elect also in art -- er -- '
The introduction went around. There were also Miss Elise and Miss 'Toinette. Perhaps they were models, for they chattered of the St. Regis decora- tions and Henry James -- and they did it not badly.
Medora sat in transport. Music -- wild, intoxi- eating music made by troubadours direct from a rear basement room in Elysium -- set her thoughts to dancing. Here was a world never before penetrated by her warmest imagination or any of the lines con- trolled by Harriman. With the Green Mountains' external calm upon her she sat, her soul flaming in her with the fire of Andalusia. The tables were filled with Bohemia. The room was full of the fragrance of flowers -- both mille and cauli. Questions and corks popped; laughter and silver rang; champagne flashed in the pail, wit flashed in the pan.
Vandyke ruffled his long, black locks, disarranged his careless tie and leaned over to Madder.
'Say, Maddy,' he whispered, feelingly, 'some- times I'm tempted to pay this Philistine his ten dol- lars and get rid of him.'
Madder ruffled his long, sandy locks and disar- ranged his careless tie.
'Don't think of it, Vandy,' he replied. 'We are short, and Art is long.' Medora ate strange viands and drank elderberry wine that they poured in her glass. It was just the color of that in the Vermont home. The waiter poured something in another glass that seemed to be boiling, but when she tasted it it was not hot. She had never felt so light-hearted before. She thought lovingly of the Green Mountain farm and its fauna. She leaned, smiling, to Miss Elise.
'If I were at home,' she said, beamingly, 'I could show you the cutest little calf! '
'Nothing for you in the White Lane,' said Miss Elise. 'Why don't you pad?
The orchestra played a wailing waltz that Medora had learned from the hand-organs. She followed the air with nodding head in a sweet soprano hum. Madder looked across the table at her, and wondered in what strange waters Binkley had caught her in his seine. She smiled at him, and they raised glasses and drank of the wine that boiled when it was cold. Binkley had abandoned art and was prating of the unusual spring catch of shad. Miss Elise arranged the palette-and-maul-stick tie pin of Mr. Vandyke. A Philistine at some distant table was maundering volubly either about Jerome or Gerome. A famous actress was discoursing excitably about monogrammed hosiery. A hose clerk from a department store was loudly proclaiming his opinions of the drama. A writer was abusing Dickens. A magazine editor and a photographer were drinking a dry brand at a re- served table. A 36-25-42 young lady was saying to an eminent sculptor: 'Fudge for your Prax Italys! Bring one of your Venus Anno Dominis down to Cohen's and see bow quick she'd be turned down for a cloak model. Back to the quarries with your Greeks and Dagos!'
Thus went Bohemia.
At eleven Mr. Binkley took Medora to the board- ing-bouse and left her, with a society bow, at the foot of the hall stairs. She went up to her room and lit the gas.
And then, as suddenly as the dreadful genie arose in vapor from the copper vase of the fisherman, arose in that room the formidable shape of the New England Conscience. The terrible thing that Medora had done was revealed to her in its full enormity. She had sat in the presence of the un- godly and looked upon the wine both when it was red and effervescent.
At midnight she wrote this letter:
'Mr. BERLAH HOSKINS, Harmony, Vermont.
'Dear Sir: Henceforth, consider me as dead to you forever. I have loved you too well to blight your career by bringing into it my guilty and sin-stained life. I have succumbed to the insidious wiles of this wicked world and have been drawn into the vortex of Bohemia. There is scarcely any depth of glittering iniquity that I have not
