Memory painted a swift mental picture of Dawn O’Hara as she used to tumble into bed after a whirlwind day at the office, too dog-tired to give her hair even one half of the prescribed one hundred strokes of the brush. But in turn I shook a reproving forefinger at Flossie.
“You’ve been reading some naughty society novel! One of those millionaire-divorce-actress-automobile novels. Dear, dear! Shall I, ever forget the first New York actress I ever met; or what she said!”
I felt, more than saw, a warning movement from Sis. But the three Whalens had hitched forward in their chairs.
“What did she say?” gurgled Flossie. “Was it something real reezk?”
“Well, it was at a late supper—a studio supper given in her honor,” I confessed.
“Yes-s-s-s ” hissed the Whalens.
“And this actress—she was one of those musical comedy actresses, you know; I remember her part called for a good deal of kicking about in a short Dutch costume—came in rather late, after the performance. She was wearing a regal-looking fur-edged evening wrap, and she still wore all her make-up”—out of the corner of my eye I saw Sis sink back with an air of resignation—“and she threw open the door and said—
“Yes-s-s-s! ” hissed the Whalens again, wetting their lips.
“—said: `Folks, I just had a wire from mother, up in Maine. The boy has the croup. I’m scared green. I hate to spoil the party, but don’t ask me to stay. I want to go home to the flat and blubber. I didn’t even stop to take my make-up off. My God! If anything should happen to the boy!—Well, have a good time without me. Jim’s waiting outside.’” A silence.
Then—“Who was Jim?” asked Flossie, hopefully.
“Jim was her husband, of course. He was in the same company.”
Another silence.
“Is that all?” demanded Sally from the corner in which she had been glowering.
“All! You unnatural girl! Isn’t one husband enough?”
Mrs. Whalen smiled an uncertain, wavering smile. There passed among the three a series of cabalistic signs. They rose simultaneously.
“How quaint you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Whalen, “and so amusing! Come girls, we mustn’t tire Miss—ah—Mrs.— er—“with another meaning look at my bare left hand.
“My husband’s name is still Orme,” I prompted, quite, quite pleasantly.
“Oh, certainly. I’m so forgetful. And one reads such queer things in the newspapers nowa-days. Divorces, and separations, and soul-mates and things.” There was a note of gentle insinuation in her voice.
Norah stepped firmly into the fray. “Yes, doesn’t one? What a comfort it must be to you to know that your dear girls are safe at home with you, and no doubt will be secure, for years to come, from the buffeting winds of matrimony.”
There was a tinge of purple in Mrs. Whalen’s face as she moved toward the door, gathering her brood about her. “Now that dear Dawn is almost normal again I shall send my little girlies over real often. She must find it very dull here after her—ah—life in New York.”
“Not at all,” I said, hurriedly, “not at all. You see I’m—I’m writing a book. My entire day is occupied.”
“A book!” screeched the three. “How interesting! What is it? When will it be published?”
I avoided Norah’s baleful eye as I answered their questions and performed the final adieux.
As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other, glaring.
“Hussies!” hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us funny and we fell, a shrieking heap, into the nearest chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with elaborate sarcasm, why I hadn’t made it a play instead of a book, while I was about it.
“But I mean it,” I declared. “I’ve had enough of loafing. Max must unpack my typewriter tonight. I’m homesick for a look at the keys. And to-morrow I’m to be installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and I defy any one to enter it on peril of their lives. If you value the lives of your offspring, warn them away from that door. Von Gerhard said that there was writing in my system, and by the Great Horn Spoon and the Beard of the Prophet, I’ll have it out! Besides, I need the money. Norah dear, how does one set about writing a book? It seems like such a large order.”
CHAPTER IV
DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH
It’s hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in the bosom of one’s family, especially when the family refuses to take one seriously. Seven years of newspaper grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to write by the inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a train of thought, and mine is constantly being derailed, and wrecked and pitched about.
Scarcely am I settled in my cubbyhole, typewriter before me, the working plan of a story buzzing about in my brain, when I hear my name called in muffled tones, as though the speaker were laboring with a mouthful of hairpins. I pay no attention. I have just given my heroine a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded with black lashes and hair to match. A voice floats down from the upstairs regions.
“Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers out of the top of the ice-box, will you? The iceman’s coming, and he’ll squash ‘em.”
A parting jab at my heroine’s hair and eyes, and I’m off to save the cucumbers.
Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my heroine petite or grande? I decide that stateliness and Gibsonesque height should accompany the calm gray eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding itself in some mysterious way. Sis opens the door a little and peers in. She is dressed for the street.
“Dawn dear, I’m going to the dressmaker’s. Frieda’s upstairs cleaning the bathroom, so take a little squint at the roast now and then, will you? See that it doesn’t burn, and that there’s plenty of gravy. Oh, and Dawn— tell the milkman we want an extra half-pint of cream to-day. The tickets are on the kitchen shelf, back of the clock. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Mhmph,” I reply.
Sis shuts the door, but opens it again almost immediately.
“Don’t let the Infants bother you. But if Frieda’s upstairs and they come to you for something to eat, don’t let them have any cookies before dinner. If they’re really hungry they’ll eat bread and butter.”
I promise, dreamily, my last typewritten sentence still running through my head. The gravy seems to have got into the heroine’s calm gray eyes. What heroine could remain calm-eyed when her creator’s mind is filled with roast beef? A half-hour elapses before I get back on the track. Then appears the hero—a tall blond youth, fair to behold. I make him two yards high, and endow him with a pair of clothing-advertisement shoulders.
There assails my nostrils a fearful smell of scorching. The roast! A wild rush into the kitchen. I fling open the oven door. The roast is mahogany-colored, and gravyless. It takes fifteen minutes of the most desperate first-aid-to-the-injured measures before the roast is revived.
Back to the writing. It has lost its charm. The gray-eyed heroine is a stick; she moves like an Indian lady outside a cigar shop. The hero is a milk-and-water sissy, without a vital spark in him. What’s the use of trying to write, anyway? Nobody wants my stuff. Good for nothing except dubbing on a newspaper!
Rap! Rap! Rappity-rap-rap! Bing! Milk!
I dash into the kitchen. No milk! No milkman! I fly to the door. He is disappearing around the corner of the house.
“Hi! Mr. Milkman! Say, Mr. Milkman!” with frantic beckonings.
He turns. He lifts up his voice. “The screen door was locked so I left youse yer milk on top of the ice-box on the back porch. Thought like the hired girl was upstairs an’ I could git the tickets to-morra.”
I explain about the cream, adding that it is wanted for shortcake. The explanation does not seem to cheer him. He appears to be a very gloomy and reserved milkman. I fancy that he is in the habit of indulging in a little airy persiflage with Frieda o’ mornings, and he finds me a poor substitute for her red-cheeked comeliness.