I shall not attempt to describe the scene. It was the ambitious attempt of a daring manager to stage Gautier’s famous fantasy in the eleventh chapter of Mlle. de Maupin.
He had succeeded, if not perfectly, at least admirably. There were the glowworms and the pea blossoms and the eyes of dwarfs and gnomes and the distance of apple-green. The characters, with their pointed steeple-shaped hats and swollen hose, wandered aimlessly about with an infinite grace and talked of this and that and nothing in soft, musical tones of carelessness.
To Lila, who had certainly not read Mlle. de Maupin, the scene was inexplicable, but wonderful. Throughout the entire act she held her breath in amazed delight, expecting every minute that something would happen. Nothing happened, of course; but she was not disappointed. When the curtain fell she sighed deeply and turned to her companion.
He was smiling at her curiously.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
Lila answered him with a series of “Oh!” and “Ahs!” and exclamations of delight.
“But,” she managed to say finally, “I don’t understand it a bit.”
Knowlton told her of the origin of the fantasy, and explained that she couldn’t very well be expected to understand it, since it had neither beginning nor end, nor cause nor reason.
“It wasn’t made to be understood,” he finished. “It was made to enjoy.”
The two following acts were similar to the first, with a change of setting and costumes. Throughout Lila sat in breathless delight, with now and then a glance at Knowlton to see if he were sharing her enjoyment.
Always as she looked at him his eyes turned to meet hers, and they exchanged a smile of sympathy and understanding. When the curtain fell for the last time Lila turned to him with a sigh of regret.
“Oh,” she said, “if the world were only like that!”
“It would be amusing,” Knowlton agreed “But we would die of ennui. It would be too easy. No struggle, no passion, no hate, no love.”
Lila was silent as they made their way out of the theater. The audience had been small, and they had no difficulty to find a cab at the door. As Knowlton seated himself at her side he leaned forward and told the driver to drive to the Manton.
Lila laid a hand on his arm.
“Please,” she protested earnestly. “I must go home, really. I couldn’t eat a bite, anyway; and it would spoil the play. I want to stay in fairyland.”
Knowlton felt the earnestness of her tone and forbore to insist. He gave Lila’s address to the driver, and they started uptown.
“And now to come to the point,” said Knowlton suddenly, after several minutes of silence, during which the cab had sped swiftly northward.
His tone, Lila thought, was constrained and forced. It gave her a vague uneasiness and she asked what he meant.
“About the counterfeit bills,” Knowlton explained.
He appeared to be speaking with difficulty, like a man who forces himself to mention an unpleasant subject.
Lila realized with a feeling of surprise that she had forgotten entirely the events that had caused her such great anxiety and pain but a day before.
His words came to her with a distinct shock. She looked at him and wondered at herself for having supposed, under any circumstances, that such a man as John Knowlton could do anything wrong.
“Of course, I must explain—” the young man was continuing, when Lila interrupted him.
“Please, Mr. Knowlton, don’t! There is nothing to explain — or rather there is nothing which needs to be explained. I was silly ever to imagine that you could be — I mean, please don’t talk about it.”
Knowlton tried to insist, but without eagerness.
“But that is what we are here for. It was my excuse for asking you to come. I admit the subject is painful and embarrassing to me, but I promised to explain and I ought to.”
“But why?”
“Because I want you to believe in me and be my friend. I... I want you to think well of me.”
“Well, I do,” said Lila. The protecting darkness hid the glowing color that mounted to her face. “I am your friend. There!” She held out a tiny gloved hand.
Knowlton took it and held it for a moment in his own. But he did not smile, and his manner was uneasy and constrained.
“Please let’s forget it,” Lila begged. “Do you want to spoil my whole evening?”
Knowlton said “No” without enthusiasm.
“Well, you are doing it,” Lila declared with pretended severity. “And if you don’t improve within one minute I shall complain of you to Mr. Dumain and Mr. Dougherty and Mr. Driscoll.”
This brought a smile.
“I imagine that will be unnecessary,” Knowlton observed.
“But I can goad them on.”
“That would be unfair. They are already six to one. I had counted on having you on my side.”
“And so I would be if you weren’t so gloomy.”
“Then from now on I shall be Momus himself,” laughed Knowlton. “We are already at Ninety-sixth Street, and surely I can wear the mask for three minutes.”
He began with an imitation of Pierre Dumain expounding the scientific value of the game of billiards, and soon had Lila laughing unrestrainedly. By the time the cab stopped at her door he was as gay as she.
As the driver opened the door of the taxi Knowlton sprang out and assisted Lila up the steps of the apartment-house stoop. At the door Lila stopped and held out her hand.
“Have you your key?” asked Knowlton.
Lila produced it from a pocket in her coat. He unlocked the door and she passed within. She thanked him and gave him her hand, and fluttered up the stairs. At the top of the first flight she halted. She had not heard the door close.
“Good night!” she called softly, and up to her came Knowlton’s voice in return:
“Good night!” Then the sound of the closing door.
Lila entered her room and lit the gas. It seemed strangely unfamiliar. Here she had wept and read and slept and prayed. But here she had never been happy. For two years — since her mother’s death — it had been her home. Home! Rather it had been her cage.
But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed without having removed her hat or coat or gloves, the room seemed transformed. The dingy little dressing table, the chairs, the pictures, seemed to have assumed a new form of beauty.
The ticking of the little marble clock on the mantel, that had been mournful and melancholy and disconsolate, sounded a cheerful note of sympathy. For Lila was happy!
Half an hour later she was standing in front of her mirror, gazing at the reflection of a rosy, flushed face and deep, liquid, lustrous eyes. “Why,” she said aloud, “that can’t be me! I never saw anything so beautiful in my life!”
Then, laughing happily at her own foolishness, she got into bed and snuggled cozily beneath the covers.
Chapter VII
The Enemy’s Roof
Knowlton, having bid Lila good night, stood irresolutely for a moment with his foot on the step of the taxicab. He thought of walking downtown and mentally calculated the distance — seventy blocks — three miles and a half. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter to twelve, and the cold had increased with the deepening of the night.
Drawing his coat closer round him and stepping into the cab, he gave the driver the number of his rooms on Thirtieth Street.
As the vehicle started forward the face of the man inside was set sternly, almost painfully. His eyes stared straight ahead, his lips formed a thin, straight line, and now and men the muscles of the cheek quivered from the tensity of the jaws.
Thus he remained, motionless, for many minutes; evidence of a conflict of no common strength and importance. He was insensible to the movement of the cab, to the streets through which they passed, even to the nipping cold. He gave a start of surprise when the cab stopped and looked up to find himself arrived at his destination.