Norman and I were coming home from the Annual Ball of The Arbeiter Studenten Verein. It was near one o'clock Sunday morning as we turned into the Bowery. At the corner of Stanton Street a girl flagged us.
"Hello, boys. Ain't you lonesome?"
An arc-light sputtered and fumed overhead. I will never forget its harsh glare on her face. It was a north Italian face, wonderfully like a Bellini Madonna. But on it was painted a ghastly leer. Above all she looked too young.
"Aren't you afraid the Gerry Society will get you?" Norman asked good naturedly.
There was elemental tragedy in the foul words with which she answered him. But with a sudden change of mood—as unexpected as her appearance, as bewildering as her blasphemy—she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
The look of horror on Norman's face changed slowly to another expression. It was not wholly incomprehensible. There was something exotic—something tantalizing to over-civilized nerves—in her youthful viciousness. Baudelaire would have found her a "fleur de mal." He would have written immortal verses to her. Norman was stern with himself in such matters. He had steeled himself against the usual appeals of vice. It was the novelty of the attack that got through his armor. He pulled her hands apart, pushed her away from him and looked at her, his face drawn and rigid. A south-bound elevated roared past us overhead. With a sharp intake of breath he turned to me.
"I've half a mind to take her home."
"It would be a great treat for her," I said, "compared to how she'll spend the night if you don't. I suppose it's you or a drunken sailor."
"Will you come home with me?" he asked with sudden resolution.
"Sure. You don't look like a cheap-skate."