The madness began to flicker again within me. But Nick, out of the perversity of his heart, refused me the shadow of a smile.
“What else had Zephine?” queried he.
“What else had Zephine?” echoed I, nettled at Nick’s gravity. “Let me see. Zephine had else a creation of écru silk, which in conjunction with the pea-green skirt and the leather bindings and the silver buttons completed her effect of splendour for varnishing days and studio teas. But minus the pea-green skirt it might be a morning dress, or a painting apron, or a dust cloak, or—who knows, Nicholas?—perchance a robe of night.”
Nick looked at me and I looked at Nick.
“Do I shock you, my Nicholas? Nicholas mine, be not shocked. You know the morals of Greenwich Village, how milk-mild they are, as compared to its scarlet conversation. And Zephine never made any bones about the secrets of her toilet. She had, for instance, a——No, Nick; I cannot pronounce it. You gaze at me too solemnly, and we are surrounded by too many of what you would call the best people in New York. Very likely you’re right. It is not given me to read their hearts. But it is given me to inform you that Zephine also had a shiny grey skirt of state, of super-state, which by means of unimaginable buttonings, hookings, loopings, and heaven knows what, transformed itself at will into a blouse or an opera cloak. And she had only one hat, which in summer was a sailor and in winter a sort of Turk’s turban. The other girls said she was always urging them to go and do likewise.”
I giggled to myself at the remembrance of it. But as for Nick, he obstinately continued to frown upon me like a Spanish inquisitor.
“Look here,” he pronounced at last. “I don’t know whether you’re drawing on the recollections of an extremely lurid past, or whether you’re being visited by the divine afflatus. But it strikes me that you’re more amused than anyone else. It also strikes me that this is a pretty sleazy line of stuff for one man to pull or another to listen to.”
With which Zephine dropped abruptly from our conversation.
II
Having done his duty by the arts and crafts of his country, Nick was suddenly moved, on that eve of his departure, to go miles uptown—to Washington Bridge. He has rather an eye, Nick. I had forgotten how the tall arches of High Bridge stand up against the bright water and smoking gold of a Harlem sunset. It was better than the Academy, if I do so say who am a slave of the brush. And it inspired us to pick up a dinner somewhere in the neighborhood.