Meanwhile he sneered. Rotten little hooligan! He gets on because he’s got no conscience. If a decent man can’t get on in the world, so much the worse for the world! I don’t envy him his present company; millionaires and their hangers-on! Those fellows are dead inside; that’s why they like him. Even the warmth of a dung-heap is warmth! Scratch the pink skin and you’d find just a common, foul-minded Jew! Wilfred’s thoughts seared his breast. He looked away from Joe in a despairing effort to divert his mind; but the animated spectacle in which he had hitherto taken such pleasure, no longer had any meaning for him.
When Joe and his party arose to leave, their course took them out beside Wilfred’s table. Wilfred kept his eyes down until they had passed; then raised them to that hateful-enviable back. The tall grace of Joe’s slim figure, so perfectly turned-out—he had put on a black soft hat, just enough out of the ordinary to emphasize his stylishness; the confident poise of his head; it seemed almost more than Wilfred could bear. Oh God! how I hate him! he thought; he poisons my being! Meanwhile the under voice was whispering: If I could only be him!
As Joe went through the door, a girl sitting at the last table, glanced up at him through her lashes. Wilfred had already marked her; she was the prettiest girl in the room; fragile as tinted china; a flame burning in an egg-shell. She wore an amusing little seal-skin cape with a high collar; and a smart black hat elevated behind, and tilted over her adorable nose. A fatuous old man was sitting opposite her.
Instantly Wilfred’s burning fancy rearranged the scene. The girl was still sitting there with her inscrutable half-smile, but now Joe was opposite her all togged up to the nines, looking at her with insolent mastery. And Wilfred with money in his pocket, very well dressed, with that something in his air which showed that his grandfather had worn good clothes before him, came strolling in. As he passed their table, the girl raised her lovely speaking eyes. Their glances met and clung for an instant, and something passed between them that Joe would never know.
With ready self-possession, Wilfred turned to Joe, saying: “Hello, Kaplan, I didn’t recognize you.” Joe’s greeting was stiff; but Wilfred, coolly ignoring that, said something humorous that caused the girl to giggle deliciously. She looked at Joe in a way that he could not ignore, and he was obliged to murmur churlishly: “Mr. Pell . . . Miss Demarest.” (An assumed name of course; the enchanting and mysterious creature gave herself recklessly, while she looked for the man!) She offered Wilfred her drooping hand, not quite able to meet his eyes now, while she murmured: “Won’t you sit down for awhile?”
Wilfred spoke of real things with a simple humor that showed up the cheap facetiousness that passed current at Martin’s for what it was. A new look appeared in the girl’s beautiful eyes. As in a flash, she had perceived the great truth, revealed to but few women: that it is the shy, imaginative men who are really the delicious rakes at heart; while the showy, flaunting fellow, the professional lady-killer is cold and shallow. . . .
Wilfred suddenly caught sight of Joe in the flesh, coming towards him. It was like an icy douche. . . .
To his astonishment, Joe stopped at his table. He said with his disarming grin:
“Hello, Pell!”
Wilfred mumbled in reply.