“Cut that out, you fresh guy over there, cut it out.”
Here’s a champion for her; there are a few left who are still under her spell, or who, remembering what she once was and knowing her in her palmy days, stick for old time’s sake.
“Have a drink on me, old pal, and go as far as you like.”
She comes back with a laugh; and if you look closely—if you have those kind of eyes that can see things below the surface, so to speak—you will see that she doesn’t really belong here, and never did. That she is here because of some unfortunate series of circumstances over which, perhaps, she had no control. You will see something in her manner that distinguishes her from the rest of the women, even those who are better looking and better dressed. It is that intangible, indefinite something which means blood, or previous environment. It cannot be put on and taken off like a garment, and when once there it is there to stay.
That makes the wreck all the more pitiable, and with the same eyes through which you have just looked you will see the finish.
It isn’t pleasant to look at, and now, while the music is playing for the waltz, and the couples are getting on the floor to go through that interminable routine of steps called dancing, while the painted women are laughing, and the men are calling them pet—or other—names, we will go out of this room to where we can breathe a fresher air and see the stars.
I’m not sentimental, but there are some things I don’t like to see, besides, I knew the girl when she was at her best, and I have heard her sing when she brought the house down with applause.
