Easter often went to concerts with Ulick. One afternoon, after a performance of Vincent D'Indy's masterpiece, "Istar" she told Ulick that these Symphonic Variations had given her the cue for her operatic name. Istar wasn't so different from Easter. Maliciously Ulick pointed out the seventh variation called in the critical notes The Seventh Gate. She read:
"At the seventh gate, the warder stripped her; he took off the last veil that covers her body"....
"You reversed the order of disrobing with me, didn't you, Easter?" She regarded him as if from her tallest tower of disdain and frigidly answered: "Don't be too sure, Jewel. Not even of the Holy Yowlers romance at Zaneburg." He was infuriated. What did she mean? And how well she remembered names, when she wished to. What next—?
VIII
There are limitations to the endurance of an unvirtuous man. Ulick, who had foresworn further advances toward Mona, began his aimless cruising about town in pursuit of complaisant women. He found plenty, yet he remained unsatisfied; mercenary love repelled him. The cocottes of the metropolis were mournful substitutes after the light-hearted irresponsible "filles de joie" of Paris. In that City of Light prostitution is elevated to the dignity of Fine Art. He began thinking of Dora, dear little vulgar Dora; vulgar, but also delicious Dora. Her body was like a white satin stove. Doubtless there had been many applications to fill the niche occupied by Paul; doubtless, too, she had put him out of her memory as one of her sheep that had strayed from the fold. The pathos of passion operating, he saw a idealized Dora; Dora the sweet accomplice in the eternal chess-play of sex; a Dora, voluptuous, yet a house-wife, cook and concubine; but always a Dora that interested with her vivacity, her spurts of wit—original, vile, yet mirth-breeding. Should he, or should he not, phone or write her? He decided that a call would settle the weighty question. For him it was weighty. Woman was not only a diversion, but also a necessity. He liked their propinquity. He could never, he felt sure, conceive himself as Dora's husband. In the rôle of an agreeable mistress—! Ah! that was another phase.
So he leisurely walked, one afternoon, to the apartment-house on upper Lexington Avenue, and soon was pressing the button at her door. He was relieved to find that her name was still there. Migratory birds, these, and she was as restless as her colleagues. After a brief delay, he heard light, hurried footsteps. It was the maid, another coloured girl. She bade him enter and he sent his name to her mistress. A moment later he was ushered into the dining-room, where he found Dora playing cards with an anonymous female who had evidently been drinking. There was a decanter and carafe on the buffet. Dora hardly looked up, but her greeting was cordial enough. "My old man, Lily, this is Jewel, my best lady friend, Lily. Sit down, dearie and hold your horses till we spiel out this hand. I'm in luck, look! Did you ever see such a bunch of cards?" Ulick preserved his patience; he had hoped to find Dora alone. In default of that he made the best of the situation. Finished and victorious, Dora bounded to his knees, addressing him by all the pet names she knew. Her warm, odourous presence—though whisky was one of its components—soothed his irritated vanity. Easter treated him as if he were a eunuch, Dora, as a man should be. He did not underestimate his virile prowess. It was recognized in the Tenderloin district and more than one nightbird had envied Dora the possession of her handsome, athletic young man. She now appeared to be glad of his return. She chirped:
"You bad boy! What naughty girl kept you away from me? That singer, I suppose. Or was it the meek-as-Moses girl! There, there, I shan't begin all over again. I lost my head, and you did yours. Honest to God, Jewel, you hadn't ought to struck Paul. He is a dead-game sport and a friend of yours. Shall we take a ride and a dinner at the Casino? Well, I guess yes. Lily, put on your glad-rags. My old man is going to blow us off to a fine time." Ulick looked his discontent, and Lily diplomatically refused, giving as a reason an engagement with her Fred. Dora passed over her defection. She rushed into the kitchen and gave instructions to the slavey—a damfool, she informed the company; then she dressed herself, and that function occupied precisely one hour. Ulick fumed. Lily helped herself at rhythmic intervals from the decanter prefacing each drink with: "You will pardon me!" Ulick politely replied and wished her in Sheol. Finally they got afloat, and that night he slept from home.
He temporarily disappeared. Mona noted his absence but as she burned her own smoke, her parents made no comment on the tepid attentions of her fiancé. They recognized her fortitude in adverse circumstances, and they preferred to remain neutral. Mona was apathetic they knew, nevertheless they feared to arouse her wrath by criticising the reprehensible behaviour of Ulick. But Easter was different. After several weeks' absence she went down to luncheon at Madame Felicé's. No Ulick. Nor had he been home for nights and nights, she was confidentially informed by Madame. Yes, he had been in at dinner, once; that was last week. He had Dora as company. Madame was a philosopher in petticoats and one girl valued another. She was extremely fond of her ci-devant lodger, the illustrious Istar. But Easter was annoyed. She alone boasted the privilege of broken engagements; Paul or Ulick were mere pawns to be pushed about at her will. She asked Madame if she knew the address of Dora. "I have her telephone number and from that we can surely get the house address from Central." She did this. Dora lived at "The Sappho" on Lexington Avenue. Easter booked the number and thanked Madame, who, naturally curious, queried: "Easter, chérie, I hope you won't go there. Dora is charming, mais c'est une cocotte." "It's not the charming Dora I'm after," was the response. "I'll catch Master Ulick on the wire some morning, and that's my little game. He can't play fast and loose with me as he does with that sweet, unhappy Mona. I'm not built that way. With me it's Either—Or! as they say in some Ibsen play." Madame Felicé lifted eyebrows and smiled—inscrutably.