He recalled other pictures of those nights: the Indian girls who might be expected to yell in the midst of a dance if they had succeeded in attracting the attention of a man who usually danced with some one else. And there were other girls with a Spanish strain in them—girls with a drop of blood that might have been traced back a hundred years to Madrid or Seville or Barcelona. Small wonder if such girls felt like shrieking too, sometimes. Not over petty victories, and with joy; but when their hearts broke because the bells of memory called to them from away in the barred windows of Spain, or in walled gardens, or with the shepherd lovers of Andalusia.
If you danced with one of them you paid thirty cents at the bar and got a drink, while the girl was given a check good for fifteen cents in the trade of the place. The girls used to cash in their checks at the end of a night’s work at fifty cents a dozen. It wasn’t quite fair; but then the proprietor was a business man.
“My class is very fine!” The words came back to Harboro’s mind. Good God!—what had become of her? There had been a railroad man, a fellow named Peterson, who was just gross enough to fancy her—a good chap, too, in his way. Courageous, energetic, loyal—at least to other men. He had occasionally thought that Peterson meant to take the poor, pretentious creature away from the dance-halls and establish her somewhere. He had not seen Peterson for years now.
... Sylvia emerged from behind the thin partition, sighing and smiling. “Did it seem very long?” she asked. “It’s hard to make up your mind. It’s like taking one color out of the rainbow and expecting it to look as pretty as the whole rainbow. But I’m ready now.”
“Remember, a week from Wednesday,” called Madame Boucher, as Harboro and Sylvia moved toward the door.
Harboro looked at Sylvia inquiringly.
“For the try-on,” she explained. “Yes, I’ll be here.” She went out, Harboro holding the door open for her.
Out on the sidewalk she almost collided with a heavy man, an American—a gross, blond, good-natured creature who suddenly smiled with extreme gratification. “Hello!—Sylvia!” he cried. He seized her by the hand and drew her close.
Harboro stood on the door-step and looked down—and recognized Peterson.