“Apartment—somewhere.”
“Alone—any attachments?”
“Not yet,” said Rose brazenly.
“Well—I guess I won’t come. I’m not ready. I’ll be along later, maybe.”
Kathleen was not tight-laced but she did not care to spend a winter with Rose. And Rose must have known it and included her in the general hate she was lavishing today. She had had a disagreeable morning with her check-book. What she told Kathleen had been in part true. Her husband had not been as rich as people thought—but the fact that he had died intestate, having somehow forgotten to make a will or perhaps not having cared enough to make one, had left her generously taken care of. She had spent overlavishly however and well as she knew how to supplement her income she was just now more pressed than she cared to admit.
Languidly Kathleen said good-bye and made her exit into the street to be stared at and admired and to wend her way to Boyle’s to study fashions and look at clothes she could not afford to buy. Thence to dinner and the theatre with some man. So futile, so lazy, so stupid a life! But without great malice was Kathleen. She was glad her friend was going, though it would mean that a good organizer of parties was lost to their vague circle.
Rose packed her trunk, and made her plans. A few days before she left she received, by appointment, a heavy, youngish, florid man of perhaps thirty-two or three. She was lovely and soft that night—tinted with rose by the light of her candles. The man sat beside her and caressed her with some enthusiasm.
“About ready to go?” he asked.
“And lonely—I wish you’d come with me.”
“Maybe I will if you ask me nicely. Do you really want me or are you just broke?”