"I hate practical women. Any fool can feed my body. I never expected you to develop into a housekeeper and I would hate you if you did. Smile and be yourself."
There are not many men who would say that—on an empty stomach. A cook-housekeeper came to our rescue at last. Mr. Saltus was writing a series of articles for Harper's Bazaar at the time,—ultra-feminist articles. They were called "The Reflections of Floraline Schopenhauer." The writing of them amused and interested him very much. It was not creative work. It was a new figure on which to drape the ideas, witticisms and epigrams he had stored up in a note-book; and they were amazingly clever. In discussing them and women in general, I remembered his friend of the Los Angeles days and said:
"Did you never hear what became of that clever girl? It's queer that you lost all track of her."
"No," he said, "I believe she went to France to live."
The subject dropped there. With his obsessing fear of the possibility of unpleasantness, added to the memory that he had denied all knowledge of her when in San Diego, he would not, or could not, face the fact—simple enough if he had not complicated it for himself—that the friendship had continued. He might have told me that he had seen her again in New York and coached her a bit in writing, where, with her clever pen and unusual ability, she had forged ahead into a position of great responsibility.
Having once more the comfortable background of a home, Mr. Saltus took up his studies in occultism, spending hours in the Theosophical Library in Tavistock Square poring over the "Pistis Sophia." That again opened up vistas and visions of a far-reaching character. From the Theosophical Headquarters it was but a step to the British Museum, and the holy of holies where rare books are loaned to responsible students within the enclosure. This spot was always the Mecca toward which Mr. Saltus gravitated.
Leaving our apartment about eleven o'clock each morning, he would take a 'bus to Piccadilly Circus, and walk the rest of the way to Museum Street. On the return trip he walked all the way, trying to get in better physical trim through exercise.
Coming home one day he made the first allusion to the twinges in his legs which increased rapidly in both inconvenience and pain.
"I'm getting to be a good-for-nothing old scoundrel," he announced at dinner one night. "I, who used to walk from Los Angeles to Hollywood with ease, am in for something. I cannot understand what causes the pain and discomfort in my legs. I'm ready for the ashcan. You will never get a hat for me."
"Don't you believe it. If you have any fears concerning your value I will get up a sale and auction you off."