Convinced that Beatrice was not the proper name for her the Gorgeous Girl had ordered a chart of cabalistic signs and mystical statements, the sum total of which was that Radia was the name the astral forces wished her to be called, and by using this name she would develop into a wonderful medium. She paid fifty dollars to discover that she ought to be called Radia and that her aura was of smoky lavender, denoting an advanced soul––according to the pale-faced young woman, who had tired of teaching nonsensical flappers, had no chance to marry, and had hit upon this as her means of painlessly extracting a little joie de vie.
Declining to learn his astral name Steve left Gaylord to mop up the astral vibrations. Beatrice did not mind his absence though he neglected to say that the work was to be done at Miss Faithful’s apartment and not at the office. Never having questioned Steve in such details Beatrice merely murmured inwardly that goat tending in one’s past strangely enough led to pigheadedness in later life. It was a relief to have him away, for if drawn into an argument he still thumped his fists. For everyday living 164 Beatrice preferred her own pet robins and angel-ducks, as she called the boys of the younger set, who flocked to flirt with her because she was extremely rich and pretty and they were in no danger of being matrimonially entangled.
Of course Gaylord ate up this occult-name affair. It was discovered that Gaylord’s was a most hampering name and had his parents only consulted the stars and named him Scintar––who knows to what heights he might not have risen? Trudy’s astral title should have been Urcia, which she now adopted, blushing deeply as she recalled the vulgar Babseley and Bubseley of former days. But when Aunt Belle was informed that Cinil was the cognomen needed to make her discover an Indian-summer millionaire waiting to bestow his heart upon her Mark Constantine had packed his bags and departed unceremoniously for Hot Springs.
Meantime, Mary did not know just how to treat this imperious lonesome young man who came boldly into her household without apology or warning.
“You don’t know how often I’ve wanted to come and see you,” he said, unashamedly, delighted that Luke was out of the way and he could play in his fashion the same as Beatrice did in hers. “It isn’t business, really. I just wanted to talk to you. You assume so much formality at the office that though I admit it may be wise I miss the real you.”
“You mean you just trumped up an excuse–––”
Then Mary began to laugh.
“I do. The DeGraff muddle can wait. It’s nice to be able just to sprawl about––sprawl in a comfortable old chair. I like this little room. We 165 are being turned into an Italian villa, you know. I don’t quite see how I’ll ever live up to it.” As he spoke he took out a plebeian tobacco pouch and a nondescript pipe. “May I?”
“Do! Only you ought not to be here at all”––trying to be severe, and failing.
“Why not?”