Briefly, it was this: The chance for the great adventure was presenting itself to women whose lives had had neither adventure nor romance. And if romance and adventure had not been theirs, it was their duty as individual souls to create it, woo it, pursue it, anything to obtain some smart and stinging knowledge of the world at large. It was better to wear out than to rust out, this strange, middle-aged rebel said, her long, thin hands fondling the buttons of her toy uniform.
“Ah, but I thought it was for the orphans,” suggested Thurley, who had, unostentatiously, paid for the support of half a dozen of them.
Well, it was the orphans, true enough—but the orphans were a means to an end—there, that was the situation! Being third rail to fame was not satisfactory, it was like leading a hungry man outside a restaurant window wherein are displayed three-inch steaks flanked by asparagus and keeping him there, close to the food it is true, but separated by a window glass which, if he breaks it, means jail!
Being associated with genius had merely whetted her appetite for expression, nor was she alone, she added, all over America were women realizing that the opportunity for self-expression, freedom of speech and action was theirs; they would proceed on the quest for adventure, something to be an everlasting antidote against the drab pattern of their ladylike lives! Few suspected this rebel germ was quickening in the flat, thin chests of conscientious, rubber heeled librarians, middle aged, a trifle unwholesome spinsters like Hortense—but it was true. Whether or not it was milk for French orphans, which was a worthy cause playing into the hands of the restless searchers, a cause was being given them and take it they would!
So Hortense, for the time being, passed from Thurley’s life with Thurley pondering after she had stamped from the room with a ringing, military tread and given Thurley her headquarters address, adding that she would see trench life or commit suicide!
When Thurley sought out Polly to beseech her to come and look after things, particularly now that Thurley was to begin coaching for her new title rôle in Liszt’s “Saint Elizabeth,” she found Polly giving a party royal in her attic, celebrating being left a small legacy by a maiden aunt. The aunt had also left Polly a letter expressing her opinion that her niece had been nothing if not a fool to have left a good home with a decent furnace for a tenement and a daily diet of macaroni.
As Thurley looked at the hilarious feast, well under way, she laughed in spite of herself and wondered whether or not the aunt’s shade was walking restlessly! For Polly in a new frock as brown as Spanish fish nets on the Santander sands, was pouring out claret with a lavish hand and pressing alligator pear salad and jellied chicken on her nearest guest, the table abundantly strewn with every eatable known to luxury.
“Polly’s pretending her opera has been a success, I do believe,” a more practical guest whispered to Thurley. “She’s determined to burn her money up as fast as she can; she’s loaned us all ten dollars—”
Thurley found Polly quite determined to pay no heed to her aunt’s letter.
“Why should I remember I come of gentle people?” she asked, her brown eyes sparkling naughtily. “I’d rather have one or two glorious parties, treat myself to all the music I want for a season than to go snailing back to Painted Post and live in a cottage completely surrounded by neighbors. I’ve run wild too long, Thurley dear—don’t look so disappointed. Why, you beautiful, lovely thing, what right have you to show me the error of my ways, you with a king’s ransom on your fingers this minute? Yet, Thurley, when I look at you and summon my Scotch second sight to lend me wisdom, you seem fey to me, fated as the Scotch know the world. Shall I tell you your possibilities?”