He closed his eyes, and leaning back in his chair saw the picture in his mind. The poor little room, the white-faced, suffering child, smiling happily now, with the flowers pressed against her face, and Lola—Lola bending over her, fresh, beautiful, gentle in her face the look he had seen there once, that wonderful radiance that is seen sometimes in a young girl’s face, the foreshadowing of motherhood.
The blare of music, too near and too loud. The confused babble of rattling dishes, discordant laughter, high-pitched voices, and the clinking of glasses that were filled again and again, but emptied as fast as they were replenished. A great room, the air heavy with many odors and foul with tobacco smoke.
Here at one table an old man, with jewels on his fat fingers, with him a young girl, almost a child, a girl in a shabby dress, with eyes bright with wonder and with fear.
Here and there, in this brilliant throng, could be picked out bold-eyed men, who laughed across the tables at nervous, frightened women, women who laughed back with terror in their hearts. Comedy, farce, tragedy, aching hearts, and aching heads. Empty lives and empty pocketbooks. Bluff and sham. Age and youth. Love and hate. Fear and lust. One could feel them all, but one could only hear the ceaseless, empty laughter rising above the music, above the noise.
If to laugh is to be happy, here was happiness.
CHAPTER VIII
LOLA TELLS FALSEHOODS
“I thought I heard the elevator stop!” John exclaimed nervously as he went to the door and looked anxiously down the hall.
“She knew we were to have dinner at seven,” Dr. Barnhelm said as he stepped to the window and peered out into the gathering darkness.