Her childhood had been always a battle—a happy series of conflicts as she remembered—always a fight among strenuous children to maintain her feet in her little tattered shoes against rough aggression and ruthless competition.
And now, under savage pressure, she slipped back again in spirit to the school-yard, and became a watchful, agile, unmoral thing again—a creature bent on its own salvation, dedicated to its own survival, atrociously ready for any emergency, undismayed by anything that might offer itself, and ready to consider, weigh, and determine any chance for existence.
Almost every classic alternative in turn presented itself to her as she lay there considering. She could go out and sell herself. But, oddly enough, the "easiest way" was not easy for her. And, as a child, also, a fastidious purity had been instinctive in her, both in body and mind.
There were other and easier alternatives; she could go on the stage, or into domestic service, or she could call up Captain Dane and tell him she was hungry. Or she could let any one of several young men understand that she was now permanently receptive to dinner invitations. And she could, if she chose, live on her personal popularity,—be to one man or to several
une maitresse vierge—manage, contrive, accept, give nothing of consequence.
For she was a girl to flatter the vanity of men; and she knew that if ever she coolly addressed her mind to it she could rule them, entangle them, hold them sufficiently long, and flourish without the ultimate concession, because there were so many, many men in the world, and it took each man a long, long time to relinquish hope; and always there was another ready to try his fortune, happy in his vanity to attempt where all so far had failed.
Something she had to do; that was certain. And it happened, while she was pondering the problem, that the only thing she had not considered,—had not even thought of—was now abruptly presented to her.
For, as she lay there thinking, there came the sound of footsteps outside her door, and presently somebody knocked. And Athalie rose in the dusk of the room, switched on a single light, went to the door and opened it. And opportunity walked in wearing the shape of an elderly gentleman of substance, clothed as befitted a respectable dweller in any American city except New York.
"Good evening," he said, looking at her pleasantly but inquiringly. "Is Mrs. Del Garmo in?"
"Mrs. Del Garmo?" repeated Athalie, surprised. "Why, Mrs. Del Garmo is dead!"