The Last Drive and Other Stories

The first thing you would notice about the room was the light — dazzling, glaring, bold; a perfect riot of light, whitish yellow, that came from four immense chandeliers in the ceiling and innumerable electric lamps on the marble pillars, attached to the walls, on the tables, everywhere. Then your ears would be assaulted, and you would hear the clinking of glasses, the muffled footsteps of waiters, the confusing hum of conversation from half a thousand tongues, and mingled with all this the sound of music, now suppressed, now insistent, that came from the orchestra on the rear of the raised platform at one side. And finally you would glance at the platform and observe the two figures, a man and a woman, who appeared there, in the spotlight.

The man, fair-haired, sallow-faced, bright-eyed, of medium height, was dressed in correct evening white and black, save for a bit of red that peeped out from one edge of his waistcoat; the other, more girl than woman, was a pretty, saucy little thing with black hair and eyes that sparkled. Her costume apparently consisted of about twenty yards of diaphanous material, pink in color, draped around her form and caught somewhere with a pin.

While the orchestra played, these two danced, slowly and rather gracefully at first, then with increasing abandon and violence, ending with a series of dizzy gyrations that caused the twenty yards of pink to float wildly in the air. Suddenly they halted; the girl placed her locked hands on the back of the man’s neck, and he began to whirl. Her feet left the floor; still he went around, faster and faster, while the orchestra played at a frenzied speed, with cymbals crashing and drum rattling. The thing ended with a sudden tremendous burst of violence, an orgy of sound and movement; and the audience of diners interrupted their meal long enough to applaud enthusiastically.

The dancers, who had left the platform, paused at the rear.

“Shall we take it?” asked the girl.

“No, what’s the use?” replied the other, mopping the perspiration from his face and hands. “Come and have a drink.”

They moved off to one of the tables against the wall, one of the few unoccupied in the immense room, and beckoned a waiter.

“You were up too close again,” said the man abruptly, after he had given the order.

The girl looked at him. Seen thus closely, she appeared to be more of a woman than a girl. The eyes that had sparkled for the audience looked tired and old, and there were two little puffs of flesh beneath the corners of her mouth. Nevertheless, she was pretty.

“I was no closer than last night,” she replied.

“I can’t help that. You were too close. You nearly pushed me over.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if I’m not tall enough. Wait till something happens and then talk.”

“That’s easy enough to say,” retorted the man, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration that was beginning to appear again on his sallow face. “But it’s hard enough without somebody trying to pull you over. One flop, and, bingo! goes our sixty per. You ought to be more careful.”

“Aw, cut it,” said the girl indifferently. “Gee, I’m thirsty! Where’s the waiter? Oh, hello, Dibby!”

This last was addressed to a fat, jolly-looking young man who was sauntering toward their table.

“Hello!” The newcomer nodded, seating himself. “How’s things, Bronson? I say, Claire, I just met the new soprano. She’s on next. Not bad-looking. What are you drinking?”

Then, as the waiter appeared with the order, the fat man burst into laughter and winked at the girl. “Lemon juice and fizz. Bad for the stomach,” he said gravely. “But you ought to cut the green stuff, Claire. On the level, I mean it. Waiter, bring me some Dubonnet and sherry. Are you really off, Bronson?”

The other merely nodded, sipping his lemon and seltzer.

“What about the new soprano? What’s the matter with Mawsey?” asked Claire.

“Canned,” replied the fat man gaily. “Last night. Thank the Lord! Say, she was good, just like a counterfeit V. No? Rotten!”

“What’s the new one like?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t heard her perform. She’s on next. Tall and queenly. Where’s the waiter? I’m thirsty as the devil. No wonder — been drinking too much today. By the way, you should have been with us this afternoon, Bronson. Where were you?”

“I don’t know. Uptown,” replied the sallow-faced man.

“He went for a walk in the park,” put in Claire, and her eyes sparkled at the fat man.

“So I did,” Bronson asserted carefully.

“As for me, I slept till two o’clock,” Claire continued. “Wow, but I was tired! We had a little supper last night, and I went to bed at half-past three. We kept Harry awake, and he threw his shoes at us, and one hit me on the side and made a blue spot as big as your hand. Really, you should have been there, Dibby. We had a swell time. Old Rumford brought six bottles of champagne, and May dropped one on the fire-escape—”