There were brunettes of
generous ovals, and blondes of heroic rotundities, and every scheme
of shape between. Minds were equally diversified--maternal young
girls and wicked old ladies, hilarious and sinister, intellectual
and athletic, bookish and horsy, a woman of a sort for every mood.
And Jim Dyckman was so wealthy and so simple and so likable and
important that it seemed nobody would refuse to accept him. But
he wanted Charity.
Later in the afternoon he gave up the effort to snub her and went
to the Noxon home. It was about the hour when Kedzie in her new
flat had been burning her fingers at the gas-stove. Jim Dyckman
was preparing to burn his fingers at the shrine of Mrs. Cheever.
He rang the bell and asked for Mrs. Noxon, though her motor was
waiting at the door, as he was glad to note. Mrs. Noxon came down
with her hat on and her gloves going on. She pinched Dyckman's cheek
and kissed him and said:
"It's sweet of you, Jimmie, to call on an old crone like me, and so
promptly. She'll be down in a minute. But you must be on your good
behavior, Jim, for they're talking about you, you know. They're
bracketing your name with Charity's."
"The dirty beasts! I'll--"
"You can't, Jim. But you can behave. Cheer her up a little. She's
blue about that dog of a Cheever. I've got to go and turn over the
money we earned yesterday. Quite a tidy sum, but I'll never give
another damned show as long as I live."
She left, and by and by Charity Coe drifted in, bringing strange
contentment with her.
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