into Miss Withers’s handkerchief. “Don’t go—I’ll snap out of it in a minute.”
Miss Withers sat down on the bed. In the darkened room the body of Phyllis looked oddly young and helpless.
“What’s the trouble?” she asked after a while. “Did Mr. Tate turn you down?”
Phyllis shook her head. “Tate! No, it’s nothing to do with him. I stopped crying over his kind years ago. No, it’s—”
“Remember, I’m playing detective, and anything you say will be used against you,” said Hildegarde Withers cheerfully.
“Well, it’s not remorse over killing this mysterious Forrest, either,” said Phyllis. She sat up straight and did something to her tangled blonde hair. “Listen,” she suggested hopefully. “I’m over it now, but I’d like to talk to somebody. Wait while I get into something comfortable, will you?”
Miss Withers waited. As the carillon rang out the hour of one, Phyllis La Fond came out of the bathroom dressed in a black lace negligee and purple mules. In either hand she held a tall glass.
“Here, be a sport,” she invited. “I need a drink, and I’m no solitary drinker. When you can do that you’re beyond the pale, they say. Take it and listen.” Miss Withers took it, a little gingerly.
Phyllis drew up a little table beside the bed and curled up near Miss Withers.
“I suppose you think I’m an awful fool,” she began.
“Most of us are, at one time or another,” the schoolteacher told her.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll tell you what I was bawling about, and you’ll know how big a one I am.” Phyllis put down her drink on the table and leaned closer.
“It was seeing those kids—the newlyweds.” Her voice was still a little choky beneath the cheerful, forced tones.
“I should think they’d make you laugh, not cry,” said Miss Withers.
Phyllis shook her head. “They’re in love,” she said softly. “And they’ve got each other. Maybe they’re fools, but it’s a great foolishness. And every time I look at them, I think that maybe if I—if things had been different, I might—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I might have been like Kay Deving. Instead of a tramp.” Phyllis hugged her knees. “Funny, isn’t it? You see, what I said to you today—it wasn’t true. I’m in this racket, but I don’t like it, even if I belong in it. You know what I mean. Chiseling around, playing men for coffee-and-cake money—I’m just a bum, and I’ll keep on going down till I land in a Mexican hook-joint or jump off the Arroyo Seco bridge. I say I don’t care, I tell myself this is the deal I got and I might as well play it out. But once in a while I get this way—and it seems as if I just can’t go on.”
“Must you?” said Hildegarde Withers. “Go on, I mean.”
“Of course I must! What else is there to do? Men notice me, but they notice just one thing. They talk to me, but they talk about one thing. It’s all I’m good for, but I don’t have to like it, do I?”
“How old are you?” Miss Withers wanted to know.
“Guess,” said Phyllis.
“Twenty-five?” hazarded that lady.
“Thanks,” said Phyllis. “I look twenty-five with the right lights, and thirty in the daytime. I won’t say how old I am now. But three years ago, when a fat man picked me up in a Rolls and put me down in the gutter, I was seventeen, anyway.”
She lit a cigarette and crunched it out in the tray. “I don’t pour the sad story of my life as a true confession into the ear of everybody, you know. But you’re the first nice woman who’s been nice to me in a long time.” Phyllis slid off the bed and stood up. “Thanks for listening. I’m sorry I’ve bellyached.”
Miss Withers did not rise. “You listen to me, young woman.” Phyllis sat down again. “This isn’t 1900. I’m old-fashioned enough about some things, but I can see pretty clearly, all the same. And remember, nobody has to be anything he—or she—doesn’t want to be.”
“Doesn’t she, though!” put in
Miss Withers sat down on the bed. In the darkened room the body of Phyllis looked oddly young and helpless.
“What’s the trouble?” she asked after a while. “Did Mr. Tate turn you down?”
Phyllis shook her head. “Tate! No, it’s nothing to do with him. I stopped crying over his kind years ago. No, it’s—”
“Remember, I’m playing detective, and anything you say will be used against you,” said Hildegarde Withers cheerfully.
“Well, it’s not remorse over killing this mysterious Forrest, either,” said Phyllis. She sat up straight and did something to her tangled blonde hair. “Listen,” she suggested hopefully. “I’m over it now, but I’d like to talk to somebody. Wait while I get into something comfortable, will you?”
Miss Withers waited. As the carillon rang out the hour of one, Phyllis La Fond came out of the bathroom dressed in a black lace negligee and purple mules. In either hand she held a tall glass.
“Here, be a sport,” she invited. “I need a drink, and I’m no solitary drinker. When you can do that you’re beyond the pale, they say. Take it and listen.” Miss Withers took it, a little gingerly.
Phyllis drew up a little table beside the bed and curled up near Miss Withers.
“I suppose you think I’m an awful fool,” she began.
“Most of us are, at one time or another,” the schoolteacher told her.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll tell you what I was bawling about, and you’ll know how big a one I am.” Phyllis put down her drink on the table and leaned closer.
“It was seeing those kids—the newlyweds.” Her voice was still a little choky beneath the cheerful, forced tones.
“I should think they’d make you laugh, not cry,” said Miss Withers.
Phyllis shook her head. “They’re in love,” she said softly. “And they’ve got each other. Maybe they’re fools, but it’s a great foolishness. And every time I look at them, I think that maybe if I—if things had been different, I might—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I might have been like Kay Deving. Instead of a tramp.” Phyllis hugged her knees. “Funny, isn’t it? You see, what I said to you today—it wasn’t true. I’m in this racket, but I don’t like it, even if I belong in it. You know what I mean. Chiseling around, playing men for coffee-and-cake money—I’m just a bum, and I’ll keep on going down till I land in a Mexican hook-joint or jump off the Arroyo Seco bridge. I say I don’t care, I tell myself this is the deal I got and I might as well play it out. But once in a while I get this way—and it seems as if I just can’t go on.”
“Must you?” said Hildegarde Withers. “Go on, I mean.”
“Of course I must! What else is there to do? Men notice me, but they notice just one thing. They talk to me, but they talk about one thing. It’s all I’m good for, but I don’t have to like it, do I?”
“How old are you?” Miss Withers wanted to know.
“Guess,” said Phyllis.
“Twenty-five?” hazarded that lady.
“Thanks,” said Phyllis. “I look twenty-five with the right lights, and thirty in the daytime. I won’t say how old I am now. But three years ago, when a fat man picked me up in a Rolls and put me down in the gutter, I was seventeen, anyway.”
She lit a cigarette and crunched it out in the tray. “I don’t pour the sad story of my life as a true confession into the ear of everybody, you know. But you’re the first nice woman who’s been nice to me in a long time.” Phyllis slid off the bed and stood up. “Thanks for listening. I’m sorry I’ve bellyached.”
Miss Withers did not rise. “You listen to me, young woman.” Phyllis sat down again. “This isn’t 1900. I’m old-fashioned enough about some things, but I can see pretty clearly, all the same. And remember, nobody has to be anything he—or she—doesn’t want to be.”
“Doesn’t she, though!” put in
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