her namesake, Mysie reflected. "It's better than mine. Girls hardly ever like their names."
"Mysie is a charming name," said Arthur. "I like it."
"Maybe you don't know the worst; my name is Artemisia! What parents will do to their helpless offspring— the name belonged to my grandmother, and they couldn't bear to throw it away."
"I don't like Arthur," he confessed.
"I do—now," said Mysie.
He said: "I always wanted to be called Bill or Jim or Joe."
"How would it be if I called you Spike or Butch?" Mysie offered.
"I'd be flattered," Arthur laughed with unexpected heartiness.
Mysie said: "How on earth do you manage to keep so clean? I mean, in New York—do you have to launder yourself every fifteen minutes, or doesn't a slight layer of coal smoke and miscellaneous show on your color scheme? I should think it would stand out prominently."
"It does," Arthur was still laughing. "Every fifteen minutes is the answer. Was that what you wanted to ask me?"
"No, but it was preying on my mind. I'm one of those pests who say whatever comes into their heads—if they think they can get away with it. What I was leading up to is, I hear you've bought a magazine."
"Why, I have, but how did you know? It isn't announced yet."
"Oh, I have to keep posted, in my business," said Mysie. "I expect you'll have a lot of fun, making it over. Why don't you get Jake Van Buren as dramatic critic? He has really new ideas about the theater." She grinned. But Jake could write. His occasional essays had a grave unearthly humor of logic pursued to its furthest limits that produced a sensation of a dislocated universe. "Of course you'd want to talk to him, judge for yourself." You poor dear, she thought, but I'm doing you a good turn.
"I'll be glad to discuss it with him," Arthur agreed. Mysie rose. Her diplomacy consisted in stopping at the right moment. She mustn't get into Gina's black books. They went back to the drawing-room.
The singer had ceased; and Jake was listening patiently to a very young man with a superior accent, who was discoursing on Russia. Mysie could imagine nothing Jake would rather hear less about. Mr. Dickerson, Gina introduced the very young man; he was tall and weedy, with a small head, the sapless collegiate type so frequently found among the sons of the well-to-do. They are sketchy, never filled out.
Gina's eyes still wandered abstractedly. She thought, Polly Brant isn't coming. It's a deliberate slight.
Young Mr. Dickerson was endorsing the class war and the dictatorship of the proletariat. Mysie said: "I wouldn't know about that; I belong to Local Number Ten of the Truckdriver's Union; we're aristocrats. Anyhow, why wait till dawn?" She managed to detach Jake, saying: "Arthur wants to talk to you about the big idea." Jake took the hint, with a glance of warning and reproach. Mysie remembered her promise to behave nicely, and thought sadly, I've crashed again. Arthur made an appointment with Jake for the next day; so that was as good as settled. It seemed safest for Mysie to find Geraldine and stick by her.
Geraldine was still in the clutches of the lady who had read her book, and who evidently meant to get her money's worth one way or another. Mysie intimated that she had some matter of urgency to impart, and the constant reader finally went away. Geraldine said expectantly: "Yes?" and Mysie explained: "Nothing; it was only to get rid of her. Those people have to be nipped in the bud. Who is that woman in green? I'm sure Gina hates her, she's being so cordial."
It was Polly Brant, making apologies for being late. A tiresome dinner had detained her, she said; and she had to go on immediately to a supper party. Polly's opulent beauty was undimmed; she was biscuit brown with the fashionable sun-tan, and her hair was brushed back severely, smooth as jet. She held herself as if she were walking through a public place. "So sorry," she repeated to Gina, and moved on to kiss Mrs. Siddall and speak to Arthur. "No, I can't
"Mysie is a charming name," said Arthur. "I like it."
"Maybe you don't know the worst; my name is Artemisia! What parents will do to their helpless offspring— the name belonged to my grandmother, and they couldn't bear to throw it away."
"I don't like Arthur," he confessed.
"I do—now," said Mysie.
He said: "I always wanted to be called Bill or Jim or Joe."
"How would it be if I called you Spike or Butch?" Mysie offered.
"I'd be flattered," Arthur laughed with unexpected heartiness.
Mysie said: "How on earth do you manage to keep so clean? I mean, in New York—do you have to launder yourself every fifteen minutes, or doesn't a slight layer of coal smoke and miscellaneous show on your color scheme? I should think it would stand out prominently."
"It does," Arthur was still laughing. "Every fifteen minutes is the answer. Was that what you wanted to ask me?"
"No, but it was preying on my mind. I'm one of those pests who say whatever comes into their heads—if they think they can get away with it. What I was leading up to is, I hear you've bought a magazine."
"Why, I have, but how did you know? It isn't announced yet."
"Oh, I have to keep posted, in my business," said Mysie. "I expect you'll have a lot of fun, making it over. Why don't you get Jake Van Buren as dramatic critic? He has really new ideas about the theater." She grinned. But Jake could write. His occasional essays had a grave unearthly humor of logic pursued to its furthest limits that produced a sensation of a dislocated universe. "Of course you'd want to talk to him, judge for yourself." You poor dear, she thought, but I'm doing you a good turn.
"I'll be glad to discuss it with him," Arthur agreed. Mysie rose. Her diplomacy consisted in stopping at the right moment. She mustn't get into Gina's black books. They went back to the drawing-room.
The singer had ceased; and Jake was listening patiently to a very young man with a superior accent, who was discoursing on Russia. Mysie could imagine nothing Jake would rather hear less about. Mr. Dickerson, Gina introduced the very young man; he was tall and weedy, with a small head, the sapless collegiate type so frequently found among the sons of the well-to-do. They are sketchy, never filled out.
Gina's eyes still wandered abstractedly. She thought, Polly Brant isn't coming. It's a deliberate slight.
Young Mr. Dickerson was endorsing the class war and the dictatorship of the proletariat. Mysie said: "I wouldn't know about that; I belong to Local Number Ten of the Truckdriver's Union; we're aristocrats. Anyhow, why wait till dawn?" She managed to detach Jake, saying: "Arthur wants to talk to you about the big idea." Jake took the hint, with a glance of warning and reproach. Mysie remembered her promise to behave nicely, and thought sadly, I've crashed again. Arthur made an appointment with Jake for the next day; so that was as good as settled. It seemed safest for Mysie to find Geraldine and stick by her.
Geraldine was still in the clutches of the lady who had read her book, and who evidently meant to get her money's worth one way or another. Mysie intimated that she had some matter of urgency to impart, and the constant reader finally went away. Geraldine said expectantly: "Yes?" and Mysie explained: "Nothing; it was only to get rid of her. Those people have to be nipped in the bud. Who is that woman in green? I'm sure Gina hates her, she's being so cordial."
It was Polly Brant, making apologies for being late. A tiresome dinner had detained her, she said; and she had to go on immediately to a supper party. Polly's opulent beauty was undimmed; she was biscuit brown with the fashionable sun-tan, and her hair was brushed back severely, smooth as jet. She held herself as if she were walking through a public place. "So sorry," she repeated to Gina, and moved on to kiss Mrs. Siddall and speak to Arthur. "No, I can't
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