What's-His-Name. George Barr McCutcheon

was a treasure. She was English and her name was Rachel. Nellie’s personal maid and dresser was French. Her name was Rebecca. When Miss Duluth and Rebecca left the apartment to go to the theatre in the former’s electric brougham, Rachel put the place in order. So enormous was the task that she barely had it finished when her mistress returned, tired and sleepy, to litter it all up again with petticoats, stockings, roses, orchids, lobster shells, and cigarette stubs. More often than otherwise Nellie brought home girls from the theatre to spend the night with her. Poor things, they were chorus girls, just as she had been, and they had so far to go. Besides, they served as excuses for declining unwelcome invitations to supper. Be that as it may, Rachel had to clean up after them, finding their puffs, rats, and switches in the morning and the telephone number at their lodgings in the middle of the night. She had her instructions to say that such young ladies were spending the night with Miss Duluth.

      “If you don’t believe it, call up Miss Duluth’s number in the telephone book,” she always 36 concluded, as if the statement needed verification.

      Nellie had not been in Tarrytown for a matter of three weeks; what with rehearsals, revisions, consultations, and suppers, she just couldn’t get around to it. The next day after Harvey’s inglorious stand before Bridget she received a letter from him setting forth the whole affair in a peculiarly vivid light. He said that something would have to be done about Bridget and advised her to come out on the earliest day possible to talk it over with him. He confessed to a hesitancy about discharging the cook, recalling the trouble she had experienced in getting her away from a neighbour in the first place. But Bridget was drinking and quarrelling with Annie and using strong language in the presence of Phoebe. He would have discharged her long ago if it hadn’t been for the fear of worrying her during rehearsals and all that. She wasn’t to be bothered with trifling household squabbles at such an important time as this. No, sir! Not if he could help it. But, just the same, he thought she’d better come out and talk it over before Bridget took it into her head to poison some one. 37

      “I really, truly must go up to Tarrytown next Sunday,” said Nellie to the select company supping in her apartment after the performance that night. “Harvey’s going to discharge the cook.”

      “Who is Harvey?” inquired the big blond man who sat beside her.

      “My teenty-weenty hubby,” said she, airily.

      There were two other men besides the big blond in the party, and the wife of one of them—a balance wheel.

      The big blond man stared at his hostess. He expected her to laugh at her own joke, but she did not. The others were discussing the relative merits of the Packard and Peerless cars. He waited a moment and then leaned closer to Nellie’s ear.

      “Are you in earnest?” he asked, in low tones.

      “About what, Mr. Fairfax?”

      “Hubby. Have you got one?”

      “Of course I have. Had him for six years. Why?”

      He swallowed hard. A wave of red crept up over his jowl and to the very roots of his hair. 38

      “I’ve known you for over a month, Nellie,” he said, a hard light in his fishy grey eyes, “and you’ve never mentioned this husband of yours. What’s the game?”

      “It’s a guessing game,” she said, coolly. “You might guess what I’m wearing this little plain gold ring on my left hand for. It’s there where everybody can see it, isn’t it? You just didn’t take the trouble to look, Mr. Fairfax. Women don’t wear wedding rings for a joke, let me tell you that.”

      “I never noticed it,” he said, huskily. “The truth is, it never entered my head to think you could be a married woman.”

      “Thought I was divorced, eh?”

      “Well, divorces are not uncommon, you know. You girls seem to get rid of husbands quite as easily as you pick them up.”

      “Lord bless you,” said Nellie, in no way offended, “I have never done anything to give Harvey cause for divorce, and I’m sure he’s never done the tiniest thing out of the way. He never treats me cruelly, he never beats me, he doesn’t get tight and break things up, and he never looks at other women. He’s the nicest little husband ever.” 39

      She instructed Rachel to fill up Mr. Fairfax’s glass and pass the ripe olives. He was watching her, an odd expression in his eyes. A big, smooth-faced man of fifty was he, fat from high living, self-indulgence, and indolence, immaculately dressed to the tips of his toes.

      “Speaking of divorce,” she went on, without looking at him, “your wife didn’t have much trouble getting hers, I’ve heard.”

      It was a daring thing to say, but Nellie was from the West, where courage and freshness of vision are regarded as the antithesis of tact and diplomacy. Tact calls for tact. The diplomatist is powerless if you begin shooting at him. Nellie did not work this out for herself; she merely wanted to put him in a corner where he would have to stand and get it over with.

      Fairfax was disconcerted. He showed it. No one ever presumed to discuss the matter with him. It was a very tender subject. His eyes wavered.

      “I like your cheek,” he growled.

      “Don’t you like to talk about it?” she inquired, innocently.

      “No,” he replied, curtly. “It’s nobody’s business, Miss Duluth.” 40

      “My, how touchy!” She shivered prettily. “I feel as if some one had thrown a pail of ice water over me.”

      “We were speaking of your—this husband of yours,” he said, quietly. “Why have you never mentioned him to me? Is it quite fair?”

      “It just slipped my mind,” she said, in the most casual way. “Besides, I thought you knew. My little girl is four—or is it five?”

      “Where do you keep them?”

      “I’ve got ’em in storage up at Tarrytown. That’s the Sleepy Hollow neighbourhood, isn’t it? I guess that’s why Harvey likes it so well.”

      “What is his business?”

      She looked up quickly. “What is that to you, Mr. Fairfax?”

      “Nothing. I am in no way interested in Mr. Duluth.”

      “His name isn’t Duluth,” she flashed, hotly. “If you are not interested in him, let’s drop the subject.”

      “I retract what I said. I am always interested in curiosities. What’s he like?”

      “Well, he’s like a gentleman, if you are really interested in curiosities,” she said.

      He laughed. “By Jove, you’ve got a ready 41 wit, my dear.” He looked at her reflectively, speculatively. “It’s rather a facer to have you turn out to be a married woman.”

      “Don’t you like married women?”

      “Some of ’em,” he answered, coolly. “But I don’t like to think of you as married.”

      “Pooh!” she said, and there was a world of meaning in the way she said it.

      “Don’t you know that it means a great deal to me?” he demanded, leaning closer and speaking in a lowered voice, tense and eager.

      “Pooh!” she repeated.

      He flushed again. “I cannot bear the thought of you belonging––”

      She interrupted him quickly. “I wouldn’t say it, if I were you.”

      “But I must say it. I’m in love with you, Nellie, and you know it. Every drop of blood in my veins is crying out for you, and has been––”

      Her face had clouded. “I’ve asked you not to say such things to me.”

      He stared