The Streets of Ascalon. Chambers Robert William

was still intent on her newspapers, satisfying a natural curiosity concerning what the world thought about her costume of the night before, her beauty, herself, and the people she knew. At last, agreeably satiated, she lowered the newspaper and lay back, dreamy-eyed, faintly smiling, lost in pleasant retrospection.

      Had she really appeared as charming last night as these exceedingly kind New York newspapers pretended? Did this jolly world really consider her so beautiful? She wished to believe it. She tried to. Perhaps it was really true – because all these daily paragraphs, which had begun with her advent into certain New York sets, must really have been founded on something unusual about her.

      And it could not be her fortune which continued to inspire such journalistic loyalty and devotion, because she had none – scarcely enough money in fact to manage with, dress with, pay her servants, and maintain her pretty little house in the East Eighties.

      It could not be her wit; she had no more than the average American girl. Nor was there anything else in her – neither her cultivation, attainments, nor talents – to entitle her to distinction. So apparently it must be her beauty that evoked paragraphs which had already made her a fashion in the metropolis – was making her a cult – even perhaps a notoriety.

      Because those people who had personally known Reginald Leeds, were exceedingly curious concerning this young girl who had been a nobody, as far as New York was concerned, until her name became legally coupled with the name of one of the richest and most dissipated scions of an old and honourable New York family.

      The public which had read with characteristic eagerness all about the miserable finish of Reginald Leeds, found its abominable curiosity piqued by his youthful widow's appearance in town.

      It is the newspapers' business to give the public what it wants – at least that appears to be the popular impression; and so they gave the public all it wanted about Strelsa Leeds, in daily chunks. And then some. Which, in the beginning, she shrank from, horrified, frightened, astonished – because, in the beginning, every mention of her name was coupled with a glossary in full explanation of who she was, entailing a condensed review of a sordid story which, for two years, she had striven to obliterate from her mind. But these post-mortems lasted only a week or so. Except for a sporadic eruption of the case in a provincial paper now and then, which somebody always thoughtfully sent to her, the press finally let the tragedy alone, contenting its intellectual public with daily chronicles of young Mrs. Leeds's social activities.

      A million boarding houses throughout the land, read about her beauty with avidity; and fat old women in soiled pink wrappers began to mention her intimately to each other as "Strelsa Leeds" – the first hall-mark of social fame – and there was loud discussion, in a million humble homes, about the fashionable men who were paying her marked attention; and the chances she had for bagging earls and dukes were maintained and combated, below stairs and above, with an eagerness, envy, and back-stairs knowledge truly and profoundly democratic.

      Her morning mail had begun to assume almost fashionable proportions, but she could not yet reconcile herself to the idea of even such a clever maid as her own assuming power of social secretary. So she still read and answered all her letters – or rather neglected to notice the majority, which invested her with a kind of awe to some and made others furious and unwillingly respectful.

      Letters, bills, notes, invitations, advertisements were scattered over the bedclothes as she lay there, thinking over the pleasures and excitement of last night's folly – thinking of Quarren, among others, and of the swift intimacy that had sprung up between them – like a witch-flower over night – thinking of her imprudence, and of the cold displeasure of Barent Van Dyne who, toward daylight, had found her almost nose to nose with Quarren, absorbed in exchanging with that young man ideas and perfectly futile notions about everything on top, inside, and underneath the habitable globe.

      She blushed as she remembered her flimsy excuses to Van Dyne – she had the grace to blush over that memory – and how any of the dignity incident to the occasion had been all Van Dyne's – and how, as she took his irreproachable arm and parted ceremoniously with Quarren, she had imprudently extended her hand behind her as her escort bore her away – a childish impulse – the innocent coquetry of a village belle – she flushed again at the recollection – and at the memory of Quarren's lips on her finger-tips – and how her hand had closed on the gardenia he pressed into it —

      She turned her head on the pillow; the flower she had taken from him lay beside her on her night table, limp, discoloured, malodorous; and she picked it up, daintily, and flung it into the fireplace.

      At the same moment the telephone rang downstairs in the library. Presently her maid knocked, announcing Mr. Quarren on the wire.

      "I'm not at home," said Strelsa, surprised, or rather trying to feel a certain astonishment. What really surprised her was that she felt none.

      Her maid was already closing the door behind her when Strelsa said:

      "Wait a moment, Freda." And, after thinking, she smiled to herself and added: "You may set my transmitter on the table beside me, and hang up the receiver in the library… Be sure to hang it up at once."

      Then, sitting up in bed, she unhooked the receiver and set it to her ear.

      "Mr. Quarren," she began coldly, and without preliminary amenities, "have you any possible excuse for awaking me at such an unearthly hour as mid-day?"

      "Good Lord," he exclaimed contritely, "did I do that?"

      She had no more passion for the exact truth than the average woman, and she quibbled:

      "Do you think I would say so if it were not true?" she demanded.

      "No, of course not – "

      "Well, then!" An indignant pause. "But," she added honestly, "I was not exactly what you might call asleep, although it practically amounts to the same thing. I was reposing… Are you feeling quite fit this morning?" she added demurely.

      "I'd be all right if I could see you – "

      "You can't! What an idea!"

      "Why not? What are you going to do?"

      "There's no particular reason why I should detail my daily duties, obligations, and engagements to you; is there? – But I'm an unusually kind-hearted person, and not easily offended by people's inquisitiveness. So I'll overlook your bad manners. First, then, I am lunching at the Province Club, then I am going to a matinée at the Casino, afterward dropping in for tea at the Sprowls, dining at the Calderas, going to the Opera with the Vernons, and afterward, with them, to a dance at the Van Dynes… So, will you kindly inform me where you enter the scene?"

      She could hear him laugh over the telephone.

      "What are you doing just now?" he asked.

      "I am seated upon my innocent nocturnal couch, draped in exceedingly intimate attire, conversing over the telephone with the original Paul Pry."

      "Could anything induce you to array yourself more conventionally, receive me, and let me take you to your luncheon at the Province Club?"

      "But I don't wish to see you."

      "Is that perfectly true?"

      "Perfectly. I've just thrown your gardenia into the fireplace. Doesn't that prove it?"

      "Oh, no. Because it's too early, yet, for either of us to treasure such things – "

      "What horrid impertinence!"

      "Isn't it! But your heavenly gift of humour will transform my impudence into a harmless and diverting sincerity. Please let me see you, Mrs. Leeds – just for a few moments."

      "Why?"

      "Because you are going South and there are three restless weeks ahead of me – "

      This time he could hear her clear, far laughter:

      "What has my going to Florida to do with your restlessness?"

      "Your very question irrevocably links cause and effect – "

      "Don't be absurd, Mr. Quarren!"

      "Absurdity is the badge of all our Guild