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Page 75
"How could you see when you stayed comfortably at home?" retorted Carley.
"All I could see was women falling into soldiers' arms," he said, sullenly.
"Certainly. Could an American girl desire any greater happiness--or
opportunity to prove her gratitude?" flashed Carley, with proud uplift of
head.
"It didn't look like gratitude to me," returned Morrison.
"Well, it was gratitude," declared Carley, ringingly. "If women of America
did throw themselves at soldiers it was not owing to the moral lapse of the
day. It was woman's instinct to save the race! Always, in every war, women
have sacrificed themselves to the future. Not vile, but noble! . . . You
insult both soldiers and women, Mr. Morrison. I wonder--did any American
girls throw themselves at you?"
Morrison turned a dead white, and his mouth twisted to a distorted checking
of speech, disagreeable to see.
"No, you were a slacker," went on Carley, with scathing scorn. "You let the
other men go fight for American girls. Do you imagine one of them will ever
marry you? . . . All your life, Mr. Morrison, you will be a marked man--
outside the pale of friendship with real American men and the respect of
real American girls."
Morrison leaped up, almost knocking the table over, and he glared at Carley
as he gathered up his hat and cane. She turned her back upon him. From that
moment he ceased to exist for Carley. She never spoke to him again.
Next day Carley called upon her dearest friend, whom she had not seen for
some time.
"Carley dear, you don't look so very well," said Eleanor, after greetings
had been exchanged.
"Oh, what does it matter how I look?" queried Carley, impatiently.
"You were so wonderful when you got home from Arizona."
"If I was wonderful and am now commonplace you can thank your old New York
for it."
"Carley, don't you care for New York any more?" asked Eleanor.
"Oh, New York is all right, I suppose. It's I who am wrong."
"My dear, you puzzle me these days. You've changed. I'm sorry. I'm afraid
you're unhappy."
"Me? Oh, impossible! I'm in a seventh heaven," replied Carley, with a hard
little laugh. "What 're you doing this afternoon? Let's go out--riding--or
somewhere."
"I'm expecting the dressmaker."
"Where are you going to-night?"
"Dinner and theater. It's a party, or I'd ask you."
"What did you do yesterday and the day before, and the days before that?"
Eleanor laughed indulgently, and acquainted Carley with a record of her
social wanderings during the last few days.
"The same old things--over and over again! Eleanor don't you get sick of
it?" queried Carley.
"Oh yes, to tell the truth," returned Eleanor, thoughtfully. "But there's
nothing else to do."
"Eleanor, I'm no better than you," said Carley, with disdain. "I'm as
useless and idle. But I'm beginning to see myself--and you--and all this
rotten crowd of ours. We're no good. But you're married, Eleanor. You're
settled in life. You ought to do something. I'm single and at loose ends.
Oh, I'm in revolt! . . . Think, Eleanor, just think. Your husband works
hard to keep you in this expensive apartment. You have a car. He dresses
you in silks and satins. You wear diamonds. You eat your breakfast in bed.
You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning. You dress for lunch or
tea. You ride or golf or worse than waste your time on some lounge lizard,
dancing till time to come home to dress for dinner. You let other men make
love to you. Oh, don't get sore. You do. . . . And so goes the round of
your life. What good on earth are you, anyhow? You're just a--a
gratification to the senses of your husband. And at that you don't see much
of him."
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