An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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machinations. At the same time she pretended that the

proposed meeting for the next night was a very difficult

thing to bring about—more difficult than he could possibly

appreciate. She even pretended to be somewhat uncertain

as to whether she wanted to do it.

“Just pretend you’re examining these handkerchiefs here,”

she continued, fearing the floor-walker might interrupt. “I

gotta nother date for then,” she continued thoughtfully, “and

I don’t know whether I can break it or not. Let me see.” She

feigned deep thought. “Well, I guess I can,” she said finally.

“I’ll try, anyhow. Just for this once. You be here at Fifteenth

and Main at 6.15—no, 6.30’s the best you can do, ain’t it?—

and I’ll see if I can’t get there. I won’t promise, but I’ll see

and I think I can make it. Is that all right?” She gave him

one of her sweetest smiles and Clyde was quite beside

himself with satisfaction. To think that she would break a

date for him, at last. Her eyes were warm with favor and her

mouth wreathed with a smile.

“Surest thing you know,” he exclaimed, voicing the slang of

the hotel boys. “You bet I’ll be there. Will you do me a

favor?”

“What is it?” she asked cautiously.

“Wear that little black hat with the red ribbon under your

chin, will you? You look so cute in that.”

“Oh, you,” she laughed. It was so easy to kid Clyde. “Yes,

I’ll wear it,” she added. “But you gotta go now. Here comes

that old fish. I know he’s going to kick. But I don’t care. Six-

thirty, eh? So long.” She turned to give her attention to a

new customer, an old lady who had been patiently waiting

to inquire if she could tell her where the muslins were sold.

And Clyde, tingling with pleasure because of this

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unexpected delight vouchsafed him, made his way most

elatedly to the nearest exit.

He was not made unduly curious because of this sudden

favor, and the next evening, promptly at six-thirty, and in the

glow of the overhanging arc-lights showering their glistening

radiance like rain, she appeared. As he noted, at once, she

had worn the hat he liked. Also she was enticingly ebullient

and friendly, more so than at any time he had known her.

Before he had time to say that she looked pretty, or how

pleased he was because she wore that hat, she began:

“Some favorite you’re gettin’ to be, I’ llsay, when I’ll break an engagement and then wear an old hat I don’t like just to

please you. How do I get that way is what I’d like to know.”

He beamed as though he had won a great victory. Could it

be that at last he might be becoming a favorite with her?

“If you only knew how cute you look in that hat, Hortense,

you wouldn’t knock it,” he urged admiringly. “You don’t

know how sweet you do look.”

“Oh, ho. In this old thing?” she scoffed. “You certainly are

easily pleased, I’ll say.”

“An’ your eyes are just like soft, black velvet,” he persisted

eagerly. “They’re wonderful.” He was thinking of an alcove

in the Green-Davidson hung with black velvet.

“Gee, you certainly have got ’em to-night,” she laughed,

teasingly. “I’ll have to do something about you.” Then,

before he could make any reply to this, she went off into an

entirely fictional account of how, having had a previous

engagement with a certain alleged young society man—

Tom Keary by name—who was dogging her steps these

days in order to get her to dine and dance, she had only

this evening decided to “ditch” him, preferring Clyde, of

course, for this occasion, anyhow. And she had called

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Keary up and told him that she could not see him to-night—

called it all off, as it were. But just the same, on coming out

of the employee’s entrance, who should she see there

waiting for her but this same Tom Keary, dressed to

perfection in a bright gray raglan and spats, and with his

closed sedan, too. And he would have taken her to the

Green-Davidson, if she had wanted to go. He was a real

sport. But she didn’t. Not to-night, anyhow. Yet, if she had

not contrived to avoid him, he would have delayed her. But

she espied him first and ran the other way.

“And you should have just seen my little feet twinkle up

Sargent and around the corner into Bailey Place,” was the

way she narcissistically painted her flight. And so infatuated

was Clyde by this picture of herself and the wonderful Keary

that he accepted all of her petty fabrications as truth.

And then, as they were walking in the direction of Gaspie’s,

a restaurant in Wyandotte near Tenth which quite lately he

had learned was much better than Frissell’s, Hortense took

occasion to pause and look in a number of windows, saying

as she did so that she certainly did wish that she could find

a little coat that was becoming to her—that the one she had

on was getting worn and that she must have another soon—

a predicament which caused Clyde to wonder at the time

whether she was suggesting to him that he get her one.

Also whether it might not advance his cause with her if he

were to buy her a little jacket, since she needed it.

But Rubenstein’s coming into view on this same side of the

street, its display window properly illuminated and the coat

in full view, Hortense paused as she had planned.

“Oh, do look at that darling little coat there,” she began,

ecstatically, as though freshly arrested by the beauty of it,

her whole manner suggesting a first and unspoiled

impression. “Oh, isn’t that the dearest, sweetest, cutest little

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thing you ever did see?” she went on, her histrionic powers

growing with her desire for it. “Oh, just look at the collar,

and those sleeves and those pockets. Aren’t they the

snappiest things you ever saw? Couldn’t I just warm my

little hands in those?” She glanced at Clyde out of the tail of

her eye to see if he was being properly impressed.

And he, aroused by her intense interest, surveyed the coat

with not a little curiosity. Unquestionably it was a pretty coat

—very. But, gee, what would a coat like that cost, anyhow?

Could it be that she was trying to interest him in the merits

of a coat like that in order that he might get it for her? Why,

it must be a two-hundred-dollar coat at least. He had no

idea as to the value of such things, anyhow. He certainly

couldn’t afford a coat like that. And especially at this time

when his mother was taking a good portion of his extra

cash for Esta. And yet something in her manner seemed to

bring it to him that that was exactly what she was thinking.

It chilled and almost numbed him at first.

And yet, as he now told himself sadly, if Hortense wanted it,

she could most certainly find some one who would get it for

her—that young Tom Keary, for instance, whom she had

just been describing. And, worse luck, she was just that

kind of a girl. And if he could not get it for her, some one

else could and she would despise him for not being able to

do such things for her.

To his intense dismay and dissatisfaction she exclaimed:

“Oh, what wouldn’t I give for a coat like that!” She had not

intended at the moment to put the matter so bluntly, for she

wanted to convey the thought that was deepest in her mind

to Clyde, tactfully.

And Clyde, inexperienced as he was, and not subtle by any

means, was nevertheless quite able to gather the meaning

of that. It meant—it meant—for the moment he was not

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quite willing to formulate to himself what it did mean. And

now—now—if only he had the price of that coat. He could

feel that she was thinking of some one certain way to get

the coat. And yet how was he to manage it? How? If he

could only arrange to get this coat for her—if he only could

promise her that he would get it for her by a certain date,

say, if it didn’t cost too much, then what? Did he have the

courage to suggest to her to-night, or to-morrow, say, after

he had learned the price of the coat, that if she would—why

then—why then, well, he would get her the coat or anything

else she really wanted! Only he must be sure that she was

not really fooling him as she was always doing in smaller

ways. He wouldn’t stand for getting her the coat and then