THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE -2

The Dress Daily building stood a few steps from Fifth Avenue. It was a part of Fifth Avenue, however—the section of the clothing workers—which Grace Kline always wished to eliminate from her consciousness as soon as possible. These gloomy structures that shed almost a sour odor, these hurrying foreign feet brought thoughts that were not like the thoughts one had after crossing Madison Square and pausing before Brentano's. There was not in this air the sudden, resilient thoughtlessness, the expectant quiver, that made the heart beat faster, the walk more swift and alert after Thirty-fourth Street. Once, after some discussion about the atmosphere of Paris, it had occurred to her to wonder at the power which the light feet, the insubstantial minds of men and women had to impress themselves far, far beneath heavy pavements, high, high above in the intangible ether, to shape slabs of stone and sections of air so that, years after, centuries after, other people would thrill like hounds to the sense of old, permeating moods. At some times she caught with a stab of elation the feeling of being one of the persons who, alive to-day, were adding their slight memories to the store of memory which New York had from the past and would have to draw on in the future. This was such a day. It was cold, but the sky was a boundless blue, the wind raced with a stirring energy, and the air had that liquefied-diamond quality of the New York autumn.

As she waited for a bus, she turned her mind, by an effort of will which was becoming necessary to her in the state of harassment in which she lived, away from the wide-open, limitless blue. It frightened her, one could so easily get lost there. She turned her mind away and into herself and shut it within tightly. It was equivalent to closing the windows in a room. All the draperies that had been flying about, all her ideas, came to rest in smooth order. In the first place, it was two-thirty, so Harry Strauss, to whom she had the letter of introduction, would probably be in. In the second place, did she look well to see him? She opened her purse and consulted its mirror—not surreptitiously, for a beautiful girl need feel no shame to gaze in a glass. Her dark hair, under the black satin hat, perfectly softened the fine, regular curve of her brows. Her eyes, by their purely physical depth and width, possessed an irresistible suction, like the dark waters of deep wells. Her cheeks were long and too thin. They became hollow under the least strain. But the even, warm hue of her skin, to which the wind never brought color or the sun heat, which lay lightly over her face like a pearly, glowing cloud, concealed the thinness. There was a composed power in her face, in the lips which were softly put together. She was quite aware of the eyes of every man who turned without hope but in spite of himself to glance at her.

By one of those extravagant economies of people who have to make a prosperous appearance on small means, she had been forced to wear a fur coat a little early in the season. This fact bothered her for she was as scrupulous in the choice of her clothes as if they had been irreplaceable parts of her body. But her spring coat was too shabby and childish to go job hunting in and she could not afford a special autumn wrap. The hint of pale orange between the black of the sealskin and the black of the hat pleased her. That, at least, was perfect.

Harry Strauss's office was at Forty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue. She coveted a job and could not help her heart's beating a little faster. But Grace Kline never felt really nervous about meeting new people, even prospective employers. Her face, she knew, served her as sufficient passport, assured her a certain welcome anywhere. As she watched the streets sidle by, she thought that she had not done badly for one day of job hunting. The acquaintances she had collected with this end in view had been kind to her. She already had one offer in case she found nothing better. If she really got work with Harry Strauss she would earn a good salary. How much? She ought to think of how much to ask. To keep her mind still shut—away from that boundless contingency which was ever before her like a landscape, luring her to wander in it without plan and only for the warm joy of the moment—she began hastily to design the clothes she would get, her winter's wardrobe, if Harry Strauss really hired her. The shop windows, passing by on both sides of the street, helped her. She scanned them with concentration and they assured her that these things could be sufficient, that these things could fill a mind. They called to her eagerly to trust them and they would tell her what to do and where to buy.

Just before she entered Harry Strauss's office she paused again and touched her lips into a faint orange splendor. Then, her eyes marching ahead of her, her head slightly bent forward, as if with their weight—her usual carriage—she walked into the office. The stenographer thought she was haughty and looked at her with an admiring fear. She had her chair just outside the inner office and she opened the door to it without getting up.

"Mr. Strauss isn't busy. You can go right in."

Fortunately, it was a small office, for Mr. Strauss, who sat at his desk rolling a cigar between his teeth, watched each step she took. He did not rise but waved to her to sit down. Her eyes fixed themselves on his face, in which appeared the vague, almost wistful relaxation that she had come to expect as a due tribute to her appearance.

"Well—er—what's your trouble?" It was kindly, even courteously said, despite the keen, clever, stabbing gleam in Mr. Strauss's bright eyes. In spite of all she had heard about him, she liked him at sight. He was about forty, dressed in a gray suit. A silver mane of hair, crisp, shining like strong steel wire in the sun, stood back from his forehead. He had an aquiline nose and his decisive voice had a note in it as if it were aquiline too.

"I have—a letter—for you from Mr. Milford," she said softly.

"M—m—m." After he had read the letter, his very bright eyes glanced over it at her, considering her. They halted at her brief skirt and slid over her legs and ankles. She felt them and was amused, gratified, strictly within herself. There was nothing wrong with her legs.

"I've a man working for me now," he said.

She kept quiet.

"I might be able to use a bright girl. Something just came up——"

Her eyes, that had been gazing at the air to the side of him, moved to his face, stayed there. Although she knew all about her eyes, this was never an entirely calculated gesture on her part. As soon as she placed her eyes anywhere, they clung of themselves.

"Just what have you done?" asked Mr. Strauss suddenly. "Milford says you're just out of college, but you've had some experience."
"I—Mr. McTavish of the Brooklyn Press is a good friend of mine, and the last two years of college I did movie criticisms for him and theatrical interviews."

"You know McTavish, hmm. Who else do you know? Know any of the theatrical and movie crowd on the New York papers? It's your contacts that count in publicity, you know."

"Yes. I know Hugh Coleman very well—and Tommy Manship——"

"Not Deering? Don't know Deering, do you?" he interrupted.

"No. I don't know him," she said, and her eyes fell with concern. She had no idea who Deering was.

"Have you got any friends on any of the other papers? Know anyone down at the World?"

"Well, Mildred Nelson is a very good friend of mine," she said with assurance. She had at least met Mildred Nelson many times.

Mr. Strauss lit his cigar and took up one of the telephones on his desk. "So you know McTavish, huh?" he repeated. He said to his stenographer through the phone, "Get me McTavish of the Brooklyn Press." Then he sat back and watched her. There was that in his face, serious though he kept it, which purred at her discomfort, at her inability to protest against the rudeness of questioning another person about her capacities in her presence. She had nothing to fear from McTavish. Yet she could not help but feel the turmoil of awaiting the signing of her own reprieve or death warrant there, before her eyes, against her ears. And Mr. Strauss knew this. She saw that he enjoyed it, enjoyed her suspense, enjoyed his own shrewdness, the idea of making an unexpected move, stealing a march on her poise.

In a few minutes the bell tinkled. She heard Mr. Strauss say, "Hello, McTavish. Harry Strauss speaking. There's a girl here—Grace Kline—who says she worked for you. What do you know about her?" And he kept his eyes, with that malicious twinkle, on her. But as he listened he took them away and his face grew grave, respectful. He was handing her the palm of victory. He was saying, "I see. That's fine. I'm glad to hear that." And, in fact, he seemed pleased. When he had hung up the receiver he spoke to her with a note of apology, as if he begged pardon for his suspicion that she might be cheating him. But wouldn't he have been even better pleased if the conversation had been unfavorable, if his suspicions had been justified and he had caught her?

"Well," he said, "McTavish thinks very highly of you. He says you're a smart girl, doesn't hesitate to recommend you for any job."

She smiled nervously.

"Now, how much would you work for?"

She lowered her eyes. When she raised them again they were frank and they pleaded.

"I—don't know anything about publicity salaries."

"This job wouldn't pay more than forty to start," said Mr. Strauss, tapping his cigar against the ash tray. He flashed his stabbing glance at her but he could tell nothing by her face, whether it was more than she expected or less. Then he remembered that she was just out of college and felt annoyed that he had not made it lower. "I could get plenty of people to work for less," he added. Her expression grew remote, cool. "But we won't quarrel over a couple of dollars," he said with a wave of his hand. "There's a good opening here, and you look like the kind of a girl I want. If you make good, it may run to as much as seventy-five—a hundred—after awhile. Depends on you. Well, is that fair?"

"I think so. Yes." She seemed quite composed.

"All right, then, come in to-morrow around nine. Now, you've probably heard that press agents don't begin work till noon. Forget all that. This office opens at nine like any other, and I expect you on time." He was leaning over the desk, his eyes alert and intent, and after each remark he jerked his chin down for emphasis. "Don't be nervous. You do your work and I'll be fair to you. Ask anyone you like. They'll tell you that Harry Strauss is fair." His eyes seemed to argue with her to believe. "The man I have is out now. You come in here to-morrow, and you'll meet him. You'll work together. He'll show you around till you catch on." He dismissed her. Just as she was opening the door he called sharply, "Miss Kline!" She turned and found him facing her, his eyes still more alert.

"Don't tell anyone you're working for me."

He swung away from her, back to his desk, and became very busy.