“My Carlottatralala!  Dear Carlottatralala!”

Lightly at the door, Cassy strung the words to a mazourka.  Her voice twisted, swung, danced into a trill that was captured by echoes that carried it diminishingly down the stairway of the mansion where Carlotta Tamburini lived.

“Eh?”

Partially the door opened.  A fat slovenly woman showed an unpowdered nose, a loose unpainted mouth, and, at sight of Paliser, backed.  “For God’s sake!  One moment, dearie.  Straight ahead.  With you in two shakes.”

Cassy, her yellow frock swishing, led the way to a room furnished with heaped scores, with a piano, a bench, chairs and a portrait, on foot, of a star before the fall.  Adjacently were framed programmes, the faded tokens of forgetless and forgotten nights, and, with them, the usual portraits of the usual royalties, but perhaps unusually signed.  The ex-diva had attended to that herself.

Paliser, straddling the bench, put his hat on the piano and looked at Cassy, who had gone to the window.  It was not the palaces opposite that she saw.  Before her was a broken old man revamped.  In his hand was a baton which he brandished demoniacally at an orchestra of his own.  The house foamed with faces, shook with applause, and without, at the glowing gates, a chariot carried him instantly to the serenities of elaborate peace.

“It won’t take over an hour.”

The vision vanished.  Across the way, in a window opposite, a young man was dandling, twirling one side of a moustache, cocking a conquering eye.  Cassy did not see him.  Directly behind her another young man was talking.  She did not hear.

On leaving the restaurant and, after it, the music-shop, the car had taken them into the Park where Paliser, alleging that he was out of matches, had handed her into another restaurant where more Vichy was put before her and, with it, that question.

The air was sweet with lilacs.  On the green beyond Cassy could see them, could see, too, a squirrel there that had gone quite mad.  It flew around and around, stopped suddenly short, chattered furiously and with a flaunt of the tail, disappeared up a tree.

“What a dear!” was Cassy’s reply to that question.

But Paliser gave her all the rope that she wanted.  He had no attraction for her, he knew it, and in view of other experiences, the fact interested him.  It had the charm of novelty to this man who, though young, was old; who, perhaps, was born old; born, as some are, too old in a world too young.

He struck a match and watched the little blue-gold flame flare and subside.  It may have seemed to him typical.  Then he looked up.

“Frankly, I have no inducements to offer, and, by the same token, no lies.  It would be untrue if I said I loved you.  Love is not an emotion, it is a habit, one which it takes time to form.  I have had no opportunity to acquire it, but I have acquired another.  I have formed the habit of admiring you.  The task was not difficult.  Is there anything in your glass?”

“A bit of cork, I think,” said Cassy, who was holding the glass to the light and who was holding it moreover as though she had thoughts for nothing else.

But her thoughts were agile as that squirrel.  A why not?  Why not?  Why not? was spinning in them, spinning around and around so quickly that it dizzied her.  Then, like the squirrel, up a tree she flew.  For herself, no.  She did not want him, never had wanted him, never could.

“May I have it?” Paliser took the glass.  Save for subsiding bubbles, and the bogus water, there was nothing there.  “Will you take mine?  I have not touched it.”

Cassy took it from him, drank it, drank it all.  Her thoughts raced on.  She was aware of that, though with what they were racing she could not tell.

“I don’t know why I am so thirsty.”

Paliser knew.  He knew that the taste of perplexity is very salt.  She was considering it, he saw, and he payed out the rope.

“People who claim to be wise are imbéciles.  But people who claim to be happy are in luck.  I have no pretensions to wisdom but I can claim to be lucky if-”

Cassy, her steeple-chasing thoughts now out of hand, was saying something and he stopped.

“It is very despicable of me even to listen to you.  I don’t think I would have listened, if you had not been frank.  But you have had the honesty not to pretend.  I must be equally sincere.  I-”

It was Paliser’s turn.  With a laugh he interrupted.  “Don’t.  A little sincerity is a dangerous thing and a great deal of it must be fatal.  Besides I know it all by heart.  I am the son of rich and disreputable people.  That is not my fault, and, anyway, it is all one to you.  But what you mean is that, should you consent, the consideration will not be-er-personal with me or-er-spiritual with you, but-er-just plain and simple materialism.”

Cassy looked wonderingly at him.  It was surprising how quickly and how completely he had nailed it.  But into the bewilderment there crept something else.  “Yes, and I am ashamed to look myself in the face.”

Paliser gave a tug at the rope.  “Then don’t do that either.  Look at me.  Matrimony is no child’s play.  It is like a trip to England-close confinement with the chance of being torpedoed.  Interference is the submarine that sinks good ships.  If you consent, there is only one thing on which I shall insist, but I shall insist on it absolutely.”

Visibly the autocrat stiffened.  “Shall you, indeed!”

Paliser pounded, or affected to pound, on the table.  “Yes, absolutely.”

You may go to Flanders then, thought Cassy, but, with that look which she could summon and which was tolerably blighting, she said, “Ah!  The drill sergeant!”

“Yes, and here is the goose-step.  The drill sergeant orders that you must always have your own way in everything.”

Considerably relaxed by that, Cassy laughed.  “You are very rigorous.  But don’t you think it is rather beside the mark?”

“Beside it!” Paliser exclaimed.  “It tops it, goes all over it, covers it, covers the grass, covers everything-except a fair field, a free rein and every favour.”

Cassy was gazing beyond where the squirrel had been.  A limousine passed.  A surviving victoria followed.  Both were superior.  So also were the occupants.  They were very smart people.  You could tell it from the way they looked.  They had an air contemptuous and sullen.  The world is not good enough for them, Cassy thought.  In an hour, car and carriage would stop.  The agreeable occupants would alight.  They would enter fastidious homes.  Costly costumes they would exchange for costumes that were costlier.  They would sit at luxurious boards, lead the luxurious life and continue to, until they died of obesity of the mind.

None of that!  Cassy decided.  But already the picture was fading, replaced by another that showed a broken old man, without a penny to his name, or a hope save in her.

From the screen, she turned to Paliser, who, aware of her absence, had omitted to recall her.  Now, though, that she again condescended to be present, he addressed her in his Oxford voice.

“But what was I saying?  Yes, I remember, something that somebody said before me.  Nowadays every one marries except a few stupid women and a few very wise men.  Yet, then, as I told you, I have no pretensions to wisdom.”

“Nor I to stupidity,” Cassy thoughtlessly retorted.  Yet at once, realising not merely the vanity of the boast but what was far worse, the construction that it invited, she tried to recall it, tangled her tongue, got suddenly red and turned away.

“You do me infinite honour then,” said Paliser, who spoke better than he knew.  But her visible discomfort delighted him.  He saw that she wanted to wriggle out of it and, like a true sportsman, he gave her an opening in which she would trip.

“Matrimony is temporary insanity with permanent results.  You must not incur them blindfolded.  Do me the favour to look this way.  Before you sits a pauper.”

In the surprise of that, Cassy did look and walked straight into it.  “What?”

“Precisely.”  In sheer enjoyment he began lying frankly and freely.  He lied because lying is a part of the game, because it is an agreeable pastime and because, too, if she swallowed it-and why shouldn’t she?-it might put a spoke in such wheels as she might otherwise and subsequently set going.

“Precisely,” he repeated.  “It is different with my father.  My father has what is called a regular income.  One of these days I shall inherit it.  It will keep us out of the poorhouse.  But meanwhile I have only the pittance that he allows me.”

Yes, Cassy sagaciously reflected.  What with Paliser Place, its upkeep and the rest of it, it must be a pittance.  But the lie behind it, which she mistook for honesty, tripped her as it was intended to do.  A moment before she might have backed out.  Now, in view of the lie that she thought was truth, how could she?  It would be tantamount to acknowledging she was for sale but that he hadn’t the price.  Red already, at the potential shame of that she got redder.

Paliser, who saw everything, saw the heightening flush, knew what it meant, knew that he was landing her, but knew, too, that he must bear the honours modestly.

“Bread and cheese in a cottage and with you!” he exclaimed.  “But, forgive me, I am becoming lyrical.”  He turned, summoned the waiter, paid for the water, paid for the service and took from the man his stick.

Cassy went with him to the car.  She had made no reply.  If she were to take the plunge, there was no use shivering on the brink.  But what would her father say?  He would be furious of course, though how his fury would change into benedictions when he found himself transported from the walk-up, lifted from Harlem and cold veal!  Presently there would be a flower in his button-hole and everything that went with the flower.  Moreover, if the poor dear wanted to be absurd, she would let him parade his marquisate; while, as for herself, she would have to say good-bye to so much that had been so little.  Good-bye!  Addio per sempre!  The phrase from La Tosca came to her.  It told of kisses and caresses that she had never had.  Yet, beneath her breath, she repeated it.  Addio per sempre!

Then suddenly, without transition, she felt extraordinarily at peace with herself, with everybody, with everything.  After all, she did not know, stranger things had happened, she might even learn to care for him and to care greatly.  But whether she did or she did not, she would be true as steel-truer!  He had been so nice about it!  Yes, she might, particularly since she had made a clean breast of it and he knew she was marrying him for what it pleased him to describe as his pittance.

The car now was flying up the Riverside.  An omnibus passed.  From the roof, a country couple spotted the handsome girl and the handsome young man who were lolling back so sumptuously, and the lady stranger, pointing, said to her gentleman:  “Vanderbilt folk, I guess, ain’t they dandy!” Behind the lady sat a novelist who was less enthusiastic.  Another girl gone gay, was his mental comment.  Well, why not? he reflected, for Jones’ prejudices were few and far between.  Besides, he added:  Les Portugais sont toujours gais.  But he had other things to think about and he dismissed the incident, which, in less than a week, he had occasion to recall.

Cassy, meanwhile, after serenading a fat woman’s door and looking from a palatial window at the moving-pictures of her thoughts, at last heard Paliser, who, already, had twice addressed her.

“It won’t take over an hour or so.”

But now the Tamburini, ceremoniously attired in a wrapper, strode in and Paliser, who had been straddling the music-bench, stood up.

The fact that they had come together and were together, had already darkly enlightened the fallen star and as she strode in she exclaimed with poetry and fervour:  “Two souls with but a single thought!”

Paliser took his hat.  “We are a trifle better provided.  I have as many as three or four thoughts and one of them concerns a license.  I am going to get it.”

His face was turned from Cassy and his eyes, which he had fastened on his hostess, held caveats, commands, rewards.

Massively she flung herself on Cassy.  “Dearie, I weep for joy!”

Cassy shoved her away.  “Not on me, Tamby.”

But the dear lady, in attacking her, shot a glance at Paliser.  It was very voluble.

Cassy, too, was looking at him.  Her education had been thorough.  She knew any number of useless things.  In geography, history, and the multiplication-table she was versed.  But Kent’s Commentaries, passionate as they are, were beyond her ken.  The laws to which they relate were also.  None the less, on the subject of one law she had an inkling, vague, unprecised, and, for all she knew to the contrary, incorrect.  She blurted it.  “Don’t I have to go, too?”

Ma Tamby grabbed it.  “Go where, dearie?”

“For the license?”

Ma Tamby tittered.  “Not unless you love the song of the subway.  The license is a man’s job.”  Twisting, she giggled at Paliser.  “But not hard labour, he, he!”

“A life-term, though,” he answered and added:  “I’ll go at once.”

That settled it for Cassy.  A chair stretched its arms to her.  She sat down.

Wildly the fat woman gesticulated.  “Dearie, no!  But how it gets me!  As true as gospel I dreamed so much about it that it kept me awake.  I do believe I have a pint of champy.  Shall I fetch it?  I must.”

Coldly Cassy considered her.  “Don’t.  You’ll only get tight.”

Paliser, making for the door, called back:  “Save a drop for me.”

“May the Lord forgive me,” sighed the fat woman.  “I was that flustered I forgot to congratulate him.  But how it takes me back!  Dearie, I too was young!  I too have loved!  Ah, gioventú primavera della vita!  Ah, l’amore!  Ah!  Ah!”

“You make me sick,” said Cassy.

“Dearie-”

“Be quiet.  My father won’t like it and I can’t lie to him about it.  But I shall need some things and you will have to go for them.  What will you tell him?”

With one hand, the fat woman could have flattened Cassy’s father out.  But not his tongue.  The nest of vipers there, even then hissed at her.

“Why, dearie, to-morrow you’ll have your pick of Fifth Avenue and until then, if you need a tooth-brush, I’ll get one for you around the corner.”

“But my father will have to be told something.  He’ll worry to death.  I might write though, and put on a special delivery.  Look here.  Have you any note paper that isn’t rotten with scent?  If not, I do believe I’ll chuck it.”

“For God’s sake, dearie!”

Hastily, in search of scentless paper, the fat woman made off.