“An order of mocha tart, Erna!”

It was Bainbridge Breen who had spoken. The girl left the dining room with a cheery: “All right!” The young artist turned to his friends, Carstairs and Nielsen, who were sitting with him at the rear table: “Mocha tart is still the prince of Landsmann pastries.”

“You’ve made up with Erna, I see,” Nielsen ventured quietly.

“Oh, of course! I’m too busy a man to spend any time harboring animosity. Besides, I guess I’m sufficiently broad-minded to forgive the girl her indiscretion.”

“And on her side, she’s too light-hearted to hold animosity,” the author supplied.

“I expect so,” Breen agreed generously, and then challenged: “But how about you and Erna? And how about your story?”

“Haven’t been able to finish it as yet,” Nielsen returned somewhat evasively.

“Haven’t had enough opportunity for studying Erna?”

“No, I’m not quite through.” Breen laughed significantly, and Carstairs flushed.

“Then you haven’t reached your decision as regards Erna’s morals?” the painter continued.

“Not just yet!” was Nielsen’s response, keyed in deeper evasiveness.

“You’ll reach my conclusion absolutely,” Breen closed confidently. “She’s a moral little thing.”

“Of course,” Carstairs interposed indignantly.

“Whoop-la!” cried Breen. “So you’ve come to your decision, Brother John? How did it happen, you sly dog?”

“I haven’t come to any decision,” Carstairs denied wearily. “I told you in the beginning what I thought of Erna.”

“That’s so,” Breen gave in with a tone of fatherly wisdom. “But when and where did you find opportunity to strengthen your belief? You haven’t been coming here very often of late?”

“That’s my affair,” Carstairs retorted.

He was in a melancholy mood. Erna had been neglecting him since their evening together. Moreover, she had treated him with more or less indifference as well, as though his visits bored her, and had allowed him no opening for inviting her again.

Nielsen wisely changed the subject: “Been doing much work lately, John?”

“Yes, I’ve been busy.” “What are you doing?”

“I’ve been writing a little set of piano songs,” he rejoined.

“Good for you!” Breen applauded. “There’s nothing like work after all, and we all seem engaged to that lady at present. She’s the best wife in the world.”

Nielsen smiled philosophically, but the tired expression had revisited Carstairs’ face. The trio continued eating their supper, and the conversation strayed to other and less personal topics.

That same evening, Erna was to meet Jimmy Allen. The hero of Landsmann’s was well ahead of their appointment time, for he was strangely excited. He had some news to impart to Erna.

She was ten minutes late. He did not call her attention to the fact, but greeted her boisterously and began: “Gee, Erna! I got great news for you.”

“Have you?” she replied with well feigned indifference.

“What do you think? Nolan’s offered to let us have the rooms free for one month.”

“Did he?”

“Sure! What do you think o’ that? Ain’t he the pippin? Ain’t he the classy guy?”

She did not answer. They were walking slowly. He grabbed her arm. “What’s the matter now?” he demanded.

“Nothin’.”

“You said you’d made up your mind,” he maintained anxiously.

“I said: not quite,” she corrected him.

“Oh, but you have, Erna,” he pleaded. “You’ll join hands with me? You’re sick o’ Landsmann’s. You—we’re stuck on each other, an’ the minister’s—Well, wait’ll you see the flat!” he broke off. “That’ll settle it. Wait’ll you see the flat!”

“Why?”

“I’m takin’ you there,” he informed her eagerly.

“Now?”

“Of course!” he cajoled her. “You’ll come, won’t you?” and he squeezed her arm. “There’s no harm in it. You don’t have to like the place? It don’t hurt to see it?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll go.”

Erna was busy eyeing a millinery show window.

“How about it?” he questioned.

“All right.”

He sighed with relief and satisfaction.

There were two rooms and a bath. The furnishings were fairly attractive—garish in some respects, but on the whole, adequate. Erna admitted to herself that they surpassed her expectation, the garish qualities, no doubt, appealing to her love of life and violent color. But she made no such admission to Jimmy.

He was watching her with wide open eyes. Gradually, his anxiety forsook him and his natural cheerfulness appeared. “Well?” he asked quietly.

Erna continued reticent. Neither of the rooms compared with Mr. Nielsen’s, which was so wonderfully cosy, but she could easily improve them. Her woman’s housekeeper instinct declared itself; it would be nice to occupy herself making changes here and there. And it would be a nice place to spend a few lazy hours every day, it was such a fine little apartment. Best of all, it would be her first home.... Erna studied the large couch for the first time and hesitated. “Stick to your freedom!” he had advised her. Marriage? No, marriage would not be so nice. Still, strong, broad shouldered, handsome, happy Jimmy was standing right near her. She glanced his way.

“Well?” he repeated.

Erna looked away.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and approached a little.

She did not answer.... That other time matters were different. She had not felt as drawn to him then as she had since his return. His offer of money that day—well, it had been an honest one: he had cared for her, and he had been her best friend in those days. She must do him that much justice. And he was offering her much more now. She hated Landsmann’s more and more. She could not endure the place many days longer. And this would be her first home. But suppose she should want to change—as she had done so often before, due to her hatred of any steady existence? Her hands would be tied. Marriage meant loss of freedom. She cared for Jimmy, yes, but not quite enough. If she were only given more time for a decision! Perhaps, Mr. Nielsen would help her to decide. But she would not ask him.

“What’s the matter?” Jimmy demanded once more and with returning anxiety. He came closer.

Erna turned toward him. She cast aside the part she usually played with him, and gave him the first honest glance he had received from her in several days. He quickly put his arm about her shoulders.

Erna turned her head away and tried to pull back, but his other arm found its way about her. “Erna!” he begged for the last time.

She commenced to struggle. His instincts of battle were aroused; and his exasperation of nearly two years’ standing seized this opportunity. Heedless of her cries, he tightened his grip and pressed her breast against his with brutal strength. There was a moment of tugging and swaying. Suddenly, Erna raised her face, and he kissed her mouth with the same undeniable brutality. The girl no longer struggled. But he would not let her go.

At length, she tried to break away, but his strength was much greater than hers. He continued to weaken her, strong and stubborn though she was, by more unmerciful kisses and embraces. Erna attempted to beat his breast with what freedom her hands were permitted and not succeeding, kicked his shins. But Jimmy, laughing with joy and suffering with passion, hugged her with such finality that she was left powerless.

As usual, that old but simple law of physics, concerning the continued contact of bodies, was vindicated. Soon after, it was satisfied. Erna and Jimmy did not rise from the couch for nearly three hours.

Erna was tired, but happy. She looked at Jimmy. He laughed. She laughed too. And then they laughed together. Suddenly, she became serious.

“What’s the trouble?” he questioned.

Erna looked at him differently now, but her seriousness soon fled. After all, just as posing for Breen had not been quite new to her, so her present experience was not quite new. Furthermore, Erna possessed unlimited gameness. Life had never been able to throw her for a long fall. Therefore, her boldness returned. Jimmy laughed as before, and she joined him once more.

“All right?” he requested.

“Yes!”

He got up. She watched him dress. He was slow and careless in the performance. But her attention was absorbed by the muscular play of his splendid body.

“Well?” he asked smiling.

“Well what?” she challenged.

“What makes you stare?”

“Nothin’!”

“Am I nothin’?”

“Yes!”

He laughed with his usual readiness, and content, turned his back on her with lazy ease and walked over to the mirror. Erna frowned slightly. Somehow, his “I” had put her on her old guard. It seemed to spell property, as did his care-free satisfaction with himself. Erna watched him with glances sharpened by caution.

But it was necessary to dress. She was beginning to feel chilly. Without getting up, she slipped on her waist, that had been lying nearby on the floor.

Jimmy Allen’s mood had reached a state of hopeless disregard. He committed a decided blunder. With cheerful candor, he asked, without troubling himself to turn around: “Erna! When do we move in?”

She gave his back an indignant glance. “What did you say?”

“I said: when do we move in?”

Her instinct was up in arms. Throwing coolness into her reply, she returned deliberately: “Not until doomsday.”

He stopped fixing his tie. But he continued: “You’re gettin’ crazy again.”

“I’m not,” she replied without changing her tone. “I said: not until doomsday.”

He turned toward her, smiling. But the smile left his face. “What’s the matter now?” he asked, coming forward.

“Go on dressin’!” she commanded, his smile having started her petulance.

He, however, had come over to the couch and now stood over her, staring at her stupidly. She looked up at him, animosity in her glance. His vapid expression deepened.

“Well?” she challenged. “Sore?” he asked humbly.

“No!”

He tried to study her. Gradually, light penetrated his cloudy understanding: Erna was just like other women. Luckily, some stroke of intuition prompted him not to turn away this time. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders and said with unaccustomed seriousness: “Erna! Don’t be sore.”

“I’m not sore,” she resented.

“I know—but—”

“You don’t have to explain,” she cried melodramatically. Strange to say, Erna seemed ready to cry.

At a loss, Jimmy tried philosophy: “’Cause life is Hell to some folks, Erna, we don’t have to imitate ’em, do we?” He could not tell whether she was listening. “Gimme a chance!” he added more cheerfully. “Quit the beanery an’ gimme a chance! I don’t want life to be Hell for you. Gimme the chance, won’t you?” He waited, but she did not look up. “You listenin’?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then quit the beanery, Erna! We can live nice an’ cosy an’ happy here, can’t we? You like it here?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Let’s get the minister then!” he concluded quietly.

She removed his hands from her shoulders.

“Erna!” he repeated.

“Wait a moment,” she cut him short, although in a milder tone.

“Stick to your freedom!” he had advised her. He was so human that he understood everything. And yet, Jimmy—if she were not forced to decide so soon!

Her strength came back under the influence of this tonic. A little of her innate cheerfulness revived as well. She looked up at Jimmy. His puzzled expression disappeared, and he smiled in encouragement. She smiled too.

“Got somethin’ to say,” he read. “What is it?”

“Marriage’d be Hell, Jimmy,” she announced without emotion.

“Why?” he demanded abruptly, but recollecting himself, stopped. Dimly, he once more realized that Erna was a woman. And the man’s psychology assisted him: Nature and his long enduring exasperation had been satisfied. Why worry his head trying to understand Erna? Let her take care of herself. She would outgrow her present mood. He grew blasÉ, and repeated quietly: “Why?” “I dunno,” she explained doubtfully. “Just because, I suppose.”

He sat down beside her, not so much to help her wrestle with the problem as to encourage her to speak. She was thoughtful. “I guess I don’t want to,” she continued, but with increasing doubt.

“You don’t want to marry? Why?”

“I wouldn’t be free,” she declared in an uncertain way.

“Why not?” he demanded. “You’d be free? You could do what you want. I wouldn’t stop you?”

She shook her head.

An idea came to him. “Maybe you’d rather—” but he stopped, remembering a former experience.

“Go ahead,” she advised him.

“You’ll get sore again,” he protested.

“No, I won’t,” she disagreed, but anticipated him with: “I know what you were goin’ to say.”

“You do? Well?”

Erna averted her glance. The old thoughts passed in quick review: Landsmann’s—Mr. Nielsen’s advice—scraps of the past—home. She could live with him a little while and then marry him if all went well. That seemed best for her.

“Wait’ll to-morrow!” he interrupted her. “You’re kind o’ up in the air now. You’ll be surer to-morrow.”

She nodded absent-mindedly.

“You’ll let me know to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right! Forget it! We’ll get it all settled to-morrow. An’ if you’d still want to have the minister—”

She shook her head negatively. Jimmy appeared just as well satisfied. He did not understand, but what was the difference, and what the use of worrying? “You love me, don’tcher?”

Again, she nodded absent-mindedly. He pushed her with rough good nature. Presently, he got up, returned to the mirror and again busied himself with his tie. Erna likewise continued dressing. She had reached a decision. And she was cheerful once more. But she would wait until to-morrow. It might be better.