Ernestine threw herself on a chaise longue gracefully—she had a perfect way of doing everything. Caleb had declared her to be the only woman who could really look fetching while done up in curl papers! As she lay there in her negligee of skillfully blended blue and gray chiffon without a hint of lace to relieve the sulky loveliness of the colors, Thurley experienced the same shyness she had that first day in Bliss Hobart’s studio.
“Do you want these cushions piled on top of you and myself acting as paperweight on top of them?” Ernestine raised herself on one thin arm. “_Continuez!_ Why not ask if unknown admirers sent me red, red roses or if I played Chaminade for the Benevolent Newsboys’ Association when I was their honor guest—ask if I climbed Mt. McKinley or was lost in Death Valley—you disappointing _midge_, your looks belie you utterly.”
“What is the popular topic?” Thurley was capable of teasing, too. “Caleb Patmore?”
Ernestine’s sallow cheeks flushed. She made a clucking noise which brought Silver Heels from under the lounge. “I hope you eat so many frosted crullers you’ll take on weight, bringing Bliss’s wrath on your impudent shoulders. I want to know about you—whom have you met?—how is the ghost-lady?—the voice of gold—what do you think of us now? Sorry you came?” She laughed over at Thurley in friendly fashion and the fagged artist vanished.
So Thurley, while February slush-rain beat in vain at windows and raw winds mercilessly blew, told Ernestine all that had happened from the time they said good-by in December.
“I did hate you when you wrote so about Christmas. That wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t you have let me have that last bromidic holiday?”
“My child, I cannot endure Christmas and birthday things. I can stand Valentine’s Day much easier. I don’t know—but I’m so weary playing holiday matinées and having the audience one glitter of new watches, bracelets and other trifling remembrances, of having their minds groggy from too much dinner and demanding me to play carols with tumity-tum tunes while my piano must be holly decorated. Rather prejudiced me. And birthdays are devil days since they remind me I never wanted to be born, yet some unknown law of rhythm would have it so. Here I am, earthbound in a sallow, fleshy envelope when I’d love to be cloud free to drift here, there, without restraint, creed, convention—or the greed for crullers,” helping herself to a second. “Perhaps it was rough on a new little beggar, smashing up her bandbox ideas. Never mind, I thought of you—run open the second drawer of that white chest and find the jeweller’s box—it is for you. See if you like it.”