The Streets of Ascalon

So, after dinner, he, too, retired to seclusion behind bolted doors, pondering darkly on a philosophic novel which should be no novel at all but a dignified and crushing rebuke to mankind – a solid slice of moral cake thickly frosted with social economics, heavy with ethical plums, and without any story to it whatever.

Meanwhile his book had passed into the abhorred class of best sellers.

As for Lacy and O'Hara, both had remarked Quarren's abrupt retirement and his absence from that section of the social puddle which he was accustomed to embellish and splash in. O'Hara, inclining more toward sporting circles, noticed Quarren's absence less; but Lacy, after the first week, demanded an explanation at the dinner-table.

"You spoiled a party for Mrs. Lannis," he said – "and Winnifred Miller was almost in tears over the charity tableaux – "

"I wrote them both in plenty of time, Jack."

"Yes. But who is there to take your place? Whatever you touch is successful. Barent Van Dyne made a dub of himself."

"They must break in another pup," said Quarren, amused.

"You mean that you're chucking the whole bally thing for keeps?"

"Practically."

"Why?" asked O'Hara, looking up blankly.

"Oh," said Quarren laughing, "I'm curious to find out what business I really am in. Until this week I've never had time to discover that I was trying to be a broker in real estate. And I've just found out that I've been one for almost three years, and never knew it."

"One's own company is the best," growled Westguard. "The monkey people sicken you and the public make you ill. Solitude is the only remedy."

"Not for me," said Quarren; "I could breakfast, lunch, and dine with and on the public; and I'm laying plans to do it."

"They'll turn your stomach – "

"Oh, dry up, Karl!" said O'Hara; "there's a medium between extremes where you can get a good sportin' chance at anythin' – horse, dog, girl – anythin' you fancy. You'd like some of my friends, now, Ricky! – they're a good sort, all game, all jolly, all interestin' as hell – "

"I don't want to meet any cock-fighters," growled Westguard.

"They're all right, too – but there are all kinds of interestin' people in my circles – writers like Karl, huntin' people, a professional here and there – and then there's that fascinatin' Mrs. Wyland-Baily, the best trap-shot – "

"Trap-shot," repeated Westguard in disgust, and took his cigar and himself into seclusion.

Quarren also pushed back his chair, preparing to rise.

"Doin' anythin'?" inquired O'Hara, desiring to be kind. "Young Calahan and the Harlem Mutt have it out at the Cataract Club to-night," he added persuasively.

"Another time, thanks," said Quarren: "I've letters to write."

He wrote them – all the business letters he could think of, concentrating his thoughts as much as possible. Afterward he lay down on the lounge with a book, and remained there for an hour, although he changed books every few minutes. This was becoming a bad habit. But it was difficult reading although it ranged from Kipling to the Book of Common Prayer; and at last he gave it up and, turning over buried his head in the cushions.

This wouldn't do either: he racked his brain for further employment, found excuses for other business letters, wrote them, then attacked a pile of social matters – notes and letters heretofore deliberately neglected to the ragged edge of decency.

He replied to them all, and invariably in the negative.

It gave him something to do to go out to the nearest lamp post and mail his letters. But when again he came back into his room the silence there left him hesitating on his threshold.

But he went in and locked his door, and kept his back turned to the desk where pen and ink were tempting him as usual, and almost beyond endurance now. And at last he weakened, and wrote to her once more:

"My dear Mrs. Leeds —

"I feel sure that your failure to answer my note of last week was unintentional.

"Some day, when you have a moment, would you write me a line saying that you will be at home to me?

    "Very sincerely yours,
    "Richard Stanley Quarren."

He took this note to the nearest District Messenger Office; then returned to his room.

After an interminable time the messenger reported for the signature. Mrs. Leeds was not at home and he had left the note as directed.

The night was a white one. He did not feel very well when he sat scanning the morning paper over his coffee. Recently he had formed the custom of reading two columns only in the paper – Real Estate News and Society. In the latter column Strelsa usually figured.

She figured as usual this morning; and he read the fulsome stuff attentively. Also there was a flourish concerning an annual event at the Santa Regina.

And Quarren read this very carefully; and made up his mind as he finished the paragraph.

The conclusion he came to over his coffee and newspaper materialised that afternoon at a Charity Bazaar, where, as he intended, he met Strelsa Leeds face to face. She said, coolly amiable:

"Have you been away? One never sees you these days."

"I have been nowhere," he said, pleasantly.

She shook her pretty head in reproof:

"Is it good policy for a young man to drop out of sight? Our world forgets over-night."

He laughed: "Something similar has been intimated to me by others – but less gently. I'm afraid I've offended some people."

"Oh, so you have already been disciplined?"

"Verbally trounced, admonished, and still smarting under the displeasure of the powers that reign. They seem to resent my Sunday out – yet even their other domestics have that. And it's the first I've taken in three years. I think I'll have to give notice to my Missus."

"The spectre of servitude still seems to obsess your humour," she observed indifferently.

"I am that spectre, Mrs. Leeds."

"You certainly look pallid enough for any disembodied rôle. You have not been ill, by any chance?" – carelessly.

"Not at all, thank you. Rude health and I continue to link arms."

"Then it is not by chance that you absent yourself from the various festivities where your part is usually supposed to be a leading one?"

"All cooks eventually develop a distaste for their own concoctions," he explained gravely.