Upton Sinclair - The Metropolis

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The conversation was the same as before, except that it was a little more general, and louder in tone; for the guests had oecome more intimate, and as Robbie Walling's wines of priceless vintage poured forth, they became a little " high." The young lady who sat on Montague's right was a Miss Vincent, a granddaughter of one of the sugar-kings; she was dark-skinned and slender, and had appeared at a recent lawn fete in the costume of an Indian maiden. The company amused itself by selecting an Indian name for her; all sorts of absurd ones were suggested, depending upon various intimate details of the young lady's personality and habits. Robbie caused a, laugh by suggesting "Little Dewdrop" — it appeared that she had once been discovered writing a poem about a dewdrop; someone else suggested "Little Raindrop," and then OUie brought down the house by exclaiming, "Little Raindrop in the Mud-puddle!" A perfect gale of laughter swept over the company, and it must have been a minute before they could recover their composure; in order to appreciate the humour of the sally it was necessary to know that Miss Vincent had "come a cropper" at the last meet of the Long Island Hunt Club, and been extricated from a slough several feet deep.

This was explained to Montague by the young lady on his left — the one whose half-dressed condition caused his embarrassment. She was only about twenty, with a wealth of golden hair and the bright, innocent face of a child; he had not yet learned her name, for everyone called ber " Cherub." Not long after this she made a

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remark across the table to Baby de Mille, a strange jumble of syllables, which sounded like English, yet was hot. Miss de Mille replied, and several joined in, until there was quite a conversation going on. "Cherub" explained to him that "Baby" had invented a secret language, made by transposing letters; and that OUie and Bertie were crazy to guess the key to it, and could not.

The dinner lasted until late. The wine-glasses continued to be emptied, and to be magically filled again. The laughter was louder, and now and then there were snatches of singing; women loUed about in their chairs — one beautiful boy sat gazing dreamily across the table at Montague, now and then closing his eyes, and opening them more and more reluctantly. The attendants moved about, impassive and silent as ever; no one else seemed to be cognisant of their existence, but Montague could not help noticing them, and wondering what they thought of it all.

When at last the party broke up, it was because the bridge-players wished to get settled for the evening. The others gathered in front of the fireplace, and smoked and chatted. At home, when one planned a day's hunting, he went to bed early and rose before dawn; but here, it seemed, there was game a-plenty, and the hunters had nothing to consider save their own comfort.

The cards were played in the vaulted "gunroom." Montague strolled through it, and his eye ran down the wall, lined with glass eases and filled with every sort of firearm known to the hunter. He recalled, with a twinge of self-

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abasement, that he had suggested bringing his shotgun along!

He joined a group in one corner, and lounged in the shadows, and studied "Billy" Price, whose conversation had so mystified him. "Billy," whose father was a banker, proved to be a devotee of horses; she was a veritable Amazon, the one passion of whose life was glory. Seeing her sitting in this group, smoking cigarettes, and drinking highballs, and listening impassively to risque stories, one might easily draw base conclusions about Billy Price. But as a matter of fact she was made of marble; and the men, instead of falling in love with her, made her their confidante, and told her their troubles, and sought her sympathy and advice.

Some of this was explained to Montague by a young lady, who, as the evening wore on, came in and placed herself beside him. "My name is Betty Wyman," she said, "and you and I will have to be friends, because Oliie's my side partner."

Montague had to meet her advances; so had not much time to speculate as to what the term "side partner" might be supposed to convey, Betty was a radiant little creature, dressed in a robe of deep crimson, made of some soft and filmy and complicated material; there was a crimson rose in her hair, and a living glow of crimson in her cheeks. She was bright and quick, like a butterfiy, full of strange whims and impulses; mischievous lights gleamed in her eyes, and mischievous smiles played about her adorable little cherry lips. Some strange perfume haunted the

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filmy dress, and completed the bewilderment of the intended victim.

"I have a letter of introduction to a Mr. Wy-man in New York," said Montague. " Perhaps he is a relative of yours."

"Is he a railroad president ?" asked she; and when he answered in the afiirmative, " Is he a railroad king.?" she whispered, in a mocking, awe-stricken voice, " Is he rich — oh, rich as Solomon — and is he a terrible man who eats people aUve all the time.''"

" Yes," said Montague — " that must be the one.

" Well," said Betty, " he has done me the honour to be my granddaddy; but don't you take any letter of introduction to him."

"Why not.?" asked he, perplexed.

"Because he'll eat you" said the girl. "He hates OUie."

" Dear me," said the other; and the girl asked, "Do you mean that the boy hasn't said a word about me.?"

"No," said Montague — "I suppose he left it for you to do."

"Well," said Betty, "it's like a fairy story. Do you ever read fairy stories.? In this story there was a princess — oh, the most beautiful princess! Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Montague. "She wore a red rose in her hair."

"And then," said the girl, "there was a young courtier — very handsome and gay, and they fell in love with each other. But the terrible old king—he wanted his daughter to wait awhile.

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until he got iiirough conquering his enemies, so that he might have time to pick out some prince OT other, or maybe some ogre who was wasting his lands — do you follow me?"

"Perfectly," said he. "And then did the beautiful princess pine away?"

"Um—no," said Betty, pursing her lips. "But she had to dance terribly hard to keep from thinking about herself." Then she laughed, and exclaimed, "Dear me, we are getting poetical!" And next, looking sober again, "Do you know, I was half afraid to talk to you. Ollie tells me you're terribly serious. Are you?"

"I don't know," said Montague — but she broke in with a laugh, "We were talking about you at dinner last night. They had some whipped cream done up in funny little curliques, and Ollie said, 'Now, if my brother Allan were here, he'd be thinking about the man who fixed this cream, and how long it took him, and how he might have been reading " The Simple Life."' Is that true?"

"It involves a question of literary criticism"— said Montague.

"I don't want to talk about literature," exclaimed the other. In truth, she wanted nothing save to feel of his armour and find out if there were any weak spots through which he could be teased. Montague was to find in time that the adorable Miss Elizabeth was a very thorny species of rose — she was more like a gay-coloured wasp, of predatory temperament.

' Ollie says you want to go down town and work," she went on. "I think you're awfully

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foolish. Isn't it mucli nicer to spend your time in an imitation castle like this ? "

"Perhaps," said he, "but I haven't any castle."

'' You might get one," answered B etty. '' Stay around awhile and let us marry you to a nice girl. They will all throw themselves at your feet, you know, for you have such a delicious melting voice, and you look romantic and exciting.' (Montague made a note to inquire whether it was customary in New York to talk about you so frankly to your face.)