Minnie Flynn/Chapter 11

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MINNIE'S second and third pictures were tremendous successes. The newspapers gave columns of praise to the new star. Her name appeared in electric lights on Broadway. She was asked to address the Women's Goal Club. Several Broadway druggists made window displays of her photographs. A new cold cream and perfume were named after her. She received five hundred to endorse "Sure-to-Grow" hair tonic. On the bottle was a picture of Minnie, her long hair tumbled to her waist. Under her elaborate signature was a brief statement to the effect that "Sure-to-Grow" had proven successful with June Day. Picture fans began their hectic correspondence; Minnie was already receiving several hundred letters a month. Interviews with Miss June Day appeared in all magazines devoted to the picture industry; intimate pictures of her life at the studio, her love for books, her devotion to her brother and mother, even stories of her beautiful pampered childhood. To illustrate these stories, Minnie was photographed in her own pale green dressing room which Beauregard had decorated for her; she was photographed lying in studied relaxation upon a satin pillowed chaise longue reading with deep absorption Bernard Shaw's "Man and Superman"; she was shown with her arm lovingly around her mother's shoulder, Mrs. Flynn stiff, silent and awed in the rustling silk dress bought for the occasion; they photographed her kissing a beautiful full-blown rose. This accompanied an article tell​ing about her love for flowers, how they had always influenced her life, bringing at times a note of the spiritual, at other times a more passionate appeal. She confessed quite frankly that she was born in New York City far away from the fields of spring blossoms which so enchanted her. But during her girlhood, her love of flowers kept her always in touch with some sweet symbol of meadow or hothouse. And even as Minnie Flynn was telling this, there came no halting of conscience. . . . Didn't the thought constitute the deed? Wasn't there always on the table of their old flat a paper palm, and upon the mantelpiece perennial carnation blooms?

So the public, through the newspapers and magazines, learned much about this charming, intelligent new star, June Day. They were kept in touch with her. They read articles signed by her, advising young girls how to prepare themselves for a career in the movies. Splendid advice, Miss Day always gave: to study hard all the branches of the arts, especially dancing, literature and music. To live simply, think clearly, make an exhaustive study of the needs of the screen and requirements of an actress, learn to sew (it would often come in handy when designing costumes) diet to keep in form, ride horseback, and develop the spiritual side of your nature. "Thoughts are things," said Miss June Day at the conclusion of one of her beautiful articles, "and things can be photographed. The purity of a woman's soul is reflected through her eyes which on the screen are the windows of her soul. Life holds many complexes for us, but we who are little shadows of the screen must smother our emotional reactions to our tragedies, lest our eyes grow dim with tears and we fade and grow uninteresting and you turn away from us. Therefore, dear friends and screen aspirants, learn to rise above material matters. Live upon the higher plane, ​think clearly, beautifully, intelligently. I have found this the golden key to my own meteoric success."

No one knew quite what it was all about, except possibly the press agent who wrote it, but it lent an air of distinction to June Day. Minnie read it aloud to her family, and Mrs. Flynn's eyes filled with tears at the beauty and length of the words. Michael Flynn was still in a daze. He wondered where Minnie had learned these strange, unnatural sentences which even the smart pipe fitter at the plumbing shop could not understand.

Sometimes he thought so long and seriously over the change worked in his home and in his life, that he grew ill. Once he lay in bed three days tossing and twisting in fever. Billy came to see him and held his hot, crinkled hand. They sat in stifling silence for several hours, then Billy went home to the new apartment they had since taken on upper Riverside Drive.

It was a warm late spring evening, and many people were promenading on the Drive. Billy saw sharp silhouettes against the metallic sheen on the river, for the moon was full and her cold radiance far-flung. Under the black and silver lace of the trees were couples, throwing but one shadow upon the moonlit ground. The far-away mooing of the river boats, the dolorous music of a passing hurdy-gurdy, the light laughter echoing from contented hearts, made Billy conscious of a feverish longing again to hold Minnie in his arms.

They had been living under the same roof, but Minnie treated him as if he were a stranger. She was seldom home for dinner, and when she returned late in the evening, often ​early in the morning, she went to her own room, shut and locked the door. When they did meet she was strangely formal with him. Billy knew he was no longer welcome, but he understood only one thing—the fact that he and Minnie were man and wife. Marriage meant a life's job to Billy. It never occurred to him that anything could happen which would separate Minnie and himself. Among his acquaintances there were no divorced ones.

He was desperately unhappy. He hated the life they were leading. He saw that he did not fit into these new brilliant surroundings as Jimmy did. Since they moved to the Riverside apartment, Jimmy had also been living with them. Minnie loved his happy companionship; he was looking very smart now in the suits she was buying him, derby, spats and cane. On his birthday, Minnie had given him a silver cigarette case and Jimmy had bought himself a long amber holder. He always wore a silk monogrammed handkerchief in the pocket of his coat, and carried chamois gloves. The only work he did was to call for Minnie at the studio and take her out to dinner and dancing almost every evening. Billy heard many comments on this from the family, but no criticisms. They were pleased when they read the items in the newspapers about the beautiful companionship between Miss June Day and her brother, James Day. Billy wondered why he was never mentioned, though it never occurred to him that Minnie kept her marriage a secret. Unsuspicious, truthful, he decided it was because he, unlike the others, had not changed his name to Day. Billy wanted to do anything to make Minnie happy, but he was afraid that if he discarded the name MacNally, when he died he would not dare face his father, who had been proud of that name. He had a childish belief that his name and record on the Judgment Book were down as MacNally.

​Minnie and he often quarreled about his job at Hesselman's. She did not know what else he could do, but she would rather he didn't work at all than let it be found out that he was a butcher. Billy liked his work and was proud of it. He could not leave old man Hesselman, and why should he, when he knew that Hesselman was already planning for a partnership?

He had advised against the move to the new expensive apartment. It was unfurnished, and Minnie was now hundreds of dollars in debt. She had furnished it to look like the sets built at the studio. In the parlor—why did Minnie always get angry when he forgot to call it the 'drawing room'?—there were too many pieces of furniture, all covered with satins and velvets. He couldn't sit on them in his working clothes. The rug was pale rose. He dared not walk upon it. He hated all the gilt mirrors in the room which made him see himself red-faced and seedy in the midst of all this gilt and satin splendor. Two other ornaments he didn't like; why did a nice girl like Minnie want a big marble statue of an undressed woman near the window where it could be seen by passersby on the street? And over the mantelpiece was a painting called "Paul and Virginia." Michael Flynn and Billy always turned embarrassed eyes away from the two bold figures flaunting their half-nakedness. If that was art, they didn't want art; the art Minnie was learning around the movies was stealing from her all sense of shame and decency.

Even in the cozy corner of the den Billy dared not sit. It was a broad, comfortable couch, but covered with fussy cushions, satin, silk, velvet and burnt leather. There was a draped canopy overhead held by two long, menacing spears, fastened at right angles from the wall. Close to the couch on a small inlaid-mother-of-pearl table was a brass Russian ​teapot and a hammered brass box for cigarettes. There were five lamps in this small room, tall and graceful, or squat and round-bellied. Most of the lamp shades were hand painted and very expensive.

Minnie had called her bedroom a "boudoir," "a symphony in blue." Over the bright, Chinese blue carpet, before the diminutive gas log fireplace, was a large polar bear rug. The bed was white paint and wicker, decorated with baskets of flowers in bas-relief. Minnie had outgrown brass beds by now. The dresser, desk and chairs were white, the lamp shades shell pink. On the bed was a lace spread with a satin lining. Six or seven small embroidered pillows were piled upon it. On the wall were several photographs of Minnie framed in elaborate gilt frames. On the mantelpiece was another photograph of herself in a beautiful frame made entirely of seashells.

Jimmy's room was furnished in mahogany. Minnie and he had chosen it. On the wall were several posters of prize fighters. Minnie thought they added a masculine touch, though she did not want Jimmy to let the girls at the studio know he had ever boxed, even as an amateur. Jimmy was sorry. He would like to have told Alicia Adams. Minnie wasn't the only one who had achieved something in the Flynn family.

In Billy's room was the bird's-eye maple dresser and the brass bed they had bought for their bedroom in the Ninety-seventh Street apartment.

Pete and Elsie's room contained the furniture they had bought for the parlor of the old apartment. Billy liked these two rooms the best in their new home. He could fearlessly stand on the rugs, sit on the chairs and lie down on the beds.

But often he longed to be again in the Schultz rooming house where he and Minnie had been so happy.

​Billy's slow mind plodded back over the past year. He sat there on a bench facing the river that stretched out in the soft darkness like a long, winding ribbon of silver. Couples found the next bench, whispered in the masking shadows, then wandered on, often holding hands; sometimes the boy's arm was around the girl's waist. The sight of their contentment made him want Minnie with maddening desperation. If they could again sit and spoon in the lower hallway of The Central! His heart ached in memory of the evenings they had spent in the park before their marriage. He hardly dared think of those first few weeks after their marriage.

At midnight he rose and paced up and down restlessly, glancing at his watch every few minutes. Minnie had told him that she would not be home before one-thirty.

At one o'clock, he entered their apartment. He tiptoed quietly so as not to waken Elsie. He stole into his own room, stood there for a moment, almost in guilty debate, then with his jaw set in resolution, he went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the bathtub. This irregularity made him slightly nervous. He shaved in spite of his fumbling fingers. He shampooed his hair, then used some of Jimmy's pomade. This done, he searched in the closet for the package still tied up and labeled, "Merry Christmas to Billy, from his loving wife." He opened it gingerly and took out a pair of white and blue striped silk pajamas. After his bath, he slipped into them and stood in front of the mirror looking at himself. Of course he preferred his night shirts, but Minnie evidently liked these two-piece things. He lit a cigarette and sat down in the morris chair, leaving his door slightly ajar so he could hear them when they arrived. He tried to stop the irregular beating of his heart by concentrating upon the Butcher's Manual. ​

That evening Minnie was in the height of her glory. Jimmy escorted her to the annual ball given by the cameramen of the industry. She wore a new gown, silver cloth trimmed with silver lace, which was made especially for her by Mme. Papillon—since Minnie's success, they were close friends. Jimmy was in a full-dress suit made for him by the tailor who made all of Gilbert Carlton's smart outfits.

They were driven to the ball, which was at the Astor Hotel, in Minnie's car. Pete was still the chauffeur and even saluted Jimmy.

When she arrived and entered the ballroom, the electricians in the balcony swung the huge luminous head of the spot-light in her direction, and a path of light reached to embrace her. She stood alone in its dazzling radiance, bowing in acknowledgment of the applause. Through a megaphone roared a masculine voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Miss June Day, star of the Elite Productions." The patter of applause grew until it exploded noisily around her, thundering its echoes to the far corners of the room before it ceased. Her heart was beating wildly, sending bright color to her mouth and cheeks. Her eyes were like deep-cut sapphires. Soon she was surrounded by eager young men, all clamoring for dances. Women in boxes looked at her through opera glasses. Hal Deane sought her and asked for the first dance. He held her firmly in his strong arms. How beautiful she was . . . if only he could have her to cherish and protect—protect her from the world and from herself!

While they were dancing and he was guiding her through the crowded room, he felt her body suddenly stiffen, grow taut in his arms. Then Gilbert Carlton danced past them, his tall, graceful body swaying to the pulse-beats of the ​music. Carlton's voice struck upon their ears. He was saying heartily: "Hello, Hal! Glad to see you here," and then lowering his voice to pleasant cadences: "How do you do, Miss Day? Marvelous dance, isn't it?" The music ceased, and above the babel his voice rose again, calling to them. He had left his partner and was hurrying toward them.

"Don't dance with him, June," whispered Deane. His tone was compelling.

Minnie was thinking, "He's a dirty dog, but how handsome he is—the handsomest man in the whole ballroom."

"Why not?" she demanded, icily formal.

Deane left her as soon as Carlton reached them.

Carlton was charming. He could be. It was difficult to hold any resentment against anyone whose frankness was so disarming. He said to Minnie with a penitent smile, "Wasn't I the cad to forget you? I remember now the evening you bowed to me in the café. I turned to the girl I was with. I said, 'Confound it, I know that pretty youngster, but I can't think where I've met her.' And when you had gone, I exclaimed, 'Why, that's the Day girl they wanted me to play opposite.'"

He saw Minnie's eyes narrow and her lips thin to a hard line. His laughter had an apologetic ring to it. It gave him time to think. When the laugh died away, he said contritely: "I'm not only a cad where you're concerned, but a fool as well. Do you mind if I am terribly, brutally frank with you?"

Minnie shook her head.

"You'll never speak to me when you hear this confession. . . . I didn't play opposite you just because I didn't think you were a big enough star, idiot that I was."

​"I know it," said Minnie quietly, trying to keep the hate alive in her heart.

"We don't make selfish moves like that without paying. In losing your respect and friendship, I know that I have lost more than I deserve for my stupidity. Please forgive me, Miss Day. I shall never trouble you again, but I thought it only fair that you should know how humbled I have been for my insolence." His face was drawn into lines of suffering. He could say no more. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, then turned and hurried away. Minnie's straining eyes soon lost him among the gay figures. She pressed her hand to her heart as if a sharp pain had twisted it.

Carlton was thinking, "Not a bad move—she'll dance with me several times this evening—I'll play the lead in her next picture."

He carefully avoided her eager glances all evening, but arranged to dance past her often, chosing for his partners not only the beautiful girls, but the best dancers in the ballroom. He was easily the most distinguished dancer there. Why was it that when they passed close enough so that their elbows almost touched she was either dancing with Beauregard who held her pressed awkwardly against his fat stomach, or with Hal Deane, who was only a methodical, uninspired dancer?

It was midnight before a man, backing away from a partner, lurched into Minnie. She wheeled around, so did he, and it was Gilbert Carlton!

"Oh, Miss Day, I beg your pardon. I assure you I didn't do this on purpose."

"Why, Mr. Carlton," said Minnie breathlessly, eager to talk with him, "of course I know that. Don't rush away! I've been waiting to tell you all evening that I—I——"

​He reached forward and eagerly seized her hand, holding it almost as if he were terrified lest she withdraw it. "Do you mean—do I dare interpret from this—that I am forgiven?"

Minnie blushed. She was afraid that she was going to titter, her nerves seemed jangling. Thoughts came tumbling through her mind like the little pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope forming their colorful or strange patterns—she was so afraid Hal Deane would single her out and look at her with his sharp, weighing eyes. If he once smiled at her—her whole evening would be ruined.

"Answer me, Miss Day—June Day!"

She looked into his face searchingly. What she saw in his frank, gracious, hopeful smile laid all the anger in her heart.

Remote wailing strains of violins, music swelling in sound as the deep-throated saxophones pumped forth their melancholy harmonies, music rising in slow, inexorable crescendo until Minnie Flynn became aware of its siren call. To dance—and with Gilbert Carlton! He caught her breathless longing, saw the pendulum movement of her head, swept her into his arms and swayed with her in the sensuous measures of the dance. The crowded floor held them in a pocket. Now they rocked back and forth, back and forth, advancing imperceptibly, spinning around and around in a dizzying circle; rich warm contact of bodies; the very recurrence of the dance movements playing its part to stimulate latent and feverish longings. Dizzily happy, Minnie clung to him, her heart-beats quickening until the mounting fever left a damp glow upon her forehead. She was repeating breathlessly, "I had this dance with Hal Deane—I tell you, Mr. Carlton, I had this dance with Hal Deane—I had——"

His hand pressed into her body. "But you have this dance ​with me, June Day, and the next dance, and the next dance, and the next dance. . . ."

It was 1:30 before they left the ballroom. What an evening of triumph! Happiness! Dreams fulfilled! On all sides people clamoring to congratulate her—the prettiest girl in the ballroom—the best dancer in the ballroom—the most sought after girl in the ballroom. Minnie laughing! Jimmy laughing! Carlton laughing! All three of them conscious of a warm glow from the champagne they had drunk; Minnie's first champagne and drunk only because Carlton had ordered it at supper and had toasted to her. The bubbles had tickled her throat, but once it was down, her feet, lagging and tired from the long evening of dancing, were winged and full of teasing life again. Carlton handsome and attentive. . . . How popular he was. . . . How the girls envied her. . . . Even the head waiter in the café knew him and ran to meet them at the snap of Carlton's fingers, giving them the most desired table near the fountain, bowing low at every instruction from Carlton—about the caviar (nasty black stuff)—the chicken à la King—the champagne, which he called wine just as if it were only claret. . . . And how nice he was to everybody—how democratic—why, he even called the waiter "brother" and the cigarette girl "sister." . . . How beautiful his table manners were—the smart way he held his little finger when he raised the long queer stemmed glass to his lips. . . . Minnie had imitated him and felt more comfortable in his presence.

Hal Deane passed by while they were at supper and old Beauregard, looking red and disgruntled, both men jealous, of course. Thank God Carlton saw it and remarked upon it. Oh, what a night, always to be remembered, to look back upon as a treasured dream come true. . . . How soon it was all over . . . and he had kissed her hand good night, the ​palm of her hand—it made queer chills race up and down her spine . . . and he had escorted her to her own automobile and called out to Pete, "Hey there, brother, be careful how you drive through this traffic—you've got a precious cargo . . ." and Pete, God bless him, saluted gravely and stood at attention and acted like a Duke's chauffeur—And Jimmy and Minnie had laughed . . . and Carlton remained standing at the curb tugging at his slender black mustache, a tall, handsome, romantic figure—so different from Beauregard and Hal Deane and—Billy MacNally . . . Oh, my God, Billy MacNally! . . . She had forgotten all about him!

Minnie's senses were drugged with happiness when she reached home. Her heart and mind seemed detached from her body, her heart flying to Carlton, her mind, like a bubble in the air, was rising, wafting, revolving, catching the prismatic tints of a rainbow. Glowing with life, she sprang from the car, hurried into the dark foyer of the apartment house, Jimmy close behind her. As the elevator carried them up the two flights, she threw her arm around his waist. They looked at each other and laughed. Just laughed. Not about anything in particular, but about everything. Youth!

They laughed again when they entered the hall of their apartment and kissed good night. Then Minnie rustled silkily down the hall to her own room, her footsteps light and resilient with happiness.

Billy in his room, waiting, heard them.

Minnie flung her white satin cape over the chaise longue, kicked out of her silver slippers, unfastened the hooks on her dress and let it fall to the floor. She emerged from this shimmering shell garbed in delicate pink lingerie. She ​laughed softly to herself as she pulled off her stockings and in a mood of silly playfulness, tossed them over the huge pink-bellied kewpie which stood on her dresser. Swiftly drawing out the hairpins her burnished red hair fell to her waist. She took a few prancing steps, rubbing her scalp with her tingling fingers until the electricity in her body leapt to this point of contact and her hair, bristling and snapping with life, made a brilliant halo around her head. As she danced toward the mirror she was wishing that Carlton could see her like this. Again she laughed softly, her laughter like bubbles rising from her heart.

She sought a nightgown to fit her mood, something in harmony with her thoughts, silky and lacy, diaphanous, clinging. She sprayed herself with Houbigant's "Quelques Fleurs." She had bought it because a heroine in one of the "ten best sellers" used it. And there was something wonderful about a perfume you couldn't even pronounce the name of. She hummed snatches of the melodies which had been played during the evening. She danced two or three times around the room. She almost forgot her prayers and as she kneeled at the bedside, she was shocked to hear Carlton's name somehow mixed up with the Lord's prayer. Or was she only asking a blessing for him? Or why should she at a time like this be thinking about him? So she did penance and prayed five minutes longer than usual.

When she rose, she turned toward the door and Billy was standing there. She started back confused, staring at him, not understanding why he had come into her room at such an hour. "Are you sick, Billy?" she said at last when she saw he was not going to volunteer any excuse.

He nodded his head in the affirmative.

"Why, for pity's sake, Billy, is it anything serious? Have you got that indigestion again?"

​He seemed too choked for speech. He kept moving toward her, staring at her with a slightly rapt look as if he were walking in his sleep.

"Minnie," he said huskily, his words ringing with sudden warmth, "I've been sittin' up waitin' for you all night long. I'm not sick, except—it's my heart, Minnie, it aches so."

"Your heart, Billy?"

He came closer to her. "It pains me, Minnie, only because I'm so stuck on you, and lonesome for your company—and tonight, Minnie—" A sickly smile made him seem hideous to her. "—There was couples spoonin' in the park——"

"'Were couples!'" was out before she realized she had corrected him.

"—Were couples, Minnie. And I just got sick with longing. It wasn't like this before we moved up here, Minnie, and brass beds was out of date to you, and you was so nervous you had to have a room all to yourself—Oh, Minnie, this ain't no way for us to be livin', even if you are in the movies with your pictures in the papers all the time, you don't want to let it spoil you, Minnie darlin'——"

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Billy! What's come over you? Don't look at me like that, I——"

He was walking almost stealthily toward her.

"Minnie, I can't help lookin' at you. I never seen you so pretty, all dressed up as if you was expectin' me. . . ." His arms groping for her— "Minnie, I'm crazy about you. I been sittin' up all night. Look, dearie, what do you think about me in your Christmas present?" He laughed low, embarrassedly. "I thought you'd be glad to see me out of them nightshirts, you always hated 'em so. . . ." With a heavy, throaty sigh, "Oh, Minnie, I'm so crazy about you——"

​She knew now why he was there.

There was a frozen smile on her face as she said, backing away from him, "Yes, Billy, I know. Go on back to bed, dear, and get some rest. You've got to get up early in the morning. So do I, Billy, and I've had such an exciting evening. I'm all worn out——"

He stood staring at her for a few minutes—almost as if he did not realize the significance of her words. But when she smiled, nervously—then laughed, an apologetic but slightly scornful staccato—a fierce, insurgent resentment swept him. He reached over and grabbed her by the wrist. It was the first time Minnie had ever seen him angry, "Look here, Minnie!" and he was shaking with violent emotion, "I don't know what's come over you lately, but I'm damned if you can go on treatin' me like this. Kickin' me around as if I was a dog! You seem to have forgotten somethin,' Minnie MacNally, and that is that you're my wife! Wife! Do you realize what that means? That you're mine!—and I'm yours!"

She tried to whip her arm out of his grasp.

"What's more, I've stood for all the nonsense I'm goin' to! I've put up with things a man like Hesselman would kick a woman out of his house for! I——"

Still she couldn't free herself.

"Away every night when I come home! Out to parties and dances—dancin' with other men's arms around you, while I'm sittin' home as if I wasn't good enough for you——"

A shrill cry shot from between Minnie's clenched teeth. It silenced him. "You said it, Billy MacNally! You said it! You're not good enough for me, that's what the trouble is! You're not good enough,—do you understand me! You're only a common ignoramus, you—you butcher, you!"

​Her rising temper seemed to stun him. It was her turn now.

"A butcher! And you'll never be anything else but a butcher!"

He managed to say, "It's a good, honest job, and I'm not ashamed of it."

"Shut up! Do you hear me?—and listen to me: I've got something to say this time. Something that you can think over and worry over, and when I get through with it, you can do as you damned well please—get up and get out of here for all I care—out of my room, my house, my life! That's what I want, if you must know the truth. I want to get rid of you! I'm sick of you! I married you just because I wanted to get away from home and I thought I was done for in the movies. I married you and I never loved you, and you know it!"

A thin wail broke from Billy's lips: "Oh, God, Minnie, that's a lie! You was in love with me!"

She stamped her foot in impotent rage. "No, no, no!" she screamed, "You know better than that, because you spoke about it often enough. Love to you meant the kind of a woman who slaves in a man's kitchen and brings up his kids and washes, and washes and washes, until her back's bent double and her hands are knotty, and full of rheumatism. But I wasn't that kind—and you bellyached about the good wife that Mrs. Hesselman was. I was sick and tired of it, even then—and you'd have been satisfied with a lousy little room in a place like Schultz's all your life—and when the chance came to pull ourselves up and make something out of ourselves and speak decent grammar and live like white people, you started in to crab again and cling to the old landmarks as if they were something sacred——"

"Oh, Minnie, they are sacred——"

​"No, they aren't!" she shouted. "They're rotten, I tell you! Our old flat and the Schultzs' and the dingy old apartment on Ninety-seventh Street! Why, every time I come into this place I thank God I've left all the old joints behind me!"

"You said I wasn't good enough for you. . . ." He stood before her, his mouth blubbering, tears gushing from his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. "I never thought about it, Minnie, the way you did, and I guess you're right in a way, but I can change, Minnie—I never knew how much it meant to you, until tonight . . . I love you, Minnie, and I can change!"

"Oh, no you can't!" with an ugly ring of triumph in her voice. "You'll never change, no more than Pete could. What's more, Billy, I'm through! It's all over with me. I've been realizing it for a long time, but I never said anything about it. But tonight I know. Why, when you came into the room I—" A shudder of repulsion told him what she couldn't explain. "Don't you see, Billy, how through I am? I could never love you or stand to have you near me. I'd go crazy if you even tried to pull on me again that I am yours, because I was married to you. I hate marriage! I don't believe in it! Damn laws that tie two people together who don't belong! Damn them, I say!"

Billy choked out, "Don't, Minnie, don't talk that way. God will strike you dead if you go on like that. Marriage is sacred—you don't know what you're sayin'."

"I do! I do! And this is the end! Everything is over between you and me—and you've got to pack your things and clear out of here!"

"Oh, God, Minnie, don't do anything like that to me—" He was shaking now as with ague. He fell to his knees. "Minnie, I'm crazy about you! My heart's all wrapped up ​in you! I can't live without you! Oh, Minnie, I'd die without you! Gimme a chance—I'll change, Minnie——"

She screamed when he grabbed her around her knees and tried to beat him away from her. His hot tears in drenching floods fell upon her bare feet.

"Billy, for God's sake, stop that!"

"I'll change, Minnie."

It was the hopeless reiteration that fanned her bitter resentment against him; too unbearably symbolic of the man, dullard and unimaginative.

"You won't! You know it, Billy. Oh, why can't you have sense enough and realize that I don't love you! That it's all been a mistake! That I'm free!"

"You're not free, Minnie! Go to Father Riley—he'll tell you what a wicked girl you are to talk like that——"

She screamed.

"Shut up!" She felt as if her head were bursting. "I'm sick of you! I am free! Free as the air! I'm independent! I don't need any husband! I'm rich and can support myself. Have I ever taken a cent from you since the day I went to work in the movies?"

"I put it all into insurance for you, Minnie." He was crawling along the floor on his hands and knees, a grotesque but terribly pitiful, humorous figure. Minnie was hysterical.

"Go—go!" she screamed again. "Get up on your feet and get out of here! Get out of here, I tell you! Get out of here tonight! I never want to see your face again! You—you butcher, you!"

Billy staggered to his feet. His face was white except around his eyes, which were red and furiously swollen, and his bulbous nose. He leaned against the door like a drunken man. He made a heavy effort to speak but his exhortation was soundless. He raised a trembling finger and pointed at her. ​. . . Then he backed out of the room, still pointing at her.

There raced through Minnie's mind the astounding realization that if Billy had dragged her across the room, if he had beaten her, even as Pete had beaten Elsie, if she could have lain half senseless, swooning in his arms, he would have proved his manhood and she might have forgiven him and forgotten Gilbert Carlton.

Jimmy, who had been listening at the door, sighed with relief when he heard Billy leave and go into his own room. Later he heard Billy packing. He was amazed when he became aware that Minnie was sobbing.

Minnie's conscience troubled her, and the next morning she telephoned to the shop.

"Hello, Mr. Hesselman, is Billy there?"

"Who? Vat? Is it you, Minnie?"

"Yes, it's I."

"Ida?"

"It's me, Minnie. Can't you hear me now, Mr. Hesselman?"

"Ja, ja."

"Is Billy there?"

"No, he ain't here, Minnie. He goes out on the wagon today."

"Is that so?"

"Sure it's so. Such a headache that boy's got, I sent him out myself, for the air to do him good. Billy is sick, Minnie, from last night. I'm your old friend, so he tells me all about it."

"Oh, he did, did he!"

"Ja, he did it. Is it strange that he should do it when ​we're so close, I ask you, Minnie?—like father and son, since my wife died."

"I know, Mr. Hesselman, you've been so good to Billy."

"Only so good he gets as he deserves. Billy's a fine boy. In the movies you find prettier faces, maybe, but I bet you no better boys than Billy MacNally. I could do worse than wish that he was a son from mine."

"Will you tell him I called him up, Mr. Hesselman?"

"No, Minnie, that I cannot do."

"But why not?"

"He told as I shouldn't. Of his own free will he told me it was all over between you."

"He had no right to tell you that. I've been crying all night, Mr. Hesselman. I was wondering if maybe we wouldn't be making it up."

"A man that's got his face kicked by the woman he loves don't get over it so quick, Minnie. You've lost yourself Billy for sure this time."

"Why, Mr. Hesselman——"

"I'm an old man. Lots of people come into my butcher shop for thirty years. I know human nature better than I do my own business. I know when a man's love is dead, Minnie. Billy is all night suffering, but today he comes and he's numb. He says, 'Hesselman, I'm through. I'm sick and all broke up, but I'm through.'"

Minnie was crying.

Hesselman heard her. "Don't take on so, Minnie. Maybe it's all for the good. For an old-fashioned fellow like me, it's saying something to tell two people they're better off without each other, in cases like you and Billy. Once a woman gets ahead from a man, he can't pull her back to him. . . . Minnie!"

"Yes, Mr. Hesselman."

​"You be a good girl."

In a child's pitiful whimper: "I'm not a bad girl, really I'm not."

"Joost a leetle bit spoiled. Some day maybe you and him get together again. Maybe you get tired of those fancy fellows you meet over in the movies. I got to go, Minnie—a customer comes in by the doorway."

She heard the sharp click of the phone. It shut her off forever from Billy MacNally.