A bad start--a foolishly bad start. But out
winked the glimpse of sobriety and Susan laughed. "That's the
last I'll ever see of _him_," said she.
This seemed to give Blond-Beard no regrets. Said he: "Let's
you and I have a little supper. I'd call it breakfast, only
then we couldn't have champagne."
And they had supper--six at the table, all uproarious, Susan
with difficulty restrained from a skirt dance on the table up
and down among the dishes and bottles. It was nearly five
o'clock when she and Blond-Beard helped each other toward a cab.
"What's your address?" said he.
"The same as yours," replied she drowsily.
Late that afternoon she established herself in a room with a
bath in West Twenty-ninth Street not far from Broadway. The
exterior of the house was dingy and down-at-the-heel. But the
interior was new and scrupulously clean. Several other young
women lived there alone also, none quite so well installed as
Susan, who had the only private bath and was paying twelve
dollars a week. The landlady, frizzled and peroxide,
explained--without adding anything to what she already
knew--that she could have "privileges," but cautioned her
against noise. "I can't stand for it," said she. "First
offense--out you go. This house is for ladies, and only
gentlemen that know how to conduct themselves as a gentleman
should with a lady are allowed to come here.
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