The Day of Days: An Extravaganza

by Louis Joseph Vance

  III

  THE GLOVE COUNTER

  With a feeling of some guilt, becoming in one who stoops to unworthyartifice, P. Sybarite walked slowly on up Broadway a little way, thendoubled on his trail, going softly until a swift and stealthy surveywestward from the corner of Thirty-eighth Street assured him thatGeorge was not skulking thereabouts to spy upon him. Then mending hispace, he held briskly on toward the shopping district.

  From afar the clock recently restored to its coign high above unlovelyGreeley Square warned him that his hour was fleeting: in twentyminutes it would be six o'clock; at six, sharp, Blessington's wouldclose its doors. Distressed, he scurried on, crossed Thirty-fourthStreet, aimed himself courageously for the wide entrance of thedepartment store, battled manfully through the retreating army offeminine shoppers--and gained the glove counter with a good fifteenminutes to spare.

  And there he halted, confused and blushing in recognition ofcircumstances as unpropitious as unforeseen.

  These consisted in three girls behind the counter and one customerbefore it; the latter commanding the attention and services of a fairyoung woman with a pleasant manner; while of the two disengagedsaleswomen, one bold, disdainful brunette was preoccupied with herback hair and prepared mutinously to ignore anything remotelyresembling a belated customer whose demands might busy her beyond theclosing hour, and the other had a merry eye and a receptive smile forthe hesitant little man with the funny clothes and the quaint pinkface of embarrassment. In most abject consternation, P. Sybariteturned and fled.

  Weathering the end of the glove counter and shaping a course throughthe aisle that paralleled it, he found himself in a channel ofhorrors, threatened on one side by a display of most intimatelingerie, belaced and beribboned distractingly, on the other by a longrank of slender and gracious (if stolid) feminine limbs, one and allneatly amputated above their bended knees and bedight in silkenhosiery to shame the rainbow; while to right and left, behind theseimpudent revelations, lurked sirens with shameless eyes and mouths ofscarlet mockery.

  A cold sweat damped the forehead of P. Sybarite. Inconsistently, hisface flamed. He stared fixedly dead ahead and tore through that aislelike a delicate-minded jack-rabbit. He thought giggles were audible inhis wake; and ere he could escape found his way barred by Authorityand Dignity in one wonderfully frock-coated person.

  "You were looking for something?" demanded this menace incarnate, inan awful voice accompanied by a terrible gesture.

  P. Sybarite brought up standing, his nose six inches from and his eyesheld in fascination to the imitation pearl scarf-pin in the beautifulcravat affected by his interlocutor.

  "Gloves--!" he gasped guiltily.

  "This way, if you please."

  With this, Dignity and Authority clamped an inexorable hand about hisupper arm, swung him round, and piloted him gently but ruthlessly backthe way he had come, back to the glove counter, where he was planteddirectly in front of the dashing, dark saleslady with absorbing backhair and the manner of remote hauteur.

  "Miss Brady, this gentleman wants to see some gloves."

  The eyes of Miss Brady flashed ominously; as plain as print, theysaid: "Does, does he? Well, leave him to _me_!"

  Aloud, she murmured from an incalculable distance: "Oh, ve-ry well!"

  A moment later, looking over the customer's head, she added icily:"What kind?"

  The floor-walker retired, leaving P. Sybarite a free agent but nonethe less haunted by a feeling that a suspicious eye was being kept onthe small of his back. He stammered something quite inarticulate.

  The brune goddess shaped ironic lips:

  "Chauffeurs', I presoom?"

  A measure of self-possession--akin to the deadly coolness of thecornered rat--returned to the badgered little man.

  "No," he said evenly--"ladies', if you please."

  Scornfully Miss Brady impaled the back of her head with a lead pencil.

  "Other end of the counter, please," she announced. "I don't handleladies' gloves!"

  "I'm sure of that," returned P. Sybarite meekly; left her standing;and presented himself for the inspection of the fair young woman withthe pleasant manner, who was now free of her late customer.

  She recognised him with surprise, but none the less with a friendlysmile.

  "Why, Mr. Sybarite--!"

  In his hearing, her voice was rarest music. He gulped; stammered "MissLessing!" and was stricken dumb by perception of his effrontery.

  "Can I do anything for you?"

  He breathed in panic: "Gloves--"

  "For a lady, Mr. Sybarite?"

  He nodded as expressively as any automaton.

  "What kind?"

  "I--I don't know."

  "For day or evening wear?"

  He wagged a dismal head: "I don't know."

  Amusement touched her eyes and lips so charmingly that he thought ofthe sea at dawn, rimpled by the morning breeze, gay with the laughterof young sunlight.

  "Surely you must!" she insisted.

  "No," he contended in stubborn melancholy.

  "Oh, I see. You wish to make a present--?"

  "I--ah--suppose so," he admitted under pressure--"yes."

  "Evening gloves are always acceptable. Does she go often to thetheatre?"

  "I--don't know."

  The least suspicion of perplexed frown knitted the eyebrows of MissLessing.

  "Well ... is she old or young?"

  "I--ah--couldn't say."

  "Mr. Sybarite!" said the young woman with decision.

  He fixed an apprehensive gaze to hers--which inclined to disapproval,if with reservations.

  "Yes, Miss Lessing?"

  "Do you really want to buy gloves?"

  "No-o...."

  "Then what under the sun _do_ you want?"

  He noticed suddenly that, however impatient her tone, her eyes werestill kindly. Eyes of luminous hazel brown they were, wide open andclear beneath dark and delicate brows; eyes that assorted oddly withher hair of pale, dull gold, rendering her prettiness both individualand distinctive.

  Somehow he found himself more at ease.

  "Please," he begged humbly, "show me some gloves--any kind--it doesn'tmatter--and pretend you believe I want to buy 'em. I don't really.I--I only want--ah--word with you before you go home."

  If this were impertinence, the girl elected quickly not to resent it.She turned to the shelves behind her, took down a box or two, andopened them for his inspection.

  "These are very nice," she suggested quietly.

  "I think so, too." He grinned uneasily. "What I want to say is--willyou be my guest at the theatre to-night?"

  "I'm afraid I don't understand you," she said, replacing the gloves.

  "With Miss Prim and George Bross," he amended hastily. "Somebody--afriend--sent me a box for 'Kismet.' I thought--possibly--you mightcare to go. It--it would give me great pleasure."

  Miss Lessing held up another pair of gloves.

  "These are three-fifty-nine," she said absently. "Why did you comehere to ask me?"

  "I--I was afraid you might make some other engagement for theevening."

  He couldn't have served his cause more handsomely than by utteringjust that transparent evasion. In a thought she understood: at theirboarding-house he could have found no ready opportunity to ask hersave in the presence of others; and he was desperately afraid of arefusal.

  After all, he had reason to be: they were only table acquaintances ofa few weeks' standing. It was most presumptuous of him to dream thatshe would accept....

  On the other hand, he was (she considered gravely) a decent, manlylittle body, and had shown her more civility and deference than allthe rest of the boarding-house and shop people put together. And sherather liked him and was reluctant to hurt his feelings; for she knewinstinctively he was very sensitive.

  Her eyes and lips softened winningly.

  "It's so good of you to think of me," she said.

  "You mean--you--you will come?" he cried, transported.
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  "I shall be very glad."

  "That's--that's awf'ly kind of you," he said huskily. "Now, do pleasefind some way to get rid of me."

  Smiling quietly, the girl recovered the glove boxes.

  "I'm afraid we haven't what you want in stock," she said in a voicenot loud but clear enough to carry to the ears of her inquisitiveco-labourers. "We're expecting a fresh shipment in next week--if youcould stop in then...."

  "Thank you very much," said P. Sybarite with uncalled-for emotion.

  He backed away awkwardly, spoiled the effect altogether by lifting hishat, wheeled and broke for the doors....