Epilogue
It was quiet at Fulda’s. The evening crowd had not yet begun to come. The Pintos, however, had arrived early, and were at their central table talking in low, repressed voices. Felix, at the front counter, looked over at them occasionally under his eyebrows, as if there were something unusual in their demeanor.
Mabel sat erect, her hands in her lap, looking straight before her, speaking only in monosyllables. Elsie’s smile had diminished to a set, cryptic expression. She looked tired. Maxim leaned his heavy, leonine head upon his hand, and drew invisible sketches with his fork upon the table-cloth. Starr and Benton talked in an undertone.
“I didn’t go over,” said Starr, “I simply couldn’t.”
“Well, somebody had to see, so I went.”
“Was it—bad?”
Benton shook his head. “No, lovely. Wonderful. One wouldn’t think—”
Mabel looked across at them. Starr lowered his voice.
“Just ten days, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How did you happen to hear?”
“Why, I was at the Bulletin office when word was telephoned in. There was something about the description that struck me—I began to worry—then I went over with a reporter.”
The door on Montgomery Street opened, and Dougal came in. He moved like a machine. His face was hard, his eyes glassy, as if he had not slept for many nights. He sat down like an automaton, pulled off his hat and let it drop carelessly to the floor.
“Where have you been?” Elsie asked him.
“I don’t know. Just walking. Anywhere.”
“Did you—?”
“Yes. I had to. I couldn’t stand it not to.”
Benton, the most composed of them all, pulled himself up in his chair. “Let’s have something to drink,” he suggested. He called the waiter and gave his order. A bottle was brought and the glasses filled. They seemed to awake, around the table, and each one took a glass. Benton raised his. They all drank in silence. Mabel, her eyes dimmed, held up two fingers. Elsie smiled.
“That’s right!” she said, and held up hers. Mabel gulped down something in her throat.
“Well,” said Benton, throwing off the mood, “we might as well have dinner.” He took up the menu and looked it over.
They all ordered languidly. The talk began in a desultory fashion, and the group became almost normal—all except Dougal, who stared steadily across the room to where, under a drawing was a scroll bearing the words from Salome: “Something terrible is going to happen,”—and Mabel, who did not speak and watched her plate. The restaurant, meanwhile, had begun to fill up. Dishes rattled, voices chattered, new arrivals appeared every few minutes.
Dougal looked up from his plate listlessly. “I saw Granthope and his wife on the Oakland boat yesterday,” he said. “I guess he’s going East; they had a lot of luggage.”
“Did you speak to him?” Benton asked.
“No. I started to, then decided not to break up a honeymoon party. But I heard her say something queer. I’ve been wondering about it.” He stopped, as if he had forgotten all about them there at the table. Then he continued in a slow labored voice: “It was the queer way she said it—the way she looked, somehow.”
“What was it?” Starr asked.
“We were just opposite Goat Island.” He paused and took a breath. “She said—”
They all waited, watching him. He tried it again. “She said—‘Doesn’t the water look cold!’—then she kind of shivered and said—‘Let’s come inside’—we were just opposite Goat Island.”
Maxim repeated the words: “‘The water looks cold’—Oh, God!” he exclaimed softly.
There was a silence for a moment, then Starr said:
“D’you suppose she knew?”
“How could she?” Benton asked. “Nobody knew till this noon, did they?”
Elsie spoke: “Of course she knew.”
Mabel nodded her head slowly; her breast was heaving.
There was a pause for a moment. It was broken by Benton, who sat facing the door.
“There’s The Scroyle!” he exclaimed. “Who’s that with him?”
“Oh, that’s Mrs. Page,” said Elsie, narrowing her eyes.
Gay P. Summer, jimp and immaculate, with trousers creased and shiny shoes, with the latest style in mouse-colored hats, entered with his lady, and looked jauntily about for a good table. He found one near the Pintos. Having seated his partner, he leaned over toward her and whispered for a few minutes. By her immediate look in their direction, there was no doubt that he was informing her of the fame of the coterie at the central table, and boasting of his acquaintance with it. Then he arose.
“By Jove!” said Benton. “He’s coming over here! What d’you think of that!”
Gay approached dapperly, bowed to all, and laid his hand on the back of Dougal’s chair. Dougal leaned forward and avoided him.
“Good evening, everybody,” said Gay affably. “The gang is still alive, I see!” He smiled inclusively. Nobody answered.
“I should think you’d want to find another restaurant, now,” he continued. “This place is getting altogether too dead. It’s only a show place now. All the life seems to have gone out of it.”
“That’s right,” Maxim murmured.
“Funny how places run down,”—Gay was forcing it hard—“why, I know several people who won’t come here any more. It isn’t like it used to be, anyway, nowadays.” He grew a little nervous at his apathetic reception, but went on. “Say, I’ve got a lady over there I’d like to introduce to you people. She’s a corker. Suppose I bring her over. You need another girl.”
Benton shook his head. “Not to-night, Gay. Sorry. Executive session.”
Gay looked round the table, noted the two empty places and started: “But couldn’t—”
“No,” said Benton, “we couldn’t. Some other time.”
Gay, about to move away, looked at Dougal. “Say,” he said, “what’s become of Fancy Gray? Are you expecting her to-night?”
At the sound of the name Mabel dropped her head on her arms and began to cry aloud. Her shoulders worked convulsively.
Elsie put her hand round her neck. “Oh, stop, May!” she whispered. “Don’t cry—please!”
Dougal looked at Mabel. His small eyes gleamed as bright and dry as crystal.
“Don’t stop her, Elsie! If anybody can cry, for God’s sake, let them cry!”