her reading matter, and, particularly, the blur of suffering I had seen in her eyes, this presumption led to further inference: the rift was recent and she was in flight from it, while yet attempting to understand its causes.
She was, that is to say, no habitual Martini drinker; these do not mix their cocktails with their viands. She was reading Kinsey not from the starved cupidity of hundreds of thousands of other women (for if she had been even that uninhibited she would have read it sooner) but in the effort to discover something. She was drinking not to drown her sorrow but to take away its edge: she had mixed her latest drink with the antidote of coffee. And, inasmuch as I had never seen her with her husband at the Astolat, it was a good guess, at least, that she was here as part of an act of abandonment rather than as a result of being abandoned by him. Her accent was vaguely eastern-but eastern rubbed against, and somewhat eradicated by, the flatter tones of the West. Like numberless other such women, she had fled to New York for refuge--and from a considerable distance. Texas, perhaps, or Arizona. And probably she had lived in Manhattan before now: the Knight's Bar was unknown to tourists--with the exception of Europeans visiting America.
"You would have been furious," I finally said. "Think that over. Here we are, engaged in a favorite national pastime--imagining flirtations with handsome persons in the public eye. I often reflect that picture stars--male and female--are lucky to have so little imagination, on the average. If you can kill a person by sticking pins into a statue of him--which you cannot, unless he believes it--think of the possible result on a star of the lurid, lewd fantasies poured upon his photographs, or hers, by millions and millions of people. Grant any validity in the pin-sticking process and you have, in the photo-doting parallel, a curious possible explanation of what the press knows as Hollywood high jinks.
Psychogenic. The effect, on the poor individual, of mass assault, mob lechery. But skip all that. The point I want to make is this: some ladies we have hypothesized are married.
You can see yourself as enraged, if any husband of yours had his head turned--to continue the euphemisms--by one such. But it does not seem to occur to you that any possible husbands of the ladies also might feel themselves involved in the matter--and even experience traces of pain?"
"Men!" she said. "Why should anyone care what they feel?"
"O-h-h-h, because they're so plentiful."
She smiled a little--and poured plain coffee. "You haven't asked me my name."
"Naturally."
"Naturally?"
"You've been wondering when I would. In such a case, the obvious thing to do is to let a girl go on wondering. Besides--my inquisitiveness is never casual. It might be a convenience to know your name. But very little else. A clue, maybe, to the good taste of your parents--or lack of it--and to the national strain of your husband's paternal line."
"It's Yvonne Prentiss."
"See what I mean? A handy--but otherwise irrelevant fact."
She laughed. "Do you live here?"
"I'm staying here--on the sixteenth floor. For a few days."
"I am, too."
"You got mad at Mr. Prentiss," I said then, "and fled from your sprawling mansion out in the golden West to the sidewalks of New York--familiar to you in your girlhood. Your problem was not 'other women'--so what was it? Neglect? Brutality?
Obsession? Bestiality? Stamp collecting? What?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
Just then, Fred came by. He's a waiter I know pretty well. "Look, Fred," I said,
"I've made her cry. Bring another brandy."
She was struggling. "Shouldn't it be a beer?"
"If you go on crying."
"I really don't want another drink--"
"Then bring her some ice cream."
"--but I'll have one more." Fred nodded and went. "How did you know all that?"
I told her. "It's Pasadena," she said. She shivered a little.
So I talked. "Pasadena. How well I know it!
She was, that is to say, no habitual Martini drinker; these do not mix their cocktails with their viands. She was reading Kinsey not from the starved cupidity of hundreds of thousands of other women (for if she had been even that uninhibited she would have read it sooner) but in the effort to discover something. She was drinking not to drown her sorrow but to take away its edge: she had mixed her latest drink with the antidote of coffee. And, inasmuch as I had never seen her with her husband at the Astolat, it was a good guess, at least, that she was here as part of an act of abandonment rather than as a result of being abandoned by him. Her accent was vaguely eastern-but eastern rubbed against, and somewhat eradicated by, the flatter tones of the West. Like numberless other such women, she had fled to New York for refuge--and from a considerable distance. Texas, perhaps, or Arizona. And probably she had lived in Manhattan before now: the Knight's Bar was unknown to tourists--with the exception of Europeans visiting America.
"You would have been furious," I finally said. "Think that over. Here we are, engaged in a favorite national pastime--imagining flirtations with handsome persons in the public eye. I often reflect that picture stars--male and female--are lucky to have so little imagination, on the average. If you can kill a person by sticking pins into a statue of him--which you cannot, unless he believes it--think of the possible result on a star of the lurid, lewd fantasies poured upon his photographs, or hers, by millions and millions of people. Grant any validity in the pin-sticking process and you have, in the photo-doting parallel, a curious possible explanation of what the press knows as Hollywood high jinks.
Psychogenic. The effect, on the poor individual, of mass assault, mob lechery. But skip all that. The point I want to make is this: some ladies we have hypothesized are married.
You can see yourself as enraged, if any husband of yours had his head turned--to continue the euphemisms--by one such. But it does not seem to occur to you that any possible husbands of the ladies also might feel themselves involved in the matter--and even experience traces of pain?"
"Men!" she said. "Why should anyone care what they feel?"
"O-h-h-h, because they're so plentiful."
She smiled a little--and poured plain coffee. "You haven't asked me my name."
"Naturally."
"Naturally?"
"You've been wondering when I would. In such a case, the obvious thing to do is to let a girl go on wondering. Besides--my inquisitiveness is never casual. It might be a convenience to know your name. But very little else. A clue, maybe, to the good taste of your parents--or lack of it--and to the national strain of your husband's paternal line."
"It's Yvonne Prentiss."
"See what I mean? A handy--but otherwise irrelevant fact."
She laughed. "Do you live here?"
"I'm staying here--on the sixteenth floor. For a few days."
"I am, too."
"You got mad at Mr. Prentiss," I said then, "and fled from your sprawling mansion out in the golden West to the sidewalks of New York--familiar to you in your girlhood. Your problem was not 'other women'--so what was it? Neglect? Brutality?
Obsession? Bestiality? Stamp collecting? What?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
Just then, Fred came by. He's a waiter I know pretty well. "Look, Fred," I said,
"I've made her cry. Bring another brandy."
She was struggling. "Shouldn't it be a beer?"
"If you go on crying."
"I really don't want another drink--"
"Then bring her some ice cream."
"--but I'll have one more." Fred nodded and went. "How did you know all that?"
I told her. "It's Pasadena," she said. She shivered a little.
So I talked. "Pasadena. How well I know it!
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