There was a brave and conspicuous assemblage in the dining saloon of a noted hostelry where Fashion loves to display her charms. At one table sat Billy McMahan and his wife. Mostly silent they were, but the accessories they enjoyed little needed the indorsement of speech. Mrs. McMahan's diamonds were outshone by few in the room. The waiter bore the costliest brands of wine to their table. In evening dress, with an expression of gloom upon his smooth and massive countenance, you would look in vain for a more striking figure than Billy's.
Four tables away sat alone a tall, slender man, about thirty, with thoughtful, melancholy eyes, a Van Dyke beard and peculiarly white, thin hands. He was dining on filet mignon, dry toast and apollinaris. That man was Cortlandt Van Duyckink, a man worth eighty millions, who inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of society.
Billy McMahan spoke to no one around him, because he knew no one. Van Duyckink kept his eyes on his plate because he knew that every one present was hungry to catch his. He could bestow knighthood and prestige by a nod, and he was chary of creating a too extensive nobility.
And then Billy McMahan conceived and accomplished the most startling and audacious act of his life. He rose deliberately and walked over to Cortlandt Van Duyckink's table and held out his hand.
«Say, Mr. Van Duyckink,» he said, «I've heard you was talking about starting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. I'm McMahan, you know. Say, now, if that's straight I'll do all I can to help you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, don't it? Oh, say, I rather guess it does.»
Van Duyckink's rather sombre eyes lighted up. He rose to his lank height and grasped Billy McMahan's hand.
«Thank you, Mr. McMahan,» he said, in his deep, serious tones. «I have been thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be glad of your assistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted with you.»
Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the accolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him in envy and new admiration. Mrs. William Darragh McMahan trembled with ecstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now it was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly remembered that they enjoyed Mr. McMahan's acquaintance. He saw smiles and bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness. His campaign coolness deserted him.
«Wine for that gang!» he commanded the waiter, pointing with his finger. «Wine over there. Wine to those three gents by that green bush. Tell 'em it's on me. D — — n it! Wine for everybody!»
The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient to carry out the order, in consideration of the dignity of the house and its custom.
«All right,» said Billy, «if it's against the rules. I wonder if 'twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it'll flow all right at the caffy to–night, just the same. It'll be rubber boots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 A. M.»
Billy McMahan was happy.
He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink.
The big pale–gray auto with its shining metal work looked out of place moving slowly among the push carts and trash–heaps on the lower east side. So did Cortlandt Van Duyckink, with his aristocratic face and white, thin hands, as he steered carefully between the groups of ragged, scurrying youngsters in the streets. And so did Miss Constance Schuyler, with her dim, ascetic beauty, seated at his side.
«Oh, Cortlandt,» she breathed, «isn't it sad that human beings have to live in such wretchedness and poverty? And you—how noble it is of you to think of them, to give your time and money to improve their condition!»
Van Duyckink turned his solemn eyes upon her.
«It is little,» he said, sadly, «that I can do. The question is a large one, and belongs to society. But even individual effort is not thrown away. Look, Constance! On this street I have arranged to build soup kitchens, where no one who is hungry will be turned away. And down this other street are the old buildings that I shall cause to be torn down and there erect others in place of those death–traps of fire and disease.»
Down Delancey slowly crept the pale–gray auto. Away from it toddled coveys of wondering, tangle–haired, barefooted, unwashed children. It stopped before a crazy brick structure, foul and awry.
Van Duyckink alighted to examine at a better perspective one of the leaning walls. Down the steps of the building came a young man who seemed to epitomize its degradation, squalor and infelicity—a narrow–chested, pale, unsavory young man, puffing at a cigarette.
Obeying a sudden impulse, Van Duyckink stepped out and warmly grasped the hand of what seemed to him a living rebuke.
«I want to know you people,» he said, sincerely. «I am going to help you as much as I can. We shall be friends.»
As the auto crept carefully away Cortlandt Van Duyckink felt an unaccustomed glow about his heart. He was near to being a happy man.
He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglefritz.
THE PURPLE DRESS
We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justly in repute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim it for their especial dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring their noses to the genial hue that follows the commingling of the red and blue. We say of princes that they are born to the purple; and no doubt they are, for the colic tinges their faces with the royal tint equally with the snub–nosed countenance of a woodchopper's brat. All women love it—when it is the fashion.
And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course other colors are quite stylish as well—in fact, I saw a lovely thing the other day in olive green albatross, with a triple–lapped flounce skirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of lace opening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace band holding two gathered frills—but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes, you do; just take a walk down Twenty–third street any afternoon.
Therefore Maida—the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon–colored hair in the Bee–Hive Store—said to Grace—the girl with the rhinestone brooch and peppermint–pepsin flavor to her speech — «I'm going to have a purple dress—a tailor–made purple dress—for Thanksgiving.»
«Oh, are you,» said Grace, putting away some 7½ gloves into the 6¾ box. «Well, it's me for red. You see more red on Fifth avenue. And the men all seem to like it.»
«I like purple best,» said Maida. «And old Schlegel has promised to make it for $8. It's going to be lovely. I'm going to have a plaited skirt and a blouse coat trimmed with a band of galloon under a white cloth collar with two rows of — »
«Sly boots!» said Grace with an educated wink.
» — soutache braid over a surpliced white vest; and a plaited basque and — »
«Sly boots—sly boots!» repeated Grace.
» — plaited gigot sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an inside cuff. What do you mean by saying that?»
«You think Mr. Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he thought some of the dark shades of red were stunning.»
«I don't care,» said Maida. «I prefer purple, and them that don't like it can just take the other side of the street.»
Which suggests the thought that after all, the followers of purple may be subject to slight delusions. Danger is near when a maiden thinks she can wear purple regardless of complexions and opinions; and when Emperors think their purple robes will wear forever.