The Adventures of Sally | Page 6

Spaciousness? Initiative? All present and correct. He
wondered where Sally imagined the hiatus to exist.
"One thing?" he said. "What's that?"
"A nurse."
Fillmore's sense of injury deepened. He supposed that this was always
the way, that those nearest to a man never believed in his ability till he
had proved it so masterfully that it no longer required the assistance of
faith. Still, it was trying; and there was not much consolation to be
derived from the thought that Napoleon had had to go through this sort
of thing in his day. "I shall find my place in the world," he said sulkily.
"Oh, you'll find your place all right," said Sally. "And I'll come round
and bring you jelly and read to you on the days when visitors are
allowed... Oh, hullo."

The last remark was addressed to a young man who had been swinging
briskly along the sidewalk from the direction of Broadway and who
now, coming abreast of them, stopped.
"Good evening, Mr. Foster."
"Good evening. Miss Nicholas."
"You don't know my brother, do you?"
"I don't believe I do."
"He left the underworld before you came to it," said Sally. "You
wouldn't think it to look at him, but he was once a prune-eater among
the proletariat, even as you and I. Mrs. Meecher looks on him as a son."
The two men shook hands. Fillmore was not short, but Gerald Foster
with his lean, well-built figure seemed to tower over him. He was an
Englishman, a man in the middle twenties, clean-shaven, keen-eyed,
and very good to look at. Fillmore, who had recently been going in for
one of those sum-up-your-fellow-man-at-a-glance courses, the better to
fit himself for his career of greatness, was rather impressed. It seemed
to him that this Mr. Foster, like himself, was one of those who Get
There. If you are that kind yourself, you get into the knack of
recognizing the others. It is a sort of gift.
There was a few moments of desultory conversation, of the kind that
usually follows an introduction, and then Fillmore, by no means sorry
to get the chance, took advantage of the coming of this new arrival to
remove himself. He had not enjoyed his chat with Sally, and it seemed
probable that he would enjoy a continuation of it even less. He was
glad that Mr. Foster had happened along at this particular juncture.
Excusing himself briefly, he hurried off down the street.
Sally stood for a minute, watching him till he had disappeared round
the corner. She had a slightly regretful feeling that, now it was too late,
she would think of a whole lot more good things which it would have
been agreeable to say to him. And it had become obvious to her that

Fillmore was not getting nearly enough of that kind of thing said to him
nowadays. Then she dismissed him from her mind and turning to
Gerald Foster, slipped her arm through his.
"Well, Jerry, darling," she said. "What a shame you couldn't come to
the party. Tell me all about everything."

3

It was exactly two months since Sally had become engaged to Gerald
Foster; but so rigorously had they kept the secret that nobody at Mrs.
Meecher's so much as suspected it. To Sally, who all her life had hated
concealing things, secrecy of any kind was objectionable: but in this
matter Gerald had shown an odd streak almost of furtiveness in his
character. An announced engagement complicated life. People fussed
about you and bothered you. People either watched you or avoided you.
Such were his arguments, and Sally, who would have glossed over and
found excuses for a disposition on his part towards homicide or arson,
put them down to artistic sensitiveness. There is nobody so sensitive as
your artist, particularly if he be unsuccessful: and when an artist has so
little success that he cannot afford to make a home for the woman he
loves, his sensitiveness presumably becomes great indeed. Putting
herself in his place, Sally could see that a protracted engagement,
known by everybody, would be a standing advertisement of Gerald's
failure to make good: and she acquiesced in the policy of secrecy,
hoping that it would not last long. It seemed absurd to think of Gerald
as an unsuccessful man. He had in him, as the recent Fillmore had
perceived, something dynamic. He was one of those men of whom one
could predict that they would succeed very suddenly and
rapidly--overnight, as it were.
"The party," said Sally, "went off splendidly." They had passed the
boarding-house door, and were walking slowly down the street.
"Everybody enjoyed themselves, I think, even though Fillmore did his
best to spoil things by coming looking like an advertisement of What

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