Anita Loos
Society note: “Among those who are now flitting Florida-wise is the gorgeous Judith Revell, in this instance accompanied by her aristocratic mother, her father, and her maiden Aunt Mary. Judy always manages to keep well to the fore in the public prints, and the Florida season is sure to be considerably égayé by her presence, because where Judy is, there is always action of one kind or another.
“The migration of the Revell clan adds two of the oldest Knickerbocker names to the Florida roster, which to date, perhaps, has been made up of a too generous a sprinkling of the nouveaux riches. But, with the Revells, goes not only the substantial cognomen of Revell père, but the much-to-be-conjured-with name of van Tassell, to which Judy’s mother was born, and which now is carried by her maiden aunt, Miss Mary van Tassell. If one wanted to write a modern fairy-story, it would seem that one could not imagine a more glamorous heroine than the lovely Judy actually is in real life—truly, ‘a girl who has everything.’ To be nineteen, outstandingly beautiful, talented, and with a magnificent social background, what more has life to offer? Judy’s career is going to bear watching.”
If Judy’s career is going to bear watching, we may as well begin at the beginning of it and let the reader in on a scene that took place one morning last December.
The setting is the red and gold salon of the old Revell home in the once ultra-aristocratic Murray Hill district of New York. The atmosphere breathes long-standing tradition, and elegance which has stood a little too long.
On a Louis Quinze table rests the famous silver-gilt urn, which was presented by the late Czar Nicholas of Russia to the present head of the house of Revell, when he was American Consul General in St. Petersburg. Inside the urn is a dun for repairs on the roof of the house, due since a year ago August. To the left of the table hangs a portrait of Julian Revell the First, founder of the family, self-made millionaire, and head of the New York Antivice league that cleaned Manhattan of sin in 1871, and gave it the push that sent it headlong into its present state of grace. On a gilt console table, underneath this portrait, rests a current copy of the Daily Views, with a two-column picture of the present daughter of the house, Miss Judith Revell, doing the Charleston at a lawn fête in Southampton; her underwear, a one-piece step-in, is seen to be edged with exquisite old point d’Alencon. Against the opposite wall stands a Louis Quinze spinet, on top of which is an ormolu jewel box, presented to Judith’s mother, Emma, on the occasion of her marriage, by the late Ward McAllister. It contains three soiled aspirin tablets, an autographed photograph of the Grand Duchess Kyril, and a notice to the effect that Emma has been posted at the Colony Club.
It is a high moment in the Revell salon, and the air is tense with dramatic feeling. Those present are:
Ex-Consul General, Julian Revell. The last time he was sober was just before his graduation from Harvard in 1886, and he can remember nearly everything prior to that date, but his mind is a bit hazy as to what has occurred since. He made a record as Consul General in St. Petersburg by investing a fortune in the off-stage activities of the members of the Imperial Ballet, went seriously into the drinking of vodka, and won the non-stop handicap away from a certain Grand Duke who had been trained from birth for the championship, thus carrying the American flag right through to the top. He now leads a regular life, automatically making the Racquet Club by four o’clock every afternoon, but if he ever learns about prohibition, it is going to go hard with him.
Mrs. Revell, born van Tassell. Emma van Tassell was a great catch for Julian in 1889, a van Tasell being of the finest old Dutch stock, and much too good for a Revell. In fact, it was this match that opened up the last social gates to the Revell clan. Emma, at the present time, is fairly clean without being tidy. In the old days, she possessed a maid who had a genius for being able to keep her stockings from bagging at the ankles, but the maid went the way of other lost luxuries. Emma is wearing a vintage gown of the House of Paquin, with a real lace bertha, and she thinks she is wearing Revell pearls, not knowing that Julian had them replaced by “Indetectibles” the time he was caught with a blonde in a badger game in Atlantic City.
A third member, and the most important of the Revell conference, is Judith Revell, called Judy, the flower of this fine old stock—beautiful with a beauty that comes only through breeding. It is a matter of social record that when she made her entrance at the famous Cosden ball, given on Long Island in honor of the Prince of Wales, those who stood near His Royal Highness overheard the Prince exclaim, “Hot Dog!” Judy wears an exquisitely simple black Chanel frock for which she owes Vendel $195.00, making her bill to date, $3,434.50.
The fourth and last member of this quaint quartette is Emma’s sister, Aunt Mary van Tassell, who is wearing a white shirt-waist and a black and white pepper-and-salt skirt. Aunt Mary, having always had a mind of her own, never seemed to need masculine companionship, and has reached the age of fifty-two, unmarried. As she says of herself, “Up to the age of eighteen I was called a tomboy—after eighteen I became an old maid and, in my day, that was all there was to it. But, if I had been born in this generation, my dear, I should be clipping my hair, dressing like a man from the waist up, and leading a life that only Havelock Ellis could explain.” She has had a peculiar history. Twenty-five years ago she deserted New York society because she found it dull, and went to Europe, where she made the rounds of continental pensions for nearly a quarter of a century.
Returning to America only three months ago, she found conditions that amazed and delighted her. Social life, when she was a girl, had meant a succession of polite and respectable gaieties that had bored her stiff. Today, she finds everything changed for the better. To put it in Aunt Mary’s own words: “Why, when I was a young thing, men used to get squiffy only at their clubs or at stag parties. We girls never saw any of the fun. Now I find you all getting tight together, right in your own salons, and no end of amusement! And twenty-five years ago, if a man so much as kissed a girl without proposing honorable matrimony, her father and brothers came to the rescue and arranged a military wedding, at the point of a gun. As a result, scandals were scarce and life was anemic. But today I find that even the classic excuse for a military wedding isn’t taken so seriously. How amusing!
“And, in my time, people had to stick to their kind and be bored to tears. I can remember how we girls used to hear vague rumors about the matrimonial career of Lillian Russell, and if we were very, very good, Mamma took us to a New Year’s matinée, and let me look at her across the footlights. What nonsense!
“Today, a deb can go up to the Colony restaurant, have luncheon with Texas Guinon, and get full details of all the fun, first hand. Delightful!”
And so, after twenty-five years of retirement, Aunt Mary has decided to re-enter American Society. Aunt Mary’s attitude, however, is not shared by Emma, who still sticks to the old traditions. It was Emma who had organized this morning’s session, the subject under discussion being:
First: That last night Judy was out again till morning.
Second: That having left the house to attend the Henry Abel-Abels’ dinner to the Dowager Duchess of Dexter, she did not return until 11 a.m. next day, her evening gown covered by the raincoat of the hat-check girl at the Hotel Astor.
Third: Emma, feeling that this was a bit thick, had gone through Judy’s effects and found in her vanity case a check for two thousand dollars, made out to her daughter, and signed by the name of a strange man.
“Who is this Herman Gluckman, and why is he giving you two thousand dollars?” demands Emma.
“Yes, why did he do it, and what’s his address?” speaks up the ex-Consul General.
Judy overlooks her father’s query, which passes unnoticed, as Father’s brain seldom retains long enough to follow up a comeback.
“I can’t wait to learn, after all that you girls hand out for nothing, what there is left worth two thousand dollars,” says Aunt Mary.
Emma now breaks into tears and turns to her husband.
“Julian,” she says, “Julian, do something! Try to realize that your daughter’s good name has probably gone beyond recall!”
“Just so,” says Julian, and turning to Judy he speaks.
“To think that you, my daughter, should so far forget her fair name as to—as to—as to—”
“Yes, Father, go on.”
“What was I talking about?”
“Apple sauce,” says Aunt Mary.
“Exactly—best apples in the world—right on the old van Tassell place in Rhinebeck—best hard cider in the—that reminds me—I’m due at the club.”
“Sit down, Julian!” says Emma. “We are going to have the truth about last night’s business before one of us leaves this room!”
*
Judy draws herself up to her full height.
“Well—since last night was a turning point in my life,” she says, “perhaps it is just as well that you all learn something about it!”
“Go ahead,” says Aunt Mary, “but you can’t make me believe that Herman got his money’s worth.”
Judy withers Aunt Mary.
“None of you understands me! I loathe and hate our whole existence! I want to be out in the world among people who do things—but of course you’ve never seemed to realize that I have a temperament.”
“How did you find that out?” asks Aunt Mary.
“It’s obvious to any one who really knows me. Why I go perfectly mad every time I hear jazz! Every boy I’ve ever danced with has said that I am full of temperament!”
“Oh, dear, what is she talking about?” asks Emma.
“You had the same thing when you were a girl,” says Aunt Mary, “only in those days we called by its right name and the man had to marry you.”
Judy overlooks her aunt completely.
“Temperament, Mother, is what makes people artists.”
“Just as often as liquor makes people Edgar Allan Poe,” says Aunt Mary.
“What’s that? Liquor?” speaks up Julian. “Make mine Scotch.”
“Well,” says Aunt Mary, “all of these dancing boys say that you are full of temperament—now where does that lead us?”
“What it all means is, that I have simply got to express myself. But, of course, you can’t understand! I never expected to get any encouragement from the family—I had to go to outsiders for understanding and sympathy!”
“‘Outsiders’ meaning Herman Glickman, I take it,” says Aunt Mary.
“Wherever did you meet a person with a name like that?” asks Emma.
“Mr. Glickman knows Eddie Goldmark, and Eddie introduced me.”
Emma all but faints.
“And who might Eddie be, if anything?” asks Aunt Mary.
“Mr. Goldmark is the famous motion-picture magnate,” answers Judy.
“Judy,” demands her mother, “who dared introduce you to a motion-picture magnate?”
“The Duchess of Dexter.”
“And how, may I ask, did this motion-picture person meet the Duchess of Dexter?”
“The Queen of Ruritania introduced her to him in London, and when she came over here, of course she looked him up—”
“Don’t tell me that this motion-picture person was at the Abels’ dinner to the Duchess last night!” says Emma.
“He was not! If he had been, we might have stuck it to the finish.”
“Do you mean to say that you left the Abels’ dinner before it was over?”
“Mother dear, that dinner was ghastly! We left before the coffee.”
“You walked out of the Abels’ dinner to the Duchess! With whom, may I ask?”
“With the Duchess.”
“What?”
“Mother dear, if you want to hear the Duchess’s own words—”
“Oh yes! Let’s hear the Duchess’s own words,” says Aunt Mary. “She learned some good ones from the late King Edward when she was a girl.”
“The Duchess said, ‘If I don’t get out of this house soon, I’ll be all over itch!’”
“Best thing for an itch,” speaks up Julian, “is a rub with pure grain alcohol—get it in a drug store on Third Avenue—don’t even need a prescription—purest alcohol in the world—can put it right in your stomach!”
“And where, may I ask, did you and the Duchess go when you left the Abels’?” inquired Emma.
“We went to a party that Mr. Goldmark was giving to Mr. Allister Wardley.”
“Not the Allister Wardleys of Philadelphia?” asks Emma.
“Of course!”
“And what is an Allister Wardley doing with a-a-a-Goldmark?” gasps Emma.
“She took him away from the Countess of Menander,” answers Judy.
Emma staggers to a chair.
“I am stronger than you, Emma,” says Aunt Mary, “let me go on with this,” and turning to Judy she asks what happened next.
“Well, I met Mr. Goldmark, and danced with him, and he told me that I would register 100 S.A. in Holly-wood.”
“Yes? And what is ‘100 S.A.’?”
“S.A. stands for sex appeal, and 100 is the highest they can give you, even in Hollywood—and you know what a compliment Mr. Goldmark paid me, when he only gives Lowell Sherman 75.”
Emma wants to know if the above-mentioned gentleman is a connection of the Lowells of Massachusetts and the Shermans of Georgia.
“Mother dear, if you knew anything at all about drama,” says Judy, “you would know that Lowell Sherman is a perfectly divine actor, and when he played Casanova, seven girls were expelled from Miss Blakeley’s.”
Emma, knowing nothing of drama, is silenced.
“Well—Mr. Goldmark said that it would be a crime for me not to have career—and he said that if I could come down to Florida next month, he could give me a part in a movie, but you know how much chance there is for me to get to Florida, where one has to pay bills, unless one goes on a grand scale, which I can’t.”
“I thought these movie queens were highly paid persons,” says Aunt Mary.
Julian awakes with a jerk.
“Movie queens?” he exclaims. “Bring ’em in!”
“They are highly paid after they get started,” answers Judy, “and this would be my start. Believe me, Aunt Mary, it’s a great opportunity. Just think, I would get twenty-five dollars every day I worked!”
“And how often would you work?”
“Well, Mr. Goldmark says at least one day a week.”
“Judy, you are not only chuck-full of S.A. but you’re a financial genius besides!”
“I don’t understand it at all,” says Emma, “but it sounds like Bolshevism.”
“Speaking of Russia,” says Julian, “best vodka in the world—right over on Fifty-third Street! Sixty dollars a case! Grand Duke Alexis has more customers than he can supply.”
Judy yawns and looks at her wrist watch, which so far has been a total loss to the firm of Cartier.
“I’ve an engagement at one-thirty,” she says, “so you’ll please make this inquisition as short as possible.”
“You’re not going to step out of this house,” says Emma, “without taking your aunt or myself along.”
“Mother, don’t be stupid!” says Judy. “The first place I’m going is to the Joshua Aldersons’ luncheon for Bishop Small, and heaven knows nothing could possibly happen to me there!”
Emma cocks an eye at her daughter.
“Judy,” she says, “now I know you are lying to me! I know very well that not even wild horses could drag you to old lady Alderson’s!”
“Mother,” answers Judy, “you don’t seem to realize that last night was a turning point in my life. From now on, I am going to accept every stupid, exclusive invitation that comes my way.”
“What’s all this?” asks Aunt Mary.
“It’s perfectly simple,” says Judy. “This morning I went to see one of the brainiest publicity women in New York, Miss Steinbach. I told her that I was going in for an artistic career and asked if she would undertake my publicity and she said that on one condition, and that was I give her something to work on. Because, you see, the only talking point she has on me is a purely social one. So she said that I would have to change my mode of life and go to the exclusive parties now and then, so as to give her something to get her teeth into. Because she also handles other artists—Ann Pennington, for instance—and she says that as matters stand now she doesn’t see much difference between my career and Ann Pennington’s, except that Ann Pennington knows how to dance.”
*
Emma is too dazed to come out of this tangle of cross-thought without help. So Aunt Mary jumps into the breach.
“Well, Emma,” she says, “half the women in society are going in for the—mm—Arts, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m all for it! It makes the world a brighter and funnier place to live in. What if a career is only an alibi for being rowdy? At least, it’s better than being rowdy without one. And, as I take it, this Steinbach woman is the only person capable of keeping Judy in respectable company for even a small portion of the day. Put your brains to work, Emma, and give it some thought!”
“Oh, dear,” says Emma, “I don’t know what to think—after all that happened to Judy last night—”
“Well, buck up, Emma,” says Aunt Mary, “we haven’t yet heard all that happened, and it may get worse.” Then turning to Judy, she continues, “you have accounted successfully for about half the night. What happened next? I’m dying to know!”
“Well—Mr. Goldmark and Mrs. Allister Wardley and the Duchess and two gentlemen and I—”
“Do I know the two gentlemen?” asks Emma, hoping against hope that they may be in the Social Register.
“They were Damon Giles and Spottiswood Irving,” says Judy. “They are interior decorators, and the Duchess adores them!”
“Yes, I know,” says Aunt Mary. “When she’s out with the two of them together, she feels she has a man about.”
“They are artists, Aunt Mary!”
“Ah, yes—I always forget that we are moving in the realm of Art!”
“Well—the six of us went up to the Love Nest.”
“Whose love nest!” asks Julian.
“The Love Nest is a divine cabaret in Forty-Eight Street. Well, by seven o’clock, Mr. Goldmark and I were left alone and we had a long, serious talk.”
“What happened to the other Art lovers?” asks Aunt Mary.
“Aunt Mary, have you got to know every insignificant thing that happened last night?” asks Judy.
“If anything happened last night that was insignificant, go on and tell your mother. It might cheer her up.”
“Well, while Mr. Goldmark was out getting more Scotch—”
“Yes—yes—” speaks up Julian.
“A waiter was rude to Spottiswood—”
“And what did the waiter do to Spottiswood?”
“Well, you see, Spottiswood told the waiter to remove an electric candelabra, because he is very sensitive to light effects and he considered that the Duchess was badly lit.”
“Lit!” exclaims Julian. “Good for her!”
“So then the waiter refused and he called Spottiswood a name.”
“What name?”
“Well, a name that means a man—who is an interior decorator.”
“Oh, dear,” says Emma, “I don’t know what you’re talking about—do we have to go into all this detail?”
“I wouldn’t miss a word of it for money,” says Aunt Mary. “And what did Spottiswood do then?”
“Well, Aunt Mary,” says Judy, “he got into an argument with the waiter, and if you have got to know every single word of it, I’ll try to remember.”
“Go ahead,” says Aunt Mary, “And don’t hold out on me!”
“Well—Spottiswood was very dignified, but he told the waiter that if he knew anything at all about history, he would realize that every great man who ever lived was an interior decorator at heart.”
“What?” asks Aunt Mary.
“Spottiswood knows what he is talking about, because he has gone into the subject thoroughly, and he said that when he visited Stratford-on-Avon, he proved to himself that Shakespeare may have spent his spare time writing drama, but it was not for nothing that his house looked like a high-class shop on the Boston Post Road.”
“Yes, yes, go on!”
“Well, he also said that one trip to Mount Vernon had convinced him that winning a few battles didn’t interfere with George Washington being able to put the right rag rug where it was needed. And as far as Napoleon was concerned, any one who had ever been to Malmaison could see at a glance that he knew where to put a dash of Empire blue to get the effect he was looking for. And then the waiter got rude.”
“Oh, goody! And what did the waiter do?”
“Well, he called to one of the other waiters and said, ‘Come on over and look at what just said that George Washington embroidered the Constitution on a tea cosy.’”
“Delightful! And what happened then?”
“Well, the Duchess was furious and sent for the proprietor, who was perfectly charming about it all, but he couldn’t do anything, because the waiter was the personal representative of the prohibition officer in that District, so he suggested that as long as Spottiswood and Damon got on the waiter’s nerves, we had better go to another place. So the two boys and the Duchess went on to Childs, but Isabel Wardley and I had to wait for Mr. Goldmark to come back.”
“And did he bring the Scotch?” asks Julian.
Every once in a while Julian astounds his family by a real feat of memory.
“Well,” says Judy, “it finally got late, so we started away, but as we were going out Isabel fell upstairs and strained her scar—”
“Her what?”
“She had her face lifted two weeks ago, and it isn’t healed yet. So we had to take her home to put ice on it, and then Mr. Goldmark and I went to the Astor Hotel for breakfast, and I accepted his offer to work in the movies, but I told him that I would simply have to have money to get to Florida—and he suggested Mr. Glickman.”
“Why didn’t this Goldmark person offer to be your banker, since he is rich, and you are so full of S.A.?” asks Aunt Mary.
“Mr. Goldmark said that he would be glad to finance my career, but he is crazy about Isabel Wardley, and she is violently jealous, so he wouldn’t dare. And the next best thing was Mr. Glickman.”
Emma looks faint.
“If you want to leave the room for the remainder of this, Emma,” says Aunt Mary, “I’ll get the story myself and break it to you a little at a time.”
“No,” says Emma, “my great-great-grandmother carried water to the Continentals on Morristown Heights! I can stand it.”
“Then go on, Judy,” says Aunt Mary.
“Well, after breakfast, Mr. Goldmark said that the one person who could arrange matters with Herman Glickman was a lady who lives on West End Avenue so we—”
“Wait a moment—wait a moment,” says Aunt Mary, “even my old brain is beginning to weaken! What did you say this lady was?”
“She is the lady who gets girls in touch with Herman Glickman.”
“What’s her address?” speaks up Julian.
“But what—” breaks in Emma.
“Emma,” says Aunt Mary, “if you had the faintest idea of what is being discussed here, I’d order you from the room.”
“I’m just as unhappy when I don’t understand,” says Emma.
“Well, Judy, what happened then?”
“We started to West End Avenue to see—this lady, and as we were leaving the Astor, the hat-check girl, who is a friend of Mr. Goldmark’s, noticed that I was in evening dress and lent me her coat.”
“The hat-check girl noticed this? And where were your own powers of observation?”
“Our minds were on other things.”
“That’s right,” says Aunt Mary, “I always forget that your minds are on Art.”
“Well, we picked up this lady at her house and came back to Mr. Glickman’s place—and then Mr. Goldmark had to leave us. So the lady introduced me to Mr. Glickman, and he was perfectly delightful, and in less than ten minutes I agreed to his proposition for two thousand dollars.”
“Well,” says Aunt Mary, “we may just as well brace ourselves for the worst. What was the proposition?”
“I hate to tell you, because you’ll make a furious fuss, and it really isn’t anything at all.”
“No—in these days, I notice it isn’t,” says Aunt Mary.
“Well, all I had to do was sign a paper for Mr. Glickman allowing him to use my name and pedigree and photograph in some very high-class advertisements that go only in the best magazines, together with a statement that I have been cured of seborrhea.”
“What’s—seborrhea?” asks Julian.
“You’ll never know,” answers Aunt Mary, “because I’ve read those advertisements and they say that only a mother would tell you.”
The discussion gets no further, because Emma has fainted and it takes some time to bring her to. As she regains consciousness, she murmurs instructions to Judy to remember her ancestry, particularly on her mother’s side, and finally picks up enough strength to rise to her feet, order Judy to tear up the check, lock herself in her room and spend the remainder of her life in prayer.
“I knew exactly what would happen if I told you,” says Judy, “and I’m not going to stay here to be insulted by petty minds!”
“No,” says Aunt Mary, “why should you, when all the high-class magazines in America will soon be on the job?”
Judy turns to Aunt Mary.
“I must say, I’m surprised at you, Aunt Mary,” she says, “I thought that you would understand.”
Aunt Mary thinks a moment, right through the sobs of Emma and the snores of Julian.
“As a matter of fact, Emma,” she says, “I do think that you are taking this a bit too seriously.”
“Mary,” asks Emma, “how could it be worse?”
“Easily,” answers Judy, “the advertisement says in plain English that I’ve been cured of seborrhea! Suppose I had to say I have it yet!”
“Exactly,” says Aunt Mary. “I’m beginning to be won around.”
“And think of the publicity if gives me when I’m starting on a career!”
“Publicity!” gasps Emma. “Publicity! To think that we—!”
“Oh, Mother,” cries Judy, “it isn’t as though I were the only one who ever did this! How do you suppose the Duchess of Dexter got the money to come to America? The only income she has in the world is rent on her flat in London.”
“She can’t get much for that,” speaks up Aunt Mary, “because the view looks smack on the Albert Memorial.”
“Of course!” says Judy. “The Duchess signed up for seven thousand dollars. It’s frightfully simple. Everybody’s doing it.”
“But Judy,” asks Aunt Mary, “when the Duchess got seven thousand why did you get only two?”
“Well, Aunt Mary, it’s all a comparative thing. The Queen of Ruritania gets as much as fifteen thousand, but then, you see, she is royalty. Now, of course, the Duchess of Dexter has a very famous title.”
“Plus the O.K. of the late King Edward,” speaks up Aunt Mary.
“Of course! But with our ancestry, all they would offer me was two thousand.” Judy shoots a dirty look at her mother. “That’s just the trouble with American ancestry—we all take ourselves seriously because we date back a hundred years or so! The Duchess of Dexter’s family goes back centuries, and is really worth money in an advertisement.”
Emma looked dazed. Proud of a race as she is, she can’t seem to think of a comeback to such definite statistics. But a strange glitter begins to light up the eye of Aunt Mary.
“Judy,” she asks thoughtfully, “just exactly who is this Herman Glickman?”
“Well, you see, he is very much interested in charities and it’s his job to get the debs to sign up for all the different advertisements, so that they can give the money to their favorite charities.”
“Ah, yes—” answers Aunt Mary. “I met a woman at luncheon yesterday who had sold out to silverware, stationery, bathroom fixtures, dressing tables, curtains, cold cream, yeast, radios, lace, and radiators. The only thing the public didn’t know about that woman is that she has a lump on her left knee—and all for charity. In fact, she just bought a new Rolls so that she can dash about more quickly from one charity to another.”
“But,” says Emma, “I don’t believe that Judy intends giving her check to charity.”
“Of course she does,” says Aunt Mary, “only her charity happens to be the promotion of S.A. in Florida.”
“She can’t go to Florida,” says Emma. “That is final! She can’t go to Florida without the family and we can’t afford to go.”
“I have been doing some thinking,” says Aunt Mary, “and I have an idea about that.” And turning to Judy, she asks, “What’s Herman Glickman’s address?”
“Mary,” gasps Emma, “you wouldn’t—”
“If the name of Revell is worth two thousand dollars, the name of van Tassell ought to easily bring five!”
Emma, by this time, is panicky. She goes to Julian, shakes him by the shoulder and says, “Julian, wake up! Wake up! Talk to Mary! She’s going to sell the name of van Tassell!”
Julian comes to.
“Where’ll she find a taker!” he asks.
Aunt Mary goes over to the console table and picks up a copy of a current magazine. As she glances through it, her eye kindles. The advertising pages are glittering with great names, just like the Social Register—only better than the Register, they have pictures and give details, not only of the lady’s pedigree, but even, in some cases, of her plumbing. Aunt Mary enthusiastically hands the magazine to Julian and explains.
Julian takes it in a trembling hand, and after dropping it twice, finally focuses, finds himself staring at the monthly “spread” of a yeast company.
“What’s this?” he says, and he reads out, “Famous man about town regulated by yeast!”
“Oh, yes,” says Judy, “I forgot about the yeast company, but they only pay five hundred.”
“Five hundred for what?” asks Julian.
“For anyone who’s been cured by yeast.”
“All right,” says Julian, “where do I collect?”
Emma seeing the members of her clan dropping from her one by one, begins to see that she is on the losing side of a highly successful revolution. “What is society coming to? Where is the pride? Where is the privilege? Where is the prejudice?”
“Where is Herman Glickman?” asks Aunt Mary. “That is much more to the point.”
Judy digs his address out of her pocketbook, and goes off about her afternoon’s affairs, which are to end in a scientific demonstration of 100 per cent. S.A. on the American male at tea time, aided by 90 proof substitute for tea.
Emma now faces the two remaining member of her house and begs them not to sell out.
“Don’t be silly, Emma,” speaks Aunt Mary. “I’ve suddenly made up my mind to see Florida, which I can’t do on my income, in its present state. I haven’t had much fun in my old life, and I’m not going to overlook anything from now on! Florida must be divine! I haven’t been so thrilled since I discovered Boccaccio at the age of eleven! Julian, get your hat if you’re coming with me to Herman’s!”
Aunt Mary now picks up the magazine, opens it, turns and addresses her sister.
“Emma, don’t be a fool all your life! Here’s some magnificent coconut oil, excellent for the hair. All it needs is a life-sized reproduction of that false front of yours to bring it to the attention of every salesgirl that rides the subway. Come on along!”
Emma summons all the van Tassell dignity and pride.
“Never!” she exclaims, “I’ve never used anything on my hair in all my life.”
“Then it’s about time you did,” says Aunt Mary. “Don’t spoil this beautiful morning by holding out on us. Why, I’m all bucked up! I never thought it possible, in this day and age, that our family could mean so much to the community.”
“Why, Mary, our family has always been among the first to help in any movement that—”
“Nonsense,” says Aunt Mary, “our family hasn’t done a darn thing worthy of anybody’s notice since great-grandmother carried water to the Continentals on Morristown Heights—And, here is an opportunity to carry oil to those who are fighting just as hard to keep their hair!”
Emma is dazed, but the argument sounds logical.
Aunt Mary continues. “If our family has always been among the first in any great movement of the upper class, how can we lie down now?”
Emma tries to answer but can’t think of anything to say.
Aunt Mary thrusts the magazine into her hands and continues, “Consider your duty toward this excellent coconut oil, which has stood the test of half the crowned heads of Europe! Can we of the American Aristocracy do better than follow their lead? Think hard, Emma, because your answer’s got to be good!”
Emma thinks as hard as she can, for this last argument pierced clear through her armor of pride and prejudice. After as profound a consideration as Emma’s brain is capable of compassing, she speaks.
“Well,” she says, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go along with you and I will stop at a drug store and buy a bottle of the preparation you speak of, and I’ll use it, and if tomorrow morning my hair looks improved, I may even consider it my duty, as a van Tassell, to tell the world.”
Considering that nothing yet invented by the mind of man could make Emma’s hair look worse next morning, this is as good as capitulation. And so, keeping her dignity to the last, Emma joins in the expedition that is to boost the house of Revell into the forefront of the winter’s social life in Florida.