A Woman’s Privilege
Henry Rich, having rid the hotel suite of reporters by not asking them to have a drink, was taking inventory with the shining assistance of the full-length closet-door mirror. As usual he felt no regrets in scrutinizing his self-satisfied relection. He assumed the pose best admired by his female audiences and thought: Not bad. Not bad at all for forty! Ought to still cause a ripple along Broadway. He wondered whether his picture would hit the front pages tomorrow. It was five years since he had seen his face in the New York tabloids. Five years was a long time to be away from Broadway, but London had been so generous with such matters as salaries. Too bad Germany had to start cutting up. Half the cast from his last show were wearing uniforms how. Oh well, not that he was back he would have to start working on some publicity. His romances had always interested the reporters. They called him Broadway’s ace playboy. Guess he would have to start breaking a few more hearts. He had never been able to tie himself to one woman. Nothing like a wife to ruin a fellow’s romantic appeal.
Rich bent over a few times to make sure that he could still touch his toes without collapsing his knees too noticeably, then stretched to his tallest stance, and drew closer to the mirror for a better view of himself. Finding himself on such close terms with his image, he thrust his head forward, raised a too-even eyebrow, and smiled brightly, as he sucked in his cheek to encourage his best asset — a deep but somewhat overdone dimple. As if to assure himself of the securest privacy he unconsciously turned his head over his shoulder before tapping his upper white front teeth with his forefinger. Yes, the four porcelain caps were still firmly secured. He searched his temples to make certain that none of the dyed hairs had grown out yet. He was in the midst of studying the pores on his nose when the telephone interrupted his search for blackheads. “Hell, he murmured, can’t a fellow enjoy himself in peace!”
He exchanged a sorrowing glance with his double in the glass, straightened his twelve-fifty roaring tie, before sauntering in his best footlight stride across the room. With a theatrical sweep he cut short the clanging bell. A feminine voice purred, “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Rich, but I have a call for you. Miss Moore calling. She was most insistent that she talk to you. Shall I connect her?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Rich noted the well-clad figure still reflected from the ever-watching mirror. The picture reminded him of the telephone scene had played in the Harris show seven years before. Moore. . . . . Moore. . . . . The name flitted across his memory. Then it found its niche. Of course, she was that young kid that he had run around with before he had left for London. God, what an infernal pest she had been when he told her that their little romance was over. How he hated weepy women! They can never get it into their heads that when a chap is through, he is really through. No, he had better not start that again. Yet she did have such nice wide grey eyes, and so fresh-looking too. . . . . . A pretty kid, and after all she had remembered him all these years. Rather made a fellow feel good . . . . . . It would be amusing to see her again; it would not do any harm to be generous. The face in the shining glass winked an eye in unison with its original as Henry Rich said, “Put her on.”
Mrs. William S. Barnes’s hands trembled as she put down the telephone. Her misty grey eyes held a frightened look. The slight cleft in her rounded chin wavered a warning of approaching tears. Why had she called him? And why had she not told him that her name was no longer Moore? But how could she admit that she was married, when her heart had pounded so at the first sounds of that voice she waited five long years to hear. He had said tomorrow at four, at El Campo. No she definitely would not go. After all, it would not be fair to Bill who had never known that the shadow of Henry Rich had hovered over their married life so long. She had tried to forget. She clutched her troubled lower lip between her small square white teeth. She dug her nails into her palms as she half-heartedly determined not to keep her rendezvous at El Campo.
Miriam Barnes’s conscience told her that she should not have come. She had no right to be following the head-waiter across the crowded dining room at El Campo. She saw Henry waiting at the familiar corner table. She felt dizzy with memories, as she heard his voice saying, “Why, my darling, you are lovelier than ever!” as she felt the light embrace of his hand meeting hers in greeting. She was afraid to meet his eyes, frightened to let him read what was written there. She kept staring at the people on the crowded dance floor. A red feather on the hat of one of the dancers waved back and forth, and her eyes followed hypnotically.
She heard Henry’s voice saying, “Come now, didn’t you come here to be with me? Let me look at those lovely eyes.” Her hands were wet with perspiration. The red feather kept bobbing up and down. She slowly turned her head and filled her eyes with Henry’s face across the table. But she could not rid herself of the picture of that red feather.
It made her remember — Bill — she had worn a bright red feather on her hat the day she had met Bill. It had poked his face accidentally at the Plaza bar. God, what was wrong with her! She must be losing her mind. Here she was with Henry Rich — the man she had eaten her heart out for — and all she was thinking of was a feather long ago discarded. She stared at the smiling face before her. The music beat into her ears. She hardly heard his words; “Now, my dear, that I am back we must see more of each other.” She searched his face. She saw weary eyes above purplish bags of wrinkled dissipation, a mouth that was too full, and a skin too soft from creams. She had not remembered all these. Even the dimple in the left cheek failed to charm her. It was like a mechanical prop. His voice sounded too soft and suave — insincere. She knew his eyes followed every attractive girl.
Her Bill wasn’t like that. Bill, with his clear blue eyes, his homely honest face, rough and rugged, his loud but pleasant voice. Bill never even looked at another woman. Why, my God, what a fool she had been. This man did not belong at the table with her, he belonged in her memory. She caught sight of the red feather again. She remembered how Bill had always said she had worn that red feather on purpose.
She started to laugh. She uttered the words, “This is marvelous!” Grasping her gloves and bag, she rose and patted Hanry’s hand, saying, “Henry, I’ll never be able to thank you enough. But I have to go. I must find five lost years.” As she dashed out of the room, she briefly turned to the woman in the red feather and gave her the warmest of smiles.
Henry Rich stared in amazement at his retreating companion. For a moment he had a distressing thought: Could it be that she . . . . . . Then he remembered who he was, shook his head and reflected: Poor kid, must have been too much for her. Probably realized that there never could be anything serious between us. Too bad, hope it doesn’t break her up too much. His sympathy was cut short by a smile from a beauty in black sitting at the bar. Henry switched on his dimple, grinned at this new, unknown girl and thought: Well, here goes Rich again; hope a photographer’s around.”
Peggy Stebbins Nelson, Circa 1939