Monohan was toying
with the stem of a half-emptied glass, smiling at his companion. The
girl leaned toward him, speaking rapidly, pouting. Monohan nodded,
drained his glass, signaled a waiter. When she got into an elaborate
opera cloak and Monohan into his Inverness, they went out, the plump,
jeweled hand resting familiarly on Monohan's arm. Stella breathed a sigh
of relief as they passed, looking straight ahead. She watched through
the upper half of the cafe window and saw a machine draw against the
curb, saw the be-scarfed yellow head enter and Monohan's silk hat
follow. Then she relaxed, but she had little appetite for her food. A
hot wave of shamed disgust kept coming over her. She felt sick,
physically revolted. Very likely Monohan had put her in _that_ class, in
his secret thought. She was glad when the evening ended, and the Howards
left her at her own doorstep.
On the carpet where it had been thrust by the postman under the door, a
white square caught her eye, and she picked it up before she switched on
the light. And she got a queer little shock when the light fell on the
envelope, for it was addressed in Jack Fyfe's angular handwriting.
She tore it open. It was little enough in the way of a letter, a couple
of lines scrawled across a sheet of note-paper.
"_Dear Girl:_
"I was in Seattle a few days ago and heard you sing. Here's hoping
good luck rides with you.
"JACK."
Stella sat down by the window. Outside, the ever-present Puget Sound
rain drove against wall and roof and sidewalk, gathered in wet,
glistening pools in the street.
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