O. Henry



   Lost on Dress Parade

    Mr. Towers Chandler was pressing his evening suit in his hall bedroom. One iron 
was heating on a small gas stove; the other was being pushed  vigorously  back  and 
forth to make the desirable crease that  would  be  seen  later  on,  extending  in 
straight lines from Mr. Chandler's patent leather shoes to the edge of his  low-cut 
vest. So much of the  hero's  toilet  may  be  entrusted  to  our  confidence.  The 
remainder may be guessed by those  whom  genteel  poverty  has  driven  to  ignoble 
expedient. Our next view  of  him  shall  be  as  he  descends  the  steps  of  his 
lodging-house  immaculately  and  correctly  clothed;  calm,  assured,  handsome-in 
appearance the typical New York young  clubman  setting  out,  slightly  bored,  to 
inaugurate the pleasures of the evening.
    Chandler's honorarium was $18 per week. He was employed in  the  office  of  an 
architect. He was twenty-two years old; he considered architecture to be  truly  an 
art; and he honestly believed, though he would not have dared to admit  it  in  New 
York - that the Flatiron Building was inferior in design  to  the  great  cathedral 
in Milan.
    Out of each week's earnings Chandler set aside $1.  At  the  end  of  each  ten 
weeks, with the extra capital thus accumulated he purchased one gentleman's evening 
from the bargain counter of stingy old Father  Time.  He  arrayed  himself  in  the 
regalia of millionaires and presidents; he took himself to the quarter  where  life 
is brightest and showiest, and there dined with taste and luxury. With ten  dollars 
a man may, for a few hours, play the wealthy idler to perfection. The sum is  ample 
for a well-considered meal, a bottle  bearing  a  respectable  label,  commensurate 
tips, a smoke, cab fare and the ordinary etceteras.
    This one delectable evening culled from  each  dull  seventy  was  to  Chandler 
a source of renascent bliss. To the society bud comes  but  one  debut;  it  stands 
alone sweet in her memory when her hair has whitened;  but  to  Chandler  each  ten 
weeks brought a joy as keen, as thrilling, as new as the first  had  been.  To  sit 
among bon vivants under palms in the swirl of concealed music,  to  look  upon  the 
habitues of such a paradise and to be looked upon by them-what is  a  girl's  first 
dance and short-sleeved tulle compared with this?
    Up Broadway Chandler moved with the vespertine dress parade. For  this  evening 
he was an exhibit as well as a gazer. For the next sixty-nine evenings he would  be 
dining in cheviot and worsted at dubious table d'hote, at whirlwind lunch counters, 
on sandwiches and beer in his hall bedroom. He was willing to do that, for he was a 
true son of the great city  of  razzle-dazzle,  and  to  him  one  evening  in  the 
limelight made up for many dark ones.
    Chandler protracted his walk until the Forties began to intersect the great and 
glittering primrose way, for the evening was yet young, and when one is of the beau 
monde only one day in seventy, one loves to protract  the  pleasure.  Eyes  bright, 
sinister, curious, admiring, provocative, alluring were bent upon him, for his garb 
and air proclaimed him a devotee to the hour of solace and pleasure.
    At a certain corner he came to a standstill, proposing to himself the  question 
of turning back toward the showy and fashionable restaurant  in  which  he  usually 
dined on the evenings of his especial luxury. Just  then  a  girl  scudded  lightly 
around the corner, slipped on a patch of icy snow and fell plump upon the sidewalk.
    Chandler assisted her to her feet with instant  and  solicitous  courtesy.  The 
girl hobbled to the wall of the  building,  leaned  against  it,  and  thanked  him 
demurely.
    "I think my ankle is strained," she said. "It twisted when I fell."
    "Does it pain you much?" inquired Chandler.
    "Only when I rest my weight upon it. I think I will be able to walk in a minute 
or two."
    "If I can be of any further service," suggested the young  man,  "I  will  call 
a cab, or - "
    "Thank you," said the girl, softly but  heartily.  "I  am  sure  you  need  not 
trouble yourself any further. It was so awkward  of  me.  And  my  shoe  heels  are 
horridly common-sense; I can't blame them at all."
    Chandler looked at the girl and found her swiftly drawing his interest. She was 
pretty in  a  refined  way;  and  her  eyes  was  both  merry  and  kind.  She  was
inexpensively clothed in a plain black dress that suggested a sort of uniform  such 
as shop girls wear. Her glossy dark-brown hair showed its coils beneath a cheap hat 
of black straw whose only ornament was a velvet ribbon  and  bow.  She  could  have 
posed as a model for the self-respecting working girl of the best type.
    A sudden idea came into the head of the young architect. He would ask this girl 
to dine with him. Here was the element that  his  splendid  but  solitary  periodic 
feasts had lacked. His brief season of elegant luxury would be doubly enjoyable  if 
he could add to it a lady's society. This girl was a lady, he was sure - her manner 
and speech settled that. And in spite of her extremely plain attire he felt that he 
would be pleased to sit at table with her.
    These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind, and he decided to ask  her.  It 
was a breach of etiquette, of course,  but  oftentimes  wage-earning  girls  waived 
formalities in matters of this kind. They were generally shrewd judges of men;  and 
thought better of their own judgment than they did of useless conventions. His  ten 
dollars, discreetly expended, would enable the two to dine very  well  indeed.  The 
dinner would no doubt be a wonderful experience thrown into the dull routine of the 
girl's life; and her lively appreciation of it would add to  his  own  triumph  and 
pleasure.
    "I think," he said to her, with frank gravity, "that your foot needs  a  longer 
rest than you suppose. Now, I am going to suggest a way in which you  can  give  it 
that and at the same time do me a favour. I was on my way to dine all by my  lonely 
self when you came tumbling around the corner. You come with me and  we'll  have  a 
cozy dinner and a pleasant talk together, and by that time  your  game  ankle  will 
carry you home very nicely, I am sure."
    The girl looked quickly up into Chandler's  clear,  pleasant  countenance.  Her 
eyes twinkled once very brightly, and then she smiled ingenuously.
    "But we don't know each other - it wouldn't  be  right,  would  it?"  she  said 
doubtfully.
    "There is nothing wrong about it," said the young man candidly.
    "I'll introduce myself - permit me - Mr. Towers  Chandler.  After  our  dinner, 
which I will try to make as pleasant as possible, I will bid you  good-evening,  or 
attend you safely to your door, whichever you prefer."
    "But, dear me!" said the girl, with a glance at  Chandler's  faultless  attire. 
"In this old dress and hat!"
    "Never mind that," said Chandler cheerfully. "I'm sure you look  more  charming 
in them than any one we shall see in the most elaborate dinner toilette."
    "My ankle does hurt  yet,"  admitted  the  girl,  attempting  a  limping  step. 
"I think I will accept your invitation, Mr. Chandler. You may call me Miss Marian."
    "Come then, Miss Marian," said the young  architect  gaily,  but  with  perfect 
courtesy; "you will not have far to walk. There is  a  very  respectable  and  good 
restaurant in the next block. You will have to lean on my arm-so-and  walk  slowly. 
It is lonely dining all by one's self. I'm just a little bit glad that you  slipped 
on the ice."
    When the two were established at  a  well-appointed  table,  with  a  promising 
waiter hovering in attendance, Chandler began to experience the real joy  that  his 
regular outings always brought to him.
    The restaurant was not  so  showy  or  pretentious  as  the  one  further  down 
Broadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so.  The  tables  were  well 
filled with prosperous-looking diners, there was a good orchestra,  playing  softly 
enough to make conversation a possible pleasure, and the cuisine and  service  were 
beyond criticism. His companion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with 
an air that added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure. And  it 
is certain that she looked at Chandler, with his animated but self-possessed manner 
and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with something not far from admiration in her 
own charming face.
    Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan, the Frenzy of Fuss and Feathers, the 
Bacillus of Brag, the Provincial Plague of Pose seized upon Towers Chandler. He was 
on Broadway, surrounded by pomp and style, and there were eyes to look at  him.  On 
the stage of that comedy he had assumed to play the one-night part of  a  butterfly 
of fashion and an idler of means and taste. He was dressed for the  part,  and  all 
his good angels had not the power to prevent him from acting it.
    So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and  riding  and 
kennels and cotillions and tours abroad, and threw out hints of a  yacht  lying  at 
Larchmont. He could see that she was vastly impressed by this  vague  talk,  so  he 
endorsed his pose by random insinuations concerning  great  wealth,  and  mentioned 
familiarly a few names that are handled  reverently  by  the  proletariat.  It  was 
Chandler's short little day, and he was wringing from it the  best  that  could  be 
had, as he saw it. And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of  this  girl  shine 
through the mist that his egotism had raised between him and all objects.
    "This way of living that you  speak  of,"  she  said,  "sounds  so  futile  and 
purposeless. Haven't you any work to do in the world that might interest you more?"
    "My dear Miss Marian," he exclaimed - "work! Think of dressing  every  day  for 
dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon - with a  policeman  at  every 
corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to the station, if you get up  any 
greater speed than a donkey cart's gait. We do-nothings are the hardest workers  in 
the land."
    The dinner was concluded, the waiter generously fed, and the two walked out  to 
the corner where they had met. Miss Marian walked  very  well  now;  her  limp  was 
scarcely noticeable.
    "Thank you for a nice time," she said frankly. "I must run home  now.  I  liked 
the dinner very much, Mr. Chandler."
    He shook hands with her, smiling cordially, and said something about a game  of 
bridge at his club. He watched her for a moment, walking rather  rapidly  eastward, 
and then he found a cab to drive him slowly homeward.
    In his chilly bedroom Chandler laid away his evening clothes for  a  sixty-nine 
days' rest. He went about it thoughtfully.
    "That was a stunning girl," he said to himself. "She's all right, too,  I'd  be 
sworn, even if she does have to work. Perhaps if I'd told her the truth instead  of 
all that razzle-dazzle we might-but, confound it! I had to play up to my clothes."
    Thus spoke the brave who was born and reared in the wigwams of the tribe of the 
Manhattans.
    The girl, after leaving her entertainer,  sped  swiftly  cross-town  until  she 
arrived at a handsome and sedate mansion two squares to the east,  facing  on  that 
avenue which is the highway of Mammon and the  auxiliary  gods.  Here  she  entered 
hurriedly and ascended to a room where a handsome young lady in an elaborate  house 
dress was looking anxiously out the window.
    "Oh, you madcap!" exclaimed the elder girl, when the other entered. "When  will 
you quit frightening us this way? It is two hours since you ran out in that old rag 
of a dress and Marie's hat. Mamma has been so alarmed. She sent Louis in  the  auto 
to try to find you. You are a bad, thoughtless Puss."
    The elder girl touched a button, and a maid came in a moment. 
    "Marie, tell mamma that Miss Marian has returned."
    "Don't scold, sister. I only ran down to Mme. Theo's to tell her to  use  mauve 
insertion instead of pink. My costume and Marie's hat  were  just  what  I  needed. 
Every one thought I was a shopgirl, I am sure."
    "Dinner is over, dear; you stayed so late."
    "I know. I slipped on the sidewalk and turned my ankle. I could not walk, so  I 
hobbled into a restaurant and sat there until I was better. That is why  I  was  so 
long."
    The two girls sat in the window seat, looking out at the lights and the  stream 
of hurrying vehicles in the avenue. The younger one cuddled down with her  head  in 
her sister's lap.
    "We will have to marry some day," she said dreamily - "both of us. We  have  so 
much money that we will not be allowed to disappoint the public. Do you want me  to 
tell you the kind of a man I could love, Sis?"
    "Go on, you scatterbrain," smiled the other.
    "I could love a man with dark and kind blue eyes, who is gentle and  respectful 
to poor girls, who is handsome and good and does not try to flirt. But I could love 
him only if he had an ambition, an object, some work to do in the  world.  I  would 
not care how poor he was if I could help him build his way up.  But  sister,  dear, 
the kind of man we always meet-the man who lives an idle life between  society  and 
his clubs - I could not love a man like that, even if his eyes  were  blue  and  he 
were ever so kind to poor girls whom he met in the street."

___________________________________________________________________________________