The Story of Julia Page | Page 8

of moving to the country, and went
straight from the boat to a French table d'hote dinner, where Julia,
enchanted at finding herself warm and near food after the long cold
adventures of the day, stuffed herself on sardines and sour bread, soup
and salad, and shrimps and fried chicken, and drank tumblers of claret
and sugar and ice water.
There were still poker parties occasionally in the Page flat; Emeline
was quite familiar with poker phraseology now, and if George seemed
less pleased than he had been when she rattled away about hands, the
men who came were highly diverted by it. Two or three other wives
generally joined the party now; there would be seven or eight players
about the round table.
They all drank as they played, the room would get very warm, and reek
of tobacco and of whiskey and beer. Sometimes Julia woke up with a
terrified shout, and then, if Emeline were playing, she would get
George, or one of the other men or women, to go in and quiet the little
girl. These games would not break up until two or three o'clock.
Emeline would be playing excitedly, her face flushed, her eyes shining,
every fibre of her being alert, when suddenly the life would seem to
fade out of the whole game. An overwhelming ennui would seize her, a
cold, clear-eyed fatigue-- the cards would seem meaningless, a chill
would shake her, a need of yawning. The whole company would be
suddenly likewise affected, the game would break up with a few brief
words, and Emeline, going in with her guests to help them with hats

and wraps, would find herself utterly silent, too cold and weary for
even the most casual civilities. When the others had gone, she and
George would turn the lights out on the wreckage of the dining-room,
and stagger silently to bed.
Fatigue would follow Emeline well into the next day after one of these
card parties. If George was going out of town, she would send Julia off
to play with other children in the house, and lie in bed until noon,
getting up now and then to hold a conversation with some tradesman
through a crack in the door. At one she might sally forth in her
favourite combination of wrapper and coat to buy cream and rolls, and
Julia would be regaled on sausages, hot cakes, bakery cookies, and
coffee, or come in to find no lunch at all, and that her mother had gone
out for the afternoon.
Emeline had grown more and more infatuated with the theatre and all
that pertained to it. She went to matinees twice a week, and she and her
group of intimate friends also "went Dutch" to evening performances
whenever it was possible. Their conversation was spattered with
theatrical terms, and when, as occasionally happened, a real actress or
even a chorus girl from the Tivoli joined their group, Emeline could
hardly contain her eagerness and her admiration. She loved, when rare
chance offered, to go behind the scenes; she frankly envied the egotistic,
ambitious young theatrical beginners, so eager to talk of themselves
and their talents, to discuss every detail from grease paint to
management. To poor hungry Emeline it was like a revelation of
another, brighter world.
She would loiter out from the brief enchantment of "Two True Hearts"
into the foggy dampness of Market Street, at twilight, eagerly grasping
the suggestion of ice-cream sodas, because it meant a few minutes
more with her friends. Perhaps, sipping the frothy confection, Emeline
would see some of the young actresses going by, just from the theatre,
buttoned into long coats, their faces still rosy from cold cream; they
must rush off for a light dinner, and be back at the theatre at seven. At
the sight of them a pang always shot through Emeline, an exquisite
agony of jealousy seized her. Oh, to be so busy, so full of affairs, to

move constantly from one place to another--now dragging a spangled
gown, now gay as a peasant, now gaudily dressed as a page!
Emeline would finish her soda in silence, lift the over-dressed Julia
from her chair, and start soberly for home. Julia's short little legs ached
from the quick walk, yet she hated as much as her mother the plunge
from brightly lighted O'Farrell Street into their own hall, so large and
damp and dark, so odorous of stale beer and rubber floor covering. A
dim point of gas in a red shade covered with symmetrical glass blisters
usually burned over the stairway, but the Pages' apartment was dark,
except for a dull reflected light from the street. Perhaps Julia and her
mother would find George there, with his coat and shoes off, and his
big body flung