Vicky Van | Page 2

see him--"
This time the said eyebrows went up frankly in amusement, and the
kind blue eyes beamed as she said, "All right, Chet, run along."
Though I was Chester Calhoun, the junior partner of the law firm of
Bradbury and Calhoun, and held myself in due and consequent respect,
I didn't mind Aunt Lucy's calling me Chet, or even, as she sometimes
did, Chetty. A man puts up with those things from the women of his
household. As to Winnie, she called me anything that came handy,
from Lord Chesterton to Chessy-Cat.
I patted Aunt Lucy on her soft old shoulder and Winnie on her hard
young head, and was off.
True, I did expect to see Steele at Vicky Van's--he was the club chap
who had introduced me there--but as Aunt Lucy had so cleverly
suspected, he was not my sole reason for going. A bigger reason was
that I always had a good time there, the sort of a good time I liked.
I crossed the street diagonally, in defiance of much good advice I have
heard and read against such a proceeding. But at eleven o'clock at night
the traffic in those upper side streets is not sufficient to endanger life or

limb, and I reached Vicky Van's house in safety.
It was a very small house, and it was the one nearest to the Fifth
Avenue corner, though the long side of the first house on that block of
the Avenue lay between.
The windows on each floor were brilliantly lighted, and I mounted the
long flight of stone steps sure of a merry welcome and a jolly time.
I was admitted by a maid whom I already knew well enough to say
"Evening, Julie," as I passed her, and in another moment, I was in the
long, narrow living-room and was a part of the gay group there.
"Angel child!" exclaimed Vicky Van herself, dancing toward me, "did
he come to see his little ole friend?" and laying her two hands in mine
for an instant, she considered me sufficiently welcomed, and danced off
again. She was a will o' the wisp, always tantalizing a man with a hope
of special attention, and then flying away to another guest, only to treat
him in the same way.
I looked after her, a slim, graceful thing, vibrant with the joy of living,
smiling in sheer gayety of heart, and pretty as a picture.
Her black hair was arranged in the newest style, that covered her ears
with soft loops and exposed the shape of her trim little head. It was
banded with a jeweled fillet, or whatever they call those Oriental things
they wear, and her big eyes with their long, dark lashes, her pink
cheeks and curved scarlet lips seemed to say, "the world owes me a
living and I'm going to collect."
Not as a matter of financial obligation, be it understood.
Vicky Van had money enough and though nothing about her home was
ostentatious or over ornate, it was quietly and in the best of taste
luxurious.
But I was describing Vicky herself. Her gown, the skirt part of it, was a
sort of mazy maize-colored thin stuff, rather short and rather full, that

swirled as she moved, and fluttered when she danced. The bodice part,
was of heavily gold-spangled material, and a kind of overskirt
arrangement was a lot of long gold fringe made of beads. Instead of a
yoke, there were shoulder straps of these same beads, and the sleeves
weren't there.
And yet, that costume was all right. Why, it was a rig I'd be glad to see
Winnie in, when she gets older, and if I've made it sound
rather--er--gay and festive, it's my bungling way of describing it, and
also, because Vicky's personality would add gayety and festivity to any
raiment.
Her little feet wore goldy slippers, and a lot of ribbons criss-crossed
over her ankles, and on the top of each slipper was a gilt butterfly that
fluttered.
Yet with all this bewildering effect of frivolity, the first term I'd make
use of in describing Vick's character would be Touch-me-not. I believe
there's a flower called that--_noli me tangere_--or some such name.
Well, that's Vicky Van. She'd laugh and jest with you, and then if you
said anything by way of a personal compliment or flirtatious foolery,
she was off and away from your side, like a thistle-down in a summer
breeze. She was a witch, a madcap, but she had her own way in
everything, and her friends did her will without question.
Her setting, too, just suited her. Her living room was one of those very
narrow, very deep rooms so often seen in the New York side streets. It
was done up in French gray