The Love Nest

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you, Mr. Bartlett,” said the great man. “I’m going to take you right out to my home and have you meet the wife and family; stay to dinner and all night. We’ve got plenty of room and extra pajamas, if you don’t mind them silk. I mean that’ll give you a chance to see us just as we are. I mean you can get more that way than if you sat here a whole week, asking me questions.”

“But I don’t want to put you to a lot of trouble,” said Bartlett.

“Trouble!” The great man laughed. “There’s no trouble about it. I’ve got a house that’s like a hotel. I mean a big house with lots of servants. But anyway I’m always glad to do anything I can for a writing man, especially a man that works for Ralph Doane. I’m very fond of Ralph. I mean I like him personally besides being a great editor. I mean I’ve known him for years and when there’s anything I can do for him, I’m glad to do it. I mean it’ll be a pleasure to have you. So if you want to notify your family⁠—”

“I haven’t any family,” said Bartlett.

“Well, I’m sorry for you! And I bet when you see mine, you’ll wish you had one of your own. But I’m glad you can come and we’ll start now so as to get there before the kiddies are put away for the night. I mean I want you to be sure and see the kiddies. I’ve got three.”

“I’ve seen their pictures,” said Bartlett. “You must be very proud of them. They’re all girls, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir; three girls. I wouldn’t have a boy. I mean I always wanted girls. I mean girls have got a lot more zip to them. I mean they’re a lot zippier. But let’s go! The Rolls is downstairs and if we start now we’ll get there before dark. I mean I want you to see the place while it’s still daylight.”

The great man⁠—Lou Gregg, president of Modern Pictures, Inc.⁠—escorted his visitor from the magnificent office by a private door and down a private stairway to the avenue, where the glittering car with its glittering chauffeur waited.

“My wife was in town today,” said Gregg as they glided northward, “and I hoped we could ride out together, but she called up about two and asked would I mind if she went on home in the Pierce. She was through with her shopping and she hates to be away from the house and the kiddies any longer than she can help. Celia’s a great home girl. You’d never know she was the same girl now as the girl I married seven years ago. I mean she’s different. I mean she’s not the same. I mean her marriage and being a mother has developed her. Did you ever see her? I mean in pictures?”

“I think I did once,” replied Bartlett. “Didn’t she play the young sister in The Cad?”

“Yes, with Harold Hodgson and Marie Blythe.”

“I thought I’d seen her. I remember her as very pretty and vivacious.”

“She certainly was! And she is yet! I mean she’s even prettier, but of course she ain’t a kid, though she looks it. I mean she was only seventeen in that picture and that was ten years ago. I mean she’s twenty-seven years old now. But I never met a girl with as much zip as she had in those days. It’s remarkable how marriage changes them. I mean nobody would ever thought Celia Sayles would turn out to be a sit-by-the-fire. I mean she still likes a good time, but her home and kiddies come first. I mean her home and kiddies come first.”

“I see what you mean,” said Bartlett.

An hour’s drive brought them to Ardsley-on-Hudson and the great man’s home.

“A wonderful place!” Bartlett exclaimed with a heroic semblance of enthusiasm as the car turned in at an arc de triomphe of a gateway and approached a white house that might have been mistaken for the Yale Bowl.

“It ought to be!” said Gregg. “I mean I’ve spent enough on it. I mean these things cost money.”

He indicated with a gesture the huge house and Urbanesque landscaping.

“But no amount of money is too much to spend on home. I mean it’s a good investment if it tends to make your family proud and satisfied with their home. I mean every nickel I’ve spent here is like so much insurance; it insures me of a happy wife and family. And what more can a man ask!”

Bartlett didn’t know, but the topic was forgotten in the business of leaving the resplendent Rolls and entering the even more resplendent reception hall.

“Forbes will take your things,” said Gregg. “And, Forbes, you may tell Dennis that Mr. Bartlett will spend the night.” He faced the wide stairway and raised his voice. “Sweetheart!” he called.

From above came the reply in contralto: “Hello, sweetheart!”

“Come down, sweetheart. I’ve brought you a visitor.”

“All right, sweetheart, in just a minute.”

Gregg led Bartlett into a living-room that was five laps to the mile and suggestive of an Atlantic City auction sale.

“Sit there,” said the host, pointing to a balloon-stuffed easy chair, “and I’ll see if we can get a drink. I’ve got some real old Bourbon that I’d like you to try. You know I come from Chicago and I always liked Bourbon better than Scotch. I mean I always preferred it to Scotch. Forbes,” he addressed the servant, “we want a drink. You’ll find a full bottle of that Bourbon in the cupboard.”

“It’s only half full, sir,” said Forbes.

“Half full! That’s funny! I mean I opened it last night and just took one drink. I mean it ought to be full.”

“It’s only half full,” repeated Forbes, and went to fetch it.

“I’ll have to investigate,” Gregg told his guest. “I mean this ain’t the first time lately that some of my good stuff has disappeared. When you keep so many servants, it’s hard to get all honest ones. But here’s Celia!”

Bartlett rose to greet the striking brunette who at this moment made an entrance so Delsarte as to be almost painful. With never a glance at him, she minced across the room to her husband and took a half interest in a convincing kiss.

“Well, sweetheart,” she said when it was at last over.

“This is Mr. Bartlett, sweetheart,” said her husband. “Mr. Bartlett, meet Mrs. Gregg.”

Bartlett shook his hostess’s proffered two fingers.

“I’m so pleased!” said Celia in a voice reminiscent of Miss Claire’s imitation of Miss Barrymore.

“Mr. Bartlett,” Gregg went on, “is with Mankind, Ralph Doane’s magazine. He is going to write me up; I mean us.”

“No, you mean you,” said Celia. “I’m sure the public is not interested in great men’s wives.”

“I am sure you are mistaken, Mrs. Gregg,” said Bartlett politely. “In this case at least. You are worth writing up aside from being a great man’s wife.”

“I’m afraid you’re a flatterer, Mr. Bartlett,” she returned. “I have been out of the limelight so long that I doubt if anybody remembers me. I’m no longer an artist; merely a happy wife and mother.”

“And I claim, sweetheart,” said Gregg, “that it takes an artist to be that.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart!” said Celia. “Not when they have you for a husband!”

The exchange of hosannahs was interrupted by the arrival of Forbes with the tray.

“Will you take yours straight or in a highball?” Gregg inquired of his guest. “Personally I like good whisky straight. I mean mixing it with water spoils the flavor. I mean whisky like this, it seems like a crime to mix it with water.”

“I’ll have mine straight,” said Bartlett, who would have preferred a highball.

While the drinks were being prepared, he observed his hostess more closely and thought how much more charming she would be if she had used finesse in improving on nature. Her cheeks, her mouth, her eyes, and lashes had been, he guessed, far above the average in beauty before she had begun experimenting with them. And her experiments had been clumsy. She was handsome in spite of her efforts to be handsomer.

“Listen, sweetheart,” said her husband. “One of the servants has been helping himself to this Bourbon. I mean it was a full bottle last night and I only had one little drink out of it. And now it’s less than half full. Who do you suppose has been at it?”

“How do I know, sweetheart? Maybe the groceryman or the iceman or somebody.”

“But you and I and Forbes are the only ones that have a key. I mean it was locked up.”

“Maybe you forgot to lock it.”

“I never do. Well, anyway, Bartlett, here’s a go!”

“Doesn’t Mrs. Gregg indulge?” asked Bartlett.

“Only a cocktail before dinner,” said Celia. “Lou objects to me drinking whisky, and I don’t like it much anyway.”

“I don’t object to you drinking whisky, sweetheart. I just object to you drinking to excess. I mean I think it coarsens a woman to drink. I mean it makes them coarse.”

“Well, there’s no argument, sweetheart. As I say, I don’t care whether I have it or not.”

“It certainly is great Bourbon!” said Bartlett, smacking his lips and putting his glass back on the tray.

“You bet it is!” Gregg agreed. “I mean you can’t buy that kind of stuff anymore. I mean it’s real stuff. You help yourself when you want another. Mr. Bartlett is going to stay all night, sweetheart. I told him he could get a whole lot more of a line on us that way than just interviewing me in the office. I mean I’m tongue-tied when it comes to talking about my work and my success. I mean it’s better to see me out here as I am, in my home, with my family. I mean my home life speaks for itself without me saying a word.”

“But, sweetheart,” said his wife, “what about Mr. Latham?”

“Gosh! I forgot all about him! I must phone and see if I can call it off. That’s terrible! You see,” he explained to Bartlett, “I made a date to go up to Tarrytown tonight, to K. L. Latham’s, the sugar people. We’re going to talk over the new club. We’re going to have a golf club that will make the rest of them look like a toy. I mean a real golf club! They want me to kind of run it. And I was to go up there tonight and talk it over. I’ll phone and see if I can postpone it.”

“Oh, don’t postpone it on my account!” urged Bartlett. “I can come out again some other time, or I can see you in town.”

“I don’t see how you can postpone it, sweetheart,” said Celia. “Didn’t he say old Mr. King was coming over from White Plains? They’ll be mad at you if you don’t go.”

“I’m afraid they would resent it, sweetheart. Well, I’ll tell you. You can entertain Mr. Bartlett and I’ll go up there right after dinner and come back as soon as I can. And Bartlett and I can talk when I get back. I mean we can talk when I get back. How is that?”

“That suits me,” said Bartlett.

“I’ll be as entertaining as I can,” said Celia, “but I’m afraid that isn’t very entertaining. However, if I’m too much of a bore, there’s plenty to read.”

“No danger of my being bored,” said Bartlett.

“Well, that’s all fixed then,” said the relieved host. “I hope you’ll excuse me running away. But I don’t see how I can get out of it. I mean with old King coming over from White Plains. I mean he’s an old man. But listen, sweetheart⁠—where are the kiddies? Mr. Bartlett wants to see them.”

“Yes, indeed!” agreed the visitor.

“Of course you’d say so!” Celia said. “But we are proud of them! I suppose all parents are the same. They all think their own children are the only children in the world. Isn’t that so, Mr. Bartlett? Or haven’t you any children?”

“I’m sorry to say I’m not married.”

“Oh, you poor thing! We pity him, don’t we, sweetheart? But why aren’t you, Mr. Bartlett? Don’t tell me you’re a woman hater!”

“Not now, anyway,” said the gallant Bartlett.

“Do you get that, sweetheart? He’s paying you a pretty compliment.”

“I heard it, sweetheart. And now I’m sure he’s a flatterer. But I must hurry and get the children before Hortense puts them to bed.”

“Well,” said Gregg when his wife had left the room, “would you say she’s changed?”

“A little, and for the better. She’s more than fulfilled her early promise.”

“I think so,” said Gregg. “I mean I think she was a beautiful girl and now she’s an even more beautiful woman. I mean wifehood and maternity have given her a kind of a⁠—well, you know⁠—I mean a kind of a pose. I mean a pose. How about another drink?”

They were emptying their glasses when Celia returned with two of her little girls.

“The baby’s in bed and I was afraid to ask Hortense to get her up again. But you’ll see her in the morning. This is Norma and this is Grace. Girls, this is Mr. Bartlett.”

The girls received this news calmly.

“Well, girls,” said Bartlett.

“What do you think of them, Bartlett?” demanded their father. “I mean what do you think of them?”

“They’re great!” replied the guest with creditable warmth.

“I mean aren’t they pretty?”

“I should say they are!”

“There, girls! Why don’t you thank Mr. Bartlett?”

“Thanks,” murmured Norma.

“How old are you, Norma?” asked Bartlett.

“Six,” said Norma.

“Well,” said Bartlett. “And how old is Grace?”

“Four,” replied Norma.

“Well,” said Bartlett. “And how old is baby sister?”

“One and a half,” answered Norma.

“Well,” said Bartlett.

As this seemed to be final, “Come, girls,” said their mother. “Kiss daddy good night and I’ll take you back to Hortense.”

“I’ll take them,” said Gregg. “I’m going upstairs anyway. And you can show Bartlett around. I mean before it gets any darker.”

“Good night, girls,” said Bartlett, and the children murmured a good night.

“I’ll come and see you before you’re asleep,” Celia told them. And after Gregg had led them out, “Do you really think they’re pretty?” she asked Bartlett.

“I certainly do. Especially Norma. She’s the image of you,” said Bartlett.

“She looks a little like I used to,” Celia admitted. “But I hope she doesn’t look like me now. I’m too old looking.”

“You look remarkably young!” said Bartlett. “No one would believe you were the mother of three children.”

“Oh, Mr. Bartlett! But I mustn’t forget I’m to ‘show you around.’ Lou is so proud of our home!”

“And with reason,” said Bartlett.

“It is wonderful! I call it our love nest. Quite a big nest, don’t you think? Mother says it’s too big to be cosy; she says she can’t think of it as a home. But I always say a place is whatever one makes of it. A woman can be happy in a tent if they love each other. And miserable in a royal palace without love. Don’t you think so, Mr. Bartlett?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Is this really such wonderful Bourbon? I think I’ll just take a sip of it and see what it’s like. It can’t hurt me if it’s so good. Do you think so, Mr. Bartlett?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well then, I’m going to taste it and if it hurts me it’s your fault.”

Celia poured a whisky glass two-thirds full and drained it at a gulp.

“It is good, isn’t it?” she said. “Of course I’m not much of a judge as I don’t care for whisky and Lou won’t let me drink it. But he’s raved so about this Bourbon that I did want to see what it was like. You won’t tell on me, will you, Mr. Bartlett?”

“Not I!”

“I wonder how it would be in a highball. Let’s you and I have just one. But I’m forgetting I’m supposed to show you the place. We won’t have time to drink a highball and see the place too before Lou comes down. Are you so crazy to see the place?”

“Not very.”

“Well, then, what do you say if we have a highball? And it’ll be a secret between you and I.”

They drank in silence and Celia pressed a button by the door.

“You may take the bottle and tray,” she told Forbes. “And now,” she said to Bartlett, “we’ll go out on the porch and see as much as we can see. You’ll have to guess the rest.”

Gregg, having changed his shirt and collar, joined them.

“Well,” he said to Bartlett, “have you seen everything?”

“I guess I have, Mr. Gregg,” lied the guest readily. “It’s a wonderful place!”

“We like it. I mean it suits us. I mean it’s my idear of a real home. And Celia calls it her love nest.”

“So she told me,” said Bartlett.

“She’ll always be sentimental,” said her husband.

He put his hand on her shoulder, but she drew away.

“I must run up and dress,” she said.

“Dress!” exclaimed Bartlett, who had been dazzled by her flowered green chiffon.

“Oh, I’m not going to really dress,” she said. “But I couldn’t wear this thing for dinner!”

“Perhaps you’d like to clean up a little, Bartlett,” said Gregg. “I mean Forbes will show you your room if you want to go up.”

“It might be best,” said Bartlett.

Celia, in a black lace dinner gown, was rather quiet during the elaborate meal. Three or four times when Gregg addressed her, she seemed to be thinking of something else and had to ask, “What did you say, sweetheart?” Her face was red and Bartlett imagined that she had “sneaked” a drink or two besides the two helpings of Bourbon and the cocktail that had preceded dinner.

“Well, I’ll leave you,” said Gregg when they were in the living-room once more. “I mean the sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be back. Sweetheart, try and keep your guest awake and don’t let him die of thirst. Au revoir, Bartlett. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. There’s a fresh bottle of the Bourbon, so go to it. I mean help yourself. It’s too bad you have to drink alone.”

“It is too bad, Mr. Bartlett,” said Celia when Gregg had gone.

“What’s too bad?” asked Bartlett.

“That you have to drink alone. I feel like I wasn’t being a good hostess to let you do it. In fact, I refuse to let you do it. I’ll join you in just a little wee sip.”

“But it’s so soon after dinner!”

“It’s never too soon! I’m going to have a drink myself and if you don’t join me, you’re a quitter.”

She mixed two life-sized highballs and handed one to her guest.

“Now we’ll turn on the radio and see if we can’t stir things up. There! No, no! Who cares about the old baseball! Now! This is better! Let’s dance.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gregg, but I don’t dance.”

“Well, you’re an old cheese! To make me dance alone! ‘All alone, yes, I’m all alone.’ ”

There was no affectation in her voice now and Bartlett was amazed at her unlabored grace as she glided around the big room.

“But it’s no fun alone,” she complained. “Let’s shut the damn thing off and talk.”

“I love to watch you dance,” said Bartlett.

“Yes, but I’m no Pavlowa,” said Celia as she silenced the radio. “And besides, it’s time for a drink.”

“I’ve still got more than half of mine.”

“Well, you had that wine at dinner, so I’ll have to catch up with you.”

She poured herself another highball and went at the task of “catching up.”

“The trouble with you, Mr.⁠—now isn’t that a scream! I can’t think of your name.”

“Bartlett.”

“The trouble with you, Barker⁠—do you know what’s the trouble with you? You’re too sober. See? You’re too damn sober! That’s the whole trouble, see? If you weren’t so sober, we’d be better off. See? What I can’t understand is how you can be so sober and me so high.”

“You’re not used to it.”

“Not used to it! That’s the cat’s pajamas! Say, I’m like this half the time, see? If I wasn’t, I’d die!”

“What does your husband say?”

“He don’t say because he don’t know. See, Barker? There’s nights when he’s out and there’s a few nights when I’m out myself. And there’s other nights when we’re both in and I pretend I’m sleepy and I go upstairs. See? But I don’t go to bed. See? I have a little party all by myself. See? If I didn’t, I’d die!”

“What do you mean, you’d die?”

“You’re dumb, Barker! You may be sober, but you’re dumb! Did you fall for all that apple sauce about the happy home and the contented wife? Listen, Barker⁠—I’d give anything in the world to be out of this mess. I’d give anything to never see him again.”

“Don’t you love him anymore? Doesn’t he love you? Or what?”

“Love! I never did love him! I didn’t know what love was! And all his love is for himself!”

“How did you happen to get married?”

“I was a kid; that’s the answer. A kid and ambitious. See? He was a director then and he got stuck on me and I thought he’d make me a star. See, Barker? I married him to get myself a chance. And now look at me!”

“I’d say you were fairly well off.”

“Well off, am I? I’d change places with the scum of the earth just to be free! See, Barker? And I could have been a star without any help if I’d only realized it. I had the looks and I had the talent. I’ve got it yet. I could be a Swanson and get myself a marquis; maybe a prince! And look what I did get! A self-satisfied, self-centered⁠—! I thought he’d make me! See, Barker? Well, he’s made me all right; he’s made me a chronic mother and it’s a wonder I’ve got any looks left.

“I fought at first. I told him marriage didn’t mean giving up my art, my life work. But it was no use. He wanted a beautiful wife and beautiful children for his beautiful home. Just to show us off. See? I’m part of his chattels. See, Barker? I’m just like his big diamond or his cars or his horses. And he wouldn’t stand for his wife ‘lowering’ herself to act in pictures. Just as if pictures hadn’t made him!

“You go back to your magazine tomorrow and write about our love nest. See, Barker? And be sure and don’t get mixed and call it a baby ranch. Babies! You thought little Norma was pretty. Well, she is. And what is it going to get her? A rich ⸻ of a husband that treats her like a ⸻! That’s what it’ll get her if I don’t interfere. I hope I don’t last long enough to see her grow up, but if I do, I’m going to advise her to run away from home and live her own life. And be somebody! Not a thing like I am! See, Barker?”

“Did you ever think of a divorce?”

“Did I ever think of one! Listen⁠—but there’s no chance. I’ve got nothing on him, and no matter what he had on me, he’d never let the world know it. He’d keep me here and torture me like he does now, only worse. But I haven’t done anything wrong, see? The men I might care for, they’re all scared of him and his money and power. See, Barker? And the others are just as bad as him. Like fat old Morris, the hotel man, that everybody thinks he’s a model husband. The reason he don’t step out more is because he’s too stingy. But I could have him if I wanted him. Every time he gets near enough to me, he squeezes my hand. I guess he thinks it’s a nickel, the tight old ⸻! But come on, Barker. Let’s have a drink. I’m running down.”

“I think it’s about time you were running up⁠—upstairs,” said Bartlett. “If I were you, I’d try to be in bed and asleep when Gregg gets home.”

“You’re all right, Barker. And after this drink I’m going to do just as you say. Only I thought of it before you did, see? I think of it lots of nights. And tonight you can help me out by telling him I had a bad headache.”

Left alone, Bartlett thought a while, then read, and finally dozed off. He was dozing when Gregg returned.

“Well, well, Bartlett,” said the great man, “did Celia desert you?”

“It was perfectly all right, Mr. Gregg. She had a headache and I told her to go to bed.”

“She’s had a lot of headaches lately; reads too much, I guess. Well, I’m sorry I had this date. It was about a new golf club and I had to be there. I mean I’m going to be president of it. I see you consoled yourself with some of the Bourbon. I mean the bottle doesn’t look as full as it did.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for helping myself so generously,” said Bartlett. “I don’t get stuff like that every day!”

“Well, what do you say if we turn in? We can talk on the way to town tomorrow. Though I guess you won’t have much to ask me. I guess you know all about us. I mean you know all about us now.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Gregg. I’ve got plenty of material if I can just handle it.”

Celia had not put in an appearance when Gregg and his guest were ready to leave the house next day.

“She always sleeps late,” said Gregg. “I mean she never wakes up very early. But she’s later than usual this morning. Sweetheart!” he called up the stairs.

“Yes, sweetheart,” came the reply.

“Mr. Bartlett’s leaving now. I mean he’s going.”

“Oh, goodbye, Mr. Bartlett. Please forgive me for not being down to see you off.”

“You’re forgiven, Mrs. Gregg. And thanks for your hospitality.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart!”

“Goodbye, sweetheart!”