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TWO PROPOSALS
by Ray Cummings
POPPY BLAKE sat up in bed, on the morning after the show's chilly opening, and read what the heartless, senseless and diabolical critics had to say about "The Idol's Eye." The show was a frost. Anybody could have foretold it, even before the final curtain. And if any lingering doubt remained with the most optimistic, all they had to do was read these morning papers.
Poppy made an entrancing picture, sitting there in bed. She was very small and slight, with very large, dark eyes and long, wavy hair, coal- black, and tumbled now in a mass over her white shoulders and the lacy nightgown. But Poppy was not interested in her appearance. She was wrathful at the critics, and despairing at the future that opened up before her. For if "The Idol's Eye" were a flivver, Poppy was destined to go broke. It was obvious. Another show was unlikely to start so late in the season; and even if it did, her finances could never stand the strain of another period of no-pay rehearsals.
Poppy was alone in her apartment that morning; Vivian was away—her show was trying itself on the dogs upstate. Poppy read everything that every newspaper had to say about "The Idol's Eye"; then she climbed out of bed, and in neglige and slippers began disconsolately preparing breakfast.
Poppy's mind was on men during that lonely meal. When a girl as attractive as anything that. Broadway can produce is about to go broke, naturally she thinks of men. But even in this channel Poppy's thoughts were not optimistic. She knew Broadway like an opened and well-read book; and any girl who knows Broadway knows that it is the last place in the world where you are at all likely to get something for nothing.
There was Allen Dickson, for instance. Dickson represented a type of which there were more than a dozen on Poppy's list. There would be no dearth of money in that direction; but Poppy, after four years on Broadway, was still clinging firm to the belief that what Dickson offered was bad business, and the girl always got the worst of it in the end.
And then there was George Rance. Poppy had finished her breakfast; she lighted a cigarette thoughtfully. George Rance. The only difference between him and Dickson and the rest was that George evidently hesitated over making his proposition so blatant. He had, in fact, done nothing except treat Poppy like a very good pal, and spend a great deal of money on her for taxis, suppers and chocolates. He had not even reached the stage of giving her silk stockings — and she had known him three months!
The feminine mind, at twenty-two, often makes swift and startling decisions. Poppy was still smoking that same cigarette when she came to the realization that she was in love with George Rance. She discovered it in a curious and yet not illogical way. She had been contemplating the possible joys of a life such as Allen Dickson offered—a stunning apartment, equally stunning clothes, jewels, probably, and a limousine of her own, and perhaps a snappy little roadster. And Dickson! Poppy had sense enough not to forget the most important part of such an arrangement. She made a grimace.
Turning mentally to George Rance, she pictured a similar arrangement with him. Somehow, in George's case, instead of making her contemptuous, the thought hurt. It was then she understood the reason. She was in love with George Rance.
Simultaneously Poppy realized something else. There was only one thing to look forward to, when you were a girl of Broadway—there was only one formula that applied. Men only wanted one thing of girls; and when you were fool enough to fall in love with a man--
Poppy shrugged; whistled a snatch from "The Idol's Eye," and tried to get the idea of love out of her mind. She continued trying—unsuccessfully— all that day. To fall in love with a rich young clubman like George Rance was Poppy's idea of nothing to do.
By later afternoon Poppy had decided to keep away from George Rance. Sooner or later he would try something that she knew now she didn't want him to try. Positively, she wouldn't see George again—for a while, anyway, until she got this crazy love bug out of her system.
She came to this conclusion at five o'clock. At five minutes past five she called George's office on the telephone, and in the sweetest, most seductive of tones invited George to come right up to her apartment for dinner before the show.
George arrived at five-thirty.
"Heavens, Poppy, you look bewitching!" he cried from the doorway.
Poppy did, indeed. A tiny, willowy figure that scaled not much over a hundred pounds, and yet was perfectly rounded, with the softest, most seductive curves everywhere that curves should be —a colorful dress that clung to all the curves—a tiny oval face, with a rosebud mouth and a very firm little chin, and two of the biggest, darkest eyes, with the longest, blackest eyelashes, and a mass of soft, fluffy black hair.
These, of course, were George Rance's impressions.
What Poppy saw was a stalwart, blond young man of twenty-eight, with all the lustre of wealth about him, and not the slightest suggestion of anything but real man.
"You're bewitching," he repeated; and to prove it he gathered her into his arms—huge arms that nearly crushed her tiny body.
It was the first time that George Rance had ever tried to kiss her. (She realized, also, that it was the first time he had ever been alone with her, except in public, or on brief taxi rides.) He tried to kiss her now, however—laughingly, but very eagerly. Poppy's face flamed in a way that annoyed her exceedingly; she struggled violently and succeeded in wrenching herself free.
"Don't—George," she panted. "Don't be absurd. Take off your overcoat. Sit down and watch me cook supper."
She took his hat and coat in as matter-of-fact a way as possible, while his eyes followed her.
"You didn't see the Idol's Eye last night," she observed. "I suppose you read the reviews?"
"Yes," he said. "Is the show really that bad?"
She dropped into a chair beside him, not too close. "I didn't think it was, naturally. But I guess it is." She shrugged. "I'll give it two weeks, and then—" Her gesture was expressive of many unpleasant possibilities.
"Too bad," he said. "A lot of work gone for nothing. What will you go after next, Poppy?"
Curiously enough, because Poppy knew she was in love with this young millionaire and therefore had decided to keep her own affairs to herself, she did exactly the reverse. She cooked a dainty little supper, served it perfectly; and while they ate it she talked frankly of her prospect of going broke—and what a tough job it was for a girl to support herself in the show business, anyway.
The result, as Poppy realized afterward, was inevitable. They had reached the coffee and cigarettes when George, after a long silence, leaned over and lifted Poppy bodily from her chair to his lap. He held her close—still silent. It was a very different embrace from his laughing greeting an hour before. Poppy could feel his tenseness and his quick breathing. She tried to struggle, but his arms held her far too tightly. Then she relaxed. Involuntarily her face went up to his; their lips met. Poppy drifted off into ecstasy.
After an eternity, he released her just enough so she could continue breathing.
"Poppy," he murmured huskily, "you mustn't go on living like this. Won't you come to me? Can't you see how I want you—more than I've ever wanted anything in the world before?"
It had come! The fire that George Rance's kiss had awakened in Poppy went out suddenly. She jerked free, and flung herself from him. He rose to his feet, standing head and shoulders over her as she faced him.
"How dare you!" she blazed. "How dare you say a thing like that to me?"
He was confused by her sudden attack; his face flushed. "Why, Poppy, I——"
She stamped her tiny foot. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me how you love me!" She emphasized the word cynically. "I suppose you've even been looking around for a little apartment for us. Have you?"
"Why—why yes," he stammered. "A perfect little apartment—just three rooms, Poppy, but I wasn't going to tell you about it to-night. I wanted to——"
"Well, I don't want it, George Rance. You can——"
Abruptly Poppy felt that she was going to cry. She broke off and turned toward her bedroom door. George was frozen into an angry silence; he stood watching her.
"When you get ready to go—go!" she flung back at him over her shoulder. She crossed the threshold and slammed the bedroom door after her. For a moment there was no sound from the sitting room. Then Poppy heard the outer door slam, and George Rance was gone. She flung herself on her bed, sobbing.
The show that evening seemed to Poppy even more dreary than the night before. She wondered if George Rance were out front. She couldn't see him, and decided probably that he wasn't. He was through with her, no doubt. After the final curtain, Poppy dressed morosely, ignoring the banter of the other girls. Would George be waiting for her at the stage door?
George was not at the stage door, but as Poppy came out another masculine voice greeted her. Sam Haines! The boy from her home town who had wanted to marry her four years ago, when she was eighteen and he was twenty-two. Poppy had not seen or heard from him since. When her mother had died she had turned down Sam's earnest, awkward offer of marriage and had come to New York to go on the stage.
And now here was Sam, waiting for her in the alley.
Poppy held out her small gloved hand. "Sam Haines! Gee, it's a long time since I've seen you."
He shook her hand enthusiastically, pulling her aside out of the way of the other girls leaving the theatre.
Poppy stood regarding him wonderingly.
"Why, you're not a rube any more, Sam. What's the idea? Workin' in the city?"
Sam nodded. He was a rather good-looking youth; he had the appearance of a clerk, though to Poppy's discerning eye there was still a lot of the hayseed about him.
"Yes," he said. "Been here over six months. I'm in the export business—pretty good job—forty a week since my last raise."
He stated it as though he expected Poppy to be overawed.
"Fine," she grinned, "How'd you hear of me? I thought you'd forgotten all about me, Sam."
They were walking slowly toward Broadway. He squeezed her arm. "I never did forget you, Poppy. I saw the show to-night, and I knew you right away."
There was an awkward silence.
"Where'll we go?" he asked finally, stopping on the corner of Broadway.
She smiled. "Anywhere you say."
"How about—" He drew a long breath. "You've got an apartment, haven't you? I s'pose every chorus girl has. Couldn't we—couldn't we go there?"
He-gulped a little, and added:
"I want to talk to you, Poppy, about old times. I've got something—kind of important, to ask you.
Poppy was thinking things faster than she could sort them out.
"All right," she agreed impulsively. "Come on, if you want to. I'll make you coffee and sandwiches."
Sam admired Poppy's apartment tremendously. He was awed, being there almost at midnight. It was the first chorus girl's apartment he had ever been in, he admitted.
Poppy put on the percolator, made sandwiches, and they talked about old times. Sam's embarrassment gradually left him; once, as she passed close to him, his hands caught at her. But smilingly she eluded the caress.
"Shucks," he complained. "You used to like me, Poppy." He became suddenly very serious. "Sit down here, 'longside of me. I've got—got something I want to say."
He was sitting on the divan. Poppy pulled the little table with the coffee nearer to him, and sat down at his side.
"What is it, Sam?"
"I—Poppy, listen—I'm crazy about you, just like I always was." His arms went around her abruptly. He held her close, awkwardly trying to kiss her.
Poppy's mind was a maelstrom. Broadway—George Rance—the game had hurt her already, and if she stuck to it she'd be hurt still more. Here was another way. Marriage with Sam and his forty a week. Without love it was not a very cheerful prospect, but it was safe.
Sam was whispering earnestly:
"I love you, Poppy. I'm crazy about you. You're so little, and cute. I want you, Poppy. Don't you think maybe you—want me, too?"
For one breathless instant she hesitated. His arms tightened around her. He kissed her, on the neck, and then on the lips, awkwardly. She stopped him.
"Sam, I'm not sure, yet, that I love you enough to marry you." She wanted to be fair. Poppy had never played underhanded yet with a man, and she never intended to.
He released her as though she had slapped him.
"Marry?" he echoed.
Poppy's breathing stopped; her blood seemed turning cold. She stared into his eyes, saw the flush mounting to his cheeks.
"Yes," she said. She was suddenly master of herself. "You want to marry me, don't you, Sam? Isn't that what you meant?"
He swallowed his over large Adam's apple with a gulp. "Why no, I—I can't marry on forty a week."
His eyes fell before hers.
"What did you mean, Sam?" Her tone was even, almost encouraging.
He gulped again. "I was thinkin' maybe— well, maybe you'd like for me to come here an' live for awhile." Her silence seemed to give him heart; he raised his eyes.
"With my forty an' what you get we could make out fine, Poppy. I wasn't just thinkin' of marriage. I knew you'd understand, now that you're a——"
"A chorus girl," she prompted gently. "Is that it, Sam?"
"Well, yes," he admitted. His hand went out to touch her again, but she drew away. "I s'posed girls like you was used to that sort of thing. I know you liked me four years ago—an' I'm crazy about you——"
She stood up, her face cold with contempt.
"You've got me wrong, Sam. All wrong. I think you'd better go now."
He rose beside her, still confused. "But, Poppy, listen——"
"Go," she reiterated, a little unsteadily. "I—never want to see you again."
Suddenly he picked up his hat and coat. "You must think you're awful good," he muttered, "to get mad at me like that."
Her silent gaze was withering; as he left he slammed the door after him.
Poppy stood in the centre of the room, wondering whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She was still undecided when the telephone rang. It was George Rance!
"I wanted to get to the show to-night," he began briskly. "But I couldn't get away. A business conference—it's just over now." His tone ignored what had happened between them in the afternoon. "Are you alone, Poppy? I want to see you."
"Yes," she said faintly.
"Good. I'm coming right up. I'm down at the corner."
The click of his receiver sounded in Poppy's ears. Mechanically she hung up. George was not going to let her put him off. What he wanted—he was going to get. Oh, well—what was the use?
Poppy went into her bedroom, flung off her street clothes, and donned her filmiest, most seductive neglige. She was rouging her lips when George's ring sounded. As she went to let him in her face was almost grim.
He stood staring at her from the doorway, while she held out her hand and tried to smile at him. Then, quite as though he could not resist the impulse, he crushed her fragrant little body in his arms.
"Poppy," he murmured, "you mustn't treat me the way you did this afternoon, little girl."
Her arms went up about his neck. What was the use fighting a thing like this? And after all, she did love him.
"I'm—sorry I acted that way," she whispered. "You—you can have me, George. Any—any time you want me."
His arms relaxed; amazement spread over his face. Then he gathered her up, and sat on the divan with her on his lap.
"Poppy! My God, Poppy, I wanted to marry you! Won't you marry me? I love you—I want you for my wife."
But Poppy did not answer. She was sobbing against his shoulder.