We no longer groan and heap ashes upon our headswhen the flames of Tophet are mentioned. For， even thepreachers have begun to tell us that God is radium， orether or some scientific compound， and that the worst wewicked ones may expect is a chemical reaction. This is apleasing hypothesis； but there lingers yet some of the old，goodly terror of orthodoxy.
There are but two subjects upon which one may discoursewith a free imagination， and without the possibility ofbeing controverted. You may talk of your dreams； and youmay tell what you heard a parrot say. Both Morpheus andthe bird are incompetent witnesses； and your listener darenot attack your recital. The baseless fabric of a vision，then， shall furnish my theme—chosen with apologies andregrets instead of the more limited field of pretty Polly’ssmall talk.
I had a dream that was so far removed from the highercriticism that it had to do with the ancient， respectable，and lamented bar-of-judgment theory.
Gabriel had played his trump； and those of us whocould not follow suit were arraigned for examination. Inoticed at one side a gathering of professional bondsmenin solemn black and collars that buttoned behind； but itseemed there was some trouble about their real estatetitles； and they did not appear to be getting any of us out.
A fly cop—an angel policeman—flew over to me andtook me by the left wing. Near at hand was a group of veryprosperous-looking spirits arraigned for judgment.
“Do you belong with that bunch？” the policeman asked.
“Who are they？” was my answer.
“Why，” said he， “they are—”
But this irrelevant stuff is taking up space that the storyshould occupy.
Dulcie worked in a department store. She sold Hamburgedging， or stuffed peppers， or automobiles， or other littletrinkets such as they keep in department stores. Of whatshe earned， Dulcie received six dollars per week. Theremainder was credited to her and debited to somebodyelse’s account in the ledger kept by G—Oh， primal energy，you say， Reverend Doctor—Well then， in the Ledger ofPrimal Energy.
During her first year in the store， Dulcie was paid fivedollars per week. It would be instructive to know howshe lived on that amount. Don’t care？ Very well； probablyyou are interested in larger amounts. Six dollars is a largeramount. I will tell you how she lived on six dollars per week.
One afternoon at six， when Dulcie was sticking her hatpinwithin an eighth of an inch of her medulla oblongata，she said to her chum， Sadie—the girl that waits on youwith her left side：
“Say， Sade， I made a date for dinner this evening withPiggy.”
“You never did！” exclaimed Sadie admiringly. “Well， ain’tyou the lucky one？ Piggy’s an awful swell； and he alwaystakes a girl to swell places. He took Blanche up to theHoffman House one evening， where they have swell music，and you see a lot of swells. You’ll have a swell time， Dulce.”
Dulcie hurried homeward. Her eyes were shining， andher cheeks showed the delicate pink of life’s—real life’s—approaching dawn. It was Friday； and she had fifty centsleft of her last week’s wages.
The streets were filled with the rush-hour floods ofpeople. The electric lights of Broadway were glowing—calling moths from miles， from leagues， from hundredsof leagues out of darkness around to come in and attendthe singeing school. Men in accurate clothes， with faceslike those carved on cherry stones by the old salts insailors’ homes， turned and stared at Dulcie as she sped，unheeding， past them. Manhattan， the night-bloomingcereus， was beginning to unfold its dead-white， heavyodouredpetals.
Dulcie stopped in a store where goods were cheap andbought an imitation lace collar with her fifty cents. Thatmoney was to have been spent otherwise—fifteen cents forsupper， ten cents for breakfast， ten cents for lunch. Anotherdime was to be added to her small store of savings； and fivecents was to be squandered for licorice drops—the kindthat made your cheek look like the toothache， and last aslong. The licorice was an extravagance—almost a carouse—but what is life without pleasures？
Dulcie lived in a furnished room. There is this differencebetween a furnished room and a boarding-house. In afurnished room， other people do not know it when you gohungry.
Dulcie went up to her room—the third floor back in aWest Side brownstone-front. She lit the gas. Scientiststell us that the diamond is the hardest substance known.
Their mistake. Landladies know of a compound besidewhich the diamond is as putty. They pack it in the tips ofgas-burners； and one may stand on a chair and dig at it invain until one’s fingers are pink and bruised. A hairpin willnot remove it； therefore let us call it immovable.
So Dulcie lit the gas. In its one-fourth-candlepower glowwe will observe the room.
Couch-bed， dresser， table， washstand， chair—of thismuch the landlady was guilty. The rest was Dulcie’s. Onthe dresser were her treasures—a gilt china vase presentedto her by Sadie， a calendar issued by a pickle works， a bookon the divination of dreams， some rice powder in a glassdish， and a cluster of artificial cherries tied with a pinkribbon.
Against the wrinkly mirror stood pictures of GeneralKitchener， William Muldoon， the Duchess of Marlborough，and Benvenuto Cellini. Against one wall was a plaster ofParis plaque of an O’Callahan in a Roman helmet. Nearit was a violent oleograph of a lemon-coloured childassaulting an inflammatory butterfly. This was Dulcie’sfinal judgment in art； but it had never been upset. Herrest had never been disturbed by whispers of stolencopes； no critic had elevated his eyebrows at her infantileentomologist.
Piggy was to call for her at seven. While she swiftlymakes ready， let us discreetly face the other way andgossip.
