Two-Face. Ernest Dudley

itself through the sound of voices. People began to hum and then quite suddenly everyone seemed to be dancing. Only Mitsi was left alone. Julia was dancing with the fat newspaper man.

      Sadie was leaning over the top of the piano staring at Foster’s fingers as they moved over the keys and beat out a rhythmic melody.

      Mitsi felt strangely stirred. This music—there was something about it. Sad, sentimental. Julia and her partner passed by, both dancing skilfully. Mitsi found herself sitting in a corner watching the dancers, listening to the music. In turn two men came up and asked her to dance. She shook her head, smiling:

      “Please, I so much enjoy just watching and listening.”

      Both men were understanding. They stood one on either side of her. One of them gave her a cigarette. She took it unconsciously and smoked. The cigarette had a pleasant, harsh tang about it which she liked. It was different from the one or two with which Julia had initiated her into the art of smoking.

      Suddenly a voice, so lovely, so rich and warm broke into the music. The piano sank into a soft accompaniment. Sadie Harris was singing. Mitsi caught the words of “Body and Soul.” Sadie leant against the piano staring straight in front of her. Her body was quite still. Everybody stopped dancing, one by one, and listened. Mitsi sat hypnotized by the voice of this strange woman—a voice so much more beautiful than her own, with its deep resonant quality. And the melody seemed to her to be the saddest thing. Even she realized that Sadie gave the words a significance and a reality which was very moving.

      The song came to a close but John Foster continued playing. He drifted into another tune—“Smoke gets in your Eyes.” Sadie shook her head, but he looked up at her and smiled:

      “Please, Sadie.”

      The others took up his pleading, so Sadie sang.

      Mitsi looked up to find Julia beside her. She took her hand.

      “Enjoying it?” Julia queried.

      Mitsi nodded.

      Julia glanced across to the piano and Sadie.

      “She was the toast of Broadway three years ago.”

      “She is beautiful. I wish I could sing like that.”

      “Well you can try. If you are only half as good it’ll suit.”

      Mitsi listened intently as though she would absorb some of the other’s magic. The song ended and in spite of repeated demands Sadie left the piano. Another man took Foster’s place and he came over to Mitsi.

      Now another tune, gayer and swifter, filled the room. People were dancing again. Foster gave Mitsi a little burlesque bow—clicked his heels and twisted an imaginary military moustache.

      “Dance? Yes?”

      She moved into his arms.

      He danced very slickly and a sudden mood of happiness lifted her up. Presently she felt a tap on her arm and turned to find Sadie beside her.

      “Pardon this cut in, John, but I want to talk to her myself.”

      Mitsi’s partner pulled a face at Sadie and released her. She found herself with the American woman in a clear corner.

      “Julia tells me you’re going to sing in London. Larry Curtis is boosting you up over there. Lucky to have him looking after you, though you ought to do pretty well anyway by the look of you.”

      She scrutinized her narrowly.

      “Got what it takes all right you have,” she muttered. “With your accent and that glamour which to us most foreigners have anyway.”

      “I am half English.”

      “That so? You don’t look it. If I were you I’d forget it.”

      “That’s what Julia says.”

      “Julia’s right. She tells me you have a nice voice, too.”

      “Not so—exciting—is that the word?—as yours.”

      Sadie laughed harshly.

      “Ha! Gone to bits. Haven’t sung properly for years.”

      “Why not?”

      Sadie gave her a long look.

      “I hit the toboggan I guess.”

      “I do not understand.”

      “Slid,” the other explained succinctly.

      “Lost my grip. With the racket you’re going into you’ll have to hang on hard.”

      She paused to light a cigarette. Mitsi watched her curiously.

      “Julia thinks I might be able to give you a bit of advice,” the other went on through a cloud of smoke. “Help you a bit. Well, I guess I can give you plenty of that! But if you listened you wouldn’t remember anyway. You have to find out for yourself, I reckon. When you are in a bit of a jam listen to your own heart. Do what that tells you.”

      She gave Mitsi a smile that was full of surprising gentleness, and said:

      “Tell you what I will do though—I like the look of you and I know you must have something or Larry wouldn’t be all het up about you—! Ever heard of Sam Levinsky?”

      Mitsi shook her head.

      “Well, he’s the greatest little song writer both sides of the Atlantic!”

      She nodded towards the piano. The man was playing a slow, lazy tune with an infectious rhythm about it.

      “That’s one of his numbers.”

      Mitsi listened to the tune as Sadie spoke about its composer.

      Sam Levinsky occupied the premier position among America’s purveyors of tuneful sentiment. Hollywood paid him colossal sums. The radio plugged his tunes to millions of listeners. Tunes which he churned out with incredible speed while maintaining an originality and charm which was unique.

      “He’s only to write one song for you to set the seal on your fame,” Sadie concluded.

      Sadie’s enthusiasm thrilled Mitsi.

      “He’s in New York now but on his way here. I’ll tell him about you, and if he’s interested maybe he’ll knock out a song for you.”

      Mitsi tried to thank her, but she silenced her.

      “Sam won’t do a thing if he doesn’t like you, so don’t thank me!”

      At that moment she saw Foster bearing drinks making his way across to them. He was laughing as he dodged through the dancers. Somebody threw a cushion at him which he ducked.

      “The party’s livening up, I guess,” Sadie muttered to Mitsi. She screamed at him: “John! Look out! If you spill those cocktails on my floor they’ll burn a hole clean through it!”