O. Henry

                   Lost on Dress Parade


   Mr. Towers Chandler was pressing his evening suit in his hall 
bedroom. One iron was heating on a small gas stove; the other was 
being pushed vigorously back and forth to make the desirable crease 
that would be seen later on, extending in straight lines from Mr. 
Chandler's patent leather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. So 
much of the hero's toilet may be entrusted to our confidence. The 
remainder may be guessed by those whom genteel poverty has driven to 
ignoble expedient. Our next view of him shall be as he descends the 
steps of his lodging-house immaculately and correctly clothed; calm, 
assured, handsome-in appearance the typical New York young clubman 
setting out, slightly bored, to inaugurate the pleasures of the 
evening.
   Chandler's honorarium was $18 per week. He was employed in the 
office of an architect. He was twenty-two years old; he considered 
architecture to be truly an art; and he honestly believed, though he 
would not have dared to admit it in New York-that the Flatiron 
Building was inferior in design to the great cathedral in Milan.
   Out of each week's earnings Chandler set aside $1. At the end of 
each ten weeks, with the extra capital thus accumulated he purchased 
one gentleman's evening from the bargain counter of stingy old Father 
Time. He arrayed himself in the regalia of millionaires and 
presidents; he took himself to the quarter where life is brightest and 
showiest, and there dined with taste and luxury. With ten dollars a 
man may, for a few hours, play the wealthy idler to perfection. The 
sum is ample for a well-considered meal, a bottle bearing a 
respectable label, commensurate tips, a smoke, cab fare and the 
ordinary etceteras.
   This one delectable evening culled from each dull seventy was to 
Chandler a source of renascent bliss. To the society bud comes but one 
debut; it stands alone sweet in her memory when her hair has whitened; 
but to Chandler each ten weeks brought a joy as keen, as thrilling, as 
new as the first had been. To sit among bon vivants under palms in the 
swirl of concealed music, to look upon the habitués of such a 
paradise and to be looked upon by them-what is a girl's first dance 
and short-sleeved tulle compared with this?
   Up Broadway Chandler moved with the vespertine dress parade. For 
this evening he was an exhibit as well as a gazer. For the next sixty-
nine evenings he would be dining in cheviot and worsted at dubious 
table d'hôte, at whirlwind lunch counters, on sandwiches and beer 
in his hall bedroom. He was willing to do that, for he was a true son 
of the great city of razzle-dazzle, and to him one evening in the 
limelight made up for many dark ones.
   Chandler protracted his walk until the Forties began to intersect 
the great and glittering primrose way, for the evening was yet young, 
and when one is of the beau monde only one day in seventy, one loves 
to protract the pleasure. Eyes bright, sinister, curious, admiring, 
provocative, alluring were bent upon him, for his garb and air 
proclaimed him a devotee to the hour of solace and pleasure.
   At a certain corner he came to a standstill, proposing to himself 
the question of turning back toward the showy and fashionable 
restaurant in which he usually dined on the evenings of his especial 
luxury. Just then a girl scudded lightly around the corner, slipped on 
a patch of icy snow and fell plump upon the sidewalk.
   Chandler assisted her to her feet with instant and solicitous 
courtesy. The girl hobbled to the wall of the building, leaned against 
it, and thanked him demurely.
   "I think my ankle is strained," she said. "It twisted when I fell."
   "Does it pain you much?" inquired Chandler.
   "Only when I rest my weight upon it. I think I will be able to walk 
in a minute or two."
   "If I can be of any further service," suggested the young man, "I 
will call a cab, or-"
   "Thank you," said the girl, softly but heartily. "I am sure you 
need not trouble yourself any further. It was so awkward of me. And my 
shoe heels are horridly common-sense; I can't blame them at all."
   Chandler looked at the girl and found her swiftly drawing his 
interest. She was pretty in a refined way; and her eyes was both merry 
and kind. She was inexpensively clothed in a plain black dress that 
suggested a sort of uniform such as shop girls wear. Her glossy dark-
brown hair showed its coils beneath a cheap hat of black straw whose 
only ornament was a velvet ribbon and bow. She could have posed as a 
model for the self-respecting working girl of the best type.
   A sudden idea came into the head of the young architect. He would 
ask this girl to dine with him. Here was the element that his splendid 
but solitary periodic feasts had lacked. His brief season of elegant 
luxury would be doubly enjoyable if he could add to it a lady's 
society. This girl was a lady, he was sure-her manner and speech 
settled that. And in spite of her extremely plain attire he felt that 
he would be pleased to sit at table with her.
   These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind, and he decided to 
ask her. It was a breach of etiquette, of course, but oftentimes wage-
earning girls waived formalities in matters of this kind. They were 
generally shrewd judges of men; and thought better of their own 
judgment than they did of useless conventions. His ten dollars, 
discreetly expended, would enable the two to dine very well indeed. 
The dinner would no doubt be a wonderful experience thrown into the 
dull routine of the girl's life; and her lively appreciation of it 
would add to his own triumph and pleasure.
   "I think," he said to her, with frank gravity, "that your foot 
needs a longer rest than you suppose. Now, I am going to suggest a way 
in which you can give it that and at the same time do me a favour. I 
was on my way to dine all by my lonely self when you came tumbling 
around the corner. You come with me and we'll have a cozy dinner and a 
pleasant talk together, and by that time your game ankle will carry 
you home very nicely, I am sure."
   The girl looked quickly up into Chandler's clear, pleasant 
countenance. Her eyes twinkled once very brightly, and then she smiled 
ingenuously.
   "But we don't know each other-it wouldn't be right, would it?" she 
said doubtfully.
   "There is nothing wrong about it," said the young man candidly.
   "I'll introduce myself-permit me-Mr. Towers Chandler. After our 
dinner, which I will try to make as pleasant as possible, I will bid 
you good-evening, or attend you safely to your door, whichever you 
prefer."
   "But, dear me!" said the girl, with a glance at Chandler's 
faultless attire. "In this old dress and hat!"
   "Never mind that," said Chandler cheerfully. "I'm sure you look 
more charming in them than any one we shall see in the most elaborate 
dinner toilette."
   "My ankle does hurt yet," admitted the girl, attempting a limping 
step. "I think I will accept your invitation, Mr. Chandler. You may 
call me Miss Marian."
   "Come then, Miss Marian," said the young architect gaily, but with 
perfect courtesy; "you will not have far to walk. There is a very 
respectable and good restaurant in the next block. You will have to 
lean on my arm-so-and walk slowly. It is lonely dining all by one's 
self. I'm just a little bit glad that you slipped on the ice."
   When the two were established at a well-appointed table, with a 
promising waiter hovering in attendance, Chandler began to experience 
the real joy that his regular outings always brought to him.
   The restaurant was not so showy or pretentious as the one further 
down Broadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so. The 
tables were well filled with prosperous-looking diners, there was a 
good orchestra, playing softly enough to make conversation a possible 
pleasure, and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism. His 
companion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with an air 
that added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure. 
And it is certain that she looked at Chandler, with his animated but 
self-possessed manner and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with 
something not far from admiration in her own charming face.
   Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan, the Frenzy of Fuss and 
Feathers, the Bacillus of Brag, the Provincial Plague of Pose seized 
upon Towers Chandler. He was on Broadway, surrounded by pomp and 
style, and there were eyes to look at him. On the stage of that comedy 
he had assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly of fashion 
and an idler of means and taste. He was dressed for the part, and all 
his good angels had not the power to prevent him from acting it.
   So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and 
riding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad, and threw out 
hints of a yacht lying at Larchmont. He could see that she was vastly 
impressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random 
insinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few 
names that are handled reverently by the proletariat. It was 
Chandler's short little day, and he was wringing from it the best that 
could be had, as he saw it. And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold 
of this girl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised 
between him and all objects.
   "This way of living that you speak of," she said, "sounds so futile 
and purposeless. Haven't you any work to do in the world that might 
interest you more?"
   "My dear Miss Marian," he exclaimed-"work! Think of dressing every 
day for dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon-with a 
policeman at every corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to 
the station, if you get up any greater speed than a donkey cart's 
gait. We do-nothings are the hardest workers in the land."
   The dinner was concluded, the waiter generously fed, and the two 
walked out to the corner where they had met. Miss Marian walked very 
well now; her limp was scarcely noticeable.
   "Thank you for a nice time," she said frankly. "I must run home 
now. I liked the dinner very much, Mr. Chandler."
   He shook hands with her, smiling cordially, and said something 
about a game of bridge at his club. He watched her for a moment, 
walking rather rapidly eastward, and then he found a cab to drive him 
slowly homeward.
   In his chilly bedroom Chandler laid away his evening clothes for a 
sixty-nine days' rest. He went about it thoughtfully.
   "That was a stunning girl," he said to himself. "She's all right, 
too, I'd be sworn, even if she does have to work. Perhaps if I'd told 
her the truth instead of all that razzle-dazzle we might-but, confound 
it! I had to play up to my clothes."
   Thus spoke the brave who was born and reared in the wigwams of the 
tribe of the Manhattans.
   The girl, after leaving her entertainer, sped swiftly cross-town 
until she arrived at a handsome and sedate mansion two squares to the 
east, facing on that avenue which is the highway of Mammon and the 
auxiliary gods. Here she entered hurriedly and ascended to a room 
where a handsome young lady in an elaborate house dress was looking 
anxiously out the window.
   "Oh, you madcap!" exclaimed the elder girl, when the other entered. 
"When will you quit frightening us this way? It is two hours since you 
ran out in that old rag of a dress and Marie's hat. Mamma has been so 
alarmed. She sent Louis in the auto to try to find you. You are a bad, 
thoughtless Puss."
   The elder girl touched a button, and a maid came in a moment. 
"Marie, tell mamma that Miss Marian has returned."
   "Don't scold, sister. I only ran down to Mme. Theo's to tell her to 
use mauve insertion instead of pink. My costume and Marie's hat were 
just what I needed. Every one thought I was a shopgirl, I am sure."
   "Dinner is over, dear; you stayed so late."
   "I know. I slipped on the sidewalk and turned my ankle. I could not 
walk, so I hobbled into a restaurant and sat there until I was better. 
That is why I was so long."
   The two girls sat in the window seat, looking out at the lights and 
the stream of hurrying vehicles in the avenue. The younger one cuddled 
down with her head in her sister's lap.
   "We will have to marry some day," she said dreamily-"both of us. We 
have so much money that we will not be allowed to disappoint the 
public. Do you want me to tell you the kind of a man I could love, 
Sis?"
   "Go on, you scatterbrain," smiled the other.
   "I could love a man with dark and kind blue eyes, who is gentle and 
respectful to poor girls, who is handsome and good and does not try to 
flirt. But I could love him only if he had an ambition, an object, 
some work to do in the world. I would not care how poor he was if I 
could help him build his way up. But sister, dear, the kind of man we 
always meet-the man who lives an idle life between society and his 
clubs-I could not love a man like that, even if his eyes were blue and 
he were ever so kind to poor girls whom he met in the street."