About once a month, however, he wrote a short story, and of late,
now that he was convalescing from Maupassant and had begun to be
somewhat himself, these stories had improved in quality, and one
or two had even been copied in the Eastern journals. He earned
$100 a month.
When Snooky had let him in, Rivers dashed up the stairs of the
Bessemers' flat, two at a time, tossed his stick into a porcelain
cane-rack in the hall, wrenched off his overcoat with a single
movement, and precipitated himself, panting, into the dining-room,
tugging at his gloves.
He was twenty-eight years old--nearly ten years older than Travis;
tall and somewhat lean; his face smooth-shaven and pink all over,
as if he had just given it a violent rubbing with a crash towel.
Unlike most writing folk, he dressed himself according to
prevailing custom. But Condy overdid the matter. His scarfs and
cravats were too bright, his colored shirt-bosoms were too broadly
barred, his waistcoats too extreme. Even Travis, as she rose to
his abrupt entrance? told herself that of a Sunday evening a pink
shirt and scarlet tie were a combination hardly to be forgiven.
Condy shook her hand in both of his, then rushed over to Mr.
Bessemer, exclaiming between breaths: "Don't get up, sir--don't
THINK of it! Heavens! I'm disgustingly late. You're all through.
My watch--this beastly watch of mine--I can't imagine how I came
to be so late. You did quite right not to wait.
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