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Three days later Paul arrived in New York and put up at the old Brevoort Hotel on the edge of "Greenwich Village." Its suggested bohemianism and the mellow beauty of lower Fifth Avenue and Washington Square, red, blue, white, and gold in the glittering sunshine of autumn, soothed nerves fatigued by the insistent exhibits of a city which struck him as a permanent "world's fair."

He engaged a passage on a ship sailing for Havre the following week, then booked a seat for a performance of Take itIt [sic] or Leave It, the revue in which Gritty Kestrell was appearing. Gritty's name stretched across hoardings in red letters and winked at Times Square in electric lights. Her face, with its odd grimaces, its snub nose, blue eyes and hair of counterfeit gold, graced the cover of a smart periodical. She endorsed new beauty creams and published her advice to stage-struck girls. She was proprietress of a dancing establishment frequented by the fashionably fast. Joe Krauss had died and left her a fortune and there were hints that she was on excellent terms with the partner who had stepped into Joe's shoes.

Paul eagerly awaited Gritty's first entrance. There were echoes of a vulgar brawl between father and daughter on a landing, then Gritty appeared, made up as a "slavey," her hair screwed into a knot, her sleeves rolled up, her long, twisted boots toeing in, her apron splashed, her skirt down at the back, bucket and mop in hand, staring aggressively off-stage. She set down the bucket, heaved a sigh, and ran out her tongue at the invisible enemy. Paul chuckled. It was so like the tomboy of twenty years ago.

Then she put her foot in the bucket and came tumbling down the stairs, head over heels, fetching up with a skilfully faked thump and an air of chagrin.