Life, 1916-03-09 · page 28 of 44
Life — March 9, 1916 — page 28: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a short story (not a political cartoon) about a woman maintaining an elaborate social fiction. The narrative describes a fashionably dressed woman emerging from a shabby apartment, then spending her day performing wealth: she's admired on the street, browsed expensive shops without buying (except coffee), and invented a "car" and "cook" to maintain appearances. The twist comes at dusk when a young man named Billy recognizes her and greets her familiarly as "Pussy." Their genuine reunion—with his shocked admiration at her successful performance—reveals the story's point: she has been "playing the game" of appearing wealthy through careful presentation, though she lives modestly. The social satire targets early 20th-century class pretense and the performative nature of respectability, where appearance and "the right" presentation matter more than actual wealth. The illustration shows Billy and Pussy meeting, with her still carrying the coffee she bought—a small, real purchase amid her day of elaborate theatrical performance.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
(Under this heading, Lire will publish a short story in each issue) The Game By Juliet Wilbor Tompkins EEING her emerge from the front door, no one would have dreamed that it was her own. It was an entirely respectable front door, but it obviously opened, clicking, on long, dark flights, moody with the humors of past meals, ind leading at best to two rooms and - kitchenette; while she, from her velvet and-fur toque to her cloth-topped boots was a lady of fine fashion, Her clothes were what women call “ right” and know how to appraise. Man would have re- ported only the delighful face, where discretion lay like a light veil over deep curves of joyousness; but he would have gone to her assistance with the spring that is his instinctive tribute to wealth and fashion, Turning into the broad avenue, she walked a triumphant mile, a lady of high degree on foot for a whim and earnestly studied by an interested populace. Other such ladies turned in their cars for a second look, thinking they knew her; Prosperous city men with shrewd eyes and vulgar necks clearly wished they knew her, but recognized the hopeless- ness; here and there some man of di tinction, head and shoulders above the crowd and bringing a breezy air of trav- els, singled her out and wondered “ who” she could be; hansom cab drivers raised an imploring forefinger to her or made mad wheels through the crush to reach her side, and the policeman at her cross- ing bottled up three blocks’ full of boil- ing traffic and bade her take her time. She thanked him with fine careless graciousness and passed on to a more intimate drama in various resplendent shops. It lasted for two rapturous hours. “1 don’t want anything,” she said at ev- ery pause, but they would show her glowing rugs, and French gowns reduced to such mere songs as $290, and mahog- any tea-wagons and embroidered baby. and sport-coats and candelabra nglish davenports and aluminum kitchen utensils, An interesting new coffee-maker held her for a wistful moment. “But my cook is so old-fashioned ! " she deplored, and they smiled over the perverse power of the kitchen tyrant. For the moment she actually believed that she had a cook, At the end of it all, standing between exotic fruits and sub- limated vegetables shining brighter than life from glass jars, she bought a pound of coffee and would take it with her. The clerk handed the package to an un- derling. “Carry that out to Madam's car,” he commanded. For an instant something flickered, faltered, in the secure person- ality; then, as a born actor surmounts a stage blunder, she put out a detaining hand. “But I am walking to-day,” she said, with just the right cheerful indifference. The clerk agreed that in such weather one did well to walk. He had an air of congratulating her sense. Dusk was falling when she came out, and she had paused a moment on the broad step, considering her next move, when a voice spoke from the sidewalk with startled heartiness, “Hello, Pussy!" A young man, shab- bily dressed, but with sagacious features marking his face with prophecy, had halted just beneath. “Hello, Billy!” Her reply was as hearty, and their meeting eyes said jour- ney’s end as their hands came together. Then he drew back a pace for a better look. “My God, Pussy, but you do beat the Dutch!” he said from a full and rever- ential heart. The fine veil of her alooi- ness was gone, and something very like a giggle answered. “ But I worked in all this fur trimming myself,” she reminded him. “ You can do anything"; he spoke with simple conviction; and then, answering her scruple: “ We'll never be so far down that you haven't got one good outfit. You can nail your faith to that, old lad “Oh, I nail my faith to you. took a thread from his shoulder. you come home now?” “No, sweetheart—got to work. I'm on the trail of a man who may do wonders for us.” “Well, don’t be late to dinner,” she said, and they looked back to nod and smile as they parted, The avenue still offered tribute, but, as (Continued on page 457) She “Can't comicbooks.com