Chapter VII.The Famous TeaIn spite of the promise of recent events and the possible clews which Moore and I believed we had found, the next three weeks were uneventful. Uneventful, that is, from the standpoint of our quest, though eventful enough to me personally.I was a languid and cynical guest at many high-brow and low-brow gatherings. I discussed Turgenieff, spiritualism, psycho-analysis, free love, and so forth at the one until my ears burned; and polo, the Dempsey-Carpentier match, women, politics and stocks at the other until I could start my tongue going and go away and leave it. But I made little progress and unearthed no fresh clews.I did make a little progress, however.For one thing, I cultivated the acquaintanceship of Mrs. Fawcette until it ripened into something much more intimate, though vague and undefined. She was, I found, an interesting woman, well-traveled and well-read, and, better still, with very definite views on most things. She had a clever gift of repartee, as I learned to my cost, for I found myself several times considerably beyond my depth and somewhat at a loss. Her views were strikingly, glaringly liberal, and although I attempted to match her in cynical disregard of the conventions of conversation, I think she suspected that my views were not quite so disillusioned and opportunistic as I tried to make them appear. At all events she seemed to take a secret delight in attempting to startle me, and succeeded better than, I hope, she guessed. But I got no news from her.However, I formed a real friendship during those three weeks which meant far more to me, however little it might mean to our quest. For I arranged a second opportunity to meet and talk with the Girl in Gray, as I like to call her. And after that I obtained her permission, and that of her aunt, to call upon them. After that call and a theater party which I gave for them, we were good friends. It was my playtime, before the serious part of our quest began, and it meant more to me than I can express. Natalie Van Cleef took her many social experiences and the many strange specimens she met during her energetic aunt’s peregrinations with a ready sympathy and a sweet reserve that were inspiring to watch. She was welcome everywhere, as much for her lovely personality as for her beauty, but somehow she contrived to be a welcome addition to each circle without being exactly of it. She was essentially innocent without being ignorant, so that the unconventional moods and tenses with which she came into contact left her comprehending, at least in part, and yet quite untouched in her own sweet, calm, and slightly shy personality.To me during those days she was like a breath of sea air in a crowded department store, or a bunch of roses on a tramp steamer, and before many days had passed she filled most of my waking thoughts and many of my dreams. We saw a good deal of each other and had many happy days together, days so happy, at least to me, that I can never think of them without a catch in the throat and a tightening of the hands, in view of what came after. For as our friendship ripened I grew to realize that her mind and spirit were as sweet and lovely and gracious as her person.Moore accomplished little more than I did, during those three weeks. The young fellow from whom he had obtained his first hint of a circle of drug-takersde luxehad in truth disappeared, and being a wealthy young man of considerable social position, his disappearance became a nine-days’ wonder. But for all that, no trace of him was found, and Moore and I decided that our first surmise that his lack of reticence that night had been the cause of his disappearance was the correct one.Moore did, however, get in touch with the young doctor who had overheard that conversation, and after a while succeeded in making his acquaintance. Vining apparently took to him at once, and when Moore carelessly mentioned the fact that he had independent means, which was lucky, because the public and the dealers were hardly sufficiently educated to appreciate his ideas on art, Vining contrived to see a good deal of him, aided and abetted by Moore himself.Once or twice, Moore vaguely skirted the subject of his conversation that night with the young fellow who had disappeared, but Vining displayed a bland ignorance of any such conversation or of any place where such a party as the young man had described could be found.However, Moore did not despair, but continued to cultivate the friendship, in his effeminate and lackadaisical way, until presently Vining knew all about his passion for new and outlandish sensations.But events were shaping themselves for us both during those weeks, and the end of our period of inactivity came suddenly and at the same time to both.A few days before Natalie planned to leave New York, Mrs. Furneau arranged a little luncheon to which I had the honor of being invited. Among others, the luncheon included Mrs. Fawcette, and I hope that I shall never be called upon to sit through a more trying two hours. For I had fallen almost unconsciously into the habit of being very much myself when Natalie and I were alone together, and my change of manner when talking to Mrs. Fawcette, and to Mrs. Furneau for that matter, must have been striking.I caught Natalie looking at me once or twice in a puzzled way during the luncheon, but so far as the quest was concerned, it would have been more costly to strike a false or inconsistent note in their ears than in the ears of Natalie; so that I was forced to carry on a miserably cynical, disillusioned and world-weary conversation with my hostess and with Mrs. Fawcette, sick at heart all the time at the half-concealed surprise in Natalie’s eyes.It had to be done now, but I regretted adopting such a pose in the first place.It was a little better after luncheon, however. I had taken upon myself the position of an admirer of both my hostess and Mrs. Fawcette, but I contrived, with some difficulty, to have a word or two with Natalie away from the others. We had always been frank with each other and this conversation was no exception, although she was just a little cool at first.“I’m—I’m very, very sorry that you are going away,” I told her.“Are you? I should not imagine that anything would have the power to make you either very, very sorry or very, very glad.”“Natalie!”She looked down for a moment, and when she looked up again she was her usual friendly, frank self. “Well then, why do you talk in that disillusioned way? It isn’t a bit like you.”I was silent. Then, taking a wild leap in the dark, I tried to be equally frank, whatever the consequences.“Natalie, I know it isn’t like me. It isn’t even a real side of me. But I had to do it to-day, as I have had to do it before. There is a real and vital reason. And that is all I can tell you. Do you believe me?”She looked up, laughing. Then, as her eyes met mine, her smile faded into a look of wonder. “Do you really mean that?” she demanded.“I really mean just that,” I assured her earnestly; “and I really mean that I simply cannot tell you any more than that.”“But—but—why, that is absurd. Why can’t you be yourself?”I shook my head despairingly. “Natalie, I have told you the truth. I don’t lie much anyway; and our friendship means far too much to me for me to lie to you of all people. But I cannot tell you any more than that!”She stared at me for a moment or two, and then I realized for the first time, perhaps, what a really wonderful girl she was. For her hand went out impulsively to my sleeve and the eyes she raised to mine were full of sincerity. “I believe you, then,” she said simply, “and your reason does not matter.”I must have let some of my appreciation show in my eyes, for she flushed a delicious pink and dropped her own quickly. I leaned a little nearer to her: “And you see I can still be very, very glad about something!” I told her.She changed the subject rather hastily.“Do you remember my telling you about some wonderful tea I had had, just before our first meeting?” she asked.I hastened to assure her that I did remember, although we had discussed that tea several times and wondered about its peculiar properties.“Well, Mrs. Fawcette has promised me some more of it, and she is taking me there to tea this afternoon!”“To the same place?” I asked. Her words filled me with a vague apprehension, perhaps because by now I hated the thought of associating her closely with anything that had to do with my quest.“Yes, to the same place.Nowwhat’s the matter?” she added, laughing.“Well,” I answered, “frankly, I hate the thought of your taking drugs of any kind, however mild. You don’t belong in that crowd, Natalie.”She laughed. “Oh, but I must have some more of that tea, if only to convince myself that there was nothing in it, and that my queer moodwasonly a mood.”“Well, if you must go there, somehow I wish you’d let me go with you! I know it’s a funny request, and I don’t quite know why I don’t want you to go there without me—but I don’t!” I felt very young and awkward with that speech. But there was so little that I could tell her to warn her. And I didnottrust either Mrs. Fawcette or her friends. I had seen something of them, and they were a queer crowd, to say the least.Natalie looked up at me curiously. “You are in a funny mood to-day,” she said. “But if you want to come along, I should think Mrs. Fawcette would be delighted to take you!” It was unlike her, but I seemed to feel something of a challenge in her last remark.Before I could answer, however, she had turned to that lady, who was sitting near by.“Mrs. Fawcette,” she called gayly, “Mr. Clayton is dying to come to the tea with us this afternoon. Do you suppose you could manage to take him?”Then I saw a queer thing happen. Mrs. Fawcette turned as though she had been stung and glanced first at me and then at Natalie, with a scarcely veiled intensity that left us startled in our turn. She did not answer for a moment, and Natalie was driven into further speech.“I’ve been telling him about that wonderful tea we had there before, and he wants to come along and sample it. But of course if you’d rather not——” She glanced from Mrs. Fawcette to me in obvious embarrassment.I thought Mrs. Fawcette had grown rather pale, but she answered now and readily enough: “You bad girl! I told you not to talk about that tea, or our host will be swamped with people coming to sample it and demanding where he got it. But if Mr. Clayton wants to come with us, I shall be delighted to include him in the party.” She avoided my eyes as she spoke. “He can see you home afterwards,” she added.There was an almost venomous light in her eyes as she spoke. But if Natalie saw it she appeared serenely unconscious of the fact.“Thank you,” she answered, “and I’m awfully sorry if I should not have talked to him about it.”Naturally I did not feel very comfortable about my position in the party, but I was determined to go, and so made no demur to my somewhat left-handed invitation. And later, when we found ourselves in Mrs. Fawcette’s car on the way to her friend’s house, she seemed to wish to make amends by being very cordial to us both. But I did not much relish the look in her eye when it fell on Natalie all the same.Our host was a Russian, an aristocrat and a card from the fallen house of cards that had been Russia, carried by the wind of that fall into a new country and a new circle.Unlike most Russian aristocrat refugees, however, he seemed to have plenty of means. The house, just off Fifth Avenue in the Eighties, was beautifully if somewhat barbarically furnished, with a queer mixture of Occidental comfort in the shape of deep lounges and armchairs, and of Oriental splendor in many and rich hangings and cushions. The air of his rooms was heavy with perfume, and the man himself, with his pale skin, deep-set eyes and pointed beard, gave an impression of something equally exotic. We were the only guests and he welcomed us with almost effusive cordiality, myself included. But I did not take to him at all.After a few moments of general conversation, Mrs. Fawcette rose to her feet, smiling. “Droga,” she called to him—he was talking to Natalie—“I have brought something to show you. I am sure that the young people will excuse us for a moment!”Before I had recovered from my amused surprise at the somewhat crude method of classifying me with Natalie, Ivanovitch, our host, had risen to his feet with a smile and a bow and followed Mrs. Fawcette through a pair of heavy curtains into a room beyond.Natalie and I turned and stared at each other. “Well!” she laughed. Then her smile faded and she touched my arm. “But I’m glad you came,” she whispered. “I don’t think I like it here very much; I thought there were going to be a lot of people. At least, I thought that was what Mrs. Fawcette said.”“Natalie, dear,” I whispered, “don’t come here again without me! Promise!”I was very much in earnest, and the “dear” slipped out before I knew it, but fortunately she did not seem to notice it. “You are growing very dictatorial, sir!” she answered. “But all the same I don’t believe I do like it here. I’m glad you came.”A moment later the curtains parted and the others rejoined us. There was nothing to be learned from our host’s expression, for his face was a beautiful blank. But I thought Mrs. Fawcette bore traces of either temper or fear, and possibly both.But that was all that happened. We had tea, and I must say it was wonderful tea. But it was just tea and nothing more, of that I am certain. The conversation was general and interesting enough, and if Natalie was disappointed she naturally could not show it.For my part, I went very much out of my way to be pleasant to the Russian, although not too obviously, I hope. And presently, after the tea-things had been cleared away by a slant-eyed servant, I drew him into a discussion on the war and its ultimate effect upon his country, while the two women talked clothes or something. I laid myself out to be both sympathetic and entertaining. At all events, the moment came when I felt justified in asking him to give me the pleasure of taking him to lunch the following day, and he accepted readily enough. If there was anything to be learned from him I was determined to make an attempt to learn it. And I believed that Natalie’s first statement about the tea was correct. She was exceedingly healthy and not given to violent moods.Afterwards, Mrs. Fawcette had to hurry home to dress for a dinner engagement, and I took Natalie back to her aunt’s house.When our taxi pulled up in front of the house it was nearly dinner-time, and we both had engagements. But I detained her for a moment longer.“Listen, Natalie! Will you do me a very big favor?” I asked her, as we mounted her aunt’s steps.She threw me a smiling glance of inquiry.“It is a big favor,” I warned her. “And this is it: Will you promise to tell me before you go there again for any more of that wonderful tea?”Natalie looked at me in wonder. “How funny you are to-day,” she said at last. “Don’t you like Mrs. Fawcette or Ivanovitch?”“Not very much, I confess. But I like the idea of that drugged tea even less, Natalie. Promise, please!”She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve got to go and dress, you importunate man,” she laughed, “so—I’ll promise. Though I haven’t the slightest idea why I should.”At all events, I went down her aunt’s front steps treading on something much less substantial.
In spite of the promise of recent events and the possible clews which Moore and I believed we had found, the next three weeks were uneventful. Uneventful, that is, from the standpoint of our quest, though eventful enough to me personally.
I was a languid and cynical guest at many high-brow and low-brow gatherings. I discussed Turgenieff, spiritualism, psycho-analysis, free love, and so forth at the one until my ears burned; and polo, the Dempsey-Carpentier match, women, politics and stocks at the other until I could start my tongue going and go away and leave it. But I made little progress and unearthed no fresh clews.
I did make a little progress, however.
For one thing, I cultivated the acquaintanceship of Mrs. Fawcette until it ripened into something much more intimate, though vague and undefined. She was, I found, an interesting woman, well-traveled and well-read, and, better still, with very definite views on most things. She had a clever gift of repartee, as I learned to my cost, for I found myself several times considerably beyond my depth and somewhat at a loss. Her views were strikingly, glaringly liberal, and although I attempted to match her in cynical disregard of the conventions of conversation, I think she suspected that my views were not quite so disillusioned and opportunistic as I tried to make them appear. At all events she seemed to take a secret delight in attempting to startle me, and succeeded better than, I hope, she guessed. But I got no news from her.
However, I formed a real friendship during those three weeks which meant far more to me, however little it might mean to our quest. For I arranged a second opportunity to meet and talk with the Girl in Gray, as I like to call her. And after that I obtained her permission, and that of her aunt, to call upon them. After that call and a theater party which I gave for them, we were good friends. It was my playtime, before the serious part of our quest began, and it meant more to me than I can express. Natalie Van Cleef took her many social experiences and the many strange specimens she met during her energetic aunt’s peregrinations with a ready sympathy and a sweet reserve that were inspiring to watch. She was welcome everywhere, as much for her lovely personality as for her beauty, but somehow she contrived to be a welcome addition to each circle without being exactly of it. She was essentially innocent without being ignorant, so that the unconventional moods and tenses with which she came into contact left her comprehending, at least in part, and yet quite untouched in her own sweet, calm, and slightly shy personality.
To me during those days she was like a breath of sea air in a crowded department store, or a bunch of roses on a tramp steamer, and before many days had passed she filled most of my waking thoughts and many of my dreams. We saw a good deal of each other and had many happy days together, days so happy, at least to me, that I can never think of them without a catch in the throat and a tightening of the hands, in view of what came after. For as our friendship ripened I grew to realize that her mind and spirit were as sweet and lovely and gracious as her person.
Moore accomplished little more than I did, during those three weeks. The young fellow from whom he had obtained his first hint of a circle of drug-takersde luxehad in truth disappeared, and being a wealthy young man of considerable social position, his disappearance became a nine-days’ wonder. But for all that, no trace of him was found, and Moore and I decided that our first surmise that his lack of reticence that night had been the cause of his disappearance was the correct one.
Moore did, however, get in touch with the young doctor who had overheard that conversation, and after a while succeeded in making his acquaintance. Vining apparently took to him at once, and when Moore carelessly mentioned the fact that he had independent means, which was lucky, because the public and the dealers were hardly sufficiently educated to appreciate his ideas on art, Vining contrived to see a good deal of him, aided and abetted by Moore himself.
Once or twice, Moore vaguely skirted the subject of his conversation that night with the young fellow who had disappeared, but Vining displayed a bland ignorance of any such conversation or of any place where such a party as the young man had described could be found.
However, Moore did not despair, but continued to cultivate the friendship, in his effeminate and lackadaisical way, until presently Vining knew all about his passion for new and outlandish sensations.
But events were shaping themselves for us both during those weeks, and the end of our period of inactivity came suddenly and at the same time to both.
A few days before Natalie planned to leave New York, Mrs. Furneau arranged a little luncheon to which I had the honor of being invited. Among others, the luncheon included Mrs. Fawcette, and I hope that I shall never be called upon to sit through a more trying two hours. For I had fallen almost unconsciously into the habit of being very much myself when Natalie and I were alone together, and my change of manner when talking to Mrs. Fawcette, and to Mrs. Furneau for that matter, must have been striking.
I caught Natalie looking at me once or twice in a puzzled way during the luncheon, but so far as the quest was concerned, it would have been more costly to strike a false or inconsistent note in their ears than in the ears of Natalie; so that I was forced to carry on a miserably cynical, disillusioned and world-weary conversation with my hostess and with Mrs. Fawcette, sick at heart all the time at the half-concealed surprise in Natalie’s eyes.
It had to be done now, but I regretted adopting such a pose in the first place.
It was a little better after luncheon, however. I had taken upon myself the position of an admirer of both my hostess and Mrs. Fawcette, but I contrived, with some difficulty, to have a word or two with Natalie away from the others. We had always been frank with each other and this conversation was no exception, although she was just a little cool at first.
“I’m—I’m very, very sorry that you are going away,” I told her.
“Are you? I should not imagine that anything would have the power to make you either very, very sorry or very, very glad.”
“Natalie!”
She looked down for a moment, and when she looked up again she was her usual friendly, frank self. “Well then, why do you talk in that disillusioned way? It isn’t a bit like you.”
I was silent. Then, taking a wild leap in the dark, I tried to be equally frank, whatever the consequences.
“Natalie, I know it isn’t like me. It isn’t even a real side of me. But I had to do it to-day, as I have had to do it before. There is a real and vital reason. And that is all I can tell you. Do you believe me?”
She looked up, laughing. Then, as her eyes met mine, her smile faded into a look of wonder. “Do you really mean that?” she demanded.
“I really mean just that,” I assured her earnestly; “and I really mean that I simply cannot tell you any more than that.”
“But—but—why, that is absurd. Why can’t you be yourself?”
I shook my head despairingly. “Natalie, I have told you the truth. I don’t lie much anyway; and our friendship means far too much to me for me to lie to you of all people. But I cannot tell you any more than that!”
She stared at me for a moment or two, and then I realized for the first time, perhaps, what a really wonderful girl she was. For her hand went out impulsively to my sleeve and the eyes she raised to mine were full of sincerity. “I believe you, then,” she said simply, “and your reason does not matter.”
I must have let some of my appreciation show in my eyes, for she flushed a delicious pink and dropped her own quickly. I leaned a little nearer to her: “And you see I can still be very, very glad about something!” I told her.
She changed the subject rather hastily.
“Do you remember my telling you about some wonderful tea I had had, just before our first meeting?” she asked.
I hastened to assure her that I did remember, although we had discussed that tea several times and wondered about its peculiar properties.
“Well, Mrs. Fawcette has promised me some more of it, and she is taking me there to tea this afternoon!”
“To the same place?” I asked. Her words filled me with a vague apprehension, perhaps because by now I hated the thought of associating her closely with anything that had to do with my quest.
“Yes, to the same place.Nowwhat’s the matter?” she added, laughing.
“Well,” I answered, “frankly, I hate the thought of your taking drugs of any kind, however mild. You don’t belong in that crowd, Natalie.”
She laughed. “Oh, but I must have some more of that tea, if only to convince myself that there was nothing in it, and that my queer moodwasonly a mood.”
“Well, if you must go there, somehow I wish you’d let me go with you! I know it’s a funny request, and I don’t quite know why I don’t want you to go there without me—but I don’t!” I felt very young and awkward with that speech. But there was so little that I could tell her to warn her. And I didnottrust either Mrs. Fawcette or her friends. I had seen something of them, and they were a queer crowd, to say the least.
Natalie looked up at me curiously. “You are in a funny mood to-day,” she said. “But if you want to come along, I should think Mrs. Fawcette would be delighted to take you!” It was unlike her, but I seemed to feel something of a challenge in her last remark.
Before I could answer, however, she had turned to that lady, who was sitting near by.
“Mrs. Fawcette,” she called gayly, “Mr. Clayton is dying to come to the tea with us this afternoon. Do you suppose you could manage to take him?”
Then I saw a queer thing happen. Mrs. Fawcette turned as though she had been stung and glanced first at me and then at Natalie, with a scarcely veiled intensity that left us startled in our turn. She did not answer for a moment, and Natalie was driven into further speech.
“I’ve been telling him about that wonderful tea we had there before, and he wants to come along and sample it. But of course if you’d rather not——” She glanced from Mrs. Fawcette to me in obvious embarrassment.
I thought Mrs. Fawcette had grown rather pale, but she answered now and readily enough: “You bad girl! I told you not to talk about that tea, or our host will be swamped with people coming to sample it and demanding where he got it. But if Mr. Clayton wants to come with us, I shall be delighted to include him in the party.” She avoided my eyes as she spoke. “He can see you home afterwards,” she added.
There was an almost venomous light in her eyes as she spoke. But if Natalie saw it she appeared serenely unconscious of the fact.
“Thank you,” she answered, “and I’m awfully sorry if I should not have talked to him about it.”
Naturally I did not feel very comfortable about my position in the party, but I was determined to go, and so made no demur to my somewhat left-handed invitation. And later, when we found ourselves in Mrs. Fawcette’s car on the way to her friend’s house, she seemed to wish to make amends by being very cordial to us both. But I did not much relish the look in her eye when it fell on Natalie all the same.
Our host was a Russian, an aristocrat and a card from the fallen house of cards that had been Russia, carried by the wind of that fall into a new country and a new circle.
Unlike most Russian aristocrat refugees, however, he seemed to have plenty of means. The house, just off Fifth Avenue in the Eighties, was beautifully if somewhat barbarically furnished, with a queer mixture of Occidental comfort in the shape of deep lounges and armchairs, and of Oriental splendor in many and rich hangings and cushions. The air of his rooms was heavy with perfume, and the man himself, with his pale skin, deep-set eyes and pointed beard, gave an impression of something equally exotic. We were the only guests and he welcomed us with almost effusive cordiality, myself included. But I did not take to him at all.
After a few moments of general conversation, Mrs. Fawcette rose to her feet, smiling. “Droga,” she called to him—he was talking to Natalie—“I have brought something to show you. I am sure that the young people will excuse us for a moment!”
Before I had recovered from my amused surprise at the somewhat crude method of classifying me with Natalie, Ivanovitch, our host, had risen to his feet with a smile and a bow and followed Mrs. Fawcette through a pair of heavy curtains into a room beyond.
Natalie and I turned and stared at each other. “Well!” she laughed. Then her smile faded and she touched my arm. “But I’m glad you came,” she whispered. “I don’t think I like it here very much; I thought there were going to be a lot of people. At least, I thought that was what Mrs. Fawcette said.”
“Natalie, dear,” I whispered, “don’t come here again without me! Promise!”
I was very much in earnest, and the “dear” slipped out before I knew it, but fortunately she did not seem to notice it. “You are growing very dictatorial, sir!” she answered. “But all the same I don’t believe I do like it here. I’m glad you came.”
A moment later the curtains parted and the others rejoined us. There was nothing to be learned from our host’s expression, for his face was a beautiful blank. But I thought Mrs. Fawcette bore traces of either temper or fear, and possibly both.
But that was all that happened. We had tea, and I must say it was wonderful tea. But it was just tea and nothing more, of that I am certain. The conversation was general and interesting enough, and if Natalie was disappointed she naturally could not show it.
For my part, I went very much out of my way to be pleasant to the Russian, although not too obviously, I hope. And presently, after the tea-things had been cleared away by a slant-eyed servant, I drew him into a discussion on the war and its ultimate effect upon his country, while the two women talked clothes or something. I laid myself out to be both sympathetic and entertaining. At all events, the moment came when I felt justified in asking him to give me the pleasure of taking him to lunch the following day, and he accepted readily enough. If there was anything to be learned from him I was determined to make an attempt to learn it. And I believed that Natalie’s first statement about the tea was correct. She was exceedingly healthy and not given to violent moods.
Afterwards, Mrs. Fawcette had to hurry home to dress for a dinner engagement, and I took Natalie back to her aunt’s house.
When our taxi pulled up in front of the house it was nearly dinner-time, and we both had engagements. But I detained her for a moment longer.
“Listen, Natalie! Will you do me a very big favor?” I asked her, as we mounted her aunt’s steps.
She threw me a smiling glance of inquiry.
“It is a big favor,” I warned her. “And this is it: Will you promise to tell me before you go there again for any more of that wonderful tea?”
Natalie looked at me in wonder. “How funny you are to-day,” she said at last. “Don’t you like Mrs. Fawcette or Ivanovitch?”
“Not very much, I confess. But I like the idea of that drugged tea even less, Natalie. Promise, please!”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve got to go and dress, you importunate man,” she laughed, “so—I’ll promise. Though I haven’t the slightest idea why I should.”
At all events, I went down her aunt’s front steps treading on something much less substantial.