Midnight
She seemed -- and it was so strange -- she seemed to her mother to be growing cold . Richard Caramel listened . At first he had remained standing , but as his aunt 's discourse waxed in content -- it stands here pruned by half , of all side references to the youth of Gloria 's soul and to Mrs. Gilbert 's own mental distresses -- he drew a chair up and attended rigorously as she floated , between tears and plaintive helplessness , down the long story of Gloria 's life . When she came to the tale of this last year , a tale of the ends of cigarettes left all over New York in little trays marked `` Midnight Frolic '' and `` Justine Johnson 's Little Club , '' he began nodding his head slowly , then faster and faster , until , as she finished on a staccato note , it was bobbing briskly up and down , absurdly like a doll 's wired head , expressing -- almost anything . In a sense Gloria 's past was an old story to him . He had followed it with the eyes of a journalist , for he was going to write a book about her some day . But his interests , just at present , were family interests .