In her first generous enthusiasm Serena had declared that the “sweet
child” must dine with them, no matter who was there, and now neither she
nor Geraldine could find a plausible reason for altering the arrangement
which had grown so irksome. This evening, as usual, Geraldine went
upstairs to put on her one and only dinner dress.
But she was not so reluctant as usual, nor so disdainful. She felt that
she was no longer utterly alone. This man who had come to the house was
different from the others. She remembered his face as she had seen it in
the flare of the match, and remembered the sound of his voice. If he was
lost, it was because he had been misguided. He was somehow a victim.
Nobody noticed Miss Moriarty when she came to the table, for they were
all very well used to her and her one evening gown--that is, nobody but
Sambo; and to him she was new and lovely and profoundly interesting. He
thought that her slender hands were beautiful. So was the sweep of her
shining black hair away from her temples, and so was the proud arch of
her brows; and he thought that her poor little black dress, and her
youth and her disdainful air, were beyond measure touching.
But he prudently kept his interest in Miss Moriarty to himself, and
behaved as he was expected to behave. The diet was postponed, and Serena
had asked the butler to see that there was “an awfully good dinner.” He
had justified her blind faith in him, for the dinner was an excellent
one. From the well stocked cellar he had selected the proper wines; but
nobody cared for these. They all preferred whisky. Throughout the meal
they drank whisky and smoked cigarettes, and their talk was in keeping
with this.
“It’s not my business,” thought Geraldine. “I can’t change the world.
I’m just here to earn a living.”
But the contempt and indifference which until now had been her armor
failed her to-night. She was troubled and very unhappy. None of these
people were mere puppets any longer. They had come alive, and they were
pitiful, and a little horrible.
There was the girl they called Jinky--tall, gaunt, with a sort of wasted
beauty in her face. A year ago she had eloped with a very young
millionaire, and, as he was under age, his parents had had the marriage
annulled--annulled, wiped out, so that Jinky had come back from her
wedding trip discredited and shamed before all her world. She didn’t
seem to care. She seemed hilariously amused by the whispered
conversation of Levering, who sat next her; but to-night Geraldine felt
sure that Jinky did care--that the wound had left a cruel scar.
There was Levering himself, with his supercilious, high-bred face. He
had married for money, and he hadn’t got the money. It was a notorious
joke in that circle that his middle-aged wife begrudged him every penny.
He suffered his ignoble humiliation, and his wife suffered, too, because
of her jealous and bitter infatuation for him.
There was the _chic_ and lively little Mrs. Anson, with her eternal
scheming for invitations and other benefits. There was her husband,
gray-haired, distinguished in appearance, a slave to her ambition and
his own weakness.
There was Serena, magnificent in her diamonds, talking only to Sambo,
looking only at Sambo. There was Sambo himself, the man who had said
that he was lost. He listened to Serena carelessly, and smiled, even
when her face was anxious and frowning. He smoked incessantly. The light
ashes from his cigarettes fell upon his plate, into his glass, and he
swallowed them, as if he neither knew nor cared what was barren ash and
what life-giving food.
“Now what?” cried Serena, jumping up. “Bridge, or dancing, or what?”
Geraldine had risen, too, and she fancied that she heard Mr. Anson,
standing beside her, mutter:
“The deluge!”
He was unsteady on his feet, and his weary face was a curious gray.
Geraldine had seen him like this before. He was trying to play, trying
to be one of them, to forget--and he never could.
“Oh, dancing, of course!” said Jinky.
They all went into the drawing-room, and one of the servants started the
phonograph playing. The music began, the thud of drums like bare feet
stamping, the sweet whine of Hawaiian guitars, like lazy laughter.
Geraldine had followed the others, meaning only to pass through on her
way to the garden, but halfway across the room Sambo stopped her.
“Give me this dance!” he said softly.
“No!” she answered with a quick frown, and moved away.
But he came after her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Please!” he said. “Why won’t you?”
The touch of his hand filled her with a great anger. She turned her head
and looked at him with scornful amazement--and found in his face only
laughter and cajolery.
“Please!” he said again. “Just one dance!”
“No!” she said.
He could not very well misunderstand--or pretend to misunderstand--her
tone. He dropped his hand and stood back.
“Sorry!” he said.
She knew that he wasn’t sorry. She went past him, threading her way
among the dancing couples, and went upstairs to her own room. She locked
the door and stood leaning against it, in the dark, breathing a little
fast from her haste and anger.
She hated him! Vivid before her was the image of his handsome face,
flushed with drinking, and of his conqueror’s smile. Intolerable was the
memory of his hand upon her shoulder. She hated him, and she could
almost hate herself because even for a minute she had thought he was
different.