On Monday night, Clancy had had her introduction to metropolitan night
life. She didn't know, of course, what sort of party Sophie Carey would
give. It probably would differ somewhat from Zenda's affair at the
Château de la Reine. Probably--because Mrs. Carey was a painter of great
distinction--there would be more of what Clancy chose to denominate as
"society" present. Wherefore she knew that her gray foulard was
distinctly not _au fait_.
Having hastily donned the gown, she scrutinized herself distastefully in
the mirror, and was unhappy.
For a moment, she thought of telephoning Mrs. Carey and offering some
hastily conceived excuse. Then she reflected. David Randall would
perhaps be at the party. Clancy had had a unique experience as regards
New York men thus far. They had proved inimical to her--all except
Randall. He had shown, in the unsubtle masculine ways which are so
legible to women, that he had conceived for her one of those sudden
attachments that are flattering to feminine vanity. She wanted to see
him. And she was honest enough to admit to herself that one of her
reasons for wishing to see him had nothing to do with herself. She
wanted to observe him with Sophie Carey, to watch his attitude toward
her. For, vaguely, she had sensed that Sophie Carey was interested in
young Randall. But she tried to put this idea, born of a strange
jealousy that she hated to admit, away from her. Mrs. Carey had been an
angel to her.
She shrugged. If they didn't like her, they could leave her. About her
neck she fastened a thin gold chain, and carefully adjusted the little
gold locket that contained a lock of her mother's hair, upon her bosom.
She gave a last look at herself, picked up her cheap little blue coat,
turned off the electric light, and ran lightly down-stairs.
Mrs. Gerand was in the front hall. Her sharp features softened as she
viewed Clancy.
"Party?" she asked.
"Dinner--and dance," said Clancy.
Mrs. Gerand had come from the kitchen to answer the door-bell. She wore
an apron, on which she now wiped her hands.
"It's snowing. You oughta have a taxi," she said.
Clancy's jaw dropped in dismay. Even including the change from the
five-dollar bill that Grannis had left upon the table--she suddenly
realized that she hadn't sent Grannis this money--she had only about
seven dollars. Then her face brightened. She had convinced herself that
on the morrow it would be perfectly safe to withdraw some of the funds
that stood in the Thespian Bank to the credit of Florine Ladue.
And, anyway, it would have been poor economy to ruin the only pair of
slippers fit for evening wear that she owned to save a taxi-fare. The
snow was swirling through the street as Clancy ran down the steps to the
waiting taxi-cab. It was, though she didn't know it, the beginning of a
blizzard that was to give the winter of Nineteen-twenty a special
prominence. In the cab Clancy wondered if the snow that had fallen upon
her hair would melt and disarrange her coiffure. And when Mrs. Carey
opened the door herself on Clancy's arrival at the studio-house in
Waverly Place, she noticed the girl's hands patting the black mass and
laughed.
"Don't bother about it, my dear," she advised. "I want to fix it for you
myself after dinner."
She took Clancy's coat from her and hung it in a closet.
"Usually," she said, "I have a maid to attend to these things, but this
is Thursday, and she's off for the day."
Clancy suddenly remembered Mrs. Carey's talk of the morning.
"But your cook----"
Mrs. Carey shrugged. They were shoulders well worth shrugging. And the
blue gown that her hostess wore this evening revealed even more than the
black gown of the Trevor last night.
"Still sick," laughed Mrs. Carey. "That's why I'm giving a party. I like
to prove that I'm not dependent on my servants. And I'm not. Of
course"--and she chuckled--"I'm dependent upon caterers and that sort of
thing, but still--I deceive myself into thinking I'm independent.
Self-deception is God's kindest gift to humanity."
She was even more beautiful than last night, Clancy thought. Then she
felt a sudden sinking of the heart. If Sophie Carey, with her genius,
her fame, her _savoir-faire_, her beauty, _wanted_ David Randall-- She
shook her head in angry self-rebuke as she followed Mrs. Carey to the
tiny dining-room.
Clancy had never seen such china or silver. And the dinner was, from
grapefruit to coffee, quite the most delicious meal that Clancy had ever
eaten. Her hostess hardly spoke throughout the dinner, and Clancy was
ill at ease, thinking that Mrs. Carey's silence was due to her own
inability to talk. The older woman read her thoughts.
"I'm frequently this way, Miss Deane," she laughed, as she poured coffee
from a silver pot that was as exquisite in its simplicity of design as
some ancient vase. "You mustn't blame yourself. Work went wrong
to-day--it often does. I can't talk. I felt blue; so I telephoned half
New York and invited it to dance with me to-night. And then I wanted
company for dinner, and I picked on you, because my intimate friends
won't permit me to be rude to them. And I knew you would. And I won't be
any more. Have a cigarette?"
Clancy shook her head.
"I never smoke," she admitted.
"It's lost a lot of its fascination since it became proper," said Mrs.
Carey. "However, I like it. It does me good. Drink? I didn't offer you a
cocktail, because I ain't got none. I didn't believe it possible that
prohibition would really come, and I was fooled. But I have some
liqueurs?" Clancy shook her head. Mrs. Carey clapped her hands. "Don
will adore you!" she cried. "He loves simplicity, primeval innocence--I
hope you break his heart, Miss Deane."
"I hope so, too, if it will please you," smiled Clancy. "Who is Don?"
"My husband," said Mrs. Carey. "If I can't find some one new, fresh, for
him to fall in love with, he'll be insisting on returning to me, and I
can't have him around. I'm too busy."
Clancy gasped.
"You're joking, of course?"
Mrs. Carey's eyebrows lifted.
"Deed and deedy I'm _not_ joking," she said. "I haven't seen Don for
seven months. Last time, he promised me faithfully that he'd go to Reno
and charge me with desertion or something like that. I thought he'd done
it. I might have known better. He's been paying attentive court to a
young lady on Broadway. He telephoned me this afternoon, demanding my
sympathy because the young woman had eloped with her press-agent. He
insisted on coming down here and letting me hold his hand and place cold
cloths on his fevered brow." She laughed and rose from the table. "I'm
going to saw him off on you, Miss Deane."
Clancy was like a peony. Mrs. Carey came round the table and threw an
arm about her.
"Don't take me too seriously, Miss Deane. I talk and I talk, and when
one talks too much, one talks too wildly. Sometimes, when I think upon
the foolishness of youth-- Don't you marry too soon, Miss Deane."
"I won't!" exclaimed Clancy.
Mrs. Carey laughed.
"Oh, but you will! But we won't argue about it." She stepped away a pace
from Clancy. Her eyes narrowed as she stared. "I wonder," she said, "if
you're a very--touchy--person."
Clancy hoped that she wasn't, and said so.
"Because," said Sophie Carey, "I've taken an--does it sound too
patronizing? Well, no matter. I'm interested in you, Miss Deane. I want
you to be a success. Will you let me dress you? Just for to-night? I
have a yellow gown up-stairs. Let me see your feet."
Clancy surrendered to the mood of her hostess. She held out her
gray-clad foot. Mrs. Carey nodded.
"The slipper will fit. Let's go up."
"Let's!" said Clancy excitedly.
Mrs. Carey's bedroom was furnished in a style that Clancy had never
dreamed of. But the impression of the furnishings, the curtains and rugs
and lacy pillows--this vanished before the display that the closet
afforded. Gown after gown, filmy, almost intangible in their exquisite
delicacy-- She offered no objection as Sophie Carey unhooked her gray
foulard. She slipped into the yellow-silk dress with her heart beating
in wild excitement.
In the mirror, after yellow stockings and slippers to match, with bright
rhinestone buckles, had been put on, she looked at herself. She blushed
until her bosom, her back even, were stained. What _would_ they think in
Zenith? She turned, and, by the aid of a hand-mirror, saw her back. A V
ran down almost to the waist-line.
"Satisfied?" asked Mrs. Carey.
Clancy ran to her hostess. She threw her arms round Sophie Carey's neck
and kissed her. Mrs. Carey laughed.
"That kiss, my dear, is for yourself. But I thank you just the same."
Down-stairs, the door-bell tinkled.
"You'll have to answer it," said Mrs. Carey.