_The Small Dance at Flurry's_
By one bold leap Mrs. Radigan has landed herself among the smartest of
the smart and has fixed herself there so firmly that heaven and earth
cannot move her as long as she holds on to her money. She staked all
and won. If she failed to become a smart woman, there was that dreadful
alternative of being a club woman, but she risked it. She is safe
now. Her husband can abscond or can sue for divorce, she can sue for
divorce or can become totally demented, they can abandon each other and
their son can abandon them, but as long as the great Radigan fortune
hangs together they will be smart. And after all that adjective is not
misused, for it is money that makes people interesting in this world.
We will listen with bated breath to the twaddle of a multi-millionaire,
while we would yawn in the face of a college professor. Everybody says
the Radigans are interesting. Those who knew them in their poorer days
must have thought them dull.
I said that Mrs. Radigan risked all. That is not exaggeration. When I
heard how she had rented Flurry's entire establishment for an evening,
and calmly sent out invitations to a dance, I shuddered.
"Why, that great ballroom will look like Asbury Park in December," said
I, "unless you have made some foolish blunder like asking your old
friends."
"Never," she answered firmly. "I have made a list of just 600 names. My
annual ball is to be a great gathering of all the clans, you see. Then
I want to give it a cosmopolitan tinge, so I have asked representatives
of each of the trades: one actress, one author, one artist, one
clergyman, and a college professor. You see it will look as though I
were able to ask just whom I chose, in spite of their social position."
With that she handed me a press copy of her list, and as my eye ran
from name to name, I groaned. There was hardly a perfumery, a brokerage
house, a breakfast-food, a real-estate firm, a bank, or a business
combination of any kind in the city that was not represented.
"Why, these are the smartest people in town!" I cried. "And I am sure
you don't know one-tenth of the lot, and that only half that number
know you. How many do you think will come?"
"I cannot guess," she said calmly. "The cards went out only yesterday.
It is a gamble, of course. If nobody comes, we shall move to Riverside
Drive. If everybody comes, we go on with our new house on the avenue."
It was a pity, indeed, that that new house could not be finished in
time. If money could have completed it, there would have been no
question, but Coppe & Coppe, the architects, said they had to have
at least three months to build such a palace. The designs alone took
them ten days, so there was nothing to do but to have the affair at
Flurry's. It is difficult at a public place like that to take from a
private affair the air of one of these subscription things, for there
is no change of scene, no change of actors, and were you not versed
in socialology you could not tell Mrs. Plumstone's dance from one of
those Wednesdays or Thursdays. So Mrs. Radigan was handicapped from the
start; but she made a masterly stroke by giving the champagne contract
to Willie Lite, making it his interest to gather in as many of his
friends as possible. It was there that she won the battle, I suspect,
and her calm demeanor in those awful minutes preceding the arrival
of the first guests came, I believe, from her absolute faith in him.
Radigan was terribly nervous. He said it would break his heart if all
his polo in the fall, all his countless knocks and bruises and tumbles
were to go for nothing, and the first of their annual balls be the last.
They had a dinner at home to a few of their "close friends," which
included about one dozen, and nearly everybody they knew. The
Williegilts and Miss Bumpschus had declined, which looked ominous, and
the outlook was still darker when we arrived on the field of battle on
the minute of ten, and for an hour had the great rooms to ourselves.
There is nothing more depressing than the ballroom where, to the music
of a big orchestra, a half-dozen men and women are cavorting around
in lonely state. Dancing made easy is dancing made uninteresting, for
take away the jam of whirling figures, the sweep of bedraggled trains
beneath the feet, the stab of elbows, and the wild plunges of the
nimbler footed, and you take away the dangers that make the sport.
So that was a deadly hour. But through it all, in the hush before the
battle, Mrs. Radigan stood undaunted in the big reception-room, firm
and masterful, while Radigan wandered aimlessly about adjusting his
cuffs. Then the noble lord who stands in the entrance and announces
the events, fired the first big gun. There was a swish of skirts and
the name of Miss Bumpschus, $10,000,000 plus, resounding almost to
the ballroom, indicated to the watchers there that the conflict was
on and that victory was in the air. Miss Bumpschus was an hour late,
apologized for being early, and came on to the dance with the much
flustered Radigan. A pause. A hush. The noble lord was in action again,
and Mr. Pomade, $1,000,000 down and five more sure to come, made his
appearance. Mrs. Radigan was beaming and she had a right. At the heels
of the exquisite Pomade came Count Popperwhistle, $1,500,000 minus and
open to propositions. After him, a mob. The opera was over. From the
street below sounded the shouts of a hundred coachmen, and elevator
after elevator dumped into the hall all the flowers that bloom to-day
in society. There were no last roses, no century-plants; I don't think
the Van Rundouns were even asked, and I know the Rollers Club fellows
were left out. Even the Monday Cotillons were almost forgotten, except
for a few like the Mints and the Plumstone Smiths, who are in one set
on account of their poverty, but have a hold on the other because
of their family. Willie Lite had made good. While a great number had
sent regrets, they all came, anyway, and where had been a weary waste
of polished floor, there now was a whirling struggle for a foothold
and breathing-space. All the Bumpschuses, the Wherry-Mints, the
Mint-Wherrys, the Jack Twitters, the Willies and Bobbies, the Tommies
and Harrys were there. Willie Lite dancing with Miss Veal, simple white
and pearls, led at one end, while Plumstone Smith dancing with Miss
Marie Antoinette Williegilt, led at the other. The favors were the
finest that New York has ever seen, and our smart matrons will have to
make inroads into their bank-accounts to beat them. The silver-bound
whiskey-flasks for the men, I know, cost $25 apiece, and the carved
ivory cigarette-cases for the girls were still more expensive. Then
there were riding-crops and parasols and useful things like that, which
really made dancing profitable.
The supper was as excellent as it was unpronounceable and
indigestible, and Willie Lite must have made a good thing in
commissions. But he deserved it. More, too, I thought, when I clipped
this morning, from the journal that gives all the news that is worth
printing, a list of those who were at Mrs. Radigan's first annual ball
last night and are pledged to those to come. Here are a few of the
names:
Mrs. E. Williegilt,
The Misses Williegilt,
Mrs. Robert Q. Williegilt,
Miss E. Bumpschus,
Mrs. Plumstone,
Miss Constance Wherry,
Miss Wherry-Mint,
The Misses Speechless,
Mrs. John Twitter,
Miss Clarissa Mudison,
Miss Tumbleton,
Mrs. Timpleton Duff,
Mrs. Hegerton Humming,
Mrs. Thomas Tattler,
Mr. E. Williegilt,
Mr. Williegilt Bumpschus,
Mr. J. Madison Mudison,
Mr. Plumstone Smith,
Mr. Cecil Hash,
Mr. Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th,
Mr. Humming,
Mr. J. Twitter,
Mr. Duff,
Mr. Tattler.