Mrs. Pratt stood in the hard glitter of too many electric lights, in a
hard, encrusted green gown, and greeted her guests with a hard, set
smile that froze any budding sense of enjoyment they may have brought
with them. Maude was silent and sullen. She had caught the backwash of
her mother’s ill-temper throughout two trying weeks, and the party had
become a nightmare to her. Augustus, miserable in his evening clothes,
and perspiring under the weight of admonitions that warred with his
sense of hospitality, watched her in a passion of sympathy. After a
succession of violent scenes, he was dolorously conscious that he and
Maude together, were no match for the determined woman whom he had
meekly followed to the altar.
“She’s got too damned much gulp,” he thought to himself, wondering how
to reduce this hampering characteristic in his daughter.
A vigorous jab in the side reminded him that something was amiss. “Eh,
my dear?” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“Take your hands out of your pockets, Augustus,” hissed Mrs. Pratt, “and
don’t you dare to call Dr. Prendergast, ‘Doc’!”
“Doctor and Missus Bzen-an-Bza-a!” announced Cr’ymer, from the door.
Cr’ymer was a very recent acquisition to the Pratt ménage. Mrs. Pratt
would have preferred a Japanese but for once she was overruled by her
husband, who harboured the malicious belief that every man of foreign
birth, especially negroes and Orientals, look upon the women of our race
with lascivious eyes. So when Cr’ymer applied, and upheld his
cleverly-forged reference with a plausible story, Mrs. Pratt engaged
him—bibulous mien and Cockney accent, notwithstanding.
Having been but a few weeks in the city, and most of that time
comfortably soothed by vinous refreshment, Cr’ymer was not conversant
with the names of social Ottawa, and even had he been, it is doubtful
that those of Mrs. Pratt’s guests would have been familiar to him.
“How d’ye do?” asked Mrs. Prendergast, annoyed to find that no one else
had arrived. There was a suggestion of over-eagerness in being early.
“How do yuh do?” returned Mrs. Pratt, wishing that she was Lady Elton or
someone worth while. “Sit down, won’t you? I think you’ll find any of my
chairs comfortable, and there’s no need for you to stand because we have
to . . . The others can’t be long, now.”
“They can if they choose,” remarked Dr. Prendergast, who liked his
dinner in the middle of the day and a substantial supper at six o’clock.
“Never saw anything to beat the people, to-day. They don’t start out
till it’s time for decent folks to be in bed. Things get later and
later. Shouldn’t be surprised to see the hour for dinner set at eleven
o’clock . . . Outrageous!”
“Well, with so many engagements to crowd in of an afternoon, and with
the House sitting till six o’clock, it’s vurry difficult to dine much
earlier than seven o’clock,” argued Mrs. Pratt. “Oh, here are the Leeds.
How do yuh do? Augustus, meet Mrs. Leeds!”
“How do?” mumbled Augustus, and prayed for the coming of the cocktails,
which, as an antidote for the concoctions of an atrocious cook, he had
made extra strong.
Mrs. Pratt aspired to a good cook, by which she meant a person who could
disguise the most familiar comestibles so that recognition was
impossible. Personally, she liked plain and wholesome cooking. Most
people do. But she laboured under the misapprehension that members of
the aristocracy ate strange and undistinguishable dishes; moreover, that
the degree of exaltation which one had attained, was evident by the kind
of food one ate. For example, she could not conceive of His Majesty
enjoying a rasher of liver and bacon, nor a Duke sitting down to the
staple pork and beans so familiar to the humble farming class. Long
hours she pondered the question of food, rising gradually through the
ragouts and rissoles, ramakins and casseroles, to ravioli, caviare,
canapes and the bewildering _aux_ and _a la’s_ that make a wholesome
menu so picturesque and indigestible.
The cook that Mrs. Pratt had in mind, was one who had served at least an
Earl, and had titillated the palates of his class. But at that time—now
half a decade past—social distinctions were drawn quite as finely in
the kitchen as the drawing-room, and the woman who would exchange her
culinary gifts and aristocratic associations for the wages of a mistress
not even an Honourable in her own right, had not been found.
The hour set for dinner had past. In the drawing-room, a noticeable
chill tempered the atmosphere. Mrs. Pratt was not an easy hostess. The
word “entertaining” was, for her, the most perfect euphemism, and in
ordinary circumstances, she would have taken satisfaction rather than
pleasure by gathering people at her home. On this occasion, she was
denied satisfaction, and a rising resentment gave her far from gracious
manner an added acerbity. Conversation lost all semblance to
spontaneity, and every eye seemed to be fixed upon Mrs. Pratt, who sat
stiffly on a Louis Quinze chair and hoped that Rufus Sullivan was
sensible of her displeasure.
She blamed him for this contretemps. It was he who had asked her to
invite the Barringtons, laying delicate emphasis upon their social
importance no less than upon their importance to the Party.
“Strangers,” he said, “but excellently connected and frightfully
smart—rather too smart for parochial Ottawa, I fear, dear lady!
However, they’re well worth cultivating, and a clever woman could make
no little use of Hebe Barrington.”
Certainly, she was not difficult to know. Her acceptance of Mrs. Pratt’s
laboured and formal invitation—delivered for lack of time by
telephone—was so casual as to startle that good lady. This was not her
conception of the manners of the elect.
And now they were quite fifteen minutes late. Mrs. Pratt’s anger rose.
She had just decided to proceed to the dining-room without them, when
there was a furious ring at the bell, a hurried step on the stair, and
Cr’ymer signalled her that they had arrived.
“My dear Mrs. Pratt,” cried Hebe, sweeping forward, “_is_ there an
apology profound enough to touch the hearts of your guests—not to
mention your husband and yourself? How do you do, Mr. Pratt? And your
daughter . . . why, you dear child, kiss me! Fortune has indeed smiled
upon this family . . . Mr. Dilling? What a delightful surprise . . .
Mrs. Pratt,” she went on, bowing and smiling impartially, drawing
everyone about her, if not actually, at least by suggestion, “_do_ tell
me that I am to sit next to Mr. Dilling, and—” with an arch glance at
her host, “not too far from Mr. Pratt!”
“Mr. Dilling is to take you in to dinner,” replied the hostess, tartly.
The cocktails, supplementing Mrs. Barrington’s entrance, infused new
life into the party. Most of those present walked from the drawing-room
in a pleasant frame of mind.
“They say that society is divided into two classes,” said Hebe, as they
took their places at the table, “those who have more dinners than
appetite, and those who have more appetite than dinners. I don’t know
that I should confess it, but I belong to the latter class. I’m always
ready for a meal . . . Ah, what a charming room this is!”
With one or two exceptions, the guests were unpleasantly impressed by
this expression of frank admiration. According to their canons of
etiquette, personal remarks were not The Thing. But if the impulse to
make one proved utterly irresistible, then it should be prefaced by some
such phrase as,
“If I may be pardoned for saying so, that is a beautiful . . .” or, “I
hope you won’t be offended if I pass a remark on your . . .”
Even Mrs. Pratt was only slightly mollified. The personnel of her dinner
party differed radically from what she had designed. Indeed, of the
eleven guests who took their places at the table, there were but three
whose names had figured on her original list of invitations. Besides,
she was not conscious of the instinctive liking for Mrs. Barrington that
Sullivan had predicted. Quite the contrary! In the first place, she
disapproved of her gown—a shimmering sheath of opalescent sequins
infinitely more striking than that which Mrs. Pratt herself was wearing.
In the second place, she did not like a(nother) woman to monopolise the
conversation. In the third place, she objected to the manner in which
Augustus was being captivated right under her very eyes, and these were
but a few of the items that she set down upon her mental score. But that
Mrs. Barrington was smart could not be denied; and as illustrious names
slipped artfully into the recital of her experiences and associations,
most of the assembled company found themselves giving her a grudging
respect. There were four exceptions—the Dillings, Sullivan and Azalea.
“I’m sure I’ve heard of you, Dr. Prendergast,” she glowed at that
gentleman. “But where, or from whom, I simply can’t remember. I have the
most dreadful habit of forgetting names . . . if it weren’t for Toddles,
there, I’d forget my own. He’s just as good at remembering as I am at
forgetting, so we manage famously, eh, my fond love?”
Barrington hid a smile and mumbled something that passed for an answer.
He was a delightful little man who had become accustomed to his wife’s
brilliant impertinences, and rather enjoyed them when they were not
carried too far.
He had not been taken into her confidence, of late, but suspected that
she had some telling reason for imposing these curious people and this
abominable dinner upon him. It was his nature to be amiable under trying
circumstances, so he made himself agreeable to the ladies on either
side, and tried to look upon the occasion as a bit of a lark. Mrs. Leeds
was not lacking in charm—a pale little creature whose mouth had a
discontented droop and who was ashamed or afraid to meet her husband’s
eyes. She talked bridge throughout the evening, bewailing the sums she
had lost because someone at the table had failed to bid or to play
according to the rules of the game. It was quite distressing to hear her
re-play hands that should have added to her score below the line, but
which built the tower for her opponents.
“For example,” she said, under cover of Dr. Prendergast’s monologue,
“only last night, the most unheard-of thing happened! I declared no
trump. Though weak in spades I had every suit protected, and was
perfectly justified in my declaration. The man on my left bid two
spades. My partner passed, telling me he had no protection in that suit,
but I felt safe in raising to two no trump, because, supposing that the
bidder held ace, king to five, _at least_, I knew that my queen was
sufficiently guarded by two little ones. Do you follow me?” she asked,
anxiously.
“Perfectly,” lied Barrington. “And then what happened?”
“Well, the bidder led the seven of spades. My partner laid down his hand
which only held the ten. Picture my horror when this woman—” she
indicated an imaginary third player “—took the trick with the ace, and
then _led the Jack through my Queen_! Of course, my hand was shot
absolutely to bits. They took five straight spade tricks and two in
diamonds before I had a look in. Time after time, I am penalised just
that way by playing with imbeciles who don’t know how to bid.”
“Rotten luck,” sympathised Barrington. “What the devil is this we are
eating?”
Mrs. Prendergast was the simplest person to entertain. When not giving
undivided attention to her husband, she was entrusting to her
sympathetic partner a list of his outstanding virtues as a citizen,
husband and father.
What “the Dawkter” thought and said provided her with an inexhaustible
topic for conversation. Apparently she had no opinions of her own, but,
as her husband was quite willing to listen to the echo of his oracles,
they were an exceedingly happy couple.
The Doctor was a generous-waisted gentleman whose talents exercised
themselves in the field of proprietary medicine. Prendergast’s
Anti-Agony Aliment was just beginning to fraternise with Best Wear
Tires, Breakfast Foods and Theatrical Attractions on the bill boards.
Presently, however, as a result of sapient advertising and the
deplorable ignorance of English by the people who speak it, “aliment”
merged into “ailment” and Prendergast’s Anti-Agony Ailment became the
popular specific for those to whom all advertising makes direct appeal.
And so carefully generalised was the nature of the disorder it was
supposed to correct that the decoction was consumed indiscriminately by
sufferers from rheumatism, chilblains, dyspepsy, sciatica, high blood
pressure and sclerosis. According to the testimonials that made their
way into the press it did many people . . . good.
The Doctor’s mind was full of human ills, and the value of advertising.
To the latter he was a recent convert, and inevitably fanatical.
Requiring several thousand dollars to carry on his campaign, he was
doing his best to bring the others to his point of view.
With the exception of Mrs. Barrington, no one gave him any
encouragement. Throughout three entire courses, she murmured,
“Incredible! Amazing! It sounds like a fairy tale!” at moments when he
might have given some one else an opportunity to speak, and started him
off again with renewed zest and vigour. Under cover of his eloquence,
she talked to Raymond Dilling.
Dilling was suffering acute mental and physical distress. Fastidious
always about his food, he could not eat the dishes put before him, and
the little bit he did manage to swallow was flavoured with the scent
which Hebe Barrington perpetually exuded. Positively, he would have
preferred the odour of moth balls.
He had never seen a woman so naked . . . not even his wife. Marjorie
emphasised a characteristic which she called modesty and, having no
curiosity whatever about the human form, Dilling respected her reserve.
He sat at the corner of the table, next to Mrs. Pratt, and found that he
could not escape contact with the warm mundanity of Mrs. Barrington.
Although the table was not crowded, she seemed to give him no room. Once
or twice, he shuddered, and she mistaking his movement, smiled
provocatively into his eyes.
“You haven’t forgotten about Monday afternoon?” she whispered. “I’ve
been thinking of it all week.”
Dilling had forgotten.
“There’s really nothing to be gained by discussing the proposition yet,”
he said. “We’ve been so busy in the House, I haven’t had time to think
about it.”
“No matter. We can become friends,” she murmured, significantly. “Can’t
we?”
A sudden silence relieved him of the necessity to answer. Dr.
Prendergast had run down, and was looking at Mrs. Barrington.
“Positively the most interesting thing I ever heard,” she cried.
“Toddles, I wish _you_ could invent something other than tarradiddles.
_Do_ send me an autographed bottle, Doctor! I haven’t a thing the matter
with me, and don’t promise to use it. I’m so disgustingly healthy. But
I’d love to have it to put on the shelf with my signed books and other
treasures. Won’t it be nice, Toddles?”
Azalea bent her head above her plate and scarcely knew whether to be
angry or amused. Sitting on the same side of the table as Mrs.
Barrington, Dilling and the Doctor, neither she nor her partner, Leeds,
could see exactly what was going on. But what she did not divine, was
reflected in the varying expressions of Turner, who sat on Mrs. Pratt’s
left, Eva Leeds and Marjorie. Even Pratt, who had fallen an instant and
unresisting victim to Hebe Barrington’s charms, gave her more than
inkling of the by-play at the other end of the table.
She was very much alive to the presence of Sullivan, who sat directly
opposite and assumed towards Marjorie an air of offensive
proprietorship. Prejudiced against him perhaps by the opinion of her
friends, she had never felt for the man active dislike until this moment
when every slanderous tale she had heard leaped into her mind. Although
he had become a frequent visitor at the Dilling home, she had met him
for the first time this evening, and had not the slightest desire to
continue the acquaintance. Furthermore, she wondered if Marjorie could
be persuaded to put an end to such a friendship.
“Are you having a good time, little woman?” she heard him whisper.
“Yes, thank you,” replied Marjorie, hoping that telling a polite lie
would not be a sin.
“Not so good as though we were having dinner alone—without all these
dull people?”
“No,” admitted Marjorie.
“When shall we have another party . . . of our own?”
“I don’t know just now. Perhaps next week.”
By the furious colour that surged into Marjorie’s cheeks, Azalea knew
that Sullivan had caressed her under cover of the table.
“It’s always at this point that the liveliest dinner begins to grow
dull,” cried Hebe Barrington. “Have you ever noticed it, Mrs. Pratt? No?
Dear me, _what_ partners you must have had! I believe there _are_
super-women with whom men are never tiresome. How do you account for
that, Doctor?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on, “I have
a theory of my own regarding this slump in brilliancy and wit. It is
simply a matter of being too well fed. The animal wants to stretch and
sleep. What do you think?” she smiled at Augustus, who was so disturbed
by this sudden attention that he interfered with Cr’ymer’s unsteady
serving of the wine and between them they managed to upset the decanter.
“Oh, Mrs. Pratt!” Hebe turned in mock terror to her hostess. “I throw
myself upon your protection. He is going to blame me! I’m sorry, but I’m
innocent. Uneasy looks the face that wears a frown, Mr. Pratt! If you
will only forgive me, I’ll promise not to speak to you again all
evening.”
“Wish you’d get the missus to go that far,” retorted Augustus, avoiding
his wife’s eye.
There was a laugh in which Mrs. Pratt did not join. Conversation dropped
to a murmur between couples. Hebe repeated her question to Dilling and
received from him a grudging affirmative. A ponderous hummock of doughy
consistency was tasted and thrust aside, and the hostess rose from the
table.
“Poor Augustus!” whispered Hebe, as she sank down beside Azalea in the
drawing-room. “Won’t hell-fire be his when we’ve gone?”
“Perhaps if we’re especially nice to her, she will have forgotten by
then.”
“Not a chance, my dear! I don’t know the individual, but I know the
type. Death will be his only escape . . . But, tell me, just who are
you?”
“Nobody in particular,” answered Azalea. “That’s why I’m here,” she
added, with an unusual touch of malice.
Mrs. Barrington was startled at this thrust. Into her eyes there shone a
budding respect for the girl.
“Yes, but who _are_ you? What’s your name?”
Azalea told her.
“Deane? Oh! You’re a great friend of the Dillings, then?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I am,” confessed the other woman. “I’ve heard of you, but—er—” she
ran an appraising look over the reconstructed gown that had adorned the
person of Lady Elton for three years—“I thought you would be
different.”
“A doubtful compliment,” suggested Azalea.
“As you like,” returned Hebe, and seated herself at the piano.
Somewhat to Azalea’s surprise, Mrs. Barrington made no effort to capture
Dilling when the men re-joined them. She turned the battery of her
fascinations upon Pratt with an occasional shot at the Doctor. Dilling
made his way directly to Azalea and dropped on the chair beside her.
“How long do these things last?” he enquired, under his breath. “Can’t
we go home?”
“In a few minutes. Wait until Mrs. Barrington stops singing. The bridge
players will probably stay on.”
Dilling made a frank signal to his wife, then turned back to the girl.
“Do you mind coming to the house with us?” he asked. “I will see you
home. There is something particular I want to say.”
The song ended abruptly, and Azalea raised her eyes to meet those of
Hebe Barrington. There was something in their expression that made her
flush. And there was the same suggestiveness, the same mockery in her
words at parting.
“If Miss Deane will wait until I have redeemed my promise to Mr. Pratt
and sung him one more song, we will drop her at the door and save Mr.
Dilling the trouble.”
“Cut him out of that pleasure,” amended Barrington, quickly.
“Even pleasures are troublesome, Toddles, dear,” said his wife, “look at
me, for an illustration. However, there may be another time . . . You
must all come and see me. They say my parties are rather fun. I’m
usually at home on Friday evenings, and nearly every Sunday afternoon.”
* * * * *
Azalea did not speak for a moment after Dilling had made his
proposition. She dared not trust her voice.
“You can’t be offended?” he asked, bluntly.
She shook her head.
“On the contrary, it gives me the most extraordinary sense of pleasure
that you want me . . . that you think I can be of some real service to
you.”
“Well?”
“Well . . . that’s all! It’s simply out of the question! I know my
father will never hear of such a thing.”
“He must! I’ll see him to-morrow. I’ll show him that he’s wrong. I’ll
say . . .”
“You’ll say,” interrupted Azalea, forcing a laugh, “‘Sir, I have come to
make a formal request for your daughter’s . . . shorthand!’ And then,
“I’m glad, for your sake, Mr. Dilling, we don’t own a dog!”
“You can’t discourage me,” cried Dilling. “I’ve made up my mind that we
will work together, and if you consent I feel that the thing is as good
as settled.”
It was. The following morning, when Azalea carried in her father’s
breakfast tray, she found that he had passed out of life as he had
passed through it, easily, and without toil or struggle.