1
ROSE-ANN decided to give at least one or two of her “little” parties
immediately; perhaps to encourage Felix to meet the larger ordeal. And
to the first of these little parties, she planned to invite, with what
seemed to Felix a reckless defiance of congruity, Clive, Dorothy
Sheridan (who had in the meantime been in to see “what they had done to
her old studio” and appeared to be satisfied that they had _not_ turned
it into what she called “a Christian home”)—and the Howard Morgans!
A more ill-assorted company, Felix felt, had never been invited to sit
at the one table—a poet who was also (or at least so Felix considered
him) a social lion, a rough-mannered Bohemian girl-artist, a satirical
young newspaper writer; and he, a frightened young husband giving his
first dinner, was doubtless expected by his infatuated bride to bring
music out of this discord! Well, let her find out.... It was a relief,
anyway, to be told that he need not wear his evening clothes.
The party went off amazingly well. There was a certain constraint, at
first, it was true; but it was not of the sort he had expected. Dorothy
Sheridan had turned up with her bobbed hair elaborately and beautifully
curled and wearing a gaily embroidered Russian smock. “I never wear
smocks when I paint,” she said, “painters never do—but I like to wear
them everywhere else. What kind of folks are these Morgans?” And being
told by Rose-Ann—rashly, Felix thought—that they were “all right,” she
said, “Then I can smoke,” and lighted a cigarette with an air of
relief.... And when the Howard Morgans came, the great man was dressed
in an old suit of corduroys, concerning which he appeared to be nervous.
He looked at Felix’s clothes anxiously, and then at Dorothy Sheridan
with her cigarette, and seemed reassured. He must have been reassured,
for when the introductions were accomplished, he took out an old sack of
tobacco from his coat-pocket and a crumpled package of straw-coloured
paper, and rolled himself a cigarette.... Yes, that was all they were
afraid of—that the occasion might not be sufficiently informal! And
after they had ceased to be afraid of that, they got on vastly well,
drank Felix’s cocktails with gusto, ate Rose-Ann’s dinner (it was,
though one might not have known it, a delicatessen dinner) with
unabashed appetite, and talked like old friends. Later in the evening,
Clive turned to Dorothy Sheridan and demanded, “Come, you are not really
one of _the_ Sheridans, are you? I can’t believe it!”—And she answered:
“Well, I’m the black sheep of the family; I don’t live their life—I
paint, and mind my own business—so you ought not to hold that against
me!” From her manner, one would have thought that the Sheridans were a
band of notorious criminals, but Rose-Ann told him afterward—what it
seemed she had suspected all along—that Dorothy belonged to one of
the—well, as Clive had said, one of “_the_”—families of Chicago.... Yes,
they got along very well indeed, and Felix talked about everything in
the world with complete unselfconsciousness....
2
Yes, that party was all right.... But a dinner for Will Blake of
Community House, _and_ Paul, their old scenic-genius friend, now a
prosperous designer of musical comedy settings in New York and just back
in Chicago for a few days—_and_ (yes!) old Mrs. Perk ... that was
simply, Felix felt, defying the gods. And yet it turned out to be an
even more successful party than the other. Mrs. Perk was as delightful a
dinner companion as any one could wish, and really made the party a
“go.”... Or perhaps it was the studio: apparently everybody liked a
touch of bohemia; apparently anybody in such a place could be completely
human, natural, and at ease.... Or perhaps it was Rose-Ann: there was no
doubt about it, she was a wonderful hostess....
And Rose-Ann had only just started, it seemed, on her social career.
After the “house-warming,” which came next on their program, she
intended to ask some of her “bourgeois” friends in to dinner, before
they went away for the summer. “You haven’t been miserable at _these_
parties, have you?” she said. “Well, you’ll find the others just as
easy. Everybody’s human—even in evening clothes, Felix. We’ll have to go
to dinner at these other people’s houses, too, you know—and once you
make up your mind to it, you can have as good a time there as you can
here!”
All right.... He would try to enjoy himself, he promised obediently. But
this house-warming presented difficulties. They were inviting everybody
they knew—everybody!—people from Community House, from the Chronicle
office, from Canal street, et cetera.... Such a crowd! “I shall have to
introduce them to each other, and I won’t remember their names,” he said
forlornly. “I never remember people’s names!”
“It’s all right!” said Rose-Ann. “After a cocktail or two, half of them
won’t know their own names. Besides, this will be our last big party,
ever. I promise!”
Well, it was a satisfaction to know that. But—cocktails, and Community
House residents; Felix was not sure (even after seeing Will Blake
flushed and merry with their California wine sherbert the other night!)
how these two elements would mix. Eddie Silver after his ninth cocktail
would scarcely be an edifying spectacle. “Don’t worry,” said Rose-Ann.
“People are not so Puritanical as you think. Anyway, our respectable
friends will come early and go early—and the others vice-versa.”
“I thought,” said Felix, “when I went to the hospital, that I had
finished with boozing....”
“So you have,” said Rose-Ann cheerfully. “This is quite different!”
“And you a clergyman’s daughter!” said Felix.
3
Rose-Ann’s father was somewhat on Felix’s mind, because she had said he
might come to see them any day. And if Felix felt some awkwardness in
adapting himself to the convivial life, he felt still more embarrassment
at the prospect of acting the difficult rôle of the son-in-law of a
clergyman.... One had to, it seemed, be so many different things to get
along with people! But he was learning. When these parties were over, he
would commence to think about how to make himself agreeable to his
father-in-law.
And then, late in the afternoon of the day of the house-warming, when
Rose-Ann had gone out to buy something she had forgotten, and Felix was
busy squeezing lemons, a tall, gentle, stooping man with a slight
greying beard walked into the studio, looked about, smiled, and extended
his hand.
“I suppose you are my son-in-law,” he said. “I see you’re getting ready
for a party, so I’m just in time. Rose-Ann didn’t specially invite me,
but I guess she’ll let her old dad come anyway.”
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