Clavering left his chair and wandered up the aisle. He felt none of
his usual impatience for the beneficent cigarette. Was he hit?
Hardly. Inquisitive, certainly. But he had seen so many provocative
shells. Vile trick of nature, that--poverty-stricken unoriginal
creature that she was.
He glanced over the rows of people as he passed. It was not the play
that was animating them. The woman was a godsend.
His gaze paused abruptly on the face of Mr. Charles Dinwiddie.
Clavering's grand-aunt had married Mr. Dinwiddie's father and the two
men, so far apart in years, were more or less intimate; the older man's
inexhaustible gossip of New York Society amused Clavering, who in turn
had initiated Mr. Dinwiddie into new and strange pleasures, including
literary parties and first nights--ignored by the world of fashion.
All New York men of the old régime, no matter what their individuality
may have been twenty years earlier, look so much alike as they approach
sixty, and more particularly after they have passed it, that they might
be brothers in blood as in caste. Their moustaches and what little
hair they have left turns the same shade of well-bred white. Their
fine old Nordic faces are generally lean and flat of cheek, their
expression calm, assured, not always smug. They are impeccably groomed
and erect. Stout they may be, but seldom fat, and if not always
handsome, they are polished, distinguished, aloof. They no longer wear
side-whiskers and look younger than their fathers did at the same age.
Mr. Dinwiddie's countenance as a rule was as formal and politely
expressionless as became his dignified status, but tonight it was not.
It was pallid. The rather prominent eyes were staring, the mouth was
relaxed. He was seated next the aisle and Clavering hastened toward
him in alarm.
"Ill, old chap?" he asked. "Better come out."
Mr. Dinwiddie focussed his eyes, then stumbled to his feet and caught
Clavering by the arm. "Yes," he muttered. "Get me out of this and
take me where I can get a drink. Seen a ghost."
Clavering guided him up the aisle, then out of a side exit into an
alley and produced a flask from his hip-pocket. Mr. Dinwiddie without
ceremony raised it to his lips and swallowed twice, gasping a little.
He had reached the age of the mild whiskey and soda. Then he stood
erect and passed his hand over the shining curve of his head.
"Ever seen a ghost, Lee?" he asked. "That woman was there, wasn't she?"
"She was there, all right." Clavering's face was no longer cynical and
mysterious; it was alive with curiosity. "D'you know who she is?"
"Thirty-odd years ago any one of us old chaps would have told you she
was Mary Ogden, and like as not raised his hat. She was the beauty and
the belle of her day. But she married a Hungarian diplomat, Count
Zattiany, when she was twenty-four, and deserted us. Never been in the
country since. I never wanted to see her again. Too hard hit. But I
caught a glimpse of her at the opera in Paris about ten years
ago--faded! Always striking of course with that style, but withered,
changed, skinny where she had been slim, her throat concealed by a dog
collar a yard long--her expression sad and apathetic--the dethroned
idol of men. God! Mary Ogden! I left the house."
"It is her daughter, of course----"
"Never had a child--positive of it. Zattiany title went to a nephew
who was killed in the war. . . . No . . . it must be . . . must
be . . ." His eyes began to glitter. Clavering knew the symptom. His
relative was about to impart interesting gossip.
"Well?" he asked impatiently.
"There were many stories about Mary Ogden--Mary Zattiany--always a
notable figure in the capitals of Europe. Her husband was in the
diplomatic service until he died--some years before I saw her in Paris.
She was far too clever--damnably clever, Mary Ogden, and had a
reputation for it in European Society as well as for beauty--to get
herself compromised. But there were stories--that must be it! She had
a daughter and stowed her away somewhere. No two women could be as
alike as that except mother and daughter--don't see it too often at
that. Why, the very way she carries her head--her _style_ . . . wonder
where she kept her? That girl has been educated and has all the air of
the best society. Must have got friends to adopt her. Gad! What a
secret chapter. But why on earth does she let the girl run round
loose?"
"I shouldn't say she was a day under twenty-eight. No doubt she looked
younger from where you were sitting."
"Twenty-eight! Mary must have begun sooner than we heard. But--well,
we never felt that we knew Mary--that was one of her charms. She kept
us guessing, as you young fellows say, and she had the devil's own
light in her eyes sometimes." His own orb lit up again. "Wonder if
Mary is here? No doubt she's come over to get her property back--she
never transferred her investments and of course it was alienated during
the war. But not a soul has heard from her. I am sure of that. We
were discussing her the other night at dinner and wondering if her
fortune had been turned over. It was at Jane Oglethorpe's. Jane and a
good many of the other women have seen her from time to time
abroad--stayed at her castle in Hungary during the first years of her
marriage; but they drifted apart as friends do. . . . She must be a
wreck, poor thing. She ran a hospital during the war and was in Buda
Pesth for some time after the revolution broke out. I hope she had the
girl well hidden away."
"Perhaps she sent the girl over to look after her affairs."
"That's it. Beyond a doubt. And I'll find out. Trent is Mary's
attorney and trustee. I'll make him open up."
"And you'll call on her?"
"Won't I? That is, I'll make Trent take me. I never want to look at
poor Mary again, but I'd feel young---- Hello! I believe you're hit!"
Mr. Dinwiddie, having solved his problems, was quite himself again and
alert for one of the little dramas that savored his rather tasteless
days. "I'd like that. I'll introduce you and give you my blessing.
Wrong side of the blanket, though."
"Don't care a hang."
"That's right. Who cares about anything these days? And you can only
be young once." He sighed. "And if she's like her mother--only
halfway like her inside--she'll be worth it."
"Is that a promise?"
"We'll shake on it. I'll see Trent in the morning. Dine with me at
the club at eight?"
"Rather!"