He had informed Madame Zattiany's butler over the telephone that he
would call that evening at half-past nine, but he returned to his rooms
after a day at the office with lagging steps. He dreaded another
evening in that library by the fire. It was beyond his imagination to
foresee how she would treat him, what rôle she would choose to play,
and although he was grimly determined to play whatever rôle she
assigned to him (for the present!), he hated the prospect. He was in
no mood for a "game." This wooing was like nothing his imagination had
ever prefigured. To be put on trial . . . to sit with the woman in the
great solitude of the house and the very air vibrating between
them . . . or frozen . . . self-conscious as a schoolboy up for
inspection . . . afraid of making a false move. . . . What in God's
name would they talk about? Politics? Books? Art? Banalities! . . .
he'd half a mind to go to Florida after all . . . or join Jim
Oglethorpe in South Carolina: he had a standing invitation . . . he'd
return by the next train; he'd felt as if existing in a vacuum all
day. . . .
When he reached his rooms he found his problem solved for the
moment--possibly. A telephone slip informed him that Madame Zattiany
would be at home, and a note from Mrs. Oglethorpe enclosed tickets for
her box at the opera that night.
If she would only go!
He called the house. The butler answered and retired to summon Madame
Zattiany. Her voice came clear and cool over the telephone. He
invited her to go to Sherry's for dinner and to hear Farrar in
_Butterfly_ afterward. "I must tell you that we shall sit in a box,"
he added. "Mrs. Oglethorpe's."
"Oh!" There was a pause that seemed eternal. Then she laughed
suddenly, a laugh of intense amusement that ended on a note of
recklessness. "Well! Why not? Yes, I will go. Very many thanks."
"Good. It means an early dinner. I'll call for you at a quarter to
seven."
"I'm promptness itself. Au 'voir."
So that was that! One night's respite. He'd leave her at her door.
He wondered if his voice had been as impersonal as her own: he had
almost barked into the telephone and had probably overdone it. But was
any man ever in such a ghastly position before? Well, he'd lose the
game before he'd make a fool of himself again. . . . Ass . . . he'd
had the game in his own hands last night . . . could have switched off
any moment. He'd let go and delivered himself into hers.
He took a cold shower, and made a meticulous toilet.
When he arrived at the house he was shown into the drawing-room. He
had never seen it before and he glanced about him with some curiosity.
It was a period room: Louis Quinze. The furniture looked as if made of
solid gold and Madame Du Barry herself might have sat on the dainty
brocades. The general effect was airy and graceful, gay, frivolous,
and subtly vicious. (An emanation to which the chaste Victorian had
been impervious.) He understood why Madame Zattiany did not use it.
She might be subtly anything, but assuredly she was neither airy nor
frivolous.
Then he realized that there was a painting of a girl over the mantel
and that the girl was Mary Ogden. He stepped forward eagerly, almost
holding his breath. The portrait ended at the tiny waist, and the
stiff satin of the cuirass-like bodice was softened with tulle which
seemed to float about the sloping shoulders. The soft ashen hair,
growing in a deep point on the broad full brow, was brushed softly back
and coiled low on the long white neck. The mouth was soft and pouting,
with a humorous quirk at the corners, and the large dark gray eyes were
full of a mocking light that seemed directed straight into the depths
of his puzzled brain as he stood gazing at that presentment of a once
potent and long vanished beauty. . . . Extraordinarily like and yet so
extraordinarily unlike! But the resemblance may have well been exact
when Mary Zattiany was twenty. How had Mary Ogden looked at thirty?
That very lift of the strong chin, that long arch of nostril . . .
something began to beat in the back of his brain. . . .
"What a beauty poor Mary must have been, no?"
He turned, and forgot the portrait. Madame Zattiany wore a gown of
that subtle but unmistakable green that no light can turn blue; thin
shimmering velvet to the knees, melting into satin embroidered with
silver and veiled with tulle. On her head was a small diamond tiara
and her breast was a blaze of emeralds and diamonds. She carried a
large fan of green feathers.
He had believed he had measured the extent of her beauty, but the crown
gave her a new radiance--and she looked as attainable as a queen on her
throne.
He went forward and raised her hand to his lips. "I insist," he said
gallantly. "Anything else would be out of the picture. I need not
tell you how wonderful you look--nor that after tonight you will hardly
remain obscure!"
"Why do things halfway? It has never been my method. And Mary told me
once that Nile-green had been her favorite color until she lost her
complexion. So--as I am to exhibit myself in a box--_enfin!_ . . .
Besides, I wanted to go." She smiled charmingly. "It was most kind of
you to think of me."
"Would that all 'kind' acts were as graciously rewarded. I shall be
insufferably conceited for the rest of my life--only it is doubtful if
I shall be seen at all. Shall we go?"
When they arrived at Sherry's they found the large restaurant almost
deserted. It was barely seven. After he had ordered the dinner--and
he thanked his stars that he knew how to order a dinner--she said
casually:
"I had a call from your friend, Miss Dwight, today."
"Yes? You did not see her, I suppose?"
"Oh, but I did. We talked for two hours. It was almost comical--the
sheer delight in talking to a woman once more. I have never been what
is called a woman's woman, but I always had my friends, and I suddenly
realized that I had missed my own sex."
"I shouldn't fancy that you two would have much in common."
"You forget that we were both nurses. We compared experiences: methods
of nursing, operations, doctors, surgeons, shell shock, plastic
surgery, the various characteristics of wounded men--all the rest of
it."
"It must have been an exciting conversation."
"You never could be brought to believe it, but it was. Afterward, we
talked of other things. She seems to me quite a remarkable woman."
"Entirely so. What is it she lacks that prevents men from falling in
love with her? Men flock there, and she is more discussed as a mind
and a personality than any woman among us; but it is all above the
collar. And yet those handsome-ugly women often captivate men."
"You ask one woman why another cannot fascinate men! I should say that
it is for want of transmission. The heart and passions are there--I
will risk guessing that she has been tragically in love at least
once--but there is something wrong with the conduit that carries sexual
magnetism; it has been bent upward to the brain instead of directed
straight to the sex for which it was designed. Moreover, she is too
coldly and obviously analytical and lacks the tact to conceal it. Men
do not mind being skewered when they are out for purely intellectual
enjoyment, but they do not love it."
Clavering laughed. "I fancy your own mind is quite as coldly
analytical, but nature took care of your conduits and you see to the
tact. You cannot teach Gora how to redistribute her magnetism, but you
might give her a few points."
"They would be wasted. It is merely that I am a woman of the world,
something she will never be. And in my hey-day, I can assure you, I
was not analytical."
"Your hey-day?"
"I was a good many years younger before the war, remember. Heavens!
How rowdy those young people are! A month ago I should have asked if
they were ladies and gentlemen, but I have been quite close to their
kind in the tea rooms and their accent is unmistakable; although the
girls talk and act like _gamines_. One of them seems to know you."
Clavering had been conscious that the restaurant was filling with
groups and couples, bound, no doubt, for the opera or theatre. He
followed Madame Zattiany's eyes. In the middle of the room was a large
table surrounded by very young men and girls; the latter as fragile and
lovely as butterflies: that pathetic and swiftly passing youth of the
too pampered American girl. The youth of this generation promised to
be briefer than ever!
He gave them a cursory glance, and then his chair turned to pins.
Janet Oglethorpe sat at the head of the table. What would the brat do?
She had been fond of him as a child, but as he had found her detestable
in her flapperhood, and been at no pains to conceal his attitude, she
had taken a violent dislike to him. Last night he had deliberately
flicked her on the raw.
He was not long in doubt. She had returned his perfunctory bow with a
curt nod, and after a brief interval--during which she appeared to be
making a communication that was received with joyous hilarity--she left
her seat and ran across the room. She might have been in her own house
for all the notice she took of the restaurant's other guests.
Clavering rose and grimly awaited the onslaught. Even the waiters were
staring, but for the moment only at the flashing little figure whose
cheeks matched to a shade the American Beauty rose of her wisp of a
gown.
Her big black eyes were sparkling wickedly, her vivid little mouth wore
a twist that can only be described as a grin. She had come for her
revenge. No doubt of that.
She bore down on him, and shook his unresponsive hand heartily. "I've
been telling them how dear and noble you were last night, dear Mr.
Clavering, just like a real uncle, or what any one would expect of one
of granny's pets. No doubt you saved my life and honor, and I want to
tell the world." Her crisp clear voice was pitched in G. It carried
from end to end of the silent room.
"Would that I were your uncle! Won't you sit down? I believe that you
have not met Madame Zattiany."
Miss Oglethorpe had not cast a glance at her victim's companion,
assuming her to be some writing person; although he did once in a while
take out Anne Goodrich or Marian Lawrence: old girls--being all of
twenty-four--in whom she took no interest whatever.
She half turned her head with a barely perceptible nod. The tail of
her eye was arrested. She swung round and stared, her mouth open. For
the moment she was abashed; whatever else she may have submerged, her
caste instinct remained intact and for a second she had the unpleasant
sensation of standing at the bar of her entire class. But she
recovered immediately. _Grandes dames_ were out of date. Even her
mother had worn her skirts to her knees a short time since. What fun
to "show this left-over." And then her spiteful naughtiness was
magnified by anger. Madame Zattiany had inclined her head graciously,
but made no attempt to conceal her amusement.
"Yes, I'll sit down. Thanks." She produced a cigarette and lit it.
"Granny's got a lot of ancient photographs of her girlhood friends,"
she remarked with her insolent eyes on Madame Zattiany, "and one of
them's enough like you to be you masquerading in the get-up of the
eighties. Comes back to me. Just before mother left I heard her
discussing you with a bunch of her friends. Isn't there some mystery
or other about you?"
"Yes, indeed! Is it not so?" Madame Zattiany addressed her glowering
host, her eyes twinkling. It was evident that she regarded this
representative of the new order with a scientific interest, as if it
were a new sort of bug and herself an entomologist. "Probably," she
added indulgently, "the most mysterious woman in New York. What you
would call an adventuress if you were not too young to be uncharitable.
Mr. Clavering is kind enough to take me on trust."
Miss Oglethorpe's wrath waxed. This creature of an obsolete order had
the temerity to laugh at her. Moreover---- She flashed a glance from
Clavering's angry anxious face to the beautiful woman opposite, and a
real color blazed in her cheeks. But she summoned a sneer.
"Noble again! Has he told you of our little adventure last night?"
"Last night?" A flicker crossed the serenity of Madame Zattiany's
face. "But no. I do not fancy Mr. Clavering is in the habit of
telling his little adventures."
"Oh, he wouldn't. Old standards. Southern chivalry. All the rest of
it. That's why he's granny's model young man. Well, I'll tell you----"
"You've been drinking again," hissed Clavering.
"Of course. Cocktail party at Donny's----"
"Well, moderate your voice. It isn't necessary to take the entire room
into your confidence. Better still, go back to your own table."
She raised her voice. "You see, Madame Zattiany, I was running round
loose at about one o'clock A. M. when whom should I run into but dear
old Uncle Lee. He looked all shot to pieces when he saw me. Girls in
his day didn't stay out late unless they had a beau. Ten o'clock was
the limit, anyhow. But did he take advantage of my unprotected maiden
innocence? Not he. He stood there in the snow and delivered a lecture
on the error of my ways, then took me to a delicatessen shop--afraid of
compromising himself in a restaurant--and stuffed me with sandwiches
and bananas. Even there, while we were perched on two high stools, he
didn't make love to me as any human man would have done. He just ate
sandwiches and lectured. God! Life must have been dull for girls in
his day!"
People about them were tittering. One young man burst into a guffaw.
Madame Zattiany was calmly eating her dinner. The tirade might have
fallen on deaf ears.
Clavering's skin had turned almost black. His eyes looked murderous.
But he did not raise his voice. "Go back to your table," he said
peremptorily. "You've accomplished your revenge and I've had all I
propose to stand. . . . By God! If you don't get out this minute I'll
pick you up and carry you out and straight to your grandmother."
"Yes you would--make a scene."
"The scene could hardly be improved. Will you go?"
He half rose. Even Madame Zattiany glanced at him apprehensively.
Miss Oglethorpe laughed uncertainly. "Oh, very well. At least we
never furnish material for your newspapers. That's just one thing we
think beneath us." She rose and extended her hand. "Good night,
Madame Zattiany," she said with a really comical assumption of the
grand manner. "It has been a great pleasure to meet you."
Madame Zattiany took the proffered hand. "Good night," she said
sweetly. "Your little comedy has been most amusing. Many thanks."
Miss Oglethorpe jerked her shoulders. "Well, console dear unky. He'd
like the floor to open and swallow him. Ta! Ta!"
She ran back to her table, and its hilarity was shortly augmented.
Madame Zattiany looked at Clavering aghast. "But it is worse than I
supposed!" she exclaimed. "It is really a tragedy. Poor Mrs.
Oglethorpe." Then she laughed, silently but with intense amusement.
"I wish she had been here! After all! . . . Nevertheless, it is a
tragedy. An Oglethorpe! A mere child intoxicated . . . and truly
atrocious manners. Why don't her people put her in a sanitarium?"
"Parents count about as much today as women counted in the cave era.
But it is abominable that you should be made conspicuous."
"Oh, that! I have been conspicuous all my life. And you must admit
that she had the centre of the stage! If any one is to be
commiserated, it is you. But you really behaved admirably; I could
only admire your restraint."
Clavering's ferment subsided, and he returned her smile. "I hope I
didn't express all I felt. Murder would have been too good for her.
But you are an angel. And for all her bravado you must have made her
feel like the little vulgarian she is. Heavens, but the civilization
varnish is thin!--and when they deliberately rub it off----"
"Tell me of this adventure."
"It was such a welcome adventure after leaving you! She told
practically the whole of it. She had been to a party and her host was
too drunk to take her home. She couldn't get a taxi, so started to
walk. After I had fed the little pig I took her home. Of course I had
no intention of mentioning it to any one, but I hardly feel that I am
compromising my honor as a gentleman!"
"But will Society permit this state of things to last? New York! It
seems incredible."
"Heaven knows. It might as well try to curb the lightning as these
little fools. Their own children, if they have any, will probably be
worse."
"I wonder. Reformed rakes are not generally indulgent to adventurous
youth. There will probably be a violent revulsion to the rigors of the
nineteenth century."
"Hope so. Thank Heaven we can get out of this."
They left the table. As he followed her down the long room and noted
the many eyes that focussed on the regal and beautiful figure in its
long wrap of white velvet and fox he set his lips grimly. Another
ordeal before him. For a moment he wished that he had fallen in love
with a woman incapable of focussing eyes. He hated being conspicuous
as he hated poverty and ugliness and failure and death. Then he gave
an impatient sigh. If he could win her he cared little if the entire
town followed her every time she appeared on the street. And she had
been very sweet after that odious flapper had taken herself off. He
had ceased to feel at arm's length.