"I think nothing, but that I am here with you--and that in another moment
I shall want to sit on the floor--Oh, Lord!"
The house was a blaze of light. It looked like a vast gold and red jewel
box, built to exhibit in the fullness of their splendor the most
luxurious and extravagant women in the world. And it was filled tonight
from coifed and jewelled orchestra to highest balcony, where plainer
people with possibly jewelled souls clung like flies. Not a box was
empty. Clavering's glance swept the parterre, hoping it would be
occupied for the most part by the youngest set, less likely to be
startled by the resemblance of his guest to the girl who had sat among
their grandmothers when the opera house was new. But there were few of
the very young in the boxes. They found their entertainment where
traditions were in the making, and dismissed the opera as an old
superstition, far too long-winded and boring for enterprising young
radicals.
Against the red backgrounds he saw the austere and homely faces of women
who represented all that was oldest and best in New York Society, and
they wore their haughty bones unchastened by power. There were many more
of the succeeding generation, of course, many more whose ancestry derived
from gold not blood, and they made up in style and ritual what they
lacked in pulchritude. Lack of beauty in the parterre boxes was as
notorious as the "horseshoe" itself, Dame Nature and Dame Fortune, rivals
always, having been at each other's throats some century and
three-quarters ago, and little more friendly when the newer aristocracy
of mere wealth was founded. All the New York Society Beauties were
historical, the few who had survived the mere prettiness of youth
entering a private Hall of Fame while still alive.
It had begun! Clavering fell back, folded his arms and set his teeth.
First one pair of opera glasses in the parterre, then another, then
practically all were levelled at Mrs. Oglethorpe's box. Young men and
old in the omnibus box remained in their seats. Very soon white
shoulders and black in the orchestra chairs began to change their angle,
attracted by the stir in the boxes. That comment was flowing freely, he
made no doubt. In the boxes on either side of him the occupants were
staring less openly, but with frequent amazed side glances and much
whispering. Madame Zattiany sat like an idol. She neither sought to
relieve what embarrassment she may have felt--if she felt any! thought
Clavering--by talking to her escort nor by gazing idly about the house
comparing other women's gowns and crowns with her own. She might have
been a masterpiece in a museum.
A diversion occurred for which Clavering at least was grateful. The door
opened and Mr. Dinwiddie entered, limping and leaning on a cane. He
looked pale and worried. Clavering resigned his seat and took one still
further in the rear. But the low-pitched dialogue came to him distinctly.
"Is this prudent?" murmured Dinwiddie, as he sat himself heavily beside
her. "There will be nothing else talked of in New York tomorrow. So far
there have only been rumors. But here! You look like Mary Ogden risen
from the dead. There's a rumor, by the way, that she is dead."
"She was alive the last time I heard from Vienna. But why imprudent?
Mr. Clavering told me of your kind concern, but I assure you that I am
neither a political nor a marital refugee."
"But you have a secret you wish to keep. Believe me, you can do so no
longer. The Sophisticates are generous and casual. They take you on
your face value and their curiosity is merely human and good-natured.
But this! In Jane Oglethorpe's box! It is in the nature of an invasion.
You hardly could have done more if you had forced yourself into a
drawing-room uninvited. You must either come out tomorrow and tell them
who you are, establish yourself . . . or . . . or----"
"Well?" Madame Zattiany was smiling, and, probably, the most serene
person in the house.
"I--I--think you had better go back to Europe. I must be frank.
Anything less would be cowardly. You interest me too much. . . . But I
can only suppose that your secret is of the sort that if discovered--and
they will discover it!--would cause you grave embarrassment."
"You mean if I am Mary Zattiany's illegitimate daughter?"
"I don't think they would have minded that if you had brought letters to
them from Mary asking them to be kind to you--and if you had made a good
marriage. But to have it flung in their faces like this--they will never
forgive you."
"And you think I am Mary Zattiany's daughter?"
"I--yes--I think I have gone back to my original theory. But there must
be something behind. She never would have let you come over here with a
letter only to Trent. She knew that she could rely on many of her old
friends. No people in the world are more loyal to their own than these
old New Yorkers."
"And suppose she did give me letters--and that I have not been interested
enough to present them?"
"I knew it! But I am afraid it's too late now. They not only will
resent your indifference, but they are extremely averse to anything like
sensational drama in private life. And your appearance here tonight is
extremely dramatic! They'll never forgive you," he reiterated solemnly.
"Really? Well, let us enjoy the next act," she added indulgently. "I
hope you will remain here."
The curtain had gone up. The audience, balked of the private drama, in
which they had manifested no aversion whatever from playing their own
rôle, transferred their attention to the stage, although Clavering saw
more than one glance wander across the house, and those in the adjoining
boxes felt themselves free to peer persistently.
Farrar had not finished bowing and kissing her hands before the next
curtain when the door of the box opened once more and Mr. Osborne
entered. After a few words with Madame Zattiany he went out and returned
almost immediately with three other men, two of his own generation, and a
tall, dark, extremely good-looking young man, whose easy negligent air
was set askew by the eager expression of his eyes. Clavering, not
waiting to be introduced, fled to the smoking-room and took a seat in a
corner with his back to the other occupants lest some one recognize and
speak to him. A hideous fear had invaded his soul. If this world, so
indisputably her own, did accept her--as he had not a doubt it would if
she demanded it; he made light of Dinwiddie's fears, knowing her as he
did--where would he come in? Sheer luck, supplemented by his own
initiative, had given him a clear field for a few weeks, but what chance
would he have, not only if her house were overrun with people, but if she
were pursued by men with so much more to offer, with whom she must have
so much more in common? He might be the equal of the best of them in
blood and the superior of many, but his life had not been of the order to
equip him with those minor but essential and armorial arts, that assured
ease and distinction, possessed by men not only born into the best
society but bred in it, and who had lived on their background, not on
their nerves. To be "born" is not enough. It is long association that
counts, and the "air" may be acquired by men of inferior birth but the
supreme opportunity. He had managed to interest her because he had no
rival, and he was young and his mind in tune with hers. That alone, no
doubt, was the secret of her imaginative flight in his direction. For
the first time in his life he felt a sense of inferiority, and for the
moment he made no attempt to shake it off. He was in the depths of
despair. He did not even light a cigarette. . . . He could hear a group
of young men discussing her . . . as one of their own kind . . . with no
lack of respect . . . some new friend of Mrs. Oglethorpe's--they were too
young to remember Mary Ogden. . . . She would have many "knights" on the
morrow . . . he felt on the far side of a rapidly widening gulf . . . and
he had once sought to dig a gulf! Disapproved! Questioned! Tried to
forget her! He wished he had abducted her.
A bell rang. The men moved toward the foyer. In a few moments he
followed. The attendant opened the Oglethorpe door and as he entered the
ante-room he saw that the box was still filled with men. They had
evidently taken root. He was possessed by a dull anger, and as it spread
upward his sense of inferiority took flight. He'd rout them all, damn
them. After all he had more brains than any man in the house and his
manners could be as good and as bad as their own. Moreover, he was
probably more strongly endowed in other ways than the youngest of them.
The wise thing for him to do was to let her find it out the next time
they were alone.