On Saturday afternoon as Clavering was walking up Forty-fourth Street
he met Anne Goodrich coming out of the Belasco Theatre. He saw her
first and tried to avoid her, for her family and the Oglethorpes were
as one, but she caught sight of him and held out her hand.
"I shouldn't speak to you after your base desertion the other night,"
she said, smiling. "But you do look rather seedy and I prefer to
flatter myself that you really were ill."
"Was sure I was coming down with the flu," Clavering mumbled. "Of
course you know that nothing else----"
"Oh, hostesses are too canny these days to take offence. All we are
still haughty enough to demand is a decent excuse. But you really owe
me something, and besides I've been wanting to talk to you. Take me to
Pierre's for tea."
She spoke in a light tone of command. There had been a time when
issuing commands to Clavering had been her habit and he had responded
with a certain palpitation, convinced for nearly a month that Anne
Goodrich was the Clavering woman. He had known her as an awkward
schoolgirl and then as one of the prettiest and most light-hearted of
the season's débutantes, but she had never interested him until after
her return from France, where she had done admirable work in the
canteens. Then, sitting next to her at a dinner, and later for two
hours in the conservatory, he had thought her the finest girl he had
ever met. He thought so still; but although she stimulated his mind
and they had many tastes in common, he had soon realized that when
apart he forgot her and that only novelty had inspired his brief
desire. She might have everything for another man as exacting as
himself, but that unanalyzable something his own peculiar essence
demanded no woman had ever possessed until he met Mary Zattiany.
He had begun too ardently to cease his visits abruptly and, moreover,
he still found her more companionable than any woman he knew; he
continued to show her a frank and friendly devotion until an attack of
influenza sent him to the hospital for a month; when he accepted the
friendly intervention of fate and thereafter timed his occasional calls
to coincide with the hour of tea, when she was never alone. There were
no more long morning walks, no more long rides in her car, no more
hastily arranged luncheons at the Bohemian restaurants that interested
her, no more "dropping in" and long telephone conversations. He still
enjoyed a talk with her at a dinner, and she was always a pleasure to
the eye with her calm and regular features softened by a cloud of
bright chestnut hair that matched her eyes to a shade, her serene brow
and her exquisite clothes. She did not carry herself well according to
his standard; "well" when she came out six years ago had meant laxity
of shoulders and pride of stomach, and in spite of her devotion to
outdoor sports she had fallen a prey to fashion. She so far
disapproved of the new fashion in girls, however, that she was making
an effort to stand erect and she had even banished powder from her
clear warm skin. Today she was becomingly dressed in taupe velvet,
with stole and muff and turban of sable; but Clavering had fancied that
her fine face wore a weary discontented expression until she saw him,
when it changed swiftly to a sort of imperious gladness. It made him
vaguely uncomfortable. He had never flattered himself that she loved
him, but he had believed in the possibility of winning her. He had
later chosen to believe that she had grown as indifferent as himself,
and he wondered, as he stood plunging about in his mind for an excuse
to avoid a tête-à-tête, why she had not married.
"Well--you see----"
"Come now! You don't go to teas, men never call these days, and you
surely have done your column for tomorrow. Here is the car. You can
spare me an hour."
He had always avoided any appearance of rudeness and in his mind at
least he had treated her badly; he followed her without further
hesitation, trusting to his agile mind to keep her off the subject of
Madame Zattiany. This he would do at the cost of rudeness itself, for
he would not permit fiasco at the last moment.
The street was packed with automobiles and taxis, and after a slow
progress toward Fifth Avenue they arrived in time to see the traffic
towers flash on the yellow light and were forced to halt for another
three minutes. He had started an immediate discussion of the play she
had just witnessed, knowing her love of argument, but she suddenly
broke off and laid her hand on his arm.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "The famous Countess Zattiany in that car with
mother. Of course you know her; you were with her at the opera on the
historic night, weren't you? Tell me! What is she like? Did you ever
hear of anything so extraordinary?"
"Never. I really know her very slightly. But as I had met her and she
had kindly asked me to dinner, I was glad to return the compliment when
Mrs. Oglethorpe sent me her box, as she always does once or twice
during the season, you know. But go on. What you said interested me
immensely, although I don't agree with you. I have certain fixed
standards when it comes to the drama."
She picked him up and the argument lasted until they were seated in
Pierre's and had ordered tea.
"I might have taken you home," she said then. "We could have had tea
in my den. No doubt Countess Zattiany was returning with mother, who,
it seems, has always adored her----"
"This is ever so much nicer, for we are far less likely to be
interrupted. I haven't had a real talk with you for months."
And he gave her a look of boyish pleasure, wholly insincere, but so
well done that she flushed slightly.
"Is that my fault? There was a time when you came almost every day.
And then you never came in the same way again." It evidently cost her
something to say this, for her flush deepened, but she managed a glance
of dignified archness.
"Oh, remember I had a villainous attack of the flu, and after that
there were arrears of work to make up. Moreover, the dramatic critic
came down with an even longer attack and they piled his work on me. I
don't know what it is to 'drop in' these days."
"Well--are you always to be driven to death? I read your column
religiously and it runs so smoothly and spontaneously that it doesn't
seem possible it can take you more than an hour to write it."
"An hour! Little you know. And subjects don't drop out of the clouds,
dear Anne. I have to go through all the newspapers, read an endless
number of books--not all fiction by a long sight--glance through the
magazines, reviews, weekly publications and foreign newspapers, read my
rivals' columns, go about among the Sophisticates, attend first-nights,
prize-fights, and even see the best of the movies. I assure you it's a
dog's life."
"It sounds tremendously interesting. Far, far more so than my own. I
am so tired of that! I--that is one thing I wanted to talk to you
about--I meant to bring it up at my dinner--I wish you would introduce
me to some of your Sophisticates. Uncle Din says they are the most
interesting people in New York and that he always feels young again
when he is at one of their parties. Will you take me to one?"
"Of course I will. The novelty might amuse you----"
"It's not only novelty I want. I want really to know people whose
minds are constantly at work, who are doing the things we get the
benefit of when we are intelligent enough to appreciate them. I cannot
go on in the old way any longer. I paint more or less and read a great
deal--still on the lines you laid down. But one cannot paint and read
and walk and motor and dance all the time. Even if I had not gone to
France I should have become as bored and disgusted as I am now. You
know that I have a mind. What has it to feed on? I don't mean, of
course, that all the women I know are fools. Some of them no doubt are
cleverer than I am. But all the girls of my set--except Marian
Lawrence, and we don't get on very well--are married; and some have
babies, some have lovers, some are mad about bridge, a few have gone in
for politics, which don't interest me, and those that the war made
permanently serious devote themselves to charities and reform
movements. The war spoilt me for mere charity work--although I give a
charity I founded one afternoon a week--and mother does enough for one
family anyhow. I see no prospect of marrying--I don't know a young man
who wants to talk anything but sport and prohibition--you are an oasis.
There you are! The Sophisticates are an inspiration. I am sure they
will save my life."
"But have you reflected----" Clavering was embarrassed. She had
controlled her tones and spoken with her usual crisp deliberateness,
but he knew that the words came from some profound emotional reaction.
For Anne Goodrich it was an outburst. "You see--it is quite possible
that when the novelty wore thin you would not be much better off than
you are now. All these people are intensely interested in their
particular jobs. They are specialists. You----"
"You mean, what have I to give them?"
"Not exactly. You could give them a good deal. To say nothing of your
own high intelligence, they are by no means averse from taking an
occasional flyer into the realm of fashion. Curiosity partly, natural
human snobbishness, perhaps. They will go to your house if you invite
them, no doubt of that; and they may conceive an enthusiastic liking
for you. But after all, you would not be one of them. Even though
they genuinely appreciated your accomplishments, still you would be
little more than an interesting incident. They are workers, engaged in
doing the things they think most worth while--which are worth while
because they furnish what the intelligent public is demanding just now,
and upon which the current market places a high value. And you are
merely an intellectual young woman of leisure. They might think it a
pity you didn't have to work, but secretly, no matter what their
regard, they'd consider you negligible because you belong to a class
that is content to be, not to do. I assure you they consider
themselves the most important group in New York--in America--at
present: the life-giving group of suns round which far-off planets
humbly revolve."
"I see. You mean that my novelty would wear thin long before theirs.
Heaven knows I have little to give them. I should feel rather ashamed
sitting at the head of my table offering nothing but terrapin and
Gobelins. But don't you think I could make real friends of some of
them? Surely we would find much in common to talk about--and they
certainly take time to play, according to Uncle Din."
"I think there would always be a barrier. . . . Ah! I have an idea.
Why don't you set up a studio and take your painting seriously? Cut
yourself off from the old life and join the ranks of the real workers?
Then, by degrees, they would accept you as a matter of course. You
could return their hospitality in your studio, which could be one of
the largest--there is no danger of overwhelming them; they are too
successful themselves. Think it over."
Miss Goodrich's face, which had looked melancholy, almost hopeless, lit
up again. Her red mouth lifted at the corners, light seemed to pour
into her hazel eyes. "I'll do it!" she exclaimed. "I did a portrait
of father last month and it really is good. He is delighted with it,
and you know how easy he is to please! I wonder I never thought of it
before. You certainly are the most resourceful man in the world,
Lee--by the way, I hear there is a party at that wonderful Gora
Dwight's tonight. Do take me."
"Oh! . . . I'm so sorry . . . it's quite impossible, Anne. I wish I
could. . . . I'll take you to one next week. And meanwhile get to
work. Be ready to meet them in the outer court at least. You'll find
it an immense advantage--rob your advent of any suggestion of
curiosity."
"I'll look for a studio tomorrow. That is the way I do things--my
father's daughter, you see."
She spoke with gay determination, but her face had fallen again. In a
moment she began to draw on her gloves. "Now I'll have to run if I'm
to dress and get over to Old Westbury for dinner at eight. Thank you
so much, Lee; you've been a godsend. If I were a writer instead of a
mere dabbler in paints I'd dedicate my first book to you. I'm so sorry
I haven't time to drive you down to Madison Square."
Clavering, drawing a long breath as if he had escaped from imminent
danger, saw her into her car and then walked briskly home. He intended
to dine alone tonight. And in a moment he had forgotten Anne Goodrich
as completely as he had forgotten Janet Oglethorpe.