XXVIII

He called for Madame Zattiany at ten o'clock. This time she was

standing in the hall as the man opened the door, and she came out

immediately. A lace scarf almost concealed her face.

"I didn't order the car," she said. "It is such a fine night, and she

lives so near. Do you mind?"

"I much prefer to walk, but your slippers----"

"They are dark and the heels not too high."

"I'm not going to make the slightest preliminary attempt at

indifference tonight, nor wait for one of your leads. How long do you

intend to stay at this party?"

"Oh, an hour, possibly. One must not be rude." Her own tones were not

even, but he could not see her face.

"But you'll keep your word and tell me everything tonight?"

She gave a deep sigh. "Yes, I'll keep my word. No more

now--please! . . . Tell me, what do they do at these parties besides

talk--dance?"

"Not always. They have charades, spelling matches, pick a word out of

a hat and make impromptu speeches----"

"But _Mon dieu_!" She stopped short and pushed back her scarf.

Whatever expression she may have wished to conceal there was nothing

now in her face but dismay. "But you did not tell me this or I should

not have accepted. I never bore myself. I understood these were your

intellectuals. Charades! Spelling matches! Words in the hat! It

sounds like a small town moved to New York."

"Well, a good many of them are from small towns and they rather pride

themselves on preserving some of the simplicities of rural life and

juvenescence, while leading an exaggerated mental life for which nature

designed no man. Perhaps it is merely owing to an obscure warning to

preserve the balance. Or an innocent arrogance akin to Mrs.

Oglethorpe's when she is looking her dowdiest. . . . But Gora often

has good music . . . still, if you don't want to go on I'm sure I do

not."

"No," she said hurriedly. "I shall go. But--I am still astonished. I

do not know what I expected. But brilliant conversation, probably,

such as one hears in a European salon. Don't they relax their great

minds at outdoor sports? I understand there are golf links and tennis

courts near the city."

"A good many of them do. But they like to relax still further at

night. You see we are not Europeans. Americans are as serious as

children, but like children they also love to play. Remember, we are a

young nation--and a very healthy one. And you will have conversation

if you want it. The men, you may be sure, will be ready to give you

anything you demand."

"I had rather hoped to listen. Is this the house?"

Several taxis were arriving and there were many cars parked along the

block. When they entered the house they were directed to

dressing-rooms on the second floor, and Clavering met Madame Zattiany

at the head of the staircase. She wore a gown of emerald green velvet,

cut to reveal the sloping line of her shoulders, and an emerald comb

thrust sideways in the low coil of her soft ashen hair. On the

dazzling fairness of her neck lay a single unset emerald depending from

a fine gold chain. Clavering stared at her helplessly. . . . It was

evident she had not made her toilette with an eye to softening a blow!

"Am I overdressed?" she murmured. "I did not know. . . . I thought I

would dress as if--well, as if I had been invited by one of my own

friends----"

"Quite right. To 'dress down' would have been fatal. And Gora must

spend a small fortune on her clothes. . . . But you . . . you . . . I

have never seen you----"

"I am fond of green," she said lightly. "_Couleur d'espérance_. Shall

we go down?"

He followed her down the stairs and before they reached the crowded

room below he had managed to set his face; but his heart was pounding.

He gave Gora, who came forward to meet them, a ferocious scowl, but she

was too much engaged with Madame Zattiany to notice him; and so, for

that matter, was the rest of the company. Miss Dwight's gown was of

black satin painted with flaming poinsettias, and Clavering saw Madame

Zattiany give it a swift approving glance. Around her thin shoulders

was a scarf of red tulle that warmed her brown cheeks. She looked

remarkably well, almost handsome, and her strange pale eyes were very

bright. It was evident that she was enjoying her triumphs; this no

doubt was the crowning one, and she led Madame Zattiany into the room,

leaving Clavering to his own devices.

It was certainly the "distinguished party" he had promised. There were

some eight or ten of the best-known novelists and story-writers in the

country, two dramatists, several of the younger publishers, most of the

young editors, critics, columnists, and illustrators, famous in New

York, at least; a few poets, artists; the more serious contributors to

the magazines and reviews; an architect, an essayist, a sculptress, a

famous girl librarian of a great private library, three correspondents

of foreign newspapers, and two visiting British authors. The men wore

evening dress. The women, if not all patrons of the ranking "houses"

and dressmakers, were correct. Even the artistic gowns stopped short

of delirium. And if many of the women wore their hair short, so did

all of the men. Everybody in the room was reasonably young or had

managed to preserve the appearance and spirit of youth. Clavering

noticed at once that Mr. Dinwiddie was not present. No doubt he had

been ordered to keep out of the way!

Miss Dwight led Madame Zattiany to the head of the room and enthroned

her, but made no introductions at the moment; a young man stood by the

piano, violin in hand, evidently waiting for the stir over the guest of

honor to subside. The hostess gave the signal and the guests were

polite if restless. However, the playing was admirable; and Madame

Zattiany, at least, gave it her undivided attention. She was, as ever,

apparently unconscious of glances veiled and open, but Clavering laid a

bet with himself that before the end of the encore--politely

demanded--she knew what every woman in the room had on.

The violinist retired. Cocktails were passed. There was a surge

toward the head of the room.

Clavering had dropped into a chair beside the wife of De Witt Turner,

eminent novelist, who, however, called herself in print and out, Suzan

Forbes. She was one of the founders of the Lucy Stone League, stern

advocates of the inalienable individuality of woman. Whether you had

one adored husband or many, never should that individuality (presumably

derived from the male parent) be sunk in any man's. When Suzan's

husband took his little family travelling the astonished hotel register

read: De Witt Turner, Suzan Forbes, child and nurse. Sometimes

explanations were wearisome; and when travelling in Europe they found

it expedient to bow to prejudice. Several of the Lucy Stoners,

however, had renounced Europe for the present, a reactionary government

refusing to issue separate passports. You took your husband's name at

the altar, didn't you? You are legally married? You are? Then you're

no more miss than mister. You go to Europe as a respectable married

woman or you stay at home. So they stayed. But they would win in the

end. They always did. As for the husbands, they were amenable.

Whether they really approved of feministics in extenso, or were merely

good-natured and indulgent after the fashion of American husbands, they

were at some pains to conceal. All the bright young married women who

were "doing things," however, were not Lucy Stoners, advanced as they

might be in thought. They were mildly sympathetic, but rather liked

the matronly, and possessive, prefix. And, after all, what did it

matter? There were enough tiresome barriers to scale, Heaven knew.

This was the age of woman, but man, heretofore predominant by right of

brute strength and hallowed custom, was cultivating subtlety, and if he

feminized while they masculinized there would be the devil to pay

before long.

Miss Forbes was a tiny creature, wholly feminine in appearance, and in

spite of her public activities, her really brilliant and initiative

mind, was notoriously dependent upon her big burly husband for guidance

and advice in all practical matters. When they took a holiday the

younger of his children gave him the least trouble, for she had a

nurse: he dared not give his wife her ticket in a crowd lest she lose

it, far less trust her to relieve his burdened mind of any of the

details of travel; nor even to order a meal. Nevertheless, he

invariably, and with complete gravity, introduced her and alluded to

her as Suzan Forbes (she even tabued the Miss), and he sent a cheque to

the League when it was founded. His novels had a quality of delicate

irony, but he avowed that his motto was live and let live.

Miss Forbes was not pretty, but she had an expressive original little

face and her manners were charming. Janet Oglethorpe was a boor beside

her. It was doubtful if she had ever been aggressive in manner or rude

in her life; although she never hesitated to give utterance to the

extremest of her opinions or to maintain them to the bitter end (when

she sometimes sped home to have hysterics on her husband's broad

chest). She was one of Clavering's favorites and the heroine of the

comedy he so far rejected.

She lit a cigarette as the music finished and pinched it into a holder

nearly as long as her face. But even smoking never interfered with her

pleasant, rather deprecatory, smile.

"It must be wonderful to be an authentic beauty," she said wistfully,

glancing at the solid phalanx of black backs and sleek heads at the

other end of the room. "And she's ravishing, of course. The men are

sleepless about her already. Do assure me that she is stupid! Nature

would never treat the rest of us so unfairly as to spare brains for

that enchanting skull when she hasn't enough to go round as it is. I

believe I'd give mine to look like that."

"She's anything and everything but stupid. Ask Gora. They've met

already."

"Well, there's _something_," she said wisely. "Law of compensation.

Although any woman who can look like that should have a special

dispensation of Providence. Are you interested in her, Clavey?"

"Immensely. But I want to talk to you about another friend of mine."

And he told her something of Anne Goodrich, her ambitions, her talents,

and her admiration of the new aristocracy.

Suzan Forbes listened with smiling interest and bobbed her brown little

head emphatically. "Splendid! I'm having a party on Thursday night.

Be sure to bring her. She'll need encouragement at first, poor thing,

and I'll be only too glad to advise her. I'll tell Tommy Treadwell to

find a studio for her. I've an idea there's one vacant in The

Gainsborough, and she'd love the outlook on the Park. Witt can help

her furnish; he's a wonder at picking up things. Mother can furnish

the kitchenette. Do you think she'd join the Lucy Stone League?"

"No doubt, as she was brought up in the most conservative atmosphere in

America, she'll leap most of the fences after she takes the first. But

I don't think she's the marrying kind."

"I shall advise her to marry. Husbands are almost indispensable in a

busy woman's life; and there are so many new ways of bringing up a

baby. D'you like my gown?"

It was a charming but not extravagant slip of bright green chiffon and

suited her elfishness admirably, as he told her.

"I paid for it myself. I pay for all my gowns, as I think it

consistent, but I can't afford the expensive dressmakers yet. At least

I think I've paid for it. Witt says I haven't and that he expects a

collector any day. But I must have, because I told her to send the

bill at once so that it wouldn't get lost among all the other bills on

the first of the month. Your column's been simply spiffing lately.

Full of fire and go, but rather--what shall I call it--explosive?

What's happened, Clavey?"

"Good of you to encourage me, Suzanna. I'd thought it rotten. What

are you working at?"

"I've just finished a paper on John Dewey for the _Atlantic_. I was so

proud when Witt said he hadn't a criticism to make. I'm on a review

for the _Yale_ now; and the new _Century_ has asked me for a

psychological analysis of the Younger Generation. I'm going to compare

our post-war product with all that is known of young people and their

manifestations straight back to the Stone Age. I've made a specialty

of the subject. Witt has helped me a lot in research. D'you think

he's gone off?"

"Gone off? Certainly not. Every columnist in town had something to

say about that last installment of his novel. Best thing he's ever

done, and that's saying all. He's strong as an ox, too. Why in

heaven's name should he go off?"

"Well, baby's teething and won't let any one else hold her when she

gets a fretting spell. He's been up a lot lately."

Clavering burst into a loud delighted laugh. He had forgotten his

personal affairs completely, as he always did when talking to this

remarkable little paradox. "Gad! That's good! And his public

visualizes him as a sort of Buddha, brooding cross-legged in his

library, receiving direct advice from the god of fiction. . . . But I

wouldn't have you otherwise. The nineteenth century bluestocking with

twentieth century trimmings. . . . What now?"

Rollo Landers Todd, the "Poet of Manhattan," had stalked in with a

Prussian helmet on his head, his girth draped in a rich blue shawl

embroidered and fringed with white, a bitter frown on his jovial round

face; and in his hand a long rod with a large blue bow on the metal

point designed to shut refractory windows. Helen Vane Baker, a

contribution from Society to the art of fiction, with flowing hair and

arrayed in a long nightgown over her dress, fortunately white, was

assisted to the top of the bookcase on the west wall. Henry Church, a

famous satirist, muffled in a fur cloak, a small black silk

handkerchief pinned about his lively face, stumped heavily into the

room, fell in a heap on the floor against the opposite wall, and in a

magnificent bass growled out the resentment of Ortrud, while a rising

but not yet prosilient pianist, with a long blonde wig from Miss

Dwight's property chest, threw his head back, shook his hands, adjusted

a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and banged out the prelude to

_Lohengrin_ with amazing variations. Elsa, with her profile against

the wall and her hands folded across her breast, sang what of Elsa's

prayer she could remember and with no apparent effort improvised the

rest. Lohengrin pranced up and down the room barking out German

phonetics (he did not know a word of the language, but his accent was

as Teutonic as his helmet), demanding vengeance and threatening

annihilation. He brandished his pole in the face of Ortrud, stamping

and roaring, then, bending his knees, waddled across the room and

prodded Elsa, who winced perceptibly but continued to mingle her light

soprano with the rolling bass of Mr. Church and the vociferations of

the poet. Finally, at the staccato command of Mr. Todd's hoarsening

voice, she toppled over into his arms and they both fell on Ortrud.

The nonsense was over.

No one applauded more spontaneously than Madame Zattiany, and she even

drank a cocktail. By this time every one in the room had been

introduced to her and she was chatting as if she hadn't a care in the

world. As far as Clavering could see, she had every intention of

making a Sophisticate night of it.

The pianist, after a brief interval for recuperation, played with

deafening vehemence and then with excruciating sweetness. Once more

cocktails were passed, and then there was a charade by Todd, Suzan

Forbes and the handsome young English sculptress, which Madame Zattiany

followed with puzzled interest; and was so delighted with herself for

guessing the word before the climax that she clapped her hands and

laughed like a child.

More music, more cocktails, a brief impromptu play full of witty

nonsense, caricaturing several of the distinguished company, whose

appreciation was somewhat dubious, and Miss Dwight led the way down to

supper. Clavering watched Madame Zattiany go out with the good-looking

young editor of one of the staid old fiction magazines which he had

recently levered out of its rut by the wayside, cranked up and driven

with a magnificent gesture into the front rank of Youth. She was

talking with the greatest animation. He hardly recognized her and it

was apparent that she had entered into the spirit of the evening, quite

reconciled to any dearth of intellectual refreshment.

The supper of hot oysters, chicken salad, every known variety of

sandwich, ices and cakes was taken standing for the most part, Madame

Zattiany, however, once more enthroned at the head of the room, women

as well as men dancing attendance upon her. Prohibition, a dead letter

to all who could afford to patronize the underground mart, had but

added to the spice of life, and it was patent that Miss Dwight had a

cellar. More cocktails, highballs, sherry, were passed continuously,

and two enthusiastic guests made a punch. Fashionable young actors and

actresses began to arrive. Hilarity waxed, impromptu speeches were

made, songs rose on every key. Then suddenly some one ran up to the

victrola and turned on the jazz; and in a twinkling the dining-room was

deserted, furniture in the large room upstairs was pushed to the wall

and the night entered on its last phase.

Then only did Madame Zattiany signify her intention of retiring, and

Clavering, to whom such entertainments were too familiar to banish for

more than a moment his heavy disquiet, hastened to her side with a sigh

of relief and a sinking sensation behind his ribs. Madame Zattiany

made her farewells not only with graciousness but with unmistakable

sincerity in her protestations of having passed her "most interesting

evening in New York."

Miss Dwight went up to the dressing-room with her, and Clavering,

retrieving hat and top-coat, waited for her at the front door. She

came down radiant and talking animatedly to her hostess; but when they

had parted and she was alone with Clavering her face seemed suddenly to

turn to stone and her lids drooped. As she was about to pass him she

shrank back, and then raised her eyes to his. In that fleeting moment

they looked as when he had met them first: inconceivably old, wise,

disillusioned.

"Now for it," he thought grimly as he closed the door and followed her

out to the pavement. "The Lord have mercy----" And then he made a

sudden resolution.