CITY MICE
I
The dismay of the young Brownleys was as great as that of Freda. But
their indomitable mothers won.
“But, mother,” cried Allison Brownley, “you don’t mean you’d ask
that--that little Swede girl here to the house? For a month? Why, I
should think you’d see how impossible that is. We can’t treat her as a
servant, can we?”
“No,” said Mrs. Brownley, “you can’t--not at all. She’s a very clever
girl--Normal School graduate.”
Allison sank on a divan, her short skirts shorter than ever in her
abandonment, her face a picture of horrified dismay.
“Normal School--you know what they are! Pimples and plaid skirts two
inches from the ground,--China silk white waists. Oh, mother dear, it’s
very sweet of you to think of her, but it couldn’t be done. What would
we do with her? Why, the days are just full! All kinds of things planned
now that Easter’s over. We couldn’t take her about, and we couldn’t
leave her at home. The Brownley girls and their little Swede friend!
Mother, I _do_ think you ought to keep politics out of the home.”
Barbara joined in now. That was always her policy. To let Allie state
the case and get excited over it and then to go after her mother
reasonably if her mother didn’t give in. She was a more languorous type
than Allie. “Bed-room eyes” one of the boys had said, at the height of
his puppy wit.
“If you had to ask them, mother, Lent would have been the time. It just
can’t be managed now. As a matter of fact I’ve practically asked Delia
Underwood to spend three weeks here.” That was a lie and she knew her
mother would know it, but it gave her mother a graceful way out of the
difficulty.
But unfortunately Mrs. Brownley did not seem to be looking for
loop-holes. She sat serenely at her desk, her eye-glasses poised upon
the bills she was auditing.
“I think you will like Miss Thorstad,” she answered, ignoring all the
protests. “You see it’s really quite important for me to have her here.
The mother is a very clever little woman and with a possible political
future. Miss Duffield thinks very highly of her. While we are doing this
active campaign work she will be invaluable here in the city. She’s a
good organizer--and she’s a plain woman. She can handle plain women,
Miss Duffield insists, better than we can. I wish you girls would
understand that there is a great deal involved in this campaign. If we
stand well out here it will be important for the district--in
Washington.”
“Yes, mother--but why the daughter?”
“For the simple reason that Mrs. Thorstad said she didn’t like to leave
her at home alone. It put me in the position of having to ask her. She
is, as I remember, a pretty well-appearing girl. Mrs. Flandon, whom you
admire so much, Allie, was immensely taken with her. At any rate, they
have been asked, they will accept and they arrive next week.”
Allie looked dark.
“Well, mother,” she said, with a fair imitation of her mother’s tone,
“if you expect me to give up everything for the sake of this little
Swede, you’re mistaken. The men will just howl when they see her.”
“Cheer up, Allie,” said Barbara, “they may fall in love with her.
Brunhilde, you know--and all of that. I think it’s a shame, mother.”
The girls looked at each other. They weren’t ordinarily allies, but this
mess was one they both would have to worry over. Their mother rose.
“Of course, girls,” she said, “it is an inconvenience. But it’s a good
thing to do. It means more than you may guess. Be nice to Miss Thorstad
and you’ll not be sorry. It might mean that platinum bracelet for you,
Barbara, and for Allie--”
“Mother,” exclaimed Allie, “if I’m an angel to your little Swede would
you let me have a new runabout--a Pierce, painted any color I like?”
Her mother merely smiled at her but Allie knew her claim was good. She
turned to her sister as her mother left the room.
“She’s going to do it, Bobbie, and we might just as well get something
out of it. I’ll tell the girls I’m getting my new car that way and
they’ll all help. We’ll give little Miss Olson the time of her life.”
“You get more out of it than I do, I notice.” Barbara was inspecting
herself in the mirror of her vanity case from which she allowed nothing
except sleep to separate her.
“That’s all right, Bob. I’ll do most of the heavy work, I’ll bet.”
“I shan’t be able to do much, I’ll tell you that. Miss Burns wants me
for fittings every day next week and I’ve a lot of dates, for evenings.”
“Ted’s giving you quite a rush, isn’t he darling? Do you think he’s
landed this time or is it just that it’s your turn?”
Barbara did not blush. She looked straight at her sister, her slim face
disgusted.
“Pretty raw, aren’t you? As a matter of fact I think he could be landed
if I had the slightest desire to do it. I’m not at all sure that I want
him.”
Allie grinned.
“That’s all right. That’s what they all say, all the ones he gives a
rush and leaves lamenting. I am sort of surprised that you’d fall for
him so hard. Even if he is the ideal lover, every one who isn’t
cross-eyed knows how he does it. I’d like a little more originality,
myself.”
“I tell you this, Allie. That man has been misunderstood. Because he’s
so rich and good looking every one’s chased after him and then when he
was decently civil they’ve taken advantage of him by spreading stories
about his flirtations. He’s told me some things about girls--”
“Dirty cad,” said Allie, cheerfully.
“All right, if you want to be insulting, I won’t talk to you.”
“Well, tell me what he said. I won’t think about his being a dirty cad
until afterwards.”
What humor there was was lost on Barbara.
“I don’t care to talk any more about him.”
Barbara looked at her watch to conclude matters.
“And by the way, Allie, mother said I could use the limousine. I’ve got
a lot of things to do and I’ll need Chester all afternoon. Mrs. Watts is
taking mother to the Morley reception and I’m calling for her. She said
you could have the electric.”
“My God!” said Allie. “Why doesn’t she offer me a hearse? Thanks, I’d
sooner take old 1898 out again. And think about that Pierce I’m going to
earn.”
She was out of the room in a minute, flying up the stairs, some
grotesque words to a dance tune floating behind her. The Packard
runabout, “old 1898,” was humming down the garage drive half an hour
later. Stopping at two houses impressive as her own, she regaled the
girls who were her friends with accounts of the “Swedish invasion.” It
was a good story, especially with the promise of the reward tacked on
the end.
II
But it was three days before Freda had capitulated. Her first reaction
had been an angry shame at her mother’s inclusion of her in her own
invitation. She had simply flatly refused to go. A little later it was
possible to regard the business with some humor, and the shame had lost
its sting. She had never known those people anyhow--never would know
them--it didn’t matter what they thought. When she saw that the matter
was not ended and sensed the depth of determination in her mother’s mind
that her daughter should go with her to the Brownley’s she tried to be
more definite even than before in her refusal. Her mother did not seem
to hear her. She insisted on keeping the subject open, never admitting
for a minute that it was or could be closed. She dwelt endlessly on the
advantages of the visit--on the fact that the chance for Freda had come
at last.
“Chance!” stormed Freda, “why it isn’t a chance to do anything except
sponge on a few rich people whom I’ve never seen before in my life. You
don’t really suppose, mother, that I’d go down there and let those
Brownley girls make my life miserable. You don’t seem to realize,
mother, that those two Brownleys are a very gay lot. They must be about
my age--the older one anyway. Why, I wouldn’t think of it. What on earth
would I do? What on earth would I wear? What would I say? What on earth
would I be there anyhow? I’m no politician. I’m not helping Mrs.
Brownley strengthen her fences or anything. If you ask me, mother, I
wouldn’t think of going if I were you. Don’t you know she’s just making
a play to the gallery by having you? Probably bragging about her great
sense of democracy! Why, mother!”
“You don’t seem to realize,”--Mrs. Thorstad always began that way by
assuming that you had missed her point, a point which was and always
would be in accord with Right Living and Democracy and the Family and
the Home, “that these social distinctions are of no value in my
estimation. In this great country--”
Freda led her mother away from the brink of oratory.
“Look here,” she said, “if they aren’t a lot more important than we
are--if you don’t think they are--what is this wonderful chance you are
talking about?”
Just at what point Freda gave in, just at what point she felt that the
possibilities of her trip outweighed its impossibilities she did not
know. It was certain that the young Brownleys gave way to no noisier
public mockery of the proposed visit than did Freda. She was even a
little shrill. She told everybody how she “hated it,” how she was going
along to the homes of the idle rich to chaperon her mother, that she was
“breaking into high society,” that she was gathering material for a book
on “how the other half lives,” that she would probably be mistaken for a
housemaid and asked to dust the bed-rooms, that mother was trying to
“marry her off,” that she “didn’t have an idea what to wear.” She talked
to almost every one she met, somewhat unnecessarily, somewhat defiantly,
as if determined to let any one know about her reasons for going, as if
defending herself against any accusations concerning her motive in
making such a visit, perhaps making sure that no later discomfiture on
her own part could be made more severe by any suspicion of pleasurable
anticipation.
She planned her clothes for St. Pierre with mocking but intense
deliberation. A dark blue tricotine dress--she bought that at the
ladies’ specialty shop and taking it home ripped off all the trimming
substituting the flattest and darkest of braid. That was safe, she knew.
She might not be startling but she would be inoffensive, she told her
mother. There was a dress made by Miss Peterson, who sewed by the day,
from a remnant of bronze georgette, and half shamefacedly Freda came
home one night with a piece of flame colored satin and made it herself
into a gown which hung from the shoulders very straightly and was caught
at the waist with silver cord (from the drapery department). And there
was an evening dress at which Freda scoffed but she and Miss Peterson
spent some fascinated hours over it, making pale green taffetas and
tulle fit her lovely shoulders.
“Though what I’m getting these clothes for is a mystery to me,” grumbled
Freda. “They probably won’t even ask me to go out. Probably suggest that
I eat with the servants.”
Yet she tried on the evening dress in the privacy of her room parading
before her bureau mirror, which could not be induced to show both halves
of her at once. And as she looked in the glass there came back the
reflection of a girl a little flushed, excited, eager, as if in spite of
all her mockery there was a dream that she would conquer unknown people
and things--a hope that wonders were about to happen.
Never was there a trace of that before her mother. Having agreed to go,
Freda was, on the whole, complaisant, but on principle unenthusiastic.
Her father gave her two hundred dollars the night before she went away.
Mrs. Thorstad was at a neighbor’s house and the gift was made in her
absence without comment on that fact. Freda, whose idea of a sizable
check for her spending money was five dollars and of an exceptionally
large one, ten, gasped.
“But what do I need this for?”
“You’ll find ways, my dear. It’s--for some of the little things which
these other young ladies may have and you may lack. To put you at ease.”
“Yes, but it’s too much, father dear. For three or four weeks. You can’t
possibly afford it.”
“Oh, yes, my dear. Only try to be happy, won’t you? Remember that it’s
always worth while to learn and that there are very few people in the
world who aren’t friendly by nature.”
That thought carried Freda through the next twenty-four hours, beginning
with worry when she got on the train as to whether they were expecting
her after all, through a flurry of excitement at the sense of “city” in
St. Pierre, the luxury of the limousine which had been sent to meet
them, through the embarrassment of hearing her mother begin to orate in
a mild fashion on the beauty of Mrs. Brownley’s home and the “real home
spirit” which she felt in it. Freda felt sure that such conversation was
not only out of place but bad taste anyway. She was divided between a
desire to carry the visit off properly, showing the Brownleys that she
was not gauche and stupid, and an impulse to stalk through the days
coldly, showing her disdain for mere material things and the
impossibility of impressing her. Yet the deep softness of the hall rugs,
the broad noiseless stair carpets, the glimpses through doorways into
long quiet rooms seemingly full of softly upholstered furniture, lamps
with wonderfully colored shades, pictures which had deep rich colors
like the colors in the rugs, made her eyes shine, her color heighten.
Mrs. Brownley met them at the house and took them to their rooms
herself. Mrs. Thorstad had a big pleasant room in a wing of the house
given up to guest chambers and Freda’s was a small one connected with
it.
“My daughters are looking forward so much to meeting you,” Mrs. Brownley
said easily to Freda. “They are out just now, but when you come down for
dinner they will be home. We usually dine at seven, Mrs. Thorstad. It
isn’t at all necessary to dress.”
“She is nice, isn’t she?” said Freda, as the door closed after their
hostess, “maybe it won’t be so bad. Anyway, all experience is good. Glad
I remember that much Nietzsche. It often helps.”
Mrs. Thorstad put her trim little hat on the closet shelf and began to
unpack her suit-case. Freda explored the bath.
“It’s like a movie,” she came back to say, “I feel just like the second
reel when the heroine is seduced by luxury into giving herself--”
“Freda!”
“Truly I do. She always takes a look into the closet at rows of clothes
and closes the door virtuously, gazes rapturously at the chaise longue
all lumpy with pillows and stiffens herself. But she never can resist
the look into the bath room--monogramed towels, scented soap, bath
salts. I know just exactly how the poor girls feel. Certain kinds of
baths are for cleanliness--others make a lady out of a sow’s ear--you
know.”
“Why are you wearing that dress?” asked her mother, rousing from her nap
fifteen minutes later. “I was going down in my waist and skirt.”
“Mother--you can’t. That wasn’t what she meant by not dressing. She
meant not evening dress. You’ll have to put on your blue silk.”
“I wanted to save that for afternoon affairs.”
“You won’t wear it out to-night. Come, mother, I’ll hook you up.”
They were down at five minutes before seven. Barbara was not visible but
Allie and her mother and father waited for them in the drawing-room.
Crossing the threshold of that room seemed to take all Freda’s courage.
If her mother had not been so absorbed in thinking of the way she meant
to interest Mr. Brownley in her career, she would have heard the quick
little catch of breath in Freda’s throat as she came through the velvet
curtains behind her. She did see the quickened interest on Allie’s face
and Mrs. Brownley’s measured glance of approval at Freda. Freda had been
right. The Brownleys were dressed for dinner, quite elaborately it
seemed to her. She made no note of the discrimination in evening
clothes, that Mrs. Brownley’s velvet dress was high at the neck and Mr.
Brownley’s tie black instead of white. Allie came forward with her rough
and tumble welcome, shaking hands casually with Mrs. Thorstad and
frankly admiring Freda. Allie herself had dressed in a hurry and was
noticeable chiefly for the high spots of rouge on each cheek.
“Sorry I wasn’t home when you came. I had to go to a luncheon and then
to the theater. Couldn’t get out of it. It was a party for a friend of
mine who is to be married and I’m in the bridal party, you see. She’s an
awfully nice girl--marrying the most awful lemon you ever saw.”
Freda knew all about that marriage. It had been heralded even in Mohawk.
Gratia Allen and Peter Ward. But she gave no sign of knowing about it.
“Isn’t it funny,” she answered, getting Allie’s note with amazing
accuracy, “how often that happens? The nicest girls get the queerest
men.”
“Not enough decent men to go around any more.”
So it was all right until Barbara came in. A little party gathered in
the meantime--the Gage Flandons, and Margaret Duffield with Walter
Carpenter. Margaret was beginning to be asked as a dinner companion for
Walter fairly often now. And as a concession to the young people Mrs.
Brownley had asked three young men, Ted Smillie and the Bates boys, who
traveled in pairs, Allie always said. They were all there when Barbara
came in. Obviously she had some one, either the unknown guest or her
friend Ted, in mind when she dressed, for she was perfectly done.
Smoothly marcelled hair, black lace dress carrying out the latest
vagaries in fashion, black slippers with jeweled buckles. As she gave
her hand to Freda with the smile which held a faint hint of
condescension, Freda bent her knuckles to hide the nail she had torn
yesterday closing the trunk. She felt over dressed, obvious, a splash of
ugly color. Ted had been talking to her but by a simple assumption that
Freda could have nothing of interest to say, Barbara took up the thread
of talk with him, speaking of incidents, people that were unknown to
Freda. The Bates boys were talking to Allie. Freda stood alone for a
moment--an interminable awkward moment, in which no one seemed to notice
her. Then Gage Flandon crossed to her side and she gave him a smile
which made him her friend at once, a smile of utter gratitude without a
trace of pose.
“How nice of you,” she said, simply, “to come to talk to me. I feel so
strange.”
“My wife says you’ve never met any of us before. No wonder.”
“It isn’t just that. I’m a little afraid I’m here without much reason.
Mother brought me but I’m not a political woman and I’m not”--with a
rueful little glance at Barbara--“a society girl at all. I’m afraid I’ll
be in everybody’s way.”
She said it without any coquetry and it came out clearly so--as the
plain little worry it was. Gage, who had found himself a little touched
by the obvious situation of the girl felt further attracted by her
frankness. She seemed an unspoiled, handsome person. That was what Helen
had told him, but he had grown so used to sophistication and measured
innocence that he had not expected anything from the daughter of this
little political speaker. He had come to size up Mrs. Thorstad, for her
name had been presented as a possibility in a discussion with some of
his own friends as they went over the matter of recognizing women in the
political field. As Mrs. Thorstad gave her hand to him he had seen what
he came to see. She had brains. She had the politician’s smile. She
could be used--and doubtless managed as far as was necessary. But the
daughter was different. He liked that dress she was wearing. It showed
her slimness, suppleness, but it didn’t make her indecent like that lace
thing on Bob Brownley.
“I often feel like that,” he answered her, “I’m not much of a society
person either and I can’t keep up with these wonderful women we’re
seeing everywhere. Women with a lot of brains frighten me.”
Idle talk, with his real, little prejudice back it, which Freda by
accident uncovered immediately. She was talking against time so he would
not leave her unguarded, and it was chance that she pleased him so much.
“Women have a lot of brains now,” she said, “in politics and--society
too, I suppose. But I wonder if we weren’t more attractive when we
weren’t quite so brilliant. I don’t mean when we had huge families and
did the washing and made the butter. I mean when we were more romantic
and not quite so--”
She stumbled a little. She was conscious of being historically at sea,
vague in her definition of romance. But she had said that several times
before and it came easily to her tongue. She stopped, feeling awkward
and then amazed at Mr. Flandon’s enthusiasm.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed, “that’s what I miss. Women have stopped being
romantic. They’ve done worse. They’ve penetrated our souls and dug out
the romance and analyzed it among themselves.”
But she could not answer. Some one announced dinner and Freda moved with
the rest to get her first enchanted sight of the Brownley dining table
with its wedge wood vases full of roses and narcissus, its shining
perfection of detail.
She was near her hostess’ end of the table, Mr. Flandon at her left and
one of the Bates boys at her right. Mrs. Brownley had wanted to talk to
Gage and had decided, as she placed the cards, that Freda would take as
little of his attention as any one present. She started in after the
consommé to find out what Gage thought about the Republican committee.
It was most unsatisfactory for he seemed to be absorbed in telling
something to Miss Thorstad and gave answers to his hostess as if his
mind were on something else. As for Gage, he was talking more animatedly
than he had talked to any woman in years, thought his wife, watching
him.
“What heresy is my husband pouring into your ears, Miss Thorstad?” she
asked, leaning forward.
Freda blushed a little as the attention turned to her.
“He is telling me the arguments I’ve been wanting to hear--against being
a perfectly modern woman.”
“Proselytizing!” said Margaret. “Wait a bit, Miss Thorstad. Let me get
the other ear after dinner.”
“Freda likes to tease,” explained her mother to their host.
Barbara looked a little disdainful, making some remark _sotto voce_ to
Ted. But he was not listening. Freda had, in the rise of her spirits,
given him a smile across the table, the kind of come-there smile she
gave David Grant of Mohawk when she wanted to skate with him or dance
with him--a smile of perfectly frank allure. He returned it with
interest.
Helen did not follow up her remark. It had been scattered in the
comments. Gage caught her eye and she gave him a look which said, “I
told you there was something in that girl.” Gage immediately wanted to
leave the table and tell Helen all about it. But Mrs. Brownley wanted to
know something again. He turned to her.
It was fairly easy for Freda after all, in spite of Barbara, whose
measuring eyes made her nervous whenever they were turned on her. She
had a difficult time concealing the broken finger-nail and she was not
at all sure whether to lift the finger bowl off the fruit plate with the
lace doily or to leave the doily. Otherwise there were no great
difficulties. There was a bad moment after dinner when it became clear
to her that there was some altercation among the young people which
concerned her. She could not guess what it was, but she saw Allie and
Barbara in heated conclave. Then, with a little toss of her head, Allie
came to her.
“We thought that you and I and Fred and Tony would go down to the
Majestic. We had six tickets but Bob seems to think she and Ted have
another date.”
And then Ted ruined things. He turned from where he and Tony Bates were
smoking by the mantelpiece and strolled over to Freda.
“We’re going to the Majestic--and I’m going to sit next to you,” he
announced.
III
The Majestic was a vaudeville house, presenting its seven acts weekly
for the delectation of its patrons, servant girls, business men,
impecunious boys in the gallery, suburbanites, shop girls with their
young men, traveling men, idle people, parties of young people like the
Brownley girls, one of those heterogeneous crowds that a dollar and a
half price for a best seat can bring in America. When the young
Brownleys arrived, the acrobatic act which led the bill was over and the
two poorest comedians, put on near the beginning of the bill before the
audience grew too wearily critical, were doing a buck and wing dance to
the accompaniment of some quite ununderstandable words.
With a great deal of noise and mysterious laughter the late arrivals
became seated finally, taking their places with the lack of
consideration for the people behind them which was characteristic of
their arrogance, making audible and derogatory comments about the act on
the stage and curiously enough not seeming to anger any one. The girls
with their fur coats, hatless, well dressed hair, the sleek dinner
coated young men interested the people around them far more than they
bothered them by their noisiness.
They left during the last act and before the moving picture of “Current
Events,” all six of them getting into the Bates’ sedan and speeding at
forty miles an hour out to the Roadside Inn which was kept open only
until midnight.
The Roadside Inn was a brown mockery of Elizabethan architecture, about
thirty miles out of the city on a good road. The door opened invitingly
on a long low room full of chintz-covered chairs and wicker tables and
at this time of year there was always a good open fire to welcome any
comers. Back of that a dining room and, parallel with the two, a long
dance room, where three enforcedly gay negroes pounded out melodies in
jungle time hour after hour every evening. Upstairs there were half a
dozen small bed rooms for transient automobilists who wanted to stay in
the country for some reason or other or whose cars had broken down.
The place was on the fence between decency and shadowy repute. It was
frequented by people of all kinds, people who were respectable and
people suspected of not being so. The landlady ignored any distinctions.
She had made the place into a well-paying institution, had put its
decoration into the hands of a good architect with whom she always
quarreled about his charges and she asked no questions if her customers
paid their bills. Probably she saw no difference between those of her
guests who were of one kind and those of another. They all danced in
much the same manner, were equally noisy, equally critical of the
extremely good food and that was as far as her contact or comment went.
If the food had not been so good, the place would have suffered in
patronage, but that was unfailing. The cook was ready now at five
minutes’ notice to concoct chicken a la king and make coffee for the
Brownley party and as they came back from the dance room after having
tried out the floor and the music, their supper was ready.
Freda had not acquitted herself badly there either. Without having all
the tricks of the Brownleys, she had a grace and sense of rhythm which
helped her to adapt herself. Besides she had the first dance with Ted.
He held her close, hardly looking at her. That was his way in dancing.
“You must be very gay in Mohawk,” said Barbara when they were all at the
table in the dining room again.
The edge of her malice was lost on Freda.
“No--not at all. Why?”
“You seem very experienced.”
A little glimmer of amusement came into Freda’s eyes.
“Well--not first hand experience. We read--we go to moving pictures.”
“I suppose lots of people are picking up ideas from the moving
pictures,” Barbara commented carelessly.
One of the Bates boys was drawing something from his pocket. Barbara
looked at it indifferently, Allie with a frown of annoyance.
“Didn’t I tell you, Tony, to cut that stuff out?”
“We’ll all be cutting it out soon enough,” said Tony. “Won’t be any.
This is all right. Tapped father’s supply. A taste for every one and a
swallow for me.”
He was a sallow thin young person whom the sight of his own flask seemed
to have waked into sudden joviality.
“I don’t want any,” said Allie. “Don’t waste it.”
Then as Tony Bates ignored her protest, she drained her glass
accustomedly.
Barbara took her highball without a change of expression or color. Freda
tried to refuse but they laughed at her.
“Come. You came to the city to have a good time.”
She felt that she couldn’t refuse without seeming prudish. She has a
fear of what the liquor might do to her, a desire to do what the rest
did.
Her head felt a little light, but that was all, and that only for a
moment. It wasn’t unpleasant.
They all finished the flask. They danced again, Freda with Tony Bates,
Barbara with Ted. Then Ted sought Freda again. He danced as he had the
first time but he held her even closer, more firmly, making his position
into an embrace, and yet dancing perfectly. From over one of the young
men’s shoulders, Barbara saw it. Her face did not show any feeling.
On the way home the embracing was a little promiscuous. Allie, dull from
the liquor, lay sprawling against Tony’s rather indifferent shoulder.
Bob let the other Bates boy paw her lazily and Freda found herself
rather absorbed in keeping Ted from going to lengths which she felt were
hardly justified even by three or four highballs.
It was when they were home again after the young men had left that Freda
felt the dislike of the other girl. It was as if Barbara had been
waiting for the young men to go to make Freda uncomfortable.
“I hope Ted didn’t embarrass you, Miss Thorstad?’
“Embarrass me?”
“Ted is such a scandalous flirt that he is apt, I think, to embarrass
people who aren’t used to him. I always keep him at a distance because
he talks about girls most awfully.”
“Oh, does he?”
“I’m glad he didn’t bother you. Don’t let him think you like him. He
makes the most terrific game of people who let themselves in for it.”
“Lots of people do let themselves in for it too,” said Allie with
meaning.
Barbara steered away from the dangers of that subject.
“I hope you’re going to enjoy yourself, Miss Thorstad. There are no end
of things going on.”
“You mustn’t bother about me,” said Freda, “I’m afraid that I am going
to be a burden.”
Barbara let a minute pass, a minute of insult.
“No--not at all.”
“Nonsense,” said Allie, “everybody’ll be crazy about you. You dance
stunningly and the Bateses and Ted were nutty about you. You don’t have
to worry.”
Freda said good night and left them. She went slowly up the staircase,
thinking what fun it would be to climb that staircase every night, to go
down it by natural right, to belong to it.
The sense of Barbara’s dislike pervaded everything else. She felt that
she must have made a fool of herself with that young fellow. He must
have thought her a dreadful idiot. Ah, well, the first evening was over
and she’d had some experience. She had been at a dinner where there was
an entrée, she had used a fish fork, she had danced at a roadhouse. She
laughed at herself a little.
“I’ve been draining the fleshpots of Egypt,” she said, sitting on the
bottom of her mother’s bed. Her mother’s prim little braids of hair
against the pillow were silhouetted in the moonlight.
“You were very nice to-night,” said her mother practically. “Mrs.
Flandon wants us both to go there for dinner Thursday night.”
“I like Mr. Flandon a lot.”
“Very little idealism,” commented Mrs. Thorstad, wisely.