Asleep and awake that picture haunted her--a vision of Eddie,
mud-stained, horribly pale, sitting on a box, with a candle flickering
on the ground beside him, in a dugout with mud walls and great puddles
of filthy water--the sort of thing she had seen in the cinema, ghastly,
desolate, with an incessant play of rockets and bursting shells
overhead; and Vincent standing before him in one of his fine attitudes,
so handsome, so strong, so noble, telling him. She knew how he would
dwell upon the details, with what colour he would describe her caresses,
her kisses, heightening the temptation just as he would heighten his
remorse.
It didn’t occur to her that Vincent might encounter some obstacles to a
prompt meeting with his brother, with all the different services and all
the vast battlefield to be considered. She fancied him being at once
directed to Eddie’s dugout like a stranger in a village.
She lived in a long nightmare. She didn’t know how the blow would
fall--whether she would come home to find a letter from Eddie, casting
her off; whether Mrs. Russell would be there to tell her; whether she
would have a letter from some stranger, a friend of Eddie’s--a lawyer,
perhaps. But what she most feared was the idea of coming to Fine
Feathers some morning and seeing Sillon and Devery suddenly turned
hostile. She felt that she could not bear that. It would do for her.
But weeks went by, and nothing at all happened. One day, while she was
in the back parlour, she heard Mrs. Russell’s voice in the front room;
but the very tone of it reassured her. She wanted to buy a hat, and she
wanted Angelica to let her have it cheap; so she was extraordinarily
agreeable. She had, moreover, some sort of idea that it would help
Angelica in the eyes of her partners to be seen in friendly converse
with a lady like herself.
"I wish you’d come and see me!" she said. "I’m so lonely! They’ve all
gone--Vincent, you know, and now poor Courtland’s been drafted. Dear me!
It does seem as if they ought to be able to make up a big enough army
out of those who wanted to fight, without dragging in the unwilling
ones. Poor Courtland will make a very bad soldier; he hates it so. He’s
too independent. Vincent was really marvelous. If you could have seen
him in his uniform! And he told me to be sure, if I saw you, to tell you
not to forget him. He even went to Polly and begged her to be reconciled
to him before he left, perhaps never to return. I went to see her, too,
to see if I could influence her; but what do you think? She’s adopted a
baby, and she’s wrapped up in it. She says it fills her life, and she
doesn’t want any one else. She’s very hard on Vincent. Those frightfully
maternal women always are dreadfully hard on men, don’t you think? I’m
not surprised at her adopting a child; she was so absorbed in the one
she lost. I couldn’t do a thing with her. She said she had done with
Vincent. Poor boy! She’s narrow--provincial. Awfully selfish, don’t you
think?"
"I don’t know," said Angelica. "I suppose she can’t help how she feels."
"Well, I thought it was horrible to see her there, so happy with that
baby, and so callous about her husband. Not even her own baby--some
little waif she’s picked up. It’s a wretched, puny little thing, too;
she has to give it the most unceasing care. I shouldn’t be surprised to
hear any day that she’s lost it. Oh, my dear! What’s that heavenly mass
of purple?"
"That’s a negligée I’m making," said Devery, thus addressed.
"Could I possibly wear purple?" inquired Mrs. Russell earnestly. "Do
please let me see it! Oh, how _marvelous_! Could I _possibly_ slip it
on?
"Am I _hideous_?" she asked Angelica anxiously, when she had got the
purple garment on and stood before the long mirror.
"It’s not quite your style," said Angelica, with great seriousness. "I
think--but Miss Devery will give you suggestions."
"A dark green," said Devery, "with dull, blackish blue overtones--not a
floating thing like this, Mrs. Russell. You’re slender enough to stand a
straight, narrow garment. Not exactly a negligée; I never advise them,
there’s so little use in them; but what I call a boudoir gown."
"How much would it cost?" asked Mrs. Russell.
"One hundred dollars," said Devery.
Mrs. Russell looked at her, then at Angelica. They both had their
professional manners, polite, deeply interested, but firm. There was no
mercy to be had from them. She ordered the gown; then she bought a
"sports hat" of Angelica for a staggering sum, and prepared to take her
leave.
But now Miss Sillon came in, pleasant and businesslike.
"I’d be very pleased to make you a ten per cent discount, madam," she
said; "or for any one personally introduced by our Miss Kennedy."
"Oh, Sillon!" said Angelica, when she had gone. "Wasn’t that nice of
you? You can’t imagine how anything like that pleases her."
"Angélique, my child, we’d do more than that for you," said Sillon.