Some intuition had already told her that frankness was the tone to take
with him. They sat down together on the red damask sofa, against the
hanging cloaks. As Undine leaned back her hair caught in the spangles of
the wrap behind her, and she had to sit motionless while the young man
freed the captive mesh. Then they settled themselves again, laughing a
little at the incident.
A glance had made the situation clear to Mrs. Lipscomb, and they saw her
return to her rapt inspection of the boxes. In their mirror-hung recess
the light was subdued to a rosy dimness and the hum of the audience came
to them through half-drawn silken curtains. Undine noticed the delicacy
and finish of her companion's features as his head detached itself
against the red silk walls. The hand with which he stroked his small
moustache was finely-finished too, but sinewy and not effeminate. She
had always associated finish and refinement entirely with her own sex,
but she began to think they might be even more agreeable in a man.
Marvell's eyes were grey, like her own, with chestnut eyebrows and
darker lashes; and his skin was as clear as a woman's, but pleasantly
reddish, like his hands.
As he sat talking in a low tone, questioning her about the music, asking
her what she had been doing since he had last seen her, she was aware
that he looked at her less than usual, and she also glanced away; but
when she turned her eyes suddenly they always met his gaze.
His talk remained impersonal. She was a little disappointed that he did
not compliment her on her dress or her hair--Undine was accustomed to
hearing a great deal about her hair, and the episode of the spangles had
opened the way to a graceful allusion--but the instinct of sex told her
that, under his quiet words, he was throbbing with the sense of her
proximity. And his self-restraint sobered her, made her refrain from the
flashing and fidgeting which were the only way she knew of taking part
in the immemorial love-dance. She talked simply and frankly of herself,
of her parents, of how few people they knew in New York, and of how, at
times, she was almost sorry she had persuaded them to give up Apex.
"You see, they did it entirely on my account; they're awfully lonesome
here; and I don't believe I shall ever learn New York ways either," she
confessed, turning on him the eyes of youth and truthfulness. "Of course
I know a few people; but they're not--not the way I expected New York
people to be." She risked what seemed an involuntary glance at Mabel.
"I've seen girls here to-night that I just LONG to know--they look so
lovely and refined--but I don't suppose I ever shall. New York's not
very friendly to strange girls, is it? I suppose you've got so many of
your own already--and they're all so fascinating you don't care!" As she
spoke she let her eyes rest on his, half-laughing, half-wistful, and
then dropped her lashes while the pink stole slowly up to them.
When he left her he asked if he might hope to find her at home the next
day.
The night was fine, and Marvell, having put his cousin into her motor,
started to walk home to Washington Square. At the corner he was joined
by Mr. Popple. "Hallo, Ralph, old man--did you run across our auburn
beauty of the Stentorian? Who'd have thought old Harry Lipscomb'd have
put us onto anything as good as that? Peter Van Degen was fairly taken
off his feet--pulled me out of Mrs. Monty Thurber's box and dragged me
'round by the collar to introduce him. Planning a dinner at Martin's
already. Gad, young Peter must have what he wants WHEN he wants it! I
put in a word for you--told him you and I ought to be let in on the
ground floor. Funny the luck some girls have about getting started. I
believe this one'll take if she can manage to shake the Lipscombs. I
think I'll ask to paint her; might be a good thing for the spring show.
She'd show up splendidly as a PENDANT to my Mrs. Van Degen--Blonde and
Brunette... Night and Morning... Of course I prefer Mrs. Van Degen's
type--personally, I MUST have breeding--but as a mere bit of flesh and
blood... hallo, ain't you coming into the club?"
Marvell was not coming into the club, and he drew a long breath of
relief as his companion left him.
Was it possible that he had ever thought leniently of the egregious
Popple? The tone of social omniscience which he had once found so comic
was now as offensive to him as a coarse physical touch. And the worst of
it was that Popple, with the slight exaggeration of a caricature, really
expressed the ideals of the world he frequented. As he spoke of Miss
Spragg, so others at any rate would think of her: almost every one in
Ralph's set would agree that it was luck for a girl from Apex to be
started by Peter Van Degen at a Café Martin dinner...
Ralph Marvell, mounting his grandfather's doorstep, looked up at the
symmetrical old red house-front, with its frugal marble ornament, as he
might have looked into a familiar human face.
"They're right,--after all, in some ways they're right," he murmured,
slipping his key into the door.
"They" were his mother and old Mr. Urban Dagonet, both, from Ralph's
earliest memories, so closely identified with the old house in
Washington Square that they might have passed for its inner
consciousness as it might have stood for their outward form; and the
question as to which the house now seemed to affirm their intrinsic
rightness was that of the social disintegration expressed by
widely-different architectural physiognomies at the other end of Fifth
Avenue. As Ralph pushed the bolts behind him, and passed into the hall,
with its dark mahogany doors and the quiet "Dutch interior" effect of
its black and white marble paving, he said to himself that what Popple
called society was really just like the houses it lived in: a muddle of
misapplied ornament over a thin steel shell of utility. The steel shell
was built up in Wall Street, the social trimmings were hastily added
in Fifth Avenue; and the union between them was as monstrous and
factitious, as unlike the gradual homogeneous growth which flowers
into what other countries know as society, as that between the Blois
gargoyles on Peter Van Degen's roof and the skeleton walls supporting
them.
That was what "they" had always said; what, at least, the Dagonet
attitude, the Dagonet view of life, the very lines of the furniture in
the old Dagonet house expressed. Ralph sometimes called his mother and
grandfather the Aborigines, and likened them to those vanishing denizens
of the American continent doomed to rapid extinction with the advance of
the invading race. He was fond of describing Washington Square as the
"Reservation," and of prophesying that before long its inhabitants would
be exhibited at ethnological shows, pathetically engaged in the exercise
of their primitive industries.
Small, cautious, middle-class, had been the ideals of aboriginal New
York; but it suddenly struck the young man that they were singularly
coherent and respectable as contrasted with the chaos of indiscriminate
appetites which made up its modern tendencies. He too had wanted to be
"modern," had revolted, half-humorously, against the restrictions and
exclusions of the old code; and it must have been by one of the ironic
reversions of heredity that, at this precise point, he began to see what
there was to be said on the other side--his side, as he now felt it to
be.