It was long afterward that Norma dated from the night of "Aïda" a new
feeling in herself toward Chris, and the recognition of a new feeling in
Chris toward her. She knew that a special sort of friendship existed
between them from that time on.
He had done nothing definite that night; he had never done or said
anything that could be held as marking the change. But Norma felt it,
and she knew that he did. And somehow, in that atmosphere of fragrant
flowers and women as fragrant, of rustling silks and rich furs, of music
and darkness, and the old passion of the story, it had come to her for
the first time that Chris was not only the Chris of Alice's room, Aunt
Marianna's son-in-law and Leslie's brother-in-law, but her own Chris,
too, a Chris who had his special meaning for her, as well as for the
rest.
She liked him, it was natural that she should especially and truly like
him. Almost all women did, for he was of the type that comes closest to
understanding them, and he had made their favour an especial study.
Chris could never be indifferent to any woman; if he did not actively
dislike her, he took pains to please her, and, never actively disliking
Norma, he had from the first constituted himself her guide and friend.
Long before he was conscious that there was a real charm to this little
chance member of their group, Norma had capitulated utterly. His
sureness, his pleasant suggestions, his positive approval or kindly
protests, had done more to make her first months among the Melroses
happy than any other one thing. Norma loved him, and was grateful to
him, even when he hurt her. In the matter of a note of acceptance, of a
little act of thanks, of a gown or hat, his decision was absolute, and
she had never known it mistaken.
Besides this, she saw him everywhere welcome, everywhere courted and
admired, and everywhere the same Chris--handsome, self-possessed,
irreproachably dressed whether for golf or opera, adequate to the claims
of wife, mother, family, or the world. She had heard Acton turn to him
for help in little difficulties; she knew that Leslie trusted him with
all her affairs, and he was as close as any man could be to an intimacy
with Hendrick von Behrens. Quietly, almost indifferently, he would
settle his round eyeglasses on their black ribbon, narrow his fine, keen
eyes and set his firm jaw, and take up their problems one by one, always
courteous, always interested, always helpful.
Then Chris had charm, as visible to all the world as to Norma. He had
the charm of race, of intelligence and education, the charm of a man who
prides himself upon his Italian and French, upon his knowledge of books
and pictures, and his capacity for holding his own in any group, on any
subject. He was quite frankly a collector, a connoisseur, a dilettante
in a hundred different directions, and he had had leisure all his life
to develop and perfect his affectations. In all this new world Norma
could not perhaps have discovered a man more rich in just what would
impress her ignorance, her newness, to the finer aspects of
civilization.
For a few weeks after "Aïda," as other operas and Annie's tea, and the
opening social life of the winter softened the first impression, Norma
tried to tell herself that she had imagined a little tendency, on
Chris's part, too--well, to impress her with his friendliness. She had
seen him flirt with other women, and indeed small love affairs of all
sorts were constantly current, not only in Annie's, but in Leslie's
group. A certain laxity was in the air, and every month had its
separation or divorce, to be flung to the gossips for dissection.
Norma was not especially flattered at first, and rather inclined to
resent the assurance with which Chris carried his well-known tendency
for philandering into his own family, as it were. But as the full days
went by, and she encountered in him, wherever they met, the same grave,
kindly attention, the same pleasant mouth and curiously baffling eyes,
in spite of herself she began to experience a certain breathless and
half-flattered and half-frightened pride in his affection.
He never kissed her again, never tried to arrange even the most casual
meeting alone with her, and never let escape even a word of more than
brotherly friendliness. But in Leslie's drawing-room at tea time, or at
some studio tea or Sunday luncheon in a country house, he always quietly
joined her, kept, if possible, within the sound of her voice, and never
had any plan that would interfere with possible plans of hers. If she
was ready to go, he would drive her, perhaps to discourse impersonally
upon the quality of the pictures, or the countryside mantled with snow,
upon the way. If she wanted a message telephoned, a telegram sent, even
a borrowed book returned, it was "no trouble at all"; Chris would of
course attend to it.
At dinner parties he was rarely placed beside her; hers was naturally
the younger set. But he found a hundred ways to remind her that he was
constantly attentive. Norma would feel her heart jump in her side as he
started toward her across a ball-room floor, handsome, perfectly poised,
betraying nothing but generous interest in her youthful good times as he
took his place beside her.
So Christmas came and went, and the last affairs of the brief season
began to be announced: the last dances, the last dinners, the
"pre-Lenten functions" as the papers had it. Norma, apologizing, in one
of her flying calls on Aunt Kate, for the long intervals between visits,
explained that she honestly did not know where the weeks flew!
"And are you happy, Baby?" her aunt asked, holding her close, and
looking anxiously into her eyes.
"Oh--happy!" the girl exclaimed, with a sort of shallow, quick laugh
that was quite new. "Of course I am. I never in my life dreamed that I
could be so happy. I've nothing left to wish for. Except, of course,
that I would like to know where I stand; I would like to have my own
position a little more definite," she added. But the last phrases were
uttered only in her own soul, and Mrs. Sheridan, after a rather
discontented scrutiny of the face she loved so well, was obliged to
change the subject.