The time came inevitably when they felt the call to give a party. It was
almost simultaneous; they never knew quite whose idea it was. They were
all of them filled with enthusiasm, but it was more tremendous for
Rosaleen, because it was her first.
They borrowed a phonograph from the “FINE FEATHERS” girls, and Miss Mell
seriously undertook to teach Rosaleen to dance. Every evening after
dinner Enid would put on a dance record and Miss Mell, pinning up her
skirt so that her feet could the better be observed, would steer
Rosaleen through the steps of fox-trot, one-step and waltz. Enid would
criticise. But even she admitted that Rosaleen had a gift.
“It’s Irishness,” she said. “They’re all nice dancers, I notice; all
those downtrodden, suffering nations, Poles and Irish, and so on. Queer,
isn’t it?”
The invitations circulated mysteriously and casually, and were as
casually accepted. But it was none the less a festivity which required
great preparations. Rosaleen bought a new dress and Miss Mell made over
an old one. But Enid refused to make any further concession than a new
blouse, to be worn with her everyday skirt. And yet, on the night of the
party, when she was dressed, she was amazing. It was a low cut blouse,
and quite thin enough to reveal the matchless lines of her shoulders,
the perfection of her supple arms, her lovely throat. And she wore a
pearl necklace, a genuine one, which she never explained. It was the
first time that Rosaleen had realised her striking beauty, or the full
extent of her arrogant charm. Even in her new dress, with her hair
arranged so prettily, she felt, for a moment, just a little miserable
beside Enid.
Miss Mell was dumpy and unobtrusive and correct, and according to her
custom, completely covered by a large gingham apron until the last
minute. She and Rosaleen cooked the early dinner, but Rosaleen couldn’t
eat and she would hardly allow them to, either. She hurried them so
anxiously, so that she could get everything ready before the party came.
Enid sprinkled powdered wax on the floor, and Rosaleen and Miss Mell
pushed all the furniture back against the walls. Then they lighted all
the candles, under their purple and yellow shades; then on a table in a
corner they arranged their refreshments, salad, cake and sandwiches got
from Miss Gosorkus, and a bowl of punch. Miss Mell had oiled the
phonograph and bought some new records, and she instructed Rosaleen in
the art of manipulating it.
“Be careful when you wind it up!” she cautioned. “Something’s wrong. It
rocks so. I’m afraid of its tipping off the table.”
The preparations were completed very early, and the happy Rosaleen had
nothing to do but sit near the window to wait, where she could see the
lights glittering up Fifth Avenue, and the buses sailing to and fro.
Presently Enid joined her, sat on the window sill, perfectly still,
perfectly silent. She didn’t even move when Lawrence came in, urbane and
indulgent, in evening dress. Rosaleen and Miss Mell welcomed him with
smiles; they were, and they were willing to show that they were,
tremendously flattered at his coming to their party.
“I’ve brought some champagne,” he said. “It’s in the hall, in a pail of
ice.”
“How _nice_!” said Miss Mell.
He bowed politely. Then he turned his attention to Enid, sitting on the
window sill.
“Well, my beauty!” he said, in his harsh voice, “Looking out there for a
new sweetheart?”
Enid’s voice came, singularly flat and dispirited.
“No,” she said. And after a pause. “I dare say I was looking for
God.... What an empty looking heaven, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary. I hear it’s extraordinarily crowded with planets and
constellations and that sort of thing. And probably ghosts.”
“Do you believe in ghosts--really?”
“No, my dear; I have no fears.”
“Fears!” cried Enid. “Fears!... I wouldn’t call it a _fear_. I’d call it
a hope.... Oh! Don’t I wish I could see a ghost! I’m--I’m always looking
for something like that. Something to show that we don’t end.”
“Aha! You’re afraid of death, are you?”
“No!” she said, impatiently. “Don’t you understand? I don’t care when or
how I go. I don’t care whether I become an angel or a devil, or a puff
of breath in a great god’s mouth. Or a ghost. So long as it doesn’t
_end_.”
“It _does_ end,” said Lawrence. “Rest assured of that.”
“Don’t you care?”
“My dear creature, I shall never know it. I’ll never be conscious of
this highly unpleasant annihilation. It’s only the dread of it. And that
doesn’t exist if you refuse to think of it.”
“But suppose there’s someone else you’re longing and longing to see
again?”
“Now!” he cried, triumphantly. “Now we’re getting at the mystery of your
life. It’s a dead lover!”
“Oh! You and your beastly obsession with lovers!” she cried, almost with
a sob. “It’s a--child’s ghost....”
“Be thankful it’s out of this brutal, hostile world, then,” said
Lawrence. “Where’s Rosaleen? She lives in another nice little world, all
by herself.”
“Perhaps hers is the real world,” said Enid. “I wish I could think so.”