In her first generous enthusiasm Serena had declared that the “sweet
child” must dine with them, no matter who was there, and now neither
she nor Geraldine could find a plausible reason for altering the
arrangement which had grown so irksome. This evening, as usual,
Geraldine went upstairs to put on her one and only dinner dress.
But she was not so reluctant as usual, nor so disdainful. She felt
that she was no longer utterly alone. This man who had come to the
house was different from the others. She remembered his face as she
had seen it in the flare of the match, and remembered the sound of
his voice. If he was lost, it was because he had been misguided. He
was somehow a victim.
Nobody noticed Miss Moriarty when she came to the table, for they
were all very well used to her and her one evening gown—that is,
nobody but Sambo; and to him she was new and lovely and profoundly
interesting. He thought that her slender hands were beautiful. So
was the sweep of her shining black hair away from her temples, and
so was the proud arch of her brows; and he thought that her poor
little black dress, and her youth and her disdainful air, were
beyond measure touching.
But he prudently kept his interest in Miss Moriarty to himself, and
behaved as he was expected to behave. The diet was postponed, and
Serena had asked the butler to see that there was “an awfully good
dinner.” He had justified her blind faith in him, for the dinner was
an excellent one. From the well stocked cellar he had selected the
proper wines; but nobody cared for these. They all preferred whisky.
Throughout the meal they drank whisky and smoked cigarettes, and
their talk was in keeping with this.
“It’s not my business,” thought Geraldine. “I can’t change the
world. I’m just here to earn a living.”
But the contempt and indifference which until now had been her armor
failed her to-night. She was troubled and very unhappy. None of
these people were mere puppets any longer. They had come alive, and
they were pitiful, and a little horrible.
There was the girl they called Jinky—tall, gaunt, with a sort of
wasted beauty in her face. A year ago she had eloped with a very
young millionaire, and, as he was under age, his parents had had the
marriage annulled—annulled, wiped out, so that Jinky had come back
from her wedding trip discredited and shamed before all her world.
She didn’t seem to care. She seemed hilariously amused by the
whispered conversation of Levering, who sat next her; but to-night
Geraldine felt sure that Jinky did care—that the wound had left a
cruel scar.
There was Levering himself, with his supercilious, high-bred face.
He had married for money, and he hadn’t got the money. It was a
notorious joke in that circle that his middle-aged wife begrudged
him every penny. He suffered his ignoble humiliation, and his wife
suffered, too, because of her jealous and bitter infatuation for
him.
There was the _chic_ and lively little Mrs. Anson, with her eternal
scheming for invitations and other benefits. There was her husband,
gray-haired, distinguished in appearance, a slave to her ambition
and his own weakness.
There was Serena, magnificent in her diamonds, talking only to
Sambo, looking only at Sambo. There was Sambo himself, the man who
had said that he was lost. He listened to Serena carelessly, and
smiled, even when her face was anxious and frowning. He smoked
incessantly. The light ashes from his cigarettes fell upon his
plate, into his glass, and he swallowed them, as if he neither knew
nor cared what was barren ash and what life-giving food.
“Now what?” cried Serena, jumping up. “Bridge, or dancing, or what?”
Geraldine had risen, too, and she fancied that she heard Mr. Anson,
standing beside her, mutter:
“The deluge!”
He was unsteady on his feet, and his weary face was a curious gray.
Geraldine had seen him like this before. He was trying to play,
trying to be one of them, to forget—and he never could.
“Oh, dancing, of course!” said Jinky. They all went into the
drawing-room, and one of the servants started the phonograph
playing. The music began, the thud of drums like bare feet stamping,
the sweet whine of Hawaiian guitars, like lazy laughter. Geraldine
had followed the others, meaning only to pass through on her way to
the garden, but halfway across the room Sambo stopped her.
“Give me this dance!” he said softly.
“No!” she answered with a quick frown, and moved away.
But he came after her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Please!” he said. “Why won’t you?”
The touch of his hand filled her with a great anger. She turned her
head and looked at him with scornful amazement—and found in his
face only laughter and cajolery.
“Please!” he said again. “Just one dance!”
“No!” she said.
He could not very well misunderstand—or pretend to
misunderstand—her tone. He dropped his hand and stood back.
“Sorry!” he said.
She knew that he wasn’t sorry. She went past him, threading her way
among the dancing couples, and went upstairs to her own room. She
locked the door and stood leaning against it, in the dark, breathing
a little fast from her haste and anger.
She hated him! Vivid before her was the image of his handsome face,
flushed with drinking, and of his conqueror’s smile. Intolerable was
the memory of his hand upon her shoulder. She hated him, and she
could almost hate herself because even for a minute she had thought
he was different.