Going down the crowded steps into the crowded drawing-room, Winthrop
Laine slowly made his way through the door to the place where Mr. and
Mrs. Taillor and their daughter were receiving their guests and
passing them on with a rapidity that would have been creditable to
the custodian of a game of human roulette, and as he reached them his
name was called with uncomfortable clearness.
"Well, this is a surprise!" Both of Mrs. Taillor's hands held
Laine's. "But commend me to a person who knows when to change his
mind. Jessica, you should feel honored. Awfully good of you to
come! How do you do, Mrs. Haislip?" And Laine, too, was passed on,
and a moment later found himself in a corner where he could watch the
door and all who came in.
What was he here for? He didn't know. The air was heavy with
perfume. In the distance music reached him faintly, and the throb
and stir and color and glow for some minutes interested him as he
glanced around the handsome room with its massed palms, its wealth of
flowers, its brilliant lights, and streams of gorgeously gowned women
and prosperous-looking men, and then he wondered what had made him
start anything of this sort again. To come had been a sudden
decision. Long ago the dreariness of functions such as these had
caused their giving-up, but a fancy to look once more upon one had
possessed him unaccountably, and he had come.
Up-stairs in the men's room his reappearance had been banteringly
commented on, and with good-natured hand-shaking he had been welcomed
back; but down here many faces were strange and figures
unrecognizable; and with something of shock he realized how few were
the years necessary to change the personnel of any division of
humanity. The heat was intense, and moving farther back toward a
screen of palms near a half-open window, he pulled one slightly
forward that he might see and not be seen, and again watched each
newcomer with mild speculation as to whether he or she were known or
not.
For a while it was puzzling, this continuing arrival of new faces,
with here and there one he knew well or slightly; but gradually its
effect chilled, and he was wondering if he could get away when he
heard his name called.
"Winthrop Laine! Of all people!" Miss French held out her hand.
"From what loophole were you watching this passing show for man's
derision given? May I come in?"
"You may."
Miss French moved behind the palms and pushed a tall leaf aside.
"You and I are too old for these things, Winthrop. I don't know why
I come--to get away from myself, I suppose. Look at that Miss
Cantrell! She parades her bones as if they were a private collection
of which she was proud! And did you ever see anything as hideous as
that gown Miss Gavins has on? Paris green couldn't be more deadly.
I heard Mathilda Hickman tell her just now to be sure and wear it to
her dinner next week, it was so becoming; and only yesterday she was
shrieking over it at a luncheon where everybody was talking about it,
Mr. Trehan is to be at the dinner, and Mathilda wants every woman to
look her worst. Hello! There comes Channing and Hope and the cousin
from the country. Rather a nice sort of person, awfully young and
inexperienced, but--" She put up her lorgnette. "They are talking
to Miss Cantrell. Miss Keith is not becoming to Miss Cantrell, or
Miss Gavins, either. Her shoulders are excellent and her head
perfectly poised. That white dress suits her. Have you been in the
dining-room?"
Laine came from behind the palms. "No; I was to wait for Hope.
Awfully glad to have seen you, Robin. A stranger in a strange land
has a chance, but a man who has lost his place hasn't. People have a
way of closing up if you lose step, and I"--he laughed--"I lost step
long ago. I'll see you again." And, watching, Miss French saw him
take possession of Miss Keith and go with her out of the room.
Half an hour later Laine found a chair for Claudia at the end of the
hall opposite the dining-room, and as she sat down he wiped his
forehead. "I used to play football, but--"
"You're out of practice? I don't believe you did take more than
three men by the shoulders and put them aside. I don't understand
football very well, but a dining-room seems to be the center-rush.
Please look at that crowd over there!" She nodded toward the open
door, through which a mass of men could be seen struggling. "Isn't
it queer--the eagerness with which a plate of salad is pursued?"
"And the earnestness with which it is devoured." Laine put his
handkerchief in his pocket. Will you wait here a moment until I can
get you something? I'll be back--"
"Indeed I won't." Claudia stood up. "It's fun to watch, but only
fruit from the tree of life would be worth a scrimmage of that kind.
If I could get on top of a picture-frame or a curtain-pole, or
anything from which I could look down on a show like this, I'd have a
beautiful time, but"--she opened her fan--"it's rather stuffy to be
in it."
Laine glanced around. He knew the house well. Next to the library,
but not opening into it, was a small room of Taillor's which could
only be reached by a narrow passage at their right. He walked away
and looked in at the door. The room was empty.
"I think it will be more comfortable over there," he said, coming
back, then saw she was talking to a man he had long known and long
disliked. He stopped a servant who was passing, a man who had once
been in the employ of one of his clubs. "Bring some stuff over here
and be quick, will you, David?" he said, then spoke to the man
talking to Miss Keith.
His greeting to Dudley was not cordial. It was with difficulty
indeed that he did not take Claudia away at once. Dudley was not the
sort of man for her to have anything to do with. In a time
incredibly short, but to Laine irritatingly long, David was back,
abundantly supplied; and with a nod he was directed to the room at
the end of the narrow hall, and Laine turned to the girl at his side.
"Are you ready?"
"Good night." Miss Keith held out her hand. "Bettina sent you many
messages."
"I'm coming to get them--may I?" Mr. Dudley's eyes were frankly
eager. "But where are you going? Laine always was a monopolist.
What are you doing at a thing of this kind, anyhow, Laine? Don't pay
any attention to him, Miss Keith. He's mere facts and figures, and
the froth of life is not in him. I'm much better company."
The last words were lost in the push of new arrivals, and quickly
Laine led the way to the room where David was waiting. Through the
open door the sound of music reached them faintly over the shrill
rise and fall of many voices; and as Claudia sat down near the table
on which various plates had been placed she put her hands to the
sides of her face and, laughing, drew them away.
"Did you ever put a cockle-shell to your ear and notice its roar?"
she asked. "That's how a Tea sounds when there're only women at it.
When there're men it's more so. What is this?" She held her fork
suspended for a moment. "It's awfully good, but very elusive. What
do you suppose it is?"
"A bunch of guesses wouldn't hit it. Clicot is providing the
provender, I believe; I see his men here, and the ambition of
Clicot's life is to create a new dish. I'm glad you like it. It's
as near nothing as anything I ever ate. Are you comfortable? Is
that chair all right?"
Claudia nodded. "Why don't you sit down? I'm sorry we can't see the
people, but it's nice to be out of the crowd." She looked around the
room. "This is a very handsome house. I never saw more gorgeous
flowers, and tomorrow," she gave a queer little sigh, "tomorrow it
will all be over--and the flowers faded."
"Faded things are the penalties of wealth. It's the one compensation
for follies of this sort that they are soon over."
"I don't think they are always follies. When I was young--"
He looked down at her, in his eyes a quiet gleam. "When you were
what?"
"Young. Really young, I mean. I had my party when I was eighteen.
I remember it just as well." She gave a happy little laugh. "But of
course we change with time. My sister says I am developing a
dreadful disease. It's a tendency. Did you ever have it?"
"A what?"
"A tendency--to think and wonder and ask questions, you know. She
says people who have it are very trying. But how can you help a
thing you're born with?" She leaned forward, pushed the plates
aside, and folded her arms on the table. "I always wondered about
things, but I didn't entirely wake up until I was over twenty. I
don't blame people for having things like this"--she waved her hands
inclusively--"that is, if they like this kind of thing." She looked
up at him. "We're just like children. All of us love to splurge
every now and then. Don't we?"
"It looks that way. Splurge has a variety of forms." Laine leaned
forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. "But the
tendency--is it catching?"
She laughed. "In the country it is. I live in the country, but it
didn't develop in me until I had several winters in the city. I used
to love things like this. I didn't know much about a good many other
things, and it was when I found out that I began to look at people
and wonder if they knew, and cared, and what they were doing with
it--their life I mean, their chance, their time, their money. One
winter it got so bad Lettice sent me home. Lettice lives in
Washington; she's my second sister. My oldest sister is a widow, and
is still in London, where her husband died two years ago. I kept
looking for glad faces and real, sure-enough happiness; and so many
people looked bored and bothered and tired that I couldn't
understand--and Lettice made me go home. Her husband is in Congress,
and she said I wanted to know too much."
"Have you yet found what you were looking for?" Laine leaned back in
his chair and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Yes." She laughed lightly and got up. "You can find anything, I
guess, if you look for it right. And in such unexpected places you
find things!" She stopped and listened. "I believe people are going
home. Please take me to Hope. I can't imagine what made us stay in
here so long!"