Wilfred knew the Gore house from cellar to garret, from having been
required once in the old days, to take an inventory of its contents. It
was rather piquant to be there now as a guest in a swallow-tail coat. It
was not one of the greatest houses in New York; but ’twould serve. His
hat and coat were taken from him in a horrible entrance hall in the
“Moorish” style, all the rage about 1890. He passed through the library
(which contained no books) all done in red velvet, and entered the
drawing-room behind. The drawing-room, with its great bay-window giving
on the side street, was rather fine he considered; evidently a pretty
good decorator had been let loose in here. But there was far too much
stuff in it. The prevailing tone was an agreeable blue.
In the bay stood a grand piano, with a great golden harp placed beside
it. Wilfred smiled at the harp. It had not been moved in seven years.
“Why in Hell a harp?” he asked himself. Against the wall facing the bay
stood an immense upholstered settee; and over the settee in the place of
honor, hung the famous portrait of Mrs. Gore by Madrazo. A superb
figure. The rich blue brocade of her corsage seemed to be glued to her
body like wall-paper.
It was a dinner for about twenty people. Mrs. Gore affected the
Knickerbocker set, whose present day representatives showed a sad
falling off from the picturesqueness of their ancestors. The ladies
affected a rich and dowdy style of dress, still featuring the abdomen;
and the gentlemen also, who ran to bottle shoulders, and a small, neat
melon under their waist-bands, suggested the magazine illustrations of
twenty years ago. Obviously gentlemen, who toiled not neither did they
spin. In America, for some reason, they looked piteous. There were
several more or less subdued young persons present. Wilfred was
introduced to a few of the guests, and left to shift for himself. He was
to take in a Mrs. Varick, an anæmic little woman who kept up a fire of
virtuous platitudes. One could safely agree with everything she said,
while one looked about.
A little late, when all the estimable guests were visibly becoming
uneasy, a woman entered the room, who changed the whole complexion of
the party. Like a wild bird lighting in the poultry yard, Wilfred
thought. She was about his own age with miscellaneous American features,
not in the least beautiful. But she had the divine carriage of Diana,
and Diana’s arrowy glance. Never had Wilfred beheld that proud, free
glance in living woman. What a glorious spirit it betokened! So defiant
and desirable it rendered him helpless. She was wearing a dress of
tomato red, partly misted with smoke-colored net. Nothing of yesteryear
about _her_! Though she and all her works must have been anathema to the
drab ones, Wilfred observed that they were inclined to fawn upon her.
Obviously, that girl could get away with anything, anywhere, Wilfred
thought.
At the table he was terrified and delighted to discover that she was to
be on the other side of him. She sat down, talking busily to her
companion. Wilfred stole a glance at her place card. “Miss Elaine
Sturges.” It had the effect of striking a gong. Elaine Sturges! Wilfred
had not been above reading of the doings of the butterflies he despised;
the Sturgeses of North Washington Square; elect of the elect! For
several seasons she had been chief amongst the unmarried girls. It
appeared that no entertainment was complete without her. Merely from
having her name so often printed, the lustre of fame was about her
plainly-dressed brown head; and Wilfred’s imagination was dazzled
afresh. While he sagely nodded his head in agreement with Mrs. Varick’s
ambling comment, he sought in his mind to have ready some arresting
thing to say, when his chance came. But his mind was a blank.
He happened not to be looking in that direction when a contralto voice
said near his ear: “I say, who are you? Your place card is covered up.”
Wilfred jumped. “Wilfred Pell,” he said, smiling.
“I thought I knew all the Pells.”
“I’m only an offshoot. A scribbling Pell.”
“Didn’t think such a thing was possible!”
They laughed, knowing the Pell characteristics.
Wilfred thought: She has not read my stories. . . . But why should she?
I must say something at once, or she’ll turn back to the other
man. . . .
When it came, it sounded feeble. “I hate to be asked my name. I dislike
it so much!”
“What, Wilfred?” she asked carelessly. “Yes, it is rather in the Percy
and Harold class.”
“One’s mouth takes such a foolish shape in saying it.”
Her cool, strong glance sought his eyes appraisingly. There was a
thought in her eyes that she did not utter; but he read it.
“You think Wilfred suits me?” he said smiling, and sore at heart.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said coolly. “. . . You have nice eyes.”
Nice eyes! At that moment it was like an insult. And so good-humored
about it! He struggled with a crushing sense of inferiority.
“Well, at any rate, you are well-named,” he said.
“Am I? I thought the original Elaine was a pale, die-away maiden who
floated down the river with flowers in her hair, and her toes turned to
the sky!—But maybe I’m thinking of somebody else. My literary
associations are hazy.”
“The Lady of Shalott?” suggested Wilfred. “I was thinking of the mere
sound of the name. Elaine! So forthright!”
“So you think I’m a forthright sort of person?”
“Rather!”
“That requires consideration.”
“How do you seem to yourself?” asked Wilfred.
“Oh, I don’t know. . . . We are all over-civilized, over-complicated
nowadays. . . .”
“You are neither civilized nor complicated,” said Wilfred boldly.
“Well upon my word!” she said, half-affronted.
“Diana,” murmured Wilfred. “You know that picture at the Metropolitan; a
rotten picture, but a glorious woman!”
She continued to stare, really amused, as with a baby’s prattle.
Wilfred, as if Mrs. Varick had spoken to him, turned away. I _did_ make
an impression then, he thought; better leave her with it!
They talked again at intervals during dinner; the usual sort of thing.
Wilfred had no other daring inspiration. However, when the divinely
brave eyes turned on him, he perceived a speculative look in them. At
least I exist for her, he thought hopefully.
After dinner there was music in the drawing-room (but not on the harp)
and all the guests had to stay put—or so Wilfred supposed. Not having
been sufficiently ready-witted to maneuver himself into a position
beside her, he watched her from down the room. He was sitting beside the
door into the hall. There was a sleek fellow behind her, leaning forward
with his lips close to her ear. He appeared to be able to amuse her. He
was not in the least afraid of her, Wilfred observed with a pang.
Taking advantage of a little movement among the guests between numbers,
the red girl with characteristic nonchalance came sauntering down the
long room, attended by her companion. Wilfred’s skin began to burn and
prickle. She was headed directly for him. He suffered acutely. He did
not see how he was going to keep his head up if she passed so close. She
had laid a dreadful spell on him.
She did not pass him by. She stopped, and he jumped up. Careless of who
might hear, she said:
“Come and sit on the stairs with me.”
Wilfred followed her like a man in a dream.
“Thanks, Ted,” she said over her shoulder to the other man, and he
remained within the room.
Wilfred tingled. Came to me in the face of the whole room! Sent the
other man away! But he was deeply perturbed, too. It should have been me
to go to her, and carry her off. . . . What will Mrs. Gore say to my
walking out on her concert like this?
Elaine seemed to read his thoughts. “They won’t blame you,” she said
smiling. “They know me! . . . Oh well, poor dears! I like to give them
something to talk about. They lead such dull lives!”
In the hall, the stairs started off at right angles, and after pausing
on a sort of Moorish balcony, turned and went up in the proper direction
without further divagations. Above the balcony it was rather secluded,
and not too light. Here they sat, Wilfred with a tumultuously beating
heart. There was already a meek youth and maiden higher up. Elaine
permitted Wilfred to light a cigarette for her. Wilfred was astounded at
his situation. Smoking companionably on the stairs with Elaine Sturges!
He had supposed that these girls were so circumspect. However, there was
nothing equivocal in the clear glance.
“After a season or two, what an experience of stairs you must acquire!”
said Wilfred.
“Eh?” she said, not getting it—or not choosing to get it.
“You ought to write a monograph on the subject,” he blundered on; “The
stairs of New York.”
She smiled inattentively, and Wilfred felt like a perfect ass.
“I never meet any artists or writers,” she said, “except old and famous
ones. It seems so odd for a young man to go in for it. And a Pell!”
She means that she thinks its unmanly, thought Wilfred with a wry smile.
“Oh, it’s an easy job,” he said flippantly.
“You only say that because you think I’m not capable of understanding,”
she said.
“Not at all!” said Wilfred quickly. “It’s because I can’t appear to take
myself seriously, without feeling like a fool!”
“Oh!” she said, looking at him as if he had given her new food for
reflection.
Wilfred felt like a specimen impaled on a pin.
“Tell me more about myself,” she said presently. “It’s refreshing!”
“I have so little to go on!” protested Wilfred.
“That didn’t seem to hamper you a while ago. Make it up as you go
along.”
“You always do exactly what you please.”
She smiled inscrutably. “That isn’t very clever!”
Wilfred felt flattened out. “Well . . . you have entirely false notions
about life,” he said, making a desperate fresh start.
“That’s better,” she said serenely. “In what way do you mean?”