JOHN HAVILAND was with him a great deal of this time, and, on his
recovery, took him severely to task for the life he had been leading.
For three years he had been a mere machine--a blind, passionless,
purposeful energy. A man, and a young man, could not live like that.
What pleasure had he taken in all that time? And a young man, unless
he has attained happiness, cannot live entirely without pleasure, even
if it be true that he should not seek for it. And Haviland knew enough
of Vane's life to feel assured that there had not hitherto been much
happiness. Moreover, Vane was a man of the world, and had been out of
it for three years. It was unnatural. He should see something of the
people of his own country. His mother was well; and would probably be
the same for years. And he had been nearly three years in mourning.
"Now," John concluded, "I wish you to come to a dinner at our house on
Friday."
Vane smiled, and looked at his threadbare black suit--one of the
original black suits--which had seen much service since he brought it
over from France. But he pleasantly accepted John's invitation, and
forthwith visited his tailor. That afternoon, in the park, as he turned
to come home from his walk, and saw the walls and spires of his own
city harshly outlined before the sunset, he realized for the first time
that he was a stranger in a strange land. For the first time, as he
walked down Fifth Avenue, between the level, high wall of house fronts,
with their regular squares of lighted windows, he caught himself
wondering what was behind these windows. Now and then he saw a feminine
silhouette on the white window-shades; in some houses, even, he could
see into a lower room; there were usually pictures on the walls and
often books, or bindings, on the shelves; there was frequently an old
gentleman by the fireside, and always a young girl or two. It was
piquant to catch these glimpses of the domestic hearth from the street;
he remembered how impossible such visions were in the Faubourg, among
the old hotels between court and garden.
As he thought of the newly discovered country he was soon to enter,
so strange to him, he felt that he, also, was strange to himself.
He tried to bring back his old nature of the boulevards, Longchamp
and Trouville; but it seemed to him childish and obsolete; showy and
senseless, like a pasteboard suit of stage armor. He did not regret
it. He was a man and an American; men were earnest, life in America
was earnest. He knew little of his own city; but he had read the
current novels; and he thought that he had seen enough to know that
the every-day life in America was tangible, material, and the life
of society what it should be, a gay leisure, a surface of pleasure
and rest. Now, in Paris it was the every-day life that was trivial;
the theatres were filled with vaudevilles; but the tragedies were
everywhere, off the stage. It was well, the young man felt, that he was
an American; his life had begun too sternly for a more artificial state
of society; he lacked more than other people, and he demanded more from
the world.
So the Friday night in question found him arrayed in the normal evening
costume of modern times. It wore somewhat awkwardly and strangely at
first; and one or two little minutiæ of dress he did not know at all;
as, whether gentlemen in America would wear gold studs, and how they
tied their cravats. A waiter met him in the hall holding a plate, on
which were several little envelopes, one of which bore his name. I
suppose, thought he, in a country where there is no precedence, but
much formality, this indicates whom we are to take in to dinner. He
opened his envelope and found within a card, and written in a feminine
hand _Miss Baby Thomas_. What an intolerable name!
Coming above into the reception room, his first impressions were
decidedly favorable. John's mother was a comely woman of that
comfortable domestic sort known as motherly; she raised one's opinion
of human nature even by the way in which she sat down. The prevailing
tone seemed refined, Vane thought. No more bad taste was visible than
is unavoidable in a country where the head of a family dies in a
finer house than the one he was born in. The women were charming in
dress, and face and figure; but their voices were disagreeable, and
they seemed to him a little brusque. In fact, the men, though rather
awkward, seemed to have more social importance, if not better breeding.
So far had he progressed in his studies, when a voice over his shoulder
said, "Miss Thomas--Mr. Vane." Inferring that he was being presented,
he turned quickly about, bowing as he did so. The young lady did not
wait for him to begin, but at once rattled off a number of questions
about himself and his foreign life. As the most of these she answered
herself with an "I suppose," or a "but of course," Vane had leisure
to observe her while she talked. She was pretty; admirably, sweetly
pretty; there was no doubt of that; as pretty as masses of dead-black
hair and eyes of intense gentian blue could make her. She had a lovely
neck and hands; and a smile which seemed placed there with a divine
foreknowledge of kisses. It was at once infantine, arch and gentle;
and then there was a pretty little toss of the head and a shrug of
the white, young shoulders. Vane looked at her curiously, a little
condescendingly perhaps, as the first specimen of the natives he had
seen. She did not seem to mind his looking at her. If a French girl
had so calmly borne his glance, there would have been a little of the
coquette in hers. But, after all, thought Vane,--this was charming;
more ideal, more intelligent, sweeter than Paris--but it was not unlike
Paris. The dress was certainly Parisian. She was better dressed than
young ladies are in Paris. Her people must be very rich. Yet, he was
disappointed. She was not American enough. She would have been quite in
his mood of five years gone by. She was not like English girls; and he
had hoped American girls were like them.
Vane had just finished this process of mentally ticketing her off, when
she grew silent. The first quick rush of her conversation was gone.
She seemed to be getting her breath and waiting for him. He did not
quite know how to begin. This young lady reminded him of a glass of
champagne. When you first pour it out, there is a froth and sparkle;
then a stillness comes; if you wish a fresh volume of sparkles, you
must drop something into it. A piece of sugar is best. Vane's French
breeding stood him in good stead: he began with a compliment.
After the dinner, the nine ladies disappeared from the room; and the
nine men grouped themselves at one end of the table and smoked cigars
over the sweetmeats. When the room was well filled with tobacco-smoke,
they threw open the doors, and returned to the drawing-room. The ladies
were grouped about, picturesquely, drinking tea; and the air was
delicate with their presence. As the body of men moved in, it seemed a
little like an incursion of the Huns into Italy.
The party kept together but a few moments more. Most of the men were
sleepy; little was said by the women. It was as if there were nothing
to talk about, or as if the men had eaten too much; but they had eaten
very little. Vane was relieved when they got out of doors.
John walked back to his lodgings with him. The two young men found no
lack of things to talk about. Haviland took still another cigar. "What
did you think of the dinner?" said he finally. "I mean, the people?"
"I thought it was very pleasant," said Vane, eluding the second form of
the question. But Haviland recurred to it.
"I mean the people. Miss Thomas, for instance."
"Miss Thomas, for instance," said the stranger. "I think," he
continued, recalling to mind his mental label, "she is sweet-tempered,
innocent, ambitious, and shallow." Vane had formerly prided himself on
some acquaintance with women of the world.
John laughed. "Perhaps you are right," he said. "But she will amuse
you, and wake you up." It seemed as if he were remembering something;
then he laughed again. "You do not do her justice yet. She is one of
the most entertaining and, in an innocent little way, exciting girls I
know. I put her next you for that purpose."
"Who is her father?"
"Oh, a stockbroker down-town. No one in particular. The family would
not interest you."
"None of the mammas were here to-night?"
"Dear me, no," answered John. "Why do you ask?"
"I should like to see some of them; that is all."