AT this time Vane was not in the habit of thinking about women. He had
found life particularly serious, and girls were not serious. Somewhat
fatuously, perhaps, he fancied no woman under thirty could either
understand him, or arouse his own interest. And most of the women over
thirty were married. He understood that in America any intimacy with
married women was out of the question; married women were quite given
up to domestic duties, and kept out of society.
But Vane had certain theories of his own as to social observances,
and he thought it his duty, after taking Miss Thomas in to dinner,
to call upon her. He performed this duty (which afterwards became a
pleasure) upon the following afternoon. He found her in a somewhat
dingy house on East Fifteenth Street, but, though the setting was dull
and commonplace, herself was even prettier than he remembered her, and
simply and charmingly dressed. Vane was no amateur of bric-à-brac; he
had no auctioneer's eye, and, if a room was in perfect taste, did not
commonly notice it at all; but glaring faults would force themselves
upon him, and he could not help observing that, with the exception of
the daughter's dress, the household showed no evidence of knowledge of
what is good in literature, art, or taste.
Except Miss Thomas. Always except Miss Thomas herself. She received
him with much grace of manner, but seemed to have very little to say.
Vane found that he had to talk largely against time; and this rather
disappointed him at first. At first, but afterwards he decided that
he liked this still mood best. There was no dimple and sparkle, but
it was quiet and companionable. She is not like "a young lady," Vane
thought; still less like a French young lady. She is neither _ingénue_
nor _formée_; she is young, bright, a good fellow. One might play Paul
to her Francesca without a _dénouement_. How could he have thought her
ill-trained? Though she had evidently thought little, read less, and
been taught nothing at all, she had a sweet natural elegance of her
own. Vane found time to observe all this between his sentences. They
were not very well connected.
Was he going to Mrs. Roster's ball? she had asked.--No, he thought not.
He did not know her.--He had better go. Every one would be there.
"Then I fear I am no one," said Vane. "I am not even invited." He was
sorry to fancy that her interest in him flagged a little after this.
She had met him at a good house, but, after all, he might be a mere
protégé of John Haviland's. Mr. Haviland was always picking up queer
people. A moment after this Vane took his leave.
Why should he not go to Mrs. Roster's? he said to himself. He could
not always be brooding on the addled eggs of the past. After all, the
world was all that was left him, and in the world the dance still went
on merrily, and maidens' eyes were bright; leaves still were green, and
the foam of the sea as white as ever, and wine still sparkled in the
glass. He said this to himself with a somewhat sceptical grin, for,
like most Frenchmen with whom he had lived, he took little pleasure in
drinking. A Frenchman drinks to go to the devil: he rarely goes to the
devil because he drinks. Yet he was, or at all events he had been, fond
of society. He had liked light and gay faces, and bright conversation,
and heartlessness--if there must be heartlessness--masked under suave
manners and intellectual sympathy. Out of society the heartlessness
was just as real, he had used to think, only ruder; there is at least
as much snobbishness, and it is more offensively vulgar. He could not
stay always out from all society. He must find something to pull him
back into the world; he must get some grip of life. Hitherto his only
foothold had been his clear necessity of making eighteen thousand
francs a year to send to his mother.
He could probably have persuaded himself with much less reasoning if
he had not had a secret inclination to go; but, as it was, he reasoned
himself into it, and thought that he thought it was a bore. So he went
to Mrs. Roster's ball. Of course he admired the beauty of American
women; the beauty of American women is like the Hudson River; one
is bound to prefer it to the Rhine. He thought the party was very
pretty and the dancing beautifully done, and, moreover, he made the
acquaintance of several young ladies of quite a different type than
Miss Thomas's. They had plenty of breeding and intelligence, and talked
the latest slang of culture to perfection, and were evidently of the
great world, if they had not quite so much charm as she. Still none of
these, as yet, were essentially American, or even very deeply English,
though they dabbled in it.
Miss Thomas herself, for some reason unknown to Vane, did not receive
quite so much attention as he had fancied that she would. It was not
her fault, for she was charmingly dressed and never looked prettier.
As he was ready to leave he met her, for the first time, coming down
the stairs in wraps and wanting her carriage.
"You have not spoken to me the whole evening," said she softly, as she
took his arm.
"I was afraid to, mademoiselle," said Vane, half jocosely.
"Come to-morrow," she whispered seriously. "It is my day for receiving,
and I shall be so glad to see you." Vane bowed his thanks, and the next
moments were occupied in conveying herself and skirts safely into the
coupé. As he was about to shut the door she extended her hand frankly:
"You will come, won't you?" Vane was a little puzzled; he took her hand
awkwardly, and muttered something about being only too delighted. He
had no experience whatever of American women, much less American girls.
Why should she so particularly wish to see him? He called the next
day, expecting to learn, but in that he was doomed to disappointment.
Apparently Miss Thomas, if she had any reason, had forgotten it;
she had very little to say, and the call was quite conventional and
commonplace. "Bah!" he thought, as he walked home. "Here I have wasted
half an afternoon over this girl simply because she asked me. Doubtless
she herself had nothing better to do than waste it over me." And
perhaps he added secretly that his life was something more serious than
hers, and, at all events, he had no mind for light flirtation.