No woman had said, "Do you think she is as beautiful as the newspapers
try to make out?"
Not one imbecile male look; not one feminine sneer! Nothing! No fame!
"What's the matter?" asked Monty in alarm.
Grace felt an overwhelming desire to stand there until the people
looked, even if it took a year.
As the century-long seconds passed she barely could resist the impulse
to shout, "Fire!"
"Anything wrong?" whispered Monty, with real concern.
"N-no-nothing!" she stammered, and followed Ruth, who had passed her,
unnoticing.
Her color returned as wrath dispelled amazement.
For the first time since H. R. began to woo her in public places with
sandwiches Grace Goodchild actually had to eat food in a restaurant. In
New York famous people don't go to restaurants to eat.
She was distraite throughout the luncheon. She thought Monty was an ass.
And the other feeding beasts must have read the New York papers! There
was absolutely no excuse.
In the evening the same thing happened. That is, nothing happened. The
Fiddles' friends tried to be particularly nice to her by talking of the
opera, novels, the dancing-craze, the resurgence of the Republican
party, and cubism. It only made it worse. And not one knew the Rutgers
Roll!
The next day Ruth and the young men took her to the Philadelphia Country
Club. Same thing! And later to a dance at the Fitz-Marlton. Ditto!
Her good looks, her gowns, and her nice manners made a very favorable
impression on all of Ruth's friends, male and female, young and old.
Hang 'em, that's all it did!
It was like Lucullus being asked to eat sanitary biscuits.
She had wanted peace. But not in a burial crypt. On the fourth day of
extinction she said to Ruth after breakfast:
"My dear, I must return to New York!"
"Oh no! Grace, darling, I've accepted seventeen--"
"I must, Ruth. I simply must!"
"But Monty is coming at one to take us to his father's--"
Grace felt like saying that Monty could take himself to Hades or to
Atlantic City. But she merely shook her head. She dared not trust
herself to speak. Ruth appealed to her mother. But Mrs. Fiddle shrugged
her shoulders and said: "No use! New York!" She herself was a Van Duzen.
And so Grace Goodchild returned home, five days before she was expected.
"I couldn't stand it, mother," she explained, almost tearfully.
"Very well," said Mrs. Goodchild.
What else can a mother say in New York? And isn't it right to stand by
your own flesh and blood?
Grace hesitated, full of perplexities and unformulated doubts and an
exasperating sense of indecision. She felt like opening the book of her
soul to other eyes. To hear advice or, at least, opinions.
"I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with you, mother," said Grace,
hesitatingly. Then she apologized, self-defensively. "It concerns my
future, dear."
"Yes, darling," said Mrs. Goodchild, absently. "I don't think. I'd like
it quite like Celestine's-- Grace, love, will you run over to Raquin's
spring exhibition at the Fitz-Marlton and look at it? It is next to the
black that Mrs. Vandergilt liked. I have an appointment with
Celestine--"
Grace knew that the selection of a husband could wait, for fashions in
that line do not change so quickly as in skirts. She dutifully said, "I
will!" She also had her eye on one.
Before going to Raquin's display she stopped at Oldman's.
The store flunky opened the door of her motor and smiled happily when he
saw who it was. She was made subtly conscious that he was dying to
announce her name to the world at the top of his enthusiastic voice.
Life in New York had its compensations, after all.
She entered. The shop-girls whispered to the customers on whom they were
waiting. The customers turned quickly and stared at Grace Goodchild.
"She often comes here!" she heard the pretty little thing in charge of
seventy-two glove-boxes say proudly to a client.
The girl who waited on Grace was a stranger. Nevertheless, when Grace
told her "I'll take these!" the girl said, "Very well, Miss Goodchild."
"Oh!" gasped Grace. "You know me?"
"What d'ye t'ink I am?" said the girl, indignantly. "Say, it was great,
Miss Goodchild!"
The worship in the girl's eyes kept the language from being offensive.
"Thank you!"
"I hope you'll be very happy, Miss Goodchild," said the girl, and
blushed. "Oh, I didn't mean to be--I--I couldn't help wishing it, Miss
Goodchild!"
"I'm sure I'm very grateful for your good wishes," Grace told her,
graciously.
The child's--age twenty-four--eyes filled with tears. As Grace walked
away, Mayme's lips moved raptly. She was memorizing dem woids.
On her way out Grace went through the same craning of necks, the same
vivid curiosity, the same half-audible murmurs, the same spitefulness in
the eyes of the women who, though rich, were not famous. Everybody is so
disgustingly rich nowadays that society had begun to applaud such
remarks as, "I've had to give up one of my motors," or, "Jim says he
won't put the _Mermaid_ in commission this year; simply can't afford
it."
At Raquin's wonderful exhibition of models Grace saw exactly what she
wished to see. It would be worthy of her and of her throat. One who is
photographed many times a week has to have gowns; not to have them is
almost immoral. Grace was so concerned with doing her duty toward the
public that she forgot that she had come to see the third one, next to
Mrs. Vandergilt's black. She was nearly half-way home before she
remembered what her mother had asked her to do.
Grace went back to the Fitz-Marlton. Dress was a public service. Mrs.
Goodchild's clothes must tell the public whose mother she was.
She told the chauffeur "Home," and began to think.
Pleasure could be made a duty. Blessed indeed is she in whose mind, as
in a vast cathedral, pleasure and duty solemnly contract nuptials.
This beautiful figure of speech in turn made her think of marriage. If
she married Reggie or Mr. Watson or Percival or one of the others, what
would her married life be? What?
One long visit to Philadelphia!
"I could kill him!" she said to the flower-holder, frowning fiercely.
Happening to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror for that purpose
provided in an town cars, Grace smoothed her brow and smiled. A man
would have required slathers of flattery to dispel ill-humor. With a
woman, the truth is enough. A mirror does not lie. Providence is more
than kind to them; even automatic.
If she wouldn't marry Reggie or the others and did marry H. R.-- But how
could she?
She was an imaginative American girl with a sunshiny soul and much
vitality who lived in New York. She thought of her marriage to H. R. She
thought of the newspapers! The mound of clippings that instantly loomed
before her made her gasp.
What wouldn't the newspapers do when _she_ married H. R., especially if
H. R., prompted by love, really made an effort?
She was forced to admit that he was a remarkable man!
"Papa," she said aloud, "will never consent!"
Papa's life had been made miserable by H. R. Indeed, the only thing that
reconciled him to the ungrateful task of living was the steady growth of
the bank's deposits. It was due, Mr. Goodchild often declared, to his
management. But he couldn't speak about H. R. without profanity.
Parental opposition was not everything. Marriage was a serious thing.