 Book I. CHAPTER VII of THE HOUSE OF MERTH by Edith Wharton This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. It spoke much for the depth of Mrs. Tranner's friendship that her voice, in admonishing Miss Bart, took the same note of personal despair as if she had been lamenting the collapse of a house-party. All I can say is, Lily, that I can't make you out. She leaned back, sighing, in the morning abandon of lace and muslin, turning an indifferent shoulder to the heaped-up importunities of her dusk, while she considered, with the eye of a physician, who has given up the case, the erect exterior of the patient confronting her. If you hadn't told me you were going in for him seriously, but I'm sure you made that plain enough from the beginning, why else did you ask me to let you off-bridge and to keep away Carrie and Kate Corby? I don't suppose you did it because he amused you. We could none of us imagine you're putting up with him for a moment unless you meant to marry him. And I'm sure everybody played fair. They all wanted to help it along. Even Bertha kept her hands off, I will say that, till Lawrence came down and you dragged him away from her. After that she had a right to retaliate. Why on earth did you interfere with her? You've known Lawrence Solon for years. Why did you behave as if you had just discovered him? If you had a grudge against Bertha it was a stupid time to show it. You could have paid her back just as well after you were married. I told you Bertha was dangerous. She was in an odious mood when she came here, but Lawrence is turning up put her in a good humor, and if you'd only let her think he came for her it would have never occurred to her to play you this trick. Oh, Lily, you'll never do anything if you're not serious. Miss Bart accepted this exhortation in a spirit of the purest impartiality. Why should she have been angry? It was the voice of her own conscience which spoke to her through Mrs. Tranner's reproachful accents. But even to her own conscience she must trump up a semblance of defense. I only took a day off. I thought he meant to stay on all this week, and I knew Mr. Selden was leaving this morning. Mrs. Tranner brushed aside the plea with a gesture which laid bare its weakness. He did mean to stay. That's the worst of it. It shows that he's run away from you, that Bertha's done her work and poisoned him thoroughly. Lily gave a slight laugh. Oh, if he's running I'll overtake him. Her friend threw out an arresting hand. Do you do, Lily, do nothing? Miss Bart received a warning with a smile. I don't mean literally to take the next train. There are ways, but she did not go on to specify them. Mrs. Tranner sharply corrected the tense. There were ways, plenty of them. I didn't suppose you needed to have them pointed out, but don't deceive yourself. He's thoroughly frightened. He has run straight home to his mother, and she'll protect him. Oh, to the death, Lily agreed, dimpling at the vision. How you can laugh, her friend rebuked her, and she dropped back to a soberer perception of things with a question. What was it Bertha really told him? Don't ask me, horrors. She seemed to have raked up everything. Oh, you know what I mean. Of course there isn't anything, really. I suppose she brought in Prince Verigliano and Lord Hubert, and there was some story of your having borrowed money of old Ned Van Allstein. Did you ever? He is my father's cousin, Miss Bart interposed. Well, of course she left that out. It seems Ned told Carrie Fisher, and she told Bertha, naturally. They're all alike, you know. They hold their tongues for years, and you think you're safe, but when their opportunity comes they remember everything. Lily had grown pale. Her voice had a harsh note in it. It was some money I lost at Bridge at the Van Osbergs. I repaid it, of course. Ah, well, they wouldn't remember that. Besides it was the idea of the gambling debt that frightened Percy. Oh, Bertha knew her man. She knew just what to tell him. In the strain Mrs. Trenner continued for nearly an hour to admonish her run. Miss Bart listened with admirable equanimity. Her naturally good temper had been disciplined by years of enforced compliance, since she had almost always had to attain her ends by the circuitous path of other peoples. And being naturally inclined to face unpleasant facts as soon as they presented themselves she was not sorry to hear an impartial statement of what her folly was likely to cost, the more so as her own thoughts were still insisting on the other side of the case. Presented in the light of Mrs. Trenner's vigorous comments the reckoning was certainly a formidable one, and Lily, as she listened, found herself gradually reverting to her friend's view of the situation. Mrs. Trenner's words were moreover emphasized for her hearer by anxieties which she herself could scarcely guess. This, unless stimulated by a keen imagination, forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of poverty. Judy knew it must be horrid, for poor Lily to have to stop to consider whether she could afford real lace on her petticoats and not to have a motor-car and a steam-yacht at her orders. But the daily friction of unpaid bills, the daily nibble of small temptations to expenditure, were trials as far out of her experience as the domestic problems of the charwoman. Mrs. Trenner's unconsciousness of the real stress of the situation had the effect of making it more galling to Lily, while her friend reproached her for missing the opportunity to eclipse her rivals. She was once more battling in imagination with a mounting tide of indebtedness from which she had so nearly escaped. But wind of folly had driven her out again on those dark seas. If anything was needed to put the last touch to her selfabasement, it was the sense of the way her old life was opening its ruts again to receive her. Yesterday her fancy had fluttered free penions above a choice of occupations. Now she had to drop to the level of the familiar routine in which moments of seeming brilliancy and freedom alternated with long hours of subjection. She laid a deprecating hand on her friends. Dear Judy, I'm sorry to have been such a bore, and you are very good to me. But you must have some letters for me to answer. Let me at least be useful. She saddled herself at the desk, and Mrs. Trenner accepted her resumption of the morning's task with a sigh which implied that, after all, she had proved herself unfit for higher uses. The luncheon table showed a depleted circle. All the men but Jack Stefney and Dorsett had returned to town. It seemed to Lily a last touch of irony that Seldon and Percy Grice should have gone in the same train, and Lady Cressida and the attendant Weatheralls had been dispatched by motor to lunch at a distant country house. At such moments of diminished interest it was usual for Mrs. Dorsett to keep her room till the afternoon, but on this occasion she drifted in when luncheon was half over, hollow-eyed and drooping, but with an edge of malice under her indifference. She raised her eyebrows as she looked about the table. How few of us are left! I do so enjoy the quiet. Don't you, Lily? I wish the men would always stop away. It's really much nicer without them. Oh, you don't count, George. One doesn't have to talk to one's husband. But I thought Mr. Grice was to stay for the rest of the week!" She added inquiringly. Didn't he intend to, Judy? He's such a nice boy. I wonder what drove him away. He is rather shy, and I'm afraid we may have shocked him. He has been brought up in such an old-fashioned way. Do you know, Lily, he told me he had never seen a girl play cards for money till he saw you doing it the other night, and he lives on the interest of his income, and always has a lot left over to invest. Mrs. Fisher leaned forward eagerly. I do believe it is someone's duty to educate that young man. It is shocking that he has never been made to realize his duties as a citizen. Every wealthy man should be compelled to study the laws of his country. Mrs. Dorsett glanced at her quietly. I think he has studied the divorce laws. He told me he had promised the bishop to sign some kind of petition against divorce. Mrs. Fisher reddened under her powder, and Stephanie said with a laughing glance at Miss Bart. I suppose he is thinking of marriage, and wants to tinker up the old ship before he goes aboard. His betrothed looked shocked at the metaphor, and George Dorsett exclaimed with a sardonic growl. Poor devil, it is in the ship that will do for him. It's the crew. Or the stowaways, said Miss Corby, brightly. If I contemplated a voyage with him I should try to start with a friend in the old. Miss Van Alsberg's vague feeling of peak was struggling for appropriate expression. I'm sure I don't see why you laugh at him. I think he's very nice, she exclaimed. And at any rate, a girl who married him would always have enough to be comfortable. She looked puzzled at the redoubled laughter which hailed her words, but it might have consoled her to know how deeply they had sunk into the breast of one of her hearers. Comfortable, at that moment the word was more eloquent to Lily Bart than any other in the language. She could not even pause to smile over the heiress's view of a colossal fortune as a mere shelter against want. Her mind was filled with the vision of what that shelter might have been to her. Mrs. Dorsett's pen-pricks did not smart for her own irony cut deeper. No one could hurt her as much as she was hurting herself, for no one else, not even Judy Trenor, knew the full magnitude of her folly. She was roused from these unprofitable considerations by a whispered request from her hostess, who drew her apart as they left the luncheon table. Lily, dear, if you have nothing special to do, may I tell Carrie Fisher that you intend to drive to the station and fetch Gus? He will be back at four, and I know she has it in her mind to meet him. Of course I'm very glad to have him amused, but I happen to know that she has bled him rather severely since she's been here, and she is so keen about going to fetch him that I fancy she must have got a lot more bills this morning. It seems to me, Mrs. Trenor feelingly concluded that most of her alimony is paid by other women's husbands. Miss Spart, on her way to the station, had leisure to muse over her friend's words and their peculiar application to herself. Why should she have to suffer for having once for a few hours borrowed money of an elderly cousin when a woman like Carrie Fisher could make a living, unrebuted, from the good nature of her men-friends and the tolerance of their wives? It all turned on the tiresome distinction between what a married woman might and a girl might not do. Of course it was shocking for a married woman to borrow money, and Lily was expertly aware of the implication involved. But still it was the mere malum prohibitum, which the world decries, but condones, and which, though it may be punished by private vengeance, does not provoke the collective disapprobation of society. To Miss Spart, in short, no such opportunities were possible. She could, of course, borrow from her women-friends, a hundred here or there, at the utmost, but they were more ready to give a gown or a trinket, and looked a little escense when she hinted her preference for a check. Women are not generous lenders, and those among whom her lot was cast were either in the same cases in herself, or else too far removed from it to understand its necessities. The result of her meditations was the decision to join her aunt at Richfield. She could not remain at Bellamont without playing bridge, and being involved in other expenses, and to continue her usual series of autumn visits would merely prolong the same difficulties. She had reached a point where abrupt retrenchment was necessary, and the only cheap life was a dull life. She would start the next morning for Richfield. At the station she thought Gus Tranner seemed surprised, and not wholly unrelieved to see her. She yielded up the reins of the light runabout in which she had driven over, and as he climbed heavily to her side, crushing her into a scant third of the seat, he said, Halloo! It isn't often you honour me. You must have been uncommonly hard up for something to do. The afternoon was warm, and propinquity made her more than usually conscious that he was red and massive, and that beads of moisture had caused the dust of the train to adhere unpleasantly to the broad expense of cheek and neck, which he turned to her, but she was aware also from the look in his small dull eyes that the contact with her freshness and slenderness was as agreeable to him as the sight of a cooling beverage. The perception of this fact helped her to answer gaily. It's not often I have the chance. There are too many ladies to dispute the privilege with me. The privilege of driving me home? Well, I'm glad you won the race, anyhow. But I know what really happened. My wife sent you. Now didn't she? He had the dull man's unexpected flashes of astuteness, and Lily could not help joining in the laugh with which he had pounced on the truth. You see, Judy thinks I'm the safest person for you to be with, and she's quite right, if she were joined. Oh, is she, though? Here she is. It's because you wouldn't waste your time on an old hulk like me. We married men have to put up with what we can get. All the prizes are for the clever chaps who've kept a free foot. Let me light a cigar, will you? I've had a beastly day of it. He drew up in the shade of the village street, and passed the reins to her well. He held a match to his cigar. The little flame under his hand cast a deeper crimson on his puffing face, and Lily averted her eyes with a momentary feeling of repugnance, and yet some women thought him handsome. As she handed back the reins she said, sympathetically, did you have such a lot of tiresome things to do? I should say so, rather. Trenor, who was seldom listened to, either by his wife or her friends, settled down into the rare enjoyment of a confidential talk. She don't know how a fellow has to hustle to keep this kind of thing going. He waved his whip in the direction of the Bellamont acres, which lay outspread before them in opulent undulations. Judy has no idea of what she spends, not that there isn't plenty to keep the thing going, he interrupted himself, but a man has got to keep his eyes open and pick up all the tips he can. My father and mother used to live like fighting cocks on their income, and put by a good bit of it too, luckily for me, but at the pace we go now I don't know where I should be if it weren't for taking a flyer now and then. The women all think, I mean Judy thinks, I've nothing to do but to go downtown once a month and cut off coupons, but the truth is it takes a devilish lot of hard work to keep the machinery running. Not that I ought to complain today, though, I went on after a moment, for I did a very neat stroke of business, thanks to Stephanie's friend, Rosedale. By the way, Miss Lily, I wish you'd try to persuade Judy to be decently civil to that chap, he's going to be rich enough to bias all out one of these days, and if she'd only ask him to die now and then I could get almost anything out of him. The man is mad to know the people who don't want to know him, and when a fellow's in that state there is nothing he won't do for the first woman who takes him up. Lily hesitated a moment. The first part of her companion's discourse had started an interesting train of thought, which was rudely interrupted by the mention of Mr. Rosedale's name. She uttered a faint protest. But you know Jack did try to take him about, and he was impossible. Oh, hang it! Because he's fat and shiny, and has a sloppy manner. Well, all I can say is that the people who are clever enough to be civil to him, now, will make a mighty good thing of it. A few years from now he'll be in it, whether we want him or not, and then he won't be giving away a half a million tip for a dinner. Lily's mind had reverted from the intrusive personality of Mr. Rosedale to the train of thought set in motion by Trenor's first words. This vast mysterious Wall Street world of tips and deals, might she not find in it the means of escape from her dreary predicament? She had often heard of women making money in this way through her friends. She had no more notion than most of her sex of the exact nature of the transaction, and its vagueness seemed to diminish its indelicacy. She could not, indeed, imagine herself in any extremity, stooping to extract a tip from Mr. Rosedale, but at her side was a man in possession of that precious commodity, and who, as the husband of her dearest friend, stood to her in a relation of almost fraternal intimacy. In her inmost heart Lily knew it was not by appealing to the fraternal instinct that she was likely to move Gus Trenor. But this way of explaining the situation helped to drape its crudity, and she was always scrupulous about keeping up appearances to herself. Her personal fastidiousness had a moral equivalent, and when she made a tour of inspection in her own mind there were certain closed doors she did not open. As they reached the gates of Bellamont she turned to Trenor with a smile. This afternoon is so perfect. Don't you want to drive me a little farther? I've been rather out of spirits all day, and it's so restful to be away from people, with someone who won't mind if I am a little dull. She looked so plaintively lovely as she proffered the request, so trustfully sure of his sympathy and understanding. The Trenor felt himself wishing that his wife could see how other women treated him. Not battered wire-pullers like Mrs. Fisher, but a girl that most men would have given their boots to get such a look from. Out of spirits? Why on earth should you ever be out of spirits? Is your last box of dusset dresses a failure, or did Judy rope you out of everything at Bridge last night? Lily shook her head with a sigh. I have had to give up dusset, and Bridge, too. I can't afford it. In fact, I can't afford any of the things my friends do, and I am afraid Judy often thinks me a bore, because I don't play cards any longer, and because I am not as smartly dressed as the other women. But you will think me a bore, too, if I talk to you about my worries, and I only mention them because I want you to doof me a favour, the very greatest of favours. Her eyes sought his once more, and she smiled inwardly at the tinge of apprehension that she read in them. Why, of course, if it's anything I can manage, he broke off, and she guessed that his enjoyment was disturbed by the remembrance of Mrs. Fisher's methods. The greatest of favours, she rejoined gently. The fact is, Judy is angry with me, and I want you to make my peace. Angry with you? Oh, come, nonsense! His relief broke through in a laugh, why, you know she's devoted to you. She is the best friend I have, and that is why I mind having to effects her. But I daresay you know what she has wanted me to do. She has set her heart, poor dear, on my marrying, marrying a great deal of money. She paused with a slight falter of embarrassment, and tremor, turning abruptly, fixed on her a look of growing intelligence. A great deal of money? Oh, by Jove, you don't mean Grace. What, you do? Oh, no, of course I won't mention it. You can trust me to keep my mouth shut. But, Grace, good Lord, Grace, did Judy really think you could bring yourself to marry that partentous little ass? But you couldn't, eh? Oh, and so you gave him the sack, and that's the reason why he had lit out by the first train this morning? He leaned back, spreading himself farther across the seat, as if dilated by the joyful sense of his own discernment. How on earth could Judy think you would do such a thing? I could have told her you'd never put up with such a little milk-sob. Lily sighed more deeply. I sometimes think, she murmured, that men understand a woman's motives better than other women do. Some men, I'm certain of it. I could have told Judy, he repeated, exulting in the implied superiority over his wife. I thought you would understand. That's why I wanted to speak to you, Miss Fort, rejoined. I can't make that kind of marriage. It's impossible. But neither can I go on living as all the women in my set do. I am almost entirely dependent on my aunt. And though she is very kind to me, she makes me no regular allowance, and lately I've lost money at cards, and I don't dare tell her about it. I have paid my card debts, of course, but there is hardly anything left for my other expenses, and if I go on with my present life I shall be in horrible difficulties. I have a tiny income of my own, but I'm afraid it's badly invested, for it seems to bring in less every year, and I am so ignorant of money matters, that I don't know if my aunt's agent, who looks after it, is a good advisor. She paused a moment, and added in a lighter town. I didn't mean to bore you with all this, but I want your help in making Judy understand that I can't, at present, go on living as one must live among you all. I am going away to-morrow to join my aunt at Richfield, and I shall stay there for the rest of the autumn, and dismiss my maid, and learn how to mend my own clothes. At this picture of loveliness and distress, the pathos of which was heightened by the light touch with which it was drawn, a murmur of indignant sympathy broke from Trenor. Twenty-four hours earlier, if his wife had consulted him on the subject of Miss Bart's future, he would have said that a girl with extravagant tastes and no money had better marry the first rich man she could get. But with the subject of discussion at his side, turning to him for sympathy, making him feel that he understood her better than her dearest friends, and confirming the assurance by the appeal of her exquisite nearness, he was ready to swear that such a marriage was a desecration, and that, as a man of honour, he was bound to do all he could to protect her from the results of her disinterestedness. This impulse was reinforced by the reflection that if she had married Gries she would have been surrounded by flattery and approval, whereas, having refused to sacrifice herself to expediency, she was left to bear the whole cost of her resistance. Hang it! If he could find a way out of such difficulties for a professional sponge like Carrie Fisher, who was simply a mental habit corresponding to the physical titillations of the cigarette or the cocktail, he could surely do as much for a girl who appealed to his highest sympathies, and who brought her troubles to him with the trustfulness of a child. Trenor and Miss Bort prolonged their drive till long after sunset, and before it was over he had tried with some show of success to prove to her that if she would only trust him he could make a handsome sum of money for her without endangering the small amount she possessed. She was too genuinely ignorant of the manipulations of the stock market to understand his technical explanations, or even perhaps to perceive that certain points in them were slurred. The haziness enveloping the transaction served as a veil for her embarrassment, and through the general blur her hopes dilated like lamps in a fog. She understood only that her modest investments were to be mysteriously multiplied without risk to herself, and the assurance that this miracle would take place within a short time, that there would be no tedious interval for suspense and reaction relieved her of her lingering scruples. Again she felt the lightning of her load, and with it the release of repressed activities. Her immediate worries conjured. It was easy to resolve that she would never again find herself in such straits, and as the need of economy and self-denial receded from her foreground she felt herself ready to meet any other demand which life might make. Even the immediate one of letting Trenor, as they drove homeward, lean a little nearer and rest his hand reassuringly on hers, cost her only a momentary shiver of reluctance. It was part of the game to make him feel that her appeal had been an uncalculated impulse provoked by the liking he inspired, and the renewed sense of power in handling men, while it consoled her wounded vanity, helped also to obscure the thought of the claim at which his manner hinted. He was a coarse, dull man, who, under all his show of authority, was a mere supernumerary in the costly show for which his money paid. Surely to a clever girl it would be easy to hold him by his vanity, and so keep the obligation on his side. BOOK I CHAPTER VII The first thousand-dollar check which Lillie received with a blotted scrawl from Gus Trenor strengthened her self-confidence and the exact degree to which it effaced her debts. The transaction had justified itself by its results. She saw now how absurd it would have been to let any primitive scruple deprive her of this easy means of appeasing her creditors. Lillie felt really virtuous as she dispensed the sum in sops to her tradesmen, and the fact that a fresh order accompanied each payment did not lessen her sense of disinterestedness. How many women, in her place, would have given the orders without making the payment? It found it reassuringly easy to keep Trenor in a good humor. To listen to his stories, to receive his confidences and laugh at his jokes seemed for the moment all that was required of her, and the complacency with which her hostess regarded these attentions freed them of the least hint of ambiguity. Mrs. Trenor evidently assumed that Lillie's growing intimacy with her husband was simply an indirect way of returning her own kindness. "'I'm so glad you and Gus have become such good friends,' she said approvingly. "'It's too delightful of you to be so nice to him, and put up with all his tiresome stories. I know what they are, because I had to listen to them when we were engaged. I'm sure he is telling the same one still. And now I shan't always have to be asking Carrie Fisher here to keep him in a good humor. She is a perfect vulture, you know, and she hasn't the least moral sense. She is always getting Gus to speculate for her, and I'm sure she never pays when she loses." Miss Bart could shudder at this state of things without the embarrassment of a personal application. Her own position was surely quite different. There could be no question of her not paying when she lost, since Trenor had assured her that she was certain not to lose. In sending her the cheque he had explained that he had made five thousand for her out of Rosdale's tip, and had put four thousand back in the same venture, as there was the promise of another big rise. She understood, therefore, that he was now speculating with her own money, and that she consequently owed him no more than the gratitude which such a trifling service demanded. She vaguely supposed that, to raise the first sum, he had borrowed on her securities, but this was a point over which her curiosity did not linger. It was concentrated for the moment on the probable date of the next big rise. The news of this event was received by her some weeks later, on the occasion of Jack Stepney's marriage to Miss Van Osberg, as a cousin of the bridegroom Miss Bart had been asked to act as bridesmaid, but she had declined on the plea that, since she was much taller than the other attendant virgins, her presence might mar the symmetry of the group. The truth was she had attended too many brides to the altar, when next seen there she meant to be the chief figure in the ceremony. She knew the pleasantries made at the expense of young girls who had been too long before the public, and she was resolved to avoid such assumptions of youthfulness as might lead people to think her older than she really was. The Van Osberg marriage was celebrated in the village church near the paternal estate on the Hudson. It was the simple country wedding, to which guests are convoyed in special trains, and from which the hordes of the uninvited have to be fended off by the intervention of the police. While the sylvan rites were taken place in a church-packed with fashion, and festooned with orchids, the representatives of the press were threading their way, notebook in hand, through the labyrinth of wedding-presence, and the agent of a cinematic-graph syndicate was setting up his apparatus at the church door. It was the kind of scene in which Lily had often pictured herself as taking the principal part, and on this occasion the fact that she was once more merely a casual spectator, instead of the mystically veiled figure occupying the center of attention, strengthened her resolve to assume the latter part before the year was over. The fact that her immediate anxieties were relieved did not blind her to a possibility of their recurrence. It merely gave her enough buoyancy to rise once more above her doubts, and feel a renewed faith in her beauty, her power, and her general fitness to attract a brilliant destiny. It could not be that one conscious of such aptitudes for mastery and enjoyment was doomed to a perpetuity of failure, and her mistakes looked easily repairable in the light of her restored self-confidence. A special appositeness was given to these reflections by the discovery and a neighboring pew of the serious profile and neatly trimmed beard of Mr. Percy Grice. There was something almost bridal in his own aspect. His large white gardenia had a symbolic era that struck Lily as a good omen. After all, seen in an assemblage of his kind he was not ridiculous looking. A friendly critic might have called his heaviness weighty, and he was at his best in the attitude of vacant passivity, which brings out the oddities of the restless. She fancied he was the kind of man whose sentimental associations would be stirred by the conventional imagery of a wedding, and she pictured herself in the seclusion of the Van Osberg Conservatories playing skillfully upon sensibilities thus prepared for her touch. In fact, when she looked at the other women about her, and recalled the image she had brought away from her own glass, it did not seem as though any special skill would be needed to repair her blunder and bring him once more to her feet. The sight of Selden's dark head and a pew almost facing her disturbed for a moment the balance of her complacency. The rise of her blood as their eyes met was exceeded by a contrary motion, a way of resistance and withdrawal. She did not wish to see him again, not because she feared his influence, but because his presence always had the effect of cheapening her aspirations of throwing her whole world out of focus. Besides he was a living reminder of the worst mistake in her career, and the fact that he had been its cause did not soften her feelings toward him. She could still imagine an ideal state of existence in which, all else being super-outed, intercourse with Selden might be the last touch of luxury, but in the world as it was such a privilege was likely to cost more than it was worth. Lillie, dear, I never saw you look so lovely. You look as if something delightful had just happened to you. The young lady, who thus formulated her admiration of her brilliant friend, did not, in her own person, suggest such happy possibilities. Miss Gertrude Farish, in fact, typified the mediocre and the ineffectual. If there were compensating qualities in her wide frank glance and the freshness of her smile, these were qualities which only the sympathetic observer would perceive before noticing that her eyes were of a workaday gray and her lips without haunting curbs. Lillie's own view of her wavered between pity for her limitations and impatience at her cheerful acceptance of them. To Miss Bart, as to her mother, acquiescenced. Indinginess was evidence of stupidity, and there were moments when, in the consciousness of her own power to look, and to be so exactly what the occasion required, she almost felt that other girls were plain and inferior from choice. Lillie, no one need have confessed such acquiescence in her lot as was revealed in the useful color of Gertrude Farish's gown and the subdued lines of her hat. It is almost as stupid to let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them proclaimed that you think you are beautiful. Of course, being fatally poor and dengy, it was wise of Gertrude to have taken up philanthropy and symphony concerts, but there was something irritating in her assumption that existence yielded no higher pleasures, and that one might get as much interest and excitement out of life in a cramped flat as in the splendors of the Van Osberg Establishment. Today, however, her chirping enthusiasm did not irritate Lillie. This seemed only to throw her own exceptionalness into becoming relief, and give a soaring vastness to her scheme of life. To let us go and take a peep at the presence before everyone else leaves the dining-room, suggested Ms. Farish, linking her arm and her friends, it was characteristic of her to take a sentimental and unenvious interest in all the details of a wedding. She was the kind of person who always kept her handkerchief out during the service, and departed clutching a box of wedding cake. "'Isn't everything beautifully done?' she pursued, as they entered the distant drawing-room, assigned to the display of Ms. Van Osberg's bridal spoils. I always say no one does things better than cousin Grace. Did you ever taste anything more delicious than that mousse of lobster with champagne sauce? I made up my mind weeks ago that I wouldn't miss this wedding, and just fancy how delightfully it all came about. When Laurence Saldin heard I was coming, he insisted on fetching me himself and driving me to the station, and when we go back this evening I am to dine with him at Sherry's. I really feel as excited as if I were getting married myself." Lillie smiled. She knew that Saldin had always been kind to his dull cousin, and she had sometimes wondered why he wasted so much time in such an unremunerative manner. But now the thought gave her a vague pleasure. "'Do you see him often?' she asked. "'Yes. He is very good about dropping in on Sundays, and now and then we do a play together. But lately I haven't seen much of him. He doesn't look well, and he seems nervous and unsettled. The dear fellow, I do wish he would marry some nice girl. I told him so to-day, but he said he didn't care for the really nice ones, and the other kind didn't care for him. But that was just his joke. Of course, he could never marry a girl who wasn't nice. Oh, my dear, did you ever see such pearls?' They had paused before the table on which the bride's jewels were displayed, and Lillie's heart gave an envious throb as she caught the refraction of light from their surfaces. The milky gleam of perfectly matched pearls. The flash of rubies relieved against contrasting velvet. The intense blue rays of sapphires kindled into light by surrounding diamonds. All these precious tents enhanced and deepened by the varied art of their setting. The glow of the stones warmed Lillie's veins like wine. More completely than any other expression of wealth they symbolized the life she longed to lead. The life of fastidious aloofness and refinement in which every detail should have the finish of a jewel, and the whole forum a harmonious setting to her own jewel-like rareness. Oh, Lillie, do look at this diamond pendant. It's as big as a dinner plate. Who can have given it? Miss Farrish bent short-sightedly over the accompanying card. Mr. Simon Rosdale. What, that horrid man? Oh, yes. I remember he's a friend of Jack's, and I suppose cousin Grace had to ask him here to-day, but she must rather hate having to let Gwynn accept such a present from him. Lillie smiled. She doubted Mrs. Van Osberg's reluctance, but was aware of Miss Farrish's habit of ascribing her own delicacies of feeling to the persons least likely to be encumbered by them. Well, if Gwynn doesn't care to be seen wearing it, she can always exchange it for something else. Ah, here is something so much prettier, Miss Farrish continued. Do look at this exquisite white sapphire. I'm sure that person who chose it must have taken particular pains. What is the name? Percy Grace? Ah, then I'm not surprised. She smiled significantly as she replaced the card. Of course you've heard that he's perfectly devoted to Evie Van Osberg. Cousin Grace is so pleased about it. It's quite a romance. He met her first at the George Dorsets only about six weeks ago, and it's just the nicest possible marriage for dear Evie. Oh, I don't mean the money. Of course she has plenty of her own, but she's such a quiet, stay-at-home kind of girl, and it seems he has just the same tastes. So they are exactly suited to each other. Lily stood staring vacantly at the white sapphire on its velvet bed. Evie Van Osberg and Percy Grace? The names rang derisively through her brain. Evie Van Osberg? The youngest, dumpiest, dullest of the four dull and dumpy daughters whom Mrs. Van Osberg, with unsurpassed astuteness, had placed one by one in enviable niches of existence, ah, lucky girls who grow up in the shelter of a mother's love, a mother who knows how to contrive opportunities without conceiting favors, how to take advantage of propinquity, without allowing appetite to be dulled by habit. The cleverest girl may miscalculate where her own interests are concerned, may yield too much at one moment, and withdraw too far at the next. Lily takes a mother's unerring vigilance and foresight to land her daughters safely, in the arms of wealth and stability. Lily's passing light-heartedness sank beneath an renewed sense of failure. Life was too stupid, too blundering. Why should Percy Grace's millions be joined to another great fortune? Why should this clumsy girl be put in possession of powers she would never know how to use? She was roused from these speculations by a familiar touch on her arm, and turning, saw Gus Traynor pipside her. She felt a thrill of vexation. What right had he to touch her? Luckily, Gertie Farsh had wandered off to the next table, and they were alone. Traynor, looking stouter than ever in his tight frock coat, and unbecomingly flushed by the bridal libations, gazed at her with undisguised approval. By Jove, Lily, you do look a stunner! He had slipped insensibly into the use of her Christian name, and she had never found the right moment to correct him. Besides, in her set, all the men and women called each other by their Christian names. It was only on Traynor's lips that the familiar address had an unpleasant significance. Well, he continued, still jovially imperious, to her annoyance. Have you made up your mind which of these little trinkets you mean to duplicate at Tiffany's to-morrow? I've got a check for you in my pocket. That will go a long way in that line. Lily gave him a startled look. Her voice was louder than usual, and the room was beginning to fill with people, but as her glance assured her that they were still beyond earshot, a sense of pleasure replaced her apprehension. Another dividend? She asked, smiling and drawing near him in the desire not to be overheard. Well, not exactly. I sold out on the rise, and I've pulled off forth thou for ya. Not so bad for a beginner, eh? I suppose you'll begin to think you're a pretty knowing speculator, and perhaps you won't think poor old Gus such an awful ass as some people do. I think you're the kindest of friends, but I can't thank you properly now. She let her eyes shine into his with a look that made up for the hand-clasp he would have claimed if they had been alone, and how glad she was that they were not. The news filled her with the glow produced by a sudden cessation of physical pain. The world was not so stupid and blundering after all. Now and then a stroke of luck came to the unluckiest, and the thought, her spirits began to rise. It was characteristic of her that one trifling piece of good fortune should give wings to all her hopes. Instantly came the reflection that Percy Grice was not irretrievably lost, and she's mild to think of the excitement of recapturing him from Evie von Ausberg. What chance could such a simpleton have against her if she chose to exert herself? She glanced about, hoping to catch a glimpse of Grice, but her eyes lit instead on the glossy continents of Mr. Rosdale, who was slipping through the crowd with an air half obsequious, half obtrusive, as though the moment his presence was recognized it would swell to the dimensions of the room. Not wishing to be the means of effecting this enlargement, Lily quickly transferred her glance to Trenor, to whom the expression of her gratitude seemed not to have brought the complete gratification she had meant it to give. Hang thanking me. I don't want to be thanked, but I should like the chance to say two words to you now and then, he grumbled. I thought you were going to spin the whole autumn with us, and I've hardly laid eyes on you for the last month. Why can't you come back to Bellamont this evening? We're all alone, and Jody is as cross as two sticks. Do come and cheer a fellow up. If you say yes, I'll run you over in the motor, and you can telephone your maid to bring your traps from town by the next train. Lily shook her head with a charming semblance of regret. I wish I could, but it's quite impossible. My aunt has come back to town, and I must be with her for the next few days. Well, I've seen a good deal less of you since we've got to be such pals than I used to when you were Jody's friend. He continued with unconscious penetration. When I was Jody's friend, am I not her friend still? Really, you say the most absurd things. If I were always at Bellamont, you would tire of me much sooner than Jody. But come and see me at my aunt's the next afternoon you are in town. Then we can have a nice quiet talk, and you can tell me how I had better invest my fortune. It was true that, during the last three or four weeks, she had absented herself from Bellamont on the pretext of having other visits to pay, but she now began to feel that the reckoning she had thus contrived to evade had rolled up interest in the interval. The prospect of the nice quiet talk did not appear as all-sufficient to Trenor as she had hoped, and his brows continued to lower as he said, Oh, I don't know that I can promise you a fresh tip every day, but there's one thing you might do for me, and that is, just to be a little civil to Rosdell. Jody has promised to ask him to dine when we get to town, but I can't induce her to have him at Bellamont, and if you would let me bring him up now, it would make a lot of difference. I don't believe two women have spoken to him this afternoon, and I can tell you, he is a chap it pays to be decent to. Miss Bart made an impatient movement, but suppressed the words which seemed about to accompany it. After all, this was an unexpectedly easy way of acquitting her debt, and had she not reasons of her own for wishing to be civil to Mr. Rosdell. Oh, bring him by all means, she said, smiling. Perhaps I can get a tip out of him on my own account. Trenor paused abruptly, and his eyes fixed themselves on hers with a look which made her change color. I say, you know, you'll please remember he's a blooming bounder, he said, and with a slight laugh she turned toward the open window near which they had been standing. The throng in the room had increased, and she felt a desire for space and fresh air. Both of these she found on the terrace, where only a few men were lingering over cigarettes and liquor, while scattered couples strolled across the lawn to the autumn-tinted borders of the flower garden. As she emerged a man moved toward her from the knot of smokers, and she found herself face to face with seldom. The stirrer of the pulses which his nearness always caused was increased by a slight sense of constraint. They had not met since their Sunday afternoon walk at Bellamond, and that episode was still so vivid to her that she could hardly believe him to be less conscious of it. But his greeting expressed no more than the satisfaction which every pretty woman expects to see reflected in masculine eyes, and the discovery, if distasteful to her vanity, was reassuring to her nerves. Between the relief of her escape from Trenor and the vague apprehension of her meeting with Rosedale it was pleasant to rest a moment on the sense of complete understanding which Lauren Seldin's manner always conveyed. "'This is luck,' he said, smiling. I was wondering if I should be able to have a word with you before the special snatches us away. I came with Gertie Farrish, and promise not to let her miss the train, but I am sure she is still extracting sentimental solace from the wedding presence. She appears to regard their number and value as evidence of the disinterested affection of the contracting parties. There was not the least trace of embarrassment in his voice, and as he spoke, leaning slightly against the jam at the window and letting his eyes rest on her in the frank enjoyment of her grace, she felt with a faint shill of regret that he had gone back without an effort to the footing on which they had stood before their last talk together. Her vanity was stung by the sight of his unscathed smile. She longed to be to him something more than a piece of sentient prettiness, a passing diversion to his eye and brain, and the longing betrayed itself in her reply. "'Ah,' she said, I envy Gertie that power she has of dressing up with romance all our ugly and prosaic arrangements. I have never recovered my self-respect since you showed me how poor and unimportant my ambitions were.' The words were hardly spoken when she realized their infelicity. It seemed to be her fate to appear at her worst to Selden. "'I thought, on the contrary,' he returned lightly, that I had been the means of proving they were more important to you than anything else. It was if the eager current of her being had been checked by a sudden obstacle which drove it back upon itself. She looked at him helplessly, like a hurt or frightened child. This real self of hers, which she had the faculty of drawing out of the depths, was so little accustomed to go alone. The appeal of her helplessness touched in him, as it always did, a latent court of inclination. It would have meant nothing to him to discover that his nearness made her more brilliant. But this glimpse of a twilight mood to which he alone had the clue seemed once more to set him in a world apart with her. At least you can't think worse things of me than you say,' she exclaimed with a trembling laugh, but before he could answer the flow of comprehension between them was abruptly stayed by the reappearance of Gus Traynor, who advanced with Mr. Rosdale in his wake. Hang it, Lily! I thought you'd given me the slip. Rosdale and I have been hunting all over for you. His voice had a note of conjugal familiarity. Miss Bart fancied she detected in Rosdale's eye a twinkling perception of the fact, and the idea turned her dislike of him to repugnance. She returned his profound bow with a slight nod, made more disdainful by the sense of seldom surprise that she should number Rosdale among her acquaintances. Traynor had turned away, and his companion continued to stand before Miss Bart, alert and expectant. His lips parted in a smile at whatever she might be about to say, and his very back conscious of the privilege of being seen with her. It was the moment for tact, for the quick bridging over of gaps. But Selden still leaned against the window, a detached observer of the scene, and under the spell of his observation Lily felt herself powerless to exert her usual arts. The dread of Selden suspecting that there was any need for her to propitiate such a man as Rosdale checked the trivial phrases of politeness. Rosdale still stood before her in an expectant attitude, and she continued to face him in silence. Her glance just leveled with his polished baldness. The look put the finishing touch to what her silence implied. He reddened slowly, shifting from one foot to the other, fingered the plump black pearl in his tie, and gave a nervous twist to his moustache. Then, running his eye over her, he drew back, and said, with a side-glance at Selden, "'Upon my soul I never saw a more ripping get-up. Is that the latest creation of the dressmaker you go to see at the Benedict? If so, I wonder all the other women don't go to her, too.'" The words were projected sharply against Lily's silence, and she saw in a flash that her own act had given them their emphasis. In ordinary talk they might have passed unheeded, but following on her prolonged pause that they acquired a special meaning. She felt without looking that Selden had immediately seized it, and would inevitably connect the illusion with her visit to himself. The consciousness increased her irritation against Rosdale, but also her feeling that now, if ever, was the moment to propitiate him, hateful as it was to do so, in Selden's presence. "'How do you know the other women don't go to my dressmaker?' she returned. You see, I'm not afraid to give her a dress to my friends." Her glance and accent so plainly included Rosdale in this privileged circle that his small eyes puckered with gratification, and a knowing smile drew up his moustache. "'By Jove, you needn't be,' he declared. You could give him the whole outfit and win at a canter. Ah, that's nice of you. It would be nicer still if you would carry me off to a quiet corner and get me a glass of lemonade or some innocent drink before we all have to rush for the train.' She turned away as she spoke, letting him strut at her side through the gathering-grips on the terrace, while every nerve in her throbbed with the consciousness of what Selden must have thought of the scene. But under her angry sense of the perverseness of things, the light surface of her talk with Rosdale a third idea persisted. She did not mean to leave without an attempt to discover the truth about Percy Grice. Chance, or perhaps his own resolve, had kept them apart since his hasty withdrawal from Belamond. But Miss Bart was an expert in making the most of the unexpected, and the distasteful incidents of the last few minutes, the revelation to Selden of precisely that part of her life which she most wished him to ignore, increased her longing for shelter, for escape from such humiliating contingencies. Any definite situation would be more tolerable than this buffeting of chances which kept her in an attitude of uneasy alertness toward every possibility of life. Indoors there was a general sense of dispersal in the air, as of an audience gathering itself up for departure after the principal actors had left the stage. But among the remaining groups Lily could discover neither Grice nor the youngest, Miss Van Osberg, that both should be missing struck her with foreboding, and she charmed Mr. Rosdale by proposing that they should make their way to the conservatories at the farther end of the house. There were just enough people left in the long suite of rooms to make their progress conspicuous, and Lily was aware of being followed by looks of amusement and interrogation, which glanced off as harmlessly from her indifference as from her companion's self-satisfaction. She cared very little at that moment about being seen with Rosdale, all her thoughts were centered on the object of her search. The latter, however, was not discoverable in the conservatories, and Lily, oppressed by a sudden conviction of failure, was casting about for a way to rid herself of her now superfluous companion, when they came upon Mrs. Van Osberg, flushed and exhausted, but beaming with the consciousness of duty performed. She glanced at them a moment, with a benign but vacant eye of the tired hostess, to whom her guests had become mere whirling spots in a kaleidoscope of fatigue. Then her attention became suddenly fixed, and she seized on Miss Bart with a confidential gesture. My dear Lily, I haven't had time for a word with you, and now I suppose you are just off. Have you seen Evie? She's been looking everywhere for you. She wanted to tell you her little secret, but I daresay you have guessed it already. The engagement is not to be announced till next week, but you are such a friend of Mr. Grises, that they both wished you to be the first to know of their happiness. Book 1 Chapter 9 of The House of Myrth by Edith Wharton This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, reading by Belona Times. In Miss Peniston's youth, fashion had returned to town in October. Therefore, on the tenth day of the month, the blinds of her Fifth Avenue residence were drawn up, and the eyes of the dying gladiator and bronze who occupied the drawing-room window resumed their survey of that deserted thoroughfare. The first two weeks after her return represented to Mrs. Peniston the domestic equivalent of a religious retreat. She went through the linen and blankets in the precise spirit of the penitent, exploring the inner folds of conscience. She sought for moths as the stricken soul seeks for lurking infirmities. The topmost shelf of every closet was made to yield up its secret. Seller and Colben were probed to their darkest depths, and, as a final stage in the lustral rites, the entire house was swathed in penitential white and deluged with expiatory soapsuds. It was on this phase of the proceedings that Miss Bart entered on the afternoon of her return from the Van Osberg wedding. The journey back to town had not been calculated to soothe her nerves. Though Evie Van Osberg's engagement was still officially a secret, it was one of which the innumerable intimate friends of the family were already possessed, and the train full of returning guests buzzed with delusions and anticipations. Lily was acutely aware of her own part in the stroma of Ennuendo. She knew the exact quality of the amusement the situation evoked. The crude forms in which her friends took their pleasure included a loud enjoyment of such complications, the zest of surprising destiny and the act of playing a practical joke. Lily knew well enough how to bear herself in difficult situations. She had, to a shade, the exact manner between victory and defeat. Every insinuation was shed without an effort by the bright indifference of her manner. But she was beginning to feel the strain of the attitude. The reaction was more rapid, and she lapsed to a deeper self-disgust. As was always the case with her, this moral repulsion found a physical outlet and a quickened distaste for her surroundings. She revolted from the complacent ugliness of Mrs. Peniston's black walnut, from the slippery gloss of the vestibule tiles, and the mingled odor of sapoleo and furniture polish that met her at the door. The stairs were still carpetless, and on the way up to her room she was arrested on the landing by an encroaching tide of soap-suds. Gathering up her skirts, she drew aside with an impatient gesture, and, as she did so, she had the odd sensation of having already found herself in the same situation, but in different surroundings. It seemed to her that she was again descending the staircase from Saldon's rooms, and looking down to remonstrate with the dispenser of the soapy flood, she found herself met by a lifted stair which had once before confronted her under similar circumstances. It was the charwoman of the Benedict who, resting on crimson elbows, examined her with the same unflinching curiosity, the same apparent reluctance to let her pass. On this occasion, however, Miss Bart was on her own ground. Don't you see that I wish to go by? Please move your pale, she said sharply. The woman at first seemed not to hear her. Then, without a word of excuse, she pushed back her pale and dragged a wet floorcloth across the landing, keeping her eyes fixed on Lily while the letters swept by. It was insufferable that Mrs. Peniston should have such creatures about the house, and Lily entered her room, resolved that the woman should be dismissed that evening. Mrs. Peniston, however, was at the moment inaccessible to remonstrance, since early morning she had been shut up with her maid, going over her furs, a process which formed the culminating episode in the drama of household renovation. In the evening, also, Lily found herself alone, for her aunt, who rarely dined out, had responded to the silence of a Van Allstein cousin who was passing through town. The house, in its state of unnatural immaculateness and order, was as dreary as a tomb, and Lily, turning from her brief repast between shrouded sideboards, wandered into the newly uncovered glare of the drawing-room. She felt as though she were buried alive in the stifling limits of Mrs. Peniston's existence. She usually contrived to avoid being at home during the season of domestic renewal. On the present occasion, however, a variety of reasons had combined to bring her to town, and foremost among them was the fact that she had fewer invitations than usual for the autumn. She had so long been accustomed to pass from one country house to another, till the close of the holidays brought her friends to town, that the unfilled gaps of time confronting her produced a sharp sense of waning popularity. It was as she had said to Zeldin. People were tired of her. They would welcome her in a new character, but as Miss Bart they knew her by heart. She knew herself by heart too, and was sick of the old story. There were moments when she longed blindly for anything different, anything strange, remote and untried, but the utmost reach of her imagination did not go beyond picturing her usual life in a new setting. She could not figure herself as anywhere but in a drawing-room, diffusing elegance as a flower sheds perfume. Meanwhile, as October advanced, she had to face the alternative of returning to the trainers or joining her aunt in town. Even the desolating dullness of New York in October and the soapy discomforts of Mrs. Peniston's interior seemed preferable to what might await her at Bellamont, and with an air of heroic devotion she announced her intention of remaining with her aunt till the holidays. Sacrifices of this nature are sometimes received with feelings as mixed as those which actuate them, and Mrs. Peniston remarked to her confidential maid that, if any of the family were to be with her at such a crisis, though for forty years she had been thought competent to see to the hanging of her own curtains, she would certainly have preferred Miss Grace to Miss Lily. Grace Stepney was an obscure cousin of adaptable manners and vicarious interests who ran in to sit with Mrs. Peniston when Lily dined out too continuously, who played biseek, picked up dropped stitches, read out the deaths from the times, and sincerely admired the purple satin drawing-room curtains, the dying gladiator in the window, and the seven-by-five painting of Niagara which represented the one artistic excess of Mr. Peniston's temperate career. Mrs. Peniston, under ordinary circumstances, was as much bored by her excellent cousin as the recipient of such services, usually is by the person who performs them. She greatly preferred the brilliant and unreliable Lily who did not know one end of a crochet needle from the other, and had frequently wounded her susceptibilities by suggesting that the drawing-room should be done over. But when it came to hunting for missing napkins or helping to decide whether the back stairs needed recarpeting, Grace's judgment was certainly sounder than Lily's. Not to mention the fact that the latter resented the smell of beeswax and brown soap, and behaved as though she thought a house ought to keep clean of itself, without extraneous assistance. Seated under the cheerless blaze of the drawing-room chandelier, Mrs. Peniston never lit the lamps, unless there was company. Lily seemed to watch her own figure retreating down vistas of neutral-tented dullness to a middle-edge like Grace Stepney's. When she ceased to amuse Judy Trenner and her friends, she would have to fall back on amusing Mrs. Peniston whichever way she looked. She saw only a future of servitude to the whims of others, never the possibility of asserting her own eager individuality. A ring at the doorbell, sounding emphatically through the empty house, roused her suddenly to the extent of her boredom. It was as though all the weariness of the past months had culminated in the vacuity of that interminable evening. If only the ring meant a summons from the outer world, a token that she was still remembered and wanted. After some delay a parlor maid presented herself with the announcement that there was a person outside who was asking to see Miss Bart, and on Lily's pressing for a more specific description she added, It's Mrs. Haffen, Miss. She won't say what she wants. Lily, to whom the name conveyed nothing, opened the door upon a woman in a battered bonnet who stood firmly planted under the haul light, the glare of the unshaded gas, shown familiarly on her pockmarked face and the reddish baldness visible through thin strands of straw-coloured hair. Lily looked at the charwoman in surprise. Do you wish to see me? she asked. I should like to say a word to you, Miss. The tone was neither aggressive nor conciliatory. It revealed nothing of the speaker's errand. Nevertheless, some precautionary instinct warned Lily to withdraw beyond airshot of hovering parlor maid. She signed to Mrs. Haffen to follow her into the drawing-room and closed the door when they had entered. What is it that you wish? she inquired. The charwoman, after the manner of her kind, stood with her arms folded in her shawl. Unwinding the letter she produced a small parcel wrapped in dirty newspaper. I have something here that you might like to see, Miss Bart. She spoke the name with an unpleasant emphasis, as though her knowing it made a part of her reason for being there. To Lily the intonation sounded like a threat. You have found something belonging to me, she asked, extending her hand. Mrs. Haffen drew back. Well, if it comes to that, I guess it's mine as much as anybody's, she returned. Lily looked at her perplexedly. She was sure, now, that her visitor's manner conveyed a threat, but expert as she was in certain directions. There was nothing in her experience to prepare her for the exact significance of the present scene. She felt, however, that it must be ended as promptly as possible. I don't understand if this parcel is not mine, why have you asked for me? The woman was abashed by the question. She was evidently prepared to answer it, but like all her class she had to go a long way, back, to make a beginning, and it was only after a pause that she replied. My husband was janitor to the Benedict, till the first of the month. Since then he can't get nothing to do. Lily remained silent, and she continued. It wasn't no fault of our own, neither. The agent had another man he wanted the place for, and we was put out, bag and baggage, just to suit his fancy. I had a long sickness last winter, and an operation that ate up all we'd put by, and it's hard for me and the children. Huffin, being so long out of a job. After all, then, she had come only to ask Miss Bart to find a place for her husband, or, more probably, to seek the young lady's intervention with Mrs. Peniston. Lily had such an air of always getting what she wanted, that she was used to being appealed to as an intermediary, and, relieved of her vague apprehension, she took refuge in the conventional formula. I am sorry you have been in trouble, she said. All that we have, Miss, and it's only just beginning. If only we'd got another situation, but the agent, he's dead against us, and it ain't no fault of ours, neither. But at this point Lily's impatience overcame her. If you have anything to say to me," she interposed. The woman's resentment of the rebuff seemed to spur her lagging ideas. Yes, Miss, I'm coming to that," she said. She paused again, with her eyes on Lily, and then continued, in a tone of diffuse narrative. When we was at the Benedict I had charged of some of the gentleman's rooms. List-wise I swept them out on Saturdays. Some of the gentlemen got the greatest sight of letters. I never saw the like of it. Their waste-paper baskets would be fairly brimming, and papers falling all over on the floor. Maybe having so many is how they get so careless. Some of them is worse than others. Mr. Seldon. Mr. Lawrence Seldon. He was always one of the carefulest, burnt his letters in winter, and tore them in little bits in summer. But sometimes he'd have so many, he'd just bunch them together, the way the others did, and tear the lot through once, like this. While she spoke she had loosened the string from the parcel in her hand, and now she drew forth a letter which she laid on the table between Miss Bart and herself. As she had said, the letter was torn in two, but with a rapid gesture she had laid the torn edges together, and smoothed out the page. A wave of indignation swept over Lily. She felt herself in the presence of something vile, and yet but dimly conjectured, the kind of vileness of which people whispered, but which she had never thought of as touching her own life. She drew back with emotion of disgust, but her withdrawal was tracked by a sudden discovery. Under the glare of Mrs. Peniston's gandelier she had recognized the handwriting of the letter. It was a large, disjointed hand with a flourish of masculinity, which, but slightly disguised its rambling weakness, and the words, scrawled in heavy ink on pale-tinted note-paper, smote on Lily's ear, as though she had heard them spoken. At first she did not grasp the full import of the situation. She understood only that before her lay a letter written by Bertha Dorsett, and addressed, presumably, to Lawrence Seldin. There was no date, but the blackness of the ink proved the writing to be comparatively recent. The packet in Mrs. Haffen's hand doubtless contained more letters of the same kind, a dozen Lily conjectured from its thickness. The letter before her was short, but its few words which had leapt into her brain before she was conscious of reading them told a long history, a history over which, for the last four years, the friends of the writer had smiled and shrugged, viewing it merely as one among the countless good situations of the mundane comedy. Now the other side presented itself to Lily, the volcanic nether side of the surface, over which conjecture and ennuendo glide so lightly till the first fisher turns their whisper to a shriek. Lily knew that there is nothing society resents so much as having given its protection to those who have not known how to profit by it. It is for having betrayed its connivance that the body social punishes the offender who was found out. And in this case there was no doubt of the issue. The code of Lily's world decreed that a woman's husband should be the only judge of her conduct. She was technically above suspicion while she had the shelter of his approval, or even of his indifference. But with a man of George Dorsett's temper there could be no thought of condemnation. The possessor of his wife's letters could overthrow with a touch the whole structure of her existence, and into what hands Bertha Dorsett's secret had been delivered, for a moment the irony of the coincidence tinged Lily's disgust with the confused sense of triumph. But the disgust prevailed. All her instinctive resistances of taste, of training, of blind inherited scruples rose against the other feeling. Her strongest sense was one of personal contamination. She moved away as though to put as much distance as possible between herself and her visitor. "'I know nothing of these letters,' she said. "'I have no idea why you have brought them here.' Mrs. Hafen faced her sadly. "'I'll tell you why, Miss. I've brought them to you to sell, because I ain't got no other way of raising money, and if we don't pay our rent by to-morrow night we'll be put out. I never done anything of the kind before, and if you'd speak to Mr. Seldin or to Mr. Rosedale about getting Hafen taken on again at the Benedict, I seen you talking to Mr. Rosedale on the steps that day you come out of Mr. Seldin's rooms. The blood rushed to Lily's forehead. She understood now. Mrs. Hafen supposed her to be the writer of the letters. In the first leap of her anger she was about to ring and order the woman out, but an obscure impulse restrained her. The mention of Seldin's name had started a new train of thought. Bertha Dorsett's letters were nothing to her. They might go where the current of chance carried them. But Seldin was inextricably involved in their fate. Men do not, at worst, suffer much from such exposure, and in this instance the flash of divination which had carried the meaning of the letters to Lily's brain had revealed also that they were appeals, repeated and therefore probably unanswered, for the renewal of a tie which time had evidently relaxed. Nevertheless the fact that the correspondence had been allowed to fall into strange hands would convict Seldin of negligence in a matter where the world holds it least pardonable, and there were graveer risks to consider where a man of Dorsett's ticklish balance was concerned. If she weighed all these things it was unconsciously. She was aware only of a feeling that Seldin would wish the letters rescued, and that therefore she must obtain possession of them. Beyond that her mind did not travel. She had indeed a quick vision of returning the packet to Bertha Dorsett, and of the opportunities the restitution offered. But this thought lit up abysses from which she shrank back, ashamed. Meanwhile Mrs. Hafen, prompt to perceive her hesitation, had already opened the packet, and ranged its contents on the table. All the letters had been placed together with strips of thin paper. Some were in small fragments. The others merely torn in half. Though there were not many, thus spread out, they nearly covered the table. Lily's glance fell on a word here and there. Then she said in a low voice, What do you wish me to pay you? Mrs. Hafen's face reddened with satisfaction. It was clear that the young lady was badly frightened, and Mrs. Hafen was the woman to make the most of such fears. Anticipating an easier victory than she had foreseen, she named an exorbitant sum, but Miss Bart showed herself a less ready prey than might have been expected from her imprudent opening. She refused to pay the price named, and, after a moment's hesitation, met it by a counter-offer of half the amount. Mrs. Hafen immediately stiffened. Her hands travelled toward the outspread letters, and folding them slowly, she made as though to restore them to their wrapping. I guess they're worth more to you than to me, Miss, but the poor has got to live as well as the rich, she observed sententiously. Lily was throbbing with fear, but the insinuation fortified her resistance. You are mistaken, she said indifferently. I have offered all I am willing to give for the letters, but there may be other ways of getting them. Mrs. Hafen raised a suspicious glance. She was too experienced not to know that the traffic she was engaged in had perils as great as its rewards, and she had a vision of the elaborate machinery of revenge which a word of this commanding young ladies might set in motion. She applied the corner of her shawl to her eyes, and murmured through it that no good came of bearing too hard on the poor, but that for her part she had never been mixed up in such a business before, and that on her honor as a Christian all she and Hafen had thought of was that the letters mustn't go any farther. Lily stood motionless, keeping between herself and the Turrah woman the greatest distance compatible with the need of speaking in low tones. The idea of bargaining for the letters was intolerable to her, but she knew that if she appeared to weaken Mrs. Hafen would at once increase her original demand. She could never afterward recall how long the duel lasted, or what was the decisive stroke, which finally, after a lapse of time, recorded in minutes by the clock, in hours by the precipitate beat of her pulses, put her in possession of the letters. She knew only that the door had finally closed, and that she stood alone with a packet in her hand. She had no idea of reading the letters, even to unfold Mrs. Hafen's dirty newspaper would have seemed degrading, but what did she intend to do with its contents? The recipient of the letters had meant to destroy them, and it was her duty to carry out his intention. They had no right to keep them. To do so was to lessen whatever merit lay in having secured their possession, but how destroy them so effectually that there should be no second risk of their falling in such hands? Mrs. Peniston's icy drawing room grate, shown with a forbidding luster, the fire, like the lamps, was never lit except when there was company. Miss Bart was turning to carry the letters upstairs when she heard the opening of the outer door, and her aunt entered the drawing room. Mrs. Peniston was a small, plump woman, with a colorless skin, lined with trivial wrinkles. Her gray hair was arranged with precision, and her clothes looked excessively new, and yet slightly old-fashioned. They were always black and tightly fitting, with an expensive glitter. She was the kind of woman who wore jet at breakfast. She had never seen her when she was not keras and shining black, with small tight boots, and an air of being packed and ready to start, yet she never started. She looked around the dressing room with an expression of minute scrutiny. I saw a streak of light under one of the blinds as I drove up. It's extraordinary that I can never teach that woman to draw them down evenly. When corrected the irregularity, she seated herself on one of the glossy purple arm-chairs. Mrs. Peniston always sat on a chair, never in it. Then she turned her glance to Miss Bart. My dear, you look tired. I suppose it's the excitement of the wedding. Cornelia Van Ostein was full of it. Molly was there, and Gertie Farrish ran in for a moment to tell us about it. I think it was odd their serving melons before the consomme, a wedding breakfast should always begin with consomme. Molly didn't care for the bride's maid's dresses. She had it straight from Julia Melson that they cost three hundred dollars apiece at Celes. But she says they didn't look it. I'm glad you decided not to be a bride's maid. That shade of salmon pink wouldn't have suited you. Mrs. Peniston delighted in discussing the minutest details of festivities in which she had not taken part. Nothing would have induced her to undergo the exertion and fatigue of attending the Van Ostein wedding. But so great was her interest in the event that, having heard two versions of it, she now prepared to extract a third from her niece. Lily, however, had been deplorably careless in noting the particulars of the entertainment. She had failed to observe the colour of Mrs. Van Osberg's gown and could not even say whether the old Van Osberg's severance had been used at the bride's table. Mrs. Peniston, in short, found that she was of more service as a listener than as a narrator. Really, Lily, I don't see why you took the trouble to go to the wedding, if you don't remember what happened or whom you saw there. When I was a girl I used to keep the menu of every dinner I went to, and write the names of the people on the back, and I never threw away my coutillion favours till after your uncle's death, when it seemed unsuitable to have so many coloured things about the house. I had a whole closet full, I remember, and I can tell to this day what balls I got them at. Molly Van Ostein reminds me of what I was at that age. It's wonderful how she notices. She was able to tell her mother exactly how the wedding dress was cut, and we knew at once from the fold in the back that it must have come from Paquin. Mrs. Peniston rose abruptly, and advancing to the armaloo clock surmounted by a helmeted manerva which, thrown on the chimney piece between two malachite vases, passed her lace handkerchief between the helmet and its visor. I knew it. The parlor maid never dusts there, she exclaimed, triumphantly displaying a minute spot on the handkerchief. Then, receding herself, she went on. Molly thought Mrs. Dorse the best dressed woman at the wedding. I've no doubt her dress did cost more than anyone else's, but I can't quite like the idea. A combination of sable and point de melange. It seems she goes to a new man in Paris, who won't take an order till his client has spent a day with him at his villa, a nuit. He says he must study his subject's home life. A most peculiar arrangement, I should say. But Mrs. Dorse told Molly about it herself. She said the villa was full of the most exquisite things, and she was really sorry to leave. Molly said she never saw her looking better. She was in tremendous spirits, and said she had made a match between Evie Van Osberg and Percy Grice. She really seems to have a very good influence on young men. I hear she is interesting herself now in that Selly Silverton boy, who had had his head turned by Carrie Fisher, and has been gambling so dreadfully. Well, as I was saying, Evie is really engaged. Mrs. Dorsett had her to stay with Percy Grice and managed it all. And Grace Van Osberg is in the Seventh Heaven. She had almost disappeared of marrying Evie. Mrs. Peniston again paused, but this time her scrutiny addressed itself not to the furniture, but to her niece. Cornelia Van Olstein was so surprised she had heard that she were to marry young Grice. She saw the weatheralls just after they had stopped with you at Balamond, and Alice Weatherall was quite sure there was an engagement. She said that when Mr. Grice left unexpectedly one morning they all thought he had rushed to town for the ring. Lily rose and moved toward the door. I believe I am tired. I think I will go to bed, she said, and Mrs. Peniston suddenly distracted by the discovery that the easel-sustaining the late Mr. Peniston's crayon portrait was not exactly in line with the sofa in front of it, presented an absent-minded brow to her kiss. In her own room Lily turned up the gas-jet and glanced toward the grate. It was as brilliantly polished as the one below, but here at least she could burn a few papers with less risk of incurring her aunt's disapproval. She made no immediate motion to do so, however, but, dropping into a chair looking wearily about her, her room was large and comfortably furnished. It was the envy and admiration of poor Grice Dupney, who boarded, but contrasted with the first tense and luxurious appointments of the guest-rooms where so many wigs of Lily's existence were spent, it seemed as dreary as a prison. The monumental wardrobe and bed-stead of black walnut had migrated from Mr. Peniston's bedroom, and the magenta flock wallpaper of a pattern dear to the early sixties was hung with large steel engravings of anecdotic character. Lily had tried to mitigate this charmless background by a few frivolous touches, in the shape of a lace-duct toilet-table, and the little painted desk surmounted by photographs. But the futility of the attempt struck her as she looked about the room. What a contrast to the subtle elegance of the setting she had pictured for herself. An apartment which should surpass the complicated luxury of her friend's surroundings by the whole extent of that artistic sensibility which made her feel herself their superior, in which every tent and line should combine to enhance her beauty and give distinction to her leisure. Once more the haunting sense of physical ugliness was intensified by her mental depression so that each piece of the offending furniture seemed to thrust forth its most aggressive angle. Her aunt's words had told her nothing new, but they had revived the vision of Bertha Dorsett, smiling, flattered, victorious, holding her up to ridicule by insinuations intelligible to every member of their little group. The thought of the ridicule struck deeper than any other sensation. Lily knew every turn of the elusive jargon which could flay its victims without the shutting of blood. Her cheek burned at the recollection, and she rose and caught up the letters. She no longer meant to destroy them. That intention had been effaced by the quick corrosion of Mrs. Peniston's words. Yet she approached her desk, and, lighting a taper, tied and sealed the packet. Then she opened the wardrobe, drew out a dispatch box, and deposited the letters within it. As she did so, it struck her with a flash of irony that she was indebted to Gus Tranner for the means of buying them. CHAPTER X The autumn dragged on monotonously. Miss Bart had received one or two notes from Judic Tranner, reproaching her for not returning to Belamond, but she replied evasively, alleging the obligation to remain with her aunt. In truth, however, she was fast wary of her solitary existence with Mrs. Peniston, and only the excitement of spending her newly acquired money lightened the dullness of the days. All her life Lily had seen money go out as quickly as it came in, and whatever theories she cultivated as to the prudence of setting aside a part of her gains she had unhappily no saving vision of the risks of the opposite course. It was a keen satisfaction to feel that, for a few months at least, she would be independent of her friend's bounty, that she could show herself abroad without wondering whether some penetrating eye would detect in her dress the traces of Judic Tranner's refurbished splendor. The fact that the money freed her temporarily from all minor obligations obscured her sense of the greater one it represented, and having never before known what it was to command so large a sum, she lingered delectably over the amusement of spending it. It was on one of these occasions that, leaving a shop where she had spent an hour of deliberation over a dressing-case of the most complicated elegance, she ran across Miss Farrish, who had entered the same establishment with the modest object of having her watch repaired. Lily was feeling unusually virtuous. She had decided to defer the purchase of the dressing-case till she should receive the bill for her new opera-cloak, and the resolve made her feel much richer than when she had entered the shop. In this mood of self-approval she had a sympathetic eye for others, and she was struck by her friend's air of dejection. Miss Farrish, it appeared, had just left the committee meeting of a struggling charity in which she was interested. The object of the association was to provide comfortable lodgings with a reading-room and other modest distractions, where young women of the class employed in downtown offices might find a home when out of work or in need of rest, and the first year's financial report showed so deplorably small of a balance that Miss Farrish, who was convinced of the urgency of the work, felt proportionately discouraged by the small amount of interest it aroused. The other regarding sentiments had not been cultivated and lily, and she was often bored by the relation of her friend's philanthropic efforts. But today her quick dramatizing fancy seized on the contrast between her own situation and that represented by some of Gertie's cases. These were young girls like herself, some perhaps pretty, some not without a trace of her finer sensibilities. She pictured herself leading such a life as theirs, a life in which achievement seemed as squalid as failure, and the vision made her shudder sympathetically. The price of the dressing-case was still in her pocket, and drawing out her little gold purse she slipped a liberal fraction of the amount into Miss Farrish's hand. The satisfaction derived from this act was all that the most ardent moralist could have desired. Gertie felt a new interest in herself as a person of charitable instincts. She had never before thought of doing good with the wealth she had so often dreamed of possessing, but now her horizon was enlarged by the vision of a prodigal philanthropy. Moreover by some obscure process of logic she felt that her momentary burst of generosity had justified all previous extravagances, and excused any in which she might subsequently indulge. Miss Farrish's surprise and gratitude confirmed this feeling, and Lily parted from her with a sense of self-esteem which she naturally mistook for the fruits of altruism. About this time she was farther cheered by an invitation to spend the Thanksgiving week at a camp in the Adirondacks. The invitation was one which, a year earlier, would have provoked a less ready response. For the party, though organized by Mrs. Fisher, was ostensibly given by a lady of obscure origin and indomitable social ambitions whose acquaintance Lily had hitherto avoided. Now however she was disposed to coincide with Mrs. Fisher's view that it didn't matter who gave the party as long as things were well done, and doing things well under competent direction was Mrs. Wellington Bry's strong point. The lady, whose concert was known as Wellie Bry on the stock exchange and in sporting circles, had already sacrificed one husband and sundry minor considerations to her determination to get on, and having obtained a hold on Carrie Fisher she was astute enough to perceive the wisdom of committing herself entirely to that lady's guidance. Everything, accordingly, was well done, for there was no limit to Mrs. Fisher's prodigality when she was not spending her own money, and as she remarked to her pupil, a good cook was the best introduction to society. If the company was not as select as the cuisine, the Wellie Bry's at least had the satisfaction of figuring for the first time in the society columns in company with one or two noticeable names. But foremost among these was, of course, Miss Bart's. The young lady was treated by her host with corresponding deference, and she was in the mood when such attentions are acceptable, whatever the source. Mrs. Bry's admiration was a mirror in which Lily's self-complicency recovered its lost outline. No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those which will sustain the weight of human vanity, and the sense of being of importance among the insignificant was enough to restore to Miss Bart the gratifying consciousness of power. If these people had paid court to her, it proved that she was still conspicuous in the world to which they aspired, and she was not above a certain enjoyment in dazzling them by her fineness in developing their puzzled perception of her superiorities. Perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware from the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp, cold, and hard exercise, the response of thrill of her body to the influence of the winter woods. She returned to town in a glow of rejuvenation, conscious of a clearer color in her cheeks, a fresh elasticity in her muscles. The future seemed full of a vague promise, and all her apprehensions were swept out of sight on the buoyant current of her mood. A few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise of a visit from Mr. Rosdale. He came late at the confidential hour when the tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly expectancy, and his manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to the intimacy of the occasion. Lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her lucky speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected, but there was something in the quality of his geniality which chilled her own, and she was conscious of marking each step in their acquaintance by a fresh blunder. Mr. Rosdale, making himself promptly at home in an adjoining easy chair, and sipping his tea critically with the comment, You ought to go to my man for something really good, appeared totally unconscious of the repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness behind the urn. It was perhaps her very manner of holding herself aloof that appealed to his collector's passion for the rare and unattainable. He gave, at any rate, no sign of resenting it, and seemed prepared to supply in his own manner all the ease that was lacking in hers. His object in calling was to ask her to go to the opera in his box on the opening night, and seeing her hesitate he said persuasively, Mrs. Fisher is coming, and I've secured a tremendous admirer of yours, who'll never forgive me if you don't accept. As Lily's silence left him with this illusion on his hands he added with a confidential smile. Gus Trinner had promised to come to town on purpose. I fancy he'd go a good deal farther for the pleasure of seeing you. Mrs. Bart felt an inward motion of annoyance. It was distasteful enough to hear her name coupled with Trinner's, and on Rosedale's lips the illusion was peculiarly unpleasant. The Trinner's are my best friends. I think we should all go a long way to see each other," she said, observing herself in the preparation of fresh tea. Her visitor's smile grew increasingly intimate. Well, I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Trinner at the moment. They say Gus doesn't always, you know. Then dimly conscious that he had not struck the right note, he added, with a moment effort at diversion. How's your luck been going on Wall Street, by the way? I hear Gus pulled off a nice little pile for you last month. Lily put down the tea-caddy with an abrupt gesture. She felt that her hands were trembling, and clasped them on her knees to steady them. But her lip trembled too, and for a moment she was afraid the Trinner might communicate itself to her voice. When she spoke, however, it was in a tone of perfect lightness. Ah, yes, I had a little bit of money to invest, and Mr. Trinner, who helps me about such manners, advised my putting it in stocks instead of a mortgage, as my aunt's agent wanted me to do, and as it happened I made a lucky turn. Is that what you call it? For you make a great many yourself, I believe. She was smiling back at him now, relaxing the tension of her attitude, and admitting him by imperceptible gradations of glance and manner a step farther toward intimacy. The protective instinct always nerfed her to successful dissimulation, and it was not the first time she had used her beauty to divert attention from an inconvenient topic. When Mr. Rosdell took leave, he carried with him not only her acceptance of his invitation, but a general sense of having comported himself in a way calculated to advance his cause. He had always believed he had a light touch and a knowing way with women. In the prompt manner in which Miss Bart, as he would have phrased it, had come into line, confirmed his confidence in his powers of handling this skittish sex. Her way of glossing over the transaction with Trenor he regarded at once as a tribute to his own acuteness and a confirmation of his suspicions. The girl was evidently nervous, and Mr. Rosdell, if he saw no other means of advancing his acquaintance with her, was not above taking advantage of her nervousness. He left Lily to a passion of disgust and fear. It seemed incredible that Gus Trenor should have spoken of her to Rosdell. With all his faults Trenor had the safeguard of his traditions, and was the less likely to overstep them because they were so purely instinctive. But Lily recalled with a pang that there were convivial moments when, as Jody had confided to her, Gus talked foolishly. In one of these, no doubt, the fatal word had slipped from him. As for Rosdell, she did not, after the first shock, greatly care what conclusions he had drawn. Though usually adroit enough where her own interests were concerned, she made the mistake, not uncommon to persons in whom the social habits are instinctive, of supposing that the inability to acquire them quickly implies a general dullness. Because a blue bottle bangs irrationally against a windowpane, the drawing-room naturalists may forget that under less artificial conditions it is capable of measuring distances and drawing conclusions with all the accuracy needful to its welfare. And the fact that Mr. Rosdell's drawing-room manner lacked perspective, made Lily class him with Trenor and the other dull men she knew, and assumed that a little flattery and the occasional acceptance of his hospitality would suffice to render him innocuous. However, there could be no doubt of the expediency of showing herself in his box on the opening night of the opera, and after all, since Jody Trenor had promised to take him up that winter, it was as well to reap the advantage of being first in the field. For a day or two after Rosdell's visit Lily's thoughts were dogged by the consciousness of Trenor's shadowy claim, and she wished she had a clearer notion of the exact nature of the transaction which seemed to have put her in his power. But her mind shrank from any unusual application, and she was always helplessly puzzled by figures. Moreover she had not seen Trenor since the day of the Van Ospert wedding, and in his continued absence the trace of Rosdell's words was soon effaced by other impressions. When the opening night of the opera came, her apprehensions so completely vanished that the sight of Trenor's ruddy countenance in the back of Mr. Rosdell's box filled her with a sense of pleasant reassurance. Lily had not quite reconciled herself to the necessity of appearing as Rosdell's guests on so conspicuous an occasion, and it was a relief to find herself supported by any one of her own set, for Mrs. Fisher's social habits were too promiscuous for her presence to justify Miss Bart's. To Lily, always inspired by the prospect of showing her beauty in public and conscious tonight of all the added enhancements of her dress, the insistency of Trenor's gaze merged itself in the general stream of admiring looks at which she felt herself the center. Ah! it was good to be young, to be radiant, to glow with a sense of slenderness, strength, and elasticity of well-poised lines and happy tents, to fill oneself lifted to a height apart by that incomunicable grace which is the bodily counterpart of genius. All means seemed justifiable to attain such an end, or rather, by a happy shifting of lights with which practice had familiarized Miss Bart, the cause shrank to a pinpoint in the general brightness of the effect. But brilliant young ladies, a little blinded by their own effulgence, are apt to forget that the modest satellite drowned in their light is still performing its own revolutions and generating heat at its own rate. If Lily's poetic enjoyment of the moment was undisturbed by the base thought that her gown and opera cloak had been indirectly paid for by Gus Trenor, the latter had not sufficient poetry in his composition to lose sight of these prosaic facts. He knew only that he had never seen Lily look smarter in her life, that there wasn't a woman in the house who showed off good clothes as she did, and that hitherto he to whom she owed the opportunity of making this display had reaped no return beyond that of gazing at her in company with several hundred other pairs of eyes. It came to Lily, therefore, as a disagreeable surprise when, in the back of the box, where they found themselves alone between two acts, Trenor set, without preamble, and in a tone of sulky authority. Look here, Lily. How is a fellow ever to see anything of you? I'm in town three or four days in the week, and you know a line to the club will always find me, but you don't seem to remember my existence nowadays unless you want to get a tip out of me. The fact that the remark was in distinctly bad taste did not make it any easier to answer, for Lily was vividly aware that it was not the moment for that drawing up of her slim figure and surprised lifting of the brows by which she usually quelled incipient signs of familiarity. I'm very much flattered by your wanting to see me, she returned, as saying, lightness instead, but unless you have mislaid my address it would have been easy to find me any afternoon at my aunt's. In fact I rather expected you to look me up there. If she hoped to mollify him by the last concession the attempt was a failure, for he only replied with the familiar lowering of the brows that made him look his dullest when he was angry. Hang going to your aunt's, and wasting the afternoon listening to a lot of other chaps talking to you. You know I'm not the kind to sit in a crowd and draw. I'd always rather clear out when that sort of circus is going on. But why can't we go off somewhere on a little arc together, a nice quiet little expedition like that drive at Bellamont the day you met me at the station? She leaned unpleasantly close in order to convey the suggestion, and she fancied she caught a significant aroma which explained the dark flush on his face and the glistening dampness of his forehead. The idea that any rash answer might provoke an unpleasant outburst tempered her disgust with caution, and she answered with a laugh, Oh! I don't see how one can very well take country drives in town, but I am not always surrounded by an admiring throng, and if you will let me know what afternoon you are coming, I will arrange things so that we can have a nice quiet talk. Hang talking, that's what you always say, return trainer, whose expletives lack variety. You put me off with that at the Ban Osberg wedding, but the plain English of it is that, now that you've got what you wanted out of me, you'd rather have any other fellow about. His voice had risen sharply with the last words, and lily fleshed with annoyance, but she kept command of the situation, and laid a persuasive hand on his arm. Don't be foolish, Gus. I can't let you talk to me in that ridiculous way. If you really want to see me, why shouldn't we take a walk in the parks some afternoon? I agree with you that it's amusing to be rustic in town, and if you like I'll meet you there, and you'll go and feed the squirrels, and you shall take me out on the lake in the steam gondola. She smiled as she spoke, letting her eyes rest on his in a way that took the edge from her banter, and made him suddenly malleable to her will. All right, then, that's a go. Will you come to-morrow? To-morrow at three o'clock, at the end of the mall. I'll be there sharp, remember. You won't go back on me, lily. But to Miss Bart's relief, the repetition of her promise was cut short by the opening of the door to admit George Dorsett. Trenor sulkily yielded his place, and Lily turned a brilliant smile on the newcomer. She had not talked with Dorsett since their visit at Belamonte, but something in his look and manner told her that he recalled the friendly footing on which they had last met. He was not a man to whom the expression of admiration came easily. His long, sallow face and distrustful eyes seemed always barricaded against the expensive emotions. But where her own influence was concerned, Lily's intuitions sent out threadlike feelers, and as she made room for him on the narrow sofa, she was sure he found a dumb pleasure in being near her. Few women took the trouble to make themselves agreeable to Dorsett, and Lily had been kind to him at Belamonte, and was now smiling on him with a divine renewal of kindness. Well, here we are, in for another six months of catawalling. He began, complainingly, not a shade of difference between this year and last, except that the women have gotten new clothes and the singers haven't gotten new voices. My wife's musical, you know, puts me through a course of this every winter. It isn't so bad on Italian nights. Then she comes late, and there's time to digest. But when they give Wagner, we have to rush dinner, and I pay up for it, and the drunks are damnable. There's fixia in front and pleurisy in the back. There's trener leaving the box without drawing the curtain. With a hide like that, drunks don't make any difference. Did you ever watch trener eat? If you did, you'd wonder why he's alive. I suppose he's leather inside, too. But I came to say that my wife wants you to come down to her place next Sunday. Do for heaven's sakes say yes. She's got a lot of boars coming, intellectual ones, I mean. That's her new line, you know. I'm not sure it ain't worse than the music. Some of them have long hair, and they start an argument with the soup, and don't notice when things are handed to them. The consequence is the dinner gets cold, and I have dyspepsia. That silly-ass Silverton brings him to the house. He writes poetry, you know, and Bertha and he are getting tremendously thick. She could write better than any of them if she chose, and I don't blame her for wanting clever fellas about. All I say is, don't let me see a meat. The gist of this strange communication gave Lily a distinct thrill of pleasure. Under ordinary circumstances there would have been nothing surprising in an invitation from Bertha Dorsett, but since the Bellamond episode an unavowed hostility had kept the two women apart. Now with the start of inner wonder Lily felt that her thirst for retaliation had died out. If you would forgive your enemy, says the melee proverb, first inflict a hurt on him. And Lily was experiencing the truth of the apathogen. If she had destroyed Mrs. Dorsett's letters she might have continued to hate her, but the fact that they remained in her possession had fed her resentment to satiety. She uttered a smiling acceptance, hailing in the renewal of the tie, an escape from tremors and partunities. End of Book 1, Chapter 10