I
“You’ll need,” said Jane’s mother reflectively, “at least four new evening dresses. The blue can be made over in the house.” She was standing in the doorway of Jane’s closet, regarding Jane’s depleted wardrobe with an appraising eye.
Jane, darning a stocking by the window overlooking the willow tree, was conscious of a certain sense of unwonted importance. Four new evening dresses. Nothing like that, of course, had ever occurred to her before.
“The pink,” continued her mother, turning to look at her earnestly, “will be home in time for Flora’s dance. You will need three others.” She gave a little sigh as she spoke. “Things aren’t as simple as they were when Isabel came out.”
“Here’s Isabel now,” said Jane.
Her mother hurried to the window. There was Isabel, indeed, pushing the baby carriage up the side path.
“She’s getting nice and thin again,” said Jane’s mother, “now she’s stopped nursing the baby.”
Isabel saw them and waved cheerfully over the hood of the carriage. Jane thought she had never looked so pretty.
“I like her fat,” she said.
Isabel stooped to lift up the soft armful of afghans that was her son. His head wobbled alarmingly in his big blue bonnet and came safely to rest on Isabel’s shoulder. She picked up a bottle and a bundle of blankets with her free hand and turned toward the side door.
“It’s a great deal for Isabel to do,” said Jane’s mother, “to take care of that great child all by herself.”
“I think she likes it,” said Jane. “I’d like it if he were mine.” Her nephew always appealed to her as an animated doll. She loved to go over to Isabel’s little apartment in the Kinzie flats and watch her bathe and dress him.
Isabel’s voice floated up the stairs.
“Aren’t you ready?” she asked.
“You’re early,” said Jane’s mother.
“I know. I brought the baby over so he could have his nap.” Isabel appeared in the doorway. “Jane ought to be there before it begins.”
They were all going over to Muriel’s reception. Jane and Flora were going to pour tea.
“She will be,” said Jane’s mother. “Let me have him.”
Jane’s mother sat down in the chair by the window with her grandson in her arms. She began unwrapping the afghans.
“Isabel,” she said, “you don’t keep this child warm enough.”
Isabel exchanged a covert glance with Jane. Jane knew just how she felt. He was Isabel’s baby.
“Oh—he’s all right,” Isabel said. “Put him on the bed and let him kick.”
“Shut the window, Jane,” said Jane’s mother, “so there won’t be a draught.”
Jane obeyed in silence.
“You ought to be getting dressed, Mother,” said Isabel.
“Give me that bottle,” said Mrs. Ward. “I’ll put it on ice.” She left the room, bottle in hand.
“Tell Minnie she has to watch him while we’re out,” called Isabel. Then privately to Jane, “Honestly—Mother gets on my nerves.”
“She’s crazy about the baby,” said Jane.
“She gets on Robin’s nerves, too, sometimes,” said Isabel, and opened the window.
It was curious, thought Jane, to see Robin and the baby insidiously wedging their way in between her mother and Isabel. They had always been so close before.
“Do you like my dress?” asked Isabel.
It was very pretty. Jane recognized it at once. The blue and yellow stripe made over from the trousseau.
“It’s just as good as new,” said Jane.
“No, it’s not,” said Isabel. Her pretty face was clouded. “And it’s much too tight. But it has to do.” Then irrelevantly, “Robin got a raise last week.”
“That’s good,” said Jane. “Unbutton my waist, will you?”
Isabel’s fingers busied themselves with hooks and eyes.
“What do you know about Muriel?” she asked.
“Muriel?” said Jane, surprised. She wasn’t conscious of anything.
“Muriel and Bert,” said Isabel. “Bert Lancaster.”
“Bert Lancaster?” echoed Jane. “What about them?”
“Rosalie says he’s crazy about her.”
“Isabel!” cried Jane. “That old man!”
“He’s not forty,” said Isabel. “I don’t believe he’s more than thirty-eight.”
Jane slipped out of her skirt and turned toward her closet door.
“He sends her flowers,” said Isabel, “three times a week.”
“Everyone,” said Jane, “sends Muriel flowers.”
“He’s over there,” said Isabel, “all the time.”
“Great for Muriel,” said Jane laconically. Then, emerging from the closet, “Here’s my new dress.”
“It’s lovely,” said Isabel. Jane thought it was too. Pink taffeta with ecru lace revers over the enormous sleeves. “You’ll look sweet.”
Jane walked over to the walnut bureau and began to take down her hair.
“Mrs. Lester,” said Isabel, “doesn’t like it a bit.”
“Why, she hasn’t seen it!” cried Jane indignantly. No one could help liking that pink taffeta dress. It was ordered for Muriel’s début.
“Not the dress, goose!” laughed Isabel. “Bert.”
“Oh!” said Jane, immensely relieved.
“Rosalie says she can’t do a thing with Muriel,” said Isabel. “Of course she never could.”
“Do you think I ought to curl my hair?” asked Jane anxiously. “I suppose I could learn—”
Isabel regarded her very seriously, her head on one side.
“N-no,” she said slowly. “I like it straight.”
“You’ve got a certain style, Jane, all your own.”
That was the first time that Jane had ever heard that. She flushed with pleasure.
“I shouldn’t think she would like it,” resumed Isabel. “Robin says Bert’s been awfully fast.”
“Ready, Jane?” It was her mother’s voice. Mrs. Ward stood in the doorway. She looked very pretty in her violet gown with her little black lace shoulder cape and violet bonnet. “Who opened the window?” Mrs. Ward promptly shut it and walked over to the bed to feel the baby’s feet solicitously, with a reproving glance at Isabel.
“Hook me up,” said Jane, backing down on her sister just in time to prevent an outburst of protest.
“What were you saying,” asked Mrs. Ward, “that Robin said about Bert?” The baby was forgotten. Isabel faced her mother over Jane’s shoulder with a kindling eye. Jane could see her in the mirror.
“Robin says,” she began eagerly, “that Bert has always gone an awful pace. And Rosalie says that Freddy thinks it’s dreadful of her mother to let Muriel have anything to do with him.”
“It would certainly be very awkward,” mused Jane’s mother, “if it should come to anything. Considering Muriel’s friendship with Flora.”
“I don’t think Flora has ever noticed a thing,” said Isabel. “Do you, Jane?”
“Did she ever mention it?” asked Jane’s mother.
“No,” said Jane, and took her new hat out of the hatbox.
“Lily Furness is a fool,” said Mrs. Ward, “but in a way she’s clever. I dare say she’d be very careful.”
“She’s not very careful now,” said Isabel. “She looks like the wrath of heaven.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Ward with dignity, “why she hasn’t more pride.”
“You never see him there any more,” said Isabel. “You don’t ever see him, do you, Jane?”
Jane was putting on her hat before the mirror. It was a very pretty hat with a big pink taffeta bow standing high in the back. Jane adjusted her white face veil, making little mouths at herself in the glass as she drew it down tightly over her chin.
“Why, no,” she said slowly, “I—I haven’t—lately.”
“It would be sad,” said Jane’s mother, shaking her head, “if it weren’t so silly.”
“It’s certainly silly,” said Isabel, laughing. “Giving yourself away like that over a man who’s running around after your daughter’s best friend—”
Jane turned suddenly to face them. Her eyes were snapping with anger.
“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” she said abruptly. If it’s true, I think it’s tragic. I like Flora’s mother. She’s always been lovely to me. And she’s always been perfectly beautiful. She is still. If—if Bert Lancaster ever—ever loved her and—and got over it, I think he’s the one that’s silly. Chasing after Muriel Lester who’s young enough to be his own daughter! I think it’s dreadful for people to get over loving—”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” said Jane’s mother icily, “that Flora’s mother is a married woman?”
Jane felt suddenly deflated. And a little unequal to coping with the complications the situation presented. But she stood by her guns.
“I don’t care if she is,” she said stoutly. “She’s no more married now than she was when it began. Anyway, I think it’s her own business,” She caught up her wrap from the bed and stooped to kiss the baby. “Isabel, he is cute. I’m ready, now.”
“You look very well,” said her mother.
In the hall they met Minnie, coming up all smiles to play nursemaid. Isabel lingered to speak to her for a moment. Mrs. Ward was on the stairs.
“You can open the east window,” Jane heard Isabel murmur. Then her mother’s voice rang out from the lower hall.
“Come on, girls! The cab’s at the door.”