II
The November air felt very cool and bracing as they stood on the front steps. It was very luxurious, Jane thought, to be driving over to Muriel’s in a cab when it was only four blocks away. Everything at home seemed luxurious, after Bryn Mawr. It really wasn’t nearly as bad as she had thought it was going to be. It was fun to be with her father again. He had given her a new desk and a bookcase to hold all her Bryn Mawr books. Her mother had had her room repapered. It was very exciting to buy all the new clothes and to feel herself, for once, the central figure on the little family stage. Even Isabel seemed to think that nothing was too good for her. Hats and frocks and shoes and stockings were arriving every day, regardless of expense. Jane was a little appalled at the outlay, but everyone else seemed to take it completely for granted. Jane was a débutante. She had to have things. Her mother had even ordered her some new calling cards, though the old ones were not half used up. “Miss Ward,” they said, with the “Jane” left off. Jane couldn’t quite think of herself as “Miss Ward.” She was, of course, now Isabel was married.
The cab turned the corner that always made her remember André’s last smile. She could still see his tall, slender figure, walking, furiously fast, up Pine Street. But she had grown accustomed, now, to missing André. The first fall days, that always made her feel that school should be beginning, had brought him to mind at every turn. She had planned to go to see his mother just as soon as she was sure that she was back from her summer in France. Mrs. Duroy would tell her all about him.
She had mentioned that projected visit a little diffidently to her father. She had not seen Mrs. Duroy since the night of the bicycle picnic. Two years ago and more. Her father had looked at her very kindly.
“They’ve gone, Jane,” he said gently.
“Gone?” she had echoed faintly.
“He was called back to Europe. Stationed in Prague, now, I think. They left last winter, soon after Christmas.”
So that was that.
“Papa,” Jane had said, rather hesitantly, “do—do you know anything about André?”
“Not a thing, kid. Haven’t heard of him since he left.”
“I—I wish I could have seen his mother,” Jane had said miserably, “before she went away.” Her father patted her hand. There was nothing to say. Prague. Jane wasn’t even quite sure what country it was in. She kept thinking of André in Prague. Or Paris.
She kept thinking, too, of Agnes and Marion, and of what they were doing, each hour of the day, on the green October campus. It was very easy to imagine that, for the Bryn Mawr days were marked off meticulously hour by hour, with a fixed, unchanging programme. A quarter to nine—chapel was assembling. Miss Thomas was entering the rostrum. The choir was tuning up. The Quaker prayer was begun. Ten minutes past nine—Agnes was settling down for her Greek lecture. Ten—Marion was entering Major Latin. Twelve—the English professor was ascending the stairs. One—Pembroke dining-room was a babel of tongues. Four—Agnes was getting out the teakettle. Five—they were running down the Gulf Road for a brisk walk before supper. Jane could almost hear Taylor clock striking off the hours.
It was nearly four now. Nearly five in Bryn Mawr. Agnes and Marion were washing up the tea-things that very minute. They were laughing about something, of course. Something funny that Agnes would have said. Jane forgot them, however, at the sight of Muriel’s awning. It was her first big party. Next week she would have an awning of her own.
The doorman, resplendent in maroon broadcloth and brass buttons, flung open the cab door with a flourish. Jane followed her mother and Isabel up the red velvet carpet. She remembered, just in time, to pick up her pink taffeta train.
The Lesters’ big house was in very festive array. There were palms from the florist’s and flowers everywhere. Great gold and russet bunches of chrysanthemums and roses of every kind and colour. The front hall smelled faintly like a greenhouse. A line of caterer’s men bowed them up the stairs. They were very early, which was quite as it should be. Jane’s place was awaiting her behind the great silver teakettle in the dining-room.
Jane flung off her wrap in the lacy splendour of the Lesters’ guestroom. A waiting-maid seized it as it fell. She folded it meticulously and laid it on the bed. Jane looked in the long glass. So, she had a style of her own, she thought. Isabel had said so, and Isabel knew. Jane couldn’t see it, however. But her gown was very pretty and her waist was very small and her cheeks were pink with excitement behind her sheer white face veil. She ran down the stairs ahead of her mother.
The four Lesters were standing ceremoniously at the parlour door. The room seemed very bare and strangely neat, with all the furniture pushed back against the walls, and all the ornaments removed to make way for the magnificent flowers. Mrs. Lester looked perfectly enormous in purple satin. Muriel, at her side, incredibly angelic, in white lace. Her hair was a black cloud. Her eyes were very bright and blue, dancing with pleasure. She carried a great bunch of white sweet peas. She flung her arms around Jane excitedly. Edith, imported from Cleveland, was next in line. Jane hadn’t seen her for nearly three years. She looked a lot older, Jane thought, and rather tired. Rosalie was chattering to the last guest, a funny old lady in a satin cape. Freddy Waters and the Cleveland brother-in-law were talking together near the front window. With their sleek blond heads and their black frock coats and their dove-coloured neckties they looked as much alike as the two Dromios.
Jane passed down the line and stood a moment, uncertainly, in the empty room. She didn’t know the old lady and she never knew what to say to Freddy Waters. She hadn’t seen the Cleveland brother-in-law since his wedding day, four years before. She wandered a bit uneasily toward the dining-room door. There was Flora behind the chocolate pot. Flora, very fair and frail, looking like a little Dresden shepherdess in pale blue silk. Jane took her place at the other end of the table. An obsequious caterer’s man hovered behind her chair. Or perhaps he was the new butler. Jane couldn’t remember. Some people that she didn’t know were standing around the table, plates in hand. She was too far away from Flora to talk. She could hardly see her over the great orchid centrepiece.
Somebody asked for some tea. Jane poured it out in silence. More people were coming into the room. Jane didn’t know any of them. Lots of them wanted tea. Jane was kept quite busy. She could hear Flora chattering away at her end of the table. Flora knew ever so many people. Some men came in. Quite old ones. They gravitated around Flora. She seemed to have lots to talk about. One grey-bearded gentleman was a trifle deaf. He was asking Flora a question.
“Jane Ward,” she heard Flora say. “Jane Ward. Mrs. John Ward’s daughter.”
“John Ward’s daughter?” Jane heard him reply. “Didn’t know there was another.” He was staring at her over the orchids. “Pretty little filly.”
Jane felt unaccountably exhilarated. She looked up at an old lady who was asking for tea, with a ravishing smile.
“Doesn’t Muriel look lovely?” she said politely. The old lady must at least know Muriel.
“Muriel who?” said the old lady. But Jane was not discouraged. She went on smiling and trying to talk. Pretty little filly, he had said.
Freddy Waters came in with three young men. He brought them up to Jane.
“They want tea,” he said, and introduced them.
Jane realized at once that she had been so excited that she hadn’t heard their names. But she smiled very steadfastly.
Pretty little filly. Very soon the young men were laughing. One of them pretended that the massive hot-water kettle was too heavy for her to lift. He filled the empty teapot himself. Jane thought he was awfully attractive. She felt her cheeks growing hot in the crowded room. She hoped they were growing pinker. More young men came in. Her unknown swains introduced them. Jane didn’t hear their names, either. One of them brought her some pink punch.
“There’s a stick in it,” he said, smiling.
Jane felt quite daring, drinking it. She glanced across at Flora. Flora was drinking it too. She was surrounded by young men. The old ones had all gone. Two elderly ladies were waiting for their chocolate, a bit impatiently. They got it, finally, from the caterer’s man.
The room was very hot, and very, very noisy. Jane had to scream to be heard. It was easier to talk when you screamed, she discovered, much easier than in a silent room. When you screamed, things seemed funny.
Presently there was a little disturbance at the dining-room door. Lots of young men came in, and then Muriel. Muriel looked flushed and terribly excited. Her cheeks were rose pink. She was waving her sweet peas and laughing at everyone. Close behind her was Mr. Bert Lancaster. He looked old, Jane thought, among all those gay young people, but awfully handsome. His moustache was just right. It was waxed, the least little bit, at the ends. There was a white sweet pea in his buttonhole.
He cleared the way for Muriel to the tea-table. The crowd was thinning out. Muriel patted Jane’s shoulder.
“Tired, darling?” she asked, Mr. Lancaster offered her a cup of tea. She shook her head. “I want something cold.”
One of the young men sprang to get some punch. When he came back with it, Mr. Lancaster took the glass cup out of his hand and gave it to Muriel himself. The young man glared resentfully. Muriel smiled up into the eyes of Mr. Lancaster and drank the punch with little gasps of delight.
“I was so thirsty,” she said. “I’m awfully hot.”
Mr. Lancaster took her arm very gently, just above the elbow. He steered her through what was left of the crowd to the bay window at the end of the room. He opened the sash a little. Muriel stood leaning against the red velvet window curtains, fanning herself with her sweet peas. Mr. Lancaster was bending over her, his eyes upon her face.
“May I have a cup of tea, Jane?” said somebody softly. Jane started and looked up. It was Flora’s mother. She had on a tiny black bonnet with one pink rose and a perky little black velvet bow that stood up behind. Her face was framed in the black lace ruff of her little cape. It looked very pale against that background and when she raised her veil, Jane thought her lips were white. In a moment, though, she was laughing with one of the young men. Her laugh was very low and silvery and her eyes were very bright. Her black dotted veil was tucked coquettishly up over her little nose. The young man seemed enslaved at once. Flora’s mother looked up into his eyes and laughed again. The young man was immensely flattered. Jane was staring up at them, just as she had stared, a moment before, at Mr. Bert Lancaster and Muriel.
“Do you know this dear child?” said Flora’s mother. She introduced the young man. Jane smiled very dutifully, but she couldn’t compete with Mrs. Furness. The young man returned to his devotion. Flora’s mother put her teacup down. The tea was untasted. Two more young men were talking to her now. She turned to leave the room and all three went with her.
Jane’s eyes returned to Muriel. She was still standing with Mr. Lancaster by the window. He was talking to her, very earnestly, but Muriel’s eyes were wandering brightly over the crowd. She was not bothering much to listen to him. Jane returned to her tea-pouring.
Suddenly she saw Rosalie enter the room. She walked straight over to Muriel and she looked very much provoked. She said something sharply and Muriel turned away with her toward the door. Mr. Lancaster followed.
“You’ve got to stay in line with Mamma,” said Rosalie angrily, as they passed Jane’s elbow. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
They walked toward the door together. Mr. Lancaster was strolling behind them pulling his moustache and smiling. On the threshold they almost ran into Flora’s mother. She spoke at once to Mr. Lancaster and smiled, very prettily, up into his face. He answered rather briefly, and, after a moment. Flora’s mother turned away with her three young men. Mr. Lancaster followed Muriel into the parlour.
Jane heard an excited whisper in her ear.
“Did you see that?” It was Isabel. Jane thoroughly despised her. She felt terribly sorry for Flora’s mother and she hated Mr. Bert Lancaster. But, most of all, she despised herself for having seen it. She had seen it all, she had stared at it, just like Isabel. It quite spoiled the end of the reception.