I
Jane stood by the piano in the Lakewood living-room, looking fixedly at the flowers that the children had sent her. Fifty Killarney roses in a great glass bowl. Time was when Jane had regarded a woman of fifty as standing with one foot in the grave. Even now she was glad that Isabel was coming out for tea. Isabel was fifty-five. Jane felt that it would be a comfort to look at her. It had been a comfort that morning to look at Stephen, who was fifty-eight. But men were different. To men, years brought distinction. To women, they brought only grey hairs and crow’s-feet, thick waistlines and double chins.
Jane turned from the roses to glance at her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror that hung over her Colonial mantelpiece. Jane’s waistline was nothing to be ashamed of. She had no crow’s-feet. When she remembered to hold her head high, her chin, if slightly—well—mature, was certainly not double. It could not be denied, however, that her hair was very grey. Jane hated that. What had Jimmy once said? “A woman is young as long as she looks beguiling with mussy hair.” Jane looked like the Witch of Endor, now, with mussy hair. Still, she reflected courageously, she never allowed it to be mussy. “Well-groomed”—that was the adjective a well-intentioned eulogist would have chosen with which to describe Jane’s hair at fifty. A barren adjective. An adjective devoid of glamour and romance. Well-groomed hair, Jane reflected sadly, would never have appealed to Jimmy.
Did it appeal to Stephen? Jane smiled a little fondly at the thought. Stephen, she knew, had never even observed her increasingly meticulous arrangement of hairnet and hairpin. To Stephen, Jane still looked like Jane, and, though she had ceased to be the phantom of delight that he had married, in Stephen’s eyes Jane could never be fifty. And yet—she was. There were the smiling flowers to prove it.
Jane turned resolutely from the mirror. A woman of character on her fiftieth birthday, she told herself firmly, should not be staring despondently into a gilt-framed looking-glass regretting her vanished charms. A woman of character on her fiftieth birthday should have put vanity behind her. She should be competently and confidently taking stock of the more durable satisfactions of life.
There were plenty of them to take stock of, Jane reflected. Durable satisfactions were the kind she had gone in for. From her earliest girlhood some unerring instinct of emotional thrift had led her to select them at life’s bargain counter. They had worn well. They had washed splendidly. They had not stretched nor shrunk nor faded. They were all nearly as good as new. They were, perhaps, Jane reminded herself, with a smile, a little out of fashion. Durable satisfactions were not in vogue any longer. Cicily professed to think nothing of them. But at fifty Jane could spread them all out before her and take solid Victorian comfort in the fact that there was not a shred of tarnished tinsel among them. No foolish purchases to regret. Only a very fortunate, a very happy woman could say that, Jane reflected wisely.
And yet—and yet—what wanton instinct whispered that a moment of divine extravagance would be rather glamorous to look back upon? That at fifty it would be cheering to remember having purchased—oh, long ago, of course—something superbly silly that you had loved and paid high for and—But no, Jane’s thoughts continued, if you had done that you would also have to remember that you had tired of it or worn it out or broken it in some deplorable revulsion of feeling. It was much better to have gone in for the satisfactions that endured. Satisfactions that endured like the familiar furniture of the Lakewood living-room. Jane’s eyes surveyed the objects around her with a whimsical twinkle—the books, the Steinway, Stephen’s armchair, her own sewing-table, tangible reminders of the solidity of her life. The very walls were eloquent of domesticity. The serenity of the pleasant, ordered room was very reassuring. It reminded her that she had nothing to worry about in her pleasant, ordered life.
The children, of course. You always worried about your children. Even about good children like Cicily, Jenny, and Steve. You worried about Cicily because she smoked too much and drank a little and played bridge for too high stakes and seemed a trifle moody—too reckless one day, too resigned the next. A curious mixture, at twenty-eight, of daring and domesticity. You worried about Jenny because she did not really like the life in Lakewood, because she did not care for dances and was not interested in any particular young man, and talked absurd nonsense about leaving home and taking a job and leading her own life. Jenny was twenty-five. She really should be falling in love with someone. You worried about Steve because—but of course that was only ridiculous! At twenty-three Steve was proving himself a chip off the old block. He was a most enthusiastic young banker. Stephen was delighted with him and Jane was delighted with Stephen’s delight. She would not admit, even to herself, a certain perverse disappointment that her handsome young son, with the world at his feet and so full of a number of things, had embraced the prosaic career of a banker with such ardent abandon. It was nice, it was natural, she told herself firmly, that Steve should follow in his father’s and his grandfather’s footsteps. It was absurd of her to wish him a little more—adventurous. A little less conventional. A bit of a gypsy.
A gypsy. Jane had only known one gypsy. If she had run off with Jimmy and they had had a son—Jane pulled herself up abruptly. These were no thoughts for Mrs. Stephen Carver to be indulging herself in as she stood staring at the great glass bowl of Killarney roses that her three grown children had sent her on her fiftieth birthday. There was nothing in Steve to criticize, of course, save a certain youthful scorn for his Middle-Western environment, engendered by his education on the Atlantic seaboard. Three years at Milton and four at Harvard had transformed Steve into an ardent Bostonian. He had wanted to settle there and go into his grandfather’s bank. His uncle Alden had encouraged the thought. But Stephen had felt that Chicago offered greater opportunities. Stephen had been for seven years the president of the Midland Loan and Trust Company. He had seated his only son, very firmly, on a high stool in his outer office.
Jane heard the doorbell. That would be Isabel. She turned from the roses as her sister entered. Isabel was well-groomed, too, Jane noticed with a sigh. Well-groomed and portly, with a stole of silver fox thrown around her substantial blue broadcloth shoulders and a smart little black hat pulled unbecomingly down over her worn round face, uncompromisingly concealing the soft waves of her silvery hair. Modern styles were made for the young, Jane reflected.
“Happy birthday!” said Isabel as she kissed her.
Jane acknowledged the ironic salute.
“You won’t mind any other, you know,” smiled Isabel, “until the sixtieth.”
“I don’t mind this one,” said Jane stoutly.
“Tell that to the marines!” laughed Isabel. “I’ll never forget Muriel’s! Wasn’t she down?”
“She certainly was,” smiled Jane, “in spite of the celebration.”
Muriel’s fiftieth birthday had occurred last month. She had celebrated it by taking off her mourning for Bert. He had been dead two years.
“Muriel’s gone off awfully,” sighed Isabel. It was rather a sigh of satisfaction, however. “She’s reverting to race as she gets older.”
“It was a mistake,” said Jane, “for her to bob her hair.”
“It certainly was,” said Isabel. She threw off her fox fur and sank down in Stephen’s armchair. “Do you know that she’s been seeing an awful lot of Ed Brown?”
“I know,” said Jane, “and I can’t understand it. I can’t even understand how she came to know him. He’s very unattractive.”
Isabel, as usual, could supply all required details.
“He gave her twenty-five thousand dollars in her campaign for the Crippled Children. She went to see him in Flora’s old house. He’s turned the gold parlour into his private office.”
A little shiver of repulsion passed over Jane.
“Don’t, Isabel!” she cried. “I can’t bear to think of it!”
“Can you?” said Isabel. “But he has. I suppose he was bowled over by the sight of Mrs. Albert Lancaster in the flesh! He’s just the kind that would read all the society columns. Anyway, he drew out his checkbook with a flourish and that gesture made a great hit with Muriel.”
“He must be as old as Bert Lancaster was,” mused Jane.
“Oh, no, dear,” said Isabel promptly. “Bert was sixty-seven when he died. Ed Brown can’t be a day over sixty.”
“Well, anyway,” said Jane, “it won’t come to anything.”
“Rosalie’s not so sure,” said Isabel. “He has millions. Bert’s illness was awfully expensive, you know. And Muriel’s been generous to Albert.”
“Oh, Isabel!” said Jane defensively. “That won’t make any difference! Whatever you may say against Muriel, she never cared about money. All Muriel ever wanted in life was excitement and admiration and—”
“And love,” interrupted Isabel, with decision. “Ed Brown could love her. Any man can do that. He could love her in an opera box and a Rolls-Royce town-car and a sable cape! I think Muriel would enjoy it immensely.”
“A billboard king,” said Jane reflectively. “I don’t just see Muriel Lancaster as a billboard queen.”
“He’s the president of the Watseka Country Club,” said Isabel with a twinkle. “But I think Muriel could be relied on to make him resign. He couldn’t resign from his married daughters, however. I should think Pearl and Gertie would give Muriel pause for thought.”
Isabel’s command of facts was really astounding.
“Are those their names?”
Isabel nodded solemnly.
“They’re terrible, Jane. They play bridge in the afternoons in lace evening gowns and they wear white fox furs in streetcars! At home, I’m sure they have flats with sun parlours and sit in them in boudoir caps, reading the comic supplements of the Sunday papers—”
“Isabel!” laughed Jane. “You’re simply morbid!”
“Merely clairvoyante,” smiled Isabel. “But I tell you, Jane, since Bert died, curiously enough, Muriel’s been rather lonely. She couldn’t talk to him, of course. But as long as he lived she had to plan for him and quarrel with his nurses and argue with his doctors. It gave her something to do.”
Just then the maid entered the room, bearing the tea-tray. Isabel, pausing discreetly, glanced up at her, just as Mrs. Ward used to glance at Minnie.
“Where’s Jenny?” she asked, on just her mother’s note of hollow inquiry, as Jane poured the water on the tea leaves.
“Out walking with her dogs,” said Jane.
The maid left the room and Isabel promptly resumed.
“It’s fun to flirt, you know, when you haven’t much time for it. But you can’t make a life out of philandering. Not even if you’re Muriel. Especially at fifty.”
“Two lumps?” said Jane.
“Two lumps,” said Isabel. “And lots of cream.” She rose to pick up her cup and stood silently on the hearthrug for a moment, absently stirring her tea. “You know, Jane,” she resumed presently, “it’s a little difficult, from fifty on, to decide just what you will make a life out of. And speaking of that, old girl, what are we going to do about Mamma? She says she won’t go away for the summer.”
“She must,” said Jane firmly, as she offered the toast.
“Well, she won’t,” said Isabel, accepting a piece. “She won’t because of Minnie’s asthma. Minnie has every kind of asthma there is—horse, rose, and goldenrod! Mamma says Minnie must stay in town. Or Minnie says Mamma must. It’s too ridiculous, but I can’t do a thing with her! We ought to have got rid of Minnie years ago, Jane. She rules Mamma with a rod of iron.”
“We’re lucky to have her,” said Jane. “Mamma adores her and she takes very good care of her.”
“We could take care of her,” said Isabel.
“Could we?” said Jane. “I mean—you know, Isabel—would we? Mamma’s awfully trying. Just as trying as Minnie, really. Minnie’s the only person in the world who can manage her.”
“It’s dreadful,” said Isabel, “to think of Mamma being managed by a servant. When you remember how she used to be—so pretty and proud and decided.”
“She’s a very old lady now,” said Jane. “A very lonely old lady.”
“Jane,” said Isabel solemnly, “when you see me getting like that, I hope you’ll kill me.”
“We’ll kill each other,” smiled Jane. “Let’s make a suicide pact.”
“I mean it,” said Isabel.
“So do I,” said Jane. “We’ll jump off the Michigan Boulevard Bridge together.” The thought had really caught Jane’s fancy. “Some early spring afternoon, I think, Isabel, when the ice is just out of the river and the first seagulls have come and the water’s running very clear and green. We’ll climb up on the parapet together—which will be difficult as we’ll both be a little infirm—and take a last look down the boulevard, thinking of how it was once just Pine Street. We’ll shut our eyes and remember the old square houses and the wide green yards and the elm trees, meeting over the cedar-block pavement. We’ll remember the yellow ice wagons, Isabel, and the Furnesses’ four-in-hand, and the bicycles and the hurdy-gurdies and our front steps on summer evenings. And then we’ll take hands and say ‘Out, brief candle!’ and jump! It would make a nine days’ wonder and the front page of all the newspapers, but I think it would be worth it!”
“It would be worth it to Cicily and Belle and Jenny,” said Isabel cynically. “They wouldn’t have to cope with anything worse than a double funeral!”
“To Cicily and Jenny, perhaps,” assented Jane. “Belle won’t have to cope with much if Albert stays in the diplomatic service and keeps the ocean between you.”
“I hope he won’t stay in it,” said Isabel. “He’s got as far up now as he can ever get without a great deal more money. You need millions, Jane, for even a second-rate embassy. Belle’s awfully tired of being the wife of an undersecretary and having a different baby in a new city every third year. I hope to goodness if she ever has another it will be a son! Three daughters in nine years is enough for Belle to handle!”
“A boy in time saves nine!” smiled Jane. As she spoke she heard the doorbell. “That’s probably Cicily,” she said. “She was going to bring over the children.”
In a moment, however, Muriel’s voice was heard in the hall.
“Is Mrs. Carver at home?” She appeared in the doorway, holding a little package in her hands. Muriel hadn’t gone off much, reflected Jane. She was looking very charming, that afternoon, in a new grey spring suit and a little red hat that matched the colour of her carmined lips. Her blue eyes were twinkling, as of old. There was a spirit of youth about Muriel that the frosts of fifty winters could not subdue. It triumphed over the ripe effulgence of her middle years. She looked well-groomed, however.
“How’s the birthday girl?” she cried. “Hello, Isabel!” Advancing to the hearthrug she kissed Jane warmly. “Feeling rather low, old speed?”
“Not at all,” said Jane falsely. “I like to be fifty.”
“I believe you,” said Muriel. “It’s a lovely age. ‘The last of life, for which the first was made!’ How poets do lie! Never mind, darling, you’ll feel better tomorrow. One gets used to everything!” She sank into an armchair and smiled up at Jane. “Here’s a present for you!”
Jane opened the little package. It contained a gold vanity case.
“Why, Muriel!” she cried. “How—how magnificent!”
“Use that lipstick,” said Muriel firmly. “Better and brighter lipsticks are the answer, Jane. No tea, darling! Such as it is, I’m trying to keep my figure! Do you see what I see, Jane? Is Isabel actually eating chocolate cake?”
“I certainly am,” said Isabel, a bit tartly.
“I can’t have eaten a piece of chocolate cake,” said Muriel meditatively, “for over fifteen years! But you eat it, Jane, and you don’t get fat at all. Neither does Flora. I saw her in Paris last spring, just stuffing down patisserie at Rumpelmayer’s, and she was a perfect thirty-six!”
“You’re looking very pretty today, Muriel,” said Isabel suddenly. Her tone was not that of idle compliment. Rather of acute appraisal. She had been watching Muriel intently since her triumphal entrance.
Muriel glanced quickly up at her. Jane heard her catch her breath in a little excited gasp.
“I—I’m feeling rather pretty,” she said surprisingly. “Do you know what I mean, girls—how you do sometimes feel pretty, from the inside out?”
Jane nodded solemnly. She understood. Though she herself had not felt pretty in just that way for years. Not since that last night when she had gone with Jimmy into the moonlit garden. It was such a happy, excited feeling. And it always told its story in your face. You only felt pretty, Jane reflected wisely, when you knew that someone else, whose opinion you cared about terribly, really thought you were.
“Muriel!” cried Isabel. “What’s the matter with you?”
Jane suddenly realized that Muriel was laughing. Laughing happily, excitedly, and yet a trifle shyly. There was something absurdly virginal about that happy, excited laughter. She clasped her gloved hands impulsively in a little confiding gesture that recalled to Jane’s memory the Muriel of Miss Milgrim’s School.
“Girls,” she said dramatically, “I’m going to marry Ed Brown on the first of June!”
“M-Muriel!” stammered Jane. She rose to her feet. She did not dare to look at Isabel.
“I’m—terribly happy,” said Muriel faintly. She had stopped laughing now. There were actually tears in her great blue eyes. Her carmined lips were trembling. The sudden display of emotion had curiously shattered the hard enamel of her brilliant, fading beauty. Jane took her in her arms. Muriel had never seemed more appealing. Jane felt terribly fond of her. She wanted to protect her from Isabel. From Isabel, who, quite unmoved, was still watching Muriel with that look of acute appraisal. Nevertheless, Jane, herself, could not suppress the thought that Muriel’s ample, corseted figure felt very solid, very mature in her eager embrace. She despised herself for the thought.
“Muriel,” she said, “I think it’s lovely.”
“I know I’m ridiculous,” said Muriel, withdrawing from her arms and fumbling for a handkerchief in her little grey bag. “But it’s terribly cheering to be really ridiculous again. I—I was never very happy with Bert, you know. Ed really loves me. He—he’s like a boy about me—” Meeting Isabel’s appraising eye she stopped abashed. “I know you’re thinking there’s no fool like an old fool, Isabel!”
“I’m not!” protested Isabel. “I’m not at all. I’m sure you’ll be very happy—” Her voice trailed off a trifle lamely.
“We’re going around the world on our honeymoon,” said Muriel. “We won’t be back for a year.”
A honeymoon, thought Jane. A honeymoon for Muriel, who was her own contemporary. It was absurd, of course, but it was touching, too. It was touching to think that anyone could have the courage to believe that life could begin over again at fifty. Love at fifty. It tired Jane to think of it. But perhaps it was possible. Autumn blossoming. A freak of nature, like the flowers of the witch-hazel, bursting weirdly into bloom in October when all the other bushes were bare. But—Ed Brown.
“Have you written Albert?” asked Isabel.
“I cabled him Saturday,” said Muriel, The familiar glint of shameless curiosity glittered in Isabel’s eye. “He was very much pleased,” said Muriel with dignity.
“Of course,” said Jane hastily. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Will he come back for the wedding?” asked Isabel suddenly. “Will he bring Belle?”
“They’re both coming,” said Muriel, smiling. “And bringing the children.”
“You should have them for flower girls,” said Isabel wickedly.
“Ed has grandchildren, too,” said Muriel blandly. Jane felt the spectral presences of Pearl and Gertie hover for an instant in the circumambient air. But Isabel, thank Heaven, was obviously not going to refer to them. “I’m going to have such fun, Jane,” went on Muriel, “buying a trousseau. I’m going to be very foolish. I’m going in for black chiffon nightgowns and I saw a negligee last week at Castberg’s—”
A sudden shuffle, a sound of suppressed laughter, broke in upon their colloquy from the hall. Jane looked up quickly. She had not heard the doorbell ring. A tiny red-sweatered figure stood, tottering, in the doorway.
“Happy birfday, Granma!” it cried and staggering across the room fell tottering across Jane’s knees. It was Robin Redbreast, her youngest grandchild.
“Magnificent!” cried Cicily’s voice.
The twins appeared in the doorway. Tripping on rugs, slipping on the hardwood floor, they dashed across the living-room and cast themselves on Jane’s neck.
“Happy birthday, Grandma!” they repeated.
Cicily stood on the threshold. She looked extremely pretty in a rose-coloured sport suit and immensely amused at her offspring’s dramatic entrance.
“Hello, Mumsy!” she cried. “Happy birthday again! Hello, Aunt Isabel! I thought you’d be here. How do you do, Aunt Muriel?”
“Don’t tell her,” whispered Muriel. “Don’t tell her until I’ve gone.” She rose as she spoke. Untangling herself from the arms of grandchildren, Jane walked with her to the door.
“I do feel a little silly,” confessed Muriel in the hall, “in the presence of Albert’s contemporaries.”
“Nonsense!” said Jane stoutly. Though she could not imagine what her own feelings would be if she had to announce her prospective marriage to Cicily. She kissed Muriel tenderly and returned to the living-room. Isabel had wasted no time. Cicily, standing on the hearthrug, was facing her mother-in-law in shocked, derisive incredulity.
“Oh, I don’t believe it!” she was saying.
“It’s true!” cried Isabel. “It’s perfectly true!”
“You’re kidding me,” said Cicily.
“I’m not!” cried Isabel. “Ask your mother!”
“It’s true,” said Jane soberly.
“Aunt Muriel—is going to marry—Ed Brown?”
Jane nodded solemnly.
“My Gawd!” said Cicily profanely. Then, “How absurd!”
“Why is it absurd?” inquired Jane a trifle sharply. She sat down again at the tea-table and removed Robin Redbreast’s fingers from the sugar-bowl.
“It’s so undignified,” said Cicily promptly. “If Aunt Muriel wanted to marry again, why didn’t she do it years ago?”
“My dear,” said Jane gently, “her husband was living.”
“If you call it living,” said Cicily cheerfully. She had appropriated Robin Redbreast and was removing his scarlet sweater. Little Jane was already seated on Isabel’s knee. Jane put her arm around John and drew him gently to her. She leaned her cheek against the embroidered chevron on the sleeve of his navy-blue reefer. The twins looked exactly alike, brown-eyed and solemn and very like their great-grandfather. Their souls were different, however. Matter-of-fact and matter-of-fancy, Jane always called them. John’s soul was matter-of-fancy. He was a lovely, imaginative little boy. His big brown eyes looked up at her wistfully. There was nothing in the world more endearing, Jane reflected tenderly, than the freckles on an eight-year-old nose!
But Cicily was still intrigued with the problems of her Aunt Muriel.
“I should think she would have fallen in love with someone else long since,” she said.
Jane’s eyes met Isabel’s. She hoped her sister was going to restrain herself. The hope was vain, however.
“She’s been falling in love with someone else every six months for the last thirty years,” said Isabel shortly.
“Why didn’t she walk out on Uncle Bert, then?” asked Cicily lightly. “Why didn’t she get a divorce?”
Jane glanced uneasily at the twins. Eight-year-old children were very understanding. Cicily never seemed to care what she said in their hearing.
“The Lesters are a very conventional family,” she said gravely. “I’m sure your Aunt Muriel never thought of divorce. Not even before Uncle Bert’s stroke.”
“Why not?” asked Cicily again.
“She had Albert to consider,” said Isabel.
“Albert?” cried Cicily. Her voice was greatly astonished. “What had Albert to do with it?”
“It would have broken up his home,” said Isabel, a trifle sententiously.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cicily. “He might have drawn a very good stepfather.”
“Men who love married women,” said Isabel with asperity, “don’t make very good stepfathers.”
Cicily looked up at her with interest. Robin Redbreast slid from her knees to the floor.
“Do you mean she really had lovers?”
Isabel did not reply. In her turn, she glanced a little uneasily at the twins. Her silence was very eloquent.
“How stupid of her!” said Cicily. “A woman who takes a lover is always the underdog.”
“Your Aunt Muriel wasn’t,” said Isabel. “There was always a good deal of talk, of course, but she managed things very cleverly.”
“I don’t believe in promiscuity,” said Cicily firmly.
“Cicily!” cried Isabel sharply. “What words you use! At your age your mother and I wouldn’t have—”
“I can’t see that it makes much difference what you call things, Aunt Isabel,” said Cicily cheerfully. “You and Mother certainly didn’t believe in it and I don’t either. It isn’t practical and it’s terribly complicated. I believe in monogamy.”
“You reassure me, darling,” murmured Jane, with a smile.
“I believe,” continued Cicily stoutly, “that when a married woman falls in love, she ought to march straight to the divorce court and make everything regular.”
“Oh,” said Jane, still with the smile, “progressive monogamy.”
“Exactly,” said Cicily. Then added wisely, “No woman is ever really happy trying to live with two men at once. And no woman is ever really happy without her marriage lines.”
“No woman is eventually happy,” said Jane rather solemnly, “if she doesn’t play the game with the cards that were dealt her.”
“Why?” said Cicily promptly. “Not all games are like that. I think life’s very like poker. You look over your hand and keep what you like, and what you don’t, you discard. Throw away your Jack, you know, and hope for a king!”
Cicily was smiling a little over her play on words. It was an innocent little joke, of course, but Jane was very thankful that Isabel had not noticed it.
“And if you draw a deuce?” she said soberly.
“Have faith in the future,” said Cicily lightly, “and keep your poker face. There’s always a new deal.”
“You talk,” said Jane severely, “as if a woman had nine lives like a cat.”
“She could have,” said Cicily, “if she had vision and courage.”
“Vision!” cried Jane. “What takes vision is to recognize the imperial qualities in the cards in your hand! What takes courage is to win the pot with a deuce spot!”
“I call that bluffing,” said Cicily, cheerfully. “You fool the world, but you don’t fool yourself. You may win the pot, but it’s not worth the winning. What’s fun is a game with a handful of face cards!”
For the last few minutes Isabel had not been listening to her argumentative daughter-in-law. Her next remark betrayed the fact that her thoughts had been wandering.
“Belle’s coming back for the wedding,” she said.
“Really?” cried Cicily. Her face lit up at the thought. “Oh, I’ll love to see Belle again! Is she bringing the children?”
Isabel nodded cheerfully.
“What fun!” cried Cicily. “What fun for all of us!”
It would be fun for all of them, Jane reflected, as she stood at the front door with Isabel an hour later and watched Cicily, attended by her cavalcade of children, disappear around the bushes at the entrance of the drive. The twins were trying to roller-skate, with a signal lack of success, on the gravel walk. The air resounded with their shrieks of triumph and emulation. Cicily was pushing an empty go-cart and guiding Robin Redbreast’s faltering footsteps with a maternal hand. At the turn of the path she paused to wave gaily back at the two grandmothers.
“Cicily’s a good mother,” said Isabel approvingly.
“She adores the children,” said Jane. “You know, Isabel,” she added slowly, “modern young people don’t mean all they say.”
“I don’t listen much to what Cicily says,” said Isabel. “But what I catch sounds very wild.”
“Their talk is wild,” said Jane. “But their lives are just as tame as ours were.”
“Except for the drink,” said Isabel.
“The drink, of course,” said Jane. “But Cicily never takes too much.”
“I’ve seen her pretty gay at the Casino,” said Isabel. Then added honestly, “But Jack was, too.”
“They all get pretty gay,” said Jane, “but the nice ones don’t get really tight. Not very tight, that is.”
“You don’t have to get very tight to be pretty loose!” said Isabel. She beckoned for her car as she spoke. It was waiting by the service entrance. “But I think you’re right. They don’t mean a thing by it.”
The motor drove slowly up to the front door. Isabel climbed into it.
“Goodbye, birthday child!” she cried, as it started into motion. She was waving cheerfully through the open window. “I can’t wait to tell Robin about Muriel.”
The car moved slowly down the drive. Jane lingered a moment on her doorstep looking after it in the pleasant May sunshine. Her thoughts were still busy with Cicily’s wild talk. To Jane, Cicily seemed barely out of the nursery. She looked barely out of the nursery with her dandelion head and her short slim skirts and her silly silky little legs! She might have been pushing her doll’s carriage down that drive! She shouldn’t be playing with thoughts like that, though. Edged tools in the hands of a child.
Jane turned on her doorstep and walked slowly back into the living-room to ring for the waitress to remove the ravaged tea-tray. She sank down in Stephen’s armchair. Of course the silly child did not mean a word that she had been saying. Good women talked differently in different generations but they always acted the same.
But did they? Women—good women—were getting divorced every day. Just as girls—good girls—were getting, well—gay, every night. In Jane’s mother’s time a girl who got drunk, a woman who was divorced, was an outcast, a public scandal, a skeleton in a family closet. In her time and Isabel’s she was a deplorable curiosity—more to be pitied than censured, perhaps, but always to be deplored. Now Cicily regarded intoxication as an incidental accident, dependent on the quality of bootlegged liquor that was served at a party. She regarded divorce as a practical aid to monogamous living.
When Stephen and young Steve came in from the five-fifty half an hour later, Jane was still sitting in the armchair.
“Jane?” called Stephen, from the front door. Before taking off his overcoat he came into the living-room to give her another birthday kiss. “What are you thinking about?” he inquired, “all alone by the fire.”
“It’s a godless age,” said Jane promptly.
Young Steve grinned pleasantly at her from the threshold.
“What have we done now?” he inquired cheerfully.
“It’s what you don’t do,” said Jane. “Or rather what you don’t think—what you don’t feel.”
“What’s that got to do with God?” inquired Steve, as he, too, kissed her.
“I don’t know,” said Jane thoughtfully. “I guess God’s here, all right, as much as He ever was. But you—you see Him differently.” Then suddenly it came to her just what sort of an age it was. “It’s a graceless age!” said Jane triumphantly.
“Not while you’re in it,” said Stephen with gallantry.
“Bravo, Dad!” laughed Steve. “That ought to cheer her!”
Jane looked tenderly up at her grey-haired, bald-headed Stephen. For a moment she saw him, slim, young, and debonair, standing by Mr. Bert Lancaster’s side beneath the crystal chandelier of Flora’s little third-floor ballroom. Almost as young as Steve, quite as carefree, just as good-looking. But yet an ardent supporter of the vanished dignities and decencies and decorums. Your husband’s point of view was a refuge, thought Jane. It was a sanctuary to which you fled from the assaults of time and your own children. It was where you belonged. If your husband was fifty-eight, thought Jane, you wanted, yourself, to be fifty!
“I am cheered!” said Jane.