Part 7 (1/2)
Miss Anne Gattle, seated in Mrs. Jimmie Wellington's seat, had not heard Mr. Jimmie Wellington's sketch of his wife. But she needed hardly more than a glance to satisfy herself that she and Mrs. Jimmie were as hopelessly antipathetic as only two polite women can be.
Mrs. Jimmie was accounted something of a sn.o.b in Chicago society, but perhaps the missionary was a trifle the sn.o.bbisher of the two when they met.
Miss Gattle could overlook a hundred vices in a Zulu queen more easily than a few in a fellow countrywoman. She did not like Mrs. Jimmie, and she was proud of it.
When the porter said, ”I'm afraid you got this lady's seat,” Miss Gattle shot one glance at the intruder and rose stiffly. ”Then I suppose I'll have to----”
”Oh, please don't go, there's plenty of room,” Mrs. Wellington insisted, pressing her to remain. This nettled Miss Gattle still more, but she sank back, while the porter piled up expensive traveling-bags and hat boxes till there was hardly a place to sit. But even at that Mrs. Jimmie felt called on to apologize:
”I haven't brought much luggage. How I'll ever live four days with this, I can't imagine. It will be such a relief to get my trunks at Reno.”
”Reno?” echoed Miss Gattle. ”Do you live there?”
”Well, theoretically, yes.”
”I don't understand you.”
”I've got to live there to get it.”
”To get it? Oh!” A look of sudden and dreadful realization came over the missionary. Mrs. Wellington interpreted it with a smile of gay defiance:
”Do you believe in divorces?”
Anne Gattle stuck to her guns. ”I must say I don't. I think a law ought to be pa.s.sed stopping them.”
”So do I,” Mrs. Wellington amiably agreed, ”and I hope they'll pa.s.s just such a law--after I get mine.” Then she ventured a little shaft of her own. ”You don't believe in divorces. I judge you've never been married.”
”Not once!” The spinster drew herself up, but Mrs. Wellington disarmed her with an unexpected bouquet:
”Oh, lucky woman! Don't let any heartless man delude you into taking the fatal step.”
Anne Gattle was nothing if not honest. She confessed frankly: ”I must say that n.o.body has made any violent efforts to compel me to. That's why I'm going to China.”
”To China!” Mrs. Wellington gasped, hardly believing her ears. ”My dear! You don't intend to marry a laundryman?”
”The idea! I'm going as a missionary.”
”A missionary? Why leave Chicago?” Mrs. Wellington's eye softened more or less convincingly: ”Oh, lovely! How I should dote upon being a missionary. I really think that after I get my divorce I might have a try at it. I had thought of a convent, but being a missionary must be much more exciting.” She dismissed the dream with an abrupt shake of the head. ”Excuse me, but do you happen to have any matches?”
”Matches! I never carry them!”
”They never have matches in the women's room, and I've used my last one.”
Miss Gattle took another reef in her tight lips. ”Do you smoke cigarettes?”
Mrs. Wellington's echoed disgust with disgust: ”Oh, no, indeed. I loathe them. I have the most dainty little cigars. Did you ever try one?”
Miss Gattle stiffened into one exclamation point: ”Cigars! Me!”
Mrs. Jimmie was so well used to being disapproved of that it never disturbed her. She went on as if the face opposite were not alive with horror: ”I should think that cigars might be a great consolation to a lady missionary in the long lone hours of--what do missionaries do when they're not missionarying?”