Part 2 (1/2)
”Stop talking such nonsense, Florence. I don't believe a word of it.
Here you are not quite twenty-four years old. You have had the same education I had; we went to the same school, studied the same books, lived in the same room, traveled about Europe together for nearly a year, met the same people, have almost the same tastes, and have spent a winter in Was.h.i.+ngton together, to say nothing of our countless letters to each other in the interim. The only real difference between us is that you were born in Fairville and I in Chicago, that I am married and you are not, and that I am fourteen months your senior; yet with all this affinity of tastes and education, you deliver a bit of straight-laced Calvinism which makes me shudder and smell sulphur and roasting flesh.”
”I deny the implied accusation, although, if finding fault with the recklessness of life of the present day const.i.tutes being a Puritan, I fear I shall be compelled to plead guilty. They say one's face is an index of one's character, so I suppose mine is as long as the one hundred and nineteenth Psalm, and as narrow as it is long.”
”No, Florence, you are a dissembler, for your sparkling blue eyes, bright cheeks, and soft brown hair are more Parisienne than Puritan, to say nothing of those white teeth and that sweet little mouth. No, my dear, there is nothing narrow about your face; in fact, I think it is almost round enough for a Breton peasant.”
”You cruel woman! I shall never forgive you for such an insulting remark. You could say nothing worse except to call me buxom. I know I am not cla.s.sic, or antique Etruscan, or Ptolemaic, but I don't think you need tell me to my face that I am _paysanne_.”
”Don't lose your temper, dear. If I told the truth, I should say that your beauty is of that charming eclectic type which only America can produce. Intelligence and fidelity s.h.i.+ne in your deep blue eyes, and any woman would give ten years of her life for your coloring, to say nothing of your superbly tall figure.”
”I feel a trifle better, but I can't quite forgive you for the round face.”
”If Miss Florence Moreland is still provoked, she may have revenge by telling me exactly what she thinks of my personal appearance and character as interpreted by my features.”
”Mrs. Roswell Sanderson is most formal, but I a.s.sure her that if I speak, it will be to tell the truth.”
”Come, Florence, I am really in earnest, and I promise not to be angry.
I should so like to know exactly what you think of me.”
”I think you are the dearest friend I ever had, and I don't intend to lose you by criticism.”
”Nonsense, Florence, I promise not to be angry, and I feel that it will actually do me good.”
”Well, if you will hear things quite as disagreeable as 'the round face,' here goes. I shall begin with your eyes. I believe novelists call them the lanterns of the soul. You have superb, dreamy, black eyes; eyes to fill a woman with envy or a man with love,--but they are both absent-minded and ambitious; they show a restless longing after unattained hopes. In other words, they are dissatisfied and cold, but from an artistic standpoint that only enhances their attractiveness.”
”You horrid creature! But I promised to be quiet, so go on.”
”So much for the eyes; now the nose. It is exquisitely moulded and cla.s.sic. I shall dismiss the nose as perfect.”
”O, thank you so much.”
”Now the mouth. It has a cupid's bow and it droops at the corners. I like your mouth, but I think it also looks dissatisfied. An artist would rave over it, but when his eyes fell on that transparently white complexion, and that glossy hair so artistically knotted at the back, I am sure he would think you were a creation of Phidias lost from the Elgin rooms of the British Museum. If you did call me eclectic, I must admit that your type is pure, unalloyed Greek; but I won't let you off altogether, for I consider your figure a trifle too stubby. Does that pay you up for 'the round face'?”
”I promised to keep my temper, so I will spare you; besides, I must confess that I did not come off so badly after all. 'The creation of Phidias' was quite flattering; but what makes you think I look dissatisfied?”
”I am sure you should not look so, for of all women in the world you have the least to make you discontented.”
”O, Florence, don't talk that way. You, who have been my best friend and my only confidante, ought to know that even the brightest surroundings have their shadows.” Then Marion looked out over the angry, grey waters, and Florence saw in her deep, black eyes just the dissatisfied, longing look she had described.
”I think,” said Florence, ”that what you call shadows on your bright surroundings are but tarnish which neglect has left there. A little extra care will make all bright.”
”I want sympathy, not sermons, Florence. I was brought up on texts and tracts, and the Westminster catechism was my daily nourishment.”
”Why, Marion, dear, I don't want to preach; I want to help you; but it is hard for me to understand why you should not be perfectly happy. Your husband adores you; he is rich and denies you nothing; you are a leader in society, young, handsome and admired. What more do you want?”
”I don't know, I really don't. If some fairy queen were to appear in a blaze of light and spangles out of that coal-scuttle and promise to fulfill any wish, I should be at a loss to tell her what I really want, but I am not happy. To myself I find fault with everything and everybody. Some people bore me, some people upset my nerves; at times I feel utterly lifeless, and at times I get into such a state of mind that I almost scream, and all over nothing at all. When I go out and meet the same old set over and over again,--and such a narrow, prosaic set at that,--it seems as though I should fairly go mad. What I want is a change. I am perfectly contented away from this depressing place. When I was in Was.h.i.+ngton last spring, I felt almost like another woman; in fact I don't believe it is anything but the provincialism of Chicago which is putting me in such states of mind.”
”Don't be foolish, Marion. As though such a cause could make you discontented. If it does, then you don't appreciate your native city. I like Chicago and I would rather visit here than in any place I know.”
”Perhaps it is because your old friend, Harold Wainwright, lives here,”