Part 44 (1/2)
”None. But they don't want intellectual companions.h.i.+p.” Another select friend spoke bitterly. ”I used to think they did. It seemed reasonable.
As the basis for a whole lifetime, it seemed the only possible thing.
But what's the use of insisting on a theory, no matter how abstractly sound, if it is disproved in practice every day? Remember Bobby Wells?
He is quite famous now; knows more about biology than any man on this side of the water. He married last week. His wife is a pretty little creature who thinks protoplasm another name for appendicitis.”
There was a sympathetic pause.
”And biology was always such a fad of yours,” sighed Mary thoughtfully.
”Never mind! They are sure to be frightfully unhappy.”
”No, they won't. That's it. That's the point I am making. They'll be as cozy as possible.”
Miss Davis thought this point over after the select friend who made it had gone. She did not wish to believe that its implication was a true one. But, if it were, if youth, just youth, were the thing of power, then it were wise that she should realize it before it was too late.
Her own share of the magic thing was swiftly pa.s.sing.
From a drawer of her desk she took a recent letter from a Bainbridge correspondent and re-read the part referring to the Spence reception.
”Really, it was quite well done,” she read. ”Old Miss Campion has a 'flair' for the suitabilities, and now that so many are trying to be smart or bizarre, it is a relief to come back to the old pleasant suitable things--you know what I mean. And the old lady has an air. How she gets it, I don't know, for the dear Queen is her idea of style.
Perhaps there is something in the 'aura' theory. If so, Miss Campion's aura is the very gla.s.s of fas.h.i.+on.
”And the bride! But I hear you are coming down, so you will see the bride for yourself. There was a silly rumor about her being part Indian. Well, if Indian blood can give one a skin like hers, I could do with an off-side ancestor myself! She is even younger than report predicted. But not sweet or coy (Heavens, how one wearies of that type!) And Benis Spence, as a bride-groom, has lost something of his 'moony' air. He is quite attractive in an odd way. All the same, I can't help feeling (and others agree with me) that there is something odd about that marriage. My dear, they do not act like married people.
The girl is as cool as a princess (I suppose princesses are). And the professor's att.i.tude is so--so casual. Even John Rogers' manner to the bride is more marked than the bridegroom's. But you know I never repeat gossip. It isn't kind. And any-way it may not be true that he drops in for tea nearly every day.”
Miss Davis replaced the letter with a musing smile. And the next morning she called up on long distance. A visit to Bainbridge, she felt, might be quite stimulating....
Observe her, then, on the morning of her arrival having breakfast in bed. Breakfast in bed is always offered to travellers at the Spence home--a courtesy based upon the tradition of an age which travelled hard and seldom. Miss Davis quite approved of the custom. She had not neglected to bring ”matinees” in which she looked most charming.
Negligee became her. She openly envied Margot Asquith her bedroom receptions.
Young Mrs. Spence, inquiring with true western hospitality, whether the breakfast had been all that could be desired, was conscious of a pang, successfully repressed, at the sight of that matinee. She saw at once that she had never realized possibilities in this direction. Her night-gowns (even the new ones) were merely night-gowns and her kimonas were garments which could still be recognized under that name.
”It is rather a duck,” said Mary, reading Desire's admiring glance.
”Quite French, I think. But of course, as a bride, you will have oceans of lovely things. I adore trousseaux. Perhaps you will show me some of your pretties?” (The bride's gowns, she admitted, might be pa.s.sable but what really tells the tale is the underneaths.)
”Oh, with pleasure.” Desire's a.s.sent was instant and warm. ”I shall love to let you see my things.”
It was risky--but effective. Mary's desire to see the trousseau evaporated on the instant. No girl would be so eager to show things which were not worth showing. And Mary was no altruist to rejoice over other people's Paris follies.
After all, she really knew very little about Benis's wife. And you never can tell. She began to wish that she had brought down with her some very special glories--things she had decided not to waste on Bainbridge. Her young hostess had eyes which were coolly, almost humorously, critical. ”Absurd in a girl who simply can't have any proper criteria!” thought Miss Davis crossly.
”When you are quite rested,” said Desire kindly, ”you will find us on the west lawn. The sun is never too hot there in the morning.”
”Yes--I remember that.” The faintest sigh disturbed the laces of Mary's matinee. Her faun-like eyes looked wistful. ”But if you do not mind, I think I shall be really lazy--these colds do leave one so wretched.”
Desire agreed that colds were annoying. She had not missed the sigh which accompanied Mary's memory of the west lawn and very naturally misread it. Mary's regretful decision to challenge no morning comparison in the sunlight on any lawn was interpreted as regret of a much more tender nature. Desire's eyes grew cold and dark with shadow as she left her charming visitor to her wistful rest.
That Mary Davis was the lady of her husband's one romance, she had no longer any doubt. Anyone, that is, any man, might love deeply and hopelessly a woman of such rare and subtle charm. Possessing youth in glorious measure herself, Desire naturally discounted her rival's lack of it. With her, the slight blurring of Mary's carefully tended ”lines,” the tired look around her eyes, the somewhat cold-creamy texture of her delicate skin, weighed nothing against the exquisite finish and fine sophistication which had been the gift of the added years.
In age, she thought, Mary and Benis would rank each other. They were also essentially of the same world. Neither had ever gazed through windows. Both had been free of life from its beginning. Love between them might well have been a fitting progression.