Part 1 (2/2)
Not as a matter of financial obligation, be it understood.
Vicky Van had money enough and though nothing about her home was ostentatious or over ornate, it was quietly and in the best of taste luxurious.
But I was describing Vicky herself. Her gown, the skirt part of it, was a sort of mazy maize-colored thin stuff, rather short and rather full, that swirled as she moved, and fluttered when she danced. The bodice part, was of heavily gold-spangled material, and a kind of overskirt arrangement was a lot of long gold fringe made of beads.
Instead of a yoke, there were shoulder straps of these same beads, and the sleeves weren't there.
And yet, that costume was all right. Why, it was a rig I'd be glad to see Winnie in, when she gets older, and if I've made it sound rather--er--gay and festive, it's my bungling way of describing it, and also, because Vicky's personality would add gayety and festivity to any raiment.
Her little feet wore goldy slippers, and a lot of ribbons criss-crossed over her ankles, and on the top of each slipper was a gilt b.u.t.terfly that fluttered.
Yet with all this bewildering effect of frivolity, the first term I'd make use of in describing Vick's character would be Touch-me-not. I believe there's a flower called that--_noli me tangere_--or some such name. Well, that's Vicky Van. She'd laugh and jest with you, and then if you said anything by way of a personal compliment or flirtatious foolery, she was off and away from your side, like a thistle-down in a summer breeze. She was a witch, a madcap, but she had her own way in everything, and her friends did her will without question.
Her setting, too, just suited her. Her living room was one of those very narrow, very deep rooms so often seen in the New York side streets. It was done up in French gray and rose, as was the dictum of the moment. On the rose-brocaded walls were few pictures, but just the right ones. Gray enameled furniture and deep window-seats with rose-colored cus.h.i.+ons provided resting-places, and soft rose-shaded lights gave a mild glow of illumination.
Flowers were everywhere. Great bowls of roses, jars of pink carnations and occasionally a vase of pink orchids were on mantel, low bookcases or piano. And sometimes the odor of a cigarette or a burning pastille of Oriental fragrance, added to the Bohemian effect which is, oftener than not, discernible by the sense of smell.
Vicky herself, detested perfumes or odors of any kind, save fresh flowers all about. Indeed, she detested Bohemianism, when it meant unconventional dress or manners or loud-voiced jests or songs.
Her house was dainty, correct and artistic, and yet, I knew its atmosphere would not please my Aunt Lucy, or be just the right place for Winnie.
Many of the guests I knew. Ca.s.sie Weldon was a concert singer and Ariadne Gale an artist of some prominence, both socially and in her art circle. Jim Ferris and Bailey Mason were actors of a good sort, and Bert Garrison, a member of one of my best clubs, was a fast rising architect. Steele hadn't come yet.
Two tables of bridge were playing in the back part of the room, and in the rest of the rather limited s.p.a.ce several couples were dancing.
”Mayn't we open the doors to the dining room, Vicky?” called out one of the card players. ”The calorics of this room must be about ninety in the shade.”
”Open them a little way,” returned Miss Van Allen. ”But not wide, for there's a surprise supper and I don't want you to see it yet.”
They set the double doors a few inches ajar and went on with their game. The dining room, as I knew, was a wide room that ran all across the house behind both living-room and hall. It was beautifully decorated in pale green and silver, and often Vicky Van would have a ”surprise supper,” at which the favors or entertainers would be well worth waiting for.
Having greeted many whom I knew, I looked about for further speech with my hostess.
”She's upstairs in the music room,” said Ca.s.sie Weldon, seeing and interpreting my questing glance.
”Thank you, lady, for those kind words,” I called back over my shoulder, and went upstairs.
The front room on the second floor was dubbed the ”music room,” Vicky said, because there was a banjo in it. Sometimes the guests brought more banjos and a concert of glees and college songs would ensue. But more often, as to-night, it was a little haven of rest and peace from the laughter and jest below stairs.
It was an exquisite white and gold room, and here, too, as I entered, pale pink shades dimmed the lights to a soft radiance that seemed like a breaking dawn.
Vicky sat enthroned on a white divan, her feet crossed on a gold-embroidered white satin foot-cus.h.i.+on. In front of her sat three or four of her guests all laughing and chatting.
”But he vowed he was going to get here somehow,” Mrs. Reeves was saying.
”What's his name?” asked Vicky, though in a voice of little interest.
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