V
When Cecil came again the next afternoon, she could think of no good reason for refusing to see him. After all, what had she against him? Nothing at all—nothing real. He hadn’t said a word that she could resent. It was only—well, she didn’t know what—something in his smile, in his tired eyes.
“It’s my own fault,” she decided. “I know he’d be all right, if I weren’t so—silly. If I had more poise—”
This afternoon she had an unusual amount of poise, for she had had a letter from Denis that made her happy. She was Denis’s wife, and she really didn’t care a snap of her fingers about any one else on earth.
She found Cecil charming that day.
“Let’s go out somewhere,” he suggested. “It would do me no end of good—that is, if you’ll be jolly and a little bit kind to me. I’m not happy to-day, Emily.”
She believed that. She fancied that perhaps he was never very happy, and she felt sorry for him. She was still more sorry when she saw how quickly he responded to her own cheerful mood.
It cannot be denied that this very superficiality of his made him a most engaging companion. They took a taxi up to the Botanical Gardens, went into the hemlock forest there, and wandered about for two hours, breaking the enchanted stillness with their careless, happy talk, without a moment’s constraint or weariness. Away from hotels and family conventions, Cecil was a very different fellow. His polite sophistication vanished, and with it his misleading pretense of being a cheerful idiot. He wasn’t that. He was clever, adroit, and by no means apathetic.
As the sun was beginning to sink, they strolled out of the forest and across the hilltop and the smooth meadows, past the greenhouses, to the entrance. It was growing chilly, and they were tired and furiously hungry.
“We’ll have tea now,” said Cecil. “Please don’t always object, Emily!”
So they took another taxi down town, to a sedate little tea room that Emily suggested, and after tea he left her at her hotel.
“Thank you, Emily,” he said simply. “I’ve never had a better day.”
Emily, too, was happy. She wanted to rush upstairs and write all about it to Denis. He was always pleased when she spent her time out of doors, and he looked upon walking as a solemn duty. He said that she didn’t walk nearly enough—that no American girls did.
“Mrs. Lanier!” said the desk clerk, as she stopped for her key.
With a cordial smile, he handed her a note. She recognized the handwriting as her mother-in-law’s, and took the envelope with no great pleasure. Nor was she in a hurry to open it. She took off her dusty shoes and her street suit, put on slippers and a mandarin coat, let down her glittering flood of hair, and only then, when she[Pg 165] was lying in comfort on the bed, did she open the thing.
My dear Emily:
I should be very pleased if you would dine with us this evening at half past seven.
Most sincerely yours,
Maude Lanier.
“But that’s the old note!” she cried.
Jumping up, she looked in the desk to see if the other was missing. There it was, and, taking it out, she compared the two. Except for the date, they were exactly alike, word for word. That made her laugh, and laughter gave her courage.
“I shan’t go!” she thought. “I’m tired, and I don’t want to go! I don’t have to rush off every time I’m sent for!”
She reached out for the telephone at the bedside and, with admirable poise, asked for and obtained the hotel where the elder Mrs. Lanier was living. It seemed somehow an audacious, almost an arrogant thing, to telephone to that majestic creature while lying in bed with her hair down. And to refuse her invitation! It was an adventure—it was thrilling!
But when Mrs. Lanier’s voice came to her over the wire, all Emily’s exultation fled.
“You can’t come?” said Denis’s mother. “That’s most unfortunate!”
There was more than chilly indifference in her tone. There was actual hostility, and something very like a threat.
“You see,” Emily explained, “I’m awfully tired, and—”
“If you will be at home, we shall call after dinner,” said Mrs. Lanier. “Will you be alone?”
“Yes, of course,” Emily answered, with as much cordiality as she could manage.
After she had hung up the receiver, the odd intonation of that word “alone” still sounded in her ears. Wasn’t she always alone? Ever since Denis had gone she had had no visitor, except one of the girls from the office where she had formerly been employed. She had seen no one.
Not that she cared for that. This new life, this new dignity, the delights of buying new books to read and new clothes to wear, of eating in the restaurant downstairs, of going to a matinée now and then, and, above all, of writing immense letters to Denis every evening, had filled her time in the most satisfactory fashion.
“Who did she imagine would be here?” she thought, puzzled. “Some of my awful friends that she couldn’t bear to see? I just wish Nina would drop in again this evening!”
That wasn’t likely, however. In all probability she would have to entertain her difficult guests alone, and, as it couldn’t be avoided, she resolved to make the best of it. Her sitting room was far inferior to theirs, but it was bright with flowers, books and magazines lay about on the table, and it was warm!
“I’ll see if I can’t make them thaw out,” she decided. “Denis would be so pleased!”