II
Wilfred knew the Gore house from cellar to garret, from having been required once in the old days, to take an inventory of its contents. It was rather piquant to be there now as a guest in a swallow-tail coat. It was not one of the greatest houses in New York; but ’twould serve. His hat and coat were taken from him in a horrible entrance hall in the “Moorish” style, all the rage about 1890. He passed through the library (which contained no books) all done in red velvet, and entered the drawing-room behind. The drawing-room, with its great bay-window giving on the side street, was rather fine he considered; evidently a pretty good decorator had been let loose in here. But there was far too much stuff in it. The prevailing tone was an agreeable blue.
In the bay stood a grand piano, with a great golden harp placed beside it. Wilfred smiled at the harp. It had not been moved in seven years. “Why in Hell a harp?” he asked himself. Against the wall facing the bay stood an immense upholstered settee; and over the settee in the place of honor, hung the famous portrait of Mrs. Gore by Madrazo. A superb figure. The rich blue brocade of her corsage seemed to be glued to her body like wall-paper.
It was a dinner for about twenty people. Mrs. Gore affected the Knickerbocker set, whose present day representatives showed a sad falling off from the picturesqueness of their ancestors. The ladies affected a rich and dowdy style of dress, still featuring the abdomen; and the gentlemen also, who ran to bottle shoulders, and a small, neat melon under their waist-bands, suggested the magazine illustrations of twenty years ago. Obviously gentlemen, who toiled not neither did they spin. In America, for some reason, they looked piteous. There were several more or less subdued young persons present. Wilfred was introduced to a few of the guests, and left to shift for himself. He was to take in a Mrs. Varick, an anæmic little woman who kept up a fire of virtuous platitudes. One could safely agree with everything she said, while one looked about.
A little late, when all the estimable guests were visibly becoming uneasy, a woman entered the room, who changed the whole complexion of the party. Like a wild bird lighting in the poultry yard, Wilfred thought. She was about his own age with miscellaneous American features, not in the least beautiful. But she had the divine carriage of Diana, and Diana’s arrowy glance. Never had Wilfred beheld that proud, free glance in living woman. What a glorious spirit it betokened! So defiant and desirable it rendered him helpless. She was wearing a dress of tomato red, partly misted with smoke-colored net. Nothing of yesteryear about her! Though she and all her works must have been anathema to the drab ones, Wilfred observed that they were inclined to fawn upon her. Obviously, that girl could get away with anything, anywhere, Wilfred thought.
At the table he was terrified and delighted to discover that she was to be on the other side of him. She sat down, talking busily to her companion. Wilfred stole a glance at her place card. “Miss Elaine Sturges.” It had the effect of striking a gong. Elaine Sturges! Wilfred had not been above reading of the doings of the butterflies he despised; the Sturgeses of North Washington Square; elect of the elect! For several seasons she had been chief amongst the unmarried girls. It appeared that no entertainment was complete without her. Merely from having her name so often printed, the lustre of fame was about her plainly-dressed brown head; and Wilfred’s imagination was dazzled afresh. While he sagely nodded his head in agreement with Mrs. Varick’s ambling comment, he sought in his mind to have ready some arresting thing to say, when his chance came. But his mind was a blank.
He happened not to be looking in that direction when a contralto voice said near his ear: “I say, who are you? Your place card is covered up.”
Wilfred jumped. “Wilfred Pell,” he said, smiling.
“I thought I knew all the Pells.”
“I’m only an offshoot. A scribbling Pell.”
“Didn’t think such a thing was possible!”
They laughed, knowing the Pell characteristics.
Wilfred thought: She has not read my stories. . . . But why should she? I must say something at once, or she’ll turn back to the other man. . . .
When it came, it sounded feeble. “I hate to be asked my name. I dislike it so much!”
“What, Wilfred?” she asked carelessly. “Yes, it is rather in the Percy and Harold class.”
“One’s mouth takes such a foolish shape in saying it.”
Her cool, strong glance sought his eyes appraisingly. There was a thought in her eyes that she did not utter; but he read it.
“You think Wilfred suits me?” he said smiling, and sore at heart.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said coolly. “. . . You have nice eyes.”
Nice eyes! At that moment it was like an insult. And so good-humored about it! He struggled with a crushing sense of inferiority.
“Well, at any rate, you are well-named,” he said.
“Am I? I thought the original Elaine was a pale, die-away maiden who floated down the river with flowers in her hair, and her toes turned to the sky!—But maybe I’m thinking of somebody else. My literary associations are hazy.”
“The Lady of Shalott?” suggested Wilfred. “I was thinking of the mere sound of the name. Elaine! So forthright!”
“So you think I’m a forthright sort of person?”
“Rather!”
“That requires consideration.”
“How do you seem to yourself?” asked Wilfred.
“Oh, I don’t know. . . . We are all over-civilized, over-complicated nowadays. . . .”
“You are neither civilized nor complicated,” said Wilfred boldly.
“Well upon my word!” she said, half-affronted.
“Diana,” murmured Wilfred. “You know that picture at the Metropolitan; a rotten picture, but a glorious woman!”
She continued to stare, really amused, as with a baby’s prattle. Wilfred, as if Mrs. Varick had spoken to him, turned away. I did make an impression then, he thought; better leave her with it!
They talked again at intervals during dinner; the usual sort of thing. Wilfred had no other daring inspiration. However, when the divinely brave eyes turned on him, he perceived a speculative look in them. At least I exist for her, he thought hopefully.
After dinner there was music in the drawing-room (but not on the harp) and all the guests had to stay put—or so Wilfred supposed. Not having been sufficiently ready-witted to maneuver himself into a position beside her, he watched her from down the room. He was sitting beside the door into the hall. There was a sleek fellow behind her, leaning forward with his lips close to her ear. He appeared to be able to amuse her. He was not in the least afraid of her, Wilfred observed with a pang.
Taking advantage of a little movement among the guests between numbers, the red girl with characteristic nonchalance came sauntering down the long room, attended by her companion. Wilfred’s skin began to burn and prickle. She was headed directly for him. He suffered acutely. He did not see how he was going to keep his head up if she passed so close. She had laid a dreadful spell on him.
She did not pass him by. She stopped, and he jumped up. Careless of who might hear, she said:
“Come and sit on the stairs with me.”
Wilfred followed her like a man in a dream.
“Thanks, Ted,” she said over her shoulder to the other man, and he remained within the room.
Wilfred tingled. Came to me in the face of the whole room! Sent the other man away! But he was deeply perturbed, too. It should have been me to go to her, and carry her off. . . . What will Mrs. Gore say to my walking out on her concert like this?
Elaine seemed to read his thoughts. “They won’t blame you,” she said smiling. “They know me! . . . Oh well, poor dears! I like to give them something to talk about. They lead such dull lives!”
In the hall, the stairs started off at right angles, and after pausing on a sort of Moorish balcony, turned and went up in the proper direction without further divagations. Above the balcony it was rather secluded, and not too light. Here they sat, Wilfred with a tumultuously beating heart. There was already a meek youth and maiden higher up. Elaine permitted Wilfred to light a cigarette for her. Wilfred was astounded at his situation. Smoking companionably on the stairs with Elaine Sturges! He had supposed that these girls were so circumspect. However, there was nothing equivocal in the clear glance.
“After a season or two, what an experience of stairs you must acquire!” said Wilfred.
“Eh?” she said, not getting it—or not choosing to get it.
“You ought to write a monograph on the subject,” he blundered on; “The stairs of New York.”
She smiled inattentively, and Wilfred felt like a perfect ass.
“I never meet any artists or writers,” she said, “except old and famous ones. It seems so odd for a young man to go in for it. And a Pell!”
She means that she thinks its unmanly, thought Wilfred with a wry smile. “Oh, it’s an easy job,” he said flippantly.
“You only say that because you think I’m not capable of understanding,” she said.
“Not at all!” said Wilfred quickly. “It’s because I can’t appear to take myself seriously, without feeling like a fool!”
“Oh!” she said, looking at him as if he had given her new food for reflection.
Wilfred felt like a specimen impaled on a pin.
“Tell me more about myself,” she said presently. “It’s refreshing!”
“I have so little to go on!” protested Wilfred.
“That didn’t seem to hamper you a while ago. Make it up as you go along.”
“You always do exactly what you please.”
She smiled inscrutably. “That isn’t very clever!”
Wilfred felt flattened out. “Well . . . you have entirely false notions about life,” he said, making a desperate fresh start.
“That’s better,” she said serenely. “In what way do you mean?”