II
A tinge of malice was perceptible in her last words, but she smiled instantly to relieve the embarrassment she detected in his face. He was not sure just how she wanted him to take her. The unhappiness she had spoken of he assumed to be only a pose with her—something to experiment with upon men she met on gray afternoons in comfortable houses over tea and cocktails. Mrs. Shepherd Mills might be amusing, or she might easily become a bore. The night he met her at the Freemans’ he had thought her probably guileless under her mask of sophistication. She was proving more interesting than he had imagined, less obvious; perhaps with an element of daring in her blood that might one day get the better of her. She was quite as handsome as he remembered her from the meeting at the Freemans’ and she indubitably had mastered the art of dressing herself becomingly.
He was watching the play of the shadow of her picture hat on her face, seeking clues to her mood, vexed that he had permitted himself to be brought into her company, when she said:
“I’m not amusing you! Please forgive me. I can’t help it if I’m a little triste. Some little devilish imp is dancing through my silly head. If I took a second glass——”
Bruce answered her look of inquiry with a shake of the head.
“Are you asking my advice? I positively refuse to give it; but if you command me, of course——”
He rose, took the glass, and held it high for her inspection.
“The man tempts me——” she said pensively.
“The man doesn’t tempt you. We’ll say it’s the little imp. Mrs. Mills, do you want this cocktail or do you not?”
“It might cheer me up a little. I don’t want you to think me stupid; I know I’m terribly dull!”
She drank half the cocktail and bade him finish it.
“Oh, certainly!” he replied and drained the glass. “Now, under the additional stimulus, we can proceed with the discussion. What were we talking about, anyhow?”
“It doesn’t matter. Life offers plenty of problems. How many people do you really think are happy—really happy? Now Bud’s always cheerful; he and Maybelle are happy—remarkably so, I think. Helen Torrence—well, I hesitate to say whether she’s really happy or not; she always appears gay, just as you see her today; and it’s something to be able to give the impression, whether it’s false or not.”
“Yes; it’s well to make a front,” Bruce replied, determined to keep a frivolous tone with her. “The Freemans enjoy themselves; they’re quite ideally mated, I’d say.”
“Yes, they’re making a success of their lives. Dale and Bill are always cheerful. Now there’s dear old Shep——”
“Well, of course he’s happy. How could he be otherwise?”
“You’re not taking me seriously at all! I’m disappointed. I was terribly blue today; that’s why I plotted with Bud to get you here—I shamelessly confess that I want to know you better.”
“Come now! You’re just kidding!”
“You’re incorrigible. I’m that rarest of beings—a frank woman. You refuse to come to my house, presumably because you don’t like me, so I have to trap you here.”
“How you misjudge me! I haven’t been around because I’ve been busy; I belong to the toiling masses!”
“You have time for Miss Harden; you two seemed ever so chummy on the golf course. Of course, I can’t compete with Millie—she’s so beautiful and so artistic—so many accomplishments. But you ought to be considerate of a poor thing like me. I’m only sorry I have so little to offer. I really thought you would be a nice playmate; but——”
“A playmate? Aren’t we playing now?—at least you are playing with me!”
“Am I?” she asked.
She bent toward him with a slight, an almost imperceptible movement of her shoulders, and her lips parted tremulously in a wistful smile of many connotations. She was not without her charms; she was a very pretty woman; and there was nothing vulgar in her manner of exercising her charms. Bruce touched her hand, gently clasped it—a slender, cool hand. She made no attempt to release it; and it lay lingering and acquiescent in his clasp. He raised it and kissed the finger tips.
“You really understand me; I knew you would,” she murmured. “It’s terrible to be lonely. And you are so big and strong; you can help me if you will——”
“I have no right to help you,” he said. “It’s part of the game in this funny world that we’ve got to help ourselves.”
“But if you knew I needed you——”
“Ah, but you don’t!” he replied.
Bud tiptoed in with a tray containing highball materials and placed it on the tea table. He urged them in eloquent pantomime to drink themselves to death and tiptoed out again. Bruce, wondering if he dared leave, hoped the interruption would serve to change the current of his talk with Constance, when she said:
“Shep speaks of you often; he likes you and really Shep’s ever so interesting.”
“Yes,” Bruce answered, “he has ideas and ideals—really thinks about things in a fine way.”
He did not care to discuss Shepherd Mills with Shepherd’s wife, even when, presumably, she was merely making talk to create an atmosphere of intimacy.
“Shep isn’t a cut-up,” she went on, “and he doesn’t know how to be a good fellow with men of his own age. And he’s so shy he’s afraid of the older men. And his father—you’ve met Mr. Mills? Well, Shep doesn’t seem able to get close to his father.”
“That happens, of course, between fathers and sons,” Bruce replied. “Mr. Mills——”
He paused, took a cigarette from his case and put it back. He was by turns perplexed, annoyed, angry and afraid—afraid that he might in some way betray himself.
“Mr. Mills is a curious person,” Constance went on. “He seems to me like a man who lives alone in a formal garden with high walls on four sides and has learned to ignore the roar of the world outside—a prisoner who carries the key of his prison-house but can’t find the lock!”
Bruce bent his head toward her, intent upon her words. He hadn’t thought her capable of anything so imaginative. Some reply was necessary; he would make another effort to get rid of a subject that both repelled and fascinated him.
“I suppose we’re all born free; if we find ourselves shut in it’s because we’ve built the walls ourselves.”
“How about my prison-house?” she asked. “Do you suppose I can ever escape?”
“Why should you? Don’t you like your garden?”
“Not always; no! It’s a little stifling sometimes!”
“Then push the walls back a little! It’s a good sign, isn’t it, when we begin to feel cramped?”
“You’re doing a lot better! I begin to feel more hopeful about you. You really could be a great consolation to me if—if you weren’t so busy!”
“I really did appreciate your invitation. I’ll be around very soon.”
After all, he decided, she was only flirting with him; her confidences were only a means of awakening his interest, stirring his sympathy. She had probably never loved Shepherd, but she respected his high-mindedness and really wanted to help him. The depression to which she confessed was only the common ennui of her class and type; she needed occupation, doubtless children would solve her problem to some extent. Her life ran too smooth a course, and life was not meant to be like that....
He was impatient to leave, but Mrs. Torrence and Henderson had started a phonograph and were dancing in the hall. Constance seemed unmindful of the noise they were making.
“Shall we join in that romp?” asked Bruce.
“Thanks, no—if you don’t mind! I suppose it’s really time to run along. May I fix a drink for you? It’s too bad to go away and leave all that whisky!”
The music stopped in the midst of a jazzy saxophone wail and Mrs. Torrence and Henderson were heard noisily greeting several persons who had just come in.
“It’s Leila,” said Constance, rising and glancing at the clock. “She has no business being here at this time of day.”
“Hello, Connie! Got a beau?”
Leila peered into the room, struck her hands together and called over her shoulder:
“Come in, lads! See what’s here! Red liquor as I live and breathe! Oh, Mr. What’s-your-name——”
“Mr. Storrs,” Constance supplied.
“Oh, of course! Mr. Storrs—Mr. Thomas and Mr. Whitford!”
Bruce had heard much of Whitford at the University Club, where he was one of the most popular members. He had won fame as an athlete in college and was a polo player of repute. A cosmopolitan by nature, he had traveled extensively and in the Great War had won honorable distinction. Having inherited money he was able to follow his own bent. It was whispered that he entertained literary ambitions. He was one of the chief luminaries of the Dramatic Club, coached the players and had produced several one-act plays of his own that had the flavor of reality. He was of medium height and looked the soldier and athlete. Women had done much to spoil him, but in spite of his preoccupation with society, men continued to like George, who was a thoroughly good fellow and a clean sportsman.
Whitford entered at once into a colloquy with Constance. Thomas, having expressed his pleasure at meeting Bruce, was explaining to Mrs. Torrence how he and Whitford had met Leila downtown.
“Liar!” exclaimed Leila, who was pouring herself a drink. “You did nothing of the kind. We met at the Burtons’ and Nellie gave us a little drink—just a tweeney, stingy little drink.”
The drink she held up for purposes of illustration was not infinitesimal. Mrs. Torrence said that everyone must have a highball and proceeded to prepare a drink for Thomas and Whitford.
“You and Connie are certainly the solemn owls,” she remarked to Bruce. “Anyone would have thought you were holding a funeral in here. Say when, Fred. This is real Bourbon that Jim had for years. You’ll never see anything like it.”
“Bruce,” cried Henderson, “has Connie filled you with gloom? She gets that way sometimes, but it doesn’t mean anything. A little of this stuff will set you up. This bird, Storrs, always did have glass legs,” he explained to Thomas; “he can drink gallons and be ready to converse with bishops. Never saw such a capacity! If I get a few more Maybelle will certainly hand it to me when I get home.”
Constance walked round the table to Leila, who had drunk a glass of the Bourbon to sample it and, satisfied of its quality, was now preparing a highball.
“No more, Leila!” said Constance, in a low tone. The girl drew back defiantly.
“Go away, Connie! I need just one more.”
“You had more than you needed at the Burtons’. Please, Leila, be sensible. Helen, send the tray away.”
“Leila’s all right!” said Thomas, but at a sign from Mrs. Torrence he picked up the tray and carried it out.
“I don’t think it pretty to treat me as though I were shot when I’m not,” said Leila petulantly. She walked to the end of the room and sat down with the injured air of a rebellious child.
“Leila, do you know what time it is?” demanded Constance. “Your father’s having a dinner and you’ve got to be there.”
“I’m going to be there! There’s loads of time. Everybody sit down and be comfortable!” Leila composedly sipped her glass as though to set an example to the others. Thomas had come back and Constance said a few words to him in a low tone.
“Oh, shucks! I know what you’re saying. Connie’s telling you to take me home,” said Leila. She turned her wrist to look at her watch—frowned in the effort of focusing upon it and added with a shrug: “There’s all the time in the world. If you people think you can scare me you’ve got another guess coming. It’s just ten minutes of six; dinner’s at seven-thirty! I’ve got to rest a little. You all look so ridiculous standing there glaring at me. I’m no white mouse with pink eyes!”
“Really, dear,” said Mrs. Torrence coaxingly, walking toward Leila with her hands outstretched much as though she were trying to make friends with a reluctant puppy. “Do run along home like a good girl!”
Leila apparently had no intention of running along home like a good little girl. She dropped her glass—empty—and without warning caught the astounded lady tightly about the neck.
“Step-mother! Dear, nice step-mamma!” she cried. “Nice, dear, sweet, kind step-mamma! Helen’s going to be awful good to poor little Leila. Helen not be bad step-mamma like story books; Helen be sweet, kind step-mamma and put nice, beautiful gin cocktails in baby’s bottle!”
As she continued in cooing tones Leila stroked her captive’s cheek and kissed her with a mockery of tenderness. Henderson and Thomas were shouting with laughter; Constance viewed the scene with lofty disdain; Whitford was mildly amused; Bruce, wishing himself somewhere else, withdrew toward the door, prepared to leave at the earliest possible moment. When at last Mrs. Torrence freed herself she sank into a chair and her laughter attained a new pitch of shrillness.
“Leila, you’ll be the death of me!” she gasped when her mirth had spent itself.
“Leila will be the death of all of us,” announced Constance solemnly.
“Oh, I don’t know!” said Leila, straightening her hat composedly at the mantel mirror.
“Too bad Leila’s ‘step-mama’ couldn’t have heard that!” sighed Henderson.
“Now, Leila,” said Constance severely, “do run along home. Please let me take you in my car; you oughtn’t to drive in the condition you’re in.”
The remark was not fortunate. Leila had discovered a box of bonbons and was amusing herself by tossing them into the air and trying to catch them in her mouth. She scored one success in three attempts and curtsied to an imaginary audience.
“My condition!” she said, with fine scorn. “I wish you wouldn’t speak as though I were a common drunk!”
“Anyone can see that you’re not fit to go home. Your father will be furious.”
“Not if I tell him I’ve been with you!” Leila flung back.
“Say, Leila!” began Henderson, ingratiatingly. “We’re old pals, you and I—let’s shake this bunch. I’ll do something nice for you sometime.”
“What will you do?” Leila demanded with provoking deliberation.
“Oh, something mighty nice! Maybelle and I will give you a party and you can name the guests.”
“Stupid!” she yawned. “Your hair’s mussed, Helen. You and Bud have been naughty.”
“Your behavior isn’t ladylike,” said Thomas. “The party’s getting rough! Come on, let’s go.”
“Oh, I’m misbehaving, am I? Well, I guess my conduct’s as good as yours! Where do you get this stuff that I’m a lost lamb? Even an expert like you, Freddy, wouldn’t call me soused. I’m just little bit tipsy—that’s all! If I had a couple more highballs——”