“Isn’t that Courtney’s roadster?” asked Mauney, turning to see it disappear behind them.
“Yes, and Ted saw me,” laughed Freda, “and, what’s more exciting, he saw you. I’ll bet anything he’ll turn around and overtake us before we’ve gone much farther. I’ll tell you what, Mauney! We’ll stop at the Country Club. I’m not a member any more, but a lot of the real Lockwood swells hang out there. Of course, I just want to show you off. Mrs. Beecher will see you and then to-morrow at some tea or other she’ll let out the big item of the season. I can just hear her as she makes her announcement: ‘What do you suppose! Freda MacDowell breezed into the club last night with a Mr. Bard, who, I understand, is the new member of the collegiate staff. Hum, hum, now what do you think of that?’”
“And what will they think of it, Freda?” asked Mauney seriously.
“They can’t think. They haven’t got the equipment. It’s just the news they’re after, nothing more. They can’t think anything, anyway. But I want them to know that you were riding in my car. Of course,” chuckled Freda, “if you were a married man, then they’d be happier. They’d have a scandal, then.”
“Is there much scandal in Lockwood?” Mauney asked, carelessly.
“Scandal!” she exclaimed. “Why, these people live on it. I just wish I could smuggle you into a real bona fide afternoon tea. It’s a very tame tea that doesn’t succeed in executing at least one hitherto unblemished reputation. It’s love affairs they prefer, of course. But—am I boring you?”
“On the contrary I’m quite interested, Freda. Most towns are the same.”
“But Lockwood has developed it to something like a fine art,” she replied, with the certainty of tone of an expert who has studied the matter in hand. Then she proceeded to give a characteristically accurate summary of the entire subject.
“There were afternoon teas in Lockwood before there were churches, and even to-day they are better attended. Church, with these people, is an occasional business, but teas are a constant necessity. Some of these fat society dames have reached the sublime stage of existence where their enfeebled brains can deal with only the simplest data. They can’t read books that require any thought. They don’t have to read, so for that very reason they don’t read. But they do have to go to afternoon teas, because it’s there they find the exact food they’re in need of. I don’t mean cookies and cakes, either, because most of them have been requested by their M.D.’s to cut down on carbo-hydrates. What they need, Mauney, is scandal. If the scandal deals with a love affair, why then it’s an A1 scandal. Anything racy and illicit holds them like nothing else. Now, just why these bloated excuses for womanhood—and many of them have had turbulent enough youths themselves—should get to the stage where only vicarious experiences can stir their vanishing passions, is a question that revolts me. I leave that for the morbid psychologists to settle.”
“I’ll tell you something, Mauney,” she went on, as she looked before her along the road. “These afternoon teas are no joke with me. I hate them as I hate anything that’s noisy and empty. They had a lot to do with my leaving home.”