Martin had only one serious fault, and that was he too much liked having a good time. It seemed to her he was never satisfied with anything less than an epicure’s dinner; he must have the best all the time. He loved cocktails and wine and good cigars, a “snappy” show, a little bite of something afterwards, a gay place to dine, lively music, lights, color. He wanted “to go places where there was something doing,” and he didn’t want “to go places where there was nothing doing.” These were familiar expressions on his lips. His wife told herself she liked a good time, too; she loved the theatre and to dress well, and she liked a gay restaurant, good food and music, but she didn’t want them all the time; she wasn’t as dependent upon them as Martin was. A husband and wife, she considered, should not indulge in too much of that kind of frivolous living, and no later than last evening she had had a talk with Martin about it.
“Aw,—sure my dear,—you’re dead right,” he had assured her. “I know. We must settle down, and stay at home nights, but we’re still having our honeymoon, and I can’t get used to the idea that you’re my wife. It just seems to me we ought to celebrate all the time.”
Martin was always so reasonable, thought Jeannette, recalling his words. She decided she would have a specially nice dinner for him that night to show him how much she appreciated his sweetness. She paused a moment over the decision, as she recalled that something vague had been said to her mother about coming to dine with them. She knew Martin would prefer to be alone and she wanted to encourage the idea of his spending the evenings quietly with her. She would go to see her mother and explain matters; she would have lunch with her; at Kratzmer’s she would stop and get some salad, and she’d buy some crumpets at Henri’s and take them along with her.
Abruptly, she determined to let the run in her stocking wait. She wound the silk several times about the button on Martin’s coat, pushed the needle through the fabric twice, and snapped the thread close to the cloth with an incisive bite of her teeth. Then she carried the work to her room, hanging Martin’s coat on a hanger in the closet.
As she proceeded to dress carefully, she considered each detail of her costume. Her wardrobe was delightfully complete; she had plenty of clothes, a suitable garment for any demand. While an office worker, she had always dressed with certain soberness, an eye to business decorum. But as a married woman, a young matron who lived at the Dexter Court Apartments, she felt she could allow herself more latitude. She ran her eye appraisingly over the file of dresses that hung neatly in her closet; their number gratified her; she was even satisfied with her hats. Now she lifted down her blue broadcloth tailor suit, covered handsomely with braid, and selected a soft white silk shirtwaist that had a V-neck and a pleated ruffled collar; she drew on fine brown silk stockings and fitted her feet into tan Oxfords. Her ankles were trim and shapely. She never had appeared so smartly dressed; her appearance delighted her. But she was in doubt about the hat for the day, and finally selected the Lichtenberg model: a silvered straw, with a flaring brim, trimmed in gray velvet and a curling gray cock’s feather. As she pulled her hands into tan gloves and gave a final glance at herself in the long mirror of the bathroom door she decided that was the costume she would wear when she went to the offices of the Chandler B. Corey Company to pay her old friends a visit.
§ 3
Mrs. Sturgis had declared after Jeannette’s marriage she preferred to remain in the old apartment where she had been comfortable for so many years. To be sure the rent was thirty dollars a month, but she said she could manage that. She had her music lessons,—four or five hours a day,—and there were other pupils to be had if she needed the income. But it did not appear necessary. Elsa Newman’s cousin, Cora Newman, who had been studying with Bellini for two years, had developed a truly remarkable mezzo, and she preferred Mrs. Sturgis to any other accompanist. The very week Jeannette was married Cora Newman had given her first public recital, and Mrs. Sturgis had been at the piano. She had had a very beautiful black dress made for the occasion and the affair had been a great success. The critics had praised Miss Newman’s voice and the Tribune had given a special line to the player: “The singer was sympathetically accompanied at the piano by Mrs. Henrietta Spaulding Sturgis.” Now both Elsa and Cora wanted her whenever either of them sang, and there were plans ahead for a concert tour to Quebec and Montreal. If that turned out successfully, they were talking of an up-state trip in the fall through Rochester, Syracuse, as far as Buffalo.
“You know what I eat, lovies,” Mrs. Sturgis had explained to her daughters when keeping the apartment was being discussed among them, “is microscopic, and it won’t cost me five a week. I can always get whatever I need at Kratzmer’s and a little tea and toast is often all I want.”
“But that’s just it!” Jeannette had expostulated. “You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive, anyhow, and if you live by yourself, you won’t eat that!”
Mrs. Sturgis had assured them she would take good care of herself.