“That will be lovely, Mart. As you say it will be much nicer in the country. I shall really like to see your home and to meet—” she cleared her throat,—“Mrs. Devlin.”
“Well, that’ll be fine, Jan,—that will be great. Say, you couldn’t make that five-thirty just as well, could you? You see the office closes at five, and I’ll just have to bum ’round here doing nothing until it’s time to call for you,—and then besides you’ll have a little light left so you c’n see something of the country, and I want to tell you, Jan, Jenkintown’s a swell little suburb.”
“Why, yes, Martin. Five-thirty will be perfectly all right for me.”
“That’s fine then; I call for you at five-thirty.”
She hung up the receiver and bent forward so that her brow rested lightly against the mouthpiece of the instrument, her eyes closed, and after a moment she squeezed them tight shut.... Ah, what pain! ... What heart stabs! ... The prick of tears stung her eyeballs like needle points.
§ 5
She powdered her shoulders and did her hair; she red-lipped her mouth; she hooked the black satin dress about her; she hung her generous string of artificial pearls around her neck and screwed the large artificial pearl ear-rings upon her ears. At five o’clock she was ready, and for the ensuing thirty minutes she studied her reflection in the glass, turning first to one side, then to the other, noting various effects. She wore no hat, but to-night her hair, with its distinguished touch of white, was dressed high, and thrust into its thick coil at the back of her head were three large brilliant, rhinestone combs.
Promptly at the half-hour, Martin was announced, and slipping on the marvellous jacket, rolling the fur luxuriously against her neck, Jeannette descended in the elevator and met him in the foyer. The glance he gave her satisfied her; she knew Martin; he had not changed. There remained only Ruthie, and in that instant it came to Jeannette a cold, disdainful manner would put herself, bound and helpless, at Ruthie’s mercy. They were two shrewd and clever women,—she assumed Ruthie would be shrewd and clever,—meeting one another under strange and difficult circumstances; any hint of condescension, any suggestion of a patronizing air, and Ruthie would be laughing at her. No, the part for her to play was one of all sweetness and amiability; graciousness was her only salvation.
Martin guided her out of the hotel, his fingers at her elbow. A limousine swept up to the door. It was a Parrott, and there was a liveried chauffeur at the wheel.
“Get right in, Jan.”