“Oh, nothing of the sort!” cried Mr. Graves. “Our hope wasn’t that you would butt in—that is, interfere unpleasantly—and break things up. On the contrary, we wanted you to—er—well, to sort of stampede Genevieve so that she’d say ‘Yes’ at once, or maybe elope. Oh, if Phil only had an old cat of a mother who would oppose the match!”
Sue looked down at her boots. Then, after a moment’s thought: “If you like Phil, and think so badly of Genevieve,” she argued, “why should you wish to see them marry? I refuse to be the cat.”
“The Hadbury game!” cried Mr. Hammond. “Sue, we want to win that game!”
“Well,” she said, “if Phil really loves Genevieve, and if Genevieve loves Phil, I’ll try my best to—to—but I make you no promise. I shall think only of their happiness, of course.”
The three filed to the door. There they turned. “Point out to Genevieve,” suggested Mr. St. Ives, “that Hillcrest is an ideal place for entertaining.”
“And mention,” added Mr. Graves, “that Phil’s income is in the first flight—oh, don’t omit that.”
“But, above all things, cut down the dangling,”—this from Mr. Hammond. They shook hands with her impressively and filed out into the hall.
Sue returned to the plump chair and sat down. Directly before her was the writing-desk with its pair of silver-bordered photographs. She studied the pictures earnestly for a while. And when she turned from them it was to go to a mirror and look at her own reflection—long and keenly and with honest eyes. There were her horseback freckles, dotting her nose as the stars dot the sky, and her square, little, undimpled chin, and her sunburned cheeks, roughened by all the winds of spring. “Ah,” she said at last, “she is so beautiful. I love her for her beauty, too. I don’t blame anybody for loving her.” Then she left the mirror and went back to the chair before the couch.
Many another person had contrasted the two. And not a few of the Country Club members openly asserted—and with wrath—that Genevieve Unger’s desire for Sue Townsend’s society lay in the fact that Sue, with her wisp of a figure and her irregular little face, served as a contrast to the other girl’s stateliness and radiant beauty. But there were other striking contrasts between the girls, apart from the one of looks. As one club wag put it, a mere comparison of their footwear accounts for the year presented the essential difference between them. During the season, Sue wore out two pairs of riding-boots, tan; one pair of riding-boots, black; one pair of boots for climbing; three pairs of stout shoes for morning wear; six pairs of sandals suitable for use in the surf; ten pairs of tennis shoes, and two pairs of slippers; while Genevieve’s list for the same length of time included six pairs of boudoir slippers; six pairs of carriage shoes—to match as many gowns; one pair of high-heeled shoes unsuitable for street wear; and twenty-two pairs of slippers in velvet, satin and kid.
But to Sue, ready for her ride forty minutes ahead of the appointed time, only one contrast appeared. And when Mr. Rawson was announced she sprang from her chair, bade the servant tell him that she would be down in one moment, and fled up the stairs to her dressing-room, where she dabbed a bit of powder upon the offending nose, fluffed out her hair at either temple, and donned a white chiffon veil.