She shuddered a little, and closed her eyes. Every morning, henceforth, she was to get up at half past eight, go through a set of exercises, take a cold shower, and come downstairs—to this! Every one said she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Those who pleased her best said she had absolutely no need of a reducing diet, and would be made ill by it.
Only the Moriarty girl showed no interest at all. Serena observed that Geraldine had a slice of grilled Virginia ham on her plate.
“How Connie could ever have called[Pg 296] her a sweet child!” she thought. “She’s as hard as nails!”
Some six weeks ago Connie Blanchard had come to Serena with a most piteous tale about Geraldine Moriarty.
“Her mother and I went to the same school in Paris,” she had said; “and now this sweet child’s all alone in the world. Something awful happened to her father. He went bankrupt, or lost his mind, or something—I can’t remember now—and Geraldine simply hasn’t a penny. Fine old Irish family, you know, and she’s awfully well educated. I’d love to help her, but you know how it is with me, my dear, living as I do in hotels—and I’m not strong. Do please do something for the poor child, Serena!”
Who could have done more? Serena had at once engaged Miss Moriarty as secretary-companion, and here she was, getting a nice little salary, and with practically no work to do. The secretarial duties were almost nonexistent, for Serena very seldom wrote or even answered a letter. She and her friends carried on their social activities by telephone, and they liked to do their own talking.
As for the companion part, that was absurd. Serena was always surrounded by companions, and mighty obliging ones, too—penniless cousins, ambitious and ambiguous ladies, all sorts of eager and pliant creatures, who made up a little court where Serena ruled magnificently. No—all the Moriarty girl had to do was to look on, and of course to admire; and it was at this simple task that she so utterly failed.
She didn’t seem to admire anything or anybody, not even herself. She was ironically indifferent to her own dark beauty. She had no decent clothes, and when Serena had offered her some very good things that she was tired of, Geraldine had refused—politely, of course. She was always polite, always careful not to give Serena any excuse for getting rid of her.
“But you’ll go, my dear!” thought Serena. “I’ve done quite enough for you!”
She glanced across the table at her silent companion.