Lewis had dined with his sister and her family and now he and she were promenading her piazza. Cynthia was like her name, fragrantly feminine, blond and delightful, a cool petaled flower of New England. They caught glimpses of Harry, her banker husband, as they passed and repassed the living-room windows. He was lying back in what might very well be the world’s most comfortable chair, reading the financial pages of the Transcript, smoking his Corona, and supposedly enjoying the jazz music which came blaring to him from a Boston hotel through his radio; he had only to raise a hand—no need even to lift his head—to turn the knob which would produce a decent quiet.
“I always promise myself when I’m here that I will come oftener,” Lewis was saying. “Then I get so devilish busy I don’t manage it. But now, Cynthia, it may be different. You may be seeing too much of me.”
“That’s nice. I should love to see too much of you. But why now? Oh! Green Doors, of course! And I’ve been trying to get you to go over there with me for a year or more! You see why, now, don’t you! It’s fascinating, isn’t it! I feel, sometimes, when I’m there, that the very air is charged with a sort of electricity, if you know what I mean, which you don’t, since it doesn’t express what I mean. But it’s all high spots, somehow. We must seem commonplace to them, Harry and I. But Clare is sweet to us, all the same. Even Lowell Farwell doesn’t seem bored. He and Harry discuss international affairs, Russia and that sort of thing. And Clare herself is so human. Isn’t she beautiful—in an unusual way!”
“But why wouldn’t Mrs. Farwell be human?” Lewis laughed. “Do you imply that she is above or below the norm? As to being beautiful—Petra is really beautiful.”
“Petra—really beautiful? Yes, I suppose she is. But her features are too classical to be interesting, don’t you think? And she’s so impassive. She’s too big too. She’ll be positively statuesque some day. That type always develop into Junos. Clare is frightfully sweet to her. Frightfully patient. And what a background she’s providing her with! All it needs is just a little playing up to! If she only knew how!”
“What do you mean, background?” Lewis asked curiously. And he wondered, what had Petra ever done to Cynthia to bring out such malice. Malice was no more natural to Cynthia than to himself.
“What do you think I mean?” she exclaimed, a little impatiently. “The people she is meeting, of course. Yourself to-day, for instance. How many times have you gone anywhere socially during the last year, Lewis? Yet you went to the Farwells’. And you say you want to go again, often. But it’s not only celebrities. Socially, too, Clare is giving Petra everything. This dinner dance tonight. Dick says there isn’t a man invited who isn’t the last word in eligibility. Why, Clare is providing Petra opportunities any ordinary girl would give her eyes for. And it’s probably wasted. Men want more than mere passive beauty these days. Temperament, vivacity are what count. Clare doesn’t realize it, of course, but the very contrast between herself and Petra puts them off Petra in spite of Clare’s disadvantage in being married and thirty. It couldn’t help to. Wait till little Sophia grows up, though. Then Clare will have her innings as a mother. The little thing sparkles already! Personality is a queer thing, isn’t it?”
“I’ve sometimes almost thought so,” Lewis agreed dryly. Then he asked, “Can you tell me, Cynthia, why Dick, who is adult, after a fashion—anyway, he isn’t a mere callow college boy—and seems practically to live at Green Doors, hasn’t fallen in love with Petra? And she with him? It’s a miracle.”
Lewis meant his question earnestly. For hours now, in his heart, he had been religiously grateful for the miracle mentioned.
“Are you serious?” Cynthia asked. “Couldn’t you see for yourself—this afternoon? Let’s sit down. No—I don’t want a chair. You take it. I’ll perch here on the rail. Yes, do smoke. What an absolutely precious cigarette case you’ve got there! My dear, let me take it! How delicious! Just feeling it in your hand is thrilling! A present?”