She had taken a strange interest in the Claverings from the very beginning—they constituted her first impressions of Washington; and she would have found some diversion from her sad and wearying thoughts in Mrs. Luttrell’s brilliant and interesting house. But it was impossible for her to go against her father’s implied ideas of propriety. He had always assumed that she was properly and dutifully heart-broken at her husband’s death. She did indeed mourn good, brave, honest, stupid Jack Darrell as a woman mourns a husband for whom she feels gratitude and tenderness, without being in the least in love with him; all the sentiment which belongs to love she had secretly and hopelessly given to Pelham. She often thought that if she had not been so young, so ignorant, she never would have married Darrell.
“I think you should force yourself, however painful it may be to your feelings, to go to see Sara Luttrell some day when she is not formally receiving,” said General Brandon, thinking he was proposing a tremendous sacrifice to Elizabeth; and he felt quite triumphant when she agreed to go.
When the Thursday afternoon came, there was no need to tell Elizabeth that the Clavering receptions were large and brilliant. By four o’clock carriages came pouring into the street, and by five there was almost an impasse. Great numbers of stylish men, both foreigners and Americans, passed in and out the splendid doors.
While Elizabeth was watching this procession with curious interest, Mrs. Luttrell’s great old-fashioned coach, with the long-tailed black horses, stopped before the tall, shabby house, and Serena brought up Mrs. Luttrell’s and Baskerville’s cards. Mrs. Luttrell, although militant, was not the sort of woman to hit another woman when she was down, and was most gracious when Elizabeth appeared. The sight of the dingy drawing-room, of Elizabeth’s pallor and evident signs of stress and trial, touched Mrs. Luttrell. She mentioned to Elizabeth that a card would be sent her for a large dinner which she was giving within a fortnight, and when Elizabeth gently declined Mrs. Luttrell was really sorry. Baskerville was sincerely cordial. He had liked Elizabeth as a girl, and her forlornness now touched him as it did Mrs. Luttrell.
When the visit was over and they were once more out of the house, Mrs. Luttrell exclaimed: “That’s Dick Brandon’s doings—that poor Elizabeth not going to a place and moping in that hole of a house. If she would but go about a bit, and leave her card at the British Embassy, where she would certainly be invited, she could see something of society and recover her spirits and good looks. By the way, I think she’s really more enticing in her pallor and her black gown than when she was in the flush of her beauty. Of course she looks much older. Now, as I’m going into the Claverings’ I suppose you will leave me.”
Baskerville, with a hangdog look, replied, “I’m going into the Claverings’, too.” Mrs. Luttrell’s handsome mouth came open, and her ermine cape fell from her shoulders without her even so much as knowing it. “Yes,” said Baskerville, assuming a bullying air, now that the cat was out of the bag, “Mrs. Clavering asked me last Sunday, and I accepted.”
“Where on earth, Richard Bas—“
“Did I see Mrs. Clavering? I met her out walking with Miss Clavering. Mrs. Clavering is a most excellent woman—quiet and unobtrusive—and I swear there is something of her in Miss Clavering.”
“Richard Baskerville, you are in love with Anne Clavering! I know it; I feel it.”
“Don’t be a fool, Sara Luttrell. Because I happen to pay a visit at a house where I have been asked and could have gone a year ago, you at once discover a mare’s nest. That’s Sara Luttrell all over.”