Mrs. Thayer compressed her lips and continued to embroider. Lynn departed to make some change in her toilet and, that being concluded, left the house. Once on the street her face changed and contracted a little, making her look curiously older.
"There are times," she said slowly, regarding the little terrier which gambolled joyfully at her side, "there are times, Bob, when I find the society of the four-legged portion of humanity infinitely more congenial than that of the two-legged. This is one of them. How I wish sometimes that Aunt Lucy were dumb or I deaf! How thankful I am that you can't talk reason with me or advise me for my good or do any other unpleasant thing of the kind, Bob. If they only knew what they were talking about! if they only knew why I can't marry Lighton or—or anyone else"—She broke off, abruptly, biting her lip as though in pain. "What's the use of thinking?" she went on, presently. "I've got to face Del and twenty other women nearly as sharp in five minutes' time and I can't show my feelings here in this horrible street, either. Oh, to get away from it all!—here, don't be a fool! You have about two minutes to pull yourself together in, you weak, whining—I'll put it out of my mind, entirely. Whom has Del asked, I wonder. If it's one of those vile functions where you're wedged tightly between layers of fat, stupid women who gabble inanely and continuously and spill ice-cream and coffee over your good clothes, I'll never forgive her. No, she said distinctly that it was just a few of the girls and she always tells the truth to me, if she doesn't to anyone else. Oh, Del, Del! I wonder if you are the right person to go by. I wonder what you would say if I were to tell you of all this miserable coil of deception and misery. Of course I know what you would say; you would say that I was a fool and so I am; that wouldn't help matters, much. What could you, or anyone suggest? Nothing, nothing that would be of any use; anyway, if I were dying for advice, I am not free to obtain it. If I had an unfailing fund of common sense and a heart of stone what would I do, I wonder? God knows. Being myself I'll do what I'm doing—and God grant it can't last forever." She set her lips firmly and walked along until she reached Pine Avenue.
Pine Avenue lies at the foot of Mount Royal and, in fact, is built upon its slope. It is a broad, fine street and some of the handsomest residences in Montreal are situated upon, or, rather, directly above it. At all seasons of the year it is largely frequented and, in winter, is a favourite haunt of snowshoers and "skiers." At the present hour, however, it was practically deserted; and Lynn drew a long breath of relief as, leaving the crowded city streets behind, she sought its solitude. For some little time she walked on in silence.
The golden January sun turned Mount Royal into a mass of shining marble, flecked with skeleton-like maples and crowned with dark green pines. Beyond—behind its towering whiteness—lay the dead of Montreal. Lynn winced at the thought of them and fiercely refused to let her thought dwell on their impenetrable peace.
"I'm going to an At Home, Bob," she said, half-aloud, trying to laugh. "There will be about twenty other women there—and, in all probability, half of them are wearing veils over their faces like the minister in Hawthorne's story. 'I look around me and lo! on every visage a black veil.' Only people don't go in for black veils unless they're cowards; they go in for scarlet and gold, which makes a far better disguise and renders life more cheerful. What's the use of making a fuss? Anyway, whatever happens, whatever nasty knocks Fate may hand me, there is one thing she can't do—she can't make me whine." She threw her head back and laughed; then called the dog to her side and smiled as he licked her gloved hand.
"Del doesn't like you, old boy," she said, fondly. "But I'll hide you, somewhere, and I won't stay any longer than I can help. Ah! there's the house, already. It's just as well. I don't feel like being alone, to-day, more than I can help. I wonder why it is that things seem so much worse at some times than they do at others."
CHAPTER IX
"JUST A FEW OF THE GIRLS"
"'I must be my own Mamma,' said Becky."—Thackeray.
"She was clever, witty, brilliant and sparkling beyond most of her kind but possessed of many devils of malice and mischievousness. She could be nice, though, even to her own sex. But that is another story."—Kipling.