Mrs. Hadwell's home, whither her friend, Miss Thayer, was bound, contrived to be both home-like and imposing. Situated on a slope of the "mountain," as all loyal Montrealers call Mount Royal, it commanded an unsurpassed view of the city and harbour and was surrounded by a picturesque garden, unspoilt by overcultivation. In summer it assumed an appearance of fairy-like charm: and even when, as now, devoid of verdant ornament and encompassed only by the sighing branches of bare trees, it had an appearance of creature comfort, oddly at variance with the bleak, snow-crowned hills that rose behind it. Mount Royal, the pride of every Montrealer, boasts many another such home; but few combine dignity and cosiness in the measure which Mrs. Hadwell's did.
"Del's house is really awfully like her in many ways," Lynn Thayer reflected as she rang the bell. "It is so expensive and in such good taste and so comfortable and so cold—is Mrs. Hadwell in, Ella? Yes, I know she is, but see here! can you smuggle Bob somewhere where he won't be in the way of the girls? You know Mrs. Hadwell doesn't like dogs."
She divested herself of some of her wraps and crossed the hall. The perfume of roses pervaded the air and the soft strain of violins was faintly heard beneath the hubbub of voices as she made her way toward the large old-fashioned drawing-room whence the sounds of festivity proceeded. This room, hung with crimson velvet and panelled in dark oak, was almost sumptuous in its comfort. Beautifully carved Turkish lamps hung from the ceiling: a splendid wood fire burned on the hearth: great vases of dark red roses and carnations were disposed wherever opportunity offered: and, at the further end of the room, one caught a delicious glimpse of cool green ferns and various-coloured blooms. The room was filled with daintily dressed girls and young women: and behind a superlatively dainty tea table sat the hostess who hastily pushed aside a cream jug and rushed in the direction of her latest guest.
"Help yourselves, girls," she exclaimed. "I want to speak to Lynn. Why are you so late, child? and where have you been, lately? I haven't seen you for an age."
"Which, being interpreted, means four days," said Lynn, laughing and returning her hostess' kiss. "How lovely the rooms look, Del! and what a sweet frock that is! I do like you in mauve."
"I think it is rather successful," said Mrs. Hadwell, contentedly: and both women laughed. In their girlhood days they had entered into a compact which had ever since been observed faithfully; namely, to tell no useless lies to one another. "Only don't let us forget to tell them to other people, Lynn," Mrs. Hadwell had remarked, solemnly. "Don't let it get us into bad habits." It had never got her into bad habits: she had lied her way successfully into public esteem, riches and an old man's heart; and, even on reaching the giddy pinnacle of social success where rudeness is frequently condoned, she had faithfully followed the policy of telling the truth only to her one intimate friend, Lynn Thayer.
"Edie, do pour Lynn some tea," she cried, now, turning to a pretty brown-eyed girl who hovered near, watching her adoringly. "And put piles and piles of cream in it and five lumps or so of sugar—that's the way she likes it, the incomprehensible creature! ... Another of those sickening debutantes," she observed in a confidential undertone, turning to Lynn and gently propelling her in the direction of a couch, "simply worships me, you know! follows me around like a dog and—that's right, dear! how sweet of you to save me the trouble! now get her an Italian cream and a nice cake, will you? like an angel!—I don't know what I shall do if it keeps up: you know I can't bear bread and butter misses and she actually asked me for a lock of my hair the other day. I felt like telling her that I paid eighty dollars for my switch in New York and that my own hair was too precious to—oh, thank you, dear! Lynn, this is the sweetest girl; she saves me all sorts of trouble and her name is Miss Roland; Edie, this is my friend, Miss Thayer, of whom you have often heard me speak—oh, dear! there are all the girls coming up to speak to you, Lynn, and anyway I ought to go and pour out some more tea. When you have done the polite, do come and keep me company at the tea-table."
"Little Mrs. Hadwell," as her friends usually called her, fled, casting a bewitching smile at the group of girls who were clustering about Lynn. Estelle Hadwell's teeth were her strong point, a fact which she never, for an instant, lost sight of. She had no complexion worth terming such, her features were irregular and her figure decidedly angular. Yet she contrived to be considered a beauty, as any woman can who has time and money to devote to her appearance.
Lynn watched her curiously as she settled herself at the tea-table with a coquettish little flirt of her silken skirts, and marvelled anew at the unconscious dramatic instinct which enabled this tiny creature to play the role of a beauty with such unfailing success. As "Little Mrs. Hadwell" sat pouring the tea with one pretty arm gracefully raised, she was a vision for an artist. Her mauve gown fell about her petite form in folds that were almost statuesque in their grace: her beautiful hair—which looked just as beautiful as though it had not grown on an Irish housemaid's head—was arranged with such taste as to make her small head a thing of beauty: her really pretty neck and arms were set off by a fichu and falling cuffs of rich yellow lace. A cluster of violets was carelessly tucked in the front of her fichu: and a long chain of amethysts outlined her slender waist—which had hardly been so slender, had it not been for the skill and strength of her French maid. Altogether, as she sat there, Lynn recognized for the fiftieth time—and with precisely the same sense of wonder—that, in spite of Estelle's entire lack of beauty, she was the daintiest and most fascinating thing, imaginable.
Among the girls who surrounded Lynn were several whose beauty was sufficiently apparent to make them noticeable, anywhere. Edith Roland, the adoring debutante, had big, brown eyes, a pretty colour and a figure whose slenderness and grace owed nothing to artificial aid; yet, beside her diminutive hostess she sank into insignificance. Erma Reed was a beautiful girl, tall, splendidly proportioned with the features of a Greek statue and the air of a grand dame; but, after the first admiration which her almost flawless pulchritude provoked, one's eyes wandered instinctively to the sinuous figure and piquante, appealing face of Mrs. Hadwell. "Magnetism—that is the only word for it, I suppose," thought Lynn. "Yet she didn't always have it as she has it now. Can that sort of thing be cultivated, I wonder?"