“I am told I am to have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner,” said Arthur. Mrs. Hay had dazzled him a little, and he could think of nothing better to say.
“What a pity you had to be told!” laughed she. “It would be so much nicer if one could choose partners, you know. It’s almost as bad as marriage, isn’t it? All the spontaneity of the companionship is destroyed; and you haven’t any escape—at least, until after dinner.” Now, this was a clever device of the siren by which she bound Arthur to her band of adorers for the whole evening. He was nothing loath.
“Marriage!” he answered vaguely. He started to tell her she would rob the grave of its terrors, let alone matrimony; but it seemed rather sudden. So he laughed; and swore to himself as he felt that he had laughed sillily. Was he such a country-boy as to be afraid of this woman because she was handsome and he saw it?
Dinner was announced; so he offered her his arm and said nothing until they were seated. Then they both looked around; and it was the occasion for those whispered confidences about the general coup d’œil and the appearance of their fellow-creatures which form so quickly the little bonds of mutual likes and dislikes.
And, truly, it is a fine and a suggestive sight—a dinner-party—custom cannot stale, to the thoughtful guest, its infinite variety; however age may wither it. For are not here collected, in one carefully arranged bouquet, the single flowers of our vast society? The newest varieties, the brightest tints and rarest hybrids. Here are twelve of the few who have wealth to bloom and give fragrance, leisure to cultivate, develop, and adorn; they are fretted with no cares until the morrow; their duty but pleasure, to be happy their one endeavor, to please and to be pleased. I am afraid to say how many folk have labored that this hour should be a pleasant one to these; shall we say, a thousand? The table is snowy and sparkling; about it sit these six men, whose chief virtue seems conformity, those six women, whose merit seems display. They do not eat, they dine; a daily sacrament of taste and studied human life. So, far above the cares of earth, feast leisurely the careless gods—do they not?
Who are our gods and goddesses? Well, first, there is Mrs. Levison Gower; she is in gray silk and silver, pétillante with esprit (how does it happen that she always makes one go to the French for epithets?). On the right, Lord Birmingham, who looks bored; next him (to Arthur’s slight surprise) is Kitty Farnum. Then John Haviland; then Mrs. Malgam; then Caryl Wemyss at the end, looking irritable. (Mr. Gower was away.) On his right, Mrs. Wilton Hay (black velvet is her dress, without lace or collar, from which her blond neck bursts, like a hot-house bud)—then Arthur; next him, little Pussie Duval and a stranger; beyond him, Miss Marion Lenoir, a dinner beauty, and Lionel Derwent, on his hostess’s left, and scowling at Lord Birmingham. Five—yes, six beautiful women; half a dozen picked men. A veritable round table, with women’s rights, in this castle by the storied river, “Tell me, who is that next you—a fine-looking man?” said Mrs. Hay.
“I believe his name is Van Kull,” said Arthur, indifferently.
“Oh, indeed?” said she, with interest; and honored our old acquaintance with her eye-glass. “I heard he was such a favorite with the Prince.” And as we have not seen Kill Van Kull for some years, a hint as to his past would not be amiss. Only, you mustn’t refer to his recent past, beyond the last two months. The fact is, Van Kull had a way of disappearing, under complicated circumstances; but as he always returned alone, after a few months, society pardoned it. Particularly when he came back with a man, a lord, or fresh from a visit at Sandringham—New York tries hard to be virtuous; but what can it do when an offence is condoned by London?
“I tell you, you should read your Bibles,” broke in a voice, like a heavy bell. The sentiment seemed mal à propos; but the voice was Lionel Derwent’s, and it continued speaking without the slightest tremor of consciousness that it was producing a sensation. “You are none of you Christians—not one.” Derwent was addressing Mrs. Gower; but, in the sudden silence, his remark seemed addressed to the entire company. The remark did not seem to offend anybody, coming from so handsome a man with so sweet a voice; but there was quite a little chorus of shocked dissent.
“Do you suppose,” said Derwent, gravely, “that the Christian church, when it reorganized society, meant—this sort of thing?” And with a sweeping glance, that was as definite as a wave of the hand, but not so discourteous, Derwent indicated the table and its brilliant occupants. No one seemed quite ready to defend herself, as there manifested; as for the men, they sat all withdrawn from the fray, with the feeling that, as they made no religious pretences, it did not concern them. Perhaps Miss Lenoir’s reply served the purpose as well as any other.