Black is White

by George Barr McCutcheon

She raised her eyebrows slightly.

“Ah,” she said. “That makes quite a difference. Perhaps, after all, I shall be interested in the story.” Her manner was so casual, so serenely, matter-of-fact, that he could hardly restrain the sharp exclamation of annoyance that rose to his lips.

He bit his lip and allowed the frank insinuation to go unanswered. He consoled himself with the thought that she must have spoken in jest without intention. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she would make light of his story, too, when the time came for revelations. A curious doubt took root in his mind: Would he ever be able to understand the nature of this woman whom he loved and who appeared to love him so unreservedly? As time went on the doubt became a conviction. She proved to be utterly beyond Brood's comprehension.

The charm and beauty of the new mistress of James Brood's heart and home was to become the talk of the town. Already, in the first month of her reign, she had drawn to the old house the attention not only of the parasites who feed on novelty, but of families that had long since given up Brood as a representative figure in the circle into which he had been born.

He had dropped out of their lives so completely in the passing years that no one took the trouble to interest himself in the man's affairs. His self-effacement had been complete. The story of his ill-fated marriage was an almost forgotten page in the history of the town.

Old friends now cudgelled their brains to recall the details of the break between him and the first Mrs Brood, who, they were bound to remember, was also beautiful, fascinating, and an adornment to the rather exclusive circle in which they moved. No one could point to the real cause of the separation, however, for the excellent reason that the true conditions were never revealed to anyone outside the four walls of the house from which she was banished.

Memory merely brought to mind the fact that the young husband became a wanderer on the face of the earth, and that his once joyous face was an almost forgotten object.

Brood, in the full pride of possession, awoke to the astounding realisation that he wanted people to envy him this wonderful creature. He wanted men to covet her! He longed to have the world see her at his side, and to feel that the world was saying: “She belongs to James Brood.”

It was not the cheap, ordinary New York society, the insufferably rich and vulgar of the metropolis that he sought to conquer, but the fine old families with whom rests the real verdict. He knew that those families were not many in these days of haste and waste, but he also knew that the rush of frivolity had not weakened their position. Their word was still the law. Serenely confident, he revealed his wife to the few, and waited.

It cannot be said that she conquered, for that would be to imply design on her part. Possibly she considered the game unworthy of the effort. For, in truth, Yvonne Brood despised Americans. She made small pretence of liking them. The rather closely knit circle of Parisian aristocracy which she affected is known to tolerate, but not to invite, the society of even the best of Americans.