VIII
Betty had the dinner for Mr. Albertson last night and of course I went, for Betty is like royalty, she doesn’t invite, she commands. In a brief telephone message she instructed me to wear my blue crêpe and I wore it. Before dinner, in her room, she eyed me critically and put a blue aigrette in my hair.
Mr. Albertson was a gallant Southerner with courtly manners and a large bald spot. We got on very nicely, though he did not exhibit that appreciation of my charms that marked the Idaho man from the moment of our meeting. If, however, he should develop it I have resolved to crush it by strategy. I don’t know just how yet—the only thing I can think of at present is to ask him to call and pretend I’m drunk like David Garrick. I’ll get a better idea if the necessity arises. I haven’t the courage to defy Betty twice.
Betty sent me home in the limousine, without the footman and the chow dog. It was a cold still night, the kind when the sky is a deep Prussian blue and all the lights have a fixed steady shine. As the car wheeled into Fifth Avenue and I sat looking out of the window, revolving schemes for the disenchanting of Mr. Albertson, I saw Roger walking by. Before I thought I had beckoned to him and struck on the front window for the chauffeur to stop. The car glided to the curb and Roger’s long black figure came running across the street.
“You!” he cried, “like a fairy princess with a feather in your hair. What ball are you coming from, Cinderella?”
As soon as he spoke I grew shy. Do the women who have ready tongues and the courage of their moods, realize the value of their gifts?
“I—I—it’s not a ball, it’s Betty Ferguson’s and she’s sending me home.”
“All right.” He said something to the chauffeur, stepped in and the car started. “What a piece of luck. I was coming from a deadly dinner and going to a deadly club. What inspired you to hail me?”
Nothing did, or something did that I couldn’t explain. I felt round for an answer and produced the first that came.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”