They had entered Gita’s bedroom. Large as it was a four-poster seemed to take up fully a third of it, and highboys, chests, an immense wardrobe, heavy chairs and sofas, covered with horsehair, left little space for movement. The windows looked out into the wood. Gita had jerked off the bed-hangings on the night of her arrival.
“Well,” pursued the irreverent Miss Pleyden, “if you ever get hard up you can sell this old junk. There are imbeciles that will pay any price for mahogany and black old oak. I’d pass out if I had to sleep in this room.”
“I only do sleep in it! Take this chair. I’ve tried them all and it’s not quite as hard as the others. Have one of mine?”
“Thanks. I prefer Happy Stars. Debased taste. One of the fell results of the war. Jolly old war. Did us a good turn.”
Both girls smoked in silence for a moment, secretly appraising each other. Miss Pleyden wriggled until she made herself comfortable and Gita seated herself on the one unbroken spring of a sofa.
“Going to stay with us long?” asked Polly. “I hope so. I must give you a party and have you meet our crowd. We do our little best to amuse ourselves.”
“You look as if you amused yourself,” said Gita, smiling. “But I can’t go anywhere at present. My grandmother won’t live much longer, I’m afraid, and I must remain on tap.”
“I should hope not! Over eighty, isn’t she? Well, you’ll molder if you have to live here much longer. Mother says she’s leaving everything to you, and I hope you’ll sell this old tomb and buy something over in Chelsea—no, I take that back. Even I’d keep this house if I had it. All it needs is new furniture and not so much woods.” She took off her hat and threw it on the floor. Gita, now that this fashionable extinguisher was removed, saw how completely beautiful she was. Such locks as had been spared by the shears curled naturally about her face. She had a charming little head alertly poised; her forehead was low and full, her delicate nose a straight line, her curved mouth soft and pink, with happy corners. She looked sweet and innocent and utterly charming and as cool and pure as an arum lily; but Gita was wary of judging by Nature’s irrelevancies. And she had heard her San Francisco friends discuss these Eastern girls. “Hard-boiled, my dear, doesn’t express it. They’d turn nails green. We’re little ba-bas beside ’em.”
“Surely you go out occasionally?” asked Miss Pleyden anxiously.
“Oh, yes, I go for a long walk every day. The salt marshes fascinate me, and I never saw anything like the Boardwalk. It is rather amusing.”