“Charlie might be nicer about going to places with us,” Francesca openly grumbled, “seeing he’s the nearest we’ve got to a brother.”
All this was formlessly in Gerald’s mind–this and much more–when his spirit groaned that Charlie should be giving Aurora a dog.
Mrs. Hawthorne was looking at him, trying to make him out. She could not. One thing, however, was plain, and it being so plain simplified all. He felt actual pain because Charlie Hunt was going to give her a dog. The wherefore it was vain to seek. But she had no desire to give pain of any kind, even by way of teasing him, to this funnily sensitive fellow whose shoulders looked so sharp under his coat.
“All right,” she said. “If he says anything more about it, I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind and don’t want a dog. Are you satisfied? And then if you won’t tell me what the objection is to my having one, I shall have to sit down and try to guess.”
Gerald, upon obtaining so easily what he had wanted apparently to the point of tragedy, looked sheepish, ashamed of himself. His thanks were given in a slowly returning smile.
“I shouldn’t think it would be so difficult,” he said.
155Antonia had been very friendly to Gerald at the period of their first acquaintance. She had cared for his painting, specimens of which had come to her notice through Amabel Van Zandt, and distinguished the at that time very young artist to the extent of inviting him to her villa, showing interest in his talent and future, making him talk. From one year to the next, other things had taken up her mind to his exclusion. He had continued, however, to pay his respects, if she were at home, at least once in the season, and retained gratitude toward her, along with the presumption that he could never be to her the same exactly as the first-come outsider. He remembered At Homes of hers attended in the old days, and saw every reason why Mrs. Hawthorne should enjoy one of these, none why it should not enjoy her. On the contrary. Making full allowance for the fact that he had grown accustomed to her manner and mode, Mrs. Hawthorne had yet seemed to him lately of a circumspection not to be surpassed. When alone with him and Estelle, she was one person; when in company, she was another, not a little like Mrs. Foss, retaining enough of her own irrepressible self to seem just acceptably original. Antonia, the novelist, declared a fondness for people out of the ordinary, the conventional. Gerald thought the American might interest her. But if she did not, little depends, at a reception, upon the hostess being charmed with individual guests; he still believed that Aurora would have a good time–he meant to ensure her doing this.
Aurora had, as she described it, dressed herself to kill, and was looking, Estelle told her, perfectly stunning. She had on velvets and furs, pearls and plumes. She had 156wished at one and the same time to make Gerald Fane proud of her and do honor to Antonia’s party. Concealed in her muff was a white parchment volume–muffs were small in those days. A similar volume had been stuffed into each of Gerald’s overcoat pockets.
Gerald, as has been said, remembered At Homes of Antonia’s, and had in mind an image of what he might expect to see.
He perceived at once that to-day all was different. This was immensely choice, the most so afforded by Florence. That he had been invited showed Antonia’s estimate of him still as a person of artistic significance; also, he modestly decided, the difficulty one had to make up an assemblage solely of notabilities. Her permission to bring a friend showed flattering faith in his taste.