“They will stand between you and the possibility of making friends of the right sort,” she warned, a viewpoint which was in direct opposition to the theory Marjorie had always held. “At least once a week, social duties demand your undivided attention.”
Again, without in the least having said so, Lady Denby managed to convey the fact that she considered Marjorie a very pretty woman, and that it would be wise, in view of her husband’s position, to make the most of her good looks. In the Capital, she observed, much weight attached to one’s appearance, and Marjorie would find herself repaid for dressing a little more—another interesting word of Lady Denby’s—“definitely”. The word was puzzling. Marjorie made all her own and the children’s clothes, her husband’s shirts, his pyjamas and summer underwear, and she was humbly proud of her accomplishment. She had no doubt as to her ability to make more “definite” clothes, could she but understand exactly what Lady Denby meant. There wasn’t anything very striking in a purple velvet suit, even though it had a collar and cuffs of ermine. Besides, Marjorie couldn’t wear purple velvet, it was too elderly.
Her own crepe-de-chine blouse was a definite pink. There could be no possibility of mistaking it for green or blue. She had embroidered it profusely in a black poppy design (copied from a pattern in the needlework section of a fashion magazine) to harmonise with her black velveteen skirt, the flaps of which were faced with pink crepe-de-chine to harmonise with the blouse. Feminine Pinto Plains, calling singly and in groups to inspect her “trousseau,” agreed that it was more than a costume—it was a creation—and they prophesied that it would dazzle Ottawa.
“So rich looking,” they said, “with all that hand-work!” Pinto Plains set a great deal of store by hand-work. “With your lovely colour, Marjorie, in that bright pink you’ll be charming!” And yet Lady Denby thought that she should have more definite clothes!
Then there was another thing—and on this point Lady Denby spoke with greater lucidity.
“I am sure you will find it convenient, my dear,” she had said, in a whispered colloquy that took place in the hall, “to know some young girl who would be flattered by your patronage, and gratified to be of service to you. There are so many things the right sort of person could do—pour tea, and have a general eye to the arrangements when you receive; give you valuable hints as to the connections you should, or should not, form; advise you as to tradesmen, and a dozen other minor matters that must, for a stranger, be exceedingly confusing. It is quite the thing to encourage such an association in the Capital, and I might add that it lends an air of empressement to Members of the Party. One must always consider the Party, my dear.”
Lady Denby saw no difficulty in the fact that Marjorie knew of no such person. “Leave it to me,” she said, with an air of brilliant finality, “I have just such a girl in mind. Not pretty enough to be attractive, and too clever to be popular; so her time is pretty much her own. She would welcome the opportunity, I know, of shining in your reflected glory. I’ll send her to you. Her name is Azalea Deane. And remember always, in your associations, to maintain the dignity that is due to your husband’s position. I would almost go so far as to say that indiscriminate intimacies should be discouraged; they are so apt to be embarrassing—in politics, you know . . .” Without exactly forming the words, her lips seemed to pronounce Mrs. Gullep’s name. “Very estimable people, I am sure, the very vertebræ of Church Societies, but in a small ménage like this, my dear, you must not waste your chairs!”
Marjorie lay awake that night reviewing the events of the day. Some cog in the well-ordered machinery of her existence had slipped out of place, and was causing unaccustomed friction. She didn’t know what was the matter. Neither analytical nor introspective, she never got down to fundamentals, and the results that showed on the surface were apt to bewilder her. Consequently, she refused to admit disappointment with her surroundings, and did not even remotely suspect that she was experiencing the first, faint stirrings of disillusionment. She was a little depressed, that she admitted, but the fault was hers; of that she was thoroughly convinced, not only at the moment but throughout the months and years that stretched ahead. Always she blamed herself for failing to attain the state of mental and spiritual growth that would enable her to fit comfortably into her environment.
Of course, she couldn’t put all this into words. She never could make her feelings clear to other people—not even to Raymond. So, when, somewhat impatient at her restlessness, he asked what was the matter, she answered, with a little sigh.
“Oh, nothing, dearie . . . nothing that’s awfully important, I ought to say. Only—only—I sometimes wonder . . . do you ever feel that Ottawa’s a difficult place to get acquainted?”