With an effort Clifford brought himself back to his present business, and again gave sharp attention to that darkly handsome figure of the dancing man. And then—his heart skipped a beat or two. Across the line of his vision, coming from the main entrance of the Gold Room, and convoyed by a suave captain of waiters, walked Mary Regan and Jack Morton. They were ushered to a side table, and at once fell into intimate talk.
Clifford, after his first surprise, watched them closely; and he quickly perceived that, though she smiled and chatted, not more than the surface of Mary’s attention was given to her husband of a dozen hours. He tried to look beneath, to what was going on in the hidden deeps of her mind....
That mind was teeming. For her this was a moment of triumph, of exultation. As she had told Clifford, with her cool directness, she had analyzed herself, and had decided that she was a worldling, and, moreover, she knew herself a competent worldling. The things in life that to her were worth while were luxury, admiration, the pleasures that money could buy. She had dreamed this dream—and here was her dream come true!
Her quickened eyes, with a new sense, swiftly took in this great room, decorated in gold and black and with hangings of a kingly blue brocade, and with smartly dressed people at the tables or swinging in alluring rhythm in the latest dances. After the studied maneuvers, and sometimes necessary seclusion of life with her uncle, all this gayety, and richness, and freedom, warmed the heart of her desire. All this was now hers!—hers whenever she wished it!
It was as if golden doors had swung open. From her subconscious mind these two magic words had emerged to the very forefront of her thought, had become a mental figure of speech which she concretely visualized as a glorious structure which almost existed—Golden Doors!...
Clifford, watching that rapt face, hardly noted that Jack had sighted him and was bearing down upon him until Jack seized him by the shoulder and dragged him over to where Mary sat.
“Look who’s here, Mary,—almost my bridesmaid!” Jack cried gayly. “Sit down, Clifford,” pressing Clifford into a chair and reseating himself. “Now, come across with congratulations!”
Clifford tried to restrain all personal feeling from his tone, and to speak lightly. “I can’t do better than to say what’s always said—that I hope marriage is going to make a real man out of you.”
“Oh, you do! And I suppose”—with joyous acerbity—“that that’s what you’re wishing for Mary—that it’ll make a real woman out of her!”
Clifford still tried to speak easily. “Honestly, now, could one make a better wish for a woman than that she should never be anybody else but her best self?”