They shook hands gravely. Cecily went away with a sense of outrage and justification. So that was Fliss!
There was a small dinner at the Garden House Club, for Mrs. Walter Warner, the next week. Della was taking rather well on the whole. Mrs. Longstreet, who liked to “bring out” young people, was the hostess. The Walter Warners, the Richard Harrisons, the Matthew Allenbys, the Frederick Craigs, Madeline Ensign and her husband, Gordon Ames, the boy who had so vainly pursued Fliss and who, with college back of him and a start in his profession, was no longer a boy but a much sought after man, Helen Jefferson, because every one hoped that Gordon would marry her, and a half-dozen other couples—all young, all extremely well acquainted with each other. Della was quite at her best. With nothing to do except be nominal mistress of her mother-in-law’s home and plenty of service at her disposal, Della was keeping in excellent form. It was easy to see to-night why Walter had fallen so very much in love with her. Her pale yellow hair was like a mist around her head and the green of her gown was either a stroke of luck or a stroke of genius, thought Cecily. She looked curiously at Fliss in the light of the revelations of her call on her mother the day before. Fliss evidently did not know about that yet or if she did she made no reference. She greeted Cecily casually and turned back to the glass.
“Just below your cheek-bones, my dear. Most people put it on too high up. It gives much more the look of youth, not that you need that, but you know.”
Della experimented. Cecily looked over their heads at her own hair, combed heavily back in dark waves, at her own cheeks faintly pink with cold. She had it in mind to disdain rouge, but Fliss’s professionalism was tantalizing. She opened her little gold case and gave her cheeks a touch of red below the cheek bone.
“You don’t need it, Cecily. You’re better without,” said Fliss, observing.
“Cecily’s always better looking than anybody else,” contributed Madeline. “You really are, Cecily.”
Della gave Cecily a critical glance. “It’s much easier for a brunette,” she sighed.
That brought her the anticipated compliments from the rest. Cecily did not join them. She was watching Fliss and Della, suddenly mindful that it had not been so long ago when Fliss was more or less outside of all this easy fun. She looked back over the obvious steps of the progress Fliss had made. Funny! And that queer-looking woman in the soiled kimono dying of cancer; and out there Matthew waiting for his wife to take her to their hostess, to pay her honor. She wasn’t worth it. Walter waiting for his wife, for the girl who had pulled him out of college into marriage, who had probably tricked him, who had no respect for marriage. She wasn’t worth it, either! Worth what? She caught her mind back and began to talk to Madeline as they strolled out into the little reception room to meet their husbands.
At dinner she sat between Freddy Craig and Howard Ensign—rather on the dull side of the table. Fliss above and across from her had Dick and Gordon Ames, and Della on the right of her host was dividing her attentions between him and Matthew. Cecily talked at random, intermittent, necessary conversation, her mind and eyes straying to the brightness of Fliss. She seemed so eager and Dick seemed so pleased by her eagerness and so alert. She couldn’t make it out. No right—no wrong. Why can’t I be like the rest of them, she thought, immediately conscious that to be like the rest of them was just what she did not want.
Fliss was telling Dick something sotto voce. He listened closely and then broke into irrepressible laughter. Fliss looked at him provocatively and his eyes were slanting down at her in that amused, liking way.