“And by the way, Allie, mother said I could use the limousine. I’ve got a lot of things to do and I’ll need Chester all afternoon. Mrs. Watts is taking mother to the Morley reception and I’m calling for her. She said you could have the electric.”
“My God!” said Allie. “Why doesn’t she offer me a hearse? Thanks, I’d sooner take old 1898 out again. And think about that Pierce I’m going to earn.”
She was out of the room in a minute, flying up the stairs, some grotesque words to a dance tune floating behind her. The Packard runabout, “old 1898,” was humming down the garage drive half an hour later. Stopping at two houses impressive as her own, she regaled the girls who were her friends with accounts of the “Swedish invasion.” It was a good story, especially with the promise of the reward tacked on the end.
II
But it was three days before Freda had capitulated. Her first reaction had been an angry shame at her mother’s inclusion of her in her own invitation. She had simply flatly refused to go. A little later it was possible to regard the business with some humor, and the shame had lost its sting. She had never known those people anyhow—never would know them—it didn’t matter what they thought. When she saw that the matter was not ended and sensed the depth of determination in her mother’s mind that her daughter should go with her to the Brownley’s she tried to be more definite even than before in her refusal. Her mother did not seem to hear her. She insisted on keeping the subject open, never admitting for a minute that it was or could be closed. She dwelt endlessly on the advantages of the visit—on the fact that the chance for Freda had come at last.
“Chance!” stormed Freda, “why it isn’t a chance to do anything except sponge on a few rich people whom I’ve never seen before in my life. You don’t really suppose, mother, that I’d go down there and let those Brownley girls make my life miserable. You don’t seem to realize, mother, that those two Brownleys are a very gay lot. They must be about my age—the older one anyway. Why, I wouldn’t think of it. What on earth would I do? What on earth would I wear? What would I say? What on earth would I be there anyhow? I’m no politician. I’m not helping Mrs. Brownley strengthen her fences or anything. If you ask me, mother, I wouldn’t think of going if I were you. Don’t you know she’s just making a play to the gallery by having you? Probably bragging about her great sense of democracy! Why, mother!”
“You don’t seem to realize,”—Mrs. Thorstad always began that way by assuming that you had missed her point, a point which was and always would be in accord with Right Living and Democracy and the Family and the Home, “that these social distinctions are of no value in my estimation. In this great country—”
Freda led her mother away from the brink of oratory.
“Look here,” she said, “if they aren’t a lot more important than we are—if you don’t think they are—what is this wonderful chance you are talking about?”
Just at what point Freda gave in, just at what point she felt that the possibilities of her trip outweighed its impossibilities she did not know. It was certain that the young Brownleys gave way to no noisier public mockery of the proposed visit than did Freda. She was even a little shrill. She told everybody how she “hated it,” how she was going along to the homes of the idle rich to chaperon her mother, that she was “breaking into high society,” that she was gathering material for a book on “how the other half lives,” that she would probably be mistaken for a housemaid and asked to dust the bed-rooms, that mother was trying to “marry her off,” that she “didn’t have an idea what to wear.” She talked to almost every one she met, somewhat unnecessarily, somewhat defiantly, as if determined to let any one know about her reasons for going, as if defending herself against any accusations concerning her motive in making such a visit, perhaps making sure that no later discomfiture on her own part could be made more severe by any suspicion of pleasurable anticipation.