Their hostess came in. She had taken off her hat and the great coil of flaxen hair was even more effective than Horatia had guessed. She looked like a Saxon princess, thought Horatia—no, the lovely servant of a princess, the one who is mistress of the king.
She had not been long in town but they were not her only callers. Three men came in while they were there and one woman, a slim, well-dressed unhappy looking woman called Mrs. Boyce, or Kathleen, who smoked constantly and contributed cynicisms. She stared frankly at Horatia and the men showed great interest in her too. Horatia sat on a straight oak chair, her color a little heightened by the attention and implied admiration and not displeased. She was conscious vaguely that Mrs. Hubbell thought she was an asset. Well—asset or not, it was interesting. Mrs. Hubbell listened to everyone and talked little generalities, sometimes foolish, sometimes keen. It appeared that two of the attendant men were married. No one asked after their wives but there were references to engagements which must be kept. With an odd sort of informality they did not seem to consider that Mrs. Hubbell was included in some activities they mentioned. Nor did she seem to expect to be included. But when they spoke of theaters and of dancing, she became an immediate authority.
“I teach them to dance,” she said mockingly to Horatia, “these heavy awkward men—and then they run off and forget me.”
“Did she teach you, Jim?”
“Absolutely.”
Langley had a half-mocking, half-indulgent attitude towards Mrs. Hubbell that was new to Horatia. She had never seen him alternate his grave courtesy to women with anything except his new attitude towards herself.
No one spoke of Mr. Hubbell or of trouble. This room, so much a source of scandal to so many people, showed within itself only good feeling and security. There was nothing awkward or forced in anyone’s tone or manner. The conversation was of dancing, places to dance and to eat, theaters, novelties in New York entertainments. And they talked of things and people which were behind the times and of modern points of view, reminding Horatia oddly of the talk which went on in her own apartment with Grace, and yet this talk seemed to lack a solidity, and a depth, which she felt in Grace’s conversations. However, in its way this was commendable and on the right track. Horatia had an enormous respect for people of new ideas and she contrasted the “let live” of this room with the gossiping group on Maud’s porch—and believed she deeply preferred this. And as they easily included her, she found herself enjoying it immensely. It was Langley who suggested going. He had been friendly but aloof a little, and only Mrs. Hubbell talked much to him. She had a special little air of appropriation for him, as if she leaned on him, mentally and spiritually, as she had leaned on his arm during their walk. And he responded with a cynical gallantry which was too trivial to be taken seriously and too deft to be insulting. Horatia marvelled at this new glimpse of him. He was no longer the man who saw clear issues in politics, who wrote angry philippics about the abuse of men, women and governments. This tall, easy-mannered man bending over a tea-table was entirely different. He seemed at ease in his pose and Horatia had a vision of him as he must have been before he had given up society so abruptly—how sought after, how fascinating he must have been. There was a trace of the philanderer——
“Now,” said Horatia, emerging from the elevator and the repeated requests of Mrs. Hubbell to be sure to come to see her often, “let’s walk—and walk fast.”
“It’s a shame to have taken you there,” said Langley, “but I thought it might be an experience and you like experience. She came to see me unexpectedly—you came in, and I couldn’t just see a way to explain to her that we would prefer to walk alone without giving her something to get her claws into.”
“Claws—bad as that?”