“Old stuff! Miss Durland could have taken the lady’s material and made a better story of it.”
“A doubtful compliment!” said Grace. “Come along; we must say good-night to Miss Reynolds.”
They went forward to where the other guests stood waiting while the club president introduced to Mrs. Trenton such of the members as wished to meet her.
“Don’t forget that I’m taking you home,” said Atwood. “That’s my reward for coming.”
Grace had hoped to avoid speaking to Mrs. Trenton again but as Miss Reynolds’s other guests were bidding her good-night she couldn’t very well escape it.
“Ah, you stayed to the bitter end!” Mrs. Trenton exclaimed with a forced brightening of her face. The hand she gave Grace was cold, and the look of weariness in her eyes was intensified. “I wish we might have you as a convert. No hope, I suppose?”
She turned away with a smile to greet the next in line.
“It wasn’t so shocking after all,” remarked Miss Reynolds, as Grace bade her good-night. “I’ll always remember this, Grace. You helped a lot—you’d have helped a lot even if you hadn’t said a word! I was so proud of you, dear.”
When she reached home Grace found her mother and Ethel waiting up for her and she sat down in the living room to recount the events of the evening. Mrs. Trenton, she said, was not so terrible; she dismissed her lightly and concentrated upon the other guests at the dinner. She was at pains to give the impression that she had thoroughly enjoyed herself, particularly her meeting with Professor Grayling. The fact, carelessly mentioned, that Jimmie Atwood had brought her home immediately obscured everything else. Mrs. Durland wished to be sure that Jimmie was the son of the George Rogers Atwood who had made a fortune in the stove business; Ethel thought he was only a nephew and that Jimmie’s father operated coal mines somewhere near Terre Haute. Grace, unable to assist in determining this momentous matter, left them and sought the seclusion of her room.
As she closed the door she was oppressed by an overmastering fatigue; she felt that innumerable, mocking, menacing hands were plucking at her. The jealousy that had assailed her fitfully all evening now tore at her heart. A vast loneliness, as of some bleak unhorizoned waste, settled upon her. She locked her door and spread out on her dressing table the sheets of Trenton’s last letter, which had reached her that morning, and read them over as she brushed her hair.