II
Ethel’s intimations that Irene Kirby was not as good as she ought to be so exasperated Grace that in a spirit of contrariness she hoped they were true. At least she didn’t care whether they were true or not. She knew little of Irene’s family but the bitterness engendered by her own home life made it seem a natural and pardonable thing for a girl who worked hard and was obliged to live in an atmosphere of perpetual criticism to take her pleasure where she pleased. Her curiosity as to Irene’s social contacts was greatly aroused. Irene, outwardly at least the most circumspect of young women, certainly had mastered the art of keeping her private affairs to herself. Now and then she spoke of having gone to the theatre or to a dance with some young man whose name she always mentioned; but when Grace tried to tease her about her suitors Irene dismissed them disdainfully. They were impossible, she said, in her large manner—bank clerks, traveling salesmen or young fellows just starting in small businesses. She wasn’t at all interested in marrying a young man with his way to make, cooking for him in the kitchenette of a four-room apartment, with a movie once a week as the reward for faithful service.
These views on matrimony were revealed one day early in November when they were lunching together in Shipley’s tea room. She went on to say that she would wait a few years in the hope of meeting some man of importance who could give her a position in life worth while.
“It has been done before, my dear. It may not sound romantic but it’s the only way to play safe. I want to get away from this town! It smothers and chokes me. The firm has sent me to New York twice this last year, and I think I could get along very well down there if I had money to spend. I’ve been a little afraid you’d engaged yourself to some struggling young professor at the university. No? Well, I’d hate to see you wasting yourself. You’ve got brains and good looks and I hope you won’t throw yourself away. By the way—just what do you do with yourself evenings?”
“Oh, I stay at home, mostly. I do a turn in the kitchen, play a game of checkers with father and go to bed to read.”
“Wholesome but not exciting! I’d imagined you had a few suitors who dropped in occasionally.”
“Haven’t had a caller since I came home,” said Grace. “The beaux I had last summer don’t know I’m home and I haven’t felt like stirring them up.”
Irene was wearing a handsome emerald ring that Grace had not noticed before. In keeping with the tone of subdued elegance she affected, Irene never wore jewelry; the ring was a departure and required an explanation for which Grace hesitated to ask. In spite of their long acquaintance Grace never overcame her feeling of humility before Irene’s large view of things, her lofty disdain for small change. Grace knew more out of books than Irene; but in her cogitations she realized that beyond question Irene knew much more of life. Aware of Grace’s frequent glances at the emerald, Irene held up her hand.
“Rather pretty, isn’t it?” she asked carelessly. “That cost some real money. A little gift from a man who is foolish enough to admire me.”
“It’s perfectly beautiful,” said Grace as Irene spread her fingers on the table. “It’s the very newest setting and a wonderful stone. I don’t believe I ever saw you wear a ring before.”