Her flush of triumph was succeeded, however, by a discontented mood, because cogitation constrained her to suspect that her social progress might not be so rapid as her first rosy visions had suggested. She counted on being able to procure the participation of Wilbur sufficiently to preserve the appearance of domestic harmony. This would be for practical purposes a scarcely less effective furtherance of her plans than if he were heartily in sympathy with them. Were there not many instances where busy husbands took part in the social undertakings of their wives, merely on the surface, to preserve appearances? The attitude of Wilbur seemed reasonably secure. That which harassed her as the result of her reflections and efforts to plan was the unpalatable consciousness that she did not know exactly what to do, and that no one, even now that she was free, appeared eager to extend to her the hand of recognition. She was prompt to lay the blame of this on her husband. It was he who, by preventing her from taking advantage of the social opportunities at their disposal, had consigned her to this eddy where she was overlooked. This seemed to her a complete excuse, and yet, though she made the most of it, it did not satisfy her. Her helplessness angered her, and aroused her old feelings of suspicion and resentment against the fashionable crew who appeared to be unaware of her existence. She was glad to believe that the reason they ignored her was because she was too serious minded and spiritual to suit their frivolous and pleasure-loving tastes. Sometimes she reasoned that the sensible thing for her to do was to break away from her present life, where convention and caste trammelled her efforts, and make a name for herself as an independent soul, like Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle and other free-born women of the Republic. With satisfaction she pictured herself on the lecture platform uttering burning denunciation of the un-American social proclivities of this shallow society, and initiating a crusade which should sweep it from existence beneath the ban of the moral sense of the thoughtful people of the country.
But more frequently she nursed her resentment against Mrs. Williams, to whom she ascribed the blame of her isolation, reasoning that if Flossy had been a true friend, not even Wilbur's waywardness would have prevented her social recognition and success. That, instead, this volatile, fickle prattler had used her so long as she needed her, and then dropped her heartlessly. The memory of Flossy's ball still rankled deeply, and appeared to Selma a more obvious and more exasperating insult as the days passed without a sign of explanation on the part of her late neighbor, and as her new projects languished for lack of a few words of introduction here and there, which, in her opinion, were all she needed to ensure her enthusiastic welcome as a social leader. The appreciation that without those words of introduction she was helpless for the time being focused her resentment, already keen, on the successful Flossy, whose gay doings had disappeared from the public prints in a blaze of glory with the advent of the Lenten season. Refusing to acknowledge her dependence, Selma essayed several spasmodic attempts to assert herself, but they proved unsatisfactory. She made the most of Mr. Parsons's predilection for her society, which had not been checked by Wilbur's termination of the contract. She was thus enabled to affiliate with some of their new friends, but she was disagreeably conscious that she was not making real progress, and that Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and their daughter had, like herself, been dropped by the Williamses—dropped skilfully and imperceptibly, yet none the less dropped. Two dinner parties, which she gave in the course of a fortnight to the most important of these new acquaintances, by way of manifesting to Wilbur her intention to enjoy her liberty at his expense, left her depressed and sore.
It was just at this time that Flossy took it into her head to call on her—one of her first Lenten duties, as she hastened to assure Selma, with glib liveliness, as soon as she entered. Flossy was in too exalted a frame of mind, too bubbling over with the desire to recite her triumphs, to have in mind either her doubts concerning Selma or the need of being more than mildly apologetic for her lack of devotion. She felt friendly, for she was in good humor, and was naïvely desirous to be received in the same spirit, so that she might unbosom herself unreservedly. Sweeping into the room, an animated vision of smiling, stylish cordiality, she sought, as it were, to carry before her by force of her own radiant mood all obstacles to an amiable reception.
"My dear, we haven't met for ages. Thank heaven, Lent has come, and now I may see something of you. I said to Gregory only yesterday that I should make a bee-line for your house, and here I am. Well, dear, how are you? All sorts of things have happened, Selma, since we've had a real chat together. Do you remember my telling you—of course you do—not long after Gregory and I were married that I never should be satisfied until one thing happened? Well, you may congratulate me; it has happened. We dined a week ago to-night with my cousins—the Morton Prices—a dinner of fourteen, all of them just the people I wished to know. Wasn't it lovely? I have waited for it to come, and I haven't moved a finger to bring it about, except to ask them to my dancing party—I had to do that, for after all they are my relations. They accepted and came and I was pleased by it; but they could easily have ignored me afterward if they had wished. What really pleased me, Selma, was their asking me to one of their select dinners, because—because it showed that we are—"
Flossy's hesitation was due partly to the inherent difficulty of expressing her thought with proper regard for modesty. With her rise in life she had learned that unlimited laudation of self was not altogether consistent with "fitness," even in such a confidential interview as the present. But she was also disconcerted by the look in Selma's eyes—a look which, at first startled into momentary friendliness by the suddenness of the onslaught, had become more and more lowering until it was unpleasantly suggestive of scornful dislike. While she thus faltered, Selma drily rounded out the sentence with the words, "Because it showed that you are somebodies now."
Flossy gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Yes, that's what I meant. I see you have a good memory, and it sounds nicer on your lips than it would on mine."
"You have come here to-day on purpose to tell me this?" said Selma.
"I thought you would be interested to hear that my cousins had recognized me at last. I remember, you thought it strange that they should take so little notice of me." Flossy's festive manner had disappeared before the tart reception of her confidences, and her keen wits, baffled in their search for flattery, recalled the suspicions which were only slumbering. She realized that Selma was seriously offended with her, and though she did not choose to acknowledge to herself that she knew the cause, she had already guessed it. An encounter at repartee had no terrors for her, if necessary, and the occasion seemed to her opportune for probing the accumulating mysteries of Selma's hostile demeanor. Yet, without waiting for a response to her last remark, she changed the subject, and said, volubly, "I hear that your husband has refused to build the new Parsons house because Mrs. Parsons insisted on drawing the plans."
Selma's pale, tense face flushed. She thought for a moment that she was being taunted.
"That was Mr. Littleton's decision, not mine."