It did not occur to Selma that there was any inconsistency in these observations, or that they might appear a partial vindication of her husband's point of view. The most salient effect of her encounter with Flossy had been suddenly to fuse and crystallize her mixed and seemingly contradictory ambitions into utter hostility to conventional fashionable society. Even when her heart had been hungering for an invitation to Flossy's ball, she considered that she despised these people, but the interview had served to establish her in the glowing faith that they, by their inability to appreciate her, had shown themselves unworthy of further consideration. The desire which she had experienced of late for a renewal of her intimacy with Mrs. Earle and a reassertion of her former life of independent feminine activity had returned to her, coupled with the crusading intention to enroll herself openly once more in the army of new American women, whose impending victorious campaign she had prophesied in her retort to Mrs. Williams's maledictions. She had, in her own opinion, never ceased to belong to this army, and she felt herself now more firmly convinced than ever that the course of life of those who had turned a cold shoulder on her was hostile to the spirit of American institutions. So far as her husband was concerned, imaginative enterprise and the capacity to take advantage of opportunities still seemed to her of the essence of fine character. Indeed, she was not conscious of any change in her point of view. She had resented Flossy's charge that she desired to be a social success, and had declared that her wounded feelings were solely due to Flossy's betrayal of friendship, not to balked social ambition. Consequently it was no strain on her conscientiousness to feel that her real sentiments had always been the same.
Nevertheless she scrutinized herself eagerly and long in her mirror, and the process left her serious brow still clouded. She saw in the glass features which seemed to her suggestive of superior womanhood, a slender clear-cut nose, the nostrils of which dilated nervously, delicately thin, compressed lips, a pale, transparent complexion, and clear, steel-like, greenish-brown eyes looking straight and boldly from an anxious forehead surmounted with a coiffure of elaborately and smoothly arranged hair. She saw indisputable evidence that she had ceased to be the ethically attractive, but modishly unsophisticated and physically undeveloped girl, who had come to New York five years before, for her figure was compact without being unduly plump, her cheeks becomingly oval, and her toilette stylish. There were rings on her fingers, and her neck-gear was smart. Altogether the vision was satisfactory, yet she recognized as she gazed that her appearance and general effect were not precisely those of Flossy, Pauline, or Mrs. Hallett Taylor. She had always prided herself on the distinction of her face, and admired especially its freedom from gross or unintellectual lines. She did not intend to question its superiority now; but Flossy's offensive words rang in her ears and caused her to gnaw her lips with annoyance. What was the difference between them? Flossy had dared to call her common and superficial; had dared to insinuate that she never could be a lady. A lady? What was there in her appearance not lady-like? In what way was she the inferior of any of them in beauty, intelligence or character? Rigorous as was the scrutiny, the face in the mirror seemed to her an unanswerable refutation of the slander. What was the difference? Was it that her eyes were keener and brighter, her lips thinner and less fleshly, her general expression more wide-awake and self-reliant? If so, were these not signs of superiority; signs that they, not she, were deficient in the attributes of the best modern womanhood in spite of their affectation of exclusiveness?
The result of this process of self-examination in her looking-glass, which was not limited to a single occasion, established more firmly than ever in Selma's opinion the malignant falsity of the imputation, and yet she was still haunted by it. She was tortured by the secret thought that, though her ambition had been to become just like those other women, she was still distinguishable from them; and moreover, that she was baffled in her attempt to analyze the distinction. Distinguishable even from Flossy—from Flossy, who had slighted and then reviled her! Why had she ever faltered in her distrust of these enemies of true American society? Yet this lingering sense of torture served to whet her new-found purpose to have done with them forever, and to obtain the recognition and power to which she was entitled, in spite of their impertinence and neglect.
The announcement was made to her by Wilbur at about this time that his plans for Wetmore College had been accepted, and that he was to be the architect of the new buildings. As he told her his face showed a tremulous animation which it had not worn for many weeks, and he regarded her for a moment with shy eagerness, as though he half hoped that this vindication of his purposes by success might prompt her to tender some sort of apology, and thus afford him the chance to persuade himself that he had been mistaken after all in his judgment of her.
"You must be very much pleased," she said. "And so am I, of course." Then, after a moment of reflective abstraction, she asked with sudden eagerness, "How long will it take to build them?"
"Two or three years, I suppose."
"And you would be obliged to go frequently to Benham?"
"In order to oversee the work I should have to make short trips there from time to time."
"Yes. Wilbur," she exclaimed, with her exalted expression, "why shouldn't we go to Benham to live? I have been thinking a great deal lately about what we said to each other that time when you felt so badly, and I have come to the conclusion that our living in New York is what is really the trouble. I have the feeling, Wilbur, that in some other place than this cruel, conventional city we should be happier than we are now—indeed, very happy. Has it ever occurred to you? You see, New York doesn't understand me; it doesn't understand you, Wilbur. It sneers at our aspirations. Benham is a growing, earnest city—a city throbbing with the best American spirit and energy. I suggest Benham because we both know it so well. The college buildings would give you a grand start, and I—we both would be in our proper sphere."
Littleton had started at the suggestion. As a drowning man will grasp at a straw, his grieving soul for an instant entertained the plan as a panacea for their woes. But his brow grew grave and sad under the influence of reflection as she proceeded to set forth her reasons in her wrapt fashion. If he had not learned to remain cold under the witchery of her intense moods, he no longer hesitated to probe her fervid assertions with his self-respecting common-sense.