Though Mrs. Wilbur thought herself far from prudish, her notions of good breeding were evidently out of place in the new life her companion was showing her. Erard was not coarse by nature, but in the milieu he had cultivated, the amatory passages of his neighbours had their passing interest. Art was intimately influenced by sex: indeed, in his extravagant moods, Erard was inclined to attribute all art effort to the sexual instincts. He suspected Mrs. Wilbur of having provincial prejudices about naked speech that needed correction; for he did not propose to change his habitual expression to suit the squeamishness of a constant companion.
They gained the hall, and paused before the Botticelli frescoes. Then Mrs. Wilbur turned and swept haughtily down the stone stairs, lingering for a minute before the rushing Victory. Such art was naked as men were naked in the childhood of the race. That state of simplicity could never come again. The nakedness of Erard seemed to her like impotent curiosity.
She might come to accept this attitude, also, and see no mystery in man and woman more than the mystery of two sensual animals. But she shuddered at the idea. That would strip the world of one necessary covering for its sordidness. She looked up at the noble Victory, feeling the form of the goddess through the garment of stone. Then she glanced at Erard, who was waiting for her at the end of the staircase. She was not willing that that male, with his little unshapen body, should discuss sex,—a part of her which she shared with the goddess above,—in his disillusioned manner.
CHAPTER III
The déjeuner put them in accord, however. A bottle of good wine brought out evidences of human comradeship in Erard. He talked over his winter’s work, in which he assumed her coöperation. He made her take her notebook and jot down titles and references, laughing at her heedless reading. She was to make the drawings of architectural details for the new book. Then they discussed several excursions, one especially to a chateau near Orleans where there were said to be some Leonardo drawings. As they walked down the avenue to the picture-dealer’s, Mrs. Wilbur was surprised to find how far she had gone. It had not been possible to parley with Erard; he had taken everything for granted.
They passed the Opera House. She remembered the night when Wilbur had carried her off her feet with his plans for making a fortune. That emotion seemed quite dead now; she was thankful to escape so cheaply. Dear Uncle Sebastian had made it possible for her to become a privateer once more,—to take the step in a queenly fashion without haggling. She blessed him for enabling her to trip lightly whither she would.
At last Erard’s talk and her musings ceased at the door of the dealer. Once inside the portières which closed the little gallery, Mrs. Wilbur noticed with a shock of surprise three familiar faces; there were the Mills—father, mother, and daughter. Erard had said nothing about meeting these Chicago patrons of art in the gallery. Perhaps he had neglected to mention the fact through pure indifference; perhaps he had a subtler reason for not warning her.
Mrs. Wilbur advanced timidly, angry at herself for her lack of ease. It was the first time she had actually met any of her old acquaintances since her rupture with her husband. Recovering her self-command quickly, she determined to take the matter in her old aggressive, imposing style. She bowed stiffly, and spoke. Evidently the Mills were disconcerted on their side. The father turned away awkwardly, as if suddenly interested in a small canvas in the corner. Mrs. Mills bowed coldly and advanced to receive Erard with emphatic cordiality. The daughter, putting her lorgnette affectedly to her eyes, swept the room, including Mrs. Wilbur, in a gross stare. Then suddenly perceiving Erard, she brushed past Mrs. Wilbur without a look, and stood beside her mother.
Mrs. Wilbur was stung by the snub. These Mills were good, plain people—he had been one of Remsen’s junior partners—who had only lately had money. She had rather patronized them in Chicago, especially the daughter, whom she had entertained several times. They had built a house a mile above the Wilburs and in the Chicago sense they were close neighbours. Evidently her case was judged in Chicago, and had gone against her by default. Her character was now the property of such people as the Mills, who could take the position of guardians of society! She walked about the little room with as much indifference and composure as she could assume. She would have liked to flee, but pride held her there in her discomfiture. Erard, she thought, was watching her curiously, all the time talking lightly with Miss Mills. Had he set this trap for her,—the cad! and was he now amusing himself with watching her emotions? Or did he wish to give her an object-lesson in the term “burning your ships”?
The dealer appeared at last, and suggested that the party should enter his private room where the pictures in question were assembled. The Mills followed the dealer, passing directly in front of Mrs. Wilbur without noticing her presence. Mr. Mills did the act clumsily; his wife severely; the daughter airily.