“Oh, she went off with a German painter and forgot to get married until it was too late. My dear fellow, you are really archaic. We have new constellations now: the lesser luminaries have winked and gone out.”
“It’s all the same,” Jennings protested, throwing away his cigarette half-smoked. “I suppose the flies are a little thicker as our idle classes increase. We need a war,—or a pestilence.”
Mrs. Wilbur winced at this banter about the “aspirants.” The dilettanti, the exclamatory women like herself, came and went. Erard was strong enough to stay, fattened by the incense of the troop. At this pause in the conversation Molly Parker entered, and dropping her wraps with a little exclamation of delight, she sped to meet Jennings.
“You and here!” She looked into his face. “Oh! this is so nice. It’s the best thing this winter, isn’t it, Adela?” Mrs. Wilbur laughed, and Erard echoed her merriment disagreeably.
“But you aren’t half glad enough to see us,” she looked at the visitor reproachfully.
“Of course I am.” Jennings was pulling at his suit confusedly. “Didn’t I come round this way to get to London?”
“Well, I don’t care anyway,” Miss Parker beamed, “I am awfully glad you are here. I’ll tell Luisa to make a festa for dinner.”
Jennings was vague about his plans, when the women plied him with questions at dinner. He was on his way somewhere he admitted,—about to make a change. “They got tired of me in Chicago, and I was rather tired of them.” He was also vague about seeing these friends again, for he said bluntly that he didn’t care to meet Americans at present.
“Nasty remark that,” Molly reflected lugubriously after his departure.
“It would be nice to see him often,” Mrs. Wilbur admitted. “I wonder why he is so attractive. He can be very gauche. It must be because he makes such little account of himself. The world is all; life is all, no matter where he works or whom he meets. That firm hand will be put to the plough, and those frank eyes will consider seriously.”