“They have a lot more,—music, charities, civic advancement; and they are really better in practical affairs. It’s not much good discussing Flaubert or the impressionists without a background, as Mr. Erard would say, and though these bright women read whatever they are told the world is taking seriously, and have seen pictures and often buy them, it is really funny to hear the talk. That’s not their proper atmosphere: you can’t supply background, cultivation, and insight, by any ready-made process of education, evening lectures, and so on.”
Molly Parker was eager to combat this ever present note of depreciation and dissatisfaction. “You expect wonders. They know a deal more than I with all the ministers and lawyers in my family. The proper values—the expression—will come fast enough to the next generation.”
“It’s always that,” Mrs. Wilbur replied scornfully. “That blessed next generation! May I live to see it! But it requires a pretty lively imagination to be always living in the next generation!”
“I like this one.” Molly settled herself comfortably in the carriage.
She found, however, that Mrs. Wilbur in spite of her lugubrious reflections, was a fairly contented person and ever active. The days sped by in engagements. Mrs. Wilbur organized with the organizers; met with committees of the Civic Association and the Art Association,—dined and entertained and gossiped, as if no world existed beyond the misty miles of Lake Michigan. She took Miss Parker to luncheons, literary, social, and feminine,—and skilfully engineered her into the interest of influential people.
Wilbur had come back from the Dakotas and was off again, first to New York, then to Springfield, and again to New York. Miss Parker found him better looking than in the Paris days. He was cordial to her, but the chief impression he gave was one of great preoccupation. Mrs. Wilbur explained this by remarking that the times were difficult.
During one of these absences, Mrs. Wilbur and her friend attended an open meeting of a literary club. It took place in the ballroom of a large house and was attended by a great many society people. The paper of the evening on Walt Whitman was given by an elderly gentleman, a retired “capitalist,” who cultivated letters. He didn’t like Walt Whitman, and he made a number of jokes which seemed to touch responsive chords in the audience. The occasion was less serious than the Monday day Club, but “more brilliant,” and enlivened by the presence of men. After the paper—which was discreetly short—the two friends found themselves among strangers in one corner of the large room. Presently a young man passed by, and catching sight of Mrs. Wilbur came up to them. Mrs. Wilbur’s face lit with unusual animation as she turned to Molly Parker.
“This is Mr. Jennings. He can tell you all about the Civic Association—he’s one of the secretaries—and about the municipal scandals.”
Miss Parker glanced up at the young man’s face. He seemed to stand unusually erect, with a kind of military uprightness, rarely met with in our civilian society. His high forehead was rendered more conspicuous by the receding line of hair. His green eyes were moist and large and played a part in the mobility of his face. Molly Parker smiled back in response to his smile. Something sympathetic seemed to pass quickly between them as they stood looking at one another.
“He’s trying to make the city over,” Mrs. Wilbur continued.