The three wives nodded at one another emphatically.
“He puffs so,” complained Patsy, returning to her mutton. “And all he ever says when Sheila asks him something is, ‘Yes, m’ dear,’ or, ‘Do jus’ ’s you like, darlin’.’ He does seem fond of her—but then, so many men have been fond of one. It would have been so easy for Sheila to have taken somebody a little less—er—husky. She’s such a midget, they make each other ridiculous.”
“Didn’t she say they were going somewhere together this afternoon, Ellen? Wasn’t that the reason she couldn’t come out from town to lunch with us?” The socks were finished and folded, and Doromea turned her attention entirely to the matter of conversation.
“Yes—that is, they were going to motor out to the Claremont, to try Hawley’s new machine—how is it that society people always have a new machine?—and then to look at some ponies for the twins. Sheila said she’d get Hawley to drop her here before he went back to town, if there was time; she must be at the Elbert Lewises’ for tea, she said, and get home to dine early. It seems there’s a first night of something. Did you ever hear such a programme! How she keeps that pink and white look is what I can’t fathom—bridge until all hours, and then day after day of mad rushing about—all for what? I’m sure I never knew, when I was doing it! Why, when I contrast that ten years of slavery with this last one——” Ellen’s great dark eyes softened happily. “And Knollys was just as miserable as I; he confesses it, now that we’ve emancipated ourselves from hotels and clubs and things. Poor Sheila! If she’d only realize—for I suppose even butterflies must get tired of flying.”
“They’re always wanting to fly just a little higher.” Patsy wagged her auburn head sagaciously. “And then they’re determined that the children shall simply soar—Sheila says quite naïvely that her ambition for the twins is too enormous to be taken seriously by any one else than herself. I dare say she wants Margretta to marry a duke, and Maurice to distinguish himself in polo, or something of the sort. Now all I ask for the Angel is that he sha’n’t be President; I just won’t have him bully me.”
Doromea and Ellen looked at each other; and—quickly—looked away again. They had no children.
But Doromea smoothed Timothy’s socks upon her lap with very much the same tenderness that Patsy smoothed the tiny frock. “The Angel’s a dear,” said Doromea. “So are Maurice and Margretta, even though they are society children. I shouldn’t wonder if they do other things besides dukes and polo later on. Sheila herself may get to want them to.”
Ellen shook her head. “Not as long as she remains simply a society person. It’s like running round and round in a chariot-race, always pushing desperately to get ahead, but never able to make a wide-enough swing outside the circle that’s been laid out. Poor Sheila!”
“Absolutely conventional!” In her conviction Patsy broke her needle. “Must be deadly for her. Just suppose she’d slid down the banisters——!”
“It would have been a fad with the younger married set for a whole week,” supplemented Ellen. “Sheila leads them all about by the nose, her society. Well,” with a sigh, “I wish she’d come. Even her affectations are charming; it’s only to herself that she doesn’t do justice. To other people she’s delightful.”