“Oh!” She sat up and flung off the soft blanket that covered her. Was there any way, was there any trick or painful art, with which to break the relentlessness of pleasure paid for? Of happiness counter-checked? Perhaps her mother was right—if she didn’t think so much——. But she had to think. It was all the expression she had of a nature that had never been able to escape from itself, for an unconscious minute. Heavens! Lucia beat the pillows and sank down again. “If this keeps on, I’ll go quite mad.” She had the wit to know she was half mad, anyhow—and always had been. It was perhaps the one thing that kept her sane. Analysts are harassed creatures. John Gwynne, who ate meat and potatoes three times a day, and loved a good vaudeville show, did not know of their existence.
John Gwynne was at that moment in a shop, leaving an order for new decorations for Lucia’s rooms.
“You’ll have to push it through in a hurry,” he said anxiously. “Mrs. Gwynne said she didn’t know when she’d be back, and that means any time. I want something in lilac. Lilac’s her color.”
The attentive clerk showed two samples in pale mauve. “We have the chintz to match these, Mr. Gwynne. If I might suggest, I should think the unconventional design——”
“Sure, the unconventional’s the thing for Mrs. Gwynne! You’ve served her for ten years, Eh, Gregg?”
“Yes, sir—” the suave clerk’s face broke into an almost natural smile—“I was here when you brought her in to select her bridal furnishings, ten years ago.”
“Sure!” said John Gwynne again, more slowly. “Ten years ago! George, but time goes by, don’t it, Gregg?” He was staring out the window at the motors tearing up and down outside.
“Well!” with a start, “the unconventional it is,—paper, hangings, and the whole business—and look here, Gregg, rush this for me, will you? Push it right along.”
“We certainly will, Mr. Gwynne,” the clerkly manner was not quite restored again. Heartiness struggled with it; and—“excuse me, sir,” said Gregg hurriedly, “but do you know I think this is the very design Mrs. Gwynne chose when you were married—wistaria, with the pale pink rosebuds in the border—I’m almost positive it is. It’s a piece we didn’t carry for a number of years, and then”——
“Why, sure—sure!” said Gwynne, gazing at it. “The very thing! And then my sister, two years later, went and put on blue—to surprise Mrs. Gwynne—while we were in Europe. And I think it did surprise her some!” he remembered grimly.