“Women like Adelaide,” Edith elucidated, “want to look well, and to be admired. They live for it. They wake up in the morning and go to bed with that one idea. And the men fall for it.”
“Do they?”
“Yes. Adelaide knows how to play on the keys of their vanity. You and I don’t—or won’t. When our youth goes, Jane, we’ll have to be loved for our virtues. Adelaide will be loved for the part she plays, and she plays it well.”
She laughed and stood up. “I am afraid your announcement to-morrow will hurt her feelings, Jane.”
“She knows,” Jane said quietly. “Mr. Towne told her.”
“Really?” Edith stopped, and went on in a lower tone, “Speaking of angels—here she comes.”
Adelaide, in her burnished tulle, tall, slender, graceful as a willow, was swinging along beneath the trellis. The peacock had turned and walked beside her. “What a picture Baldy could make of that,” Edith said, “‘The Proud Lady.’”
“Do you know,” Jane’s voice was also lowered, “when I look at her, I feel that it is she who should marry your uncle.”
Edith was frank. “I should hate her. And so would he in a month. She’s artificial, and you are so adorably natural, Jane.”
Adelaide had reached the circle of light that surrounded the fountain. “The men have come and have gone up to dress,” she said. “All except your uncle, Edith. He telephoned that he can’t get here until after dinner. He has an important conference.”