“I didn’t know what to wear. But Baldy insisted on my old white. In his present mid-Victorian mood he would like me in ‘book-muslin,’ if things were made of it. It is a wispy rag of chiffon, and I was hard up for slippers, so Baldy painted a pair of gray suede with silver paint, and I made a flat band of silver leaves for my hair.
“The effect wasn’t bad, even Baldy admitted it, and Evans quoted Shelley—something about ‘an orbed maiden with white fire laden.’ Evans and Baldy are having a perfect orgy of Keats and Shelley. They soar over our heads. They hate realism and pessimism—they say it is a canker at the heart of civilization. That all healthy nations are idealistic and optimistic. It is only when countries are senile that they grow cynical and sour. You should hear them.
“We had a delicious dinner. It seems to me, Judy, that my mind dwells a great deal on things to eat. But, after all, why shouldn’t I? Housekeeping is my job.
“Mrs. Follette doesn’t attempt to do anything that she can’t do well, and it was all so simple and satisfying. In the center of the table was some of the fruit that Mr. Towne sent in a silver epergne, and there were four Sheffield candlesticks with white candles.
“Mrs. Follette carved the turkey. Evans can’t do things like that—she wore her perennial black lace and pearls, and in spite of everything, Judy, I can’t help liking her, though she is such a beggar on horseback. They haven’t a cent, except what she makes from the milk, but she looks absolutely the lady of the manor.
“The cousins are very fashionable. One of them, Muriel Follette, knows Edith Towne intimately. She told us all about the wedding, and how people are blaming Edith for running away and are feeling terribly sorry for Mr. Towne. Of course they didn’t know that Baldy and I had ever laid eyes on either of them. But you should have seen Baldy’s eyes, when Muriel said things about Edith. I was scared stiff for fear he’d say something. You know how his temper flares.
“Well, Muriel said some catty things. That everybody is sure that Delafield Simms is in love with someone else, and that they are saying Edith might have known it if she hadn’t always looked upon herself as the center of the universe. And they feel that if her heart is broken, the decent thing would be to mourn in the bosom of her family. Of course I’m not quoting her exact words, but you’ll get the idea.
“And Baldy thinks his queen can do no wrong, and was almost bursting. Judy, he walks in a dream. I don’t know what good it is going to do him to feel like that. He will have to always worship at a distance like Dante. Or was it Abelard? I always get those grande passions mixed.
“Anyhow, there you have it. Edith Towne rode in Baldy’s Ford, and he has hitched that little wagon to a star!
“Well, after dinner, we set the victrola going and Baldy had to dance with Muriel. She dances extremely well, and I know he enjoyed it, though he wouldn’t admit it. And Muriel enjoyed it. There’s no denying that Baldy has a way with him.
“After they had danced a while everybody played bridge, except Evans and me. You know how I hate it, and it makes Evans nervous. So we went in the library and talked. Evans is dreadfully discouraged about himself. I wish that you were here and that we could talk it over. But it is hard to do it at long distance. There ought to be some way to help him. Sometimes it seems that I can’t stand it when I remember what he used to be.”
Evans had carried Jane off to the library high-handedly. “I want you,” was all the reason he vouchsafed as they came into the shabby room with its leaping flames in the fireplace, its book-lined walls, its imposing portrait above the mantel.
The portrait showed Evans’ grandfather, and beneath it was a photograph of Evans himself. The likeness between the two men was striking—there was the same square set of the shoulders, the same bright, waved hair, the same air of youth and high spirits. The grandfather in the portrait wore a blue uniform, the grandson was in khaki, but they were, without a question, two of a kind.
“You belong here, Jane,” said Evans, “on one side of the fireplace, with me on the other. That’s the way I always see you when I shut my eyes.”
“You see me now with your eyes wide open——”
“Yes. Jane, I told Mother this afternoon that I wouldn’t go to New York. So that’s settled, without your saying anything.”
“How does she feel about it?”
“Oh, she still thinks that I should go. But I’ll stay here,” he moved his head restlessly. “I want to be where you are, Jane. And now, my dear, we’re going to talk things out. You know that yesterday you made a sort of—promise. That you’d pray for me to get back—and that if I got back—well, you’d give me a chance. Jane, I want your prayers, but not your promise.”
“Why not?”
“I am not fit to think of any woman. When I am—well—if I ever am—you can do as you think best. But you mustn’t be bound.”