“Good God!” said Oliver. “Who told you that?”
“The faithful Alphonse,” said Reggie, nodding toward his valet. “Her maid told him. And Frank vows he’ll sue—I half expected to see it in the papers this morning.”
“I met Vivie on the street yesterday,” said Oliver. “She looked as chipper as ever.”
Reggie shrugged his shoulders. “Have you seen this week’s paper?” he asked. “They’ve got another of Ysabel’s suppressed poems in.”—And then he turned toward Montague to explain that “Ysabel” was the pseudonym of a young débutante who had fallen under the spell of Baudelaire and Wilde, and had published a volume of poems of such furious eroticism that her parents were buying up stray copies at fabulous prices.
Then the conversation turned to the Horse Show, and for quite a while they talked about who was going to wear what. Finally Oliver rose, saying that they would have to get a bite to eat before leaving for the Havens’s. “You’ll have a good time,” said Reggie. “I’d have gone myself, only I promised to stay and help Mrs. de Graffenried design a dinner. So long!”
Montague had heard nothing about the visit to the Havens’s; but now, as they strolled down the Avenue, Oliver explained that they were to spend the weekend at Castle Havens. There was quite a party going up this Friday afternoon, and they would find one of the Havens’s private cars waiting. They had nothing to do meantime, for their valets would attend to their packing, and Alice and her maid would meet them at the depot.
“Castle Havens is one of the show places of the country,” Oliver added. “You’ll see the real thing this time.” And while they lunched, he went on to entertain his brother with particulars concerning the place and its owners. John had inherited the bulk of the enormous Havens fortune, and he posed as his father’s successor in the Steel Trust. Some day some one of the big men would gobble him up; meantime he amused himself fussing over the petty details of administration. Mrs. Havens had taken a fancy to a rural life, and they had built this huge palace in the hills of Connecticut, and she wrote verses in which she pictured herself as a simple shepherdess—and all that sort of stuff. But no one minded that, because the place was grand, and there was always so much to do. They had forty or fifty polo ponies, for instance, and every spring the place was filled with polo men.
At the depot they caught sight of Charlie Carter, in his big red touring-car. “Are you going to the Havens’s?” he said. “Tell them we’re going to pick up Chauncey on the way.”
“That’s Chauncey Venable, the Major’s nephew,” said Oliver, as they strolled to the train. “Poor Chauncey—he’s in exile!”
“How do you mean?” asked Montague.