When we had finished our ices, or even a little before, Basil produced a cigarette-case and passed it to me. I took one and my heart fell into my boots. I toyed with it, Miss Carey took a cigarette as did each of the men. Charlie Lien struck a match and held it towards me. I was smoking before I knew it. I saw Charlie regarding me, evidently with approval.
My cocktail was still untouched, when the men had finished theirs and Iris’s glass was half empty. Charlie noticed this, caught my eye and then glanced at the glass. I drank a little to counteract the effect of the cigarette, and then smoked to counteract the drink. And then I talked because I felt like talking.
What I talked about, what we all talked about for an hour and a half I don’t know, except that my friends did not favour balls, to which their own set was not asked, or at which the hostess did not provide wine. From all they said about what each had done or was doing, or intended to do, I could gather but little and can remember less.
Before we left the hotel Miss Carey suggested that I be shown the drawing-room of the hotel and Charlie invited me to come with him. We went up a few steps and soon were among great pillars and pictured, and hangings, and things, and big upholstered chairs, in which sat couples, who became strangely silent on our approach. I took advantage of an opportunity to ask Charlie why he had introduced me as English.
“Why! because you look English. Besides,” and he spoke slowly, “dressed as you are, or are not, as a Canadian girl you would hardly do for our set.” We were in a passage-way. Charlie turned round and looked behind him. Instinctively I knew what was coming: he put his arm about me and kissed me. I felt that I was being put to the test, my acquiescence meant I accepted him as my friend with all that went with it. My refusal meant a final break and a hum-drum existence. I feel I am drifting, that I have ceased to have any power to select where I shall next place my foot. I have gone so far, I feel I cannot turn back. One good thing is that the idea of being untrue to Mumsie and Uncle troubles me less. I argue to myself that many girls, Iris Carey, for instance, must deceive somebody. And, after all, if all one reads and hears is true, there must be a vast number of naughty people in the world. Charlie has promised to motor Iris, Basil and me out to the Hunt Club to-morrow.
On arrival home I did not give any account of my doings to Mumsie. But I will have to patch up some story for to-morrow. I don’t like it, but I must lie. What can I invent?
I settled down to my seat at dinner with a positive feeling of satisfaction in Mr. Bang’s presence, and by my plate, I found a handsome copy of The Vicar of Wakefield inscribed as a New Year’s gift to me from him. I had read the book and told him so.
“Long ago?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “Father asked me to read it years ago.” In reality it was three or four years ago.
“You will read it again just to please me,” he pleaded.