PART TWO
THE ROUND-ABOUT
I
Alice Palgrave's partner had dealt, and having gone three in "notrumps" and found seven to the ace, king, queen in hearts lying beforeher in dummy, she wore a smile of beatific satisfaction. So also didAlice--for two reasons. The deal obviously spelled money, and VereMillet could be trusted to get every trick out of it. There were fourbridge tables fully occupied in the charming drawing-room, and as shecaught the hostess' eye and smiled, she felt just a little bit like afairy godmother in having surrounded Joan with so many of the smartestmembers of the younger set barely three weeks after her astonishingarrival in a city in which she had only one friend.
Alice didn't blind herself to the fact that in order to gamble, most ofthe girls in the room would go, without the smallest discrimination, toanybody's house; but there were others,--notably Mrs. Alan Hosack, Mrs.Cooper Jekyll and Enid Ouchterlony,--whose pride it was to draw a hard,relentless line between themselves and every one, however wealthy, whodid not belong to families of the same, or almost the same,unquestionable standing as their own. Their presence in the littlehouse in East Sixty-seventh Street gave it, they were well aware, amost enviable cachet and placed Joan safely within the inner circle ofNew York society--the democratic royal inclosure. It was something tohave achieved so soon--little as Joan appeared, in her astonishingcoolness, to appreciate it. The Ludlows, as Joan had told Alice withone of her frequent laughs, might have come over in the only stateroomson the ship which towed the heavily laden Mayflower, but that didn'talter the fact that the Hosacks, the Jekylls and the Ouchterlonys werethe three most consistently exclusive and difficult families in thecountry, to know whom all social climbers would joyously mortgage theirchances of eternity. Alice placed a feather in her cap accordingly.
Joan's table was the first to break up. She was a loser to the tune ofseventy dollars, and while she wrote her check to Marie Littlejohn, atiny blond exotic not much older than herself,--who laid down the lawwith the ripe authority of a Cabinet Minister and kept to a dailytime-table with the unalterable effrontery of a fashionabledoctor,--talked over her shoulder to Christine Hurley.
"Alice tells me that your brother has gone to France with the CanadianFlying Corps. Aren't you proud of him?"
"I suppose so, but it isn't our war, and they're awfully annoyed aboutit at Piping Rock. He was the crack man of the polo team, you know. Idon't see that there was any need of his butting into this Europeanfracas."
"I quite agree with you," said Miss Littlejohn, with her eyes on theclock. "I broke my engagement to Metcalfe Hussey because he insisted ongoing over to join the English regiment his grandfather used to belongto. I've no patience with sentimentality." She took the check andscrewed it into a small gold case. "I'm dining with my bandage-rollingaunt and going on to the opera. Thank goodness, the music will drownher war talk. Good-by." She nodded here and there and left, to bedriven home with her adipose chow in a Rolls-Royce.
Christine Hurley touched a photograph that stood on Joan's desk. "Who'sthis good-looking person?" she asked.
"My husband," said Joan.
"Oh, really! When are we to see something of him?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Joan. "He's about somewhere."
Miss Hurley laughed. "It's like that already, is it? Haven't you onlyjust been married?"
"Yes," said Joan lightly, "but we've begun where most people leave off.It's a great saving of time and temper!"
The sophisticated Christine, no longer in the first flush of giddyyouth, still unmarried after four enterprising years, was surprisedinto looking with very real interest at the girl who had been untilthat moment merely a hostess. Her extreme finish, her unself-consciousconfidence and intrepidity, her unassumed lightness of temper were notoften found in one so young and apparently virginal. She dismissed asunbelievable the story that this girl had been brought up in thecountry in an atmosphere of early Victorianism. She had obviously justcome from one of those elaborate finishing schools in which thedaughters of rich people are turned into hothouse plants by sycophantsand parasites and sent out into the world the most perfect specimens ofsuperautocracy, to patronize their parents, scoff at discipline, ignoreduty and demand the sort of luxury that brought Rome to its fall. Withadmiration and amusement she watched her say good-by to one woman afteranother as the various tables broke up. It really gave her quite amoment to see the way in which Joan gave as careless and unawed a handto Mrs. Alan Hosack and Mrs. Cooper Jekyll as to the Countess Palotta,who had nothing but pride to rattle in her little bag; and when finallyshe too drove away, it was with the uneasy sense of dissatisfactionthat goes with the dramatic critic from a production in which he hashonestly to confess that there is something new--and arresting.
Alice Palgrave stayed behind. She felt a natural proprietary interestin the success of the afternoon. "My dear," she said emotionally,"you're perfectly wonderful!"
"I am? Why?"
"To any other just-married girl this would have been an ordeal, anerve-wrecking event. But you've been as cool as a fish--I've beenwatching you. You might have been brought up in a vice-regal lodge andhobnobbed all your life with ambassadors. How do you do it?"
Joan laughed and threw out her arms. "Oh, I don't know," she said, withher eyes dancing and her nostrils extended. "I don't stop to think howto do things. I just do them. These people are young and alive, andit's good to be among them. I work off some of my own vitality on themand get recharged at the sound of their chatter. People, people--giveme people and the clash of tongues and the sense of movement. I don'tmuch care who they are. I shall pick up all the little snobbish stuffsooner or later, of course, and talk about the right set and all that,as you do. I'm bound to. At present everything's new and exciting, andI'm whipping it up. You wait a little. I'll cut out some of the dulland pompous when I've got things going, and limit myself to red-bloodedspeed-breakers. Give me time, Alice."
She sat down at the piano and crashed out a fox-trot that was all overtown. No one would have imagined from her freshness and vivacity thatshe had been dancing until daylight every night that week.
"Well," said Alice when she could be heard, "I see you making history,my dear; there's no doubt about that."
"None whatever," answered Joan. "I'm outside the walls at last, andI'll go the pace until the ambulance comes."
"With or without Martin Gray?"
"With, if he's quick enough--without, if not."
"Be careful," said Alice.
"Not I, my dear. I left care away back in the country with my littleold frocks."
Alice held out her hand. "You bewilder me a little," she said. "Youmake me feel as if I were in a high wind. You did when we were atschool, I remember. Well, don't bother to thank me for having got upthis party." She added this a little dryly.
With a most winning smile Joan kissed her. "You're a good pal, Alice,"she said, "and I'm very grateful."
Alice was compensated, although her shrewd knowledge of character toldher how easily her friend won her points. "And I hope you're dulygrateful to Martin Gray?"
"To dear old Marty? Rather! He and I are great pals."
But that was all Alice got. Her burning curiosity to know precisely howthis young couple stood must go unsatisfied for the time being. She hadonly caught a few fleeting glimpses of the man who had given Joan thekey to life, and every time had wondered, from something in his eyes,whether he found things wholly good. She was just a little suspiciousof romances. Her own had worn thin so quickly. "Good-by, my dear," shesaid. "Don't forget you're dining with me to-morrow."
"Not likely."
"What are you doing to-night?"
"Going to bed at nine o'clock to sleep the clock round. I'm awfullytired."
She stood quite still for many minutes after Alice had gone, and shuther eyes. In a quick series of moving pictures she saw thousands oflittle lights and swaying people and clashing colors, and caughtsnatches of lilting music and laughter. She was tired, and somethingtha
t seemed like a hand pressed her forehead tightly, but the near-bysound of incessant traffic sent her blood spinning, and she opened hereyes and gave a little laugh and went out.
Martin was on his way downstairs. He drew up abruptly. "Oh, hello!" hesaid.
"Oh, hello!" said Joan.
He was in evening clothes. His face had lost its tan and his eyes theirclear country early-to-bed look. "You've had a tea-fight, I see. Ipeered into the drawing-room an hour ago and backed out, quick."
"Why? They were all consumed with curiosity about you. Alice hasadvertised our romantic story, you see." She clasped her hands togetherand adopted a pose in caricature of the play heroine in an ecstasy ofegomania.
But Martin's laugh was short and hollow. He wasn't amused. "How did youget on?" he asked.
"Lost seventy dollars--that's all. Three-handed bridge with Grandfatherand Grandmother was not a good apprenticeship. I must have a fewlessons. D'you like my frock? Come up. You can't see it from there."
And he came up and looked at her as she turned this way and that. Howslim she was, and alluring! The fire in him flamed up, and his eyesflickered. "Awful nice!" he said.
"You really like it?"
"Yes, really. You look beyond criticism in anything, always."
Joan stretched out her hand. "Thank you, Marty," she said. "You say anddo the most charming things that have ever been said and done."
He bent over the long-fingered hand. His pride begged him not to lether see the hunger and pain that were in his eyes.
"Going out?" she asked.
Martin gave a careless glance at one of B. C. Koekkoek's inimitableDutch interiors that hung between two pieces of Flemish tapestry. Hisvoice showed some of his eagerness, though. "I was going to have dinnerwith some men at the University Club, but I can chuck that and take youto the Biltmore or somewhere else if you like."
Joan shook her head. "Not to-night, Marty. I'm going to bed early, fora change."
"Aren't you going to give me one evening, then?" His question wasapparently as casual as his attitude. He stood with his hands in hispockets and his legs wide apart and his teeth showing. He might havebeen talking to a sister.
"Oh, lots, presently. I'm so tired to-night, old boy."
He would have given Parnassus for a different answer. "All right then,"he said. "So long."
"So long, Marty! Don't be too late." She nodded and smiled and wentupstairs.
And he nodded and smiled and went down--to the mental depths. "What amI to do?" he asked himself. "What am I to do?" And he put his arms intothe coat that was held out and took his hat. In the street the softApril light was fading, and the scent of spring was blown to him fromthe Park. He turned into Fifth Avenue in company with a horde ofquestions that he couldn't shake off. He couldn't believe that any ofall this was true. Was there no one in all this world of people whowould help him and give him a few words of advice? "Oh, Father," hesaid from the bottom of his heart, "dear old Father, where are you?"
The telephone bell was ringing as Joan went into her room. GilbertPalgrave spoke--lightly and fluently and with easy words of flattery.
She laughed and sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs and putthe instrument on her knee. "You read all that in a book," she said."I'm tired. Yesterday and the night before... No... No... All right,then. Fetch me in an hour." She put the receiver back.
"Why not?" she said to herself, ringing for her maid. "Bed's for oldpeople. Thank God, I sha'n't be old for a century."
She presented her back to the deft-fingered girl and yawned. But thenear-by clatter of traffic sounded in her ears.
Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence Page 7